Aberration

by Lisa Regan

  A knot formed in my throat. It was hard to breathe. “Something is wrong,” I repeated, my voice a croak. I wanted to say be careful, but the words lodged in my throat.

  Isaac disappeared into my house. The world seemed to shrink to a tiny point in my field of vision. The sunshine, which had been so welcoming only seconds ago, seemed sterile and harsh. I felt a prickle at my scalp. I turned 360 degrees, searching the cars parked up and down the street and the houses across from and next to mine. My gaze landed on Dale’s house.

  His front door stood wide open, admitting only darkness beyond its threshold.

  My Glock was in my hand. For the second time in as many days, I racked a round into the chamber.

  “McCaffrey!” I shouted.

  I turned toward Dale’s house and broke into a dead run.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  KASSIDY

  November 23rd

  I burst through the doorway of Dale’s home and almost took a face-plant. A broken flowerpot lay immediately at my feet, its dirt and plant contents scattered across the floor. Beyond it, Dale’s living room was in wild disarray. His couch was overturned, his coffee table splintered in two. His television lay facedown on the floor, bleeding broken glass. Torn books and picture frames littered the floor. His DVD player lay on the floor opposite the entertainment center, as if it had been thrown across the room like a Frisbee. There was a gouge in the wall above it where it had made impact.

  Framed prints of the cityscapes which Dale had loved lay broken and crumpled amid the destruction. I swept the barrel of my gun from one side of the room to the other. The Glock trembled in my hands. I expected to see Dale’s bludgeoned body on the floor just like we’d found Deborah Bittler and Evette Gerst, but it wasn’t there.

  I took another cautious step into the house. The words jumped out from my periphery. I looked to my left. Next to the front door, on the wall was a bloody scrawl that said: I HATE YOU.

  Isaac almost knocked me over as he stumbled into Dale’s house after me. He flew through the doorway, gun at the ready. He, too, almost tripped over the broken flowerpot. Instead, he barreled into me. He caught me expertly with one arm before I fell to the floor. He steadied me, but his fingers remained curled around my upper arm.

  “Are you out of your mind, Bishop?” he admonished. “You can’t go running off without backup. God knows what you’re walking into. I came out and you were gone. You scared the crap out of me. Your house is clear.”

  He stopped talking when I pointed to the message on the wall. My eyes were transfixed. I couldn’t stop staring at the angry red words. “Do you think that’s blood?” I asked numbly.

  For the first time since he’d stumbled in after me, Isaac took a good look around. He studied the devastation, giving a low whistle before stepping toward the wall to better study the words.

  I tore my eyes away from the wall. As I took in the massacred living room again, tears welled up in my eyes. My throat felt thick, my chest heavy. I holstered my weapon and stepped over a pile of debris. I glanced at a mangled print of Washington D.C. “Where’s the body?” I asked.

  “I’ll check the rest of the house,” Isaac said. “Stay. Here. Don’t touch anything. We don’t want to contaminate the scene.”

  Even if I had wanted to, I couldn’t move. My legs were stone pillars. I knew I was breathing, but my body felt like stone. I had brought this on Dale. Poor hapless Dale, who was just trying to be a good neighbor. He’d helped me with the dogs, with home repairs and other mundane things. We were both single with no real family nearby. We’d relied on each other for things most people took for granted: a ride when your car broke down, a buddy to sit with you in the ER when you needed stitches, someone to sign for a package when you weren’t home. He knew what I had gone through with Nico Sala, and he looked out for me.

  I had always felt safe and secure knowing Dale was only a stone’s throw away. He didn’t deserve this. I had brought a killer into his life, into his home. It was unusual and completely out of character for the For You killer to kidnap a victim, but I prayed that Dale was still alive.

  Blake Foster had obviously lost control. His unbridled rage lay all around me, announcing itself in splintered wood and shattered glass. Again, it was completely in contrast to his earlier, staged crime scenes where he’d carefully planned and placed every detail. Just like the scenes at the Bittlers’ and Evette Gerst’s homes, the departure from his normal rigid habits and his signature was alarming.

  I HATE YOU.

  He was angry. I’d betrayed him. First, I had thwarted his plan to harm Isaac. Then, I hadn’t come home last night. He must have known or at least assumed that I’d spent the night at Isaac’s house, in which case Blake Foster had taken Dale in retribution for the night I’d spent with Isaac. It was out of character for me. I’d had very few lovers. Even my liaisons with Jory had been few and far between. Jory. If the For You killer had gone off the deep end because of my proximity to Isaac, was it possible that he had somehow caused Jory’s car accident? Was it coincidence that the day I gave in to Jory and finally let him into my life he was killed?

  The heaviness in my chest intensified to a sternum-crushing pressure. I couldn’t catch my breath. My mind worked frantically through the inconsistencies surrounding Jory’s death—him turning the wrong way into the tree, his missing wallet, the blue mystery car.

  The car.

  I worked backward, remembering the day TK and I had visited the Wilkins scene. Jory’s words came back to me: “We have a couple of people who think they saw a man lurking around in an older, light blue Honda Civic the day Wilkins was killed.”

  I HATE YOU.

  “Oh my God,” I said aloud.

  I was still staring at the angry, red words when Isaac came back into the room. “Bishop?” He said. “Did you hear me? There’s no one here and no body. I checked the whole house and out back. Dale is not here.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  WYATT

  November 23rd

  Standing in the hotel room, a cold sweat enveloped Wyatt’s entire body. He had blacked out standing outside McCaffrey’s house after seeing Kassidy with the man—after seeing bare skin. Had Wyatt attacked the two of them? Was the gash a defensive wound? Had he hurt her? What if he’d killed her? He found a set of car keys on the nightstand and snatched them up. In the parking garage he went from level to level, clicking the lock/unlock buttons on the keychain while panning the cars for signs of blinking lights. Finally, on level four a black Lincoln MKX beeped back at him, its hazard lights blinking briefly.

  Wyatt got in and started the car. He found the registration in the glove compartment. It was registered to Wyatt Anderton at a small property he kept under that alias in Southern Central Pennsylvania. It was registered in Pennsylvania, but Wyatt kept it in a rented garage only a few miles from his home near Kassidy. He kept the MKX nearby in case of an emergency. Something must have gone wrong if he’d resorted to using it. Wyatt’s heart thudded in his chest, the sound echoing in his ears. His entire head pulsed with each beat. He white-knuckled the steering wheel and tore out of the parking garage, tires squealing.

  It took him twenty minutes to reach Kassidy’s street. Dizziness took over when he spotted emergency and police vehicles outside the house. He rolled by slowly in a line of passing cars. No one even glanced in his direction. He gasped, relief surging through him when he saw her and McCaffrey standing on her front lawn. TK Bennett stood talking to them. Wyatt almost pulled over, but then he noticed the crime scene techs going in and out of the house next door to hers. His relief was quickly tempered with confusion. Again, his heartbeat roared in his ears, increasing in tempo until he felt breathless.

  What the hell had happened?

  Wyatt returned to his hotel and tossed the room, looking for any evidence of his activities from the previous evenin
g. He wished he would leave himself notes. In the hotel room closet, he found all the files and mementos he’d ever kept on Kassidy. He’d put them in boxes and stacked them neatly. If he’d brought them with him that meant he’d abandoned his home and the alias that went with it. In the bathroom sink he found a blood-soaked tee-shirt which looked as if it had originally been white.

  Next to the sink was Dale Hunter’s driver’s license, a bloody thumbprint obscuring the photo.

  “No,” Wyatt muttered.

  He picked up the license and stared at it. His legs wobbled. He sat on the edge of the tub.

  “Fuck.”

  What had he done now?

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  KASSIDY

  November 23rd

  TK arrived along with a crime scene unit. He spoke softly as he shepherded me outside and over to my front lawn. My dogs surrounded me. Their usual excitement was held in reserve. They could tell something was not right. I didn’t hear anything that TK said. I stood in my sun-drenched driveway feeling awkward and lightheaded. I thought it would be just fine if the world stopped right that moment and I could remain safe and warm in my paralysis. The baby brought me back. I felt six tiny thumps as she tumbled around inside me. My senses returned. I was hungry again.

  I noticed TK and Isaac conferring a few feet away, Isaac motioning toward my house.

  “I need Remy Caldwell’s phone number,” I said.

  They both looked at me as if surprised to hear me speak. TK stepped toward me. He raised an eyebrow. “What?”

  “Remy Caldwell’s phone number. Do you have it?”

  TK looked from me to Dale’s house and back, as if trying to make the connection. “Kassidy,” he began, but I held up a hand to silence him.

  “McCaffrey has been stopping in to check on me for a month. Yesterday, Foster attacked him. After I spent the night at McCaffrey’s, he did something to Dale. He thinks that something is going on between the two of us and he’s angry,” I explained.

  TK folded his arms across his chest. “What does that have to do with Remy Caldwell?”

  “Foster is watching me. He’s always been watching. So he would have known about Jory. I think he may have had something to do with Jory’s death. The witness from the gas station said Jory talked to a person in a blue Honda or Hyundai. When we were at the Wilkins scene, Jory said they had reports of a man lurking around in a blue Honda Civic the day she was killed.”

  “You think Jory approached the person in the blue car for that reason?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know why Jory approached the car. I doubt he suspected that the driver was the For You killer—if he had, he would have detained the guy. Look, all of these deaths are connected to me. I think we need to explore the possibility that Foster may have been involved in Jory’s death. I think we should ask Remy to track down a list of people who rented blue Hondas in or around the city of Portland the day or two before Megan Wilkins was killed.”

  Isaac, who had been silent up to that point, came to stand next to me. He caught TK’s eye. “I think she’s right,” he said. He turned to me. “Jory was your—”

  “We had been seeing each other,” I cut in. “It was on and off, but the day he was killed, we had decided to give the relationship a real try.”

  Briefly, I recapped the circumstances surrounding Jory’s death. Isaac listened, eyes serious and sympathetic at the same time. The crease in his brow appeared as he took in my words. When I finished, he looked at TK. “This guy is killing people Agent Bishop doesn’t even remember. Now with her neighbor disappearing—I don’t think it’s a stretch that he might have gone after someone she was seeing. It’s a viable lead.”

  TK checked his watch. “I don’t have Remy’s number here, but we have it at the office. You and I will drive to Sunderlin today. Lieutenant McCaffrey will stay here on scene until you’ve packed some things. Meet me at the office in one hour. We’ll call Remy before we leave.”

  I nodded and started toward the house. I needed a shower. My hair felt lank and stringy from the previous night’s rain and sleeping on Isaac’s couch. I stopped at the front door, a thick knot forming in my throat. I didn’t want to go in. Had he been in there? Touched things? Defiled my home with his presence? I let my mind wander into scenarios I’d been keeping at bay. Blake Foster had stalked me for years. Surely he’d been in my home before without my knowing about it—even with my dogs, who were not easily charmed.

  The dogs gathered around my legs, nudging each other aside as they vied to be the first inside the house. I put my hand on the knob. My dogs probably knew Blake Foster. He’d probably been in my home hundreds of times. For all I knew, he’d made himself a spare key.

  I was slipping back into my paralysis, my heart beginning to thunder with anxiety when Isaac’s hand closed over mine and twisted the knob. He gave me a gentle push inside. He didn’t look at me. He said, “I’ll wait while you get ready.”

  He took up position at the foot of my stairs.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  KASSIDY

  November 23rd

  I left Isaac at my house and drove to Quantico, all three of my dogs piled in the back of my Trailblazer. I left them in the parking garage with the windows rolled down while I went to my office to call Remy Caldwell. After lodging my request with him, I returned to the parking garage to find Isaac leaning against the side of my Trailblazer. He had slid a hand through the cracked window to pet the dogs. He removed it when he saw me coming.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked as I unlocked the driver’s side door.

  He brushed through his hair with one hand. “TK called me. He, uh, can’t go to Sunderlin today—too much work to be done here now that Dale is missing—but he thinks you should go, and he’ll meet you there tomorrow or the next day.”

  “You didn’t answer my question. Why are you here?”

  He went completely still, staring at me. I couldn’t read him. I put my hands on my hips and thrust my chin in his direction. He stared back at me, his face perfectly blank. I had no idea why I was doing this—why I was being so difficult. Isaac had been a good friend to me the last month, particularly the last twenty-four hours, yet I couldn’t stop myself from pushing him away. We had even almost kissed.

  In the harsh light of day, a romantic involvement with him seemed like a terrible idea, but that morning a part of me had wanted him to kiss me. A wave of shame enveloped me. I was carrying Jory’s baby, and although he was gone, my feelings for him were not. Even though I was sure my attraction to Isaac was born of intense loneliness and grief, I still felt guilty about it.

  A long moment passed. Isaac kept his expression neutral, seemingly mulling over possible responses. Finally, he said, “I’m here because I’m going with you to Sunderlin.”

  He held up a hand to silence the protest about to spill from my lips. “I’m going because whether you like it or not, I don’t think you should be alone. Neither does TK. I’m not trying to imply that you can’t take care of yourself. I’m just telling you that your colleagues would feel better if you had a little backup. The buddy system and all that.”

  I felt my resistance give way to emotional exhaustion. I didn’t want to drive to Sunderlin alone. I didn’t like the fact that Isaac made me feel safe and less afraid, but there it was. I chewed my bottom lip for a moment. “Don’t you have a police department to run?”

  “No. I have a division to run, and for that I have some good people to step in for a few days. Besides, technically I’m still on the clock. Deborah Bittler’s killer is still on the loose.”

  I sighed and turned back to the car. Wet dog noses smudged the windows as I opened the door. The three of them tried to stick their heads between the seats at the same time. Smalls managed to lick my forearm as I climbed into th
e vehicle.

  “I’ll be staying at my parents’ for Thanksgiving,” I said.

  Isaac shrugged. “I didn’t have plans for Thanksgiving anyway.”

  “Did you pack a bag?” I asked.

  Isaac hooked a thumb toward his sedan, which was two spots away. “In my car.”

  “Get your bag,” I said.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  KASSIDY

  November 23rd

  When Lexie and I were children, my parents’ home was brand new. It was one of the original three homes built in what was a new development at the time. All around us were dirt lots. Each year more and more homes sprouted up, their yards delivered by a truck, the grass rolled out like a carpet in front and back of each one. After ten years, our house looked old and small compared to the newer, larger ones surrounding it.

  I hadn’t been to see my parents in years. Usually my mother drove to Virginia to see me. My father had only come once or twice—he had been frequently busy with work until his retirement the year before. It had always been difficult for me to return home without Lexie. There was an achingly lonely silence that crept up on me. It woke me in the night, and I couldn’t get back to sleep. I always ended up in the attic going through the few boxes of Lexie’s things that my mother had kept.

  Being home always reminded me how lost in the world I was without Lexie. I felt adrift, anchorless, a lonesome passenger on a shoddy raft in search of rescue that would never come. The last time I was home that sensation was heightened by the fact that I had just barely survived Nico Sala. I loved my parents, and my memories of growing up in their home were warm and inviting, but I just couldn’t stand being there without my twin.