Winter's Storm

by Mary Stone

  That got her to start crying again. What other things had her mom taught her? What other things would her mother not be around to teach her in the future?

  She knew about periods, but would she now have to ask her dad to buy her the stuff she’d need to deal with them? How embarrassing!

  Mariah forced herself to stop thinking about that and think about something else. The problem was that nothing else in her life didn’t involve her mom or her sister. It was kind of like that song that talked about wherever you go or do, I’ll be there waiting for you. Or something like that.

  She rinsed her hair and washed quickly, using the rough hotel towel to dry off before changing into the new pajamas. Unwrapping the second towel from her head, she squeezed the water out of the long strands. “Don’t rub or you’ll get split ends.”

  She couldn’t even brush her teeth without hearing her mother’s voice. “Sing the birthday song three times to make sure they get all nice and clean.”

  She couldn’t escape it. Escape them.

  They were like ghosts, but instead of saying “boo,” they whispered things in her ear.

  Fleeing the bathroom, she was glad to see that her dad was awake. He smiled at her as he flipped through the channels on the TV, stopping on the news. She groaned. Terrific.

  “The body of a man found slain in a hotel room yesterday has been identified as William Hoult,” the TV woman said with a wide smile on her face.

  Mariah didn’t want to even think about dead bodies, but her eyes were drawn to the screen. A picture of a man flashed up, and Mariah gasped.

  “What’s wrong, honey?” her father said, but his voice sounded very, very far away.

  She just stared. She knew that man. It was him. The smiling salesman who’d been standing at the door, the door she hadn’t been supposed to open. But she had forgotten. And she hadn’t really realized that her mom had been serious about opening doors until they’d had that talk later that night.

  Did that mean that everything that happened was her fault? Mariah had opened the door. Didn’t they say that a vampire couldn’t enter your house unless he was invited? Is that what Mariah had done, invited the evil in?

  “Mariah!”

  Her dad was getting up from the bed, calling her name, sounding very concerned. Mariah tried to look at him, tried to tell him that the man on the television was the same man who’d come knocking on their door that terrible day. And now, as she looked at him again, she realized he had the same dimple in his chin that the man in the ski mask had.

  It was really him. The man who’d killed her mother and sister.

  For the second time in only a few days, Mariah Young peed her pants.

  35

  Winter was still shaking with rage…and fear…and a sadness so deep she felt like her insides were being squeezed by a giant’s hand. First Sun…then Aiden. What had that been all about?

  Forcing her mind to release the emotions rattling around her brain following her run-in with the SSA, she blew out a deep breath and practiced an enhanced breathing technique she’d learned long ago. Five minutes later, it hadn’t helped much, but she did feel more in control.

  At least a little.

  And now she was regretting having scheduled this meeting with Cameron Arkwell at all. What was she doing? Did she really think some rich judge’s spoiled brat could give her insight into her little brother’s mind?

  Somewhere deep inside her, she’d known that the Arkwell kid and her brother would be nothing alike, but when Noah and Autumn hadn’t tried to dissuade her from the meeting, she’d decided it wouldn’t hurt and might even be interesting to see inside a sociopath’s mind.

  But one thing Winter had learned long ago was that knowing what another was thinking wasn’t always a good thing. Words could be as vicious as a knife.

  In fact, studies suggested that the same part of the brain that lit up when a person was stabbed was the same part of the brain that lit up when someone was verbally abused. And it was well known that, in children, those who experienced verbal abuse and bullying at a young age had a different type of brain than did children raised in a loving home. Their left and right brains didn’t connect and communicate in the same way, leaving them open to being abused later in life. Or becoming the abuser.

  Even though Winter was no longer a child, words still hurt, and she was still aching from them, especially from the ones from Aiden. True, he didn’t actually say much, but his tone and temper, his facial expression and body language had filled in the blanks.

  Did he really think he could treat her like a child? Like the thirteen-year-old girl she’d once been?

  As Winter paced in the stark reception area of the prison, her phone buzzed in her pocket. It was Noah: Did you see the news? Will Hoult killed Dana and Sadie Young.

  Heart beginning to gallop in her chest, Winter paged to a search engine and pulled up the latest story. As she read, her knees weakened, and she sank into a nearby seat.

  For a terrible moment, Winter had imagined how she’d felt if her brother had been the one to kill the mother and daughter. The thought hadn’t really even surprised her that much because some part of her mind knew that any man raised by Douglas Kilroy would be capable of such a thing.

  She continued to read about the body found in a hotel room and how little Mariah Young had recognized the man’s driver’s license photo on the news. Such a brave girl.

  And so young. Younger than even Winter had been when she had faced a similar tragedy, although Winter had been lucky in one important sense. Back when she was thirteen years old, social media was only a baby beast. Today, it was a giant monster that could swallow a person whole, and Winter couldn’t imagine surviving any type of tragedy during a time when news outlets were spouting the news before the blood even dried.

  “Agent Black?”

  Winter turned to the voice, pocketing her phone as she headed to where the guard was standing. “Yes.”

  “We’ve got Arkwell ready. Just need to do the security check, and we’ll get you through.”

  Winter signed in, went through the appropriate checks, and didn’t hesitate to walk into the room where Cameron Arkwell sat, his hands chained to a heavy table.

  He licked his lips as she walked toward him, a slow drag of muscle over skin that left his lower lip unpleasantly damp. She kept her face carefully blank, refusing to let him affect her.

  But his eyes. She’d forgotten how pale they were, and how they seemed to penetrate everything around him. Forgot the smirk that made his pretty face turn into a sneer.

  “Hello, Cameron…” she purposely used his first name to remove the respect he’d glean if she’d used his last. “I’m Agent—”

  “Winter Black.” He ran his tongue over his lip again, even slower this time. “I know who you are. I know you.”

  Son of a bitch.

  She played along, lifting her elbows to the table and planting her chin on her hand, feigning an expression of fascination. “You do? I’m flattered, but I’m really not here to talk about me. I—”

  “You were made an orphan by The Preacher, and even as an agent of the big bad Federal Bureau of Investigation, you’ve still not been able to find your brother. Not very detective-y of you, is it, Agent Black?”

  She didn’t take the bait. “Where did it go wrong for you, Cameron?”

  “For me?” He laughed. “It—”

  “I’d imagine that when you were a little boy, killing frogs and kittens and small helpless creatures, that you had imagined a long life filled with multiple murders and records for most bodies buried on your thousand-acre estate.” She waved a hand at him. “But here you are, in prison without a possibility for parole at the ripe old age of twenty-two, so I ask again, where did it go wrong?”

  She’d hit a nerve. Good. Because at that moment, she didn’t care.

  Sure, she’d come into this room with the best of intentions, wanting to see inside of the mind of someone who was similar to her brother
. Screw that. This bastard would only play with her if she used kindness and consideration to tap into his world. If she wanted to see the real Cameron Arkwell, understand how he ticked, she needed to piss him off. She could do that.

  “It’s funny. I had an ulterior agenda of meeting with you today, Cameron, but I honestly don’t know what I was thinking.” He licked his lower lip again, in that same suggestive manner, and she exploded, “Is that all you have?” She licked her own lip, giving it a quick swipe. “Is that the only play you have in your playbook? Look like a dick and watch all the girls go weak in the knees? Does that actually work?”

  She was making him angry now. No, not angry. Embarrassed. Little Cameron Arkwell wasn’t used to anyone standing up to him. He was used to his daddy judge and a shit ton of money having his back.

  “Actually, I can get all the pussy I want.”

  She laughed, long and loud. “Not anymore. You better be careful how you lick those lips now, because the only pussy you’ll get in here comes with a set of balls.”

  He actually looked sick, which made her feel more than a little guilty for the jab, but she was in the position to use any means necessary. “Nobody’s going to touch me.”

  She immediately backed down and took a deep breath. “I hope so, Cameron.” She looked at him sincerely now. “I deeply hope so. Nobody deserves to be raped.”

  Something flashed across his features. Was that guilt? If it had been, it was probably one of the few times this sociopath had felt it. People like Cameron could experience the emotion of guilt, but it was weak, and it didn’t deter them from doing whatever they had set out to do.

  Still, something in her heart cracked open just a little. “I’m so sorry, Cameron, that your brain works this way.”

  His nostrils flared. “I don’t need or want your pity.”

  “Then, don’t take it, but I’m sorry all the same. You see, I’m worried about my brother. As you already know, he was taken from my family at a very young age. We don’t know how he was raised, or by whom exactly, but I’m afraid, very afraid, that his mind is…” she looked deeply into Cameron’s pale eyes, “like yours.”

  Cameron said nothing.

  “And yes, I worry about him hurting people. I worry about what he has done and what he might do next, but what I worry about the most is what makes me so sad for you. With the type of brain you have, and the type of brain I fear my brother has, he and you will never be able to feel true joy. True happiness.”

  “I’m happy,” he argued, pulling at his chains.

  She gave him a sad smile. “But the feeling is so fleeting, isn’t it, Cameron? Because in your mind, all emotions are fleeting. Guilt and empathy are fleeting, which means that happiness and hope are fleeting too.”

  He was quiet for a long time, and she watched an array of emotions flicker over his expression. It was interesting to watch, but it also deepened her sadness because this man before her would never be able to hold just one of those emotions for very long.

  It wasn’t fair, but it was what it was. And because his brain couldn’t be fixed, and he could never be trusted to do the right thing, this was the only home he could ever have.

  She looked around the room. At the block walls, the bars on the windows.

  This was pointless. She’d hoped for strategies and tips on how to deal with her brother if he finally showed his face. No, not if. When. He would, she just needed to be mentally prepared for the meeting.

  And she wouldn’t be ready. She would never be ready. There would always be some part of her that would hope that he wasn’t as bad as Aiden and Sun, and seemingly, everyone else feared.

  Winter pushed to her feet. “I’ll go now,” she said softly. She felt his eyes on her as she walked toward the door.

  “He’ll only tell you what he thinks you’ll want to hear.”

  She turned to face him. “Only?”

  He smiled. And this smile appeared to be more genuine than any she’d ever seen on him. “Well, not only-only. He’ll want to fuck with you, mess with your mind. He’ll enjoy it. He’s probably thinking about it right now, imagining ways to scare you, or worse, give you hope.”

  Winter couldn’t help it, she shuddered. She didn’t have to ask him what he meant.

  Hope prolongs whatever torments us. Winter thought it might have been Nietzsche who had provided the world that quote.

  Of course, hoping for something that could happen was smart. It was possible that she could win the lottery if she chose to ever buy a ticket. It was possible that she could rise in the ranks of the FBI if she worked hard enough.

  But could she hope that her brother, who was tormenting her with emails and firecrackers, was emotionally stable? That was when hope became a torment, when it wasn’t possible.

  “What else, Cameron?” she asked, voice earnest. “What else can I expect? And how should I respond?”

  He seemed to consider the question, and his face looked sincere when he answered. “Deep down, I think he wants to reach out to you, and he thinks that you can save him.”

  Hope rose inside her chest, swelled like a balloon inside her heart. “Really?”

  Silence stretched and lengthened between them, then Cameron tossed his head back and laughed. “No, you stupid bitch. He’s going to try to kill you.”

  Winter turned, pressed her thumb on the buzzer to have a guard let her out.

  Cameron continued to laugh. “He’s waiting and watching, just deciding how best to get the job done.”

  She continued to press the buzzer, and through the little window, a guard appeared and the sound of keys turning in the lock.

  “He’ll fuck you first,” Cameron screamed, sounding on the edge of hysterical now. “He’ll want a piece of you. He’ll make you suck his dick.”

  Two guards rushed inside, and Winter fled into the hallway.

  “He’ll shove it in your ass.” There were sounds of fists on flesh. “He’ll cut a hole in your belly button and fuck you there too.” His voice was breathless now, but it still carried down the hall. “He’ll—”

  The door slammed shut behind her with a loud clank, and she mercifully heard no more.

  She didn’t need to.

  Shoulders ramrod straight, Winter walked to her car, mentally stomping hope into the ground with every single step she took. But the moment she was safely inside and the doors were locked, she wasn’t able to stop the tears that flowed.

  36

  This was my favorite part.

  The hunt.

  The kill was fun too, but it didn’t give me the rush that stalking my prey always provided.

  It was the anticipation, I knew. I could feel it in my belly and my balls. It made me feel alive in a way I’d never known. The feeling was so powerful, observing those who didn’t know they were being observed.

  Just like God observed His peasants. Like a hawk observed the rabbits as it soared through the sky. Waiting to strike. To kill. To devour. To move on as it continued the circle of life, eliminating the weak.

  I blended in perfectly. My black hair was a neutral brown now, thanks to a temporary color, and contacts made my blue eyes just a shade darker than milk chocolate. The artfully applied beard made me appear to be years older. The brown suit was as boring as the wall of the church in which I sat.

  The little old lady beside me clutched a Bible in her lap, dabbing at tears as the preacher man spoke in front of the two coffins. The elderly woman was part of my disguise. That part was always simple. I just waited near the handicap parking area, waiting for someone who looked feeble to drive up. I offered a gallant, helpful arm, and almost like magic, I was no longer a single man walking into a building by himself. I was the son of a sweet old lady.

  I reached over and squeezed her hand, and she gave me an appreciative look in return. People were so simpleminded. This was almost too easy, eliminating most of the fun.

  My grandfather would be so pissed right about now. The minister was talking about celebrating li
fe, not warning of fire and brimstone to the people in the congregation.

  “Preachers these days need them a lesson or two too, sonny,” he’d say. “They actually need more, because they’re a part of the problem. Instead of leading the flock to Jesus, they’re leading them astray. The heathens.”

  I believed him. I believed it all.

  “Your journey will be difficult, young man,” he told me once. “There will be those who rise to fight against you just as they rose to fight Jesus’s message. They’ll try to hang you on the cross, drive stakes into your hands. Expect it.”

  He was right. I knew there were those waiting to take me down.

  “And when the day comes and I’m gone and you’re strong, you’ll step into my shoes and finish what I started.”

  Well, Grandfather was just a little off that time. Sure, I did step into his shoes, but I wasn’t finishing what he started, I was expanding it. Multiplying it. Grandfather didn’t have the vision I had. Couldn’t see all the possibilities like I did.

  He would be proud of that, though.

  “I pray that Dana’s and little Sadie’s memory will be an inspiration to each and every one of us and that their deaths will stand to remind us that not a single one of us knows when it will be our time to leave this sin-filled world.”

  I almost snickered but managed just in time to keep the sound in my throat. I coughed to clear it.

  Not a single one of us? The preacher was wrong. I knew, almost to the second, the time two people in this church would leave this sin-filled world.

  My gaze strayed to the front pew, and to the man and little girl who sat there, both of their shoulders shaking from the sobs tearing them apart. It was too bad the girl wasn’t a boy. If she was a boy, she might make me a good protégé, just like I’d made a good protégé for my grandfather.

  But she was a girl. Useless to me. Anger turned me to stone. It was an abomination that those two sinners continued to rob the air of the truly just. It offended me deeply to have stepped on the carpet where their feet had been allowed to step.