Silent Graves (23 page)

Jack pulled out a cigarette. “Not instinct Kid, obligation. We’ve known for a bit now that Keyes was, or at least became, personal.”

“He felt like he was carrying on in life the way he was intended. After things ended with Keyes, he gave up and fell back on what he had been taught at a young age. I believe he may have really loved her,” Zachery offered.

“Are such monsters capable of love?” Paige asked.

It was rhetorical, but Zachery answered anyhow. “Technically, not everyone is, but I believe our unsub is. What we may not consider to be a demonstration of love, in the mind of a mentally ill person, can be the epitome of love in action.”

“I know, they think it’s love.” She shook her head. “It’s scary the type of people who are out there.”

“Well, it’s just like the abusive mate. They hurt those they love the most.”

“You’re comparing that to this?”

“It’s the same principle.”

“Hmm.”

We all turned to Jack.

“What if our unsub isn’t punishing the women—in his mind? What if it’s a demonstration of his love for them?”

“It would explain the fact he buries them with their rings. We’ve concluded that’s a sign of remorse. He gives them a last meal,” Zachery said.

“You’re forgetting the decapitated head in the toilet,” I added.

Zachery glanced at me. “The decapitation came after death. Even after—wait a minute. We know he buried Rogers because of the maggots. He dug her up to decapitate her. He is calling us out.”

Jack’s eyes gave plain evidence he was deep in thought.

Zachery continued. “While part of him thinks he can win, in other words, continue on as he has been, the other part of him knows we will eventually stop him. That’s why he went after Monica. She reminds him of Keyes, and she is his grand finale.”

“We have to carry on as if Poole and Monica are both alive. Until we know otherwise, that’s how we proceed,” Jack said, the cigarette bobbing in his lips.

“And with Monica, the unsub never left anyone behind to report her missing,” I said.

Zachery responded with a finger pointed to the dead body. “He was the calling card.”

“Shh. You’ll be just fine now. You’re home.” He set her body on the couch, her blond hair cascaded over her shoulders. She resembled an angel. She truly was special.

He grabbed a throw-blanket from a nearby sofa chair and draped it over her. The windows in the home were pinched shut, although he had no fear anyone would see him. Most people didn’t pay him much attention. Except for the women.

Kill her!

You don’t have the guts.

For all she did to you. You still love her? You are weak.

Despicable.

“Shut up!” He gripped at his hair, pulling on it hard enough that pain screamed through his scalp. He welcomed it. He loved to feel.

“Mmm.” The soft moan came from His Angel. He rushed to her side and knelt down.

He had put tape across her mouth and fastened her hands together at the wrists in the same manner. He also strapped her legs together at the ankles. He couldn’t have her getting away.

He swept a strand of hair from her face. “You are safe now. We can finally be together.”

Her eyes fluttered behind her eyelids. The serum he had given her had put her into a deep sleep, but she could hear him. He laid a hand on her chest and looked around the room.

Everything here had its place. The furniture was modern, but purchased from a big-box store and was probably in many houses across America. He had a large flat screen TV—didn’t everyone? Framed photographs of his mother hung on the wall. She had seen his talent if she only had time to catch a glimpse. She had brought him into the world, and it was for a purpose.

The house was a one-story bungalow in the west end, an older neighborhood sought after by families. He had a few offers to purchase come to the door. Most homes in this area were only turned over when someone died, and he had no intention of doing that anytime soon. He only got in here because he had paid attention to an older lady named Mable Smith. She dropped dead of a heart attack two years back and had left the house to him, declaring in her Will that her children hadn’t wanted anything to do with her while she was alive so they would get nothing when she died.

Besides the house, she had left him about twenty thousand in stocks and bonds. Most of them were locked up, and he was unable to access them without a huge hit to the bottom line. With odd jobs he did, he had enough to live on—for now anyhow.

He gazed down on His Angel.

Things always changed, but sometimes they came back full circle.

Chapter 41

Becky Tulson sat across from me at our table at The Earth and Evergreen Restaurant. “Are you sure you have time for a drink?”

“If you keep asking that I’ll wonder if you’d rather be somewhere else.” I smiled at her, and she returned it.

“It’s just, with the latest homicide—”

“Well, the case technically belongs to the PWPD. I know it seems odd, but we’re to be notified of any forensic findings that might lead us to the missing woman.”

“You FBI always have to do everything by the book.”

“Doesn’t the PD?” I hitched an eyebrow which garnered a laugh.

“It’s funny you’re not the type I would picture as an FBI agent.”

“And what would that type be?”

“Well, it’s a rumor anyhow, a bad one.”

“I’m listening.”

“While cops do the real work, the feds sit around thinking and analyzing. By the time they come up with the solution, the cops have wrapped it up.”

“Y’ouch.” I winced, pretending to be insulted, but I was wondering if she were going to come back with something like that.

“Like I said, you don’t strike me as the type.” She lifted her glass of scotch and took a sip.

“Well, you wouldn’t strike me as the type to like scotch.”

“Really?” She moved in her chair, hoisted a leg up, and bent it beneath her. “Why is that?”

“You’re a woman.”

“Oh. I’ll try not to be insulted now.”

“I haven’t met any who like it. It’s nice to finally have that checked off the list.”

“You have a list to check off when it comes to women and their drinks. Interesting.”

I smiled at her. The easiness that settled into her expression, softened by the alcohol, gave her much appeal. She was pretty, bordering on beautiful at this moment. She must have sensed my thoughts as her eyes lowered, and then briefly turned away.

“Listen, you’re not married are you?” she asked.

“Thought we covered that on our last date.”

“Date?” She laughed. “Is that what this is to you?”

“A man and a woman sharing a couple drinks.”

Her smile faded. “What is the deal between you and the female agent?”

The mouthful of scotch partially went down the wrong pipe. I started coughing.

“Ah, just as I thought.”

I held up a hand as I continued trying to clear the burning sensation from my lungs. “It’s not what you think. We’re close friends.”

“Friends don’t get so confrontational over another friend.”

Her eyes leveled with mine. There would be no avoidance of her observation, no rebuttal that would be accepted.

“We had a bit of a relationship. Once.”

“A bit?”

“It’s getting late.” I drained back the rest of my drink, took out a twenty, and put it on the table.

I reached my house and wondered if Deb would ever end up coming after it.

I had always believed in love, but these days I wasn’t too sure. Everyone, just like the killers we hunted, had an agenda. It might not include the abduction and murder of several people, it might not even include physical assault, but there was a pattern in each person’s life. Behavior wasn’t taught, it was learned.

With my wife, we fell into the relationship quickly, everything was perfect—maybe that should have been my clue that at some point it wouldn’t be.

Her parents were happily married, until her mother decided she had to go find herself. Deb had held a grudge against the woman for years, but, as she got older, the indiscretion became tolerable, even excusable. She began seeing her mother’s side in the situation.

“Dad is old school. He doesn’t even want her taking classes at the local college. We’re talking about courses on gardening Brandon. Just crazy.” Deb had accentuated her statements with a shake of her head to drive home the insanity of her father’s rein on her mother. “You better never try to control me like that.”

I think back on that now, and maybe that’s why she needed to get out. As much as she preached about not wanting to be controlled, she didn’t like my independence. She was fine when my becoming an FBI agent was talk, not that she encouraged me, but she didn’t shut the conversation down when I wanted to discuss it either.

I went up the stairs to the bedroom without turning on the lights. I knew the path by now, and the moonlight creeping through a side window helped detail the edges of each step.

It brought back another memory of Deb. She had insisted on getting a nightlight for the landing. I reached the top and its green glow cast over the hallway carpet. I pulled it from the wall and held it in my balled fist, the prongs sitting between two fingers.

She didn’t control my life any longer. She was a part of my past. I had to let her go or become crazy over something that was beyond my reach. No one could make other individuals love them. It was a volunteer job one stepped forward for, from the heart. Deb’s heart had simply resigned.

The thought cinched my chest. The pain would go away. I was certain of it. In fact, there were times I felt like my old self, as if nothing life-changing had even transpired. There were good days and bad, and, eventually, the former would outweigh the latter—of that I had no doubt. It was just reaching that point.

I tossed the nightlight in the garbage can in the corner of the bedroom. As I passed my punching bag, it called out to me.

I flicked on the light in the room, wrapped up, and did my best to expel thoughts of Deb and Paige from my mind through jabs into the leather.