When King locked his eyes on Tristan, he felt his pupils shrink with built-up rage.
“No?” Tristan taunted. “Let me give you a hint. No. Better yet, let’s talk about why I might have killed Peggy.”
“Might have?”
“You’re right. I killed her.” Tristan cackled. “Any guesses as to why?”
“Because my father—”
“Our father,” Tristan corrected King.
King’s eyes were back on the road, “—wanted to see Angelina and me marry.”
“That’s correct, Inspector.” Tristan clapped while still holding the gun in one hand. “And I hoped the engagement ring I left in your house would have sparked an affair like the one your father had with my mother.”
Tristan’s eyes glimmered with the clever manipulation that failed. Then he told King to turn south on Quebec Street. King put on his blinker and did as he was told, asking himself what else Tristan might have done to get Angelina to believe King would ever leave Samantha.
“Though I thought using a play from the Pillowcase Strangler file would have bought me more time.”
“Time?” King said through clenched teeth. “You murdered Officer Morgan twenty-four hours after you killed Peggy.”
Tristan tapped the barrel of the gun to his chin. “Yes, I suppose that was rather quick. But I was overcome with excitement in wanting to finally meet my brother.”
“You could have just called,” King said.
“That was certainly an option I explored.”
“I would have learned about my father’s mistake through you.”
“There was just one problem with that scenario.”
King quirked an eyebrow.
Tristan’s face winced as if he’d made a mistake. “I had already killed my mother.” They locked eyes. “She lied to me, brother. Told me my father died when I was just a baby. But then, your mother moves into the facility and, guess what? I saw the same man my mother had in her photos. Except he didn’t die when she said, but many years later.”
“So you killed her?”
“It was an accident,” Tristan said sincerely. “I may have a temper that got out of control.”
“You think?”
“It must be true with you, too?” Tristan didn’t wait for a response. “Our parents are flawed, Alex, and no matter what you do, you’ll never live up to Marshall’s name, nor should you want to.”
“You reminded me of my own shortcomings at each of your crime scenes.”
Tristan smiled. “Each specifically designed to get you one step closer to Frank Lowe and the deal Marshall made with the devil,” Tristan pulled out a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket and waved it in the mirror, “Andrew Jackson.”
King was told to take the next right when he heard his cell phone ring. In the mirror, he watched Tristan take the phone out of his pocket and glance to the display screen. King thought maybe it was Officer Smith calling to learn his whereabouts, but when Tristan silenced the call, he wondered if it was Samantha.
“You know where you’re heading?” Tristan asked.
King turned into the cemetery without Tristan’s direction. As soon as he saw it, he knew Tristan was taking him to his father’s grave. King’s heart beat wild in his chest as he rolled to a stop near the plot of Marshall’s headstone.
“Have you guessed who my last victim is, Inspector?”
With both hands on the wheel and the engine running, King peered in the direction of his father’s grave.
“It’s not Marshall, because he’s already dead.” Tristan leaned forward and dropped his voice low as he pointed the gun’s muzzle over the dash. “She’s there, beneath the tree.”
Chapter Ninety-Three
The six-cylinder engine idled and Walker looked anxious to drive. Susan paused for a second to let the thought that Tristan might not be who she thought he was sink in. “Okay, Sam. I’ll see if I can find him.”
I thanked her and ended the call knowing we didn’t have time to wait for her to track him down. If we were right about Tristan having Gemma, he called Susan because he wanted us to find him. This was a game to him. But where was he now? No one knew, and that bothered me.
I turned to Walker and asked, “Who framed Frank Lowe?”
“Huh?”
“Gemma gave me the report earlier tonight,” I said. “Was it Andrew Jackson’s name redacted in the report?” I’d thought it was Marshall King’s name, but the signs were pointing elsewhere now.
“It had to have been,” he said. “But I can’t say for sure.”
My mind flashed back to Walker’s corkboard. This had to be what it was all about. With Gemma so close to Frank Lowe, was Tristan doing the unthinkable—repeating his accused crimes on her? That would also bring King into the mix, whose father had arrested Frank all those years ago. It was my best guess with what we currently knew.
“Do you have the cold case folder you first presented to me?”
Walker nodded. “Have a copy inside the house.”
“Got get it,” I said.
Walker ran inside the house and I called King. The line rang but he didn’t answer. Was he still in interrogation with Boyd? I assumed he was, but I left him a message regardless.
“It’s me,” I said. “I may have got a break in the case. Call me ASAP. It’s urgent. You’re going to want to hear what I have to say.”
A second later, Walker was back with the cold case file. I took it onto my lap and began flipping through each case.
“What are you looking for? Maybe I can help?” Walker said.
“A pattern to predict where Tristan might be taking Gemma,” I said, instructing him to learn the location where Frank Lowe left his most famous victim—the woman whose breasts had been cut off.
Peggy Hill died at home and was made to look like King’s cold case from six years ago. Avery was inside the park that held an important memory for King and was identical to a cold case four years ago. “If there is a pattern to his murders, logic would tell us his next victim would be taken from one of King’s cold cases from two years ago.”
Walker shook his head. “There isn’t one.” Walker licked his fingers and began flipping to the back.
My mind churned with doubt. The two murders so far were from King’s past; were his flaws. But they pointed to great disappointment in the eyes of Marshall—he’d wanted to see his son marry Angelina and he missed King’s big win. Which case would link both King and Marshall?
“This isn’t right,” I said, thinking about everything I learned since my meeting with Gemma. How did Frank Lowe play into this? “It’s no longer about King’s cold cases.” I turned and looked Walker in the eye. “It has everything to do with Frank Lowe. Marshall’s big mistake.”
Walker’s eyebrows knitted.
“Marshall King arrested Frank Lowe, but if it was Andrew Jackson’s name in the redacted report, then it’s Marshall’s mistake for allowing Frank Lowe to go to prison,” I said, explaining that the other cases pointed to Marshall as well, albeit through King. The cold cases were King’s so far, but the history was all Marshall. “It’s a long shot, I know, but what else do we have? There isn’t a cold case from two years ago to follow.”
“So, what are you suggesting? Tristan took Frank’s daughter to the same place his victim was murdered?”
I shook my head. “No, I was wrong about this. She’s either at Andrew Jackson or Marshall King’s place. Somewhere that would hold great meaning to King.”
We didn’t know where to find Andrew Jackson, but I did know where we could find Marshall. I told Walker where to go and he put the car in gear. “Good enough for me.”
Chapter Ninety-Four
King kicked his car door open and ran across the green grass until finally skidding on his knees in front of the woman. He checked her pulse. There was nothing. The scent of burnt cigarette butts filled the air and the ground was soaked with blood. Shaking off his jacket, he covered the woman’s torso and began adm
inistering CPR.
“You’re not alone anymore. I’m here.” King’s arms pumped over the woman’s chest. “Stay with me.”
Tristan strode up behind King, laughing as he approached. “You know, brother, this is what I wanted all along. For us to be together.”
King barely heard what he said. He kept applying pressure to each of the wounds, but it was impossible. The openings in the woman’s chest were too large. Blood covered his hands and, though he refused to admit it, he knew her heart was dead in her chest.
“Christ, look at you.” Tristan stood over their father’s grave with his hands buried in his pants pockets. He was casually looking on, watching the show go on. “You are way better a person than Marshall was.” Tristan’s spine twisted when he looked over his shoulder toward Marshall’s tombstone. “You hear that, Dad, way better.” Tristan laughed and turned back to King. “If only your personal record reflected the effort I see you put into the job, you’d be winning awards, too.”
King opened the woman’s mouth and breathed into her lungs. “Who is she?” King asked, opening her eyelid to see her eyes rolled to the back of her head.
“It’s too late.” Tristan shook his head. “She’s as dead as her father’s victims—alleged victims.”
King whipped his head around. “This is Frank Lowe’s daughter?”
“Gemma Love is her name.”
“You sick bastard, call for help!”
“And risk getting arrested?” Tristan raised his eyebrows. “I’m sorry, but I’m not willing to do that. She knows too much. And, besides, it’s only appropriate I take the life from the man who gave our father his fraudulent award. That award defined Marshall’s career, defined the man the public saw him as. But we know differently now, brother, don’t we?” Tristan stomped his sharp heel into the grass over Marshall’s grave. “Don’t you see? I’m freeing you from having to live in our father’s shadow. This is my gift to you. The least you can do is thank me.”
King kept trying to resuscitate Gemma’s heart until he heard the click of a hammer lock in place on Tristan’s gun. “Stop. Just stop.”
King fell back on his heels—breathing hard—he knew it was useless. Gemma Love was dead.
“Marshall only cared about you.” Tristan approached King slowly. “I never even met my father.”
King glanced over his shoulder and locked his eyes on Tristan. “And you never will.”
Tristan’s eyes grew wide as he stared down at King. “That’s where you’re wrong, brother.” A wild look flashed across Tristan’s eyes when he raised the gun to King’s head. “Together, we’ll meet him in hell.”
Fisting dirt into the palm of his hand, King threw it into Tristan’s face. A shot was fired and the bullet grazed King’s leg but missed. Tackling Tristan to the ground, King pounded two quick punches to Tristan’s head before he wrestled the gun out of his hands.
Gripping King by the collar, Tristan used his massive weight to roll King onto his back. King wacked his forehead into Tristan’s nose. There was a cracking sound, followed by a flood of blood pouring out of each nostril.
Tristan growled and kneed King in the thigh. Slamming his shoulders repeatedly into the ground, Tristan shook his blood over King’s face. King pounded his fist into Tristan’s gut and kicked him off.
Scrambling on all fours, King went for the gun. Tristan leapt through the air and dove on top of King’s back. Pushing his face into the ground, Tristan crawled over King and closed his fingers around the handle of the gun. Flipping it around, he pointed it at King. “Haven’t you learned? I always win.”
King stared into the black hole of the gun’s muzzle—making peace with the Lord—when he heard the sound of a large vehicle come barreling toward them, lights blazing.
Chapter Ninety-Five
As soon as we entered the cemetery, I spotted King’s police sedan. “There!” I shouted, pointing toward where I wanted Walker to go.
Walker hit the gas and I said my prayers. The tires squealed over the pavement, but Walker never let up. “Do you see them?”
I was looking in the grass but I couldn’t see a thing. It was too dark and a mist floated through the air. Then two heads popped up like daisies sprouting out of the ground. My heart beat faster. “It’s Tristan and he has a gun on King,” I said.
Walker punched the accelerator with his foot and the engine roared. Tristan saw us coming and I hoped to God he wouldn’t shoot King before we could do something to stop it. We were almost there and I didn’t know what our plan was once we arrived.
“Are you carrying?” I asked Walker.
“You bet I am,” he said with both hands on the wheel.
Instead of shooting King, I watched Tristan load him into the back of the cruiser before he jumped behind the wheel and sped off.
“Shit,” I said. “They’re getting away.”
Walker cut the corner and the tires hit the curb. My butt flew off my seat as Walker chased after them. I gripped the chicken handle on the ceiling and kept telling Walker to go faster.
Tristan cut in front of traffic and, once we were both on Alameda, our speeds got dangerously high. I didn’t know how this could possibly end safely, so I called 911 to report the crime.
“I just witnessed an unmarked police cruiser get stolen,” I said into my phone, giving King’s plate number. “The officer has been taken hostage by the suspect and I’m certain I saw a gun.”
Dispatch asked me where I was and I gave them the location but said we were in pursuit.
“Miss, I’m going to ask you to stop following—”
“I’m sorry, I’m losing you. What did—” I hung up and told Walker to stay on them.
“No question. Do you think Gemma’s in there, too?” Walker weaved between traffic, honking his horn while my entire body flexed with each near collision. That’s when it became clear Tristan knew it wasn’t going to be easy to lose us. He exited off Colorado and accelerated at lightning speed onto I-25 southbound.
“I don’t know,” I told him as I kept glancing at Walker’s speedometer until I stopped breathing when we crossed over 100mph. Then Tristan turned off his lights and slammed on his brakes as we watched him skid to a near stop.
“Christ, he wants us to hit him,” I said, thinking we were going to get hit ourselves.
There were far too many motorists on the road to catch someone off guard. Without his lights, his car was difficult to see.
Tristan sped forward again—approaching 100mph. Walker was right on his tail and I was afraid of him slamming on his brakes again.
“He’s going to do it again,” I said.
“Then maybe we should hit him?” Walker suggested.
I didn’t like the idea. Not at these speeds. Tristan zig zagged through traffic and kept changing up his speeds when I caught red and blue lights flashing in my mirror. Walker slowed to let the police car pass. They roared past us and quickly caught up to Tristan who once again completely surprised me when he spun his tires sideways, flipping the vehicle.
My heart stopped as I watched King’s car roll a half-dozen times before finally coming to a stop. “Oh my god.”
I’d never witnessed such an incredible accident before in my life, and my gut told me it was something no one could survive. The car crumbled and flattened into a pancake. I couldn’t breathe.
Walker slowed as we approached and I couldn’t stop looking at the debris from the crash. I felt like I had left my body when I opened my door and watched as the responding officer told me to stay back.
Backpedaling, I called out for King. “Alex! Alex!”
There was no response. Only a massive explosion that had me ducking for cover. The hood flew open and the entire car was engulfed in flames within seconds. The officer took off running and Walker caught me by the arm before I could follow.
“I have to go,” I screamed.
“No. It’s too dangerous,” Walker said, though his eyes told another story. He still thought Gemma cou
ld be in there.
My fist landed on Walker’s arm and he let go. I took off running toward the inferno. The heat grew more intense the closer I got, but the thought of losing King overrode every instinct that said to stay back.
By the time I reached the car, the officer was pulling King out of the backseat. King stumbled to his feet, caught sight of me, and ran to where I was standing. I slung his arm around of my shoulders and guided him to the nearby police cruiser.
Another minor explosion of air released somewhere in the burning car and the officer who was working to save Tristan stumbled back as an ear-stinging hiss filled the air. He shook his head and retreated back to his cruiser.
“How many were inside the car?” he asked King.
“Just me and one other.”
“I can’t get to him.”
“He killed a cop,” King said. “Let the bastard burn in hell.”
The officer gave King a look, then turned back to watch the fire spread.
Walker seemed to be in a daze as he stumbled over to us. “Just you and Tristan were in there?” he asked King. King could barely nod. “Gemma—where’s Gemma? I was sure he had her.”
I gripped onto King’s waist tighter and watched as a fire truck arrived on scene. King shook his head and looked to his feet when he told Walker that Gemma was dead. Indeed, at the hands of Tristan Knight.
A sea of white foam quickly drowned out the flames of the burning vehicle and we stayed until the fire was out. I never even noticed Walker leave, but his car was gone by the time I turned around to see if he was okay. I needed to know this was over, and King needed to see Tristan dead. Neither of us was interested in any more surprises.
Soon, an EMT pulled King away, sat him on a gurney, and began their evaluation to make sure there weren’t any hidden injuries he hadn’t yet felt. He looked beat up—maybe even experienced a concussion and some bruised ribs—but other than that, appeared to be okay.
King asked me, “How did you know where to find me?”
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