Aberration

by Lisa Regan

  Dusty slapped Wyatt’s knee. “Do yourself a favor, George. Fuck the blonde before you leave.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  KASSIDY

  October 6th-13th

  The dogs greeted me as if I had been gone for weeks instead of days. They almost knocked me to the floor. It was a frenzy of fur and wet doggie kisses, their bodies wriggling against mine with excitement. I bent to them, scratching, petting and talking to them in a low, sugary voice, assuring them I’d missed them.

  Although my superiors were not happy about it, I took a leave of absence from work. Linnea stayed one night with me but then had to return to work in New York. My first few days at home I busied myself with housework I’d been neglecting for months. I took the dogs for long walks twice a day. By the end of the first week, the creeping, rushing silence that had started as fleeting background noise filled the house until I felt its pressure bearing down on me with almost physical force.

  The house felt strangely and inexplicably empty even with three happy canines in residence. Jory had only been in my home once, but he seemed to haunt every corner of it. I expected to find him whenever I entered a room, his smile bright, fresh and unlined. Grief nudged and poked at me. I tried to keep it at bay, but it was ever present and growing more raucous each day. I called Remy daily, and he assured me he was working on the list of names we had discussed. Jory’s wallet remained missing. No one who had been at the scene that day remembered seeing it. Remy planned to go back out there himself and widen the search.

  At night I had nightmares. I woke weeping uncontrollably, sweaty and shaking.

  Finally I called TK. “I’m not doing well,” I said, startled by the openness in my voice.

  Without further discussion, he said the words I had hoped he would. “Come stay with us for the weekend. You can bring the dogs. We’d love to have you.”

  TK lived just under twenty miles away in Manassas, a small city on the outskirts of D.C. His wife, Diane, was a history professor at Georgetown University. The Bennetts’ home in Manassas was a compromise since Diane’s commute to D.C. was roughly ten miles longer than TK’s commute to Quantico. They shared it with their two teenage daughters, Quinn, thirteen, and Zoey, fifteen. During the day, surrounded by the Bennetts, I was able to distract myself from thoughts of Jory and his death, but alone at night, I lay awake in their spare bedroom, staring into the darkness and listening to the muffled sound of a television somewhere in the house. Jory’s image floated to the surface of my mind. My brain kept revisiting snatches of our time together, cataloguing his smiles. There was a burning sensation in my chest. I knew it was heartburn from the pregnancy, but it felt like my heart disintegrating.

  Round and round my thoughts went with questions about Jory’s death. Questions for which there were no easy answers. With a frustrated sigh, I turned my thoughts to the baby growing inside me, wondering what he or she would look like and how it would feel to hold him or her in my arms for the first time.

  Then inevitably my thoughts drifted back to Jory. How was I going to explain to a child what had happened between Jory and I? Why I only had one photo of Jory and none of the two of us together? For awhile it would suffice just to say, “Your father died before you were born, but we loved each other very much.” But I knew the more years that passed, the more explaining I’d have to do. How would I explain that I was an adulterous whore, for example? And what of the rest? The fact that my child would have an extended family out there somewhere? Grandparents? All kinds of relatives I knew nothing about? To them my child would be a pariah, and that was my fault.

  I spent three sleepless nights at the Bennetts’ before returning home. I had a week to go before returning to work. The days stretched out before me. They seemed never ending. I spent most of my time surfing the Internet, learning everything there was to know about pregnancy and giving birth. Both Linnea and TK called each day to check on me. Dale stopped in.

  “You’re having a really hard time, huh?” he said. I had spoken to him right after I got home from Portland and told him what had happened.

  I nodded.

  The dogs surrounded him and he knelt to pet each one absently, his eyes on me, concern furrowing his brow.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I said. “But you can have dinner with me. I’m making steak.”

  “Sounds great,” he replied.

  We talked about things that didn’t matter, and for a couple of hours, I didn’t have to be someone who looked at horrific crime scenes each day. I didn’t have to be someone whose married lover had just died. I didn’t have to be someone who was bringing an innocent, fatherless child into the world. I was just a friend having dinner with a friend.

  It only took moments for the sadness to creep back in once Dale left. I thought about asking him to come back but decided against it.

  I stood at my kitchen sink, washing dishes. I looked down to my feet where Pugsley slept. He’d been quite clingy lately, as if he sensed my grief. “Well, Pugs,” I said. “Looks like the leave of absence wasn’t such a good idea.”

  He lifted one eyelid to glance up at me. I reached down and scratched his head. “I have to go back to work.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  WYATT

  October 14th

  For the first time in two weeks, Wyatt felt good. The searing pain in his neck and back faded into warm relief. He felt so good that he decided to get right back to work. He had to put the Jory Ralston debacle behind him—behind them. He parked his car two blocks down from Deborah and Michael Bittler’s Manassas, Virginia home and waited. The last rays of the late afternoon sunlight lingered on the horizon. It was dinnertime; most of the Bittlers’ neighbors were safely inside their homes. An occasional car rolled past, but no one seemed to notice Wyatt slouched in his vehicle. He reclined in the driver’s seat and popped another OxyContin.

  After leaving Dusty’s apartment, things had seemed clearer. His mind was less cluttered. Kassidy Bishop was in shock. Grief stalled her, but it was only temporary. Eventually, she would return to her position with the Bureau. Wyatt could not take a hiatus from his work just because she had taken one from hers. Now, more than ever, he had to make clear the depth of his devotion to her. Now was the time to show her that he was a constant in her life, that he had always been a constant in her life. He had to forge ahead.

  Wyatt had chosen Michael Bittler because he lived only a short drive from Wyatt’s home. Wyatt had surveilled Bittler for several months before he had killed Georgette Paul. Originally, Wyatt had intended to start his work with Bittler but decided starting so close to home was a bad idea. Wyatt knew that most serial killers usually started killing close to home in their “comfort zone” or with a victim they knew personally. Bittler was too close to home for Wyatt to start with, but now he was an easy target. He’d already been researched, and he was nearby. Perhaps killing Bittler would draw Kassidy back into the field.

  Wyatt fought to keep his eyes open. Finally, as expected, Deborah Bittler drove past him in her minivan, heading away from her home.

  “Right on time,” he murmured.

  He knew from his previous surveillance that on Sunday nights Deborah attended bible study from six to nine p.m. It didn’t leave Wyatt much time, but it was the best he could hope for. Deborah Bittler never left her home for more than a few hours. Wyatt could have easily killed Michael outside of his home, but there were too many variables. Too many things he couldn’t control.

  Wyatt waited ten minutes before snatching up his backpack and walking to Michael Bittler’s home. The homes on this street were spaced well apart and separated by groves of large trees. Wyatt walked up Bittler’s driveway at a slow, measured pace. If anyone saw him, he didn’t want to draw attention to himself by rushing. He went right up to the front door, as if he was there on perfectly legitimate business, and rang the door
bell. No answer. He rang it twice more then knocked. Nothing.

  “What the hell?” he muttered.

  Bittler had to be home. His wife had their vehicle. Wyatt glanced behind him, looking for nosy neighbors. He heard dogs barking in the distance, children laughing, but he didn’t see anyone. He crept around the side of the house to the backyard. A small shed took up most of the yard. It was fashioned like a miniature barn, painted in earthy brown tones. One of its double doors stood open. Wyatt heard a rustling coming from inside the shed. He pulled his Smith & Wesson from his waistband and pointed it toward the shed door as he approached.

  Bittler emerged wearing a short-sleeved, button-down, plaid shirt and black slacks. He looked like he was going out to dinner except his clothes were smudged with dirt. He was thin and wiry, like Wyatt, but at least twenty-five years older, with skin that looked like tissue paper—like it would wrinkle or tear easily.

  In one hand, Bittler held a wet cloth which he used to wipe the sweat from his face and the back of his neck. In the other hand, he held a small shovel. The grass padded Wyatt’s steps, giving him an element of stealth. He was almost on top of Bittler when he spoke.

  “What’s in the shed?” he asked.

  If Bittler was startled, he didn’t show it. The only indication of surprise was a slight stiffening of his shoulders. Wyatt might have missed it if he hadn’t been so intently focused on the man. Bittler turned his head toward Wyatt, his dark, beady eyes zeroing in on the gun.

  In the split second it took for Bittler to swing the shovel at Wyatt’s hand, Wyatt realized that he had grossly underestimated the man. The rounded back of the shovel clanged sharply against the barrel of the gun. It twisted out of Wyatt’s grip and flew to the ground.

  Wyatt braced for attack, but Bittler didn’t rush him. Instead, he turned and scurried back toward the shed, practically leaping through the open door. Wyatt dropped his backpack and sprinted after the man. He tripped over the lip of the threshold. Bittler was less than a foot in front of him. Wyatt reached out and snatched a handful of Bittler’s shirt, pulling it from the back of the man’s pants.

  They went down together, Wyatt landing on Bittler’s back. The fall seemed to take too long. They had fallen into some kind of pit. As Bittler struggled beneath him, Wyatt turned onto his side and slipped an arm around Bittler’s throat, scissoring the man’s carotids between his forearm and bicep. Bittler pulled down hard on Wyatt’s arm, trying to relieve the pressure.

  “Stop,” Wyatt commanded, his mouth nearly touching Bittler’s ear. “Stop moving.”

  Bittler went limp, but Wyatt didn’t let up. The skin on his arms and face burned. The air in the shed was thick and close. Sweat poured down Wyatt’s face in rivulets. Bittler’s thin frame felt solid in Wyatt’s grip. The man looked like a stiff breeze might knock him over, but he was deceptively strong. As Wyatt’s adrenaline waned, the myriad of smells inside the shed seared his nostrils. Dirt, compost, and something else. Something old and sour but sharp as well. Acrid.

  Decay, he realized. It was the smell of decay.

  It reminded him of the pit at the back of his grandfather’s house—where he dumped the bodies of animals before he burned them, but after he made them squeal.

  “What the hell is this?” Wyatt asked. “What were you doing in here?”

  Bittler yanked on Wyatt’s arm again. Wyatt loosened his vise slightly, but Bittler didn’t answer the question. Instead he sucked in a few noisy breaths. Wyatt pulled the man up into a sitting position between his legs, holding Bittler in a headlock, lest the man try to fight back. Wyatt looked around, noticing for the first time a band of fluorescent lights overhead. They blinked on and off, one side dimmer than the other, as if dying. It was enough to illuminate a work bench directly across from them with large glass jars atop it. There were things floating in the jars, but Wyatt couldn’t make them out. The light barely reached the depths of the pit, but Wyatt could see the white sheen of bone poking out from the dirt floor where he’d just been laying.

  “What the hell is that?” Wyatt asked, his voice unnaturally high.

  His bowels loosened. His stomach felt as if it were floating somewhere around his throat. He shifted, jerking Bittler’s neck. The man grunted but moved with Wyatt. Wyatt squinted at the object beside him until a gaping eye socket formed out of the darkness. Half the skeleton’s face was enveloped in dirt. Whoever it was had had crooked teeth. A tuft of brown hair clung to its scalp.

  Wyatt’s feet kicked, crunching what he imagined must be more bones beneath him. Dirt and debris flew as he scrambled out of the pit, lurching toward the twilight pouring through the shed door. He pulled Bittler by the neck, across a large hinged wooden door that had been opened and lay flat on the shed floor. Wyatt assumed it was Bittler’s access point to the death pit. The man put up little resistance as Wyatt half-dragged, half-carried him out of the shed.

  Wyatt deposited Bittler onto the grass and dove for the gun, a few feet away. From his back, he aimed at Bittler, but the man was still on his knees, gasping for air and massaging his throat. Wyatt stood and moved closer, keeping the Smith & Wesson trained on him. “Who was that?” Wyatt croaked.

  “They’re just whores,” Bittler answered, his voice raspy. “Whores and murderers. I’m ridding the world of their unholy filth.”

  “Murderers?” Wyatt asked. The skin on his bare forearms and neck seared even hotter. His hands tingled. Keeping the gun on Bittler, he used a free hand to brush himself off. It didn’t help.

  Bittler stayed on his knees. He coughed heartily and brought up a large glob of saliva which he spit on the ground. “It’s lime, son,” he said to Wyatt. “It will burn your skin for awhile.”

  “Shut up,” Wyatt snapped. “Who were those people in there—in the pit?”

  The man shook his head, still not meeting Wyatt’s eyes. “I told you, filthy, murdering whores. I saved their babies’ souls, but I couldn’t save theirs.”

  The jars. Wyatt remembered the dim outline of the jars across from the pit. The warm, almost orgasmic feeling of the OxyContin turned to raging nausea in seconds. “Dear God,” he mumbled. He thought about the confrontation Kassidy had had with Bittler nearly twenty years ago. He hadn’t been there. He had only read the police report—that was public record. But the circumstances were clear enough. “You got them from clinics, didn’t you?”

  Bittler scoffed. “Clinics. Please. Those aren’t clinics. They’re execution chambers. Those women were murderers the same as the Nazis.”

  Wyatt swallowed. His throat burned, and he wondered if he had somehow ingested the lime that Bittler had obviously used in the pit. “Those women? How many are in there?”

  Bittler glanced up at Wyatt, finally meeting his eyes. He smiled, showing a set of small teeth that looked chiseled into blunt points. “Not enough,” the man answered.

  When the gun met the back of Bittler’s head with enough force to knock him unconscious, it seemed to come from nowhere. It took Wyatt a second to realize that he had done it. He stood over Bittler, trying not to vomit. He reached up and felt the outline of Kassidy’s photo in his shirt pocket. He pressed it closer to his chest and closed his eyes. Somehow, just having her photo in close proximity to Bittler made Wyatt feel as if she had been violated. He couldn’t confront the man. Bittler should not be given the opportunity to save his own life. It was best to just get on with it.

  Lucky for Wyatt, although Bittler was deceptively strong when awake and alert, unconscious he was pretty easy to move. With much maneuvering, punctuated by grunts and expletives, Wyatt managed to sling Bittler over his shoulder and carry him into the house. It didn’t take long to find the bathroom, although carrying Bittler up the steps was quite exhausting. Wyatt deposited him face down into the tub and turned the faucet on. He plugged up the drain and then washed his own arms and face in the bathroom sink. Altho
ugh he got most of the dirt off, the burn in his skin only deepened.

  He tried to ignore it as he climbed into the tub with Bittler and held the man’s head beneath the water. It was only a few inches deep, but it was enough to keep the man’s mouth and nose submerged. Wyatt’s arms ached and trembled as he held Bittler’s face pressed against the bottom. Although he was unconscious, the man’s body still twitched and quaked before finally going still. The whole thing took about five minutes. When he was finished, the tub was nearly full. He turned off the water and flipped Bittler’s body over but couldn’t bring himself to look at the man’s face.

  He checked his watch. He had almost two hours before Deborah Bittler got home. He went downstairs for staging materials, taking care to avoid the shed. He had dropped his backpack, with the bat in it, in the yard. He finished up with Bittler and was arranging rocks on the bathroom floor when he heard the sound of a car door slamming.

  It was close. Very close.

  Wyatt froze and listened intently. He strained to hear over his thundering heartbeat. The house was completely silent.

  Except for the sound of the front door opening.

  “Fuck,” Wyatt mumbled.

  Then Deborah’s voice, the sound causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand up. “Michael, I’m home,” she called.

  In all the time Wyatt had spied on the couple, aside from a traffic jam a single time on her way home from grocery shopping, Deborah’s routine had not altered by more than two minutes. But the night Wyatt had chosen to kill her husband, Deborah came home early.

  That’s what he got for being so impulsive. The OxyContin made him feel so good—like he could do anything—that he had grown careless. He hadn’t taken the proper precautions. Even though he’d spied on the Bittlers for months, it had also been months since he’d surveilled them. He should have taken more time to make sure their routine remained the same.