The Summer Children

by Dot Hutchison

  And he said “she.” That’s so fucking rare, if he’s right.

  Eddison drives up, parking at the curb several houses down to keep out of the way of the emergency vehicles that should be arriving very shortly. Eddison and I live a fifteen-minute drive apart; a glance at the phone says it’s been just under ten since the call ended. I’m not even going to ask how many traffic laws he just broke. He’s still in jeans, his feet jammed into untied sneakers, but he’s got his badge clipped to his belt and an FBI windbreaker to lend him the authority his Nationals T-shirt leeches out. His hand is on his holstered gun as he approaches, stopping briefly to check in with Siobhan. They’re not, and probably never will be, friends, but they’re friendly enough given that their only points of commonality are me and the Bureau.

  When he reaches the driveway side of the walk, he touches next to his eye, then twirls his finger. I shake my head, tilting my gun so he can see it still in my hands. He nods and draws his weapon and pocket flashlight, disappearing around the side of the house. After several minutes, he comes back into view and reholsters his gun. I stretch and hook my heel into my purse strap, pulling it toward me so I can put my own sidearm away, finally. I hate having a drawn gun near kids.

  Before we get a chance to say so much as hello, an ambulance and a police car, followed by an unmarked sedan that is definitely also a police car, pull onto the street, sirens off but lights flashing. Fortunately, they cut the lights as soon as they park. Some of the neighbors get nervous enough living near an FBI agent; not waking anyone up with this would be preferable.

  I actually recognize the plainclothes walking toward us. We worked a missing kids case together two years ago, and found the kids safe and sound in Maryland. Terrible as it sounds, I’m suddenly grateful for the experience, or this meeting would be a lot more awkward. Detective Holmes comes straight to the porch, one of the uniformed officers and both paramedics walking behind her. The other officer stays at the end of the drive to talk to Siobhan. “Agent Ramirez,” Holmes greets me. “Long time.”

  “Sí. Detective Holmes, this is SSAIC Brandon Eddison, and this,” I continue, taking a deep breath and gesturing to the porch swing, “is Ronnie Wilkins.”

  “Have you checked him over?”

  “No. He said he wasn’t injured, so it seemed best left to you. Agent Eddison did a circuit around the house to check for others, but aside from that, there’s been movement only at the car, along the paved path, and where I’m sitting.”

  “Agent Eddison? Anything of note?”

  He shakes his head. “No visible blood trails, no signs of attempted entry around the windows or back door, no blood or dirt or debris on the back porch. No one in wait, no obvious footprints.”

  “How much has he said?”

  “I’ve tried not to ask him much,” I admit, but I relay what he’s told me.

  She listens intently, tapping her fingers against a small notebook sticking up out of her pocket. “All right. I hope you know I mean nothing personal by this—”

  “Where do you need us to stand?”

  Her lips twitch in a smile, and she nods. “Curve of the path? I’d like you in sight, for his sake, but some space would be good. If you don’t mind introducing us?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Eddison offers me a hand up, and I turn to face the child watching from the porch swing. “Ronnie? This is Detective Holmes. She’s going to ask you some questions about what happened tonight, okay? Can you talk to her?”

  “I . . .” He looks between me and the detective, drops his gaze to the holstered gun at her hip, then shudders and stares at the floor. “Okay,” he whispers.

  Holmes frowns thoughtfully. “I might need—”

  “Just call out.” I poke Eddison in the shoulder blade to get him moving, and we walk down the path until we’re just short of disappearing around the edge of the house. “I haven’t told Vic yet.”

  “I called him on the way,” he replies, his knuckles scraping the coarse stubble on his jaw. “He said to keep him updated, and not to bother Sterling with it tonight. We’ll tell her in the morning.”

  “It’s not a Bureau case.”

  “Exactly.” He glances over my shoulder to the end of the drive. “Siobhan doesn’t look happy.”

  “I can’t understand why; we had a romantic date and came home to a blood-covered child on the doorstep. What’s to be unhappy about?”

  “Ronnie Wilkins. Does the name ring any bells?”

  “No, but there’s almost certainly a Social Services file on him.” I watch the paramedics and officer check Ronnie over, gathering samples and evidence. They pause between each step, checking in with him for permission. He looks confused by it. Not their touching him, just that they ask. Holmes leans against the front rail a couple of feet away, making sure not to crowd him or loom over him. They let him keep hold of the teddy bear, occasionally asking him to move it to his other hand but never touching it themselves. It’s good to see.

  “Why you?”

  “I really hope we find out, because I haven’t a clue.”

  “Technically we don’t have authority to see his file, but I’ll ask Holmes once the kid is settled. Maybe something in his history will jump out.” He crouches down to tie his shoes properly. “My couch is open, by the way.”

  “Oh?”

  Despite the hour, sweat beads along his hairline. The sight makes me unpleasantly aware of how my dress is clinging damply to my back. Summer in Virginia. He gives me a lopsided smile and shifts position to tie the second shoe. “You’re not going to be able to stay here, and Siobhan does not look in the mood to have you trail into her place at some obscene hour of the morning.”

  This is true. “Thanks,” I sigh. “As long as one of the officers precedes me inside, I should be able to grab some fresh clothing and such, rather than break into a go bag.”

  “Lo que quieras.”

  On the porch, one of the paramedics unfolds a crinkly silver blanket and tucks it gently around Ronnie. They must be getting ready to move him. Holmes is on her phone, listening more than talking, it looks like; her face doesn’t give away much. She has a kid around Ronnie’s age, if I remember correctly. After she hangs up, she says something to the officer and heads down the steps to join us.

  “Social Services is going to meet us at the hospital,” she informs us. “Agent Ramirez, they’re asking that you not be there, at least at first. They want to see if your absence will help him remember anything else the killer might have said about you.”

  “His parents are definitely dead, then?”

  She glances down at her phone and whistles. “Oh, yeah. Detective Mignone is in charge of the scene. He says if you two want to check it out, he’ll get your names down.”

  “Really?” asks Eddison, and he sounds more doubtful than he probably intended.

  “We all know that this isn’t a Bureau case, but it could well become one. Piss jurisdictions, I’d rather keep you up to date before it’s an issue.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  “Agent Ryan can head on home.” I’d forgotten about Siobhan for a minute. “We may call with more questions at some point, but there’s no reason to keep her here. Agent Ramirez, do you need anything from inside before we put the tape up?”

  My stomach sinks at the mention of the tape. Obviously I was never going to be able to keep it entirely from my neighbors, but the tape is going to make it a bit conspicuous. “Please,” I answer. I nod encouragingly at Ronnie as the paramedics and officer walk him past, the smaller paramedic keeping one hand flat against the boy’s shoulder.

  Ronnie twists around to look at me, his eyes wide and wounded.

  “He’s going to be okay,” Holmes says softly.

  Eddison snorts. “For certain definitions of okay.”

  This isn’t something you can go through without scars, deep and always a little raw. No matter how Ronnie ultimately stitches himself back together, he’ll see the seams, and so will anyone
else who knows those scars on their own soul.

  “I’ll let you give the news to Agent Ryan.”

  I pull my keys from my purse and waggle them at Eddison. “I’m going to let her take my car, if she feels okay to drive. Hers is in the garage at work, so getting it back won’t be a problem.”

  “Buena suerte.”

  When I head down to the end of the drive, Siobhan has shifted from shocked to spitting mad, pacing in tight circles with her hair bouncing around her. She looks glorious, and I am not about to tell her that. “The detective says you’re free to go. Are you okay to drive or do you want me to drop you off?”

  “Is this one of your cases?” she asks instead of answering. “Did it follow you home?”

  “We don’t know what this is. As far as we know he’s not connected to any cases we’ve worked on or been asked to consult on. We’ll dig in today to find out for sure.”

  “He was brought to your house, Mercedes! He was given your name!”

  “I know.”

  “Then why are you so fucking calm?” she hisses.

  I’m not, but then, there aren’t many who would realize that. I can’t really blame her for not being one of them. My hands aren’t shaking, my voice is even, but there’s a frisson of electricity arcing through me that makes everything seem like it’s going a million miles an hour. “I’ve seen worse,” I say eventually.

  Which might have been the wrong answer. She snatches the keys from my hand, gouging my palm. “I’ll text you the garage level in the morning.” She stalks up to the car, not even seeming to notice when Eddison opens the passenger door to put her bag inside. I step back onto the grass about two seconds ahead of her slamming the gas and nearly backing over me.

  “So that went well,” Eddison notes.

  “Asshole,” I mutter.

  “Whatever you say, mija. Go on, get your gear. I’ll text Vic.”

  The officer who had been with Siobhan accompanies me inside. It’s bizarre; there’s absolutely no sign that whoever dropped off Ronnie made any attempt to enter the house. I grab a bag and shove in clothes and toiletries, as well as one of the books of logic puzzles I keep beside the bed. There’s a choked sound from the officer standing in the bedroom doorway.

  When I glance over, he just points up.

  Okay, I can see how that might be a little discomfiting in light of the evening’s events.

  A long shelf runs along all four walls in the bedroom, about a foot and a half from the ceiling, and it’s entirely covered with teddy bears. In the corners, small cloth net hammocks hang down to allow the largest and smallest bears to be seen. One sits alone on the nightstand on my side of the bed, a faded black-velvet creature with a red-and-white houndstooth bow tie. The fact that most of them are from after I aged out of foster care . . . well, there’s no way for the officer to know that.

  “The one Ronnie was holding? Not one of mine,” I tell him.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” I study the bears along the shelf, checking each one against my memory of when and where I got it, or who gave it to me. “None of mine are missing or moved, and none have been added.”

  “I’ll, uh . . . I’ll let Detective Holmes know.”

  Just to be on the better side of caution, I check the gun safe set into the floor under the bed, but both of my personal handguns are there, the ammo still in the lockbox in the closet by my shoes.

  “I need to change, but I know you have to keep me in sight. Any chance you could keep your eyes on my feet?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I change quickly, leaving the dress on the bed. Despite the hour, I pull on something suitably professional, in case we end up going straight to the office from the Wilkinses’ house. We still have that damn seminar in the morning, and I don’t think the experience needs to be compounded with a reminder of the dress code.

  In the kitchen, I climb onto the counter next to the fridge and reach into the short cabinet over the appliance, scraping my fingers along the side until I find the spare keys I’ve taped to the wood. Vic, Eddison, Sterling, and Siobhan all have keys of their own, but it seemed a good idea to have an extra set. Hopping down, I hold them out to the officer so he can see the dots of nail polish. “Yellow is top dead bolt, green is lower dead bolt, blue is the doorknob. The orange one unlocks the glass over the screen door in back.”

  “Agents and cops,” he agrees. “Windows?”

  “Basic switch locks, no keys needed.” When I gave Siobhan her set, she had a panic attack over how many locks there were. She feels four is excessive. As a result of that conversation, it’s actually written down on a Post-it somewhere that I am not allowed to ask her landlord to put more on her door.

  The officer locks the door behind us, and I have to stand still and breathe against a deep churning in my gut. This is my home, the thing that’s always mine, and here I am being chased out of it for something I can’t understand yet.

  Eddison grabs my bag, because his reaction to female distress is gentlemanly awkwardness. The ratio of gentleman to awkward varies depending on the person provoking the response. He even holds the car door open for me, so I do the only sensible thing.

  I smack the back of his head, the blow cushioned by the dark curls starting to get a little too fluffy and shaggy. “¡Basta!”

  “¡Mantén la calma!” he retorts, and leaves me to close the door myself.

  Poor Eddison. With the exception of Vic, he’s doomed to spend his life surrounded by strong, prickly, opinionated women, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. I’ve never really been sure what he did to deserve such glorious distress.

  3

  Sandra and Daniel Wilkins live on the north side of Manassas in a solidly middle-class neighborhood, maybe a little past its prime and starting to get run down. Every house was built from one of three blueprints, with different paint jobs in the same palette to give a sense of variety, but everything sags a little and most of the cars are older models, many with mismatched panels replaced because of accidents or rust. The ambulance we pass is on its way out, lights and sirens off, and the medical examiner’s van in one of the driveways is a good hint as to why there’s no particular sense of urgency. Two patrol cars and an unmarked sedan that probably belongs to Detective Mignone flank the driveway.

  There are a few neighbors out on their driveways, watching the illuminated house, but mostly the neighborhood is still asleep. Eddison parks halfway down the street to make sure we aren’t in the way of the cars or van, or blocking any of the residents in. I move my holster from my purse to my belt, slip my credentials into my back pocket, and finally shift my work cell from my bra to my pocket, because I forgot to do it while changing.

  “Finished primping?” Eddison asks.

  “I do like to look my best,” I retort.

  He grins and opens his door, and we walk up to the house. When we present our credentials to the uniform at the door, he marks the time off on his clipboard. “There’s a box of booties outside the main bedroom,” he advises. “Careful where you step.”

  That’s encouraging.

  There’s no blood obvious on the white painted steps to the second story, or on the tan carpet down the hallway. “Detective Mignone?” Eddison calls out. “Agents Eddison and Ramirez; Holmes sent us over.”

  “Bootie up and come on in,” answers a male voice from inside the bedroom. There’s a low murmur of other voices.

  We bend down to pull the thin paper booties on over our shoes. It isn’t just to protect our shoes, but also to minimize impact on the evidence, to avoid things like dragging blood or putting fresh shoe prints on the surfaces. I pull on a second pair over the first, and after a moment’s thought, so does Eddison.

  Ronnie had an awful lot of blood on him; the room has to be a god-awful mess.

  I probably should have guessed it from the ME’s van outside, but it somehow comes as a surprise that the Wilkinses are still in bed. The covers are in disarray, and there is blood p
retty damn near everywhere. I can track a few spots that are clearly arterial spray—it’s a very distinctive pattern—and several that seem more likely to be cast off, probably from a knife. After that, it gets more chaotic where different blood patterns cross and drip. There are dual negative spaces on the carpet on either side of the bed. One on each side is most likely where the killer—Ronnie’s angel—stood, but the others . . .

  When he said she made him watch, I didn’t imagine he meant this closely.

  Two sets of bloody footprints track around the bed and to the door, but they stop there. There was zero blood in the hall. The killer could have carried Ronnie—probably carried Ronnie, as an extra measure of control—but she had to have had something to cover her feet. Booties? Bags? Another pair of shoes? The larger pair of bloody prints shows shoe treads, at any rate.

  “Kid’s really okay?” asks the suited detective. Mignone appears to be in his fifties, his skin weathered by sun, with close-cropped hair and a bristling salt-and-pepper moustache.

  “Traumatized, but physically unhurt,” I tell him. “Unless you count old wounds.”

  “Don’t know if Holmes mentioned it: patrol knows this house pretty well. Their neighbors usually make a point of being uncurious, but there are still a couple calls a month for domestic disturbance. We’ll get a copy of the full file on your desks tomorrow.” He nods at both of us, then gestures to the bodies on the bed. “Hell of a thing.”

  That’s one way to put it.

  Daniel Wilkins is on the left side of the bed, a broad-shouldered man with a layer of beer fat over muscle. What he looked like before the attack is impossible to gauge: his face isn’t just bloody, it’s been slashed and stabbed, along with his torso.

  “Twenty-nine separate knife wounds on him,” says the medical examiner, looking up from the other side of the bed. “Plus two gunshot wounds to the chest. Those weren’t immediately fatal, but he wasn’t moving around with them, either.”