by Mary Stone
Though Winter maintained her calm expression, her heart hammered against her chest. Their case had stagnated for the past two and a half months, but now, they’d finally been pointed in a viable direction. “We’re going to need you to tell us everything, Mr. Erickson. Any names you can remember, addresses. All of it.”
Erickson shook his head, holding both hands up. “No names. Like I said, I never asked. He was just a friend in trouble, so I thought I’d help him out. I figured he could use the week off to do some self-reflection or something, so I let him use my father-in-law’s cabin a little ways north of Richmond.”
Winter didn’t remember reaching for the pen she held out to Erickson. “We’ll need that address.” When he hesitated, she lowered her voice and gave him her most penetrating stare. “Now.”
27
People were so damned disappointing.
As the message blared in my ear, letting me know that the person at that number hadn’t yet set up a voicemail account, I dropped the phone onto my bed. It was the seventh time I’d called Will. The seventh time he hadn’t answered. I was tempted to text him again. Tempted to scream at him in capital letters or leave a voicemail so scathing my grandfather would rise from hell and wash my mouth out in his own, special way.
But I pushed down the impulse. Pushed down the rage.
Rage wouldn’t do.
Rage was an emotion that the Lord did not appreciate. It was an emotion that led to mistakes and miscalculations. It was an emotion of passion.
Passion.
I shuddered at the word.
“Let me in, my son.”
I heard the words as if they were being whispered in my ears. Felt the body pressed so hard and tight to mine.
“Let me in. Let me baptize your sins.”
The pain. The passion.
I closed my eyes against the memories. Grandfather was my teacher. My protector. My solace in a world gone bad. He had saved me from them. From her.
And I was glad. I was.
After all, she was now doing men’s work. Wearing men’s pants. Carrying a weapon as only a man should. And worse, she was looking for me.
Which was just fine. I’d let her find me. Someday soon, I would lead her to my door, just as I’d led her to our old house, the sinning house. She was a rat, and I was her cheese. She would only learn much too late that I was filled with poison.
Another P word I favored.
But I had other things to manage first, other rats to poison before I could give her my full attention.
Picking up my phone, I tapped until I reached the app that monitored Will’s phone, accessing the software that let me listen through his device. It was a brilliant little app I’d installed before handing the phone over to him. He was driving, which I already knew because the phone was moving at seventy-six miles per hour.
Naughty boy.
Will was speeding. Running. From me? Or from his sudden cowardness that had taken me by surprise? I wondered if it had taken him by surprise as well.
Rage wanted to swell up, and I pushed it down again.
Will hadn’t followed my orders. Worse, he hadn’t followed God’s will.
He had let the man and the youngest girl live, and now he was avoiding me. He wasn’t answering my calls. He was running.
God wasn’t pleased.
Neither was I.
The sinners must be punished, Will knew that. I’d thought he understood and agreed. Their sins were a message to others, their blood written on the walls for all to see. To read. To listen.
They couldn’t understand the message or heed its call if the message wasn’t delivered.
And now my delivery boy was on the run.
So very disappointing.
I’d had such hopes for William Hoult, but as I considered his betrayal I thought of one of the things my grandfather used to say as he bounced me on his knee, his hand making me feel so very good, so special. Baptized in my granddaddy’s love. “The only person you can trust is me,” he told me over and over and over again.
And now I was him, so the only person I could trust was me.
As I watched the dot that represented Will’s car pull into the parking lot of some big building, I checked the address to learn it was a cheap motel.
Perfect.
Closing my eyes, I let them rest for a little while. I needed to gather my strength.
Another message must be sent. And soon.
When Winter and Miguel arrived at the Richmond field office, she had to make a conscious effort not to sprint into the building. She slowed her pace to a brisk walk, Miguel on her heels. Their footsteps echoed through the concrete parking garage, but otherwise, the area was silent. Almost as if it was holding its breath in anticipation of the breakthrough that Winter and Miguel had discovered.
Phil Rossway’s former manager, Chris Erickson, had written down the address of his in-law’s cabin. The cabin where their hacker was hiding. Winter knew it. She could feel it in her bones.
Rather than taking the time to visit the courthouse to obtain a warrant to search the cabin and the land surrounding it, Winter had gone directly to Chris’s father-in-law. Miguel had expressed his concern that the father-in-law might spread the word to Rossway, but in Winter’s opinion, time was of the essence. Seconds later, Miguel had agreed.
They didn’t know when the killer planned to strike again. The sooner they had Phil Rossway in custody, the sooner they could fully discern his role in the recent murders in Danville. Besides, the idea that Chris’s father-in-law was a part of Phil’s circle of confidantes was farfetched at best.
Sure enough, Harry Fallwell had never even heard Rossway’s name before today. Though the man was puzzled as to why the FBI would be interested in searching a property he hadn’t used in close to two years, he’d been cooperative. He had even agreed to meet them near the property.
If Phil was indeed the third person mentioned in Haldane and Strickland’s manifesto, then Winter and her team had to be prepared for the worst.
As Winter pushed through a heavy set of double doors, she felt like a kid who had just returned home from school after receiving all As on her report card. She wanted to hold the piece of paper above her head and wave it around for the entire office to see, but again, she refrained. Just because she was eager to put together the next few pieces of their puzzle didn’t mean she could abandon her professionalism.
She was cool, calm, and collected as she and Miguel finished the short trip to the Violent Crimes Division. Rather than wave the paper around like a kid who had aced a test, she had neatly folded the address and tucked it into the safety of her jacket pocket.
Two hours later, she and the team were moving through the woods, closing in on the cabin from every angle. Even under the weight of her ballistics vest, Winter shivered. The unusually cold December wind seemed to be made of ice. Next week, it would probably be seventy degrees for a few days, then a good old blizzard for Christmas.
As she crept to the back of the cabin, she held one hand over her mouth. Not only to warm her frosty fingers with her breath, but to also soften the cloud of foggy condensation that bloomed in the air with each of her exhalations. The steel of her service weapon was like a block of ice in her hand.
But as her heart rate increased, so did her internal temperature, and the cold that had been brutal only moments before faded away as her attention turned to where Aiden and Bree had taken up their stations.
Smoke rolled from the chimney of the tiny cabin, giving the place a homey feel she didn’t trust. The place looked too innocent, which was as crazy a thought as she’d ever entertained. Winter knew, almost as much as anyone on the planet, that evil hid behind the mask of innocence.
The mask of good.
The mask of the Bible and the words it held within its pages.
Winter shivered, harder this time.
Forcing those thoughts away, she focused back on the cabin, readying herself for what was to come. From her vanta
ge point, she could see Noah and Sun approach the house from the front. She lost sight of them as they stepped on the porch, but the clap of their boots on the old wood reverberated in the surrounding forest. As did the hard knock that followed.
“FBI,” Noah called, his sharp voice disturbing some animal to her left, causing it to bolt through the dry, fallen leaves. “Phil Rossway. Open up.”
They’d come armed with a warrant, so if he didn’t answer, they’d breach the door. They were going in, one way or another.
Noah knocked again, then waited before knocking a final time. He must have signaled the tactical team, the men armed with a battering ram and the ability to use it, because they approached the door, then she lost sight of them as they stomped onto the porch.
“Sorry, Mr. Fallwell,” Winter murmured just before the door caved in and steel boots thundered into the cabin. In her mind’s eye, she imagined the scene, the men sweeping the rooms one by one. Hopefully, they’d find Phil Rossway in one of the corners, his hands up in surrender, willing and eager to spill his guts.
“Clear!”
“Clear!”
“Clear!”
Winter’s heart fell as the all clear codes where given, room by room. Had Phil Rossway been there at all? Had he been tipped off about their arrival? Had they missed him by minutes? By seconds? And most importantly, where was he now?
“Dammit.” She added a few other choice curse words to the more innocent one, willing her special ability or whatever the hell it was to do its work. She scanned the back and side of the cabin, praying to whatever god looked over the freaks like her that something incriminating would suddenly begin to glow red.
Her own personal burning bush, she thought with a light snicker. She’d never thought of her ability like that. A beacon. A miracle.
Instead, a different, more real bush moved, the dry branches hissing together.
Winter peered closer. A rabbit? A different type of animal?
It moved again, and this time, the entire bush lifted. Winter blinked, sure the cold and stress had caused her to hallucinate.
But no, the bush was still rising, and underneath it a cavern was being exposed. And a hand. An arm. A head. It was like a man was being birthed out of the earth.
Adrenaline surged through her system as a man rolled out of the cleverly hidden cellar, mentally cursing Mr. Fallwell for not giving them a heads-up about the underground room. The man crouched, scanning the area, his gaze landing on her. But he didn’t freeze. Didn’t hesitate for even an instant. He bolted. Quite literally.
Winter screamed the required warning as she gave chase. “FBI. Stop.” She didn’t have time for anything more. The man didn’t even pause, only kicking it up a notch. If he was their hacker, he was the most physically fit computer nerd she’d ever encountered.
Jumping over a log, she yelled at Aiden and Bree, who from their angle wouldn’t have been able to see the masked man running into the woods.
Within seconds, the sounds of leaves and broken sticks filled the forest, barely discernable over her labored breathing. Winter cursed herself for not running every day as her lungs began to burn from the cold air. Sex—even the hours-long kind, five times a week—hadn’t prepared her for this.
Less than a year with the bureau, and she was getting soft. Complacent.
The thought pissed her off, and she pushed through the pain in her lungs and churned her legs, hopping over more fallen logs to close the gap. Tomorrow, she’d run five miles, she promised herself. She’d do sit-ups and pushups, strengthen her core. No asshole was going to get away from her just because she’d eaten too much cake and chocolate croissants lately.
“FBI. Stop or I’ll shoot,” she called again as she drew a bit closer. The shooting part was a lie. She’d never shoot anyone in the back, but if it caused the dickhead to hesitate or, please god please, stop, she’d lie until her pants were on fire, not just her lungs.
To her side, limbs and leaves crunched and broke, sounding like a bull barreling through the woods. It was Noah, who shot her a gleaming smile as he pulled ahead, shooting her a thumbs-up sign. She shot him a middle finger in return. His grin gleamed brighter as sweat ran into her eye.
He could see that she was struggling, and that more than anything else, made her kick her speed up a notch. Noah still pulled ahead, taking the runner’s right, and Winter curled toward his left, angling in case he turned in that direction.
Phil Rossway stumbled, and Winter almost cheered as Noah closed the distance. Rossway noticed him too, and as agile as any running back, pivoted out of the bigger man’s way. Noah sailed past, his arms grabbing nothing but air before he hit the forest floor, leaves and limbs flying as he crashed and rolled.
Internally, Winter laughed, knowing she’d be giving him hell for that one for years.
Externally, she bore down, taking advantage of the angle and telling herself not to fall for Rossway’s quick feet.
Rossway hesitated, spotting Aiden and Bree in the distance, and it was just the exact amount of time she needed. Winter launched herself, her hands taking handfuls of his hoodie, turning them as they fell together, until he took the brunt of the impact on the forest floor.
“Phil Rossway…” Her voice was barely more than a pant as she straddled him, holding his face into the leaves as he tried to buck her off. She maneuvered her knee into the small of his back, jerking his arm up in the awkward angle that pretty much stopped him cold. “You have the right to remain silent…”
As she recited the Miranda rights, she snapped on the handcuffs and turned him over to Aiden and Bree so she could catch her breath. Noah was grinning as he held out his hand to help her up, leaves still stuck in his hair.
“Nice catch,” he said, barely out of breath.
She was still panting as she pulled a leaf from his hair. “Nothing but air, huh?”
He grinned. “Man juked me good.”
That was one of the things that Winter loved about Noah. He wasn’t ashamed to admit when he’d looked like a goober.
Her heart warmed, and she would have leaned in to kiss him if their team hadn’t been so close. “You got him to turn, though. He might have gotten away if you hadn’t tried.”
Noah lifted her braid, and she could tell that he wanted to kiss her too. Instead, he just gave it a tug. “You did good. Finding him. Spotting him. Bagging him after I didn’t.” He tugged her braid again before tossing it over her shoulder. “Now, let’s go find out what he knows so we can put this case to bed.”
As Winter watched Noah walk away, the jubilant feeling she’d been experiencing at their catch evaporated on the wind that had picked up all around her.
The case.
And after they’d finished this one, she could focus on her brother.
Would she find him?
She hoped not. She also hoped so.
The waiting. The hoping. The hopelessness was taking bites out of her spirit.
28
Aiden could feel eyes on him.
Curious eyes. Surprised eyes. Hostile eyes too.
He’d kept everyone waiting, so he understood how tired his team was. How anxious they were for answers, but still he waited. Watched. Paid close attention to every eye and body movement Phil Rossway made through the two-way mirror.
Aiden watched Rossway’s facial expressions as Aiden sent in one agent after another, with instructions to ask a specific question. He watched the alleged hacker blithely disregard the male African American agent, showing neither hostility nor warmth. He watched Rossway sneer in disgust at a different agent with dark skin, this time a female.
Yes…the hacker had definitely reacted to her.
Just as he reacted in a negative way to every female Aiden had sent into the room. Color didn’t matter, nor did size or stature. It didn’t matter if they went in with a scowl or a smile, he was equally antagonistic.
Rossway hated women. If Aiden learned nothing more during this interview and the subsequent interr
ogation that was to come, he knew that.
The question was…why?
And did that hatred have anything to do with why Rossway had used his technical skills to assist in the murder of innocent women?
Men too, of course. Aiden hadn’t forgotten that men had also been killed. Nor had he forgotten that little Mariah Young, a female, had been unharmed.
The puzzle pieces didn’t fit yet, but they would. He just needed to be patient and not let the eyes of his team make him hurry a process that couldn’t be hurried.
That was where many crime television shows got it wrong. In the space of an hour, there was a crime, and investigation, then some badass detective stomped into an interrogation room and elicited a confession in the space of a few minutes.
In truth, the process could take hours. Days, even.
Aiden didn’t know Phil Rossway any better than he knew the Queen of England. Aiden didn’t know his baseline—what he looked like, sounded like, acted like—anymore more than that of a stranger.
But he was learning.
Over the course of a couple hours, he’d learned that Phil Rossway’s natural posture was to sit with his arms crossed over his chest, an ankle hiked on top of his knee. That was how he was most comfortable.
Another untruth that TV got wrong was that crossed arms meant someone was defensive. That could be the case, sure, but it could also be that crossed arms was a comfortable way to sit or stand. For Phil Rossway, Aiden believed that position was the latter. Which meant if he wasn’t sitting that way, he was no longer comfortable. That he was alert. Possibly anxious.
Aiden turned to Noah Dalton, one of the sets of eyes that were slowly turning hostile at the lingering delay. “Go inside and offer him a bathroom break. Escort him out and chat about how you missed the tackle.”
Aiden only barely suppressed the smile that wanted to creep to his mouth as the tips of Dalton’s ears turned pink. The almost-smile died on its own as Winter glared at him, taking up for her man.