House of V

by Raen Smith

  “I didn’t know that Sister Josephine had moved in with Father Haskens.”

  “She didn’t. She was staying that night with Father Haskens as a favor. She said that he had been complaining for the previous week of light-headedness and shortness of breath.”

  “Signs of a weak heart,” I whispered, nodding my head. “So the perp didn’t know that Sister Josephine was in the house.”

  “We don’t think so. She didn’t think so, either,” Sanchez said, flipping open the folder again. “Which leads me to believe that while the man maybe has done some petty theft in his life, or he’s watched enough CSI since there weren’t any fingerprints, he’s not someone that breaks into homes regularly. I don’t think he surveyed the house that night; otherwise, he would have taken Sister Josephine.”

  “But he waited two more days and left a warning note.”

  “Right.”

  “He’s playing a game.”

  “A deadly one,” Sanchez said, pulling a full-colored photo from his folder of a man with a bullet through his head. “Do you know this man?”

  “Should I?” I looked closer, noticing the entry wound in his skull was right through the forehead. The man’s eyes were open and his face rigid, pale and sunken in; decomposition was beginning to take place. A black plastic bag surrounded his head as if it had been opened or peeled back. I moved my eyes back to the bullet wound in the forehead. The deadly impact was familiar. Too familiar. “Nine millimeter?”

  “You got it. Right through the forehead, just like?”

  “Holston. But it’s a pretty targeted way to kill someone. Pretty smart?” I said, before adding, “And common.”

  “Common enough, but we have reason to believe that this man,” he pointed to the picture that would make most sane people squirm, “was killed by the same man that is looking for you.”

  “What’s his name? How long ago was this?” I asked, trying to envision the man with a filled out, flesh-colored face, but nothing came. I couldn’t see past the decomposing skin; I finally turned my head.

  “Fred Sullivan. We found him in a dumpster near the Appleton police station. An officer was heading into work two days ago when he stopped to throw his coffee away. An arm was sticking out of the bag.” Sanchez pulled the picture toward him and placed it back in the folder.

  I closed my eyes and racked my brain for a Fred Sullivan at Parker Enterprises, but nothing came up. “He wanted you to find the body. Any cameras outside your building? Any pictures of the man alive?”

  “No cameras, not that far away. Here.” Sanchez took out a mug shot of a thirty-something, disheveled man. His frayed hair stood straight from his head. His blood-shot eyes were half-shut, and he was hunched over, as if someone had previously held him up and he was about to fall.

  “We could have started with this one,” I said, holding the picture just inches from my face. I peered around it to see Sanchez’s grin creep onto his face. I moved the picture back and studied Sullivan’s drugged-out eyes and face, trying to place him, yet I still had nothing. I threw the photo down. “Looks like a meth addict that I don’t know.”

  “This picture was taken in the mid-nineties, so I don’t know that it was meth at the time. But he was booked on several drug charges and spent a couple years in county jail.”

  “Nothing enlightening there.”

  “Then he was thrown back in jail on charges of sexual assault of a minor around 2001. The girl was sixteen. Throw in some more drug offenses, and he’s in jail for a little over a decade. He got out six months ago and was a registered sexual offender in Oshkosh.”

  “A sexual offender?” I said, shaking my head. Being a sex offender was another clue that could peg him as someone Holston would have taken down, but it wasn’t enough. It was all coincidence so far.

  “His name was on a list we found,” Sanchez said, leaving the mug shot out. He wiped a bead of sweat that was about to drip from his brow with the back of his hand. “A list that the FBI has, too.”

  “A list? What kind of list?” I asked. Holston had a list alright.? He never functioned without a daily, written list. He had carried that tiny bound book as long as I could remember. But it was always a list of his daily activities, meetings he had and tasks he needed to complete. And despite that he had the latest technology at his fingertips, he chose to write in that little notebook that he had always tucked in the pocket of his jacket. I had gotten my hands on the notebook once, thumbing through to find his neat handwriting following each line perfectly straight. The days and activities were all in chronological order; nothing out of its place and nothing particularly special. I would know, I checked.

  Sanchez threw another photocopied sheet of paper onto the table. I was getting sick of these papers, and I wondered how many more Sanchez had in that folder. The big reveal, one at a time, was starting to drive me wild. I looked up at Sanchez. His eyes were full of what looked like sympathy, or maybe it was pity. I wasn’t sure, but either way, I was sick of seeing these sheets.

  “It was a small entry in the back of the book. A small sheet tucked in the back cover. We almost didn’t catch it,” Sanchez said, deliberately.

  The last page of the book held his perfect handwriting. As I studied the perfectly round Os and stick-straight letters, I recognized the handwriting immediately. Fred Sullivan was number five on the list.

  “The FBI has the real one. The real book that contains the to-be-killed list. We only got a photocopy, and from what it sounds like, two FBI agents will be in Appleton in the morning,” Sanchez said.

  I didn’t hear his words. Instead, I felt a hand reach down my throat and squeeze my heart until I was sure it was going to disappear or explode, either way, I didn’t care. I just wanted it to stop. I wanted the overwhelming nausea and blackness to vanish, just like Evie Parker had a year ago. To-be-killed. TBK. The letters chanted in my head.

  Lucky number seven and last on the list: My darling, Evie Parker.

  10

  June 17, 10:00 a.m.

  Appleton, Wisconsin

  Sister Josephine gripped the handlebars of her bike, moving her legs slowly up and down in the same rhythmic motion she had for the last ten minutes. Carol’s house wasn’t far from Church, only barely over two miles, plus she knew her body really needed some exercise. She had been incredibly tense over the last few days; really, it had been four days.

  The death of Father Haskens was taking a deep toll on her body, and she knew that the funeral arrangements should have already been well underway. She had intended for them to be, but with all the police questioning and now the anonymous note that she needed to attend to, the hours in the day were melting much too fast. Once she let the police know about the note, she would focus on the funeral. With Carol’s assistance, she knew they could have everything ready in a day or two.

  The warm summer air filtered through Sister Josephine’s light blouse and skirt while the rosary that hung from her neck swayed back and forth gently with each push of her leg. She thought back to the note, wondering if and when the man would try to find her again. She would be safe during the day, but the nighttime was becoming quite worrisome for her. He would eventually find her and the locked doors wouldn’t stop him forever.

  As she watched the Victorian homes pass her by, she wondered who the man was. What had he wanted from Father Haskens and what could he possibly want from her? Despite what she had been taught to only let the light of the Lord into her soul, to not fear what she would face throughout her life, she felt the darkness seeping in. She couldn’t push past this eerie feeling that the man would stop at nothing to get to her. But why?

  She thought of the only other time in her life that she’d felt that fear. It had been when she was a little girl at Cooper Orphanage. She had been six-years-old at the time, living in the orphanage since the age of four. Her mother had been raising Josephine on her own until she was no longer able to care for her. Josephine had learned her mother died just two weeks after she arrived
, and no one wanted a mischievous child, so Josephine stayed there, longer than usual, but she hadn’t know it at the time as she watched children come and go. It took Josephine another year to figure out that being a spitfire wasn’t going to get her out of the orphanage.

  One new boy in particular had it out for her, teasing and pulling her hair when no one was looking. He was the boy that had made her feel the fear that she felt now. She had told the other kids in the orphanage that he had a disease, a really bad one is all she could remember, and that if you stood too close to him, that you might catch it, too. As much as she didn’t like spreading this rumor, it was all she could do to try to get him to stay away and to keep the other kids on her side.

  It had worked for a few days until one night after dinner when he had pulled her outside behind the large garbage containers on the backside of the building. No one had heard her screams during the boisterous and loud dinner of the orphanage.

  He had pulled her hair again, stripping it of the red ribbon that was tied neatly in the back. He had held the ribbon in his hand with a clump of her hair that he had pulled out, swinging it back and forth. She had jumped at it, but he had caught her arm, twisting it behind her back. He held a rock in his other hand, ready to strike her. That’s when she had felt the fear overcome her body.

  She had closed her eyes, waiting for the blow, yet instead, she heard the scuffle and grunt of the boy. She had opened one eye to see another boy on top of him, hitting him with the rock. The moaning noises of the boy had made her cover her own ears. It was only when one of the cooks emerged from the building to throw away some scraps, that the rock was finally stopped. She had seen the cook pull up the attacker, her guardian angel.

  The boy, who she had never learned the name of, had been shipped out that night. No one dared to whisper the name to her in case she lashed out in anger. She had left the orphanage not a week later herself, but it wasn’t before she could thank the boy that had saved her life. George Boyd. She had sputtered to him at first, explaining that she could have taken care of herself, but George had stopped her with a wave of his hand and a hardening of his eyes.

  “Josephine, I will always be your guardian angel,” he had said as he made a small cross against his heart. “Everyone needs one. Wherever you are, I will be yours.”

  It had been an elegant thing to say, Sister Josephine realized now, at such a young age. He was only a few more years older than her, but she had known that day, that George Boyd would stop at nothing to help those in need. He had erased the fear in her life.

  Then, when George Boyd came back into her life years later as Holston Parker at St. Mary’s, she’d known he had been through more than she could possibly imagine. Yet he had been the first person to save her, so she had done what she could to repay the debt she’d felt that she owed to him. She had assured him that the Lord would lead the way. That if he listened hard enough, God would pave the path of righteousness for him. As long as he repented, God would forgive. She hadn’t known at the time how much damage he had done.

  And now she feared she had been wrong for giving him that advice.

  She tried to shake the feeling that was overwhelming her with every push of her leg. She didn’t want to live like this. She didn’t want to live in constant fear. Whatever it was that would come to her, she would take it on with full gusto. She would fight for the life that was worth living.

  As the steeple of the church came into view, Sister Josephine began to feel some of that fear dripping away. There was nothing like a session of deep prayer and meditation to wash away these feelings that were plaguing her. She would have a quick session, pop in to say hello to Carol and then head on to the police department.

  Police Chief Sanchez seemed nice enough, although she had doubted his competence with his tainted police force. She hoped that the department was clear and on the way up from last year. They seemed to be taking extra precautions and good measure with the death of Father Haskens.

  Sister Josephine rode to the side entrance and put her bike into the rack next to the church. She had requested the rack a few years back for the after-school kids in her program, and surprisingly, they had inspired her to get her own bike. The kids ended up loving it and so did she; it kept her young. As she made her way up to the door, she let the keys dangle from her hand as she searched for the right one. That’s when she saw it; the shadow of someone next to her own.

  She turned with the keys in her hand just in time to see a man wearing a black ski mask and holding a rock in his hand. The rock connected to her skull, causing her head to scream with pain she had never experienced. Her body instantly crumbled to the concrete. She tried to call out for help, however her mouth was quickly covered with a piece of duct tape. Her legs kicked, trying to hit him, but they slowly went limp as her nose was covered with a small cloth. She held her breath as long as she could and stared at the man huddled next to her.

  It all came flooding back, the fear that she had pushed away. He was back, and he had returned with a vengeance. Her lungs burned in agony as she held on, not wanting to breathe in whatever was on that rag, yet she finally submitted, whiffing the smell of ether. She could have sworn she saw him smile beneath that mask before her eyelids gave up their fight. Then Sister Josephine’s world was black.

  11

  June 19, 4:30 p.m.

  Milwaukee, Wisconsin

  I knew Holston had wanted to kill me. There wasn’t a revelation in that fact. Somehow, though, seeing my name on that list with other men who had raped, murdered and who knows what else, blind-sided me. It was hard to imagine that could happen to a person like me, but it had.

  I wasn’t evil, and I didn’t classify myself as a murderer. I killed only the people that I needed to kill. I had no choice; it was a necessity. Killed or be killed situations. He forced me to do the things that I’d done; things I surely wouldn’t have done had I grown up as I was supposed to. I should have had a life without Holston. A life without blood, death and constant shame. The only solace that I could find was that I beat Holston to it. I killed him before he could kill me. How was that for a father-daughter relationship?

  After the room stopped swaying and the rush of anger swept through my body, I pushed the paper back to Sanchez. I didn’t want to see any more of his papers.

  Where the hell was James? What was taking him so long?

  I looked toward the glass, wondering if Delaney was still standing there. I wondered if she had seen the list. Once Holston found out that Delaney was his real daughter, he wanted nothing else than to kill me. I clenched my fists into tiny balls, my skin stretching over the skin so tightly that I thought it might split. I counted.

  One, two, three, four -

  The door opened to James holding up a piece of paper. More sheets. I was ready to set all this paperwork on fire.

  “Evie, I’ve got your agreement to look over,” James said, eyeing up Sanchez who was pulling back all the pictures and stuffing them into the folder. I hated that folder, but I couldn’t help but wonder what else he had to torture me with.

  “I’ll give you some time. I’ll be back in a few minutes,” Sanchez said, standing up. He tapped the folder on the table and gave me an extended stare. He was trying to figure me out, just like most people did. I was unpredictable; no one knew what I would do next or how I might react to something. I usually prided myself on it as it kept people on edge around me, yet for whatever reason, I didn’t want Sanchez to feel that way. Maybe it was the way he looked at me before he showed me the picture of Holston’s list. His pained eyes didn’t want to show me my own name. I didn’t blame him.

  “We don’t have much time and need to get back to Appleton to see if they’ve developed any other leads,” Sanchez added as he walked out of the door.

  I sipped my black coffee that had turned cold by now. The bitterness lurched in my throat, threatening to come back up, but I willed it down, deep inside my gut where I buried everything. I took the image of my name,
My darling Evie, and stamped it down until it was buried, right alongside Elizabeth and Ethan.

  “You okay?” James asked as the door opened again. I saw the green out of the corner of my eye. Delaney. I wanted to at once punch and hug her, but I didn’t do either. Instead, I merely sat there with my fists still clenched. I recited my mantra and exhaled, releasing my hands until I didn’t feel the skin stretch anymore.

  “Evie,” Delaney said softly, still standing by the door. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say. I mean, I didn’t know everything that was going on. I didn’t know that they were following me. If I did, I wouldn’t have sent you the email. And I didn’t know about the list - ”

  “There’s nothing to say,” I cut her off, shrugging my shoulders. “I killed him before he could kill me.”

  The silence in the room was deafening.

  “Congratulations to you both, by the way,” I said, nodding toward Delaney’s roundness of her belly. “On the baby.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” Delaney said, instinctually cupping her hand around her belly.

  “Happened faster than we anticipated. We weren’t exactly planning that one, and Delaney didn’t know if she wanted to have kids or not, especially after everything that your family has gone through…” James started, but his sentence fell flat.

  More silence.

  “Things have a way of working themselves out,” I said, ignoring the indirect dig to me. “Boy or girl?”

  “We’re going to wait. We want it to be a surprise,” Delaney said, leaning against the door. She curled her leg up, wanting to walk forward, but something was stopping her, as if she didn’t have permission to come in or that she was afraid of me. Either way, it wasn’t setting any of us at ease.