by A W Hartoin
“Where’d you get it?”
“A friend of mine made it. Apparently, he hates me,” I said.
The grotesque sorrow settled onto Blankenship’s face. “Poor Mercy.”
“You gonna talk to me or what?”
“Why are you here?” he asked. “It’s not just because I had a visitor.”
I told him about Sturgis and my mother, nothing the agents didn’t know already.
“That’s why you haven’t showered in days.”
“Do I smell?”
“Yes. I like it.”
“You would.”
He leaned forward, his chains going taut. “They think he’s after you?”
Last time I checked, nobody knew what the deal was, but that wasn’t the right answer. “That’s the general consensus.”
Something akin to anger replaced the sorrowful look. “You belong to me.”
“Somebody doesn’t agree,” I said.
“He can’t have you.”
I shrugged. “Fine by me. You want to answer some questions?”
“Take a bite.”
I took a bite and kept it down. Don’t think it wasn’t a struggle. It was lumpy crab and extra stank. But that’s how I got more information than I ever imagined I’d receive.
Bite by bite, Blankenship mouthed the important details of his life that he’d kept so well-hidden. He was a part of an anonymous group called Unsub. It was short for a law enforcement term meaning unknown subject. It was a kind of support group for psychos. They shared techniques and triumphs.
“Triumphs?” I mouthed. “Is that how you knew about the bloody clothes in the safety deposit box?”
He nodded.
“Then your ‘friends’ are skilled.”
No reaction and, more importantly, no agreement.
“Or maybe not.”
His weird twitch of a smile passed over his thin lips.
Holy crap. He’s jealous. They’re out and he’s in.
“Will you give me something?” I asked.
“No.”
“Why not? They can’t share their triumphs with you anymore.”
There was a flicker of dismay in his eyes.
I took a big, disgusting bite. “You can be back in the news. Horrifying people on CNN. The focus of articles and speculation.”
“Of you?” he asked.
“If you like, but I have to protect myself and my family first. What can you tell me about your visitor?”
“Someone sent him.”
“Who?”
“I don’t have his name.”
“What do you have?”
His chains rattled again. “I want to touch you.”
“You want to hurt me.” It just popped out and he was surprised. It was a brief expression but I caught it.
“You’re afraid,” he said.
“I’m not a fool.”
“I wouldn’t hurt you.”
“We’ll see,” I said.
“Will we?” The anticipation of hurting me was in his tone. He couldn’t hide the pleasure.
I nodded. “What will you give me?”
Blankenship told me about his visitor, a Mr. Woods. His description matched the one Barney gave me in Sturgis, a middle-aged Hispanic male, except that Blankenship said he had a neck tattoo and a gravelly smoker voice. He didn’t get a good enough look to say what it was. The visitor claimed that he was sent by a friend of Blankenship’s, a guy in the Unsub group that was asking about me six months before Blankenship’s final crime, the mass murder at Tulio’s. The Unsubs were from all over the country and the world. This one focused on Blankenship because he figured out that he lived in St. Louis. This was how Blankenship first became aware of me. He stalked me and exchanged info, my routine and places I frequented, for this Unsub’s victims. Victims were like catnip to those freaks.
If I can get a victim…
“But he wasn’t real,” said Blankenship.
My heart sank. No names. No lead.
“What do you mean?” I asked. “He was a cop?”
Blankenship didn’t think the Unsub was law enforcement, mostly because he got a lot of info from the other members and nothing happened. No arrests. No bodies found. He spoke of murders but offered no proof as the others had, including Blankenship.
“But that’s not why you didn’t believe him,” I said.
“You’re learning,” he said.
“What was it?”
“He described a crime I knew he didn’t do.”
“Really? What crime?”
“Cassidy Huff.”
Huff was one of Dad’s cases, one of the unsolved. Dad would obsess about those crimes and track the suspects. These were not good people. Most of the time, they got convicted of something else, but that wasn’t enough for Dad. He wanted them punished for every crime, every time. Mom would say nobody’s perfect. You can’t get them all. Dad’s reply was always that that was not acceptable. It ate at him.
“You recognize the name?” asked Blankenship.
I nodded and mouthed, “How do you know he didn’t do it?”
“Because I helped and your father never knew.”
I felt as though someone had turned me to stone.
“Blink,” said Blankenship.
I blinked.
“You’re shocked at your father’s incompetence.” It wasn’t a question.
My body came back to life. “Will you confess to the murder?”
“No.”
“Why the hell not? It can’t affect you at this point.”
“I didn’t kill her,” he mouthed to me.
I cocked my head to the side.
“I only put her in the wood chipper.” Blankenship licked his lips at the memory.
This is never going to wash off.
I leaned forward and whispered, “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
“Does your father have a file on her?”
“I’m sure he does.”
“Her green purse was missing and she had a secret heart tattoo on her left hip. That was never in the news. Check it.”
“Count on it,” I said. “Did the fake Unsub have those details?”
Blankenship looked me in the eyes. Something he rarely did. “He knew everything your father knew, except for the tattoo.”
Cop? Prosecutor? Family? Friend?
“And what, exactly, did you do?”
“She was dead. I chipped her.”
“Who killed her? Another Unsub?”
He nodded. “Brian Shill. He asked for help. I was happy to do it.”
“Fine. You can confess to that.”
“Would it make your father unhappy?” He was tense with anticipation.
“He’ll be glad to have it solved,” I mouthed.
“Not by him.”
I threw up my hands and said out loud. “It’s not great. Dad hates to be wrong.”
“Then I’ll confess.” He looked up at the camera behind my head. “I, Kent Blankenship, of unsound—”
“No!”
“No?”
“I’ll find out who’s hunting my family and then you’ll confess.”
“Miss Watts, what are you doing?” asked an agent.
“Not your problem,” I said to the camera.
“Miss Watts—”
“Pipe down, rookie.”
“I’m not a rookie.”
I pointed at the camera. “You’re talking right now. That proves you are.”
Silence. Thank goodness. So distracting.
“You’re getting more and more interesting,” said Blankenship. He didn’t look remotely interested.
I put my elbows on the table. “I’m glad I amuse you.”
“Are you?”
I thought about it for a second. “Yes. It’s useful.”
“How else can I be useful?”
“I need to give them something to keep them off my back and get my dad back,” I mouthed.
“Then you can tell them
he was wrong about Cassidy Huff.”
“He’ll be thrilled.”
The pleasure of outsmarting Tommy Watts really got him going. He gave up the name of the man whose clothes were in the safe deposit box. Joseph Cranmer. He didn’t know the name of the killer. He was one of the Unsubs and, even though the box was local, he had a feeling that the killer wasn’t.
This was good stuff, but it wasn’t enough to get everything I wanted. “What else?”
“You need something big.” Also, not a question.
I looked up at the camera. “Yes, I need something big.”
And Blankenship gave me something big. Huge. Career-changing. He gave me a location in Russell, Kansas, near the grain silo. An Unsub claimed it as his main burial ground. That’s right. He said ‘main’ as in there were other sites.
I had to push down the horror and try to think of this information just as a bargaining chip. But it didn’t feel like a chip. It felt like I was opening the proverbial Pandora’s box and the horrors would keep coming out forever.
“Finish your hot dog,” said Blankenship.
There were two bites left. I didn’t think I could do it. “Why should I?” I asked to delay.
“Because you’ll be back.”
“Good point.” I ate the rest of that hot dog and I didn’t regret it. Mostly.
Chapter Nine
GANSA PUSHED ME against the wall of the hall as the Fishbowl door clanged shut. “What did he give you?”
“Nothing,” I said.
He shoved me hard, banging my head on the cinderblock wall.
“Hey!” yelled Shelley and she pounced on him. Shelley had him facedown on the floor with an arm cranked behind his back before he or the other agent could react. Don’t mess with a woman who wrangles psychos for a living. It’s not a good idea.
Gordon kept patting his waistband frantically.
“You don’t have a gun, dipshit,” said one of the other guards, a scrawny guy with a goatee and a ponytail. His name tag said ‘Jack’, but he looked more like a Phil to me.
“He’s a rookie,” I said.
“No kidding,” said Jack. “My son could take him and he’s in the Science Olympiad.”
Gordon came at me, sticking a finger in my face and getting all red. “Don’t push me.”
I rolled my eyes. “Puhlease. You’re not that frightening.”
Shelley released her prisoner and stood up. “You should’ve researched Mercy.”
“We don’t need to research her. She’s our informant.”
The guards all laughed and the agents looked confused.
Shelley slapped Gordon on the shoulder. “Mercy doesn’t work for you, pea brain. You work for her. Why do you think the bureau is keeping her father away? Tommy Watts is large and in charge, same as his daughter. Now get a clue and make an offer.”
“An offer?” asked Gordon. “She works for us!”
Gansa held up a hand. “Wait. I get it. She wants something.”
I leaned on the wall and said, “So you’re the brains of the operation. What does that make him?”
Gordon stuck his finger in my face. “Girl—”
“Do I look prepubescent to you? No, I don’t. I’m a woman. Got it, moron?”
He stepped back, took a breath, and asked, “What do you want?”
“I want Chuck Watts on the Unsub task force, for starters.”
The agents exchanged glances. “There isn’t any Unsub task force,” said Gansa. “Unsub is just a term for an unknown suspect.”
“Hello. I know that. But there’s going to be an Unsub task force if you agree to my terms.”
“What do you have?”
“You’ll never know if you don’t agree, and I want it in writing.”
They stood there, their jaws set.
“Alrighty then. I’m out.”
“Okay. Okay,” said Gordon. “You said for starters. What else do you want?”
“My father.”
They shuffled their feet.
“That’s the deal and, believe me, you want this deal,” I said.
“Oh, yeah?” asked Gansa.
“You want to be the guys who bring in the critical information on a serial killer with only months on the job.”
“I’ve been an agent for a year,” said Gordon.
“Two for me,” said Gansa.
Shelley slapped her forehead. “Jeez, what did they have you on? Traffic?”
“Background checks.”
Jack laughed. “And they sent you to deal with a mass murderer and a Watts. You’re expendable.”
“Huh?”
I started to feel a little sorry for the not-so-rookies. “It means that they didn’t expect you to get anything. You’re nobodies. It’s okay if your careers take a hit.”
“You’ve got something good?”
“Oh, it’s a sick dream come true and there’s more to come if you cooperate,” I said. “I want it in writing. Call your superiors and feel free to exaggerate your role. I couldn’t care less who gets the credit, but I want to talk to my father within three hours.”
“Why three hours?” asked Gansa.
“Because that’s how long I figure it will take your guys to find the first body. Seems fair.”
They dashed down the hall to get their cellphones at security. It was the wrong hall and it took them a half hour to get there, but they got everything they needed in the end.
An hour later, we signed a contract that my parents’ lawyer, Big Steve Warnock, wrote. His negotiating skills were stellar and he handled the whole thing. The contract was twenty-five pages long and got witnessed by Wilson Cleves, the director, and Shelley. The head of the FBI field office in St. Louis signed, as well as Gordon and Gansa.
It took a lot of pages to say that I’d give them information. In return, they’d retain Chuck and Sidney on the newly-formed Unsub task force. Big Steve was very specific about their roles. He said we had them by the short hairs and ought to take advantage. On his advice, the first piece of info was the safe deposit box identity. The field in Kansas came after I talked to my dad and he was on his way home.
After the signing, I managed to get a moment alone with Mr. Cleves and he confirmed that there wasn’t anyone named Jones employed at Hunt. Bummer.
Gansa and Gordon burst into the office, interrupting Mr. Cleves and asking me why I wanted to know about a Jones. They were jittery with excitement and followed me out of Hunt, peppering me with questions. I had the fat contract in a folder under my arm and Aaron by my side. If he was interested in the proceedings, he showed no signs of it.
“You hungry?” he asked.
“I just ate a crab freaking hot dog, so no.”
He started bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet.
“If you think I liked that abomination, you’re dead wrong. Only my innate dislike of vomiting is keeping it down.”
“You ate it,” said Aaron.
“You know I had to to get Blankenship to talk. He’s always trying to get me to eat crap I hate.”
“It worked.”
“Yeah. Thanks a bunch.” I started toward the truck where Fats was still reading, but Gansa rushed around me.
“You got your contract,” he said, slicking back his blond hair. “What do you have?”
“Joseph Cranmer,” I said.
“Who? What?”
I reminded the agents about the safe deposit box.
“That’s it?” asked Gordon, visibly disappointed. “That’s not going to make my career.”
“You get the bodies when I get my father.” I held up my phone. “You have about an hour and a half left.”
“How many bodies?” asked Gansa.
“Beats me.”
Aaron and I walked around the disappointed agent and got in the truck. Fats put a beer label in her book as a mark and said, “Get what you wanted?”
“I got a contract,” I said.
Fats fired up the truck and flipped on the radar
detector. I expected blaring Ludacris next, but she started singing The Stones with a smile. “You can’t always get what you want.”
That was fine by me as long as my mother got what she needed.
Chapter Ten
FATS DROPPED ME off at the front door of the hospital despite my objections. She thought it was only a matter of time before my family found out about her family, so she couldn’t see the point in sneaking. I still had hope there’d be a miracle to save me from the ultimate yell-a-thon about ethics from Dad. We couldn’t be involved with a mob family. Crap like that. Dad didn’t see me as a separate entity and insisting that I was me and he was him would get me nowhere. I knew. I’d tried it.
Aaron stayed in the truck, silent as usual, and Fats said she was taking him back to Kronos for the lunch rush. She called Tiny and said it was his turn to take me over. She issued a vague threat about me not running off without a bodyguard before turning her attention to Tiny again. I slammed the door in time to cut off her saying, “I missed you so much. I want—”
I didn’t want to know what Fats wanted unless it was another job that got her out of my hair. She waved and shooed me into the hospital under the watchful eyes of a security guard and didn’t pull out until I was safely inside. I wanted to run off just to be a pain in the butt. I didn’t because I wasn’t fourteen and because Mom was probably back from her MRI.
When I arrived on the ICU floor, there were no agents and no cops. Not quite what I expected, but I guess I’d given them something to do.
“Mercy!” Uncle Morty waved from the waiting room and I took a detour.
“I need some coffee,” I said. “And a shower. Blankenship said I smell. I care, but I don’t know why.”
Uncle Morty held up a beefy hand and used his other hand to push up his glasses.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Whaddaya think? High-five.”
I stared at the pudgy hand with its mouse calluses. “Are you okay?”
“Ya gonna leave me hanging?” he asked gruffly.
“Er…” I high-fived Uncle Morty for the first and last time of my life. “The question remains. Are you okay?”
“You did a good job, you pain in my ass.”
“Yeah? How do you know?”
“How do I know that you forgot to pay your electric bill again last month?” He pointed at a coffee table that now had three laptops on it. Who needs three laptops? Seriously.