by Stone, Mary
Noah shrugged. “Maybe it didn’t seem important in the wake of his death. Maybe someone forgot. Who knows? Stuff happens. You know that as well as I do. But in order to make a good comparison, we—”
“We have to dig up the body of Douglas Kilroy,” Aiden finished for him, dropping his head in his hand. “That’s just the best thing I’ve heard today.” What a fuck up. They needed that DNA because they still, to this day, had no idea of the total number of people Kilroy murdered, and without a DNA sample, it would be that much more difficult to link a murder to him. It was sloppy as hell that this was never entered properly, and somewhere, a head would roll for it. Hopefully not his.
The problem was, it was Aiden who was now left hanging. It should have been a simple matter of running samples through some mysterious lab procedure and getting a result that pointed them in the right direction. Nothing should be this complicated. If the samples had been preserved in the database like standard procedure required, it would be a much simpler process.
Noah cleared his throat. “And that would mean comparing Winter’s DNA as well.”
Aiden’s hand fell. “Tell me that her agent DNA didn’t get lost too.”
“No, we have it.” Bree said quickly, looking up again from her stack of papers. The Bureau maintained a record of agents in case an agent had to be identified after death but accessing someone’s DNA records while they were alive was more tricky. “Of course, we’ll need—”
Aiden nodded and waved off the rest of what she was about to say. “I’m aware of the legalities involved.” It didn’t matter how many pieces of paper an agent signed to allow their records to be accessed in the course of duty, the fact was that they could rescind that permission at any given moment under a half-dozen privacy acts, so legal always wanted clear and informed consent from an agent before such an investigation involving personal records. There were few things more personal than DNA records. “Do you think she would refuse to cooperate?”
“No.” Noah and Bree spoke at once.
“At least, I don’t think so,” Noah added, one eye on his partner. “Winter wouldn’t have an issue with it…under normal circumstances. But right now, she’s so shut down and withdrawn, I’m not sure what she would say or how she would react.”
“And despite what Stella says, that sample they got from Sandy Ulbrich…” Bree gave an involuntary shudder. “I’m sure the researchers know exactly what they’re doing, but it is hard for me to imagine that the bit of saliva from where the poor woman had been licked would be viable.”
Aiden closed his eyes and counted. The fact was, they were right. They were very right. Once hailed as the be-all-end-all of forensic investigations, DNA matching was coming under more and more scrutiny as case after case of malfeasance and outright foolishness on the part of labs and collections were reported across the board.
Recently, a wild chase for a rapist was spent on a man who matched every DNA swab taken, only to find that he worked in the place where the swabs were created and had tainted the swabs before they ever shipped out to be used. One man was arrested for murder based on DNA, only to discover that the same EMTs who brought that man into the ER had later brought the victim into the hospital using the same oximeter on the victim’s finger to measure pulse as on the first man, thus putting DNA on the murder victim.
DNA was messy. Not the cure-all it looked to be on the crime shows on TV.
Worse, digging up a corpse, especially one as high-profile as The Preacher would become a media circus no matter how clever or discrete they might try and make it. Driving a backhoe into a cemetery and lifting a coffin with chains drew attention. When the media labeled that freak with the name The Preacher, he’d gained a fan following of sorts. Anything to do with him was pretty much guaranteed a great deal of unwanted attention.
Aiden sat back. What was he missing?
This case couldn’t be allowed to be thrown out of court or dismissed on a technicality. Cutting corners or taking shortcuts on this could mean that a serial killer was set free. This had to be by the book. That meant delays, both in getting the appropriate orders from the appropriate judges, and delays in gathering other hard evidence to present to a judge to get the okay to proceed. It also meant getting enough hard facts to hold up against media frenzy when Kilroy’s body once more saw the light of day.
“No, you’re right,” Aiden said to them, sitting up and starting to collect the scattered papers, putting them again into a neat stack. “But we need all the evidence we can get, and if that involves getting enough of a case for a judge to sign off on opening that bastard’s grave, then we get all the evidence we can for a convincing argument. All that we have to work with is here, so something in this file has to be strong enough to make our case. Find it.” He didn’t wait for a reply but dove back into the pages that lay on the table, flipping through them to make sure they were in the right order before picking up the top one.
He did not add the words, ‘for Winter.’ But from the grim expressions on the faces of those who loved her best, he really didn’t have to.
11
Sitting forward like this in the chair, the edge cut into my legs. I could feel the pressure shutting off the circulation, but I didn’t dare move. I knew better. Grandpa always wanted me to stay still, to not move, to not make any noise.
“Obey your elders, boy. There is a purpose to everything, and you’ll realize that purpose one of these days.”
Of course, I knew he was gone. He was dead and buried deep in a hole underground, but that didn’t mean the rules had changed. He didn’t like me to move. He didn’t want me to make a sound.
I didn’t always obey.
The chair flew through the room and smashed against the wall. “Damn her!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, hoping my dear sister could somehow hear me through the miles and through the years. “Damn you! Damn you to hell!”
I kicked the table, rage and frustration coursing through my veins. I didn’t realize I’d kicked it as hard as I did. I thought it would bounce, or maybe flip over and spill the things off the top. But the old table came apart with a deafening crack. The screws that held the top to the legs pulled free all at once. In slow motion, I watched as the scarred top folded and splintered. Shattered wood flew in all directions.
Stupid boy! Bad boy! Horrible terrible spoiled-rotten bastard. This is how they raised you? This is how you behave?
His voice. Grandpa’s voice. I could hear it as clear as if he stood in the room with me. Maybe he did.
I stared at the floor, not wanting to look and find out for sure. I had to punish. I had to be punished. Grandpa taught me that.
I wet my lips with my tongue, struggling to get the words out, hearing the pathetic whisper of sound. “I tried. I tried. I really tried. We followed you. We finished what you began. The mission, the path, the Holy Way…we were there. Tyler, Kent, and me. We cleaned up what you couldn’t finish. We believed, and we were faithful. We were true to the path, Grandpa, but…but…but…but…”
But you make excuses, you fail, you always fail. You were raised as failure by a failure and you’re weak.
I sank down, haunches on heels, hands coming up to cover my eyes.
He was dead. He was dead and he was buried and he was rotting in the grave and he was still in my head, and he was talking and he had fingers on me, burning, hurting, mean fingers.
I could feel them on my skin. It became hard to breathe, and I choked, trying to find air. Even that I was getting wrong. I was supposed to be sitting quietly. Maybe he’d leave me alone if I just sat quietly. Sometimes it worked and he’d forget I was there…
Lazy, useless little shit. There’s work to be done, there are things that need to be done, you need to finish what I began, and you sit there cowering on the floor like you have all the time in the world? I need you to finish the work.
He was right. I needed to finish the path. The ones from the mall, the ones he couldn’t finish, they needed to be finis
hed. I shouldn’t have wasted so much time on Winter. I shouldn’t have tipped my hand. I shouldn’t have sent the video. When would I ever learn?
But Winter shouldn’t have let me go. She shouldn’t have slept in the hall while his fingers dug into my flesh, while he grabbed my arms and hurt me and took me away. I saw her again in my mind’s eye, the child-woman Winter lying in the hallway sleeping while he’d taken me away.
Stupid vixen.
She never came for me. Never once. She left me and then she killed Grandpa and she took him away from me just like he’d taken Mother and Father away.
Everyone was taken away. Every last one of them.
That’s when the true hellishness of the situation came clear in my mind. I couldn’t finish the work. I couldn’t walk the path. I couldn’t because there was something in my way.
I got up on trembling legs and forced myself to pace around the room, kicking splinters viciously as I worked the thoughts through. It was all coming clear, so bright someone might as well have walked into the room and turned on the light. There was always something keeping me from finishing the holy work. Something else.
Not me.
No, this wasn’t my fault. That belonged to someone else entirely. I had been locked down. Weighted down and kept from my cause. I could feel the weight of it, like it pressed on me now. My sister. My sister, the millstone around my neck, the albatross, the leaden weight I had been forced to carry my entire life.
I had ties, and all ties did was bind and restrict and cut off circulation like chairs that were too big, but you had to stay still anyway, even when the blood stopped flowing through your legs and you couldn’t feel them anymore.
I stopped to sit, realizing belatedly that no one had said I could get up. I’m sorry, Grandpa. I’m sorry I didn’t see this sooner.
To keep to the path, I would have to go through the last of the obstacles. Winter. Winter was the last obstacle. If I could get around her…no, not around, through. Go through the barrier. Nothing could stop someone on the true path.
I leaned forward, balancing my weight on elbows that dug into my knees while I cradled my chin on my palms. Think. Winter was an FBI agent now. Such a big deal, stopping The Preacher. Grandpa hated that word, such an ignoble word for such a sacred task. But he knew, he’d known that he would never be understood. Never appreciated for all the good works he did.
Good works.
No. He was bad. He was evil.
That was what made knowing him so confusing.
He was good and he was bad. He was righteous and he was evil.
But he was Grandpa, and since he was killed, there was no one else to take care of me. He was dead. He was dead and buried. That probably made him angry. He was always angry. Always.
My head was starting to hurt from all the thoughts racing through it.
I couldn’t sit still, I couldn’t. But I couldn’t leave the chair. It was broken. I’d slammed it against a wall, and it hadn’t been the same since, one leg tilted crazy askew.
But if I sat still, maybe Grandpa wouldn’t notice how confused I was and he wouldn’t get mad.
I couldn’t sit still, though. I rocked back and forth, back and forth.
Finish the work, boy. Finish the holy path.
I couldn’t.
I balanced on the edge of the broken chair, shivering in the dark. The chair shivered with me.
You can do this, boy. Do it for me. Do it for God. Follow the path and get your rewards.
Beginning to calm, I let his words echo through my mind. Yes, I could do this. I was born to do this. Grandpa was killed so that I could take over and receive the great reward.
After forever, I stood. A bright clarity washed over me, and suddenly, I could see Grandpa’s path clearly. I could finish the work after all. I could be there for him. I could please him.
Or not.
The man didn’t matter anymore. Only the mission.
At least that was what I told myself.
The chair quietly fell apart at my feet. One chair, one table. Grandpa couldn’t be mad, not anymore. He was dead and the worms feasted on his soul. Only the mission remained, only the right way, the holy way. That was all that was left. But before I could walk with the righteous, I had to clear the way. I had to sever ties and free myself from the bonds that held me down.
The bastard. What was the name for a female bastard? Bitch? Appropriate. She’d left me. She’d napped while I was taken, not even the blood of my fathers. My sister, the get of a whore who slept around without remorse. No different then. My mother was no different than any other woman. And my dear sister? No different. They were all alike, and they were the reason for the holy path.
With the clarity came calm. I saw the damage around me, but this time, it was only analytical. Just broken pieces of wood, cast off, cheap, sluts and whores, not worth restoring. There were more of them I could pluck off the streets and dispose of.
Winter. Winter had to die. Once she was dead, I could be free, I could fly. I could continue the mission. I would walk the holy path and there would be no one left who could stop me.
Keep to the path, boy.
Shut up, old man. You died. It was my turn now. I decided the shape of the path.
I gathered my knife, the weight filling my fist like cold rage, like divine purpose. I already could feel my half-sister’s blood warming my hands as I sliced into her belly.
Grandpa would be proud. I would make him proud. If I had to call him up from the very depths of hell and rub his face in it. I would see the pride, at last, in his eyes.
So like the ones I saw now in the reflection of the steel. So like the ones I would see fade away when I buried the steel in her heart.
I called my sister, yelling at her to come to me. Hoping to wake her from her long slumber.
Wake up. It’s time to die.
I laughed all the way to the car.
12
Winter jerked awake. The morning sun streaming in through the window missed her by a good foot, putting her in the shadows just enough to lull her back to the edge of restless unconsciousness.
Late nights and obsessing about Justin were taking their toll. Her mind refused to let anything go, but her body needed sleep, and she found herself dozing off in the chair more often than not. Her back ached from the position, and she stretched, grimacing at the pain. Still somewhat disoriented, she picked up a sheet of paper that had fallen from nerveless fingers into her lap and puzzled over it, trying to make sense out of the words printed there.
The fact that Noah was working so hard on finding answers, on finding Justin, endeared him even more to her, but it didn’t help that he came home late and left early. She suspected no one would be getting any sleep until her baby brother was found.
She rubbed the back of her neck, trying to wake herself. What time was it? She fumbled for her phone and considered making something to eat or walking around to keep going. In the end, she did none of those things. Leaning back in the living room chair, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes against the sunlight streaming through the window and blocked out the traffic noises from outside.
A quick glance at her phone told her there was still time before Autumn was due. Cross-town traffic at this hour wasn’t going to be pretty. Her eyelids felt heavy. Maybe a twenty-minute power nap would refresh her, at least well enough to get through the day. She settled in, the printout of an old newspaper clipping still in her hand.
Local Woman Lynn Williams Deceased.
As it turned out, a nap was not what her body had in mind.
The vision came quickly, and she panicked, fighting the images thrusting their way into her mind. The newspaper crackled between her fingers, and the sound settled her enough to still and let the vision take over. Within moments, she fell into the unfolding scene.
Her visions brought her strange images. Things she knew and didn’t, everything out of context mingling with memories she’d long since forgotten.
A young boy played in and around farm machinery. In a mud-stained shirt and jeans that were more dirt than denim, he crawled around the big tractor like it was a jungle gym. Perhaps to him, it was. He treated it with a familiarity that spoke to his roots, to his heritage.
He turned to her, deep brown eyes flashing with unrestrained mischief and enthusiasm. Every blade of tall grass was a toy and the vast open expanses were all his playground. With a little wave, he ran as fast and as far as he could, dodging rows of growing corn, leaping deep troughs where water irrigated the plants.
He ran to a building, sun-bleached white, and if the paint was chipped a bit here and there, it was at least clean and honest, like a good farmhouse should be. A transistor radio belted out rock and roll, straining its speakers as it swayed from its tether, swinging like a hanged man on the clothesline where it had been brought to give music to the day’s chores.
A woman reached into the basket on the ground at her feet, rising and pulling out a man’s shirt in one fluid movement, pinning it to the line beside the others. Shirt to shirt, pants to pants, towels and sheets marched up and down the string, socks stuck between them. The whole menagerie swayed and rotated as summer winds lazed about the clothing, picking at it, playing with the fringes.
Winter tried to think who this woman might be, why she was important enough to break into her thoughts, but it was a face she’d not seen. The dream-vision continued, heedless of her desire to stay a moment and linger here in this peaceful interlude.
The woman smiled a secretive affection. “Little boys running under summer skies are noisy beasts, and this particular one loves to surprise a body,” she told the white shirt she was currently pegging to the line. Indeed, Bill seemed to make little use of whatever stealth God granted him. His sneaking up on her was about as silent as a clatter of colts. “Such a wild boy.”