A Lullaby in the Dark

by Billie Reece

  “Seems like a stretch,” Lieutenant Gordon says.

  “I’m not saying he did it, but I do want to talk to him. Here’s the thing, he’s always front and center when it comes to The Lullaby Man. Given that, where was he just now at the press conference?” I knuckle tap his photo. “I want to know why.”

  Tucker hangs up his phone. “Lawrence Inglebird drives a 2014 red Subaru. I’ve got his make and plates circulating.”

  “Good. What about the cat we brought in? Anything back on forensics?”

  Tucker nods. “The wounds were inflicted, not accidental.”

  I was expecting that answer, but holding out hope it wouldn’t be the case. “And the cat man? Did you track him down? I want to know if that cat belongs to him.”

  Tucker says, “Noah Harberson is his name and I’ve tried calling. He’s not answering.” Before I can tell him, Tucker hurries across the room. “I’ll go to his house.”

  Sharon asks, “What’s up with the cat issue?”

  “Thomas Quillen used to torture them,” I explain. “Cut them, break their bones, horrible stuff…” My thoughts track back through the years. “When we finally tracked him down there were bones everywhere.” I close my eyes. “Cats, dogs…” My throat swells. “Little girls.”

  The room falls silent. With a shaky breath, I open my eyes. “I thought we’d found them all, the girls. If I would’ve known, I wouldn’t have…” I shake my head. “I would have made more of an effort when Thomas Quillen fell off that roof.”

  More silence fills the room.

  I force my thoughts back to the here and now. “Lawrence Inglebird is our first priority. Let’s make connections. If it was him, how did he get the cabbage patch doll? What days and times did he visit Thomas Quillen? What was said? What else does he know?”

  A phone rings and Dominic answers it. I go back to staring at the work board. Geet Cafferty, our meth head witness, said the person was clean-shaven. Lawrence Inglebird has a white goatee. That fact doesn’t match, but Geet is a less than reliable witness.

  A few seconds later, Dominic hangs up. “The bones found in the closet at the abandoned house were not human, not Ava Neal. They were bones from a cow. Broken and slivered.”

  “Goddammit!” I snatch a photo of Fred Xanders off the work board and throw it across the room. “I thought we found Ava Neal.”

  “Ava Neal’s remains might still be there,” Lieutenant Gordon says. “Let’s not lose hope yet.”

  I take a breath. He’s right. I need to focus. I point at the photo of Fred Xanders, now on the floor. “Sharon, you were looking for a timeline of Fred and Thomas with matching incarceration. Update, please?”

  She shakes her head. “They weren’t even at the same facility.”

  “What about the art teacher who was sketching Geet Cafferty’s lead?” I ask.

  “I’ll check,” Ignacio says, heading to the door.

  “Show Geet a photo of Lawrence Inglebird. See if it jogs her mushy brain.”

  A text comes in on Dominic’s phone. He checks it. “The DNA match came back on the third strand found on the doll.” He hesitates, reading and re-reading. “Ava Neal.”

  I stagger back. The room spins. The walls blur.

  My brain tries to process this new information. It tries. And fails.

  How could Ava Neal’s DNA be on a doll with Rachel Eldridge? Ava was the first victim and Rachel the last. Years separate the two abductions. There were traces of Ava’s DNA found in Thomas Quillen’s home where he tortured his victims. But none of her DNA was found with the other remains of Mary, Opal, and Rachel.

  There are dozens of ways the doll could’ve been cross-contaminated. Thomas Quillen could have stored it alongside something that belonged to Ava Neal. He could’ve kept it in Ava’s bookbag that was never recovered. There are explanations. Lots of them. Plausible ones.

  Yet, the room still spins. My heart races. Nausea churns.

  I’ve held a suspicion close. A concern. No, more like dread. A fear that nags and eats away. One that worms its way into my thoughts. But I always beat it down. I refuse to allow it to make sense.

  Yet…it does. Right now, it is perhaps the only thing that makes sense. The realization knocks the air from my lungs.

  I swallow. “The art teacher,” my voice comes rough, raw. “Tell him to stop with Geet Cafferty. Get him in here now.”

  Snatching Ava Neal’s photo from the work board, I lay it on the table. “I want a photo of Ava Neal twenty years later.”

  Forty-Two

  I try not to focus on the ticking clock, a reminder that Danielle Stevens has precious few moments left.

  Instead, I stare at the high school art teacher who is recreating Ava Neal, twenty years later. “How’s it going?” I ask for the third time.

  The art teacher is about my age with ten years of teaching under her belt. She did a career switch in her thirties from freelance work to high school instructor. She won teacher of the year last year. All of these things mean nothing to me. Dominic gave me the run-down when he brought her in.

  All I care about is what she’s currently working on.

  She’s a short woman with spiky black hair. She’s sitting with her legs crossed and a sketch pad balanced on her knee. Half a dozen pencils scatter the conference room table beside her.

  “Getting there,” she says.

  Yeah, well, she’d been “getting there” for the past twenty minutes.

  In all fairness, this woman isn’t a trained sketch artist. She’s a high school art teacher. Asking her to age a little girl by twenty years is a big task.

  Which is why I also have Sharon working on a laptop with a software program that ages photos. Unfortunately, the prediction of Ava twenty years from now produced a man’s photo, not a woman. That was the first time. The second time we got back a movie star, a Gloria something or other.

  Ignacio’s following up with the lab. I want to know how recent the sample of Ava Neal’s DNA has been. Or, if not that, how old she was when she came in contact with the doll.

  “Almost done,” the art teacher says.

  My phone rings with an incoming call from Tucker. “Yes?”

  “I’m almost back to the station. Noah Harberson, the cat man. He confirmed that several of his cats have gone missing. He also confirmed the one Ingrid found was his. But, get this. He said no reporter ever went to his house to do a story. Jaime Hearst never interviewed him. She lied.”

  “Got it!” The art teacher says at the exact second Sharon’s laptop dings with a third try.

  They simultaneously show me—the teacher her pad and Sharon her screen.

  I look between them. “Goddammit!” I race from the room, skid down the hall, and rush out into the lobby.

  Cameras flash. Microphones go up. I search the faces. “Where is Jaime Hearst?” I demand.

  Murmuring fills the air. The reporters look around. Then the questions come.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Is she involved?”

  “Is Danielle Stevens still alive?”

  I spin and without asking Nuna Dillon buzzes me back through the secure door. Tucker comes in the back entrance. I’m already barking orders before I race back into the workroom. “Dominic and Ignacio, I need everything on Jaime Hearst. Sharon and Tucker, you’re with me.”

  Everyone jumps into action.

  “Where are we going?” Tucker asks, falling into step beside me.

  “Your sister’s school.”

  Forty-Three

  I sit behind the wheel of my Dodge Charger, staring at the back of the school where Ingrid attends.

  Tucker points to a grassy portion behind the school. “That spot there is where Ingrid found the cat.”

  “Right. Sharon, you’re with me. Tucker, wait here. If Jaime Hearst is around, I don’t want her seeing Tucker’s uniform and getting spooked.”

  “Don’t you mean, Ava Neal?” Sharon says.

  “No, I mean Jaime Hears
t. She might not even know that she was once Ava Neal. She was taken at four. How much do you remember when you were four?”

  Sharon nods. “Guess you’re right.”

  I glance at Tucker in the rearview. “Get behind the wheel. But don’t get out of the car. If you see Jaime Hearst, call me. Do not engage with her.”

  Sharon and I both open our doors and step out into the afternoon sun. Tucker makes quick work of taking my driving spot.

  We cross the short distance to the grass. On the left runs a fence with the school on the other side. To the right a sidewalk, a single lane road, and an old neighborhood.

  A sprinkler system must have come on because the grass holds dampness to it. I spy a rust-colored area that could be cat blood. Going with my gut, I walk across the grass in the direction of the old neighborhood.

  The sidewalk is clean but a dark spot on the single-lane road catches my attention. I squat and touch my finger to it. It’s almost completely dry but a tiny bit comes off. I smell it. Yes, blood.

  I cross over into the neighborhood, looking for more splotches of cat blood. But the sprinklers have come on here too, washing the area clean.

  Still, the cat could have crawled from one of these houses across to the school. The poor thing was trying to get away from the torture. Then it died on the grass where Ingrid found it.

  Sharon watches my every move, staying close. “Should we start knocking on doors?” Sharon asks. “Show Jaime’s picture around?”

  “No.” Old Tennessee homes line both sides of the street, some one-story and other two. I pass a stone and wood one story on the right and come to a stop.

  A red Subaru sits parked along the curb. I check the plate. “That’s Lawrence Inglebird’s car.”

  “What?” Sharon spins, looking right at the house.

  I keep walking. “Stop looking. Call it in. Find out who lives there. Get us back up. No sirens. We don’t want anyone spooked.”

  Sharon keeps pace. We take a right at the end of the block.

  While she calls it in I dial Tucker. “Did you see where we walked?”

  “Yes.”

  “You got eyes on that red Subaru? That’s Lawrence Inglebird’s car. Keep your attention on that house. I want to know if there’s any movement.”

  “Will do.” Tucker hangs up.

  Sharon finishes her conversation. “Lieutenant Gordon is getting us what we need.”

  Stepping further around the corner, I motion Sharon to do the same. I look across the backyards, counting the houses to the one where Lawrence’s red Subaru is parked.

  I say, “I think Lawrence Inglebird might be egging Ava Neal aka Jaime Hearst on. In one of their interviews, I think Thomas Quillen told Lawrence that Ava is alive. Thomas told Lawrence where to find her. There’s no way Lawrence kidnapped Danielle Stevens. He doesn’t have the balls. But he’s conniving enough to convince Ava/Jaime to do it.”

  “To what end?” Sharon asks.

  “A story. Lawrence is hungry for another big one. I just don’t think he expected things to go this far.”

  “So Jaime Hearst is the one who attacked Caroline Christianson?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  Sharon glances down the row of back yards. “Who all do you think is in that house? Lawrence, Jaime, and Danielle?”

  “I think that’s a safe bet.”

  “Then what are we waiting for?”

  She’s eager, I get it. “Believe me, I want to railroad in. But I don’t want what happened to Caroline to happen to you, or me. We’re waiting on Lieutenant Gordon and back up.”

  “But Caroline was blindsided. Our eyes are wide open.”

  I inhale a breath. Sharon’s right. “I’ll take the front. You take the back.”

  Forty-Four

  As quietly as I can, I turn the knob of the front door. Unlike with Fred Xanders’s home, this one is locked.

  I spend a few seconds checking the usual places for a spare key: under the mat, under a flower pot, behind a planter.

  I find it on top of the door.

  My Glock comes out. The key goes in. The door swings inward. I choke.

  The smell hits me first, knocking me back a half step. Rot. Decay. Things long dead. Blood spots the walls. A trail of it smears across the wood floor, leading from the entryway left into the living room.

  I follow the trail, careful not to contaminate the scene. I don’t want to know what’s at the end, but I have to.

  It leads across the wood floor of the living room and into a kitchen. I stop at the door, taking a quick second to compose myself, and I lean in, my Glock ready.

  Lawrence Inglebird lays on the floor, eyes open but seeing nothing. His skin holds a chalky look and blood pools under his head where a hatchet went in. There’s no need to check for a pulse. He’s long gone.

  On the other side of the kitchen, a shadow moves across the back door. Sharon’s still trying to get in. I snatch a hand towel from the counter and use it to open the back door.

  Sharon’s eyes snap wide. “Shit! You scared the Jesus out at me.”

  I motion her inside, nodding over to Lawrence’s body.

  “Danielle?” she asks.

  “Nothing yet.” I step back across the kitchen, and I stop.

  A squeak comes from behind a door to the left of the refrigerator. A pantry door maybe.

  Motioning Sharon to open it, I position myself in front, my Glock up and ready. With a sideways glance, I nod, and she pulls the door open in one sharp movement.

  Danielle is there, all sobs and snot, her wrists bound behind her back and a bandana acting as a gag.

  Alive.

  Sweet Jesus, she’s alive.

  From the entryway I came into comes the sound of footsteps. The front door slams.

  “Stay with Danielle!” I yell at Sharon, already running back through the house.

  I’m out the door and leaping from the porch when the red Subaru peels away from the curb. I catch sight of Jaime Hearst behind the wheel. She speeds from the neighborhood and I take off in a full sprint.

  I round the block and my white Dodge Charger screeches to a stop. Tucker throws open the passenger door. “Get in!”

  I don’t have the door closed but Tucker’s already spinning out.

  “Go!” I yell.

  Flicking the switch on the dash, he fires up the car’s lights and sirens. I grab the radio. “All units, all units, we are in pursuit of a red Subaru…”

  I continue the call, scrabbling for my seatbelt as Tucker skids onto the main road. A delivery truck honks, long and loud.

  “We found Danielle,” I tell him.

  Tucker’s head snaps around. “Alive?”

  “Yes, alive.”

  He faces front, breathing out. “Oh, that is so good.”

  The back of the Subaru comes into view. It screeches around a corner.

  I jab my finger forward. “Catch up.”

  Another corner and it barrels into a neighborhood.

  “Shit!” Tucker hisses.

  “What?”

  He starts to respond, then stops in a panic. Our car lurches, tires smoking and brakes howling. My body slams forward and the seatbelt catches me hard across the chest.

  “What are you doing?” I yell.

  “She’s there!” Tucker’s already unbuckling his seatbelt and scrambling from the car.

  I follow his gaze until I see the red Subaru. It had plowed into a mailbox, driver’s door open, and the engine still running.

  But not just any mailbox.

  Mrs. Cynthia Hagist.

  Where Ingrid is.

  Forty-Five

  Tucker’s already across the yard before I get out of the car.

  The house’s front door stands open. Shouts and screams come from inside. It escalates when Tucker charges in.

  I cover the short distance, racing in after him.

  Jamie Hearst/Ava Neal stands in the center of the living room. With a hand clamped down on Ingrid’s head, she h
olds a utility knife to her neck.

  Cynthia Hagist kneels on the floor next to a man about her age—presumably her husband. A deep gash runs from his mouth to his ear, splitting his face wide.

  “Let her go!” Tucker barks.

  “T-Tucker?” Ingrid whimpers then gasps when Jaime tightens her hold.

  “Shut up!” Jaime snaps. With wide eyes, the knife trembles in her grip.

  I recognize the look. She’s a step away from being completely out of control.

  “I’ll cut her! I swear to God, I will!”

  I raise my hand in a calming gesture as I position myself between Tucker and his sister. On the floor, Cynthia quietly cries as she presses a throw blanket against her husband’s face.

  I keep my eyes on Jaime. She’s a tall woman with plenty of body towering above Ingrid. That’s good. Plenty of area to shoot if need be. “You’re fine Jaime. Everyone is fine. Relax.”

  “I am relaxed!” She screams. Her eyes blaze. “I’ll kill this kid. Is that what you want?”

  “No, I don’t want that, Jaime,” I say. “I don’t want anyone dying.”

  Jaime sneers, looking me up and down. “You’re not so clever. I volunteer at the school. How do you think I got Danielle to come with me so easily?”

  “I’m not clever, Jaime.” I shake my head. “If I was clever, I’d be the one holding the knife.”

  “That’s right. So back off!”

  “Okay, I’m backing off.” I shuffle a step for effect.

  Tucker shuffles, too, in a sideways movement out of Jaime’s immediate sight.

  “The thing is, we have marksmen outside.” I hitch my chin in a nod. “They’ve got you in sight from all the windows. They’ll follow you through the house. If you try to hurt Ingrid, they’ll act. It’s their job to act.”

  Jaime’s gaze flicks to the living room window. “That’s bullshit. You’re lying!”

  Tucker shuffles closer, staying wide.

  “I’m not lying,” I say. “I don’t want anyone dying, but the marksmen outside have to do their job. You’ve got the power, Jaime.”