These Violent Roots

by Nicole Williams

  “You found me because you’re brilliant,” he contested. “I both suspected and dreaded that when and if this moment came to fruition, you would be the one to uncover the truth.” He cleared his throat. “Now that you know, what will you do with the knowledge?”

  “I don’t know.” My head shook in time to my words.

  “Yes. You do.”

  The absolution in his reply stabbed at me. He sounded so certain what my next move would be, while I had no clue.

  “I don’t.” Indignation tinted my answer.

  The stool creaked when he leaned toward me. “You might not want to confess it out loud, but inside, you know what you must do.”

  Refusing to respond to his statement, I went back to flipping through the contents of his binder. The next life cut short by the Huntsman was Harold Lundburg, whose preference ran the gender and age gamut, his victims prolific in number.

  “What happened with Skovil?” I asked. “What went wrong?”

  He exhaled through his nose. “Everything, from start to finish. It was another one I let get too personal, given your connection to him. I rushed things, I let emotion overrule judgment, and it cost me my anonymity.”

  My mind flooded with reminders of the case, the aftermath. “That night when you came home . . . that beating wasn’t from Jiu Jitsu?”

  “No.” He rolled his head, cracking his neck. “My very first kill I nearly botched as well. I was sloppy with Creeden, a ball of nerves and a flood of anger. It was personal—too personal—and I spent the entire month that followed confident the cops would show up to haul me away for his murder.” His eyes lost focus. “But no one ever came. They wrote it off as a suicide, no one taking a closer look at the evidence that might have suggested otherwise because of the type of scum Robert Creeden was. That’s when I realized I could use that inclination to overlook certain things a so-called productive member of society would be afforded to my advantage.”

  I touched the photo of a young girl who resembled Andee in her younger years. One Thadeus Tucker was to blame for stealing the innocence that girl once possessed. “There was so long between Creeden’s and Volkner’s suicides. Murders.”

  “My mission had gone from avenging my sister to all sisters. And brothers. And loved ones.” His forearms tensed, veins pushing to the surface of his skin. “I could only do so much if I got caught or killed in the process, so I took my time, learning, practicing, studying—exercising my mind as much as my body.”

  My eyes skimmed down the mass of him. He’d put on twenty pounds of muscle from when we’d first met, along with amassing the wisdom of twenty generations before him. “You were basically turning yourself into a human killing machine.”

  His head lowered, dark hair hanging like a blind in the abyss. “Basically, though there was nothing simple about it.”

  “God,” I breathed, gripping the edge of the bench. “The running, Jiu Jitsu, late nights, long weekends. All these years I never came close to guessing what you were really up to.”

  The muffled cadence of our breaths tangled, keeping the silence at bay while words evaded us.

  “I missed out on so much.” His voice was barely, though markedly, tight. “I sacrificed what was not mine alone.”

  Light caught my wedding ring when I flipped the next page. A reminder. A caution. I wasn’t sure of the significance. “It was more noble than having an affair, like I might have presumed at different points in our marriage.”

  “It was still an act of selfishness.” His head lifted for a moment before falling under the invisible weight he bore. “I’m sorry. A part of me knew when you first came into my life I should let you go, that the disease I carried couldn’t be kept from you. But in another selfish act, I refused to release you.”

  My forehead creased. “We didn’t have some whirlwind romance, or embody some fairy tale story of infatuation and longing from afar before exchanging vows. We didn’t know of each other’s existence until one night when we both drank so much we didn’t remember each other’s names the next day—we sure as shit didn’t pause to consider protection—and then four weeks later, I had to stake out the student union building in hopes you’d eventually make an appearance so I could reintroduce myself and inform you I was pregnant with your child.”

  He shifted from his post on the stool. “I remembered your name, Grace Payne.”

  “Well, I didn’t remember yours, Noah Wolff.” My arms crossed. “And recalling the name of some girl you slept with hardly encapsulates an epic romance. You asked me to marry you because you felt like you had to, not because you wanted to.”

  “And you said yes because you thought you had to as well, not because you wanted to.”

  Words filled with contempt and laced with fire rose from within, but I swallowed them back into the void they’d spawned from. I was done fighting recurring battles that no one ever won, leaving both sides bloodied and broken. Our marriage, from start to finish, was a mess, but it was our mess. Nearly two decades into it, and I was ready to pick up the pieces and dust off the cobwebs.

  A heavy exhale rolled past my lips. “Some story we have, right?”

  “Obligation might have been the reason I married you, but love is what has kept me here the past seventeen years, Grace Wolff.” Pale eyes looked out from beneath the shadow of his bowed head, apologetic and honest. “I’m not a noble man, nor a particularly good one, but I am yours. I should have let you and Andee go instead of allowing you to marry me, but you were my weakness back then, Grace. Now”—his eyes connected with mine—“you’ve become my strength.”

  Thoughts twisted and words faltered. “Noah . . .”

  Rising from the stool, he grabbed the prepared syringe and set it on the binder in front of me. “When hunting animals, one must be wary not to become one in the process.” His fingers brushed mine before falling away. “I fear my time is edging near.”

  My head shook. “What time is that?”

  A remnant of a sad smile stitched across his mouth. “The time where I meet my victims’ fate.”

  Pinching the syringe, I set it aside. “I’m not going to kill you.”

  Noah shifted closer. “Then what will you do?”

  “Stop asking me that. I don’t know.” My eyes clamped closed as the wave of awareness and knowledge swept over me.

  My husband was the Huntsman. A murderer. He’d taken the lives of thirty-three men. Or were they more monsters than men? Uncertainty thickened, making any kind of definitive thinking impossible.

  “Do you want to turn me in?” he asked softly. “I won’t object. I won’t struggle. You can be the one to single-handedly turn the Huntsman over to the police. Your father will be proud.”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose and evaded his question. “That’s a sentiment my paternal figure is not inclined toward extending my direction.”

  My body turned to stone when I considered what my parents, Andee, the task force, and my colleagues would think if they found out about Noah. Some would assume I knew all along and either played some part by aiding or overlooking my husband’s dark project, while others would pity or shun me. The end result for all would be gradual alienation.

  “What do you want, Grace?”

  His question dissipated into the air, lingering in my mind.

  “I want time to . . . think. I need time to wrap my head around the weight of accepting my husband is a mass killer. The same one I’ve pledged to help uncover and turn over to the authorities. The one who has taken the law I’m sworn to uphold into his own hands, and seen fit to execute those who fall short of his personal standard for justice.”

  Noah exhaled. “You believe I’m wrong? Taking the lives of those who prey upon the innocent?”

  My eyes opened to find him right in front of me. “I believe it sets a dangerous precedent. What happens when other people, inspired by the Huntsman’s methods, wind up further skewing your subjective sense of justice and take other lives?” My hands gestured at him. “Y
ou are intelligent, careful, and methodical. Setting aside the argument as to the right or wrongness of your vendetta, the average citizen cannot be seduced into thinking justice is up to interpretation.”

  “I have no interest in inciting a national riot where the subject of justice is concerned. My interests on that topic are strictly personal.” Noah’s gaze lowered to the binder on the bench. “As a collective whole, we should follow the laws of the land. Order is derived from a population who ascribes to the same rules, knowing what is expected and what will be punished. But there is a need for alternatives like mine. The rules work for those who follow them, but you know more than most that the worst of our society are also the least likely to adhere to the law. That’s where I come in. Those who don’t play well with others don’t get to play at all.”

  “We’d be sacrificing the entire system our country’s been built upon if we allow this,” I argued.

  “Instead, we sacrifice our children in the name of civil justice.” His eyes panned across the pictures of children before he flipped to another page. More children. Additional lives eclipsed by the insatiable proclivities of sick men. Noah’s voice was a whisper, the ghosts of his past choking his words as he said, “It’s the raping of innocence.”

  Kneeling, he reached for something tucked toward the back corner of the bench, hidden from sight. When I saw what he was holding, the air siphoned from my lungs.

  Setting the potted plant in front of me on the bench, he flipped to the last page in his binder while I stared at the small plant. The white flowers were tiny, mere buds thinking about opening. Compared to the size of the mature plant I’d witnessed in his mom’s garden, this one seemed so delicate. It appeared too tender to survive the hardships of this world. Yet I knew otherwise. It was the hardships that forced its roots to wind deep, and encouraged growth in all directions to better soak up the sun when it shone.

  “This man is next.” Noah’s throat moved when he glimpsed the booking photo. “I’ve had him marked for weeks, but I’ve been laying low, waiting for the country to calm before ending him.”

  I skimmed the basic info—name, date of birth, address, criminal record—before letting myself inspect the faces of his victims. Three girls on the cusp of becoming teens, all similar in features. Below the second photo, a date followed her birthdate.

  “Some people deserve to die?” I asked theoretically, trying to understand as I stared at the picture of a man my husband was determined to kill, and would, if I didn’t stop him.

  “Some people shouldn’t be allowed to live.” Noah’s hand covered the photo of his target, his eyes dragging along the pictures of the young victims.

  “You’re risking everything. Your freedom, reputation . . . your life. Why do you do it?”

  “Because somebody has to.” His answer rumbled in the air like thunder on a summer night.

  My mind was plagued with questions and one looming decision, but all I could do was stare at the white plant and the faces of the victims, experiencing a degree of certainty I rarely felt toward anything. Removing the layers of civility and social expectation, the solution was obvious. Lowering the lens of domestic justice revealed a sharp and clear truth.

  Noah remained silent, awaiting whatever fate I conceived for him.

  Out of nowhere, my father’s voice cut through the cacophony of internal noise.

  It wasn’t until Noah’s attention diverted to the door behind me that I realized my imagination was not to blame for my father’s voice.

  Scrambling, Noah had the entire contents of his bag sealed back inside, binder included, and stuffed under the bench before Dad could bellow my name again.

  “What’s he doing here?” Noah whispered.

  “No idea.”

  Taking the clematis pot, he carefully set it under the bench. “It’s after midnight—it must be important.”

  “With my father, it’s always important.”

  “Grace! You in there?” Dad hollered, his words dragging just enough to hint at the amount of alcohol in his bloodstream. “Noah!”

  Before I could open the door, it popped open, causing a rush of fresh air to cascade in—followed by the thickness of expensive bourbon rolling off of the great Silas Payne.

  He was in a smart suit as always, though this one was crumpled in places and lacking the refined polish of a sober man. Tie loosened and askew, one tail of his dress shirt sticking out of his pants, hair mussed and eyes crazed. I’d never witnessed my father like this. Behind him, Teddy Montgomery stood with his tan Stetson and tweed sport coat, an apology stretched into the slant of his mustache.

  “What in the hell are you two doing in here at this hour?” Dad’s gaze roamed the shed as he staggered closer.

  My arms crossed, blocking the entrance to keep him outside. “You first.”

  “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you the past hour.” Dad patted his chest with his fist. “Why aren’t you answering your phone?”

  “I’m not answering your questions until you tell me what you’re doing here.”

  Peeking around me, when Dad noticed Noah, his forehead wrinkled. “Christ, Noah, you moonlighting for the Seals these days?” He waved in Noah’s direction. “What’s the deal with all the black?”

  “Fair to assume my moonlighting gig’s more productive than yours from the looks of you.” Noah’s delivery was collected, cool almost.

  “You can wiseass with the best of us.” Dad scoffed.

  “Learned from the master himself, right?”

  “Dad, stop.” I raised my hand, looking between Teddy and my father as to why they were in my backyard after midnight. “Why are you here?”

  “Can’t an old man decide to drop in on his only daughter?” An unexpected burp erupted from him.

  I had to lean away to keep the alcohol fumes at bay. “Yes, he can. One who’s built a history of displaying the care and concern that accompanies unannounced visits in the middle of the night. My ‘old man’ is here because he wants or needs something. So which one is it?”

  Dad pulled on his tie, giving me a look I had no interpretation for. “The Huntsman,” he sputtered, grabbing the edge of the doorway to steady himself. “We know.”

  When I heard Noah step closer, I put myself between him and my father.

  My heart hammered in my ears as Dad looked between Noah and me, his expression grave.

  Some scrap of evidence someone on the task force had drudged up had revealed the killer’s identity, leading my father and his trusted former US Marshal sidekick here tonight. I found myself scanning the night for the far-off scream of sirens, wondering how long we had before the police would show up to take in the notorious Huntsman.

  “Do you want to know who it is? Or do you want to keep gawking at me like I’m talking in tongues?” Dad swatted Teddy’s arm, sharing a one-sided laugh.

  The floor creaked behind me as Noah edged closer. “She already knows.”

  My fingers curled into the doorway, bracing my arm a little firmer.

  “You’ve heard the news?” Dad threw his hands in the air, eyes darkening. “Fucking LAPD gets the collar and, therefore, the glory that should have been ours. God knows I threw enough cash at you all to earn that right.”

  I felt the patch of skin between my eyebrows draw into a deep line. “LAPD?”

  “Should have known the guy would be a Californian.” Dad huffed. “A bunch of rogue debutantes down there who think the law applies to everyone but themselves.”

  Peering over my shoulder, I caught the same shade of confusion etched into Noah’s expression.

  “The Huntsman’s been caught?” I muttered.

  “Barely an hour ago. Every news outlet is blowing up with the story.” Dad’s thick brows drew together. “I thought you said you knew.”

  “I thought you were talking about something else,” I rattled off, ignoring the odd look Teddy directed at me. “How do they know it’s him? The Huntsman?”

  “Because they caught t
he guy beating the ever-loving shit out of a registered sex offender with a tire iron in his flea-infested apartment earlier tonight. When they questioned him, the guy confessed to being the Huntsman, corroborating all thirty-three deaths.” Dad reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, freeing a silver flask and unscrewing the lid as though he had the dexterity of a three-year-old. “The Huntsman was mine. And some goddamn patrolman fresh out of the academy brought him in.”

  Beside him, Teddy sighed. “I advised him not to pop in on you at this hour and to wait to talk to you in the morning, but when he crawled behind the wheel of his car, I told him I’d drive him over.”

  “The innocent drivers of the city are in your debt,” I replied, shaking my head as my dad angled the flask as far back as it would go. There was clearly nothing left, but that didn’t stop him from trying to coax the last drop from it.

  Noah pressed against the brace of my arm. “A tire iron? Doesn’t exactly fit the Huntsman’s MO.”

  “Neither does getting caught. But we’re all invincible until we aren’t.” Teddy’s stance shifted. “From what I’m hearing, this sounds like our man.”

  Wetting my lips, I was at a loss for what to say or do next. The man LAPD had captured was not the Huntsman.

  “Why don’t we take this inside?” Noah said behind me, steady and sure.

  Teddy turned and waited for us, eyeing my dad as though he weren’t sure Dad could manage the walk on his own. Noah flipped off the shed light, seamlessly closing and locking the door behind him when he stepped outside.

  “I apologize for dropping in on you two like this.” Teddy slid up beside me while Noah made sure my dad didn’t run into any random shrubs or ornamental trees on the journey to the back deck. “I told him this could really wait until the morning, but you know your father.”

  “I do,” I replied, gasping when Dad tripped over a patch of bare grass.

  As though he’d been expecting it, Noah caught his fall, lifting Dad back to a vertical position. My father was not a small man, nor a particularly lean one, yet the exertion Noah employed suggested he was manipulating no one larger than a small child.