by Nolon King
“What’s going to begin?”
Now on the verge of tears, she said, “Something bad.”
“Stop being so cryptic, Jordyn. Just tell me. Who is in trouble, and what’s going to happen?”
“I can tell you who is in trouble, but … I can’t tell you what’s going to happen.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Can’t, I don’t know, other than this awful feeling that if you go to help this person, it’s going to trigger a chain of events you won’t be able to undo.”
“That’s just your anxiety.”
“No, it’s not, Dad! I can feel it.”
“Then you or me will get a vision and stop it from happening. Now tell me, who is in trouble?”
“That man, Cadillac.”
“Cadillac?” Jasper hadn’t thought of the man since he’d gotten his info on BlackBriar and had given him enough cash to get out of town with his girlfriend, Keisha, and the two kids. “What’s wrong?”
“He’s going to die. And so is his family. They’re going to kill them all.”
“Can we stop it?”
“I don’t think it’s happened yet, but—”
“Then we need to try.”
“Damn it.”
“Can you find him?”
“Please, Dad.”
“We can’t sit by and do nothing. Clearly you know this or you wouldn’t have told me. You would’ve kept it to yourself.”
She let out a long sigh and closed her eyes, focusing as she searched for his location. Last they’d seen him was after he helped them by telling Jasper about BlackBriar’s involvement with kidnapping Jessi and Mallory. He’d given Cadillac money and told him to get the hell out of town.
“He didn’t go far.”
“What?”
“Yeah. He’s on the west coast.”
“Can you find him if we start driving?”
“Please, Dad, do we have to?”
“You know the answer.”
“God, I hate this psychic bullshit.”
“I’ll call Spider, see if she’s got a number or can find a way to contact him. In the meantime, we need to get going. Okay?”
Jordyn nodded, defeated, then went to grab her bag.
He called Spider before realizing it was probably too early. Her voicemail came on and he said, “Hey, it’s the professor. I need help finding a number for that guy, Cadillac. Whenever you wake up.”
He hung up, got dressed, grabbed his go bag, then darted out the door with his daughter.
Jordyn sat in the passenger seat, reading and listening to music on her phone as they drove.
“Whatchya’ listening to?”
“Lo-fi,” she said, her eyes on the phone.
He drove a few more miles before taking another stab at some small talk. “Whatchya’ reading?”
“The Gay Science.”
“Ah, Nietzsche.”
She yanked out an earbud and looked over. “You read it?”
“A long time ago. Don’t remember much. What do you like about it?”
“Do you believe in fate?” Jordyn asked, but didn’t wait for a response. “What if we live the same lives over and over, always making the same choices and repeating our same mistakes? Then do we ever really have a choice?”
Jasper considered her question, wondering what she was getting at. Was Jordyn pondering philosophical thoughts or making a point? Maybe it had to do with her fear that bad things would happen if they helped Cadillac.
“Sometimes I feel like things line up too perfectly not to believe in something. But when bad shit happens to good people, to innocents, then I have to wonder what kind of fate would allow that or dictate that such horrors must happen at all, let alone again and again. As for choices, I have to think we always have a choice.”
Jordyn turned off the screen and stared out the window.
“Why?” Jasper asked. “What do you think?”
“I think there has to be a point to all of this. Even suffering has purpose. Maybe it’s the only way we can appreciate the good.”
“What are you saying? We should let people suffer? Let fate do as it will?”
“Can we stop fate?” Jordyn asked. “I mean, you didn’t stop that cop’s kid from being killed even though you warned her. You chose to tell her, but it still didn’t save the girl.”
“No, but we did save Jessi, twice. And Mallory, plus those other girls in Mexico.”
“But maybe they were meant to be saved. Maybe fate had already decided and it was just meant to be.”
“How do you determine if fate pushed me to intervene or if it was my choice?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe fate works through us.”
“But if fate is going to do whatever it wants, anyway, then why bother saving other people? Why not just let it happen? If they’re meant to be saved, then fate will save them. If they’re meant to die, they die. And if they’re meant to jump off a bridge, so be it.”
“What does that even mean?” Jasper asked, feeling like he should know.
“Never mind.” Jordyn turned her attention back to the world racing by outside her car window.
They drove in silence the rest of the way, but Jasper’s mind was far from quiet. He kept thinking about Mallory who had argued with him how it wasn’t his job to decide who should live or die. She’d wanted to let the system handle Paul Dodd but had lived to regret that decision.
Mallory had lived to change her mind and pull the trigger herself.
He wondered how much it was eating her up. Did she regret crossing that line?
Jasper had crossed it so long ago, and so many times, he didn’t even remember where it used to be.
Death had become his life’s only constant. In his waking life and in his dreams, he saw only bodies — those he mourned and those he’d murdered himself.
He thought about his conversation with Jordyn and prayed if he was indeed doomed to live the same life with the same choices on repeat, he’d at least find a way to make his peace with it. Because right now it was eating him alive, his mind aching with so much loss.
At least Jasper still had his daughter.
He looked over to see Jordyn sleeping, her head on the window, reminding him of when she was little and she’d fall asleep in his arms on the couch. He wished he could go back to those simpler times, before her mother passed, before … the thought trailed off, sadness sweeping into his soul like the gray and mottled clouds overhead.
Jasper wanted to kiss his daughter on her head, but traffic was starting to pick up as they neared their destination. A light sprinkle on his windshield turned to an instantaneous and torrential downpour.
He flicked on his lights and the wipers.
Jordyn stirred, but immediately closed her eyes, easing back to sleep amid the gentle thrumming.
As they took 275 over Old Tampa Bay, Jasper gently shook her. “We’re almost there. You know where I’m looking?”
She wiped at her eyes, looked around, then closed them. “Near the historic district, I think.”
He drove, following her psychic radar, hoping they weren’t too late.
“Do you know if it’s happened yet, or when it will?”
“No. Sorry.” She shook her head.
Jasper drove faster until Jordyn pointed at a Budget Motel.
He swung into the lot. Looked at the pool where a couple families were swimming.
She followed his gaze, then glanced up at the second story walkway. “I think he’s up there.”
“Let’s go,” Jasper said as they got out of the car.
They took the stairs, Jordyn leading the way. She stopped at one of the rooms with a Do Not Disturb door hanger dangling from the lock.
Jordyn stared at the door, her eyes welling up and hands visibly shaking at her side. She whispered, “We’re too late.”
Jasper knocked on the door and waited, keeping his Mets hat low over his face, glancing at the pool to see if anybody wa
s paying attention. Fortunately, no one seemed to be watching.
He faced the door, slipped on gloves, then reached into his jacket pocket for the tool Spider made from an Arduino board inside an iPhone case. The board was outfitted with a software script that would bypass electronic locks. While most of the upper-end motels had patched the exploit, places like this usually didn’t.
Jasper inserted the barrel plug into the bottom of the lock then plugged the USB into the device.
Jordyn watched him, shifting from one foot to the other while staring at the door.
After the lock clicked open, Jasper opened the door.
His daughter gasped as they entered.
Cadillac lay on the closest bed, flat on his back, eyes wide open, a bullet through his forehead.
His girlfriend was on the floor in front of the bathroom, shot in the gut, eyes closed, blood pooled around her.
Jasper let the door close softly and whispered, “Fuck.”
He touched Keisha’s neck, checking for her pulse.
But, of course, she was gone.
“Oh, God,” Jordyn cried out. She was standing near the closed rear window, staring at the ground next to the second bed.
“What?”
She shook her head. “They killed two kids.”
Jasper went over to check, to see if there was any chance the three-year-old boy or four-year-old girl were still alive.
His heart sunk.
What kind of fuckers would kill two kids? Why? They didn’t even know anything.
Jasper understood killing Cadillac, and even his girlfriend, both of whom could expose BlackBriar. But they could’ve left the children alive. Someone would have taken them in.
Fuckers.
His daughter was bawling.
Jasper needed her to get it together. He grabbed her by the shoulders. “Jordyn.”
She looked up at him through tears.
“Do you know who did this? I need you to tell me if you can.”
She shook her head. “I … I don’t want to touch them.”
“Well, if you can see something any other way, go ahead.”
Using the back of her hand, Jordyn touched the closest wall. Next, the bed. Then, the television. And finally, the dresser. Each time, she closed her eyes in furrowed concentration.
Jasper watched as she checked the room, searching for even the faintest of signals left behind by the killers. Sometimes he could see when she found one, though he wasn’t sure if she was somehow broadcasting her vision or if he was picking up on the signals himself. He used to think he might have some of her gifts but now was no longer certain.
She shook her head after a whole lot of nothing. “Sorry.”
“I need you to touch Cadillac. If any of them knew the killer, it would’ve probably been him.”
“Please,” she cried. “Please don’t make me.”
Jasper took her trembling hands in his. “Honey, I wouldn’t ask you otherwise. But … these people, these kids, didn’t deserve that. Help me find the monster who did this.”
Jordyn squeezed her eyes shut, hard, gritting her teeth. “I hate this so much.”
“I know, but you’re helping them.”
She opened her eyes and glared at him. “No, I’m helping you. You want to get even. I think we should just let this go and stop before someone else dies.”
“Look at this,” Jasper insisted. “Can we really let it go?”
She shook her head. “I don’t want to see this. I have a horrible feeling.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t think this is the end of it. And if I touch him, this won’t be the end of it for you. You’re gonna keep chasing this until it finally kills you.”
“Please.”
Jordyn pulled away, went to Cadillac’s large frame, stood over him. She glared at her father one final time to let him know she wasn’t happy with his order, then she placed her left hand on his chest.
She fell back as if hit by something — an echo of a gunshot.
Jasper knew what it was because he felt it, too. He saw the face that accompanied death, a man Cadillac knew as The Raven.
BlackBriar is cleaning house.
A glance at his daughter told him she was numb. Had witnessing their deaths fucked her up that much? Jordyn had seen some heinous shit before, but she was still a teenager. Despite being more mature than her peers, Jordyn was still a kid.
Worst. Parent. Ever.
But as her eyes began to well up, Jasper saw that something else was wrong. “What is it?”
“The dominoes.” Jordyn said. “The first one has fallen.”
Chapter 8 - Mallory Black
Mal grabbed the Chromebook she’d been using for her recent vigilante work, untraceable to her. Using TOR, as she always did, she pulled up the doc to study her list of scumbags. She was still in Jacksonville, which put her closest to the guy she’d followed that night but didn’t have a plan for, Dre Hamilton.
She read the file, refreshing her memory.
Hamilton was twenty-six when he’d raped a fifteen-year-old girl named Amber, whom he’d hired to watch his dogs. He’d gotten her drunk before taking advantage of her. The cops arrested him, but they’d bungled the evidence so he was released without consequence. Most rapists who got off on a technicality would be smart enough to thank their lucky stars and get the hell out of Dodge.
But Dre had other plans.
He became obsessed with Amber. Started harassing her, telling her he loved her and would wait for her to turn eighteen. He kept driving by her house and her bus stop, tried to talk to her every chance he got. When her mom went to the cops and filed an order of protection against him, he took to harassing her anonymously.
One night, someone sent Amber’s mother — and all her friends and family — photos and videos from her webcam. The files were humiliating enough to make the girl hang herself.
Amber’s mother, suspecting Dre, went on a tirade, telling anyone who would listen he was responsible for her daughter’s death. The fucker sued her in civil court for defamation of character. She lost it and tried attacking him in court. Now she was the one in jail for attempting to harm him.
Mal had looked into the case, but, like the cops, she had no proof of what Dre had done. And despite wanting justice — and believing the guy was guilty as fuck — she needed some kind of proof before cutting off his dick.
She found his small two-bedroom 1950’s ranch house at the end of a quiet dead-end street, backing up to the woods. Passed it slowly, seeing no car parked in his carport.
The lights were off.
Mal drove a few streets over to a 7-11, parked in the far corner of the lot. She pulled her hat over her head, slipped on gloves, and made sure her gear was safely stowed in her leather jacket. Then she hoofed it back to Dre’s place, approaching through the side yard, careful to make sure no neighbors were outside.
The street was dead.
She went to the back of the house and tapped on the sliding glass door to see if anybody or anything responded. Dre had posted on LiveLyfe last week that his dog had died, and it will be a while before my heart heals enough for another.
Mal lifted the sliding glass door off the tracks. It was an older model with no security bar or device to prevent entry. She was inside within seconds.
Didn’t even need her bump key.
After retrieving her flashlight, she began looking around, searching for evidence that Dre Hamilton was exactly the guilty piece of shit she believed him to be. The house smelled faintly musty, and there was a reek coming from the kitchen. Despite the unpleasant odors and an overflowing garbage can, the place was relatively clean.
The house had two bedrooms, and both doors were closed. She opened the one closest to the rear and found a gaming room with a PC and three monitors on an arm above the desk. His gaming chair was worn. Bits of fabric had flaked and gathered beneath the chair on a thick black floor mat.
Mal turned on the PC.
While it booted up, she checked Dre’s bedroom.
The room had a king-sized bed, perfectly made. Nothing fancy, no extra pillows or shams or the slightest of feminine touches. No paintings on the wall. Only a nightstand, a dresser, and a mirror above it. A small wooden box sat atop the dresser. In it was a smattering of change, a ring with a trio of keys, and a handful of condoms.
She searched the nightstand then the dresser, rooting through his belongings and ripping drawers out with no concern for the mess. A trashed house would be the least of his worries.
Not even five minutes into her search, Mal found a shoebox hidden beneath the bottom dresser drawer. And in it was the proof she needed— a pair of girl’s underwear, several photos of Amber, and a few other photos of girls who looked underage, each in various stages of undress. All of them were doing things to themselves. The photos looked like they were taken via their laptops.
The last item in the box was a folded piece of notebook paper.
Mal opened it.
Please, Dre. Don’t show anybody else.
Please.
Just leave me and my family alone.
— A
Rage and indignation, a thirst for vengeance like fingers at her throat.
Got you, fucker.
Mal started returning stuff to where it’d come from, wishing she’d been more careful. Then she went to his office, turned off the computer, then waited for the rapist to come home.
Mal hid behind the house, just outside the sliding glass door.
She was dressed in all black, from ski mask to boots. She’d look more than suspicious if anyone saw her, but Dre’s house backed up to the woods, and there was a tall wooden fence dividing him from his only neighbor’s house.
She had a gun, untraceable to her, and a pair of knives.
The gun was a last resort, a cudgel to get him to stand down in case he tried to resist. Mal hoped he wouldn’t put up too much of a fight. It was surprising how much she enjoyed separating a rapist from his dick.
It sickened her at first, but now, thinking about how Dre had terrorized a young girl before turning on her mother and destroying their family, nothing gave her greater pleasure than imagining the blade severing his offending member.
