These Violent Roots

by Nicole Williams

  Before I forgot, I fired off a quick text to Noah to see if he could possibly swing by the school tonight to see Andee’s class presentation. He must have been between patients because his reply arrived quicker than usual.

  No. Sorry.

  That was it. No explanation. No excuses.

  Classic Noah.

  Punching in another text to Andee to let her know something had come up at work and I wouldn’t be able to make it tonight after all, I reread the message half a dozen times before sending it. I couldn’t bring myself to tally up the number of things I’d had to cancel with her this school year alone, and even though she swore up and down she didn’t care if my presence was made, I cared. At least some part of me did that still clung to the hope my fate as a mother wasn’t already sealed.

  I opened the file containing the details of my next case. Something inside me deflated when I read the charges. A stepfather who’d been abusing his two teenage stepdaughters for years, the mom turning a blind eye to it all. If I had to guess at the number of similar cases I’d tried in my career, I’d estimate closer to one hundred than fifty. A quick scan of the file led me to the initial conclusion that this would probably be settled outside of court. The accused would serve a few years for his crimes, despite the two young girls serving a life sentence in a different kind of prison.

  Hopeless wasn’t a sensation I was used to giving myself over to, but today it took me before I knew it was coming.

  My phone pinged beside the file. A new message from Andee.

  Big surprise was all it read.

  The rest of the day was a blur of phone calls, meetings, and interviews. It was a skip lunch kind of day; most were. The next time I checked my phone, the time read quarter to seven.

  After jotting my signature on the documents Connor had dropped off for me to sign, I grabbed my things and flew out of the office. My father disliked many things, but tardiness rose to the top of the pile.

  The Highlands was in Redmond which, at this time in the work commute, would take forty-five minutes to an hour to get to. A normal parent-child relationship would dictate a phone call to let him know I was running late, but nothing about our relationship was normal. He’d be pissed if I called him and pissed when I got there. This way, I only had to endure one round of ire.

  Once in my car, I realized I was breaking about every rule-of-the-road law possible, from speeding, cutting off cars, changing lanes without signaling, and utilizing the carpool lane when I clearly had no other passengers inside. Once I reminded myself I wasn’t that same sixteen-year-old desperate to earn her father’s approval, I eased off the gas, chose a lane, and stopped endangering the lives of those around me. I’d be late no matter how fast or slow I drove, and arriving ten minutes late was as grave a sin as not showing up at all.

  Twilight had bled to dark by the time I pulled into an empty parking space at the country club almost an hour later.

  The Highlands was the type of place that didn’t do understated and clearly catered to the elite. Even the parking lot, with its array of expensive cars, told the story of wealth and privilege. The upper-middle-class weren’t members; there probably would have been an uproar from the old money third generations who behaved as though the club were America and they the founding fathers.

  As a kid, I’d hated coming here. The swimming pool in the summer and the promise of a gelato from the clubhouse couldn’t soften my view. Mom had drug me here almost every Sunday night for social hour and dinner. Dad occasionally, though rarely, joined us when his schedule allowed. Sundays were reserved for golf, colleagues, and bourbon—they were not a family day in Silas Payne’s eyes.

  A young man stationed at the front door in the standard employee outfit of a hunter green dress shirt and khaki slacks swung the front door open for me. Women wore skirts instead—shorter than necessary of course, because that’s how things worked at an establishment teeming with good ol’ boys.

  Like the exterior, nothing had changed inside. Cigar smoke, floral perfume, and prime rib permeated the air, a parade of trust funds and bloated investment portfolios rubbing elbows inside the lounge adjacent to the dining room.

  “May I help you, ma’am?” the girl at the front desk who was, predictably, young and gorgeous asked.

  “I’m looking for the conference room Silas Payne reserved,” I replied, angling away from the dining room when I noticed a couple of familiar faces. Mrs. Bradshaw had tried to set me up with her son since birth, failing to recognize or acknowledge that her son was gay. If she saw me, she’d still probably try to set me up with him, wedding ring or not.

  “He’s in the Rainier conference room, at the end of the north hall. Would you like me to show you there?” The girl stepped out from behind the reception booth, smiling in a way that hinted she was right on track for achieving future trophy wife status.

  “I know where it is. Thank you though,” I replied, taking as wide a route around the dining area as possible when I recognized another face. A tech tycoon close to my dad’s age who’d directed so many inappropriate remarks my way, he would have been a top contender for leader of the sexual harassment club if there was one . . . and in this kind of place, that didn’t seem far off base.

  I hated the Highlands and had managed to steer clear of it for the past seventeen years. How I’d let my parents convince me to hold Noah’s and my wedding here was beyond logic, but I guessed it had a lot to do with them footing the bill while I was scared out of my five-months-pregnant mind.

  My father’s voice could be heard from halfway down the hall. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but I could tell from his tone that it was important. Bracing myself before showing up an hour late, I stepped inside the conference room, refusing to make eye contact with him until I’d made it to a seat.

  His speech didn’t miss a beat, though the handful of others assembled in the room looked up from the files in front of them to appraise the newcomer.

  A server stationed in the back of the room approached me once I’d settled into a chair, asking in a whisper what I’d like to drink. Eyeing the selections around the table, I ordered a club soda with lime, despite craving a harder drink like the rest of them were sipping on. However, I was beginning to wonder if needing a drink might have been the worst time to turn to one. It was a habit I’d fallen into, and one I recognized in the man standing at the head of the table.

  “If anyone isn’t aware, the latecomer is my daughter, Grace Wolff.” Dad gestured at me, taking a sip of his bourbon. “Grace is a prosecutor with the King County Prosecuting Attorney’s Office.”

  The people congregated around the table—mostly men—tipped their heads at me. A couple I recognized, though I couldn’t place from where or when.

  “Following in Dad’s footsteps, yeah?” the man across the table from me said.

  Dad took another sip. “Trying,” he responded, his tone explaining the rest. “Grace was the lead prosecutor on the Skovil case, and will be assisting the task force in strictly an advisory capacity.”

  I scanned the table, trying to figure out what purpose this odd mix of characters my father had gathered here tonight would serve. My eyes narrowed at the thick file on the table in front of me. My hand lifted though I didn’t wait to be called on. “Task force?”

  “I explained my reason for assembling everyone here tonight when the meeting started. At seven o clock.” Dad let one of those pauses that was intended to make the person he was addressing as uncomfortable as possible pass. “If you all will excuse me, allow me a few minutes to catch my daughter up to speed.”

  “Give her a break, Silas,” the older gentleman a couple seats down from me said. “If there’s no rest for the wicked, then there’s none for those who prosecute them.” He glanced at me. “Am I right?”

  I tipped my glass of club soda at him. “Too right.”

  “You haven’t even given your daughter a hint of the crazy scheme you strong-armed us into?” the man across the table from m
e jeered at my father good-naturedly. His cowboy hat, mustache, and weathered skin stretched across handsome features suggested he could have starred in the old Westerns my grandpa used to watch.

  “And by strong-armed, you’re referring to the generous compensation I’ll be paying you for your expertise?” The ice in Dad’s glass clinked when he tipped it at the older man who’d commented.

  “Dad, please,” I interrupted the rumble of laughter that followed. “What is this?”

  After finishing what was left of his drink, he set it down and placed his hands on the table. “I’m assembling a task force funded by yours truly to find the son of a bitch who’s under the impression that justice is best served at his hands.”

  My throat cleared, confusion spreading deeper. “Keep explaining.”

  “Ambiguity does not become you, Silas,” the one up front by my dad added. He was dressed differently than rest, in the kind of suit and tie that suggested he was an attorney as well. As soon as my inspection landed on his face, my shoulders dropped. Of all the attorneys in this city my dad knew, he had to call this one.

  Dad gestured at the file in front of me. I’d had corporate law books in school that weren’t as thick. “There’s been a serial killer operating for over a decade that no one was aware of until recently, when new information emerged from the Skovil investigation.”

  My eyes roamed the table in disbelief. “A serial killer?”

  “Like Skovil’s death, he makes them all appear as suicides,” Dad continued. “He operates at a national level, and to date, we’ve identified thirty-three victims.”

  “Thirty-three victims?” My eyes rounded. “And no one’s caught wind of this person until now?”

  “I’ve had my suspicions for a while, but the Skovil homicide confirmed them.” Dad flipped the page of the open file in front of him. “And it’s safe to say these deaths haven’t been rigorously investigated as anything other than suicides given the victims’ histories.”

  Opening my own file, I waited for him to expand.

  “They’ve all been pedophiles. Every single one of them.”

  My blood cooled, sending a chill across my skin. “Any other similarities?”

  “These men have all died following an acquittal. Most have served time for other charges or separate cases, but every one of their deaths has followed a not guilty verdict,” he finished, his jaw working.

  Scanning the list of victim names, my head swam with the knowledge a killer of this magnitude had been working for so long without being caught. Or even uncovered. “What are you saying here?”

  “We’ve got a vigilante on our hands.” Dad’s fists curled, a sneer pulling at his mouth. “And I’m going to catch him.”

  “With the help of this task force,” I added, before his ego ran away with him as it tended to.

  “Since you weren’t here for the introductions, I’ll make it brief.” Dad gestured to his left first. “Don Philips is a retired cop who spent half of his career as a homicide detective. Don and I worked together on dozens of cases when I was a prosecutor. His experience investigating homicides and tracking down killers will be vital to this group.”

  Don smiled his acknowledgement at me, his eyes and face telling the story of a life punctuated by death. I distantly remembered him from my dad’s days at the prosecutor’s office. If memory served, Don had been the one who always had a joke at the ready or a piece of candy in his pocket.

  “Phinn O’Reilly”—Dad moved on to the next person on his left, a tall, homely type with large, bordering on comical, features—“is a private detective who comes highly recommended. He was integral in finding Macy Belford when she was kidnapped last year, along with finding the body of Spencer Carson the year prior.”

  As Phinn was seated next to me, he extended his hand for me to shake. His receding hairline gave the impression he was older than the rest of him looked, but I placed him closer to my age than my father’s.

  “Titus Hill is our resident mercenary. No task force would be complete without one, am I right?” Dad added, following a chorus of amused huffs. Titus was seated on the other side of me and made me feel like a child compared to his size. His hands alone appeared as though they could hide a watermelon within their grasp. “He’s retired Special Forces and was a key component to digging up big names in the Middle East. You have a needle in the haystack that needs finding, Titus is your man.”

  Titus tipped his head in my direction, though his eyes remained glued to the file in front of him, his eyebrows knitted in a way that suggested he was committing the contents to memory.

  “Teddy Montgomery is a retired US Marshal who will be crucial given the national element of this case. He’ll be able to help unknot inter-state tangles we’ll likely come across. Teddy’s got more friends to call on and favors to phone in than . . . “ Dad paused, a succinct clearing of a throat seeming to jog his memory. “Me.”

  Teddy touched the brim of his tan Stetson, half of his smile hidden by the thick mustache.

  “Samantha Milford is a psychiatrist with a specialty in criminal profiling. She worked for the FBI for a while until she discovered she could make a hell of a lot more money in the private sector.”

  “Shameless, but true.” Samantha waved across the table at me, fitting the mold of pretty much every psychiatrist I’d come across, including my own husband. Even expression, no-fuss hairstyle, judgment-free eyes that couldn’t help but make a person feel judged regardless.

  “She’ll be working with us during the investigation to help put together a working profile of the serial killer. Once Samantha’s done, this guy won’t be able to piss sitting down without us knowing about it.”

  A rumble of laughter circled the table, the only exception being myself. The gravity of everything had yet to set in, though the weight of it was overwhelming me.

  “And finally we have Will Cunningham.” Dad gripped the shoulder of the man to his right. “You want to get away with murder, hire Will. The bastard will probably get you off.”

  “I thought you wanted to catch a guy trying to get away with murder?”

  Will’s attention drifted my way, but I remained clueless to whatever face he was giving me as I flipped to the next section in my file. Will Cunningham and I had history, from childhood into the courtroom, none of which held warm memories.

  “It’s a figure of speech meant to imply how good Will is at his job,” Dad explained. “But you know that, don’t you, Grace?”

  The eyes in the room landed on me, waiting.

  “I know how far he’ll go to get his client off.” I made a face, lifting my shoulders. “If setting free a criminal who should be doing life in prison is considered good, then sure, Will is ‘good.’”

  “Jealous?” Will’s oily voice lilted across the table, responsible for the image of my hands wrapped around his throat that followed.

  “Jealous of what?” My eyes rolled when I glanced his direction. He was so damn predictable, from his fake tan to his expensive watch. “Your moral depravity? Your client list of scumbags with deep pockets? Of your number of ex-wives?”

  Dad lifted his hand, but neither of us were the backing off type.

  “By the way, Grace, how is your marriage?” Will grinned at me. “That whole shotgun wedding thing working out for you?”

  The pen clutched in my hand approached its breaking point when Dad threw both hands into the air, gracing us with a warning look. “Easy, you two, we’re not in court. You guys are on the same team for this one.” Dad directed one more of those cautionary glances in my direction. “Will’s here because he’s a phenomenal lawyer, and with the frontier we’re heading into, I need that on my side. You’re here because of your experience with the Skovil case.”

  “But not for my phenomenal qualities?” I popped off.

  Will twirled his pen around his fingers, smirking at the file in front of him.

  “You’re good. This experience will make you better.” Dad rapped on his f
ile. “And I do seem to recall a young woman who was convinced she wanted to go into investigative work before her father talked some sense into her.” He ignored the good-natured jeers from the investigators in the room. “This will give you an opportunity to scratch that itch.”

  That childhood whim felt like a lifetime ago. The period of time I refused to leave the house without my “detective kit” just in case I stumbled upon a crime scene in the cereal aisle at the supermarket Mom visited every Saturday afternoon. The kids about ate me alive when I showed up to school with my play detective badge pinned to my jacket, notepad in hand and ready to interview the list of suspects who might have taken my best friend’s lunch the day prior.

  Childhood had been cruel. The kids had been crueler.

  “My penchant for investigative work ended in the sixth grade when my father dumped the entire contents of my detective kit into the garbage and told me to grow up.” Reclining into my chair, I waved around the room. “You’ve already got two career investigators. I think it’s safe to say my detective work won’t add anything beneficial.”

  “But I need one who thinks like an attorney, and that’s where you come in.” Dad waited, anticipating additional objections. But I didn’t have any. Yet.

  “You managed to compile all of this information in a matter of a few days?” I asked, flipping through the pages of the thick folder.

  “You’ve got your contacts who feed you morsels of information.” Dad took his fresh drink from the server, pointing around the table at the nearing empty glasses. “Mine are better.”

  Will chuckled from his perch at my father’s right hand.

  I distracted myself by scanning the divider that read Evidence.

  “This is all of the evidence you’ve got? There’s hardly anything here.” I stabbed my finger at the solo page of evidence for thirty-three murders.

  “Because no one’s been looking for any,” my father answered calmly.

  “Some of these deaths go back over a decade,” I continued. “They’re so cold they’re glacial.”