by Stone, Mary
Was the monster leaving, or was it opening the door for his friends?
I shuddered so hard my hand fell from the doorknob, and I huddled against my sister’s door as footsteps sounded on the stairs. I waited for the squeak from the fifth step from the top, but it didn’t come. The monster knew about that squeak.
My pajama bottoms grew warm and wet when a dark figure appeared at the top of the steps. It had long black hair and it was walking up on its toes, very sneaky. Very quiet.
The dark figure stopped at Mommy and Daddy’s bedroom door, and from the light coming from the door, I realized it wasn’t a monster. It was Winter. My sister.
Nearly hysterical with relief, I tried to say her name, but the words were caught in my throat because it was tight and hard to breathe.
As she stared into our parents’ room, she made a sound that kind of sounded like a scream, and her hand came up to cover her mouth as she stumbled backward.
She’d seen the ketchup too, I could tell. And she would clean it up and we’d all laugh in the morning as we ate our pancakes.
For a moment, I thought everything might be all right, but that was before more weird things happened. A shadow behind my big sister kind of pulled away from the rest of the darkness. The shadow shifted and changed, then grew bigger and bigger. After my heart pounded at least three more times, the shadow became a man. A full-grown man.
Yay, it’s a grown-up. That was my first thought, at least. Maybe he could wake my parents. After all, he was an adult, and that was what adults did. They helped.
But instead of helping, he raised something he held in his hand. It was a long piece of wood, like a bat, but thinner. I knew that I should scream or say something, anything at all, but before I could even open my mouth, my sister turned and looked at the man. She didn’t have time to scream either before the shadow man slammed the thing down on her head, and she fell. And just like that, she was staring at the wall like Daddy had been staring.
There was blood on her head now too.
My fingers were numb, and my brain was numb. Raff slipped from my fingers onto the floor, and he got blood on him too. He stared at me from the floor as if to say “get out get out get out,” but the man stared at me too as he stepped over my sister, and threw the stick away into my parents’ bedroom. His other hand held something that shone in the dim moonlight. It was a knife, but the knife was bleeding too.
He went down to one knee and smiled at me.
“Your Mommy and Daddy kept you from meeting me,” he said. His voice was like a deep rumble, like Mr. Washington at the store. Mommy said that Mr. Washington talked like that because he smoked too much. I wondered if this man smoked too much. I could kinda smell the smoke on him, but everything around me smelled stronger, sweet, and funny—like metal I could taste with my nose.
“We’re family,” he said to me. “You shouldn’t oughta be kept from your family.” He looked toward my parents’ room for a moment before turning all his focus back on me. He scooped me up into his arms. I wanted to reach for Raff, but my whole body was frozen as he stepped over my sister and walked calmly down the stairs and out of the door, me in my wet SpongeBob pajamas, and headed for a pickup truck parked in the street.
He set me on the passenger side and told me to wait. I thought, I should run, I should hide, I should get far, far away. He was a stranger, and I was not supposed to ride with strangers, but I couldn’t move, and the words got stuck again.
He got in and fired up the truck. “You’re a good boy,” he said, his voice still a low grumble. “You obeyed me just right, and all you gotta do is keep on obeyin’ me. ‘Children, obey your parents in the Lord, for this is right.’ That’s from the sixth chapter of Ephesians. Do you know your Bible, boy?”
Mutely, I shook my head. My thumb was inching closer to my mouth.
“Didn’t think so. That’ll be a changin’, boy. Gonna teach you right.” The truck started moving, and he looked at me sideways. “I was at your house just to meet you, and I’m going to take care of you from now on. Not right keepin’ you from your family. Not right at all.”
The truck rattled and coughed and belched smoke. I could see it in the mirror on the side of the truck, just like I could see my house growing smaller and smaller. We went through the neighborhood, past where I was allowed to ride my bike. I looked in the mirror at my house behind me and missed Mommy and Daddy and Winter and Raff-Raff. He drove down roads I didn’t recognize until my home wasn’t there behind us anymore.
“How about we call you…Jaime?” the man said suddenly. “My name is Kilroy. Some folks just call me Preacher.”
I put my thumb in my mouth and nodded.
What else could I do?
* * *
I shook my head. God, what a waste of time. Memories usually were. I’d sat down to talk, and instead, I got lost, caught in a whole lot of nonsense from a long time ago. More than thirteen years ago. Sometimes, I forgot that all that mattered was the here and now.
Justin was dead. Why couldn’t I leave him buried?
I realized that the camera was still recording and had captured me sitting and daydreaming, reliving little boy nightmares. I cursed under my breath and called myself twelve kinds of fool as I took the memory card out of the camera and inserted a fresh one, a new one, one that had never witnessed the image of me lost in some pathetically childish dream. The first one would have to be destroyed.
When I sat back, I took a deep calming breath as I assessed my image on the little screen. It was perfect, just the way I’d planned it for so long.
With the simple tap of a button, REC appeared on the bottom left corner of the monitor. I gazed into the camera, imagining how she’d feel when she was gazing back.
I had something to say and someone very important to tell it to.
Time to begin.
2
Special Agent in Charge of the Richmond Violent Crimes office, Max Osbourne, drew a heavy breath and gave Winter Black one of his more impressive looks. She’d seen the new hires flinch under one of those looks. Given that their department worked on catching the country’s most violent criminals, that was saying something.
Winter didn’t so much as bat an eyelash, willing him to see this as a good a sign as any that she was ready to take on bigger cases. He’d recently started giving her grunt work, and she knew it was because of her brother’s case. It was time for him to believe that she could handle anything, including taking down her sibling.
“I want to know everything. I won’t involve myself in Justin’s case.” She mentally crossed her fingers as she said it. “I just want to help with the Timothy and Mariah Young murder case.”
She swallowed, thinking of Mariah, the sweet little girl who’d witnessed the aftermath of her mother and sister’s brutal murder. Winter still felt like a failure for not keeping the father and daughter safe. They should have tried harder, done more. Anything more.
It had been like a knife in her gut when she’d learned Tim and Mariah had also been slaughtered, Preacher style. They were just the last of a long list of innocents who had survived the Danville Mall murders…only to be savagely killed by someone intent on finishing what Tyler Haldane and Kent Strickland started that terrible night.
Kelsey and Adrian Esperson
Sandy and Oliver Ulbrich
Willa Brown
Dana Young and her twelve-year-old daughter Sadie
And now Timothy and ten-year-old Mariah. An entire family wiped out so cruelly.
By Winter’s baby brother?
It appeared that way.
Max’s stare was growing even harder as her mind wandered into the past. Did he growl a little under his breath? This was her boss, and by now, she was used to Max’s bluster, and knew how to control the situation. At least she hoped she did.
“You can help as needed, but I’m not going to assign you directly to the case. Understood?” He pulled an open file closer across his desk. It was a newly assembled file, an
d the side tab held a very familiar name. Justin Black AKA Jaime Peterson.
She swallowed hard on seeing the names in print like that, side by side, as though they belonged together. She wasn’t entirely sure how someone missing for so long, who’d gone through so much as Justin had to have survived, could all be encapsulated into a simple manilla folder. Her eyes longed to drink in the photo of her dark-haired brother that gazed out from its place on top of the paperwork.
Max cleared his throat, pulling her attention back to him. “I shouldn’t be talking to you about any of this, you understand me? This case…it’s been going south for a while now. No sooner do we run down one name, one killer, than another crops up. The Preacher is dead. Now, we only need the third person from the manifesto.”
The manifesto to which he was referring was an online letter that proclaimed the works that Kent Strickland and Tyler Haldane had written before shooting up a mall and killing a number of innocent victims. As it turned out, there was a third accomplice in the shooting, one who’d gone on a killing spree himself.
Was that Justin?
Winter still had a hard time believing it could be her baby brother. But then again, the last time she’d seen her brother, he’d been wearing SpongeBob pajamas and holding his favorite stuffed animal, Raff.
“When the connection to your missing brother came up,” Max went on, “well, I hoped they would be wrong. But from what Kent Strickland’s father, George, told Miguel and Noah, he gave a positive ID on Jaime Peterson. Apparently, he and Kent were good friends. They formed a…” Max checked his notes again before continuing. “They formed a club of sorts, using code names and secret handshakes, the lot.”
Winter swallowed, lifting a hand halfway to her mouth, compensating for the gesture by brushing a single strand of glossy black hair back behind her ear as she nodded. She willed her blue eyes to stay carefully calm and serene. “Right. Do you know more on why they used the code names?” She already knew all this, and she didn’t understand why Max was bringing it up again, so she played along.
“Yes, they’d apparently planned on being a military unit one day. They had code names for each other, the way special ops in the movies have. As you know, your brother was ‘White Ghost.’”
Somehow, that was fitting. Jaime/Justin was a ghost of sorts, after all. One she’d been searching for over a dozen years.
“This is all according to Strickland, right?” Winter looked up, feeling a glimmer of hope that faded almost as soon as it started. Strickland might not be the most reliable witness, but there was no reason for him to lie, not now.
“He was most cooperative.” Max gazed back at her from under heavy eyebrows. “Winter, you know that you’re not on this case. You’re too close.”
Every fiber of her soul wanted to scream and yell and tear the office apart. Of course, she needed to be in on this, it was her brother, the child she couldn’t protect, the last of her family.
A more rational part of her realized that was the exact reason she shouldn’t be on the case. Her objectivity wasn’t there. If an agent allowed her emotions to rule her case, she jeopardized not only herself, but also her partner and everyone who worked the case. Of course, knowing that didn’t help the frantic energy that was building inside every cell of her body.
“I’m a professional.” Her voice was calm, and the words came in measured tones. “I’m aware of the risks. I don’t expect to be assigned to this. I just…” She stared at the desk and the folder that held all the information on her lost brother. “I just want to be kept informed. Please.” She lifted her gaze, meeting his eyes squarely. Max returned her look with one of his own, a considering look.
I’m not being unreasonable. Under the circumstances, I think I’m being perfectly rational.
What Max had to consider was beyond her.
“I’ll keep you in the loop.”
Winter blinked. He’d acquiesced. Okay, there might have been a certain amount of reluctance, but he was willing to give her this much, at least. Winter could see it in his posture, in his expression that he was trying. Well, she would if a stoic iron-forged face like Max’s could be considered to have expressions. He might have made a professional poker player with as much as he gave away.
Calm down. You know what he’s not saying here. Don’t run a victory lap just yet.
Winter understood what Max didn’t say: he would give her little bits and pieces that he felt were safe for her to hear, and only when he felt it was safe to tell her.
Which, in the end, was still better than nothing. At least she hoped so.
The scream began again under her calm.
No. It wasn’t better. Deep down, she knew it wasn’t.
She wanted more. She wanted every scrap of information, of evidence. She wanted her brother back, dammit. She’d only been thirteen when he’d been lost to her. Now, after a lifetime of searching, she was so close. So close she could taste it. How in the hell was she supposed to stand back and let someone else bring him in?
She should be the one to see this through. Not some stranger who’d never met him, who didn’t know him the way she did. They only saw the stone-cold killer, not the scared little boy who couldn’t go anywhere without his stuffed giraffe.
“It’s probably stupid to ask this, but I have to. How are you holding up under this? If you need some time off…” Max closed the file, the picture of Jaime Peterson—Justin Black, the protégé of Douglas Kilroy…Winter’s long-lost brother and suspected killer—now covered up. Just like that, the meeting was over. This was all she was going to get.
Why was Max asking personal questions? She met his gaze, suddenly unsure. This was Max. He’d always been approachable as far as bosses where concerned, but to Max, everything was all about the job, and to suddenly pry into the emotional state of one of his people felt wrong. Weird. Like he was looking for something.
Like he was expecting her to crack under the pressure.
Breathe. Just breathe. It’ll be all right.
Winter smiled and looked away. Remember, it’s still all about the job. Max wanted to know if his agent was able to work. He was a man checking a tool, making sure that it could work for him before using it. Making sure the tool didn’t snap during a crucial phase of the job. This wasn’t about her. This was about what she was able to do, about how she was able to work. Or not.
That bitter, visceral assessment might have been unfair, but so was this entire situation. She blew out a short breath in frustration.
He has a job to do, and for that matter, so do I.
“I’m all right.” Winter looked him in the eye again. Maybe there was a little concern for her in there, more than just the job, but it was the boss she answered, not the man. “In fact, it would be easier on me if I concentrate on what I am able to do. Maybe I can’t be involved directly in Justin’s case, but I can still do other, more important duties. That’s a lot better than sitting around obsessing on what I can’t do, don’t you think?”
“All right.” Max leaned back in his chair, and Winter stood, realizing that the interview was over. Time to prove everything she’d just said and try not to think about how Justin had become Jaime. Or that Kilroy had taught him well. Most of all, she needed to remember there was nothing she could do about any of it.
Max was right, she was too close. The burn in her guts told her that.
Let the others handle it.
Which was all great, in theory. She was willing to be professional, but the emotions still churned in her guts, and the adrenaline that came from holding down the emotions surged through her blood. She stepped outside of Max’s office and looked toward her desk and the mounds of papers waiting to be shuffled, the phone that never stopped ringing, and all the responsibilities of a job she loved. And that didn’t even begin to address the multitudes of unread messages sitting in her inbox right now.
Instead, she turned in the other direction and headed for the exit, making a beeline to the gym. There was a l
ot of energy to burn off and building up a sweat always seemed to clear her head and help her think.
Today of all days, the aerobics and treadmills had no appeal. Today was a good day for the heavy bag. Thankfully, no one was using it, meaning she could dive in fairly fast while her adrenaline was still up.
She loved the feeling as the bag gave under her fists. She pounded on the canvas cover and pummeled Douglas Kilroy and Justin Black and a thirteen-year-old Winter who couldn’t protect her little brother. She beat on her parents for getting killed. She beat on Max, on her boyfriend, Noah, on Strickland and Haldane. Then Kilroy again, the so-called “Preacher,” the cause of all of this.
She hit him for what he did, for who he was, for dying with her brother’s location on his lips and taking that to his grave. She hit him for what he did to Justin, for what he did to her, and most especially to her parents.
No matter how hard and how fast Winter hit the bag, it seemed there was no upper limit to the damage she wanted to inflict on Douglas Kilroy. She threw herself into every punch; the grunts and guttural sounds she made on every impact were a curse on his memory.
She punched for the ones murdered at the Danville Mall and those killed simply because they’d escaped. The Espersons and the Ulbrichs. Willa and the entire Young family.
Especially, Mariah.
By the time she ran out of people to pummel, her arms felt sodden, and her shoulders sang with the impacts to the bag. She straightened, stretching her back to find out that she’d been the focus of some scrutiny from those around her. She glanced around, suddenly uneasy.
This wasn’t the usual ogling that men tried to hide when a woman exercised. These looks were more of surprise and concern. She looked around the room in surprise and no small amount of anger until she swore that, if she saw one more worried frown, she wouldn’t use the bag anymore, but transfer the rage within to the next person who asked or even looked like they wanted to ask if she was all right. A person had a right to workout the way they chose.