by Raen Smith
House of V
Raen Smith
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 Raen Smith. All rights reserved.
PROLOGUE
"Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end." Seneca
One year later, June 18
Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean
My unraveling began twenty-seven years ago when I was taken from my family’s home after Holston Parker burned it to the ground. It marked the beginning of my life as Evie Parker and the ending of a life filled with happily ever afters. Life is better without Holston Parker in it, but that bastard left me one last loose thread to take care of. So I found myself on a plane, heading fresh out of Norway to Chicago, to finish what he started. As I pressed my hand against the window’s glass, thirty thousand feet in the air, I wondered how the hell I had gotten here, and more importantly, how I was going to get back. This was the beginning of the end. So help me God.
1
June 17, 4:00 p.m.
Norway
I killed my father. Well, my so-called father. He wasn’t exactly what most sane people would consider to be a dad; a hero that a little girl looked up to, a man that would hold his daughter’s hand or brush away her tears, a man that bandaged a scrape on a knee or rubbed a back when she was sick. Not that I needed that or anything. He was Holston Parker - Billionaire Serial Killer. Make that Billionaire Vigilante Serial Killer with a body count so high that they eventually stopped publishing the numbers on the front page of the daily Post Crescent, too shocking, probably, for the public and residents of Appleton.
I’m sure there were a handful of residents that had mixed emotions at first; surely a man taking out the trash to better their community was a good thing, even if he was killing in cold blood. However, as the story unraveled, the details of the fire emerged and the sick, twistedness of Holston Parker left a rotting taste in their mouths. Or so I hoped.
This left me, a girl he stole and raised - this point is debatable in my mind - as his own, to become a legend. Daughter kills own father, disappears. I stopped reading the headlines a few months after I was finally convinced that the police had no real leads or interest in me. After all, I had killed three people and fled the country. I had up and vanished in the wind, like I had always wanted to. Anonymity was a beautiful thing, it really was, or at least that’s what I’d been telling myself.
It has been three-hundred-sixty-five days since I last buried the bullet into Holston’s head. My hand was steady, my body supporting the release of the trigger. I was ready, waiting for that moment. It was easy watching his body collapse onto the floor of the rebuilt Jones’s family home. The fact that he had actually rebuilt that house thinking Ann Jones would like it still shocked me, which is hard to swallow considering what I’d seen over the course of my less than pleasant life. I wouldn’t have paused in that moment before fleeing except to satisfy the urge to watch the growing pool of crimson around his lifeless body.
I know it seems twisted, but I couldn’t help it. In that brief moment, I had glanced up to see the terror on my mother’s face; yes, I said mother, Ann Jones was technically my mother. Suddenly getting a mother at the ripe age of twenty-seven was an odd thing. Even stranger was learning you had a mother and then running the opposite way. That look of terror on my mother’s face was soon replaced with relief; the same look had danced across my own sister’s face just a few feet over. I had seen what I needed to see and then I never looked back. They loathed Holston Parker as much as I did. His death was a swift reprieve to us all.
Some people probably think it was ruthless. Horrific. Shocking. A woman molded into a serial killer’s likeness. I could see psychology professors huddling over their coffees and newspapers, squabbling about the long-held debate of nature versus nurture. Ding, ding, ding. We have a winner. Nurture won in the case of Evie Parker. A psychopath raised a psychopath, despite the lack of genetic lineage.
I don’t see it that way, though. I will never be who he was. Holston Parker had choices and time and time again, he chose to kill; he sought it out. I’ve only killed out of necessity, when I had no other choice. Besides, I hadn’t killed anyone in three-hundred-sixty-five days. Not that I’m counting or anything.
I’m twenty-eight now, and while I’m not on the FBI’s most wanted list - insert life-long dream here, okay, I’m kidding - there is a warrant out for my arrest. I’ve racked up charges for fleeing the country to avoid criminal prosecution and stolen identity, at least according to the Appleton Police Department website. I had enough witnesses to support the shootings and subsequent deaths of Janice Hinske, Lieutenant Schaefer and Holston Parker as self-defense. I’m guessing thanks to Delaney, James and my own mother, Ann Jones.
However, I’m sure the Appleton Police Department still wanted to talk to me and nail me for the stolen identity charge to save their own sorry ass reputation. After all, I did make the department look inept with their corrupt officer and botched misses on Holston. I had to give them credit, though; Sanchez was getting close; just not close enough before I made my move.
I decided I’d take credit for single-handedly taking down one of the most notorious serial killers of our time. I deserved a ribbon or maybe a gold trophy of a woman with pointy boobs holding a gun. I deserved something.
The thing about this whole ordeal that’s been bothering me for the last year, something I don’t like to admit, was that I don’t really have an identity. I’m no longer Evie Parker. And I never really was Anna Jones; or I should say, I never really got a chance to be Anna Jones. He took Anna Jones and Evie Parker, just like he took the lives of the older brothers I’ve never known. Let’s not forget my best friend, Elizabeth and the man that convinced me to fight back, Ethan.
Alias Jane Frieburg was gone, too; the blonde wig and IDs burned and dumped in Poland, our first stop before heading back to Norway. The flames licked up the gasoline-soaked bag in a flash, burning every trace of Jane Frieburg, Anna Jones and Evie Parker. By the way, it may seem like I have a lust for fire, but I would disagree; fire simply creates a means to an end. It destroys, both quickly and efficiently, most traces of existence. Out of fire arises rebirth.
After the ashes settled, Ivy Stone emerged. At least that was what my ID card read now. Ivy Stone. Ryan told me it sounded like a stripper name, and while I couldn’t say I entirely disagreed with him, I’d liked the name for quite some time.
When I was a teenager, I once saw a little girl named Ivy with brown curls adorning her head like clusters of pinwheels at St. Mary’s. The letters spelled out her name in cursive on the little pink purse her delicate fingers clutched. Her fingernails were painted a hot pink. I assure you, the hottest pink you’ve ever seen. I’d never forget that color. I had leaned over to her mother, advising her that letting her toddler carry a monogrammed article was extremely dangerous. The disdain in her mother’s eyes widened in awful realization after I explained that a stranger could call her by her first name and her daughter, unwittingly, may follow. Anonymity really was a beautiful thing. Ivy was a pretty effortless choice for my new name.
It turned out that I didn’t have to assume the identity of a dead person this time around. Ryan had a connection with an old friend in Poland who he’d met ten years ago when he first left Wisconsin. Piotri Kucharski had an obsession with computer hacking and governmental conspiracies. The connection worked well for me and Ryan.
So Luke and Ivy it was. Ryan was known as Luke Carter from Montana around the Norwegian mountains. Though last year I refused to cal
l him Luke when we were alone, I changed my tune this time around after we made our way back from Poland. I think having a warrant out for my arrest had something to do with it. It made me adjust and stretch a little bit more than normal. According to Ryan, a little stretching wasn’t going to hurt me. Again, I agreed.
Luke and Ivy. Ivy and Luke. Living happily ever after in the mountains of Lofoten, Norway, riding our white horses into the mountains, the sun glowing that pink haze it always did in the movies as it finally settled in for the night. Okay, I have to admit that we weren’t there yet, but maybe, just maybe, one day we would be. Our horses might be hobbling, one-legged and damaged, but maybe.
The wounds were healing and the scars were fading for the both of us. I only felt the burn in my lungs from the smoke of the barn maybe once a week now. Believe me, it was a huge improvement.
The one thing that had irrevocably changed in me was that I was in love.
I wasn’t sure when it happened or how it happened, but it did. And I hadn’t even known I was capable of feeling the way I did about Ryan. I had Holston Parker and his stellar modeling of a loveless life to thank for that. I honestly didn’t know how to love, but Ryan changed that. He opened a crypt filled with emotions I never knew existed. Sappy, I know.
As I sat in the folding chair watching the waves roll onto shore, I lifted my toes to let the soft, white granules sift between my toes. I was afraid that I would miss this feeling; the warmth of the sun beating on my face, the smell of the ocean air and the sounds of the waves lapping against the shores. The warm breeze pushed my shoulder-length, auburn hair - if you thought I would keep it short, I both applaud and worry about your naivety - against my cheek as I looked to see the boats coming in.
Ryan should have been pulling in soon with the day’s catch. Most days, I joined him on the boat and helped him gather our livelihood. We led a simple life, one without murder and unruly stress, and I had grown to love it. There it was again, love. It was hard to believe that someone like me could fall in love. Even harder to believe was that someone actually loved me back.
I turned my head to a man’s voice that echoed from the tiny row of shops behind me. My body clenched as the small boy, the shop owner’s son, shot through the door and bolted across the street toward me, empty-handed with his head ducked down. It was the second time I’d heard that man’s yell in the last week; Bernard Nilsen, a man with stout legs and a thick mustache, who was also the owner of the only bakery in Ballstad.
He was known to have an egregious temper and a hot hand on his son, but he owned the only bakery in Ballstad and always displayed a smile to his customers, so the Norwegians shook their heads in empathy. A trouble-maker for a son, they said. However, I’d seen a glint in old Bernard’s eyes, a sliver of evil that I had more experience than I’d like to admit and I knew better than to share the same empathy that everyone else did.
I didn’t give old Bernard the same pathetic head nods, and I didn’t avert my eyes every time he stormed after the boy. I answered in silence only, the warning glares of Ryan always near me. I swallowed the urge to blow into the shop to give Bernard something to change his ways. The blade of a knife near his throat might suffice, but instead, I focused on the boy.
“Whoa.” I stood up, raising my arm chest high to slow down the barreling boy; Rolf, according to Ryan. He skidded to a stop, finally flashing his eyes up to see me mere seconds before he plowed into my outstretched arm.
He was eleven, maybe twelve, a boy on the cusp of being a teenager, not yet grown into his own body. From his elongated neck protruded an angular Adam’s apple. His body teetered in the awkward pre-pubescent stages with lanky arms and legs. It would be just a few more years before Bernard would eat his own words.
Rolf shook his head of shaggy brown hair at me before pushing my arm down. He looked at me long enough for me to see a fresh red streak glowing from his cheek. He dipped his head down and then walked past me. I glanced up at the bakery; the storefront was silent with no Bernard in sight.
“Rolf,” I said, grabbing his arm. I couldn’t let this go, but I struggled to find the right words. I mustered out what was supposed to be: Don’t let it ruin you. “Ikke la det odelegge deg.”
“Hva?” What. His body swung around to face me, annoyed with my little bout of attention.
“Bernard. Du er bedre enn ham.” You’re better than him.I pointed to his cheek and then pulled the shoulder of my beach cover up, tracing my index finger along my scar from the bullet. While Holston didn’t actually shoot me, it was his henchman that did in the barn. That was before I set it on fire. My father. “Min far.”
His eyes travelled up to my arm before he gave me a slight nod.
“Noen flere ar. Holde seg sterk.” A few more years. Stay strong. At least, that’s what I intended to say. My Norwegian was sub-par at best, despite practicing hours with Ryan on the boat. I never had a knack for foreign languages. Or maybe it was because I never had a tutor that was actually skilled in foreign language.
I was “homeschooled” in high school, although the schooling wasn’t anything the name implied. I was tutored mainly because Holston wanted to keep me away from anyone else. I liked to think that it wasn’t because he was ashamed of me or because he was afraid that I was going to lose it in a regular classroom. I knew better than that, though. When I got older, Holston could throw money at any problem, including me.
Rolf’s arm dropped to his side, his thick strands shaking in understanding across his forehead, but the look wiped across his face didn’t match. He was embarrassed that he was hit, ashamed that he wasn’t good enough. I knew the feeling all too well. I watched his body move away from me, down toward the sea until he stood only inches from the lapping water. In that moment, when he bent down to throw a shell, that’s when I decided to keep an eye on Bernard.
It wasn’t just for Rolf, though. It was for the little girl that I had been; the little girl that had never had anyone to take her side. Ethan had for a brief while, but he was long gone; my own selfish drive to find my mother the cause of his death. Ethan’s death lay heavy on my heart, like a pillow of suffocation. Another kill and win for Holston Parker. Killing Holston hadn’t rectified any of those feelings like I had hoped they would. So instead, I buried them deeper into my gut. And despite how hard I tried to make more room, I was feeling quite full lately.
I shook the thoughts of Ethan out my head as I focused my eyes back on the fishing boats. Ryan would tell me to stay away from Bernard and keep my distance to avoid any disruption or attention. Ryan would be right about it all. But there was something there; something with Rolf that needed protection. I promised myself I would keep only a light eye on Bernard. For Rolf. And for little Anna Jones.
Not that I didn’t have anything else to worry about lately. I stayed off the boat today because of the message I received yesterday. Delaney’s last email was unsettling.
It was the second email I’d received from my sister in the last three days. I had sent her instructions on how to email me from an anonymous IP address with an unidentified email account. The particular account I recommended she use expired after ten minutes of sending the email. It had been a risky move to send mail to her on her wedding day just three months after I left, but I figured sending it to the business next to James’s law office might slip me through the watchful eyes of the local and federal agents. Turned out, I was right.
The email account was to be used sparingly. Once a year, I had told her. The FBI wasn’t really actively looking for me, at least not heavily anymore. I suppose that’s what happens when you murder a serial killer; a moral dilemma of relief and justice. They were onto the next big case and couldn’t worry about my little stint with a stolen identity. The FBI would have a hard time tracking the emails, however there was the possibility that they would find me. And this wasn’t how I wanted to go down. Everything was behind me, or at least I thought.
The boat’s hull shone in the late afternoon sun and the n
ame Betty came into view as Ryan pulled up near the dock. I heaved my body from my beach chair and pulled the cover up over my shoulders, my bare feet pattering against the planks of the dock. He launched the rope into my arms and I dutifully obliged, winding the rope tight against the metal handle secured to the dock.
I felt my shoulders flex with the motion, and the healed skin where my crucifix tattoo once was burned across my back. It took three months and seven sessions for the removal, but it was gone. Another trace of Evie Parker had vanished. I smiled as my skin stretched and burned across my back.
“Tighter,” Ryan reminded me as my hand squeezed the rope harder, winding it around the metal handle until it was secured. The boat knocked gently against the dock as Ryan stepped out and moved to the back to wind the second rope.
“How was the catch?” I asked, watching his tanned forearm bulge with each pull of the rope. His body was perfection, built and toned to meet the demands of his work. I pulled my eyes up to see his thick jawline flex with his movements. He was ruggedly handsome; the outdoorsy kind of man that looked like he could chop a mean stack of wood. He embodied the simple life that we had; a life full of early mornings on the water and late afternoons in bed, just the two of us. Ryan was a man that could protect me, not that I needed it or anything, yet knowing this made me feel a little safer. I was beginning to like the feeling of being safe, and I definitely liked being in love.
“A big catch this morning, but when I went back this afternoon,” Ryan pointed to the empty net. “Nada.”
“What can I say? I don’t go, and look what happens,” I said as I wrapped the strands of red in a ponytail at the back of my neck.
“Ha, so you’re a lucky charm?” Ryan joked as he stood next to the boat, taking one last glance at the empty net before turning to me. His sun-soaked lips cracked into a wide smile. God, I loved that smile. “And how was your day? Productive on the beach?”