“Why didn’t she talk to you? Weren’t you the one who arrested Mason?”
I lower my head in reflection, left my gaze to Teresa, and say, “That was after the fire. It was the day after…or two days after it. I don’t really remember.”
“Ah.” She pulls all of her braids behind her shoulders and stares at the dragon on the wall, deep in thought.
“We’ll need concrete proof that he was involved,” I say. “I don’t think Mason’s testimony would be enough.”
“We’re running out of time,” she says. “She’s been missing for three days and two of the kidnappers are dead. If the person who killed them is involved in the kidnapping and knows where she is, she is in more danger than we anticipated.”
“What should we do?”
“Bad cop, good cop,” she says, glancing at me. “Or we could bluff and say we know he’s involved in the kidnapping.
“You’re FBI. That’s the best you have? We haven’t invented a truth serum yet?”
“You’re thinking about the CIA. They use scopolamine.”
I close my eyes. “If you were a judge, where would you hide your daughter?”
“Nowhere the police would go, so the courthouse is out.”
I raise my head, looking straight at her. “Do you think it’s weird that Latham had to take us to his backyard? Maybe he wasn’t hostile toward me because he suspects me of taking his daughter. Maybe he was being hostile because he was afraid I would find her at the house.”
“…Or maybe he took us to his backyard because he wanted to make sure we found the back door,” she says.
“It’s worth checking out, though, isn’t it?”
“How are you going to get a warrant for that?” She leans back in her chair with a bemused smile.
Becky once told me she thought I had more integrity than anyone else did in town, but that was before two boys—too psychotic to fathom how much life is worth—took her life.
Sarah’s life is worth more than police protocol.
“I’ll find a way,” I tell her.
She narrows her eyes. “You’re going to break in, aren’t you?”
“What? No!” I deny.
She gazes straight at me and I stare back. Her eyes remind me of when I used to lie down in the woods and stare up at all of the earthy colors of the forest. Her eyes aren’t just a single shade of brown—they’re a mixture of a brown so dark that they’re nearly black with flecks of lighter shades inside, swirling around her irises as if they were the windows to her soul, and all of the shades want to spiral into them.
She glances away first. “You know, I grew up in Chicago.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“The poor part of Chicago. And it means that I know how to get into locked houses.”
The waitress walks up to us and hands me the restaurant check folder. We thank her for her service, and she thanks us for coming to the restaurant before she walks away to help an elderly couple put on their windbreakers.
I turn back to Teresa. “This is illegal. Even when it’s a policeman or FBI agent doing it.”
“So? We’re trying to save a young woman.”
“So, I don’t want you to get into trouble. I can do it on my own.”
She places her hand on top of my hand that’s holding the check folder. Her touch is so warm I can feel the warmth spread underneath my skin.
“I can pay for half of the bill,” she says. “And I can also take care of myself. I don’t need you to keep me out of trouble.”
“Do you ever let anyone protect you?”
“No.”
“You should.”
“Why?” she asks, digging out her wallet from her purse.
“Because you deserve it.”
She lets her hair sway in front of her eyes. I can sense that she’s hiding herself from me now, as if showing some vulnerability could break her. I know this because I feel the exact same way.
28
Mason, 2013
EVERY SCHOOL HAS SOME version of the Bradwell boys. Casey Bradwell is seventeen years old while Cameron Bradwell is nineteen, but they look like twins. They both have golden hair that they keep shaggy, freckles, hazel eyes, skinny bodies, and they’re rather short—Casey is slightly taller than his older brother is but neither of them passes five foot five.
They always seem to be downtown, either tagging buildings or skateboarding. Tonight, I find them behind a liquor store, painting a graffiti penis with wings.
“What is it with younger kids’ fascination with male genitalia?” I ask.
Casey flinches and Cameron spins around, both seem surprised to see someone around so late at night.
Cameron smirks when he sees me. “It makes people uncomfortable, which is what I love to do.”
“We,” Casey corrects. “What we love to do.”
“Didn’t you guys have to pay a fine for doing graffiti on the school last year?” I ask.
“Yeah, three hundred dollars. Can you believe that?” Cameron scoffs. “But that’s the police for you…they get a gun and a badge and they think they’re better than you.”
“Do you remember who the officer was?” I ask. “Was the last name Grant?”
Cameron’s forehead wrinkles. I actually have no idea who their arresting officer was, but I know the mind can be easily swayed into believing what it hears.
“I think it was Fields,” Casey says.
Cameron shakes his head. “I don’t know. Grant sounds pretty familiar.” He thrusts his head at me, in some kind of attempt to act like a bad-ass gangster. “Why are you asking? I heard rumors you got in trouble trying to move some product. Did this Grant guy do it?”
“Yeah and he mentioned you two,” I lie.
Cameron’s eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah? What was he saying?”
“Oh…” I shrug. “It was just a tirade about how kids these days have zero appreciation for the law…he called you two punks, and told me it was your mother’s fault for messing you two up.”
“What?” Cameron snarls. He drops the spray can in a duffle bag.
Even Casey stops and turns around. “Why would he think that? Why would he even say that?”
I shrug again. “I don’t know. I think maybe he was smoking some of the pot or had a few to drink before I was arrested.”
“Yeah, that would be like a hypocritical cop,” Cameron sneers. “My mom is a better person than he’ll ever be. She is a saint.”
I run my fingers through my hair. “Well…that’s not what he said.”
“What?” Cameron is breathing deep now, his anger about to explode all over his own graffiti.
“He told me that when she was first pregnant, she was quite…busy with men. He says that’s why you’re messed up…all those men shoving themselves into your mom while you’re there in the uterus—”
Cameron jerks up his duffle bag. “I’m gonna go into that goddamn police station and nail his ass to the wall.” He snarls.
It’s easier than stealing candy from a baby. It’s simply putting candy in front of a baby and watching it rot its own teeth out.
“I don’t think he’s there,” I say. “I think he’s at home.”
“Well, then I’ll go there and nail his ass to the wall.”
“I have a better idea,” I say. “You could go in, guns blazing, and you know what would happen? He’d probably find a reason to arrest you. He doesn’t even need to find a reason. He could just invent one.”
Cameron glares at me. “True.”
“Instead…you could do something more subtle. Something that couldn’t be traced back to you.”
“Like?”
I glance down at his duffle bag.
“Have you ever tagged a house?”
* * *
Cameron and Casey are painting a pig wearing a police hat on the back of Detective Grant’s house. I stalk around the perimeter, trying to figure out what my next move is. I only see one vehicle in the driveway�
�a minivan—when there’s usually two. Detective Grant must not be home. It means I have to change my original plan, but I can adapt.
I walk back over to Cameron and Casey as they finish their graffiti.
“It doesn’t feel like enough,” I say, gazing up at it.
“I know,” Cameron says. “But what else can we do?”
“Burn the fucker down.”
He laughs, but turns toward me when I don’t join in. “Are you serious?”
“I checked. Nobody is here,” I lie. “Don’t you think that’s what he deserves?”
“His whole house burnt down?” Cameron questions.
I can see his mind starting to work around the story I told him, beginning to question if I’m telling the truth. I nod up at the pig. “Besides, now that I think about it, I’m sure he’ll be able to tell that this was your work. You’ll be in five times as much trouble for defacing a policeman’s house. There’s no way you could wash it off, so you might as well burn it off.”
Cameron looks up at his artwork. He’s figuring it out. You can lead a horse to water, but sometimes you have to shove its head into the stream to get it to drink.
“Do you have a lighter?”
“What stoner doesn’t?” I ask, taking out my stainless steel lighter.
“How are we going to get it to burn?” he asks. “There’s no way it would burn all of it without anything to help it along.”
“I’ll check if there’s gas in their garage.” I sneak into the garage through the Grants’ side door. My eyes skim over all their random possessions—tennis racket, wrench, a sparkling baton, two pairs of plastic handcuffs that resemble interlocking cable ties, a Hula-Hoop, and an ancient locker. It looks like someone could play I Spy here. I pick up the handcuffs. These could be useful in the future. I shove them into my jacket pocket. I make my way to where a rotary push mower is. I find a red plastic gas can, and it feels like it’s half full.
I carry it back to the Bradwells. Cameron is waving the lighter against the wall.
“Here,” I say.
He takes the gas can from me and removes the spout. He throws the gas onto the wall. He holds the flame against the wall. For a second, there is nothing, but then it ignites and it appears as if the wall is bleeding fire. All three of us step back and watch the fire consume the wall, licking up their graffiti.
“I don’t know how I feel about this,” Casey mutters.
“It’s fine,” I say, but I can see doubt simmering in Cameron’s eyes as well. “But…if you guys really have doubts, there’s a hose in the garage. It’s long enough that it could reach out here.”
Casey is the first one to race toward the garage. Cameron and I follow him. Casey opens the garage door and he scans inside it. Smoke is already filling the room.
“Where is it?” he asks. I gesture for him to follow me as I walk toward the back. I begin to unwrap the hose. Casey grabs it from me, but as his fingers wrap around it, I grab his wrist, wrap the plastic restraints on him, spin him, and snap the other end to the hose’s metal storage hanger.
“Hey!” Casey shouts.
“What’s going on?” Cameron calls out.
“Cameron! Help!” Casey yells.
I hear Cameron’s heavy footsteps rushing toward me. He’s at Casey’s side within three seconds.
“What the fuck.” He seizes the restraints. “How the hell did you get this on?”
As fast as I’m able, I slide the second set of restraints on Cameron’s wrist. Cameron pales before he begins to struggle. Just as quickly, I attach the other end to Casey’s set. At least they will die united.
“Mason?” Cameron’s voice sounds like a child’s as panic rises in him. “Mason, what are you doing? Come on, man. Why would you do this?”
“They’ll need to pin this fire on someone,” I say. “And you know, possibly a double homicide since his wife and daughter could be here. In fact, this late on a school night, they probably are.”
“You’re crazy.” His expression changes from shock to rage. “You’re fucking out of your goddamn mind.”
I step back as he tries to hit me with his free hand. He whips his locked arm up and down, causing Casey’s arm to jerk around as well. The way I have them locked together, the smoke will knock them out before they have a chance to escape.
“I’m going to fucking kill you! You better sleep with your eyes open because I’m going to pry them out of your fucking head!”
“That would be quite a magic trick,” I say. “Considering your death is coming very quickly.”
I turn on my heel and walk away.
“Mason!” he screams. “Mason, you can’t do this!”
The plastic restraints will melt away in the fire. All that will be found is four burnt bodies. All they will find is the charred remnants of my rage.
29
Aaron, 2013
WYATT HIGH SCHOOL’S MASCOT is a ram, which seems appropriate when the school board is always butting heads.
“The Green Fire Dance Team was disbanded out of respect for the two dance squad members who died sixteen years ago,” Mr. Claflin states. “It was a horrific tragedy and I don’t believe enough time has passed to reinstate the group without being callous.”
Mrs. Glassman, the president of the school board, glances over at Judge Latham, since his daughter Debbie was one of the victims. Then, Mrs. Glassman looks over at my daughter, Lisa, and her best friend, Sarah, who have the most adorable puppy faces I’ve ever seen.
“Mr. Claflin,” Lisa speaks up. “Of course everyone is still upset about the deaths of Debbie and Jacklyn. But isn’t it possible to honor their lives by reinstating the group? If we don’t reinstate it…we’re letting the tragedy define the school. That doesn’t make sense to me.”
“Miss Grant, you are fifteen years old,” Mr. Claflin states. “It’s more difficult for you to understand the intricacies of life. By reinstating the group, we are dishonoring the girls and we are disregarding their families’ grief.”
“Excuse me,” Judge Latham says. Everyone at the meeting turns toward him. “But I agree with Lisa and my daughter. I mourn Debbie’s death all of the time, but the dance group had nothing to do with her death. You can blame the trucker for being tired or the company for pushing him to keep driving, but you cannot blame the group.”
“Judge Latham, we do not blame the Green Fire Dance Team for the crash,” Mr. Claflin says, smoothing his black hair down. “We simply want to give the town some time to cope and heal.”
“The town will never be healed,” Judge Latham says. “Several decades will have to pass before someone won’t shed a tear over their deaths. But that grief should not affect these girls’ and their friends’ high school experience.”
“Well, it certainly didn’t stop you from marrying someone new a year later,” Mrs. Delforte drawls. Her daughter, Jacklyn, was the captain of Green Fire. “What was it? Like two months after your divorce to Debbie’s mother?”
Judge Latham glances over at her with so much anger in his eyes that I feel my hand move toward my Glock. But he shakes his head and looks back at Mr. Claflin.
“One of the principles of the United States is that we do not negotiate with terrorists. That crash was an act of terrorism and there may have been no terrorists, but people are still running scared and changing the way life works because of it. We can’t allow that to happen. We can’t have fear run our lives and change the way our children live their lives.”
Mr. Claflin leans back in his chair.
Mrs. Glassman nods, smiling. “That is very true, Judge Latham. Everyone here has given a valued opinion and the school board appreciates your thoughts. We will talk about this and have an answer for everyone within a week.”
The members of the school board stand up. Lisa rushes over to me with Sarah close behind her.
“What did you think?” Lisa asks. “Did we put up a convincing argument?”
“Well, I don’t want to get your hopes up,” I say
, “but I think you have Mrs. Glassman convinced, and she’s the only one you need to get on your side.”
She high-fives Sarah. They grin at each other, their smiles so big that it seems like their faces could break from the tension.
“We need to celebrate,” my wife, Becky, says. She wraps her arm around my waist and pulls me closer to her.
Her lemon and strawberry scent wraps itself around me and I can’t wait to be beside her tonight and pull her body tight against mine.
“How about we go get some pizza?” She turns to Judge Latham. “Do you want to go get some pizza, Mr. Latham? Mrs. Latham?”
“Sure!” Vanessa bounces on her heels as she walks over to Sarah. “You girls were amazing. You could be successful working in public relations or marketing.”
Becky turns to me. “Do you want to order the pizza before we get there?”
“I actually can’t go,” I tell her. “I’ve got some paperwork I need to do at the office to finish up a couple of cases, but I can still call if you want.”
“The cases can’t wait?”
I shake my head.
Judge Latham steps up to the group. “It’s my fault, Becky. The paperwork needs to get to me before tomorrow morning. I have some work I need to do as well.”
He gives me a look, his lips pressed tight. There’s actually only one case I need to work on, and it’s for Judge Latham’s son, Mason. He wants to keep the information that his son is in trouble quiet, and I don’t see a reason why it shouldn’t be.
“I promise I’ll bring home some ice cream to make up for it,” I tell Becky and Lisa.
“With whipped cream and fudge?” Lisa asks.
“Absolutely.”
Sarah nudges Lisa with her elbow. “You’re so lucky,” Sarah mutters.
Midnight Sun: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller (A Grant & Daniels Trilogy Book 1) Page 9
