by Jan Burke
The KCLP site wasn’t the equivalent of the Express in its heyday; it was going to be reached only by the computer literate who happened to be paying attention in the first place, and it didn’t compare to even a small daily newspaper in terms of the variety of items it could cover. We knew that people who read newspapers would often look through an A section and become engrossed in stories they hadn’t set out to find, while on the Internet the average reader might be picking up only one local story a day, and that as the result of a search. Still, it was at least one way to get the local news out and to keep some level of accountability in Las Piernas government.
Ethan had also hired Mark Baker, as well as a couple of people whose specialties were the local art and music scenes. We all got along well, and Ethan had us working together as a team in no time.
I was seeing a whole new side of Ethan. I had always known that his interests were wide-ranging, that he was bright and creative. Even in his earliest days at the paper, he had been ambitious and competitive, but—in large part because of problems of his own making—the Express had never allowed him a leadership role. KCLP, on the other hand, had given him major responsibilities and power. “All the rope I need to hang myself,” he’d say to me with a rueful smile.
So far, he was using the rope to climb higher. After a little more than a month at the station, he was offered the position of news director—KCLP had fired the previous one, who had resented the power Ethan had already been given to cover local news on his show.
Not long after that, he called me into his new office, which was small, but at least it was an office. He hadn’t had one before. Now he even had a narrow window that looked out onto the parking lot. He was standing behind his desk, looking through some paperwork.
“Yes, Mr. Shire?”
He looked up and winced. “You know I hate it when you do that.” He looked at my arm and said, “How’d you get that nasty bruise?”
“Rachel’s teaching me self-defense.”
He seemed ready to make the obvious retort but changed his mind. “Have a seat.”
I took one on the couch that occupied most of one wall, but he stayed standing. “I have a request,” he said.
I waited, and for once in his smooth-talking life, he seemed to have a hard time coming up with what he wanted to say. Finally, he said, “You know John and Stuart made it clear to me they want to stay retired.”
“Yes … ,” I said warily.
“It kind of surprised me.”
“They were in the newspaper business longer than the rest of us. I don’t think they wanted to try to start over here.”
He paced the two short steps the office allowed him, then said, “You’ve been best friends with Lydia since grade school, right?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“I’m thinking that you’ll be able to explain something to me. When I started the evening show, you and Mark were the only people from the paper that I wanted here and had budget enough to hire. Since then, about half the former staffers of the Express have asked me for jobs, but she hasn’t even stopped by to say hello.”
“You don’t take that personally, do you? You know she likes you—she probably just thinks you’re busy.”
“I’m more worried she was insulted that I didn’t ask her to work here.”
“No, not that she’s mentioned to me.”
“Do you think she wants out of the news business for good?”
I hesitated. “I don’t think so. But she knows that the chances of landing another job as a city editor are slim to none.”
He was silent for so long I figured we were done and started to get to my feet. He motioned me back down. “You’ve never taken an editor’s position?”
“No,” I said. “I’ve covered for people a few times, but I didn’t enjoy it. It’s not what I do. I’m a reporter. Lydia—she’s a good reporter, but writing and editing are where her real interests are. Can I ask where this is leading?”
“I have the title of news director now, but when they offered it to me, I didn’t accept it right away.”
“No? I thought you would’ve jumped at it.”
He smiled. “I wanted to, but I negotiated.”
I couldn’t repress a laugh.
His smile became a grin. “Yeah, I know. A little over a month ago, I was out of work. Now I’m making demands. Anyway, the conditions were that I could divide the previous director’s salary, take some for myself as a salary increase but use most of it to hire an assistant director.”
“Ethan—I don’t get it.”
“The deal is, I can hire an assistant, and if the station starts to get better ratings and support, they renegotiate my own salary in six months. Otherwise—well, otherwise, up to them.”
I just stared at him for a moment, then said, “I assume you have a plan?”
“I’m hoping Lydia will take the assistant’s job. She … she has skills I don’t have. Yet. I think if we all work together, we can pull it off. I know she’s getting married and all that, and the pay won’t be close to her old salary, but—do you think she’ll be interested?”
As it happened, she was thrilled. On her first day at work, she sighed contentedly and told me she had missed that feeling of being at the center of the flow of information that comes with being in a newsroom.
“I know,” I said. “The first week at home, every time I heard a fire engine—”
“It made you crazy not to know where it was headed and how big the fire was and if there were injuries and what type of structure—”
“Exactly.”
Not many days later, I was again sitting in my boss’s office, going over some possible stories, when his new assistant came rushing in, looking shaken—reminding me that when the news is especially bad, being at the center of the flow of information isn’t such a fine thing.
SEVENTEEN
Josh Enwill, one of the four guards sent on this trip, sat back on the narrow bench seat. The prison could hardly afford their absence in these underbudgeted days, but the warden didn’t want to take any chances where Nick Parrish was concerned. Bad enough that their regular ambulance had broken down months ago—there was no money to repair it.
There had not been any problems with this ambulance company, though, and it did have experience in transporting dangerous patients. This was not your typical ambulance. The walls of the van were thick and windowless. The van was separated from the cab, where the driver and Stan Rawls, another guard, sat.
They would be followed by two more guards in another vehicle. Josh could remember times when twice as many guards would be detailed to a trip like this. Luckily, Parrish was in no condition to put up a struggle.
Even so, the ambulance had been searched before the prisoner was loaded into it. Parrish was secured on the gurney, although there seemed to be little need for that—he was barely conscious. In the middle of the night, Parrish had fallen, screaming, to the floor of his cell. He received a brief examination by the prison doctor, who decided that he was out of his depth, and that the person who was best qualified to evaluate Parrish’s spinal problem was his surgeon at the prison hospital. So Parrish was loaded up with painkillers and strapped onto a support board. He was now being transported back to the prison hospital where he had spent years before being transferred just a few weeks ago.
Josh didn’t have a problem with Parrish. You worked around the prison population, you knew you weren’t keeping an eye on angels. He knew Parrish’s history, and that he had attacked both men and women. But in the short time Parrish had stayed at their facility, he hadn’t caused trouble. He could even be charming. Which didn’t fool Josh for a minute.
It was going to be a nine-hour drive. Josh was back here with Parrish and one of the paramedics. Air-conditioning kept it cool, but Josh was worried that he’d get carsick. Maybe Stan would switch with him.
The paramedic didn’t seem bothered by it. He was a friendly young guy, full of curiosity about Parrish but pr
ofessional. He had red hair and wore black, heavy-rimmed glasses. Geeky kid.
Josh hated not being able to see the road or where they were. The ambulance, which was about the size of a mail truck, had a specially reinforced patient compartment with no access to the driver’s compartment. Which made it safer for prisoner transport but not much fun to ride in. Josh was just wondering why they couldn’t have put in a few small windows near the tops of the side panels when the ambulance braked and swerved sharply.
“What the hell?” the paramedic said, as they were thrown side to side, almost landing on top of Parrish.
They heard a loud explosion behind them.
Josh got to the intercom before the paramedic did. “What’s going on?”
“Something in the road,” Stan said, his voice strained. “It looked like a dead animal, but it must have been rigged with a mine or something. I’m trying to reach the car. I think they hit it.”
Josh heard the sound of a door opening.
Stan shouted, “Don’t—Hey! Come back here!”
“We’ve got to help them!” the driver said.
“Goddamn it, no! Don’t go out there! Bring those keys back here!”
Josh had just pressed the talk button to tell Stan he was going to radio for help when something heavy struck hard at the back of his head. He never heard the shots that killed Stan.
EIGHTEEN
Quinn knocked in the agreed upon pattern at the back doors of the ambulance. Kai opened them, letting in brightness, a rush of heat, and—as the wind shifted—smoke from the burning car. He paid little attention to Quinn and went back to stripping the keys and radio off Josh’s inert form.
Quinn was momentarily distracted by the blood spattered on his half brother. He found the sight stimulating and odd. Although Kai and Quinn didn’t really look alike—they looked even less alike in their currently altered appearances—Quinn felt as if he was seeing himself in a similar act but from outside his body. He forced his attention back to matters at hand and went to work to release the gurney. Looking over at Kai, he said, “Be sure to get his cell phone, too.”
“Did you clean off your prints in the cab?” Kai asked.
“Of course. Hurry.”
“You have to admit the roadkill was inspired.”
“I’ve already told you I admired your work,” Quinn said. It was true. Kai was a genius with electronics and explosives.
They were on a desert road. To the right, just beyond the ditch where Quinn had retrieved his assault rifle, was what appeared to be an abandoned business, surrounded by a high chain-link fence. A large, prefab metal building stood at the end of a short drive. Quinn could already hear the sound of an engine from within it.
They smashed the radios and threw them into the inferno that had once been the following car, quickly removed the SIM cards from the phones and did the same. Next they rolled Nick Parrish from the back of the ambulance and up to the locked gate. Quinn opened it and relocked it behind them.
“Will he be okay?” Kai asked, looking down at Parrish.
“Of course,” Quinn said, surprised by the concern on Kai’s face. “But we need to hurry. This road isn’t traveled much, but the smoke will attract attention from miles away. And who knows how soon someone will try to check in with the guards.”
By then they had reached the building. Once they were inside, there was no use trying to talk over the noise of the small plane’s engines. Donovan had already lowered the ramp. As they had rehearsed so many times, they loaded Parrish in the back and secured the gurney, closed up the plane, and strapped themselves in.
Donovan had done no more than glance back to ensure they were seated. He taxied out to the single, rough airstrip, and within minutes they were airborne. Quinn looked at the wreckage they had left below as Donovan turned the plane. What he saw provided an unwelcome shock.
“Land the plane!” he shouted.
“Not going to happen,” Donovan said.
Quinn turned his anger in another direction. “Damn it, Kai, you didn’t kill him!”
Kai, who had been removing Parrish’s manacles and handcuffs, moved to a window and looked down. Quinn continued to watch as Josh Enwill stumbled to the side of the road and collapsed.
Kai shrugged. “If he lives, it’s not as if he can tell them anything they don’t already know.”
Quinn bit back a reply and forced himself to calm down. This was not a time for squabbles.
Kai tried to appeal to Donovan for support, but Donovan remained aloof. Quinn smiled to himself. That was all right. Matters would be more easily managed if Kai continued to feel rebuffed by Donovan. In their strange alliance, it was always better if Kai looked to Quinn rather than to their older brother. Better for Quinn, anyway.
Quinn didn’t fool himself that what he shared with either brother was closeness. The truth was, all three were incapable of genuine intimacy with anyone—not as friends, brothers, or lovers. He knew it was best to think of them as individuals who were engaged in an enterprise that, if it succeeded, would have rewards for each but did not require real bonding of any kind—or even much trust.
The fact that they could function together at all said a lot for the genius of the man strapped to the gurney back there. The men who shared his impulses were rare, and, among those, he had a trait that was rarer still. Nick Parrish embraced longrange planning. Witness his first escape from authorities. If it hadn’t been for Irene Kelly, he’d still be free—and uninjured.
The authorities had all been surprised that Nick Parrish had a helper. A partner, they’d said. What a laugh to consider that one to be something so elevated as a “partner”—”servant” would have been a better word. But the police had seen no further. And they’d congratulated themselves on capturing and imprisoning the so-called Moth. Well, they could keep that one.
Despite the evidence right under their noses that Nick Parrish planned extensively and years in advance, they’d been blind. Apparently they believed they’d put an end to all his plans. How foolish. Nick Parrish always had other plans.
And he had children to help him carry them out.
He had chosen their mothers carefully, and through the years had decided which of his children would later be most helpful to him. Quinn didn’t know how many brothers and sisters he had, or how many had been contacted. The one time he had ventured to ask, he’d received a look so cold he had never dared ask again. Not many people could intimidate Quinn with a look. His father could. Quinn had spent hours practicing that chilling look in the mirror, and, although that practice had been useful, he knew he had not achieved his father’s abilities.
Nick Parrish had rarely made his presence known to them in their early lives, but he had been watchful. Not all of his children had been deemed worthy to be part of his plans. Some—such as Cade Morrissey—would prove useful if not worthy.
Quinn sat back and closed his eyes, a smile playing on his lips. Killing Cade had been unexpectedly exquisite. Really, the best experience he’d ever had with a male. Cade had been so naive, so excited about having a brother. And, unlike the two brothers Quinn was with now, Cade actually resembled him.
Quinn had used that, had reflected his emotions to get closer to Cade. He led Cade to believe that he was also given up for adoption, and that he was looking for his own mother. Cade saw him as someone who had been successful and led a normal life, despite having a serial killer for a father. A brother who would act as a go-between to arrange a meeting with his mother.
Killing Cade was almost like killing a little part of himself, and more exciting than anything that had gone before. Once it was done, Quinn felt immeasurably stronger, as if he had absorbed something of Nick Parrish into himself.
Then there was the experience of Marilyn Foster.
Cade had worried over meeting his mother. If he had lived, he might have learned that she had worried over him, too—came right out of the house when Quinn told her that Cade was extremely ill, possibly dying, and wou
ldn’t go to the hospital. Would she please come to convince him, or at least to meet him, as Cade had always hoped? No, Quinn didn’t have a car, he didn’t have much money, and had used the last of it to ride the bus out here and had walked to her house. In reality, he had parked his van not far away, and Kai had taken him the next day to retrieve it.
But that night she had hurried out of the house, so distracted she’d left her purse and phone behind, and driven with him to the abandoned cannery. She had been appalled that Cade was staying in such a place.
She was under Quinn’s complete control within minutes of stepping out of the car.
She had put up a fight, even after he’d bound and gagged her, but he was far stronger, and told her that if she wanted to see her son, she’d have to behave. She became docile then, even though he knew she didn’t really believe him. But he’d been true to his word—never having promised that her son would be alive when she saw him.
It interested him that she was so grief-stricken. Wept for a boy she never knew.
She’d been enraged for a time, which Quinn had found stimulating. Later, when he’d moved her to the plastic-covered room in the warehouse, he allowed Kai to enjoy her and then kill her. Quinn had left without telling Kai that he’d be at the cannery next door, finishing his artwork on Cade. Kai, at that point unaware of Cade’s existence, had thought Quinn was generous. Quinn had hidden Cade’s body before going back over to the warehouse.
Kai, who had already been up late turning on the hose at Irene Kelly’s house, had fallen asleep when he finished with Marilyn. The hose business was a trick of Quinn’s—he had many such tricks, designed to unsettle a victim. Kai was happy to do it and had nearly been caught, or so he said.
Quinn changed the plates on Marilyn Foster’s Chevy Malibu, put the originals in the trunk, woke Kai and had Kai follow him as he drove her car to a large storage locker in one of the buildings Quinn owned. There they removed the body of one of Kai’s earlier kills, taking her from the freezer in which Quinn had kept her for him—in exchange for letting Quinn practice his designs on her skin. Kai admired the decoration as they put the body in the trunk of the Malibu.