Cruel Fate

by Kelley Armstrong

  “Or the wrong direction, if it’s not Kirkman.”

  Ricky switched the currycomb for the dandy brush. “Yeah, that might have worked fifty years ago. We have forensics now. They won’t positively ID him as Kirkman until they’re sure he is.”

  “Whoever moved him might not know that. Or they might not care. I don’t think anyone is trying to put Todd back in prison. They’re simply raising the possibility. I know this will sound like blame shifting, but the most likely suspect is a fae who wants something from Liv or Gabriel.”

  “Yeah, we figured that out, too. And sure, there’s a chance this isn’t Kirkman. But put the pieces together. Guy about his age, dead about as long as he was, buried beside the body of his victim. He was never arrested for those crimes.”

  “The police did investigate him.”

  Ricky set down the brush. “You don’t want us second-guessing your work, so you’re going to deny the possibility this could be Kirkman, and therefore block us from preparing in case it is.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Levi’s jeans. Work boots. Red plaid lumberman’s jacket. Black T-shirt.”

  Ioan went still, and Ricky knew this matched his memory of Greg Kirkman. However many souls the Cwˆn Annwn reaped, they remembered each one. Those deaths didn’t haunt them. Didn’t bother them at all—they knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that their targets were guilty, and they had complete faith in the righteousness of their actions. No, the dead were merely index cards in their mental filing cabinets. Cards that could be pulled forth at a moment’s notice.

  Ioan opened his mouth, and Ricky slapped the brush onto the table. “Forget it, okay? Just forget it.”

  “I didn’t say anything, Ricky.”

  “You were about to point out that whoever did this might have dressed the corpse to match. Might somehow have known what Kirkman was wearing and set the stage. Though, even as you said that, you’d be remembering who else had that information. Todd, yes, but also Liv, who saw it last year in Todd’s memories. She could have given me that to pass on to you if you refused to believe it was Kirkman. Of course, you know better than to accuse Liv of tricking you, so you’ll stick with ‘maybe this body was dressed to match.’”

  Ioan didn’t protest. Didn’t say Ricky was wrong.

  “I’m not accusing you of anything,” Ricky said. “The sluagh set this whole Kirkman thing up. Just tell me that she knew where the body was, and we can start looking at her followers.”

  “She didn’t. That’s the problem. No one else knew…” Ioan trailed off. Then he cleared his throat. “We took the body. Wmffre and I. We buried it while the others stood watch. Wmffre…” A pause, and Ricky nodded—the Huntsman had been killed by the sluagh.

  Ioan continued. “I’m certain he told no one. That leaves me.”

  “And who else?”

  “No one—”

  “You were about to say no one else knew, and then you stopped. You remembered someone else had been there.”

  “It’s nothing I can prove.”

  Ricky walked around Tywysog Du and faced Ioan. “I don’t care about proof. This isn’t accusing someone. It’s giving us a direction to search.”

  “Yes, but if it’s not a direction Liv…” He took a deep breath. “Someone else was there. Someone was watching. We never realized it at the time. Neither did Todd. Only Liv did, when she saw his memory. Someone was there, and she figured out who it must have been. The only person who knew what Todd had done. The one who heard me make him the offer, and then came to me, supposedly on his behalf, to accept that offer. The one who killed those six people for us.”

  “Fuck,” Ricky breathed. “You mean…”

  Ioan nodded. “Pamela.”

  Thirteen

  Olivia

  Gabriel was gone, talking to the elders. Giving them shit, really, but in that very Gabriel-way where, to an outsider, it sounded like a conversation…yet if you were on the receiving end, you knew exactly what it was. Every ten minutes, like clockwork, I’d get a text from him with a single word.

  No.

  That word had nothing to do with the elders. It was in answer to a question I hadn’t asked. One he knew I was asking, constantly, in my head.

  Has anyone contacted you yet?

  Has anyone sent you an article on Kirkman? An e-mail. A text? A voice mail? Have they dropped it off at the office? Had it delivered there? The fact that Cainsville had secured its perimeter meant our fae adversary couldn’t drop off a copy of the newspaper on our front porch. They also couldn’t do it at Gabriel’s high-security condo—not easily, at least. If they wanted an actual copy of the article delivered, with no electronic way of tracking the sender, they’d drop it off at the office. Lydia had been asked to contact me at home in the event of any delivery, even if the package seemed to come from a client. Same for any calls, e-mails, faxes… Hey, fae were old. They might still fax.

  It was ten a.m., and no one had made contact. The unearthing had hit the news. Kirkman had even been nonpositively ID’d—someone on the force had leaked his social security card to the media, who reported that the dead man appeared to be Gregory Kirkman, a construction worker who’d disappeared twenty-five years ago, and who’d lived near the burial site.

  The articles, however, focused more on the young woman. Kirkman’s final victim. Three others had been discovered before her, and when the police investigated, they hadn’t tied this fourth missing girl to the same killer. The girl in the deadfall. The girl the Cwˆn Annwn had left there, in the expectation someone would find her, and her family would have closure. That hadn’t happened. Now they had that, and she had a name: Laura Simmons.

  The papers, rightfully, focused on her story. Unlike the other three, she’d been a runaway, which was why her “disappearance” had never been connected to the other three. Apparently, Kirkman had realized it would be easier to snatch girls whose parents didn’t expect them home at night. He’d escalated in his sadism, too. The first two girls had been raped and strangled. The third had suffered more, but it was nothing compared to what Todd remembered from seeing Laura Simmons’s body under the deadfall. Fortunately for her family, no signs of her ordeal remained. It existed only in my memories, in my nightmares. I’d keep it there—I could deal with it better than her loved ones could.

  The reason the papers focused on Laura, though, was that they had no reason to think Kirkman was connected in any way. The police had considered him a suspect in the murders. A strong one. Then he’d disappeared. When no other suspects arose for the case, the police had officially left it open but internally considered it closed, their suspect dead or long gone.

  At the time, to the general public, the bodies of two teens had been found, raped and strangled, and that certainly screamed serial killer, but before victim three was even found, another case took over the headlines—the Valentine Killer. The ritualistic murder of four couples. Those poor girls and their killer faded into obscurity as soon as experts concluded they weren’t also Valentine Killer victims.

  Now, with the discovery of Laura Simmons, journalists had dug into their old files and unearthed stories of Kirkman’s first two victims and the third body discovered later. That gave them something almost as interesting as an active serial killer: a cold case file.

  Did anyone tie those deaths to the Valentine Killer? Of course they did, as they had back then. But every article I read referenced older ones and agreed this was a separate case. Strangulation in both, yes. But no signs of ritualism with the first set, and no signs of sexual assault with the second. Those first four fit a far more common serial killer pattern—the degradation and murder of teenage girls.

  I’d been up at six, reading every article, looking for a link to my father. I didn’t dare search on Gregory Kirkman plus Todd Larsen. No matter how secure my laptop was supposed to be, I’d never risk linking them in my search history. So I read the articles. Two mentioned Todd, but only in connection with the potential Valentine Killer l
ink. In the context of: yes, these deaths occurred right before the murderous spree of the notorious Valentine Killer—the crimes for which Todd Larsen was recently acquitted—but experts agree the cases are not linked. His name was invoked only in passing, a way to tie these old crimes to more recent headlines.

  As for Kirkman, his body barely warranted a footnote in the articles. “Police also uncovered the body of a man believed to be long-missing Illinois construction worker Gregory Kirkman.” One article speculated on a connection between Kirkman and Laura Simmons, but only by raising the possibility Kirkman was another victim of Laura’s killer, maybe having been an unwitting witness to her death, given that he lived so close to the crime scene.

  This was all good. All what I would expect. I also expected, though, that whoever moved Kirkman’s body would alert me to these articles. Yet it was late morning, and no one had.

  Gabriel texted to say he was finished with the elders. They were convinced I’d just seen a curious face as Pepper suggested. Grace hadn’t been there. He wanted to speak to her next. I debated telling him to skip it. The farther I got from last night, the more I questioned my own sense of events. I’d been on edge and looking for trouble, expecting trouble. Fae were curious beings. Some subtypes were also skittish. As much as I hated to admit it, this explanation made sense. A local fae had spotted Todd walking and talking to Ricky and wondered what Matilda’s father and Arawn would talk about. She slipped into her camouflaged state and snuck up on them, and she’d been so engrossed in their interaction that I startled her. She gave me a fae-powered shove and fled.

  I sent the text. Gabriel replied in seconds, saying he understood, but he thought it wise to meet with Grace anyway. He’d seen her heading to the diner.

  You could join us for coffee, he texted. Bring your father to meet her.

  My fingers hovered over my phone, ready to type back that Todd had met Grace. That wasn’t exactly true. I just didn’t want to leave the house, in case…

  In case what? It was extremely unlikely that anyone would deliver news of Kirkman’s unearthing to my front door. I had my phone set to check for mail every five minutes, polling both my personal and work accounts. I’d finished reading all the morning articles. Todd was out back, going a little stir-crazy, I suspected.

  I texted Gabriel: Be there in 10. Pie?

  He sent back a list of the daily offerings as I called to Todd from the back door. When Todd didn’t respond, my heart double-thudded, and I stepped out with a sharp, “Dad?”

  He appeared from underneath the back deck. I laughed as he brushed dirt from his jeans.

  “Dare I ask what you were doing under there?” I said.

  “Checking the foundation. It’s fine, but whoever built this deck did a crap job.”

  “Like I said, we’re tearing it down soon. Gabriel is looking for a contractor. He’s very, very picky.” Speaking of Gabriel… “What kind of pie do you like? Options are blueberry, strawberry rhubarb and lemon meringue.”

  “For lunch?”

  “Second coffee break. Gabriel’s at the diner with one of the elders you should meet, and he’s preordering pie.”

  “I’ll take the—”

  A rap sounded at the gate. As I jogged over, I could see someone in a uniform. Like a delivery driver. Ah, so, that’s how they were doing it—sending the article by courier. I picked up my pace and swung open the gate.

  “Hey,” I said, putting out my hand for the envelope.

  That’s when I saw the uniforms. They weren’t couriers.

  The woman stepped forward. “Ms. Jones? We’d like to speak to your father about the murder of Gregory Kirkman.”

  Fourteen

  Olivia

  I did not politely usher Detective Parsons and her partner into the house so they could speak to my father. Hell, no. I flipped into full-out bitch socialite mode. How dare you come to my house and interrogate my father less than forty-eight hours after he’s been released from prison. Don’t you people have real crimes to solve? How about finding the actual Valentine Killer, for a start. Now you have a twenty-year-old corpse, and the first person you question is my father? Is that what his life is going to be like now? The police are going to hound him into a nervous breakdown?

  That wasn’t fair. Not a single word of it. First, I liked Detective Parsons, and I knew she was an excellent detective who had nothing to do with putting my father in prison. According to Gabriel, she’d actually been on Todd’s side.

  Then there was the small fact that my father did commit this particular crime. That was why I pulled the full drama queen routine. I had to act exactly like they’d expect if he were innocent. Shocked and appalled and outraged.

  Even as I reamed them out, I was texting Gabriel. I made it clear that, as furious as I was, I wasn’t interfering with their interrogation—there was no reason to do that when my father was innocent of this frivolous and malicious accusation—but I was making damned sure Gabriel was here in case they tried to intimidate Todd into a false confession.

  Gabriel showed up and gave them round two of outrage and, in his case, quiet fury. Everything I’d said, he repeated, in clipped, precise language. Unacceptable. Completely unacceptable, and while he would allow the questioning, it had better not be a sign of sustained harassment to come.

  As for Todd, he stood to one side and listened and said nothing. His expression betrayed only quiet resignation, as one might expect to see on a life-sentence convict who has been acquitted. Not even a flicker of guilt crossed his face.

  We went inside. Parsons hadn’t said much during either lecture. Her younger partner had bristled, but she’d kept him in check with pointed looks. Only when we went inside did she say, quietly and calmly, “You know if we receive a tip, we have to follow it up, Gabriel. I realize this seems unfair, but be glad it’s me doing it.”

  “I would prefer no one did it at all,” Gabriel said.

  “So would I.”

  We led them into the parlor, where everyone sat.

  “You said you had a lead,” I began. “Let me guess. You found a twenty-five-year-old corpse and someone called Crime Stoppers saying ‘Todd Larsen did it!’”

  Parsons looked from me to Gabriel.

  Gabriel said, “Olivia has every right to be present for this interview. She is my investigator.”

  “Right now, I think she’s wearing her daughter hat.”

  “Possibly. Feel free to tell her to leave. Given that it’s her house, though, she won’t go far. She’ll lurk right outside the door and interject her opinions as needed, which I’m sure you’ll find far less intrusive.”

  Parsons sighed and glanced at me. “I know this is a pain in the ass. Let’s just get through it, okay?”

  “That’s what I was doing,” I said.

  “With added color commentary.” She turned to Todd. “Are you aware that a body was uncovered yesterday?”

  Todd nodded. “Gabriel mentioned it at dinner. He was there as the landowner’s attorney. A guy and a girl, right? A couple? Is that the connection?”

  “You have been acquitted—” Gabriel began.

  “Yeah, I know,” Todd said. “Which doesn’t mean everyone agrees I should have been. If the police find the bodies of a couple killed twenty-five years ago, they’re going to come to me. I expect that.”

  “You shouldn’t,” I grumbled.

  Parsons continued. “We found a male and a female corpse, but there’s no connection between them. The connection, as our anonymous caller informed us, is between you and the male victim. A man named Gregory Kirkman.”

  “Gregory…”

  “Kirkman.”

  Todd went quiet, as if thinking. “Was he in prison with me?”

  “No, he disappeared two years before your arrest.”

  “Someone I knew before then? The name’s not ringing a bell. Is he from my school days?”

  “Later. After you married and had Oliv—Eden. He was a friend of yours.”

  “Fr
iend?” Todd gave a short laugh and settled back in his seat. “I was twenty-one years old with a wife, baby and mortgage. The only thing I did in those days was work.”

  “You were a carpenter. Mr. Kirkman was a construction worker. Maybe ‘friend’ is an exaggeration. You worked on a job together.”

  “Okay…”

  “His crew was renovating a house, and you came in to do the cupboards.”

  Todd shrugged. “If you say so. I’m not denying it. But I was a self-employed carpenter. I went where the work was. I couldn’t tell you how many guys I worked with, and even then, it was me making cupboards and such at my shop, and then coming to install them while the renovators did their thing. I talked to some of the guys, but I didn’t hang out after the job and have a beer with them. I had Pam and Eden.” He nodded toward me. “Liv.”

  “If you have read the transcripts from Todd’s original trial, then you know what he’s saying is documented fact,” Gabriel said. “He was a hardworking husband and father with little time for socializing. A positive trait that was twisted against him in court, implying he was a loner who fit the stereotypical profile of a serial killer, when in fact—”

  “Mortgage, wife, baby,” Parsons said. “I know.”

  She took out a photograph. I recognized Kirkman in a heartbeat. Fortunately, her gaze stayed on Todd, who only frowned at it. He reached out, and she passed it over.

  “Honestly, he looks like half the construction guys I knew,” Todd said. “I don’t…” He paused in the midst of handing it back and withdrew it for another look. “Wait. Was it a job in Hyde Park? No, Barrington, right? Cupboards for a total home reno? I was there for a couple of days. If this is the guy I’m thinking of, he did talk to me. He was building a place himself. He had a few questions about joints. I think that was him. I don’t even remember his name, though. It was just a couple of conversations while I worked. He held the cupboards in place for me.”