Written in Blood

by Layton Green

  “What did they do?” She reached into a desk drawer and pulled out an aging jewelry box shaped like a lotus flower. It was the same box from the photo of Deirdre’s room.

  His aunt turned the box over, popped something with her finger, and a secret compartment opened. She extracted a pile of aging, folded notebook paper.

  “I gave her that box, and she left these behind. For me to find.”

  Now he understood why his aunt had waited so long to act. She hadn’t known the truth until she’d bought Deirdre’s belongings and found the notes.

  “Did she tell you to kill those people, too?”

  “She’s the only person I’ve ever truly loved, Joey. In that way, at least. She was perfect. Agatha Christie wrote that, over time, the mind retains what is essential and rejects all else. Deirdre Hollings, even the memory of her, is what is essential to me. I want you to understand that killing those bastards in the way that I did . . . I needed to honor her memory. It wasn’t enough—it will never be enough—but it was something.”

  Preach bit down on his lip to force himself to stay awake. “What did they do to her that could possibly justify murder?”

  “Murder? What about justice? Isn’t that the purpose of your profession?” She laid a rigid hand atop the notes, her face as taut as a steel cable. “They lured her in with promises of joining the Byronic Wilderness Society. Evan seduced her over a period of months.”

  “He slept with her and then dumped her?”

  Even now, the pain in her grimace was hard for him to bear. “They took her to a cabin in the woods that was owned by Elliott’s family. He told her it was a ritual to get in the Society, that they had all done it. She didn’t want to. It wasn’t her. But she agreed because she wanted so badly to be loved, accepted. Don’t we all at that age?”

  “What happened?” he said thickly, feeling as if weights were attached to his eyelids. He had to keep her talking, at least find out the truth.

  Aunt Janice replaced the letters in the jewelry box. “They stood and watched her masturbate. She thought that was the end of it, but they’d slipped something in her drink to make her compliant. They had sex with her one by one, over her protests, and then they all joined in.”

  “She was their first.”

  “Was she? Who knows? Who cares? They took pictures of her and said if she told anyone they would distribute them to the whole school. Then they dropped her off at her house, never spoke to her again, and wrote a veiled poem about what happened in the next issue of the school paper. She killed herself a week later. They killed her.”

  Good God, he thought. He managed a weak cry for help again, though it seemed as if he were an actor in a play, calling out for assistance. It didn’t seem real.

  She was stroking his hair. “I’m the same person you’ve always known. You just didn’t know that side of me.”

  He tried to move but only managed to roll onto his side in an ineffective position. “Of all people,” he whispered, “I thought I knew you.”

  “I believe Nabokov said it best. ‘Years of secret suffering had taught me superhuman self-control.’”

  He looked at his aunt and saw her in a new light, a young woman in love, perhaps confused or ashamed of her desires, perhaps not, perhaps just struck dumb by the beauty and sensitive soul of young Deirdre Hollings.

  Struck so dumb she would avenge her death with murder.

  “Didn’t you read the end of Five Little Pigs?” He was grasping, his voice barely above a whisper, but he had to try something. “The murderess admits that she was the one who died because of what she did—not the person she murdered.”

  “Of course I read it,” she said quietly. “And there are some things worth dying for. Deirdre was so much more alive than any of them.”

  “You got your revenge. Turn yourself in. I’ll do everything I can for you.”

  She cupped his face, her eyes full of love, and then rose. He could feel himself fading.

  “Goodbye, Joey. You’ll always be in my heart.”

  “Please. Let me help, I’m begging you.”

  She tucked the jewelry box under her arm, grabbed the suitcase and her coat, and headed for the door. Preach flopped on the floor like a dying fish. His attempt at a yell for help came out as a croak.

  With every step she took, his spirit churned within him, pain and grief and rage, a tornado of helpless emotion. He thought of the life-long trust his aunt had betrayed and how it made him feel; the terrible shame Deirdre must have felt at the hands of her peers when she lay before them naked and defiled; the torture his cousin had suffered, his body and spirit a puddle of melted wax in that hospital bed. Preach went even deeper, jerking from his memory an image of the candy-colored tree house in Atlanta. This time he didn’t turn away. Instead of fighting against it, he gave in and unlocked whatever it was that writhed in horror inside him. He gazed into that child’s ruined eyes so close he felt the shattered innocence as his own, the pedophile dirt crusting his body, the bone-deep shame that would never go away.

  Bloated with pain and loathing, a burst of emotion-fueled adrenaline shuddered through him, a burst of power, and he managed to drag himself to his elbows, high enough to reach the desk. His aunt heard him and turned, but not before Preach had fumbled for a paperweight and chucked it through the window. His bellow for help followed the sound of breaking glass.

  His aunt dashed toward him, but he was already toppling over, unable to sustain his outburst. He fell to the floor as she stared at him in astonishment, then reached into a coat pocket and retrieved the syringe.

  She injected him in the arm again, though when she finished a camera flashed behind her, and then another.

  The last thing Preach saw before he slipped away was the shocked faces of two reporters crowding the broken window, one of them jabbing at a cell phone while the other worked furiously to photograph the scene.

  56

  Preach woke in a hospital bed for the second time in two days. The sedative had worn off, and he was released within the hour. As his aunt had promised, she had given him nothing deadly.

  Aunt Janice. He still couldn’t process it. A quick call to the station confirmed that she was in custody, but before he faced the blizzard of paperwork there was something he needed to do.

  He left the hospital and drove straight to his mother’s house. She opened the door before he could knock, gently probed his various injuries, and buried her face in her hands. She didn’t cry, but when she looked up, shadows of grief and worry darkened her face, along with the same quicksand of disbelief in which Preach was mired.

  It was the most emotional he had ever seen her.

  “Is it true?” she said. “Did Janice . . .”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  His mother looked away, shuddering as she fought for control. They moved inside and sat on the couch. The forest was brown and still outside the window.

  “I have to know,” Preach said, “if there were any indications. When I asked if she had ever stalked anyone, you said to talk to you later.”

  What he really wanted to know, he thought, was whether it was all his fault. Whether he had turned a blind eye for love, whether he could have prevented any of the murders.

  His mother hesitated. Preach said, “I’ve never pressed you about the source of the animosity between you and Aunt Janice. But if there was ever a time for disclosure . . .”

  The stiffness returned to his mother’s posture, but after a resigned sigh she looked at him with eyes that spoke of a lifetime of hurt and restraint. “The trigger was an old boyfriend, before your father. It was someone I loved very much. Your aunt . . . stole him from me.”

  “Aunt Janice is gay.”

  His mother’s stare bored into him. “Exactly.”

  Preach looked down and shuffled his feet.

  “Your aunt is someone who gets what she wants in life. She didn’t want my boyfriend, of course. But we were arguing about something else, money I’d been given by ou
r parents for college, and she wanted me to suffer.”

  “Did you know about Deirdre?”

  A slow shake of the head. “I knew she had stalked a different girl who spurned her advances. Come to think of it, the girl looked a lot like Deirdre. It was quite the scandal. We weren’t speaking, but I know Janice left town because of it.”

  Preach inhaled deeply through his nose. His mother’s house smelled of rose water. “I just don’t . . . was she using me all those years? To get to you?”

  “Oh, I don’t think that at all,” she said quickly. “From the first time she saw you, at the hospital, I could see in her eyes how much she loved you. She would have done anything for you.”

  They both fell silent as they realized the unintended gravity of his mother’s words. Would have done anything for you.

  Preach had heard it said that you only truly love one thing in life. He wasn’t sure about that, but what he did know, from his years of experience as a chaplain and a detective, was that even monsters could love.

  His mother’s hands fluttered and then settled in her lap, as if she was trying to express something that was too much for her, beyond her powers of communication. “I’ve always known how much you loved her,” she said, in a near-whisper. “I never wanted to take that from you.”

  Preach thought of all those years his mother must have suffered, watching her sister enjoy a closer relationship with her son than she had. His voice was husky when he spoke. “Thank you. And I’m sorry.”

  Her hand cupped his cheek. “I love you so much, son. I know I’m not very good at showing it.” She smiled a sad, self-deprecating smile. “Where do you think you got it from?”

  The waitress set the tray on the edge of the table, then deposited two plates full of barbecue ribs, coleslaw, hushpuppies, and fried okra in front of Preach and Ari. The tablecloths were red-and-white checkered cloth, the floor scuffed linoleum, the cement-block walls painted seawater green. Two daily specials were written in magic marker on a whiteboard propped on a table. Men in overalls and grease-stained work shirts waited in line to order.

  A hard rain pockmarked the surface of an algae-choked pond outside the window. Preach and Ari had driven less than five miles, but they were worlds away from the vegan grocers and Prius-choked streets of downtown Creekville.

  “Are you trying to kill me?” Ari said, staring down at the massive plate of food. “Or is this where you tell me this is the ‘real Carolina,’ and I’m supposed to get all gooey inside at the fact that you’re a modern man who’s dialed in to the common folk?”

  Her comment was teasingly given, but it made him think about Creekville old and new, hipsters and locals, those on the “inside” and those trapped on the other side of the mirror. Everyone, he thought, was just trying to fit in somewhere.

  Just like Deirdre Hollings.

  He pushed those thoughts away, savoring the aroma of slow-cooked pork marinating in a mixture of ketchup, vinegar, and pepper. He returned Ari’s smirk with one of his own. “Take a bite.”

  She eyed him in mock seduction as she brought a rib to her lips. As soon as she bit down, her expression started to morph, and by the time she finished chewing her eyes shone with the devotion of a zealot. “Oh my God. I think that’s the best barbecue I’ve ever tasted. Maybe the best anything.”

  “It’s called cue around here, Ari. And laws have been introduced to preserve its authenticity. Are you all gooey inside yet?”

  She lingered over a few more bites, then wiped her mouth and took a drink of tea. “Everything’s delicious, I admit. But you said you’d give me details once we got here.”

  She already knew about his aunt—everybody knew, thanks to the live broadcast from the team of reporters who’d rescued Preach in his aunt’s office.

  He told her about the sketch the police artist had rendered, the significance of the items in his aunt’s office, and how he had put it all together. Somehow the retelling didn’t affect him like he thought it would. It pained him, but it wasn’t the rabbit punch of emotion he had expected.

  When he finished, Ari couldn’t conceal her shock. Eyes wide, she asked, “Where did the reporters come from?”

  “They followed me from the station. They were in the parking lot of my aunt’s office the whole time, ready to ambush me when I left.”

  “And instead they got the story of a lifetime.”

  “Lucky them,” he said tonelessly.

  She forked a piece of okra. “When you fought against the injection . . . was that real? Can emotions physically affect you like that?”

  He had done his research after the fact, but only out of curiosity. He didn’t need to verify what he already knew. “What do you think?”

  She pressed her lips together, and then her head bobbed slowly up and down.

  There wasn’t much else to say. He still loved his aunt, and she had saved Ari’s life, but she had also committed three acts of premeditated murder. She might never see another city sidewalk.

  Due to Preach and Ari’s eyewitness testimony, Mac and Mina were going away for a long time, too. Preach planned to do everything in his power to round up the rest of Mac’s crew.

  Belker was a free man, or at least free of prison. Preach suspected that the troubled author would never truly escape himself.

  As for Kirby, his lawyer thought he had a very good chance at a diminished capacity plea, due to the minimal time that passed between Kirby’s viewing the photos and killing the mayor. He might very well be looking at a few years for manslaughter instead of life in prison. The nature of the photos and the mayor’s other crimes would help his cause, too. Preach could only pray that whatever sentence was handed down, his friend would find the strength to endure.

  And that he would finish that book about the case he had started, the one whose name Kirby told him had been changed to Written in Blood.

  Preach’s mother had promised to help Jalene find an administrative position at the university, and he was working on finding her an apartment in a better school district. If he had to, he’d supplement the rent himself until she got on her feet.

  By the time Preach and Ari finished eating, their moods had improved. So had the weather. The rain turned light and dreamy, and when a customer opened the door, a mild breeze drifted into the barbecue shack.

  Ari was wearing a lacy shirt under an olive-green bomber jacket. Though her face was wan from the stress of the last few weeks, he found her as attractive as ever.

  “So what’s next on the to-be-read pile?” she asked. “Where does a clever detective turn for escape after a case like that?”

  “Shel Silverstein? Dr. Seuss?”

  Her eyes crinkled as she laughed.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I may never read a book in the same way. During the investigation, it felt as if those four novels almost took on a life of their own.”

  They shared a moment of silence, and the corners of her lips curled upward. “I’ve already picked out my next book.”

  “Is that right?”

  She put her hands on the table, palms up and inviting him to join. “I’m thinking Pride and Prejudice would fit the bill.”

  He looked down at her tattoos. “I confess you don’t seem like the Jane Austen type.”

  “What if I told you the book was about the errors in judgment that can occur when people first meet, and how those judgments can change over time?”

  He took her hands in his, and they interlocked fingers. “Then I’d say the author was a wise woman.”

  “Is this where we talk about what happens next?” she asked.

  “Didn’t we agree that words were cheap?”

  She looked at him from across the table, her eyes warm but challenging. “Then why don’t you show me?”

  He met her gaze, then slapped a pair of twenties on the table. They didn’t wait for the change.

  Acknowledgments

  Acknowledgments are getting harder and harder for me to write. So many people have tou
ched my career in positive ways over the years and contributed to the calculus of the final product. I am forever indebted to all of them and scoff at the myth of the solitary author. A few special thanks for this novel: as always, I am scarily dependent on my old friends and early readers Rusty Dalferes and John Strout. Maria Morris and Ryan McLemore are beacons of support, too. Special thanks to Marcus Hill for his input on local law and all things North Carolina. Dan Ozdowski made sure the Creekville IT team actually knew what they were talking about. Duke University Law Professors Jamie Boyle and Jennifer Jenkins watched my back on IP issues. Richard Marek and Judy Sternlight provided preliminary edits that really helped shaped the book. Ayesha Pande, my wonderful agent, deserves a ton of credit for helping convince me to write the novel, and for shepherding it through with such expert hands. Dan Mayer has been a fantastic editor and supporter, as has the entire team at Seventh Street. Wife and family: it’s all for you, as always.

  About the Author

  Layton Green is a former attorney who writes across multiple genres. His novels have been nominated for several awards (including a finalist for an International Thriller Writers award), optioned for film, and have reached number 1 on numerous genre lists in the United States, the United Kingdom, and Germany.

  Please visit Layton on Goodreads, Facebook, and at www.laytongreen.com for additional information on the author, his works, and more.

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