by T. R. Ragan
Miranda shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “I thought her name was Sally.”
“She liked the name Rage,” Beast told her, his tone gruff. “We’ll call her Rage.”
“End of discussion?” Miranda asked.
“Little Vinnie doesn’t like smart-asses,” Beast shot back.
“He doesn’t like cursing, either,” she told him.
Little Vinnie removed the towel from his shoulder, tossed it on the table, and disappeared into one of the bedrooms at the back of the house.
Faith said goodbye to Miranda and then followed Beast out the door. “You’re a good man, Charlie,” she told him.
He grunted.
She watched him climb behind the wheel of his truck and head south.
On the drive to North Sacramento, Faith thought about her other life, before the attack. She’d taken so much for granted. If she could relive those years with Craig, she would appreciate all the little things. Craig had a great sense of humor, and he knew how to listen. He was a wonderful and caring father. He had a generous spirit. No matter what, Faith thought, she would do her best to keep his memory alive.
It wasn’t long before Faith pulled up to the curb in front of Patrick Fisher’s small, one-story house. The bushes in front appeared to be well maintained. The grass was green and so were the vines covering the latticework. The cement walkway had been painted brick red and was swept clean of debris. The screen door covering the front door was locked, leaving her no choice but to ring the doorbell.
The curtain covering a large-paned window at the front of house moved. Somebody was watching her.
She slipped her right hand into her pocket and kept a tight grip on her gun. When the door opened, she did her best to appear relaxed. The man standing inside wore a flannel shirt, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Thick, dark hair covered his forearms. He was nearly as tall as Beast. His head had been shaved clean, and his eyebrows looked like giant caterpillars. “What do you want?”
Her plan had been to do what Beast had done at the last house they visited. She was going to take charge by simply stepping inside and giving whoever answered the door no choice but to let her in.
Having a locked screen door between her and the man changed everything.
She heard a noise. Someone was crying inside the house. It sounded like a child. Her insides twisted. “I—umm—I’m looking for a Patrick Fisher,” she told him.
“Who are you?”
He obviously didn’t recognize her, which meant he probably didn’t watch a lot of news. “Susan Motts,” she lied.
“Why do you want to see Patrick?”
She tried to get a good look at him through the screen. “Look, it’s important that I talk to him right away.” She held the gun tightly, the palm of her hand clammy.
Someone inside the house called his name. It sounded like a little girl, and she’d called him Patrick. Her eyes narrowed. She was talking to Patrick Fisher. Why would any child be calling him by his first name?
And why would he be afraid to tell her who he was?
He obviously wasn’t the girl’s father.
“I’m busy,” he told her, about to shut the door.
“Please hear me out,” Faith said. “There’s money in it for both of us if you just listen to what I have to say.” Another lie.
He whistled through his teeth as he unlocked the latch and let her inside. She tried not to let him see her surprise as she stepped inside. The moment he shut the door behind her, she pulled out her gun and aimed it at his chest. “Hands up! All the way!”
“Jesus Christ. I should have known better.”
Faith took backward steps into the house. Two kids stood in the hallway. A boy she guessed to be around eight, half-dressed, and the same little girl she must have heard crying stood behind him. She looked younger than the boy. Her thumb was stuck in her mouth. They both looked wary. The girl’s dirty-blonde hair was straggly and fell just past her shoulders. The boy’s hair had been buzzed short. They both looked as if they could use a bath.
“Who do these kids belong to?” Faith asked Patrick.
“Niece and nephew. They belong to my sister, who got one DUI too many. I’m watching after them for a while.”
“Does she know what you are?”
His jaw twitched. “What am I?”
“A sexual predator.”
“Oh, I see. You’ve seen my name on some list recorded over twenty years ago.”
“You’re a registered pedophile.”
“Yes, I am. And I’ve never touched a child or even looked at child porn.”
She smirked.
“It’s true,” he said, whispering so the kids wouldn’t overhear. “I made the mistake of admitting to a good friend that I was attracted to children. But I’ve never once touched a child sexually in my life.”
Faith harrumphed. “People aren’t registered as pedophiles for having thoughts.”
“Innocent people are locked up all the time. My circumstances are no different. He accused me of touching his child. His word against mine.”
She rolled her eyes. She didn’t want to know his circumstances because she didn’t care. When the small boy peeked his head into the room where they were talking, Patrick pointed the other way and told them both to go outside and play. They obeyed.
As soon as the kids were gone, Faith ordered him to give her a tour of the house. She made him open closets and lift bedcovers so she could see under the mattress. There was no one else here. No sign of Lara.
Patrick Fisher could not shut up. He talked the entire time, trying to get her to believe that not all pedophiles were monsters, that there were thousands of nonoffending pedophiles walking the streets, never so much as talking to a young child. He told her how his sexual preference was unknown to him until he hit puberty. He then went on to tell her about the time he was touched improperly as a child himself. It was an older man, he explained. Friend of their neighbors at the time—a man with sparse gray hair and spotted hands who had taken it upon himself to fondle Patrick’s genitals.
Faith stopped to look at him for a moment. “So you don’t believe the man who touched you is or was ever a monster?”
“No. I don’t.”
“And you don’t think you were affected by what that stranger did to you?” Faith asked him as she resumed opening doors and cupboards.
“I absolutely wasn’t affected by what happened.”
“Well, I don’t believe it for a minute.”
“Why is that?”
Again she stopped moving so she could look at him. “You seem to have convinced yourself over the years that that one event was no big deal. Well, guess what? Until a child has grown into adulthood and can make his or her own choices in life, it is a big deal. What happened to you was and is a ridiculously momentous deal. You’ll never really know if that one act stopped you from becoming who you truly are or who you were meant to be, or if that old man shaped you in a negative way.”
“Or maybe what happened was all for the better,” he said. “Maybe that one act made me fully aware of who I really am.”
“Let’s go to the garage,” she told him, having a difficult time listening to him talk about his life. Either he was lonely, or he was trying to rid himself of guilt. Why he would tell his story to a woman threatening him with a gun, she’d never know. He talked about feeling inadequate as a child because of the taboo of his sexual desires. Overall what pissed her off the most, because of his own dealing with the old man, was that he didn’t believe molesters should be scorned and hated. He didn’t believe the act itself warranted analyzing or hatred of any kind.
And why would that be, unless he was a predator himself? She’d had enough.
She turned to face him and even went so far as to jab the gun his way in frustration. “These are kids you’re talking about. Young, innocent children who all deserve to make their own choices in life when they’re old enough to do so.”
“And wh
en is that?” he asked. “What age is appropriate for those sort of choices?”
Her eyes widened. “Did the fucker who touched you say, ‘Hey, Patrick, mind if I touch your genitals?’”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so,” Faith said. “You’re in denial, Patrick. The old man with the spotted hands never gave you a choice.”
She looked around the garage. There was one car inside, a red Mini Coupé. She stepped inside to have a closer look. No boxes or refrigerators lined the walls. No place to hide any bodies. She made him open the trunk, and then she checked out the rest of the car’s interior. Nobody was inside. No tape or rope or streaks of blood.
Back inside the house, Faith waved her gun toward the sliding glass door leading outside. “Open the door, and then step outside.”
He did as she said.
The kids stopped playing ball as she walked across the lawn and looked inside the shed on the corner of the property. “Has your uncle Patrick ever touched you inappropriately?” she asked the kids when she stepped out of the shed.
They both shook their heads.
“Are you absolutely sure?”
They both nodded.
“Do you feel comfortable living here with Uncle Patrick?”
More nods.
She looked over at Patrick. His arms were crossed over his chest, but he hadn’t run off to call the police. In fact, he hadn’t moved one inch from where she’d left him standing.
“I’ll be back,” she said as she passed by him and walked back into the house.
“I can’t wait,” he called out before she slammed the front door closed behind her.
It took Beast a little more than an hour to get to Patrick Barnes’s place of residence in Acampo. A few minutes after taking exit 269 from CA-99 south, he turned right onto Acampo Road. He found a spot in front of the main entrance to the apartment building. The air was chilly but still no rain despite the dark, cloudy skies looming overhead.
Cans and bottles and fast-food wrappers littered the sidewalk around a too-full garbage can. There were no locks on the double doors, and nobody was inside the main lobby, so he took the stairs to apartment 21-B.
The hall carpets were stained and torn. The smell of cigarette smoke was strong, filling his lungs with ashy particles that made him cough.
He knocked twice.
Beast was glad to have something to do today—anything to keep his mind off Rage. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be ready to deal with her absence.
She’d passed quickly. For that he was glad.
He wondered what kind of fool he was that he hadn’t been able to tell her how he felt. Sure, he’d tried a couple of times, but it hadn’t been enough. Maybe if he’d told her every thought he’d ever had, it still wouldn’t have been enough.
The door opened. A woman peeked out through the crack.
He flashed a fake badge, one of Rage’s toys. He didn’t like to use pretend accessories, but he’d spotted it this morning in one of the kitchen drawers. He remembered the day Rage had opened the UPS package. She’d been excited to present him with his own authentic-looking undercover police badge.
This morning he’d thought, The hell with it, and he’d shoved it into his pocket. Why not? And now here he stood, facing a young woman who reminded him of his late wife, flashing a badge he had no business carrying. He looked heavenward.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Patrick Barnes.”
“Oh.” She angled hear head. “Were you a friend of his?”
“Not exactly. No.”
“Is he in trouble?”
“I’m not sure,” Beast said. “Maybe you can tell me.” Beast raised an eyebrow. “Mind if I come in for a minute to talk?”
She looked suspicious, but she let him in just the same. He would never understand why people opened their doors to strangers, but more often than not, that’s exactly what they did.
He took a look around the apartment.
Without asking for permission, he walked across the main living area, past a small kitchen, and into the bedroom at the back of the apartment. The bed was made, and there were hardly any knickknacks cluttering the room. After checking all the usual spots—bathroom, closets, and under the bed—he returned to the living area. The place was small but well kept. The floors were clean. No horrible smells like he’d experienced in the hallway outside her apartment.
The woman stood somewhere between the kitchen and the wide-open door, ready to run if need be. He didn’t blame her. Smart woman.
“What’s this all about?” she said, her shoulders stiffening as bravado set in. “You’re not a cop, are you?”
Her eyes were blue, her lips nicely shaped and full. She stood no taller than five feet three inches. A simple black T-shirt and jeans revealed a semiathletic form. Maybe a runner.
“No,” he said. “I’m not a cop. I’m a bounty hunter, but that little tidbit has nothing to do with why I’m here.”
“I’m calling the police.”
“I promise to leave as soon as you tell me where I can find Patrick Barnes.”
“He’s dead. I should know because he was my brother.”
TWENTY-SIX
Lara stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her hair had turned black. Her scalp stung. The black dye looked like streaks of paint across her forehead and chin.
“Your name is now Sara,” Patrick told her. “After you clean up, we’re going to take a drive. Another man, a very nice man, will be meeting us upon our arrival. You’ll be proper and polite. No talking and no sudden movements. I want you to smile and shake his hand.”
“I’ll never shake his hand. I’ll run away.”
Patrick got down on bended knee, looked her square in the eyes, and took hold of her shoulders. He squeezed hard, his thumbs digging into her skin.
“That hurts.”
His face twisted in a way she’d never seen before. His eyes became squinty and mean. His mouth became a tight line across his face. His entire body trembled as he said, “You’ll do exactly as I tell you. If you don’t, I’ll cut you into little pieces and feed you to the fucking fish. Do you hear me?”
She tried to nod, but she couldn’t stop her shoulders from shaking and the tears from rolling down both sides of her face.
“Stop crying.”
She whimpered. She couldn’t help it.
He slapped her across the face so hard her neck snapped back from the force. “Knock it off,” he said. “It’s time for you to grow the fuck up!”
He walked into the bedroom, leaving her standing on the cold tiles. As he stood over the bed, going through his things, she opened one drawer after another, quietly but quickly, until she found a pencil. She slid it into her waistband.
Patrick returned with a long-sleeved dress. It was a flowery print with a crisp white collar. “Get in the shower. Leave the bathroom door open, or I’ll kick it down. Make it fast.”
She turned on the shower. When it was warm enough, she took off her pants and shirt and made sure to hide the pencil in the sleeve of the shirt folded on the floor. She used the soap to wash her arms and legs. Her muscles quivered as she began to cry. She was tired and more frightened than ever before. As the water drizzled over her head and turned black before rushing down the drain, she forced herself to stop crying, knowing she had to be strong if she wanted to find a way to escape.
Faith kept her eyes on the road as she drove.
She thought of Rage and how, just like Craig and the others who had perished last night, she deserved a moment of her time. The one thing Faith didn’t have. On days like today, Faith had a difficult time sorting her thoughts.
People were dying.
Hudson was home.
And yet nothing had changed. Not really.
How could she ever help her son move on if she couldn’t help herself?
She felt a sudden rapid fluttering inside her throat. Her chest felt tight. Worried about endangering he
rself and others, she pulled to the side of the road. She looked to the passenger seat for her phone and found it beneath the backpack Beast had left inside her car. Hoping Beast had found the Patrick they were looking for, she called him.
No answer.
As she settled down, as her heart rate slowed, she reached inside the backpack and looked through Rage’s notes. The crumpled piece of paper fell to the side of the cracked leather seat. She picked it up, read the address, and noticed it wasn’t Rage’s handwriting. Someone, most likely Rage, had used the pencil-shading technique to reveal the address. Faith’s eyes narrowed as she noticed something else: more indentations were beneath the address.
Faith grabbed the backpack and found a pencil on the bottom of the bag. She placed the crumpled paper on the dashboard and lightly ran the pencil over the indentation in the paper. She applied more pressure, using the lead to shade the indented letters, back and forth, until she could see what it said: Patrick. Her pulse raced. Then she noticed the W in a swirly font at the top of the stationary.
W for Williams. Aster Williams.
Rage must have retrieved the paper from Aster Williams’s home when she and Little Vinnie were inside looking for information.
Rage would have mentioned the address if she’d had any idea it belonged to a man named Patrick. “Rage,” she said aloud. “You did it.”
Her pulse raced in earnest as she grabbed hold of her phone and called her parents’ house.
Colton picked up.
“It’s Faith,” she said. “I think I might have found Patrick’s address.”
“What’s his surname?” Colton asked.
“I have no idea, but he lives in Elverta.” She gave him the address. “I’m going to call Detective Yuhasz and then head that way.”
“How far away are you?”
“About twenty-five minutes.”
“I can be there in ten.”
“OK,” she said and then hung up.
They were close, Faith thought. She could feel it. She called Detective Yuhasz next, and as she merged onto the highway she told him everything she knew, including the fact that it was a long shot, but she was letting him know what was going on just as she had promised.
