Missing Hearts

by Wright, Kenya

  But this one was getting harder and harder. I didn’t know if Stein or I would make it. And the other agents were having a rough time too.

  Today, we would see Melody.

  Melody, are you here? What did he do to you? God, I hope you’re really flying around in heaven. I bet you’ve got the most beautiful wings.

  We entered the abandoned building.

  The scent of decay hit my nostrils.

  I let out a long breath. “Take some vacation after this, Stein.”

  “After this body or this case?” Stein asked.

  “Pick one. I’ll sign off.”

  “No way. I’ll only take a break if you come with me.” Stein was the closest thing to a best friend that I had. “King, I won’t leave you here, dealing with this hell by yourself.”

  I nodded. “Then, we take a break after this case.”

  “And we go to the beach.”

  “Somewhere far off.”

  “Crystal blue water. Powder white sand.”

  I smiled. “And beautiful women.”

  “Lots of gorgeous beautiful ladies. Two for each arm.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Why not three for each arm?”

  “Why not four?”

  All dreaming ended, when we made it to the group of cops surrounding our killer’s new present. I knew the scent of death—the feel of it in the air. There was never any mistaking the chill that always came to my spine when horror was near. This close up, the stench of death slapped me in the face. It lay rancid and thick in the air.

  You sick fuck.

  Little Melody had been taken from a restaurant as her parents argued a few feet from her. None of the customers had seen who did it. All attention had been on the parents and their heated conversation. There were no cameras in the restaurant or on the street. No one had even heard the door open or close.

  Melody had disappeared with no clues.

  And now she sat in a tiny purple chair with her eyes closed. She held a black calla lily in her hand. The Angel Maker had attached a gold halo on top of her head. Gold wings spread out from her back. She wore a purple dress with lace at the bottom. Her hair was two long braids with purple bows dangling at the ends.

  Why do you always have them hold a black lily? What does it represent to you?

  The medical examiner Dr. Ross stood next to her. “Melody was kept alive the longest. Her skin and nails are intact more than the other girls.”

  “Any sign of rape?”

  Her words grew sad. “I have to get her on the table to confirm, but I would guess no since he didn’t rape any of the other girls.”

  I walked around Melody. “Did he change anything about the wings or halo?”

  “Looks the same. These feathers and other items can be from any craft store in this state.”

  I kneeled and assessed the back of the wings, not wanting to see little Melody’s face anymore. But knowing the image would never leave my mind.

  I’m going to get you. I’m going to hurt you, and you will scream for angels, and they will not come.

  A slam came from behind us.

  I jumped to my feet.

  We all turned that way.

  “What was that?” Stein asked.

  “Let’s see.” I took my gun out of the holster and ran in that direction.

  Was that you? Did you want to see the show?

  Other agents followed me.

  Another door slammed up ahead.

  Someone ran up the stairs. I only caught sight of the person’s feet.

  “Right there.” I pointed to the building’s staircase. “Go in slow. Wait for my command.”

  Stein, five other agents, and I stood with our guns out. Sweat trickled down my back. I opened the door first. Darkness greeted my eyes.

  I lifted my hand and motioned to my team. We entered with no idea of what would be ahead. I held my weapon steady. Somewhere in this dark space, the Angel Maker could be hiding.

  Please, be here. I very much want to meet you.

  Quietly, we all walked further and rounded a corner.

  One light flickered overhead.

  I sniffed the air.

  Spray paint.

  Footsteps sounded ahead. We all raced off. Some tall guy in all black with a ski mask ran further in front of us.

  I shouted, “Stop! FBI—”

  The guy ran out of the building’s back exit.

  The door slammed.

  I left the building next.

  My men kept their pace behind me.

  Of course, the warning didn’t slow him down. I just needed it on record. When he came close again, it wouldn’t be a warning, just my bullet in his fucking head.

  Increasing my speed, I pumped my legs and sped through the battered yard behind the building. The grounds had seen better days. Trees, old furniture, and broken glass littered the area. And it was clear the suspect knew this place well.

  I shot, and he zipped to the right and then left.

  Come on. Come on.

  Stein shot at him. Close, but not good enough.

  The man jumped the fence, leaped down, and ran into traffic.

  Fuck.

  I climbed the fence as fast as I could with the other agents. We got over.

  Out in the street, horns blared. Brakes squealed. Some cars maneuvered around the guy.

  I aimed for his leg.

  The bullet didn’t get him, but he screamed and fell to the sidewalk.

  Thank you, God.

  “Get him,” I roared.

  Stein rushed forward and grabbed him before I did. Panting, I crossed the street fast and helped Stein out, wrenching the suspect by his arm and slamming him into the building.

  “Where are you going?” I snatched off the mask.

  A little kid stared back at me. Although tall, he couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen.

  “What the hell?” Stein frowned.

  The boy shook. “I’m trying to help any way I can.”

  I leaned in closer. “Help do what?”

  “Find my sister’s killer.” His bottom lip quivered. “Ariana Waterson.”

  Damn it—victim number three.

  “What were you doing in the building?”

  “Seeing if he was around or. . .maybe if there were any clues.”

  “Damn it. You could’ve been shot and killed.” I let him go. “And you’re wasting our time!”

  Stein cleared his throat and got between us. “Come on, kid. Where’s your parents?”

  “In front of the building.”

  Ariana Waterson’s brother.

  I wiped the sweat off my head but couldn’t keep the disappointment out of my heart. For one beautiful minute, I thought we might’ve had this maniac.

  Of course, it wouldn’t be that easy.

  And now with the sixth missing girl found, what would the Angel Maker do next? Why six girls? Why suddenly have them all appear? And would he start all over again, or would he just disappear?

  These little girls had not been related to me, but I felt a connection to them, as I did with all the victims in every case. Pure vengeance rose within my core. I burned with the need for retribution. The urge to have this Angel Maker’s throat within my hands—to hear the bones snap and feel his blood run cold.

  Why little girls, you monster?

  At this moment, the thirst for vengeance was all that kept me going—all that would make my heart pump and my eyes open each morning.

  I will find you and your terror to this town will end.

  Chapter 2

  First Day at Work

  Haven

  Okay. First day with the big guys. I’m going to rock this. It’s going to be fine.

  I entered Fullbrooke police station and stopped at the front desk. “Hello.”

  Not looking up, the clerk stared at her computer. Some show was playing on it.

  I cleared my throat. “Excuse me?”

  She continued to watch her computer. A minute passed and I
leaned to the side to see what she was looking at.

  On the screen, a white man gestured to a massive house in front. “This is where you’re going to live, Fanny.”

  The naked black woman trembled in fear and remained silent. Her wrists were bound together by a metal clamp that was connected to a long chain that looked like a leash. The man held the end as he guided her forward.

  Not noticing the terror on her face, he slipped his hands along her cheek. “You’re too light to work out here in these fields, Fanny. You’ll be in my kitchen, cooking the food.”

  Violin music rang out.

  A white woman stood on the porch. “Tom, who’s this?”

  “She’s Fanny.” He pulled the slave forward. “She’s going to be our new cook.”

  “We don’t need a new cook, Tom.”

  He turned to the slave. “And this is my wife Jane. You listen to her good, Fanny.”

  The slave nodded.

  I twisted my face in horror.

  What the hell kind of show is this? And why is she watching this at work? Police clerks have nothing better to do?

  “Hey!” I leaned away from the counter and cleared my throat. “Excuse me?”

  The clerk glared at me in annoyance. She had graying chestnut brown hair and green glasses. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, you can.” I pulled out my badge.

  The clerk took it. Widening her eyes, she rose from her seat. “Oh, I’m sorry. Hello, Agent Barron, we were expecting you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’ll be in the back.”

  “Okay.” My stomach clenched. This was more intense than butterflies in my tummy. It was a rage of nervous mini elephants stampeding around my organs.

  Don’t worry. Alexander King is only a man. He’s not a god or. . . well. . .maybe he’s god-like. But he’s nothing to be nervous about.

  I let out a long breath.

  I’d practically begged, borrowed, and stole to get a temporary assignment on his team. They called his unit the King’s Men. The official name was the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program—ViCAP. It was an FBI unit responsible for the analysis of serial violent and sexual crimes dealing with children.

  Surprisingly, it had been created by his father Peter King in 1985 who argued that serial homicides could be linked by their signature aspects. His son, Alexander King came on in 2010. And no one raised a question of nepotism. Alexander had worked his behind off and made a huge name for himself in the FBI. Whether his father had been the director or not, Alexander was needed there.

  ViCAP had a hundred percent solved rate. Every year, many agents would have killed to get in. To be one of the King’s men was to set oneself up for a political career or at least a cushy, lavish track with tons of high-level contacts.

  His father was due to retire soon. Many believed Alexander would be the next to sit on the throne. Whether he took it or not, all considered Alexander King a genius. No one knew how he was lucky enough to have so much success.

  Although I had a sparkling and spotless record of my own, I had to write several letters to the mayor of Fullbrooke and the Georgia governor to be a part of the Angel Maker’s task unit. I had argued that I was familiar with the town and people since I grew up here. I explained that my hometown knowledge could help the investigation go faster. A bit cocky, I added that it wouldn’t hurt to have a black woman on an all-white and male unit dealing with black girls. That latter argument was surely the reason why they’d put me on.

  The other reason was probably because Pastor Miller had been giving Georgia State hell for these past six months. With the cameras on his side, the fire for justice would continue to catch fuel, and everything would explode. The governor and mayor wanted the Angel Maker found and the police looking like everyone’s savior. And so, they took a chance and assigned me. I would just be with the King’s men on this case. It wasn’t an official appointment, but I was sure I could show Alexander King how dedicated and hard I would work.

  He’ll see. They will all see. And we’re going to get this asshole that’s hurting these girls.

  I scanned the small police station.

  Whether I was assigned or not, I would’ve been here. Might as well be getting paid to do it.

  This wasn’t the first time I had been in this station. For thirty years, my father was a cop with the Fullbrooke police and then retired. He passed away ten years after that. He was one of the few blacks on the force and talked about how cliquish the different squads were. Because of that, he didn’t want me to stay in Fullbrooke or join the police. He found the town too racist and close-minded on both sides. When I told him I wanted to go into law enforcement like him, he pointed me to the FBI.

  At my academy graduation, I swore he was the proudest father there. Mom had to keep telling him to shush as he hooted and hollered.

  Years later, I was stationed in Quantico, working on missing cases and slowly making a difference in the Bureau. When my father passed, he did so with a smile, knowing that his little girl and my mother would be okay.

  I can’t believe I’m back in Fullbrooke, and Daddy isn’t here.

  Sweat made my palms damp. I rubbed them a little and followed the clerk forward.

  She glanced over her shoulder. “I’m sorry, but you look so familiar.”

  “My father used to be a cop here. Detective—”

  “Barron?” She beamed. “You’re Charlie’s little girl?”

  “Yes. I am. You knew my father well?”

  “Oh, not really. It just wasn’t many of your kind that made it to detective. He was one of the good ones.”

  My kind? As if I’m an alien of some sort. Welcome back to Fullbrooke. A town on the far edge of the modern age.

  I spotted a door on the right that was labeled crime lab. I bet it was a tiny room, barely doing much.

  What does Agent King think of my small town? He must be banging his head against the wall at how dated it is.

  She guided me down the hallway and stopped at the door. “Here you go. They are expecting you. You’re to go to Special Agent Brett Stein.”

  “Stein? Not Special Agent King?”

  “No. They told me Agent Stein. I would’ve remembered if it was King. He’s a hard one to forget.” She shook her head and then smiled. “Although grumpy and brooding, King’s face brings a little sunshine to the station.”

  I ignored her swooning and readied myself for business. “Okay. I will be with Special Agent Stein.”

  She walked off.

  The weight of my gun and holster pressed against my side. I stared at the door, breathed in, breathed out, and then opened it.

  Chatter ensued. Phones rang. The large wall in the back held big pictures of the six girls. I had read as much as I could about the case. I planned to go to the families and see if I could get more details.

  I was sure no one had talked to the agents as much as they should. In Fullbrooke, there was distrust between law enforcement and the black community. Families were hesitant to call the cops. Police brutality and corruption rang true here. A cop could be called to the house because someone was burglarized. In the end, the white cop might take the black homeowner to jail for outstanding warrants or even not showing proper respect.

  My dad did his best to try and clean up the dirtiness staining this force, but it never got clean.

  I walked past several agents. Many sat at their desks on the phones. Pastor Miller’s congregation had raised an award for $50,000 for anyone who could help catch the Angel Maker. I was sure many people had been calling. The no snitching policy in the black community left, when money was involved.

  I checked out a few faces. There was only one other woman in the room—a red-head with short hair. She stood by the wall of the Fullbrooke Six. The rest were men—all about thirty—crowding the huge room.

  I’m here. No doubt they noticed my black behind walk in. With this crowd, I’m not blending in.

  I glanced at the left wall.


  A massive map covered it. Large markers were pinned in areas of the map. Each marker had the victim’s name. I paused for a few seconds and assessed it. There was no shape that the markers made—no indication as to why the Angel Maker had chosen to place the girls’ dead bodies in those spots.

  How are these places important to him? I’ll have to do some history on the locations.

  Walking further, I stopped at the big wall with the Fullbrooke Six and studied as much as I could.

  I spotted the first victim—Felicia Drake. The 12-year-old was taken after church. In high school, I had been on the cheerleading team with her mother—Shondra. We hadn’t made much of a connection. I was only on the squad for a week, before they all realized I had no rhythm and kicked me off. Regardless, the small connection could help me talk to Shondra. Maybe she had more to add on her daughter’s kidnapping.

  Under Felicia’s class photo were pictures of her red purse and its contents. At the bottom, the last image of Felicia was shown. Dressed in a ruffled red dress, she sat with her eyes closed and a gold halo on top of her head. Wings spread out behind her. She held a black lily in her hand.

  Why is the lily important to him?

  The second victim was Karen Brookes—ten years old. Her photo was next to her name. Just as brown as all the other girls. Just as brown as me. The Angel Maker had a sick fascination for our color. He never took a girl lighter or even darker. It was that same hue of chocolate brown as if he waited and searched for the right tone.

  On Valentine’s day, Karen’s mother had dropped her off for ballet class. Staying in the car, she’d watched her daughter walk inside. Then her mother drove off. There had been no one else to witness what happened in the lobby between the front door and ballet classes. No cameras either. Karen could’ve gone to the water fountain or bathroom and been grabbed. Either way, the Angel Maker knew no one would be looking or watching out for the ballerina.

  Pictures of her pink ballet shoes lay under her photo. They were left at the entrance in the lobby. Karen’s last image sat at the bottom. She wore a pink dress with the signature gold halo and wings. The same type of black lily was in her hand.