by Hopkin, Ben
And give she did. With relish.
Left to her own devices, Mala might have just given in and let the girl have her gory fun. Her one-time belief that the patient always knew best had been tried and tested, but there was still a part of her that felt the only ones that truly knew how to deal with any kind of pain were the ones actually experiencing it.
But it wasn’t just up to her.
She had to answer to the Department of Social and Health Services, or her guardianship of Janey could be revoked. That was the club that kept Mala pushing forward with all of the “normal” poor Janey could take. Otherwise, she’d just let the girl’s freak flag fly.
They were on their way into that very building now. Mala had pulled Janey out of school early, but not before being forced into a conversation with the kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Kingston. Janey was showing signs of difficulty in her class. The principal, Mr. Killarney, had wanted Janey in with special ed, but Mala had insisted they give mainstreaming a try. Mrs. Kingston had been cautiously optimistic, but that view seemed to be changing by the day.
Mala let out a sigh. It was never easy.
DSHS was housed in a brick monstrosity that was proof of the lack of creativity surrounding government contracts. Whoever had been commissioned to build this building had clearly never had an original thought in his or her life.
Mala looked again. His. Had to be a man. No woman would build this crime against nature. She felt her artistic sensibilities quail as she entered through the front door. Just one more thing she was going to have to swallow today.
Her appointment was with Richard Templeton, a man who appeared to have it in for her ever since she had gone over his head with some concerns about how he had run his PRIDE parenting course back when Mala was taking it. He and one of his coworkers, a Ms. Joan Bladworth, had raised concerns about her parenting abilities. Mala had been able to talk Joan out of pursuing things further, but Richard was another story.
“Ah, Ms. Charan,” Richard said as she neared his desk.
“Actually, it’s Dr. Charan, Mr. Templeton. As I’ve mentioned before.”
“Right. Sorry about that. I talk to so many people.” He closed the file he was reading and gave her a smile that seemed to have too many teeth to it. “Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to come and meet with me.”
Her instinct was to rebut that she hadn’t any choice, but Mala restrained herself. “No trouble at all.”
Richard’s gaze went down to Janey. “Oh.” He pursed his lips. “I see you brought Caitlyn.” Caitlyn Walker was Janey’s legal name, but Mala and the two detectives had taken to calling her Janey during the case before they knew her identity. She had let them know since then that she preferred Janey, so it had stuck.
“Was I not supposed to? You didn’t specify the nature of our meeting, and since it involves Ja… Caitlyn…”
“Well, I would think it should be obvious. The meeting being about her is precisely the reason not to bring her,” he replied, his tone acerbic.
Mala took a breath. It was possible that Mr. Templeton was not trying to bait her. There was a strong likelihood that he was, in fact, just a prick. And dealing with pricks was a small price to pay for keeping the little girl holding fast to her hand.
“I’m so sorry I didn’t pick up on that,” she replied, keeping her voice steady. “What shall we do about it now?”
Richard Templeton was balding, with hair that was swirled around in an apparent attempt to hide that fact. Not only was it unsuccessful, but the product he must be using to try to control that hair made it look stringy and oily. It was not a pleasant combination. He tapped a ring against his desk in seeming irritation. The ring looked to be heavy, made of gold, with an onyx stone inscribed with something in its center.
“I’ll see if I can find a colleague who can take her for a bit.” As he walked away, he smoothed an errant strand of hair back into place. It might have been her imagination, but Mala would have sworn she heard a squishing sound when he did so. Glancing down at the man’s desk, Mala saw that the file he had been reading was Janey’s.
That couldn’t be good.
“Well, kiddo,” she said, looking down at Janey. “Looks like we’re going to have split up for a bit. You going to be okay?”
Janey pulled her bear in close and nodded. She was so grown up most of the time, but occasionally, like right now, she looked so small. Vulnerable.
Then she grabbed a sheet of paper and her crayons and drew a quick sketch. It was of Mala and a weasel-like man. Mala had him in a headlock and the man’s face was turning purple.
Stifling a laugh, Mala shook her head. “That’s not very nice, Janey. We have to try to get along with these people, all right?”
Janey made a face at that, but then pointed at a nearby drinking fountain. She was thirsty. Mala smiled and nodded.
“Go ahead.”
She skipped down the hall, pausing only to whack her bear on the head for some imagined fault. Mala’s heart skipped in time to the little girl’s feet.
Looking back at Templeton’s desk, her heart skipped once more, but this time for a very different reason.
The file was right in front of her. The social worker was nowhere to be seen. Janey was down the hall getting a drink. There was no one to see her.
It was a violation, true, but it was Janey’s file. And Templeton had already demonstrated more than once his dislike of Mala and an apparent vendetta against her fostering of Janey. A social worker on a crusade was a terrible thing, and Mala needed to know what she was up against.
The chance was slipping away as she sat contemplating it. She moved around the side of the desk and pulled open the file.
There, right up at the top, were the words that Mala had been afraid of ever since she had a run-in with Richard’s coworker, Joan Bladworth.
…sincere concerns about the wellbeing of Caitlyn Walker while under the care of Mala Charan.
She closed the file. There was no need to read any further. She knew what this meeting was about.
They were trying to take Janey away from her.
* * *
Janey was arguing with her bear, Popeye. He was demanding that they go back to be with Mala, but Janey wanted a drink. Plus, she had seen Mala looking at the folder on the freaky man’s desk. She had wanted to look at it, but there was no way she’d do it with Janey standing there.
She knew the freaky man. He’d been one of the ones that kept coming around when Janey had been moved from one group home to another, before they’d finally decided she could live with Mala.
She didn’t like him. Not one bit.
Besides, Popeye only wanted to be with Mala because he thought she might buy them some snacks. Popeye loved snacks. He never ate them, but like he always said, it was the principle of the thing. He liked to be thought of.
Silly bear. She smacked him on the head again.
He complained, like he always did when she smacked his head. Wanted to know what she had done that for.
For whatever he was going to do next, of course. She knew Popeye. He was naughty. He couldn’t go five minutes without getting into trouble.
He grumbled a bit at that but he couldn’t really argue. He was a naughty bear. And he knew it.
But right now, Janey had bigger problems than whether or not her bear was mad at her. She had to figure out what she was going to do.
It was important, she knew that much. It could mean the difference between her staying with Mala and going back to those awful group homes with all the crybaby children there.
Which would be better? Should she behave herself? Nod and smile and draw pretty pictures with flowers and cute animals and no secret messages about bad people who liked to kill? Or should she show the people just how much they needed Mala by throwing a fit and drawing pictures of people dying with the black and red crayons?
It was so hard to know what to do sometimes.
She wanted to behave, but Popeye’s an
swer was always to throw fits. She smacked him again. She did it because he deserved it, and also a little bit because it was fun. Did that make her bad, too?
There was no way to answer that, so she went back to the other question.
Good Janey or bad Janey?
Popeye was giving her that look. The one that said, I don’t want you to smack me again, but you know what to do.
And it was true. She did know what to do.
Now she just had to go and do it.
Bad bear. He really gave her the worst ideas.
* * *
It was almost lunchtime when the new Assistant Prosecuting Attorney decided to pay Darc a visit. Under normal circumstances, that timing would mean that Trey would be aware of very little outside of his own hunger.
That did not seem to be the case today.
Seconds after Carson Speer identified himself as the new APA, Trey had leapt out of his seat and was slapping handcuffs on the man. That behavior struck Darc as impulsive and illogical.
“What the…?” Carson squawked. “Why am I in handcuffs?”
“You’re the new APA,” Trey barked back at him. “That’s good enough for me.”
“Look, I know you didn’t like the guy--”
“Oh, we liked him just fine. Hell, Darc got drunk for the first time with him.”
“But I didn’t do anything,” the lawyer begged.
“Prove it.”
“What…? I don’t… Come on, un-cuff me.”
Trey yanked on the attorney’s arms. “Not until I hear your alibi. Make that alibis.”
“For what?”
“What do you think?” Darc’s partner snapped. “The murder cases.”
“But that’s why I’m here,” the APA protested. “I want to help.”
“You see that?” Trey turned to Darc and asked. “He’s modulating. Total serial killer. He should be trying to get me fired right now. Instead he’s offering to help.” Trey gave the handcuffs another yank.
“Listen, I don’t have an alibi for the murders. I was just in my hotel room still settling in,” the attorney said, appealing to Darc this time. “You know. Curled up with a book.”
“Which book?” Trey pressed.
Darc moved forward, removing the APA from Trey’s grasp. He pulled out his handcuff keys and began releasing the lawyer.
“Darc, what are you doing?” his partner asked.
“We cannot hold him. There is no immediate evidence linking him to the crimes.”
Carson Speer breathed out a huge sigh, one that either indicated relief or that he had been physically exerting himself. It was hard to ascertain.
“Well, at least one of you is rational,” he said, rubbing his wrists.
Darc turned to look at the APA. The lawyer moved back as he caught Darc’s gaze. It was a reaction that many people seemed to have to eye contact. Or perhaps it was just eye contact with Darc. Regardless, he felt it was necessary to fully explain the situation to the new attorney.
“The fact that you have no alibi now places you in the ‘persons of interest’ category,” Darc explained.
“Ah…” he managed.
“Do not leave the city without notifying us.” Darc turned away from the speechless man. It was always interesting to Darc to see a person’s response to stimuli.
Unfortunate that it so rarely made any logical sense to him.
* * *
Maggie was making Trey a BLT, which was awesome for several reasons. One, he was away from that nasty piece of work, Carson Speer, the new APA. Two, he was with Maggie in the middle of the day. Three, she was making him a BLT, pretty much his favorite sandwich ever.
What’s not to love? It’s basically toast and breakfast meat with mayo and a little bit of lettuce and tomato so you didn’t feel so guilty. Although Trey had been known to pick some of that stuff off. You know, occasionally.
He was taking the rare lunch at home. When he’d called Maggie to let her know, she’d almost fainted in shock. If it weren’t for the fact that Darc had always been a taskmaster, Trey would totally think it was because he was sleeping with his partner’s ex-wife.
Speaking of… Trey eyed Maggie’s shoulders, back and then on down the line as she pulled the bacon out of the frying pan. Her long red hair swayed back and forth with each of her movements. It never ceased to amaze him how he had ended up with such a complete knockout. He looked down again. Hm. Maybe if he was stealthy about it he could talk her into a little afternoon delight.
“Knock it off, Trey,” she said without turning around.
“How did you…? I mean, what are you talking about?” Trey sputtered, trying to shift gears midstream.
“I know you,” she replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “We’ve been in the same space for more than fifteen minutes. You’re thinking about sex.”
“Yeah, well…” Trey began, trying to come up with what should come next. Ooo! There it was. “What’s wrong with me wanting to give my lady some lovin’?” He asked, and then winced. Yikes. That sounded like something out of a bad 70s sexploitation flick.
Maggie turned around, her eyebrows raised. “Some lovin’?” The only thing that made Trey keep from preparing for a physical assault was the fact that her lip was twitching. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong with it. You’ll get me going just enough to piss me off when Darc calls right in the middle.”
“That… well, actually… Okay, that only happened once.” Trey stumbled around his words while Maggie glared at him in what he hoped was mock anger. “Twice. Oh, there was that one time in… right, three times. That’s not so bad.”
“No means no, babe.” She shrugged her shoulders, turning back to the sandwich. “You’re just going to have to wait until tonight.”
Trey was about to reply, when his phone buzzed. Darc. Maggie turned around, looked at the ID attached to the incoming text.
“See, I told you.”
Sticking out his tongue at her, Trey swiped the screen with his finger to read the text.
Another crime scene. Come now.
Man, that guy sure knew how to turn on the charm. “Mags, I gotta take that sammich to go.”
“Sure thing, babe. Just remember to make sure you get home at a decent hour tonight.” Maggie handed him the BLT, already wrapped in a paper towel, and gave him a deep, lingering kiss. Deep enough and lingering enough that Trey started calculating in his head just how long it would be before Darc actually called.
“Not long enough, buddy,” she answered his unspoken question for him. “Go.” She slapped him on the butt. “Take care of yourself out there.” She turned around and spoke over her shoulder. “And take care of him, too.”
“I always do,” Trey answered, and walked out the door.
And it was true. He always did.
* * *
No one had come close to the body. The unis that had been called in had immediately contacted Darc, as it was obvious this was one belonging to his case. CSI hadn’t arrived yet, but Trey had just driven up and was stepping out of his Land Rover. Darc watched as his partner picked his way across the rocky terrain.
“What have we…?” He started and then gulped. “Never mind.”
Darc had examined the site from a safe distance and was waiting for the crime scene unit to clear the area before proceeding. It was a difficult endeavor for him, as he felt perfectly capable of analyzing the scene himself.
Trey moved past him toward the body, pushing past one of the uniformed cops standing guard. “Sorry, dude. Haven’t found my sea legs yet. Or my rock legs. Whatever.”
It was on the rocky shore north of Alki Beach Park, far enough back from the water to avoid the tides, but close enough to the water to have been found by a woman walking along the coast. She’s spotted the bizarre crime scene from a distance down the beach and had called 911, frantic.
Darc stared down at the body, circumscribed in its own blood, its interior transcribed by the lines that formed the five-pointed star. Threads of logi
c brushed their colored light along the lines, surrounding, illuminating, exposing the secrets of the crime.
Except that they weren’t. The symbols were clear. They spoke of the cleansing of Seattle, just as Father John’s and Bryce Van Owen’s had. In fact, they were a near identical copy to those other two damaged crusaders. It was a parroting of their rhetoric. Not something this killer seemed to believe or even be interested in. There was something else here that Darc could not identify.
“Well, at least we’re close to the beach,” Trey spoke as he wandered closer to the body. He jerked suddenly, tripping over something in front of him.
Flame sparked, racing out toward the pentagram and the human form within. The flame was white hot and fierce.
“Thermite,” Darc warned. “Move back. And do not attempt to put it out. It will explode.”
“Explode?” Trey squeaked. “Okay, you heard him. Don’t put it out!”
The blaze surrounded the body, tracing the lines of blood that had formed the symbols. The after-image of the thermite reaction burned itself into Darc’s retinas, reinforcing the symbols and colored pathways of logic that were already present.
This fire would burn away much of the evidence. And yet there was nothing Darc could do.
“Hey, look,” Trey pointed out as the fires burned. “The same kind of numbers.”
The lines of information in Darc’s head swirled orange and red. He had already noted the two digits inscribed above the head of the victim. At the first crime scene, the symbol had been a single one. At the second, another one had joined the first.
Now there was a number two followed by a one.
But the threads of light confirmed the frustration that was building inside of Darc. He had no idea what those symbols could mean.
“Maybe we’re just supposed to add them together,” Trey mused. “You know. One for the first body. Two ones added together to make the second. A two and a one added together to make the third…” He glanced over at Darc and then back at the body. “I know. Too simple. I’m just going to shut up now. Leave the ideas up to the professional.”