by Danae Ayusso
Colt erected himself and started for the door. “Let me get my jacket,” he mumbled.
The drive to the crime scene was quiet and bumpy. Colt sat in the passenger seat, his attention out the side window. James kept looking over at him from the corner of his eye, trying to read him, but as usual, Detective Colt Fury was as expressionless as stone.
At one time, Colt was considered an attractive man, but the years and stress hadn’t been good to him. His dark blond hair was long and hung well past the bottom of his shoulder blades, a thick beard covered the lower half of his face and hung many inches below his chin, his skin was weathered, making what bit of face you could see appear much older than his thirty-three years would suggest. James noticed that Colt appeared much, much bigger than he was when he was on the force; five years of mountain living had broadened his shoulders and strengthened his arms with corded muscle, making James feel tiny in his presence. If James didn’t know any better, he’d swear that Colt even grew three-inches while on the mountain.
James opened his mouth more than once, but he didn’t know what to say.
Sadly, the man next to him wasn’t the same Colt Fury who used to shoot hoops with him and the other deputies in the parking lot between cases and calls; the man who used to laugh and have fun; the man that always took you out for a beer after closing a case; who the rookies flocked to like bees to honey in hopes of having the privilege of getting his coffee or picking his brain about some of the cases he’s worked.
This wasn’t the same man James considered a brother, and it killed him inside to think it.
James knew the change was because of the guilt Colt was harboring. Pope made it personal, that much was clear, but no one could ever connect the dots, could figure out how Pope and Colt were connected. When it was hinted that Pope was possibly rejected by the victims, and that’s why he killed them, the guilt Colt was harboring increased exponentially.
Growing up, Colt only had eyes for Victoria Lake, or Vicks as everyone called her. They grew up together, were best friends and then high school sweethearts. Colt was protective of her, doted on her, and wanted the best for her. Vicks was quiet, kind, sweet, caring, non-confrontational, a natural peacekeeper, and wanted to change the world. No one understood that but James and Colt.
Colt knew what Vicks’ dreams and ambitions were, but he also knew that she would put them on hold until he reached his, so when he proposed, he said that they wouldn’t get married until Vicks got that classroom full of first and second graders she had always wanted. And in keeping with his promise, he paid for her schooling. She had graduated college that June, started class the following September, and they were going to walk down the aisle in late March.
Everything was going according to plan.
Until the perfect world Colt created came crashing down around him, taking the only thing that mattered the most to him, and leaving the stoic, hermit of a man who was sitting in the passenger seat.
Jimmy’s right, this isn’t what Vicks would have wanted for me, Colt realized when he felt James’ eyes on him, and a pang of guilt stabbed at his stomach like a knife. She would have wanted me remembering the good times, would have wanted me to remember her in my heart but open my heart and allow others in... Vicks didn’t want what happened to her grandparents to happen to either of us if something happened to the other. Emma’s never moved on from her husband’s death, and he died when Jimmy and Vicks were toddlers. She never moved on and I always chastised her for it. And yet, I’ve done the exact same thing.
Oh, Vicks, you’d be so disappointed in me, he silently berated himself before reciting a prayer for strength.
When flashing lights and yellow police tape flapping in the wind came into view, Colt visibly stiffened.
“Take a deep breath, big boy,” James said with a forced smile.
“Your words of wisdom and encouragement are awe inspiring,” Colt mumbled, and James smiled wide at the slight infliction in his voice.
James parked the jeep behind the other vehicles and they sat there in silence; Colt’s eyes focused out the window while James’ eyes were on him. The last time Colt Fury was at a crime scene, it was that of fourth victim and he was a detective, the only detective on the force, and he was anything but calm and professional at that moment. Colt couldn’t remember how many times he’d told the families of victims at crime scenes, during questioning, or at body identifications, to calm down and take a deep breath. They would only be helpful if they were calm.
Never had he felt more like a hypocrite than he did as he fought with the entire force as they struggled to keep him back at the first dumpsite, to keep him from contaminating the body, from trampling through the crime scene. It wasn’t easy for anyone in the community, especially those on the force, not to mention, her twin brother. James just stood there with wide eyes, all the color had drained from his complexion, as he watched men he worked with, those he didn’t know that came from the FBI field office in Deer Lodge County, stand around and look at his sister sprawled in the snow naked like a virginal crucifixion.
And now Colt was, once again, facing the waking nightmare that had tormented him for nearly five years.
From the jeep Colt couldn’t see the young woman’s face, but he didn’t need to; it was Vicks’ face. He didn’t need to know that her hair was dark and eyes were light, or that she was tall and lean, most likely quiet and friendly, because the other four victims were the same.
The area was marked and sectioned off with yellow police tape, the entire police force stood back, each confused and not entirely sure where to start.
The tape is farther back from the body then needed, Colt mentally complained, trying to keep from getting into Detective mode by being cynical, so obviously a rookie marked the area off. He recognized each of the deputies standing there: Rick Paul, Jack Morrow, and Raven Shadowdancer. They looked so much older now, or perhaps he was just that much older...it certainly felt that way.
Colt started to open the door but stopped and leaned back in his seat. “I shouldn’t be here, Jimmy,” he said.
James smiled. “You haven’t called me Jimmy in years.”
“I haven’t talked in years,” he reminded him. “This is your rodeo now. Not mine. I should be-”
“Where?” James interrupted. “Where should you be, Colt? Still hiding in that damn cabin? In a hole? In the barn? Buried up to your nose in files, reports, false leads, dead ends, forensic reports, and crime scene photos? Or in the ground next to Vicks?”
Colt grumbled something unintelligible under his breath and James smiled in triumph; he had never won an argument with Colt before.
“I wish I could say it’ll be like old times,” James said, “and as close to reality as that is, I wish the circumstances were different, but I’m glad to see you off of that damn mountain.”
Colt looked over at him.
“I can’t do this without you...oh god, are you breaking up with me?” James asked, gasping as if he was insulted before batting his lashes at him.
Colt shook his head in resignation. “Why do I bother?”
James smiled wide. “Because I’m the partner you never wanted, can’t live without, and we’re soul mates. You complete me, Colt Fury.”
“I can’t believe they let you carry a gun,” Colt grumbled as he got out of the jeep, and James was quick to follow.
Everyone turned as they approached and their mouths fell open when they saw him.
“Is that Detective Fury?” Jack asked.
Raven absently shook her head. “I think it’s a Shupchet,” she whispered, her accent flaring.
James reassuringly patted Colt on the shoulder and they stepped around the stunned deputies. As they approached the police tape, Colt stopped and closed his eyes. The face, it wasn’t Vicks but it was next to impossible to shake the images from his mind.
Lord, give me the strength to be the man Vicks always said I was, he prayed.
Reluctantly he opened his eyes and s
uddenly he was Detective Fury again, something he swore to Vicks’ tombstone he’d never be again, but it felt right for the moment, and he knew that she would want him there, would want him getting back in the saddle and moving forward, even if it felt as if he was going ten steps back with each breath he took.
He held his hand out expectantly and James quickly put a small spiral notepad and pencil in it. Colt went to work noting everything in the notepad in a way that only made sense to Detective Fury.
The police tape marked out a perfect twenty-five by twenty-five foot square with a sectioned off six by thirty-foot pathway that went from the road to the dumpsite. The taped off area leading to the road was the only place on that particular narrow, elevated, single lane road where someone could reach the crime scene without having to climb down the steep embankment and back up, especially with a body.
Colt paused and regarded the meticulous crime scene more closely.
If I were to mark off the crime scene, it would be this...exactly this. Obviously the rookie wasn’t a rookie after all.
The area was covered in virginal snow—Pope appreciated irony—and free of footprints, which was strange considering a bystander found the body.
That pulled Colt’s entire attention.
“The sticks are new,” he mumbled under his breath, commenting on the out of place length of picked clean branches that were on the snow under the flapping police tape. “Cutbacks?” he scoffed dryly commented.
James made a face at him. “No, they were put in place by the person who found the body.”
Colt’s pencil stopped in mid-sentence. “The person that found the body marked off the crime scene?” he asked doubtfully.
“Yup,” was all James said.
Another thing to follow up on, Colt mentally grumbled, making a note of it.
After moving around the parameter, noting what he could, which wasn’t much in typical Pope fashion, and motioning towards six things of interest, which were marked with sticks sticking out of the snow, and James put an evidence marker on each, Colt closed his eyes and took a couple of deep breaths, preparing himself for the body.
From the back of an idling patrol car, Cat watched the Hardy Boys stand around with their thumbs up their asses while an apparent homeless Bigfoot ambled around the crime scene.
“At least he put tags on potential evidence,” she mumbled under her breath, watching intently out the front window.
Cat noted there was something methodical about the way Bigfoot moved. His steps were small, despite his massive size, and precise, and he took the exact path which she had, stepping in her smaller footprints as he went—obviously he knew more about working a crime scene then the Hardy Boys watching like drooling schoolgirls with a crush on the captain of the football team. He took notes old school with a pencil and notebook, and was careful not to look at the body in the middle of the taped off area so not to get distracted. She couldn’t tell his age or what he actually looked like through the thick beard which made him look as if he should be playing bass for ZZ Top, and the long mane of dark blond hair that was blowing around him on the bitterly cold early spring wind effectively guised what little bit of his face was visible. He was dressed in dirty Levis that expertly showed his long legs, thick thighs, and slightly rounded backside; an oversized charcoal colored Carhartt jacket, which would have hung down past her knees if it was on her; and large, well-worn, winter work boots, which offered traction without being a hindrance in the thick snow...
Cat’s eyes worked over the others; the deputies each had on thicker, bulkier department issued snow wear: thicker, wider boots; heavier, bulkier jackets with fur trim and high collars that were zipped up under their chins; thick, canvas pants that reminded her of snow pants instead of police wear; stocking caps sucked down on their heads; and gloves. Even the Sheriff was outfitted much the same, only he wore a ridiculous cowboy hat in an attempt to cover his graying hair and a large, silver belt buckle with fancy gold leafs and jewel inlays.
“Someone came prepared,” she mumbled.
Bigfoot kept his back to her as much as humanly possible for some reason.
Does he know I’m scrutinizing his police work? she mused.
When Bigfoot spoke, the words obviously weren’t loud and were only heard by the sheriff walking behind him, shadowing his movements, watching what he was doing with a goofy smile on his face.
“Someone likes them big and hairy,” Cat said then chuckled under her breath before sighing. “Mannaggia,” she complained.
This was the very last thing she was expecting to do today. Yes, she would be the first to admit that she was getting bored and was fighting the urge to do something stupid simply to do something, but never did she imagine that she’d come across a body on her morning run. And what made it worse, the Sheriff commented under his breath that He was back.
Of course that sparked her interest like a match strike in the dark, but no one would answer any of the questions she had. They just looked at Cat as if she was the out-of-towner city-folk enemy, which she apparently was. And then when the rest of the badge carrying hicks showed up, it turned into a circus to the likes of nothing she’d ever seen.
They tried to go to the body, which would have trampled evidence—if there was any—and then they started bickering between each other, and that’s how she ended up in the back of the rookie’s patrol car in handcuffs.
In all fairness, she did warn him that he wouldn’t be patting her down.
“Who is that?” Cat asked.
When the pouting rookie didn’t answer, she kicked the back of his seat.
“I’m talking to you,” she said.
The rookie in the front seat softly growled under his breath. “I’m not talking to you,” he informed her, his words coming out extremely nasally due to the cotton sticking out of his nose. “You broke my nose,” he reminded her.
Cat rolled her eyes. “Probie, get over it,” she huffed. “It stopped bleeding and I helped you set the damn thing. What’s the problem?”
The rookie, Mickey, growled again; the others will never let him live down getting his ass handed to him by a woman. “You. Broke. My. Nose.”
“Yes. Yes. I. Did,” she agreed, speaking as deliberately as he was just to spite him. “I’ll buy you a damn beer,” she offered, poking her head between the front seats and looked at him.
He was still pissed, but the corners of his mouth twitched, fighting a smile.
“I’ll buy you two,” Cat teasingly sang and batted her lashes at him.
Mickey looked over at her and couldn’t help but smile in return. “Deal. That’s former Detective Colt Fury.”
She laughed and leaned back. “Sounds like a porn star.”
“That isn’t funny!” Mickey snapped at her. “Colt was the best of the best. Had worked with the FBI and Homeland Security even,” he informed her.
That could pose a problem.
“Why does he look like Bigfoot or is he undercover trying to break up a sheep smuggling ring?” Cat asked.
Mickey snorted then winched. “Ow. You seriously broke my nose,” he whined.
“Yes, I did,” she said as if it were obvious, because it was in her opinion. “If he isn’t deep undercover, why does he look like that? I haven’t seen him around town.”
“Not many have seen you around town,” he reminded her and she nodded her agreement; going to town was a once a week trip for supplies and to accompany her aging landlord to church. “It was tragic. Five years ago, his fiancée died and Detective Fury said it was his fault, which it wasn’t according to everyone, but it didn’t stop him from climbing up a mountain where he stayed until James...Sheriff Lake obviously got him to come down.”
Cat looked contemplative. “You mean until there was another body,” she surmised.
Mickey looked at the steering wheel, his brows pulling together; he didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to.
“Jimmy,” she asked after a couple of minutes of silence as
she watched Colt look over the body, “said that He was back. He wasn’t talking about Bigfoot...former Detective Fury, was he?”
Mickey shook his head. “No. Have you heard of Dei Sponsa?” he whispered.
The name was vaguely familiar but she couldn’t remember from where.
“Bride of God?” she asked, struggling to remember her Sunday school lessons, though she was rather confident that they weren’t one in the same.
“Montana’s very own serial killer,” he said then struggled to swallow the lump in his throat.
Cat’s eyes widened and her lips pulled up on one side; life in Eureka just got slightly more interesting.
****
“It’s him, Jimmy,” Colt said, pushing his hair out of his face with one hand. “The bastard is back.”
James nodded, his eyes on the body not more than three feet from them.
“Take a deep breath, big boy,” Colt mumbled.
The burst of amusement that broke past James’ lips was appreciated. “Thanks.”
“It’s not Vicks.”
“I know,” James admitted. “They don’t look alike but Pope’s M.O. hasn’t changed at all. What is she, five-nine or ten, dark hair, light eyes, pale complexion, mid-twenties, white, studying to be a pediatrician, so obviously she was nice,” he said.
Colt closed his notebook and slipped it into his pocket.
In the center of the marked off perimeter was victim number five. The young woman was completely naked, her ankles were crossed one over the other and bound with barbwire. Her arms were spread out from her body; long, dark hair was draped over her shoulders and cut straight across the bottom for staging so the tips didn’t cover her pale nipples, a crown of barbwire was deeply embedded around her head, and her eyes were glued open. The victim’s skin was so pale that it was hard to tell her body from the snow covered ground turned sepulcher. Breaking up the pale canvas was what was carved across her chest: Dei Sponsa.
Colt licked his dry lips. “Photograph the scene,” he said as he turned on his heels and headed back towards the jeep; he’d seen more than enough. “Call Special Agent Hammil and let him know that Pope’s back, and have him send their best Forensic Analysis up here as soon as possible.”
