I Will Come for You (17 page)

And yet Isaac was also somewhere else. He was so far outside his body, he didn’t respond to Graham’s voice or his touch. So far out, that the absence of what is essentially Isaac lightened his body, made it buoyant.

Isaac’s description of the crime scene was detailed and accurate. So why couldn’t he have been here?

Because it defies all logic.

Because Graham wants his son to be a normal kid, not a nurse to the dead and dying.

Since discovering Isaac suspended several feet off the floor in his bedroom, Graham’s mind has been a battlefield, a tug of war, over the acceptable and the unacceptable.

His son is a time traveler, but in no way similar to anything H.G. Wells prepared Graham to encounter. Isaac’s destinations are predetermined; he is called and gifted by a power much greater and more complex than a mere author.

His son attended Jeremy Kroeger’s murder.
And Iverson’s, too. He must have. He left his prints in her blood—size seven and Graham would bet a month’s salary that the shoe pattern matches the Nike Trail Blazer. But the DNA at the scene did not belong to Isaac, whose hair is brown but who is definitely not suffering from a blood-based illness. Isaac just saw the doctor.

He a physical every winter to prepare for spring ball.

And, anyway, the way Isaac describes it, he can’t leave anything of himself behind.

“Chief?”

Tong Oakes stops in front of Graham, breaking through his preoccupation. His face,

despite
his fifty-some years, is free of wrinkles. In a career that can pull you under, Oakes manages to put a limit on the amount of tragedy he’ll absorb. Graham should put some time into learning his secrets.

“Prelim?”
Graham asks.

“Only the obvious,” Oakes says. “It’s him, all right. I’d put money on it. No deviation from his MO that I can see. Not here and not in Iverson’s case, either.”

Graham nods but doesn’t bother to pull out his notebook, to jot down the doctor’s words. At face value, the work is recognized by all of them.

“The cut is deeper. Like Iverson. Forensics went over the body before we bagged it. No hairs this time.” Oakes steps closer, lowers his voice.
“Positive on the pregnancy.”

“How far along?”

“Fourteen weeks.”

Graham nods.
“Anything else.”

Oakes shakes his head. “Give me a few more hours. I’m working on the cell structure in the
cuticle of the hair, trying to match it to disease. I’ll be able to narrow it to genus, at least, and a lot faster than you’ll hear from Ontario.”

“Call me as soon as you know something,” Graham says and moves beyond the foyer, stopping at the first room, where he found Jeremy’s body six hours ago. A tech guy from forensics is working the computer.

“Let’s talk about the crucifixion first,” he says. “It was a simple download.” He pushes back from the desk, stretches his arms above his head. “A two year old can download a screen saver. We can trace the product back to the seller, but that will take time and it’ll generate a list

of
a thousand names we don’t have the man power to investigate.”

“He’s smarter than a two year old,” Graham says. “Let’s see if he left something else. Did the kid keep a journal? Was he active on chat groups?”

He can see how the screen-saver, with its depiction of Christ on the cross, fits the Kroeger crime scene. If Jeremy Kroeger and Shelley Iverson are connected, if they were involved and the pregnancy was the result of the relationship, than Kroeger is Christ to Shelley Iverson’s Mary Magdalene.

“What else did you find?”

“He had a MySpace account, but I didn’t find anything out of the ordinary. No plans to meet up with anyone and all of his entries were about school activities, friends and possible dates. He kept a diary on here,” the tech says. “I broke the password but the only thing that doesn’t make sense is his brooding about some teacher. He goes on about it. He starts every entry with, ‘Here’s to you, Mr. Weimer.’”

“
Whose Weimer?”

“Biology teacher.”

“Any personal e-mails between the two?”

“Nothing.”

“We’ll check him out,” Graham says. “I’d like to see transcripts of all recent e-mails, diary entries, too. MySpace comments. Go back a week.”

“Diary and MySpace are already generated,” the tech says and pats a stack of folders. “I’m just starting on the e-mails. There are a lot from today.” He moves the mouse around and clicks a few times then says, “Fifty-seven total e-mails, sent and received, starting at twelve-oh-
one yesterday morning and ending at eleven-fifty-nine. Fourteen of those were sent after six pm. I’ll print out the list.”

He clicks on the utility icon and the printer begins to whirl and seek paper.

“Any internet searches?” Graham asks.

“Oh, yeah.
More than forty, and that’s just from noon. I narrowed the timeframe, though, started the print list at four o’clock, when he would have been home from school. They’re in there.” He nods at the folders. “Some of them are pretty dark. A porno site or two. Membership only. And someone checked out the registry of sex offenders. I printed that out for you, too.”

“Really?
What time was that accessed?”

“Two forty-seven. That’s pm.”

“Is it possible to find out the name of the person that was searched?”

“Name and address. I’ll need to get this back to the lab first.” He pats the computer. “But it won’t take long at all.”

“Good. Do that first.”

The technician picks up the paper as the printer spits it out. He gives it a quick scan and says, “Chief? You’re going to want to see this.”

He holds up the paper and points to an e-mail address that begins with Graham’s last name.

“Is that yours?”

“No. It’s my son’s.”

“Well, it looks like he received an e-mail from this computer. And judging from the

time, it could be from the killer.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Monday, 6:45 am

His father stayed all night at the Kroeger crime scene and when he arrives home Isaac is already up and moving through his morning routine. He didn’t call his father last night; he got caught up in the scar that belonged to Jeremy but was wrapped around Isaac’s throat like he was the victim. It took hours for the jagged scar to fade and the first thing Isaac did when he woke up this morning was look at himself in the mirror.

His gift is changing. Or maybe it’s always been waiting to express itself by leaving the marks of the murdered on his body. He wonders if he brought back more than Shelley Iverson’s blood. She, too, was cut in the throat, left to bleed out, but maybe the killer did something more.
Something not visible on the surface. Isaac doesn’t know what to expect next, but knows there’ll be a next time. The King’s Ferry Killer is still on the island. Isaac feels him in the heaviness in the air.

He tries to put his gift out of his mind for now, tries to focus on something other than the King’s Ferry Killer. His father is taking the stairs
two at a time, calling his name and he isn’t happy.

Isaac meets him in the hall, a towel bunched in his hands.

“What’s wrong?”

“Did you know Jeremy Kroeger?” his father asks, shouldering past him and heading for Isaac’s bedroom.

“No.”

“He e-mailed you,” his father insists.

“No, he didn’t.”

“Isaac,” his father pauses, draws a long breath, and then holds up a manila file folder. “This says he did.”

“What is that?”

“Activity on Kroeger’s e-mail account.
Your address is in here. He e-mailed you yesterday.” His father checks the report and reads, “At seven-twenty-two pm.”

His father pauses, and certainty gathers in the silence between them.

“Jeremy was already dead,” Isaac confirms.

“And there was no one else in the house,” his father says.

“No one. Except the killer. And the baby.”

His father nods. “I had hoped—
”
that the e-mail was from a friend, not a serial killer
.

Isaac would prefer this, too.

His father tosses the folder on Isaac’s bed then approaches the computer on the desk.

“Have you checked your e-mail lately?”

“Not since yesterday afternoon. I’ve been kind of busy,” Isaac says.

His father boots up Isaac’s computer. It dings and the screen flickers and begins flipping through its paces. His father turns to Isaac.

“Yeah. You have been busy.”

“The crime scene,” Isaac says. “Was it like I said it would be?”

His father nods. “Exactly.”

“And Jeremy, too.”

“Yeah.” He pushes both hands through his hair. “So, what do you think about this?”

“My gift?”

His father nods, settles his hands on his hips, and looks into Isaac’s face. “Is it a gift?”

“I think so. I’m supposed to help people.”

“You’re twelve. I want you to be twelve.”

“Joan of Arc
was eleven,” Isaac points out, another piece of trivia he picked up when he was researching his gift. “A lot of kids are called to do unusual things.”

“What about school and baseball and girls?”

“I still go to school,” Isaac says. “Baseball starts in March. And the girls don’t notice me.”

His dad smiles, lays a hand on Isaac’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “But it’s not easy,” he says. “I know you won’t tell me that.”

“It’s not hard,” Isaac says. “I’m used to it now.”

“I wish it never happened,” his father admits, “and I want it to stop. But it won’t, will

it?”

Isaac shrugs.
“Maybe someday. Maybe only kids get to do this job. Maybe I’ll have the ability my whole life.”             

His father face gets that pinched look of worry.

“I was born for this,” Isaac says.

His father tries to put a positive spin on it, “Like Michael Jordan was born for the hoops?”

Isaac nods. “Just like that.”

“I want to know about it,” his father says.
“Every time it happens.”

“OK.”

“I want you to talk to me about it,” his father continues. “I want to know what you see—“ The lines around his mouth deepen and he shakes his head. “You’re too young for the things you see.”

“It’s changed the way I look at the world,” Isaac agrees. “But that’s a good thing.”

His father holds his gaze a minute longer then nods. “We’ll talk more about this,” he promises. He turns back to the computer. “Can you get me into your e-mail?”

“I can,” Isaac says, and slides into the desk chair, grabs the mouse and begins navigating, “but a guy needs to have his secrets. No peeking into all the love letters I’ve been
getting.”

“So the girls are noticing,” his father returns.

Isaac shrugs. “Not really.”
He feels his skin warm and ducks his head, peering closer at the computer screen. He scrolls through the queue of waiting e-mails. “There it is,” Isaac says.

“Do you want me to open it?”

“No.” His father taps him on the shoulder, nudging him out of the chair. “I’ll do it.”

Isaac stands. “You might release a virus,” he warns. And what kind of virus would the evil Isaac confronted cast upon them?

His father hesitates. His fingers hovering over the mouse. Then he clicks and the screen opens to an image of Christ on the cross. Flickering across the screen like ticker tape is an excerpt of scripture,

‘
father why have you forsaken me?’

Isaac
keeps his head down, his chin tucked into his chest as he stands and pedals over the crest of Danbury Hill. One bad thing about being the son of the chief constable is that everyone knows you. Someone will recognize Isaac and tell his father he skipped school today, but Isaac has a few places he wants to see first.

From atop the hill Isaac has an unobstructed view of the
marina and the jeweled water. When his mom and dad were still together they spent afternoons on their boat, idling on the current, pretending to fish but really talking. Isaac and his dad still go out, but not as much and it’s not the same. They talk little and the fish they pull in, mostly salmon, they keep. They gut them, wrap them, and fill the freezer in the garage with more than they’ll ever eat. Isaac misses the way his mom used to be, the way his family fit together without working for it. But he knows there’s no going back.

He glides down the hill, standing on his pedals, taking the cool air full in the face. If he could change anything, it wouldn’t be to give up the gift. He’d take his family back, the way they used to be.