by Platt, Sean
He looked so sweet.
She gulped with the sudden, unsettling realization that she’d never seen another childhood picture of John. The boy on the right looked a lot like him, but a few years older and taller.
A brother? John’s never mentioned a brother.
The newspaper articles, ranging back some ten years, were all about a string of unsolved murders scattered throughout Washington State. A chill slithered down her spine as Hope thumbed through the fading newsprint, her brain solving an unthinkable puzzle.
To her relief, the murders weren’t the only common theme. There was a name repeated in each of the pages, always just below an FBI agent’s photo: Caleb Baldwin, an older, hardened version of the second boy in the photo.
“Who are you, John?”
John
Unit 178 was in the odd lot’s farthest corner. John parked then got out of his car and walked in a straight line, glancing at the pair of closed circuit cameras mounted on the unit’s roof. He flipped the back of his hand in a casual wave before knocking on the corrugated metal bay door, serving as the only way in or out of the makeshift office.
“Hold on, hold on,” said an out-of-breath voice, followed by the sound of soda cans cascading to the floor. John stifled a laugh as the door rolled up to a chubby face.
“Still haven’t cleaned your office, eh?”
“Maid’s month off,” Larry grinned.
Hope
Hope’s eyes moved from photo to article, then back again as time refused to march.
Why is he hiding a brother?
She had to know more. Had to know why he’d never told her about his brother, a brother with another last name, no less. John’s last name was Sullivan — so far as she knew.
What the hell is going on?
Suddenly, the room grew dark, as if heavy storm clouds had blotted the sun.
Another creak, this one closer. Hope looked, even though she knew John wouldn’t be there. He wasn’t.
But a stranger was.
His bald head and wide smile almost seemed to step through her bedroom door a split second before his impossibly black suit.
“Hello, Hope.”
Forty-Seven
Hope And John
Hope
“Who the hell are you?” Hope shrieked, scrambling backward into the closet, her hand reaching for any possible weapon, her fingers curling around a red pump with a six-inch heel. This’ll poke an eye out.
“Relax.” The man pulled a thin black wallet from his coat pocket and flipped it open to flash his credentials. “I’m a private investigator hired by the Ashbys to find their daughter. My name is Michael Turner. Your door was open. I knocked, but there was no answer, so I wanted to make sure everything was okay.”
Hope slowly stood, the shoe biting into her palm as she stared at the laminated license, scrutinizing the verification as though she could spot a fake. She slowly nodded, keeping enough distance to sprint by the man if needed. She didn’t think she’d left the door open, but she had been distracted, so anything was possible. Still, that wasn’t an excuse to enter a stranger’s house.
And why had he said he was making sure “everything was okay?” Why wouldn’t it be? She wanted to question him on all these things, but even as she tried to speak, something in her brain spoke, calming her down.
Everything’s okay. Don’t worry. You are safe. This man is who he says, Michael Turner, a private investigator. Everything will be fine. Just do as he says.
The thoughts were odd, as if someone else were putting them into her head, using her inner voice.
He took a small step back and slipped his wallet inside his coat. His face was gaunt, and his azure eyes seemed trustworthy, though slightly exhausted. “I’m just here to ask you some questions.”
“About what?” Hope felt silly for holding the shoe at her side, but not silly enough to put it down.
“Can we go downstairs?”
The man backed out of the bedroom and approached the stairway. Hope tossed the shoe in the closet and followed.
Downstairs, the man turned and looked her in the eye. “How well did you know Rebecca Ashby?”
“Not at all.” Hope glanced outside at a sudden darkness turning from morning’s bright blue to night’s ugly black. “I’d seen her around from time to time, but not enough that she stuck out or anything.”
“Where and when did you last see her?”
“I can’t remember. Maybe a week ago at the pub down the street, Harry’s Pub.”
Hope glanced out the window again. “Is there a storm coming?”
“I think so. Or perhaps an eclipse. Was she with anyone, do you recall?”
Hope thought for a moment. “I really can’t remember. To be honest, I’m not even sure if it was Rebecca. Like I said, I don’t really know her, so she didn’t stick out. I’m pretty sure it was her but can’t remember much about the night.” Hope shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” the detective said, his eyes on his notepad as he scribbled the details. “Does anyone else live here with you, someone else I might be able to talk to? A lot of times it’s the little things people think mean nothing that wind up helping us most.”
Hope felt a tickle down her spine. She shouldn’t admit to being alone. “My boyfriend, John. He should be back any minute.”
She regretted saying it before the words had finished leaving her lips. Now, the guy might want to stick around. How would she get rid of him then?
“Does John know Ms. Ashby?”
“No, neither of us do.”
“You said you expect John back soon?”
Hope didn’t care for the smile she might have imagined.
Relax, you can trust him. He is who he says he is. Just trust him. Maybe invite him to stay and wait for John.
She shook the thoughts from her mind.
No, I should NOT invite him to stay. That’s the worst idea ever. He shouldn’t even be in my house!
“Yes, though to be honest, I need to get ready for work. Do you have a card? I can have him give you a call?”
“Um, sure.” The man fished into a coat pocket and handed her a crisp new card that read, Michael Turner: Private Investigator with a PO box listed in Hialeah and a 305 area code.
“Your office is far away, eh?”
“Yes, but I work the entire East Coast, and I’ll be in town for a while. That’s my cell. Have John give me a call anytime, day or night.”
“Okay,” Hope said, walking him to the door. “Good luck.”
“Thank you.”
The man walked down the sidewalk to the white picket fence where for the first time, Hope noticed he wasn’t alone. A tall black man in a dark suit was standing at the end of the walk, holding open the door of a black van with pitch-black windows. The private eye waved at Hope and stepped into the back of the van. The other man gave her a glance, and for the slightest of moments, she’d have sworn he had no pupils, just two marbles of pure snow. He nodded, went around the van, got into the driver’s seat, and drove away.
She found it odd that a detective would have his own driver. Even odder was the morning light returning its full rays, as if a curtain had been ripped from a window as the van turned the corner. Odder still, Hope noticed for the first time, there didn’t seem to be a single cloud in the sky.
John
“I think it’s starting again,” John said to Larry. “I think I’m starting to turn back.”
“What do you mean? He said it would work.”
“No, he said it might work, but there’s no way he could be sure. It’s not like he’s had a lot of feeders to work his magick on. I’ve been having these vivid dreams of killing people, feeding off of them. Now one of the girls I dreamed about the other night, someone I don’t even know, is missing.”
“Come on, it could be a coincidence. Sometimes you pick up on things just because of what you are. I’m sure this is one of those times.”
“I want you t
o follow me. I need to know what I’m doing after I go to sleep. And you can’t let me see you. If I’m not myself when I’m doing this, then God only knows what I’d do if I caught you following me.”
Larry paused. “And what if it is you? What then?”
“Then we go with a full wipe. A total reset.”
Larry shook his head. “No, we have no idea if he can even do a total wipe. He said it was a theory. A last resort. There are too many dangers. You could die. You could forget everything. Like total blank slate.”
John nodded. “I know. But I can’t put Hope in danger. I’d rather die than risk — ”
He didn’t need to, nor could he, voice his ultimate fear.
They both knew.
“I need to know you can do this for me. I know we’ve been friends for a long time and I’ve taught you a lot of cool magick and shit. If you lose me, you might need to go back to a life of actually working for a living instead of sitting on your ass watching TV and eating Cheetos, but — ”
“Fuck you, buddy,” Larry said with a laugh.
John smiled, “Seriously, I need you to reach out to Adam. Ask him if he’ll do a total wipe, if I need it.”
Larry’s smile faded. “IF you need it, fine. I’ll do whatever you ask me to, you know it, Brotha. I owe you my life. But let’s see what happens over the next few nights before we go making plans for your permanent vacation, eh?”
“Agreed. I’ve gotta get to work, and you need sleep so you can stay up tonight.”
“Sleep is for the weak.” Larry popped the top on a fresh can of Mountain Dew and took a swig. “See you tonight.”
“Yeah, but I better not see you.” John turned and headed toward the door.
“Hey,” Larry said with a devilish grin, “you and Hope keep your blinds open when you’re bumpin’ uglies?”
John shook his head. “Don’t ever change, Larry boy.”
Forty-Eight
Jacob
The van had gone maybe a quarter mile before Jacob saw something he had to have. A young woman jogging on the side of the road, her dark hair in a ponytail, bouncing with each footfall.
Something about Hope had wormed beneath his skin. Jacob never met someone so full of life, so energetic, so intoxicating. He could see why his brother chose her. Though he couldn’t see why John chose to fuck her when consuming her whole would have been such a superior experience. While Jacob was no stranger to sexual urges — though he could never indulge them without killing a partner — sex was nothing compared to the ecstasy, or the intimacy, of swallowing someone’s life force. The younger and more vibrant, the better.
It was all he could do not to take Hope right then and there in the house, absorb every ounce of her life, mission be damned. But he was better than humans. He could control his animal urges, at least for a while.
But then, from his spot in the back of the van with its specially treated windows, he saw the jogger, her skin glistening with sweat as waves of her bright pink aura swept off of her, beckoning Jacob.
“Pull alongside her. And make it dark.”
“Here? Now?” his driver asked.
“Now!” Jacob barked.
Moments later, the world around them was cast in shadows.
They followed the jogger up a narrow residential street. Sensing them, she moved over but was still reasonably close to the van’s sliding door.
As they pulled beside her, Jacob opened the door and reached out to grab her. But she was quick, and leaped aside, causing Jacob to tumble from the van and roll onto the ground.
“What the?” she screamed and turned to run.
Jacob leaped and connected, hands on her shoulders, shoving her face into the ground, falling on her like a beast.
The demon began to feed.
Energy rushed through him as her memories flooded his mind. He closed his eyes, now lying on top of her, blissfully sucking every memory and emotion she’d ever had in fast forward, her body burning and convulsing beneath him. He fed slowly, wanting to savor every moment. On the plus side, she would live longer, but on the down side, those moments would be excruciatingly painful. He didn’t normally kill during the day, but this woman was worth it: strong, happy, fulfilling.
A siren blurted, breaking the moment, and Jacob glanced up to see a police cruiser behind them.
“Shit!”
He jumped up and into the already moving van. He spun around to see two officers jumping out of the car, rushing to help the still-burning woman, too perplexed to give chase, trying to douse the fire.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Jacob shouted, pounding a fist into the van floor, upset that he’d been so careless. He’d been seen, and worse, he’d left a body behind so close to John. Jacob glanced back through the rear windows and saw one officer covering her with something as another ran to the car, no doubt to get a fire extinguisher. He wondered if the girl was still alive. If so, she’d be the first meal he’d ever left in such a state.
And then, as the jogger’s memories swirled through his brain, he saw something that terrified him. Something he should have seen in the memories stolen from Rebecca Ashby, and would have if he hadn’t been so impatient and hungry.
The jogger had worked with Rebecca Ashby.
He thought he’d played things safe by feeding on Rebecca but leaving no trace behind. No one could connect her death to him, or a feeder, if they never found her. She was another missing young girl, one of thousands. But now, he’d left a victim who could be connected to Rebecca.
It would only be a matter of time before the Guardians would be crawling all over the town. They’d make connections. John would discover that a feeder was in town and would surely flee. Jacob couldn’t let anything come between himself and John. He’d come too far and had waited too long to get back home.
If he didn’t act soon, John would vanish. Again.
It was time to find his long-lost brother — and maybe get a taste of Hope.
Forty-Nine
Caleb
October 3, 1999
Anchor Harbor, Washington
Caleb stared at the evidence scattered across his kitchen table — glossy crime scene photos showing the charred remains of a six-year-old boy, Billy Wilkens, one of the many suspected victims of a serial murderer found on the West Coast within the past six years. No matter how many times he’d combed the case in the two months since he’d been brought on board, nothing made sense.
The boy had been thought missing, taken from his bedroom in the middle of the night on September 19. The media went apeshit, speculating that his single mother, Evelyn Wilkens, who’d fallen asleep drunk, was somehow responsible. When searchers found the boy’s body two days later (his remains so charred, positive identity couldn’t be confirmed without DNA proof), media scrutiny magnified on the mom.
Caleb had an uncanny ability to spot the tiniest lie in the largest ball of yarn, and after interviewing the woman knew with unwavering certainty she’d had approximately dick to do with her son’s murder. In all likelihood, someone had entered the apartment — the door had been accidentally left unlocked — and taken the boy without waking her from her stupor. Nothing else linked the case to the string of murders. This was, in fact, the first incident of a child being murdered by the serial killer(s).
Why this boy? Why a child at all? What kind of monster would do this?
While some local officers wondered if the murders were linked to the media-named Torch Killings (fucking media had to give everything a clever name), the FBI refused to make the link official, even if Caleb was growing certain that the murders were the work of the same person.
Last night, the case took a stunning turn. Talking heads on the local and cable news channels were hungry for somewhere to aim their wagging fingers. Lacking a named suspect to pin the blame on, they turned their poison on the boy’s mother. Reporters practically pitched tents on her doorstep, haranguing her with incendiary questions, asking why she’d left the door open, why was she drunk
, how often did she get drunk, why was she single and, of course, what kind of mother was she?
The vultures got what they wanted — more blood, when Evelyn OD’d on a half-million milligrams or so of painkillers, falling into a forever sleep and leaving behind a note that simply read:
I’m sorry, Billy. Mommy will be with you, soon.
Caleb wanted someone to pay. He preferred the killer, of course, but would happily settle for the fucking press with its bottomless appetite for gore porn.
Fortunately, Caleb wasn’t the point man for the media. He was the lead investigator. His boss, Mathews, handled the reporters with an uncanny aplomb while Caleb seethed in the shadows.
Now, staring at the photos, his attention drifted toward the hole in the kitchen wall then down at his still-purple knuckles.
Yeah, good thing I’m not on TV today.
Hands closed over his shoulder, startling him momentarily — Julia.
He closed his eyes and lolled his head in surrender to her touch. “How’s it going?” she said, her voice soothing.
“I don’t know,” he sighed, remembering last night’s call telling him about Evelyn’s suicide, just moments before the news erupted on every station. He flinched in the morning light, reflecting on last night’s violence, embarrassed that Julia had seen him in such a fit.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, eyes still closed.
“You don’t need to apologize.” She leaned down and lowered herself into his lap, laying her head on his chest.
It had been a long time since they’d shared such a tender moment. It felt comfortable — and alien.
Then Julia said what Caleb wished she wouldn’t have.