by David Beers
“Open your mouth, please,” Luke had said.
Dr. Rollins opened it, but only to release a string of pleas. Luke shoved the shotgun barrel in deep, careful not to damage the man’s teeth as he did. He then bent back down to Dr. Rollins’s right foot and hooked his toe over the barrel. The man went deathly still, not wanting to accidentally set the gun off—even at the end, hoping to be saved.
Luke had looked up at him and said, “When you see God, tell him I said hello.”
Sitting on the plane, a small smile crossed Luke’s face as he remembered slamming the man’s foot down on the trigger and the resulting explosion of Dr. Rollins’s head.
It had been a glorious red.
“NO TIE TODAY, WINDSOR?” Director Alan Waverly said.
Tommy had noticed Christian’s lack of a tie and said something earlier. Christian had ignored him. One didn’t show up to the Director’s office dressed in business casual—no one besides Christian, apparently.
“I didn’t want to worry about the knot,” he said.
Waverly smiled and Tommy knew why. Waverly had told him that when Christian first met the Director, he’d been terrified his knot wasn’t right.
Now, though, sitting in the conference room with his two partners and Waverly, Tommy knew that Christian left the tie in the hotel room for a different reason—not exactly why, only that it had nothing to do with worrying about a knot. Maybe it was his autism, but maybe not.
“I read the preliminaries, and I’m willing to bite on the case if your plan sounds good. I want to stress, though, that I don’t want this turning in to a media circus. Right now, no one else knows about this, right?”
“That’s right,” Christian said, taking the lead without being asked. “None of the states have been in contact with each other. Local media reported on the incidents when they occurred, but since then there have been no follow-ups.”
“What about the families? Has anyone made a stink out of the lack of progress?”
“No,” Christian said.
Waverly nodded and looked down at the dossier Christian had created. All four had one in front of them. Tommy read his last night, the first time in a while he’d actually worked after the sun went down. He didn’t have anything else to do in the hotel room, though he was careful to make sure he was asleep by midnight.
“Okay, tell me your plan,” Waverly said.
“I’d … We’d like to begin with the woman who went missing last week in D.C.. It’s the newest and will have the most active leads.”
“I take it your current caseload won’t get in the way?”
Christian needed to walk carefully here, though Tommy couldn’t tell him that. The Director was always attuned to media attention, knowing that if the FBI was caught ignoring cases for something that might not even exist, a firestorm could ensue.
“No, sir. The three of us decided we can work our current load with this addition.”
No such conversation ever took place, though Tommy wouldn’t say that right now.
“Fair enough. So you’ll start investigating here. Your report says someone else will turn up missing in four months. If no one does, are you going to call this off?”
Christian nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“I suppose I didn’t need to call you three up here for a meeting, but I wanted to see how serious you were. You’ve never brought anything to me before … I wanted to make sure you really thought something was here. You do?”
“Have I been wrong yet?” Christian said, meeting the Director’s eyes. Tommy was taken aback by the question. Christian always said inappropriate things in front of people, including Waverly, but this was different. Inappropriate, but not driven by his normal fear.
The Director looked at him evenly for a few seconds. “No, I suppose you haven’t.” He smiled. “Go forth, then, and catch the kidnapper.” He turned to Tommy. “Do you have a few minutes to meet with me?”
“Yes, sir,” Tommy said, surprised for the second time in moments. He waited while his two partners shook the Director’s hand and then exited his office.
Standing, Waverly walked over to his window, leaving Tommy sitting at the conference table.
“What’s wrong with him?”
Tommy didn’t turn around to look at the Director; he didn’t need to ask who he was talking about. Windsor was making waves now, and Tommy hoped to hell he knew it. If the Director was noticing the changes, that was a problem.
“Sir—,” Tommy started.
“Listen, this is off the record. Just you and I. We go back before I was the Director, and I’m asking you as a colleague.”
Tommy nodded and did turn around then. “What happened with Speckle has gotten to him, I think.”
“I’m sure Luke’s noticed it, too.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you had anyone from the FBI look at him? One of our psychologists?”
“No, sir,” Tommy said.
“What do you think is wrong with him?”
“Sir, I’m not a psychologist. I wouldn’t venture to say.”
“Jesus, Tommy, just tell me what I’m asking.” The Director turned from the window and met Tommy’s gaze.
“I think he’s scared to death of getting people hurt. I think he’s cutting off everyone in his life so that this job can’t affect them.”
“It’s more than that, though. The tie thing, today. Then the question he asked me about having never been wrong.” The Director shook his head and looked down. “He’s darker. I’m going to have a psychologist talk to him, and if he asks you anything, you tell him to call me, okay?”
Tommy swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
“I’ll have someone reach out today. I know you think that will be too obvious, but I want it to be. He needs to know that whatever is going on is being noticed. I also don’t want him snapping in the field. We’ve got to bring him back onto the range, if you understand what I’m saying.”
“I do, sir.”
“WHAT DID HE SAY TO YOU?” Christian asked.
Luke sat with Tommy and Christian in the hotel room. It was five in the morning and they had a full day of work ahead, but now Waverly had thrown a little wrench in their plans.
“What do you think he said, Christian?” Tommy was in the bathroom, straightening his tie in the mirror. Luke saw that Christian had decided to wear one, deciding—apparently—a knot wouldn’t be a bother today. Luke liked the little bit of rebellion the boy had shown yesterday.
“I’m asking you,” Christian said. He was pacing in front of the bed, looking down at his feet.
“You went in there without a fucking tie on. You asked him a question about whether or not you had ever been wrong. You showed nothing but arrogance, and so he asked me what was wrong with you.”
“What did you tell him?”
Christian’s rage was nearly bubbling up to the surface and Luke loved it. He hadn’t seen this part of Christian, not ever, only hoping it might arise. Rage was good; it was something that could be harnessed and set in motion on a specific target.
Tommy walked from the bathroom and stood in the doorway. When he spoke, his voice was calm, and Luke knew he didn’t like what he heard in Christian’s voice. “I told him that what happened with Speckle changed you. I told him I thought you were doing everything you could to keep people you care about safe, and that the easiest way to do that was to keep them at bay. If you’re upset, I’m sorry, Christian—but when the Director asks me a question, I answer it. I answered truthfully because I care about you and I’m worried. Luke is too.”
Christian stopped walking and looked at Luke in his chair. “That true? You’re worried about me?”
“I’ve noticed the changes, yes. It’s concerning.”
“That’s thoughtful of you, Tommy. I appreciate your candor with the Director; I just hope that these new therapy sessions don’t interrupt my work so much that someone else ends up dead, as I know you won’t make up the time I’ll be missing.”
Christian walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
“Jesus,” Tommy said.
“He’s perturbed.”
“Just a bit.”
Luke smiled as Tommy stepped out of the bathroom and grabbed his jacket.
“Ready to go?” Luke asked.
“Yeah.”
Luke followed him out of the hotel room, very happy with the morning’s turn of events. Waverly had always been a pest—in fact, Luke had wondered for a while if he could kill the Director—but now, it seemed he might help Luke’s plans. A new psychologist in the mix was a good thing. The more people swimming around in Christian’s head, the better.
CHRISTIAN SAT down on the couch and looked across the room at Dr. Michael Hanson. The man was a bit older, Christian tagging him at forty-nine. He hadn’t time to look up anything about the man, as Waverly sent Christian a personal email at four in the morning, saying he needed to be at Hanson’s office by seven.
“What do you know about me?” Christian asked, the first thing either had said since entering.
“I read what I could last night. This was given to me on short notice, as I’m sure it was for you.”
“What did you read?”
“You’re having a remarkable career so far. You’ve had some tough run-ins on very high profile crimes.”
“Anything else?” Christian said, wanting to push the man as far as possible, as quickly as possible.
“You may be a high-functioning autistic. You show symptoms of Asperger’s. Your IQ is in the upper echelon of the population.”
The man wasn’t shaken by the questions. Christian’s mind was drawing conclusions based on the few sentences exchanged, but they mostly came down to something simple: this man had seen a lot in his years with the FBI. He’d dealt with criminals and agents, and Christian’s rage wouldn’t divert him from whatever goal Waverly had laid out.
“Why am I here?” Christian said, his anger subsiding. He could almost feel it leaving, a black winged creature perched on his back, now flying away. Christian only felt exhaustion as it left.
“Well, the most direct reason would be that Waverly is concerned about you. I will say, I’ve never had him email me directly about a patient. You’re the first.”
“Okay. What all can you tell Waverly about our conversations in here?”
“Your contract with the FBI does somewhat interfere with doctor-patient confidentiality. I’m legally allowed to give him summaries about your mental state, as well as my reasoning behind those summaries.”
“Will he see detailed conversations?”
“I can give him those if I want, though I most likely won’t. I do prefer there be some sense of privacy.”
Christian nodded and looked down at his feet. “Alright. We have forty-five minutes. Where do you want to start?”
“If you don’t mind, I’m curious about what goes on inside your head with the crimes you solve. The Director didn’t mention it, but you’re known, and the leaps you make in cases are sort of looked at … with awe. Would you mind starting there?”
“Not at all,” Christian said, a sad smile spreading across his face. “Let’s look at the caged monkey and see what goes on when he doesn’t think anyone’s watching.”
FOR CHRISTIAN WINDSOR
C hristian,
WE BEGAN our investigation on the case you discovered. Well done on the early detective work, as I believe you’re right. These women are being abducted by the same person. Of course, you won’t see this letter until that person’s fate has already been decided, but I still want you to know I admire your abilities.
What’s happening to you right now is fairly simple, even if you’re unable to see it.
You crossed a barrier with Lucy Speckle, and of course, I helped push you through it. Blame can’t be laid solely at my feet, though, as sooner or later you would have at least walked to that barrier on your own. You, out of everyone on Earth, cannot live next to winter and not begin feeling its biting cold. I’m not sure if you would have entered the season without my assistance, but your choice of career would have brought you right up to it, regardless.
You’re changing into the people whom you’re chasing, Christian.
Not deranged as they all are, of course. Your change models their disregard for social norms. Their desires rise above the demands of their community, and so when they reach out to scoop someone’s eyes from a skull, they don’t see it as wrong. To them, their desires must be fed above all else.
I found a quote by a man named Albert Fish. He was a very, very deranged individual, but I find what he said to be applicable to you.
“I am a man of passion. You don’t know what that means unless you are my kind. At the orphanage they put me just before Garfield was assassinated, there were some older boys that caught a horse in a sloping field. They got the horse up against a fence down at the bottom of the field and tied him up. An old horse. They put kerosene on his tail and lit it and cut the rope. Away went that old horse, bursting through fences to get away from the fire. But the fire went with him. That horse, that’s me. That’s the man of passion. The fire chases you and catches you and then it’s in your blood. And after that, it’s the fire that has control and not the man. Blame the fire of passion for what Albert H. Fish has done.”
You and Albert are growing more and more similar than you know. Your desires, your passions, are going to start driving you more and more, Christian.
I can’t wait to see what you’re capable of.
YOURS,
Luke Titan, MD, PhD, Special Agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigations
CHAPTER 7
T ed had canceled on his daughter this weekend because he wasn’t about to let a whole four months go before he struck again. He needed another lover to add to his growing family, and he couldn’t let the last fuck up stop that. Christy would just have to get over it. She was the caricature of an ex-wife, always nagging, always bitching, and always trying to take away his daughter.
Ted was back in D.C.. He got another flight on Friday afternoon and took off from work a bit early. He didn’t have any classes after eleven in the morning, so he finished his emails and went right to the airport.
The first woman he took from Georgia had been the easiest, but he found it almost frightening how simple it was to get these women back to his house. He took a plane to his destination, and a car back, keeping them drugged and in the trunk the whole ride. Ted had never been pulled over, and if he was, so what? He was white, male, and had a PhD. No one would bother him.
He was, of course, using different states to keep people from noticing. He thought D.C. would be okay again, though, because the town was full of crime. He liked the nightlife, too. That was something else Christy never appreciated, going out and having a few drinks. He killed two birds with the proverbial single stone each time he did this: he had a night on the town, and helped his family grow larger.
Ted stayed in a nice hotel each time, and this one was no exception.
He looked at himself in the mirror and admired his appearance. For late-thirties, he was a good looking man, and the ease with which he spoke to women provided even more evidence of that fact.
“You look great,” he said to the bathroom mirror.
Ted finished up and then left the hotel room, heading down to the entrance. It would be a good night. He, of course, had no idea that by the end of it, he would meet Christian Windsor.
TODAY HAD BEEN LONG, and not just because he went to Hanson’s for the second time this week. Christian hated being away from home, and he was still in D.C.—on Friday evening.
He supposed he could have flown home for the weekend. Tommy had. Luke and Christian decided to stay, though. Christian because he didn’t want to waste time flying when he could be working, but he wasn’t completely sure why Luke stayed.
It was about nine at night, and while the city around him was just getting started for the weekend, Christian sat in
his hotel room with his eyes closed and the lights off around him.
He was in his mansion.
The name engraved above the room said The Lover.
The name put a different hue on things, giving a different view of the person committing these crimes.
Christian entered the room. The door closed behind him without him touching it. Christian hadn’t seen the other since entering this place, and he didn’t know if he preferred that or not. He had, at one point, hated the other being here—but now Christian felt a sense of comfort at his presence.
Mi casa, su casa, the other had said.
Christian chuckled. The other was arrogant, no doubt about it. Christian had built this place, and it was his. It would always be his.
Christian looked at the room that existed only in his mind, observing what his subconscious had created. Six women’s pictures lay across the walls in front of him, two on each. They were positioned chronologically on the digital walls, the first one taken on the left, and the last to Christian’s right. Digital police reports were laid out to the side of each woman’s picture, available for Christian to peruse if necessary.
He wasn’t interested in the reports, though. They were all memorized.
Another person stood in the room with him, and it wasn’t the other. The person standing in front of him now wasn’t aware of Christian—he was a projection of Christian’s mind.
He looked at the kidnapper, who stood in front of the last woman to Christian’s right. The kidnapper stared at her, noticing nothing else inside the room. Christian could only see his back; he wore the same clothes from the video recording.
“Why are you looking only at her?” Christian wondered.
The man shook his head.
“You do love them,” Christian whispered.
The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a marker. Without any hesitation, he took the top off and drew a large red ‘X’ across the woman’s face.