by Layton Green
A mental image overcame him, a flash of remembrance previously buried in his mind. The memory came as swift and sure as the snap of a lion’s jaws.
Shelves stuffed with children’s books and jars of candy. A bean bag on the floor. Dolls and action figures. The limbs of stuffed animals poking out of toy chests. Walls painted with colorful jungle murals. Two windows in the ceiling, duct taped and reinforced with iron bars.
And in the center of the room, a young boy.
God, no.
Naked and gagged. Handcuffed to a red-and-white striped pole, like the ones at the old-time barber’s shops.
Wh—what is this? What. Is. This.
Preach stilled. Couldn’t seem to make himself move. Though he had read the coroner’s reports and seen the aftereffects of child abuse before, nothing had prepared him for this child, nine or ten at most, covered in bruises and whimpering as he looked at Preach with the eyes of a cornered animal, a human animal, a little boy, one whose lost innocence and terror washed over Preach like he was standing at the bottom of Niagara Falls, millions of tons of water cascading down on top of him. Drowning him in the boy’s eyes.
Those eyes, he thought. They were at the root of his blocked memories. Those eyes those eyes those eyes.
Preach felt his entire body start to convulse, now back in the present, shaking with rage and loathing at the world. He groaned as his gaze moved to the window, and then to the painting of the girl with the ibises, somewhere, anywhere to escape the memories of that night. A deep, shuddering breath rolled through him. He tried to stand and felt dizzy.
“You’re almost there,” his aunt said softly.
His heart was pounding so hard it scared him, and his balance felt off, as if the room was tilted at an impossible angle. He felt for his chair with the jerky movements of a marionette.
“When I saw the boy,” he said finally, pushing through tar for the words, “when I looked in his eyes and saw what was inside, the pain and brokenness, I froze.”
“What do you mean?”
“I . . . for a split second, I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything. I heard sirens and knew that backup had arrived, but the only thing I remember was feeling a crushing pain in the side of my head. The next thing I knew I was in the hospital.”
After a moment she said, “Anyone could have frozen under those circumstances.”
He slowly shook his head. “Not a cop. Not a good one.”
“The killer hit you?”
“With an aluminum bat.”
“Thank God he didn’t kill you,” she said.
“He did something worse.”
She drew back in confusion. “Worse?”
“He got away.”
37
Preach drove away from his aunt’s office with both hands loosely holding the wheel. He felt empty, drained of emotion.
After the session, Aunt Janice had hugged him tight but said nothing about the outcome. He no longer cared. He did not deserve to care.
By the time backup had reached the tree house, the Candyland Killer was nowhere to be seen. The teacher had kept a dirt bike stashed nearby, and a search uncovered a maze of paths that wound through the forest behind the house and came out miles away, on a nest of different roads.
They had put out APBs, used dogs and helicopters and roadblocks, called the airports and bus stations. None of it mattered. Defying the odds, their quarry had disappeared into the night.
Gone. Thrown back into the world, a shark released into a pool full of guppies. Free to find a new home and repeat his unspeakable actions.
And for that, Preach would never forgive himself.
He had done what he could, given the chase everything he had, but after a few weeks passed without a trace, they had known it was futile. It was too easy to hide in this country.
Preach had told the truth during his debrief. Admitted he had frozen. He wasn’t about to compound his terrible failure with a lie.
Choking under pressure was not necessarily a firing offense but, because of the high profile nature of the case, the department needed a scapegoat. After the suspension, there were only two reasons Preach had allowed himself to consider working as a police officer again, risking the chance of a repeat performance.
The first was because there was still good for him to do in the world. Perhaps not enough for his own atonement, but enough to make a difference in someone else’s life.
The second was because he thought he had seen the worst humanity had to offer—the ultimate suffering of a child—and didn’t know what else could catch him off guard.
He felt numb by the time he parked at the station. An unusually large number of newspeople had accumulated outside, stirring with restless energy. It was early; had something happened?
He checked the local news on his phone and grew cold when he saw the headline.
Breaking News: Lead Detective on Literary Killer Case Seeing Local Psychologist.
He parked the car. His skin turned from cold to warm, and then flushed with heat, as he made his way through the phalanx of reporters. Their voices rose in a desperate crescendo, inquiring if he had mental problems, questioning his ability to work the case, begging for a sound bite.
Preach walked through them in a daze, numb by the time he entered the station. What did it matter, anyway? Let them discover what had happened. Let them know.
Conversations ceased when he entered the station. Coffee cups remained poised in midair, and dozens of eyes flicked to the side at once, as if following instructions from a conductor. He walked straight to the chief’s office.
She folded her hands atop the desk. “I’m sorry.”
“How long do I have?”
“The mayor’s already giving me heat. I can buy you a few days, but . . .”
“What?”
“I’m worried that if you stay on and things go south on another high-profile case, it might be worse for your career than stepping aside. Joe . . . you might not find another job.”
He stared at her. “And who would work it, if I bowed out?”
“Kirby, until the mayor brings someone in.”
“He’s not ready.”
She spread her hands. “At a minimum, you need a positive report from your therapist. ASAP.”
He didn’t answer, and she said, “Can I give you the name of my naturopath? You’re carrying a lot of weight right now.”
“I’m fine.”
“I just don’t understand how they found out,” the chief said.
Preach remembered the misplaced desk chair and thought about the calendar on his desktop. The appointments with his aunt were clearly marked.
He understood just fine. And he told her.
Her eyes narrowed. “This stays between us. Until we know more.”
He nodded. “I learned something last night you need to know about.”
A knock came at the door. Preach turned; it was Kirby. The chief caught Preach’s eye, and he gave a quick nod. She waved in the junior officer. Preach told them about Elliott and the mayor, and Kirby whistled.
“I don’t know if this means anything,” the chief said, shaking her head, “but we keep it to ourselves for now.” She turned to Preach. “Let’s hope there were no security cameras on the property.”
“There weren’t.”
It was Kirby’s turn to talk, and Preach could tell his partner was leaving out a few details about his discussion with Tram and Kim Vu. That was okay. Such things were never clean.
“Good work,” Preach said, causing Kirby’s eyes to spark with pride.
“Damian’s toxicology came back positive for Rohypnol,” the chief said. “So did the dogs’, just like you guessed. There’s something else. You haven’t logged in yet, have you? Damian’s bank records came in, and the withdrawals only added up to half the amount in Farley’s office. Fifteen grand.”
“Maybe he has cash in the house,” Kirby said. “He’s rich.”
“Then why wit
hdraw any at all?” the chief asked. “And for exactly half the amount?”
The facts of the case popped like quarks in Preach’s head, jumping in and out of neural pathways, making connections. He leaned forward, locking eyes with the chief. “Farley was blackmailing Damian and Elliott both,” he said softly. “He got addicted and turned on his friends.”
He was not surprised. He had seen fathers betray their sons when craving a hit, mothers watch their children go hungry. “What do you bet we find photos of Elliott and the mayor in whatever lockbox Farley’s key opens?” He crossed his arms, the wheels still spinning. “Maybe Elliott and Damian hired Mac to get rid of Farley, to stop the blackmail. It would explain why Mac doesn’t want us digging.”
“Why take out the author?” the chief asked.
“Damian was getting nervous,” Preach said. “I saw it in his eyes. He was terrified of going to jail and ruining his reputation.”
“You think Elliott had a hand in his death?”
“I doubt it. But you never know.”
The chief frowned and reached for her stress ball. Her red hair sat heavily on the collar of her blouse. “Belker? The novels?”
“A frame,” Preach said. “Or a subcontract.”
“What if the mayor knows, too?” Kirby asked, his words soaked with excitement.
“It could explain why she’s so hot to crucify Belker,” Preach said.
“What’s his status?”
“His pill box was full of Oxycodone. We can hold him on prescription charges alone.”
Chief Higgins tapped a slender finger on her desk as the phone rang. She looked down. “Terry,” she said, then put the phone on speaker. “This better be important.”
“I just took a call from dispatch.” Officer Haskins’s voice was raw with nervous energy. “There’s another body.”
The tension in the room was a tangible thing. Preach could feel it buzzing in the air, thrumming in his bones. Kirby put his elbows on his knees and pressed his hands together.
The chief picked up the phone, listened to the details, and slowly replaced the receiver. Preach and Kirby exchanged an uneasy glance just before she told them the name of the deceased.
Elliott Fenton.
38
“How did he die?” Preach asked the forensics expert as soon as he and Kirby arrived at Elliott’s renovated Craftsman bungalow.
He hated the tension in his own voice. He had watched Elliott through a window just a few hours ago. Did Rebecca Worthington have something to do with this? Or had Elliott returned home late, drunk and off his guard, to find a murderer in his home?
The forensics expert was compact, Latina, brainy. Dark bangs cupped a cherubic face. Her name was Lela Jimenez, and she and Dax worked opposite shifts. “We’ll do a toxicology report,” she said, “but my guess is poison.”
She led the officers through a side gate and into a park-like backyard. Elliott’s corpse was lying on a clipped circle of lawn next to an oval pool situated between the main house and a guest cottage. Beside the body was a lounge chair and a glass table.
The air reeked of bile, and Preach noticed a dried heap of vomit a few feet from the corpse. On the side table was a beer bottle with the label torn off, and an empty draught glass.
Preach leaned over the body. Elliott was sprawled facedown, fingers clutching the ground like talons. No ligature marks on the neck, which meant strangulation was unlikely. “Why poison?” Preach asked. “Besides the glass and the vomit?”
“The bloodshot eyes and the bite marks on the tongue,” Lela said.
Kirby looked slightly queasy. “Could he have overdosed on something?”
Lela shrugged. “Of course.”
Preach rose. “How long will the toxicology take?”
“Days, maybe a week. Depends on the backlog in Chapel Hill.”
“Expedite it.”
Preach took pictures on his phone and then combed the house, which was a larger version of Elliott’s office in town. Law books, law papers, law journals, law coffee mugs. A sizeable fiction collection, mostly Southern literature and signed copies of Damian’s books. There was an unusual number of condoms in the bathroom closet, and a giant stack of German pornography, but no underage photos or other incriminating evidence.
Which was no surprise. Elliott had been a careful man, an attorney who would know what to hide in case of a search.
There were no signs of forced entry. Preach found an intact security system, a loaded gun in Elliott’s bedroom, and a second handgun on the kitchen table. Had Elliott known something? Was he expecting trouble?
In a bedroom drawer, they discovered a small, unmarked, empty glass bottle that smelled vaguely of flowers. It was probably nothing, but Preach found it odd. He dropped it in an evidence bag.
The detached cottage was a dumping ground for golf clubs and fishing poles. Preach and Kirby walked the maze of garden paths and found a small pile of broken glass, shattered as if by a heel. Again, it seemed strange. Incongruous.
Purposeful.
“Maybe a pair of glasses?” Kirby suggested.
Preach stared at the shards on the ground. “Maybe.”
They pointed out the pile of glass to evidence. News vans started arriving, clawing for information. When the reporters saw Preach on the other side of the yellow tape, they reacted like kids on sugar.
“You think it’s another book murder?” Kirby asked. He was watching the reporters with hooded eyes, wary of their presence. More like a real cop, Preach thought.
“I don’t know. But I’m going to find out. Why don’t you talk to the neighbors, finish up here?”
Kirby preened. “Sure thing. You going to see another literature expert?” he asked, as Preach ducked away.
“Yeah.”
Half an hour later, Preach knelt in a grassy strip between two graves. The pressure of the case and the reporters, this moment he didn’t have time to take, pressed down on him with the weight of a collapsed mine.
To his left was his father’s headstone. His mother had fought hard for cremation, but Preach had insisted on burying his father in his family’s Creekville plot, which was attached to a hundred-year-old Baptist church. He wanted to be able to visit his father. He wanted him part of the earth, in a place of God.
To his right was Ricky. Even before the burn, Ricky’s life had been hard. He was pimply and obese, struggled in school, had never fit in with the world. He loved his Mustang and his infamous blond relative, who had always been his protector. Ricky would have walked into a volcano for his cousin Joey.
Preach put one hand on the ground, another to his forehead. He had to decide whether to continue the investigation or step aside, and he was going to do it right now, right here. Between these two.
Ricky’s internal organs had failed a week after the burn. Preach didn’t attend the funeral, and it had caused quite a stir. His parents were furious. Everyone assumed he had regressed, but the truth was that he couldn’t face his emotions. Not in public. He had gone alone to the lake and wept his body dry.
Then he graduated, left town, and never looked back.
He knew he had very little chance of solving the murders within the next few days. And that if someone else died on his watch, or if he was forcibly removed, then the chief was right. He was finished.
After paying his respects, he blew out a deep breath and rose. A grim smile parted his lips; he knew he had come to the right place. His father had brought him into this insane world, to this random speck on the map Preach called home, and his cousin’s death had flung him away, into the great big world.
Preach’s job was to protect and serve, not step aside and leave a junior officer to the wolves. But it was more than that. He wasn’t here for the chief, for Kirby, or even himself.
He was here for the potential victims. For Ari. For the people living in fear in the town of Creekville.
He had run away once before, from this town and from himself.
He wasn’t
doing it again. Not while he still had a choice.
Preach strode into the bookstore. Customers gawked as he stood at the front door, scanning the crowd until he spotted Ari talking to a customer. She was wearing a white V-neck shirt with a teal and orange headscarf. Eyes red and shadowed.
When she saw him, she broke off the conversation and rushed over to him, her black leather boots clicking on the wood.
“I need you,” he said, pushing away his attraction for her. “Right now.”
She swallowed. “Where are we going?”
“Nowhere. I need your mind.”
Ari turned to Nate, who was manning the register. “I’ll be in the back for a while.”
Nate’s dreadlocks bobbed as he swiveled to take in the line at the counter, the mass of customers roaming the stacks. “Uh, how long?”
“Nate.”
He lowered his eyes with the deference of a still-hopeful suitor. Ari led Preach to Farley’s office, and he closed the door.
She nervously twisted her thumb ring. “I saw the news. About Elliott Fenton and—” she bit her lip “—about you.”
“Then you understand how serious it is that this conversation stays between us.”
She nodded.
He showed her the crime scene photos. “Can you help?”
She bent over the images. “I don’t recognize anything offhand,” she said slowly, and Preach sagged. He’d have to try to find another professor, but that would take time he didn’t have. And he didn’t even know where to start.
She hugged her arms. “If this is a novel, even if it’s a poisoning, there could be hundreds of similar passages. Thousands.”