by Jason Parent
Children weren’t discharged from Brentworth in the middle of the night. That’s what logic told her. Her eyelids closed again. Her breath whistled through her nose. She struggled to maintain that thought. Something about kids... yes, kids... disappearing in the dead of night.
CHAPTER 2
Sam knew she was dreaming. Her partner’s face, an apparition hovering over her bed, smiled then turned haggard, old and bristling—how he’d looked just before he’d been murdered. Then his murderer’s face appeared. It was cruelty hidden behind a mask of decency and piety, sadly handsome, and altogether unassuming. It brought to mind photos of those clean-cut, all-American fifties crooners like Buddy Holly.
Evil, shrouded by innocence.
With the sound of her alarm, the malicious grin of Carter Wainwright—aka Darius Jefferson and countless other known aliases and probably infinitely more she would never know—dissipated. Only the cracked and peeling gray paint of her bedroom ceiling remained.
A small black spider traipsed across it. Wainwright was like that spider, skulking in the dark as he caught his victims in his webs, except the spider killed to live. Wainwright killed for fun.
And he was still out there, no doubt plotting his next sprint of depravity and atrocity. Over a twenty-year span, he and his followers had been credited with at least as many confirmed murders. He’d been linked to scores of others, his aliases appearing as suspects in cold cases across the nation and beyond. Sam remembered her father’s relentless calls when those cult murders were happening all over Bristol County in the early 2000s. She’d been a newly badged officer with the Fall River Police Department with no direct connection to the case. Then came the Montreal fiasco with the FBI, followed by the San Diego sightings. Agent Frank Spinney—dear Frank—had followed Wainwright there after the original agent in charge was found eviscerated and strung up on an elementary school’s flagpole.
For Sam, it had all been just headlines with her morning coffee, nothing more. Someone else’s problem—like her late partner and mentor’s. She grunted. His obsession.
Until Wainwright came back to Fall River, Sam had no personal stake in his capture. Not until Jocelyn, her baby, and Bruce.
Sam swallowed down acid and swatted her alarm clock. She groaned, the dull ache in her shoulders reminding her that she wasn’t as young as she used to be, and rolled out of bed. A month’s leave filled with a road trip and two weeks in the Caribbean—the whole time spent looking over her shoulder for the next attack—had failed to have its intended rejuvenating effect.
And now, dreaming of Wainwright.
She sighed. At least Michael seemed to enjoy the time away. An entire month of escapism and Michael only had one vision brought on by the close confines that came with flying coach. Sam had paid extra for the two-seat exit row upgrade to avoid a repeat on their flight back.
But Michael had to return to school and begin his sophomore year. Soon, he’ll be eighteen and off to college. She frowned. She’d kind of gotten used to having him around, having someone to talk to, someone not just to care for but to care about. The foster system had turned a blind eye to their arrangement, and she wondered what he would do once he was on his own. Of course, he was welcome to stay with her as long as he wanted. Like her, he had no one else. Two loners alone together. She hoped he knew he would always have her.
But responsibilities called them to separate paths, and Sam had to return to work. She couldn’t hide forever from whoever had attacked her. Letting Michael out of her sight would be the hardest part. At least for the foreseeable future, a detail would be posted at the school and at her house, but Wainwright had a knack for circumventing or killing details.
She didn’t know it was him, and she had no real reason to think it was. It could have been any of a thousand people holding a grudge or even some random crazy. She wiped the crust from her eyes and blinked. Why assume the worst?
Because few people, not dead or already in jail, had the audacity to attack an armed detective in broad daylight. She remembered it as if it had happened yesterday, not six weeks ago—a man in a strange Indian mask charging at her in the hospital parking lot, dark eyes peering through circular cut-outs, sudden pain in her stomach, then falling. Michael protecting her. The man holding a stun gun. From her review of Bruce’s files, she knew that Wainwright had a history with the weapon. He would stun his victims so that he could kidnap them and commit unspeakable, gruesome acts upon their bodies in some despicable den of roaches and vermin like him.
But Wainwright had never worn a mask before. It haunted her dreams despite its absurdity, a caricature of a Native American chief wearing a headdress thick with red, white, brown, and yellow feathers, all made of plastic yet with the veneer of a wooden cigar store Indian. Wainwright had been flamboyant, theatrical even, but he always wanted people to know that he was the cause of their pain. He wanted his victims to see the gleam in his eyes as he cut into them—a narcissist and sadist in every sense of the words. Everything had happened so fast that day, she’d barely gotten a look at her attacker. Other than the male body type and proportions that might have matched Wainwright’s, she didn’t have any clues by which to identify him. Michael said the man had laughed at him, taunted him even. Wainwright was nothing if not arrogant. But Sam had been reeling from the shock when the exchange took place and couldn’t remember hearing any of it.
All she had was a hunch. And her hunches were just as often wrong as they were right—not the stuff from which any real cop should draw conclusions.
She dragged herself to the bathroom and blasted the hot water in the shower despite the muggy, stifling morning air. Steam filled the bathroom as she sat on the toilet long after she’d finished urinating, just letting her mind go blank. Her bruises from the beat-downs she’d received over the prior months had vanished, but the aches remained. Stepping into the tub, she let the water cascade over her for several minutes, her skin turning pink then red, the heat massaging her muscles, coercing them to work for her yet another day. In theory, she could retire with a full pension at fifty-five, a partial pension in just a couple years, but she knew she wouldn’t unless her body made the decision for her. Until the last year, being a cop was 95 percent of her identity. From then on, it was split fifty-fifty with being a parent to Michael.
Maybe sixty-forty.
In reality, the pendulum had swung so far the other way that being a parent to Michael had been all that mattered over the last few months. She laughed and snorted, remembering how uncomfortable Michael had looked with that seal smiling over his shoulder at a Jamaican waterpark. He hadn’t stopped complaining about how bad its breath had been.
If only that was their sole worry—marine mammal halitosis. Wainwright or not, someone was after her. She just prayed whoever it was wouldn’t use Michael to get to her.
After washing up and shaving her legs, she climbed out of the shower and dried herself. Wrapping one towel around her body and another around her hair, she stepped into her living room. “Michael! Bathroom’s all yours!”
A groan came from his bedroom at the far end of the apartment. The teenager was even less of a morning person than she was. When he’d moved in, he’d chosen the spare room the farthest away from hers. At the time, she’d been thankful for the space, but sometimes she wondered if the gap represented the distance between them—one she had spent every day since trying to close. They’d come a long way, but they couldn’t change the fact that he was a troubled teenage psychic and she a curmudgeonly middle-aged cop.
And yet, she loved him. She’d never thought herself the motherly type, but life had a way of placing people where it felt they belonged. Sighing, she headed to the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee, guessing they both would need a cup or three. Michael had taken to the drink on their road trip when he realized he could get it really sweet, flavored, and sometimes with whipped cream on top.
He stumbled out of his bedroom, wearing only a white T-shirt and green-and-purple Riddler box
ers. He was either becoming more comfortable with his living arrangements or too tired to care. He zombie-walked, eyes half closed and short brown hair spiking in all directions, into the bathroom and shut the door behind him.
Sam smiled. “The coffee will be waiting when you get out.”
For all he’d been through, Michael acted as if he didn’t have a care in the world. But Sam knew him better than that. She could see his trepidation about the attack, her going back to work, and his returning to school. His mouth twitched slightly just before he shrugged off a question about any of it, and his brow furrowed for half a second every time she mentioned Tessa or Jimmy. He needed to be around more kids his age, and as much as she hated to think anything bad about Tessa or Jimmy, both of whom had had it tough, he needed to be around less damaged kids his age. Maybe she would encourage him to join a sport. That would keep him social and surrounded by people, where he would be less likely to be kidnapped or attacked. Maybe she would encourage Robbie Wilkins to talk him into going out for football.
She shook her head. Duh. Full contact sport, just asking for more visions. She listened as the last trickle of coffee dropped into the pot, its strong aroma calling her to it. The shower pipes groaned as Michael closed the faucet with a clunk, another one of his infamous two-second scrub downs completed. She poured herself a cup of coffee, black, and fixed one for him with cream and lots of sugar.
As he stepped out of the bathroom, towel around his waist, toothbrush jutting from his mouth, she asked, “How do you feel about cross-country?”
“Huh?” Without another word, he grunted and went into his room and closed the door.
Sam sighed. As if the kid hasn’t done enough running. She raised an eyebrow. Maybe tennis is the way to go. She carried the two mugs to her kitchen table then sat beside yesterday’s paper, sliding Michael’s coffee across from her. Steam rose from her cup and tickled her cheeks as she thought about getting Michael a racket. She’d tried tennis for a little while herself and had liked it despite not having been terribly good at it. Then she remembered that his school didn’t offer tennis until the spring.
She huffed and sipped her coffee. Maybe I should just let the kid make his own decisions and stop trying to be such a mother. She rolled her eyes, realizing she was giving voice to his expression—that half-cocked eyebrow and smug smirk he gave her every time she showed even the slightest concern for him.
“I’m not doing cross-country,” Michael said, startling her from her reverie. He wore a long-sleeved shirt, jeans, and carried his gloves. His sneakers sat by the apartment door where he always left them. His hair still looked wet and disheveled, and she couldn’t tell if it had been what he called “styled” or if he hadn’t combed it yet. At fifteen, he’d come a long way from the child she’d rescued from his parents’ murder-suicide all those years ago. With Caribbean-blue eyes, some lucky girl—or guy?—was sure to get lost in and his still-smooth baby face. He was still a boy but starting to shed the awkwardness of childhood.
If his ability ever allows him to experience intimacy. She winced and coughed, quickly looking away so he wouldn’t see the pain that had washed over her. The two of them made quite a pair, Sam reflecting on her own walls—her career, always her excuse—keeping her from anything meaningful with someone more age appropriate. Dismissing the thought, she looked up.
Michael smiled in that way that made his eyes sparkle—the way he always did when he wanted to say something bratty or clever but usually fell short of either. “Running for the sake of running has got to be the stupidest way I can think of spending my time. Other than thinking about running for the sake of running. If I do anything, it’ll be soccer. At least then there’s a point to all the running.”
“Soccer!” Sam slapped her palm against the table, sloshing her coffee. “Why didn’t I think of soccer?”
Michael laughed and pointed at her cup. “Maybe you should go easy on that.” He sat at the table and drew the coffee closer, then pulled on his long knit gloves. He frowned, his eyes going a darker shade as the mirth vanished from them. “A lot of contact in soccer, and you’re only wearing a T-shirt and shorts. I’d have to buy stock in spandex, and in case you haven’t noticed, I don’t have a job.”
“School is your job. Do it well. You can worry about work when you get out of it.” She smirked. “I’ll get you some spandex.”
“About that—not the spandex, but the school thing.” Michael stared at her with deadly seriousness. “I was thinking of dropping out once I turn sixteen, and—”
“You’re just full of jokes this morning, aren’t you?” Sam rolled up her newspaper and threatened to swat him with it. “You’d better finish getting ready, or you’re going to miss the bus. Want me to make you some eggs real quick?”
“You sure you know what those look like? White oval things”—he held up his thumb and forefinger, spreading them two inches apart—“about this big.”
Sam ruffled her newspaper and frowned. “Do you want them or not?”
“Nah,” he said, getting up and heading to the cupboard. He pulled out a package of Pop-Tarts. “These will do just fine.”
“Michael,” Sam said, standing. “Don’t forget—”
“I know.” He pulled the new cell phone she’d purchased for him out of his back pocket and held it up. “If I see anything strange, you’ll be the first to know.”
She walked over to him as he twisted his feet into his already tied sneakers. “Two officers will be following the bus—”
“I don’t like taking the bus.”
“Well, take it this morning, will you? Officers are already outside and ready to follow it. They’ll be patrolling the school all day. If you need them—”
“Yeah, I got it,” he said, Pop-Tart jutting from his mouth as he straightened the back of his shoe and yanked it over his heel. He pulled his breakfast out of his mouth. “Anyway, I’m not sure it’s me who we should be worrying about. That guy definitely seemed to be after you.” He raised the Pop-Tart for another bite but paused before chomping. “Still not going to tell me any more about it?”
“I don’t know any more than I’ve already told you. I have no idea who attacked me. Just a gut feeling.” She shook her head and looked away. “Never mind.”
“Right.” Michael stepped closer. “Whelp, you’re the boss. I just hope you’re doing even more to keep yourself safe than you are with me.” He looked her in the eyes, no trace of a smile lingering. “Seriously.”
“I’ll be fine.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Go catch your bus.”
He pulled the tip of the glove off his forefinger. “You know, there’s an easy way to find out—”
Sam grabbed him by the arm, turned him around, and hustled him toward the door. “Will you get going already?” She pushed him out of the apartment, chuckling. “Have a good first day back.” She shut the door in his face and hoped he hadn’t forgotten to comb his hair.
“You too!” he shouted through the wood. “At least it’s Wednesday!” The sound of his hurried footsteps clamored down the stairwell.
Since her hours varied, she didn’t have the short week he had, so the nearness of the weekend meant little to her. She tucked her hair behind her ears, conscious of the nervous tick. At the very least, she worried like a mother, and it was only the first of many school days to come. She had plenty of worrying to look forward to.
Checking her watch, she saw that she, too, needed to get a move on. She’d spent enough time hiding. If some villain was looking to take her out, she was ready and willing to do whatever it took to get him first.
And Sam had a feeling she knew exactly where to start.
CHAPTER 3
“Empty your pockets, please,” a burly security guard said after Michael had set off the metal detector.
If he’d thought of school as a prison his freshman year, his sophomore year was off to a more confining start. He pulled his Batman keychain with its lone key from his front pocket and placed it
in a dish atop the conveyor belt. He glanced back at the line forming behind him, chuckled nervously, then started to walk back through the metal detector.
The heavyset guard held up his hand. “Any belt?”
Michael thought about it, then pulled up his shirt to check. No belt.
The guard waved him through, and the detector buzzed again. He heard the mousy girl who was next in line sigh melodramatically and turned in time to see her eyes roll behind tortoiseshell glasses. Shrugging, he lifted his palms.
“Step over there, please,” Metal Detector Man said as he pointed at a four-foot-nothing woman. She was chewing gum with her mouth open and holding one of those wand things TSA sometimes used at airports. She instructed him to spread his arms, then performed tai chi with the wand, waving it over every inch of his body. Whatever she thought he might be hiding behind his ears was a little disturbing. The buzzer went off at his groin.
“It’s... I...” He lifted his shirt again and gazed downward, unsure what to say. The wand hovered over his crotch, and for an awkward moment, he and the guard stared at each other in silence.
“Button,” the woman said with an air of such disinterest that Michael was almost offended. She handed him his keychain and threw a thumb over her shoulder at his backpack at the end of the rollers. “You’re all set.”
After grabbing his bag, he headed to his locker, hoping he remembered the combination. The halls had been painted during the summer, a blue so light it was almost gray and as drab as it had been before the paint job. The fresh coat failed to hide the divots and scuff marks, or the notch made by a bullet fired at Glenn Rodrigues—the one that had missed. Even the floor, newly stained and smelling like gasoline, held the markings of hundreds of dirty shoes. It clung to his sneakers with every step, his soles peeling off it with fart-like rips as he trudged through the start of his first day.