by Jordan Jones
The Phoenix was flying through the sky, taking the village by storm. The bells were ringing. The pitchforks came out, their sharp points aimed at the clouds above.
No one knew what Brooks would have to do other than Brooks himself. He was done questioning the methods and flipped his seat back in the upright position.
Twenty-eight days, he thought. Twenty-eight days before I will be able to get my hands around your neck, oh sweet cousin of mine.
Twenty-eight days was far too long for Brooks to wait to kill again. He would have to keep himself busy in the meantime, but Angela was going to have to die for treason.
Chapter Twenty-One
The cabin grew smaller around me in the coming weeks. Katherine played her part with cooking and cleaning, and I played mine as the ailing father, complaining of my aches and pains.
The weather took a different turn as the melting ice fell from the branches and onto the ground. Though nature had its way of reminding us it was drastically changing, it didn’t have the temperament to do so subtly.
I had read The Sparrow’s letter over one hundred times since Abraham left it on the couch beside me. I hadn’t talked to him since he left, but LT Anderson told me he was hyper-focused on the case. He would sporadically drop off a case file here and there with updated clues and evidence.
I was nearly convinced that The Sparrow had left town. It was nearly four weeks since his last murder and we hadn’t heard a peep from him.
The evidence was scattered about, so I thought it was a good time for some gruesome ‘father-daughter’ time. I allowed Katherine to explore some of the case file, and she told me The Sparrow likely killed someone who was rotting inside their home, waiting to be found.
She had found out through snooping that The Sparrow had killed before, and would likely kill again. She told me he might’ve done so in secrecy.
That wasn’t how The Sparrow operated. He liked to make a spectacle of his killings. His job was ever thorough and wanted the masses to know what he was doing.
The Burnley and Henson residences had been combed over a dozen times and I was told the three letters were tacked to a corkboard inside the briefing room at the precinct. The case wasn’t quite cold, but without new evidence it would be.
The case files were growing smaller with fewer new details every week. I was concerned that there was no way we’d catch him before he struck again.
“Here,” Katherine said. “Ice the shoulder a little bit. It looks a little swollen today.” The physical therapist came out twice a week and would always leave me in substantial pain, but today wasn’t so bad. The physical stress of the exercises and stretches usually left my right side a little more swelled than the left.
The feeling along the entirety of my right side was back, and I could finally move my arm in a full windmill motion without passing out.
They started weaning me off the Vicodin, but the ibuprofen was still on tap.
I groaned as Katherine placed the Ziploc baggie of ice cubes against my bare chest. We had gotten along for the most part during our stay in the cabin, though I knew it would likely be short-lived. I wanted her to know how much I cared for her, but I didn’t want to be taken advantage of.
The hurt I felt when she told me how little I helped her felt like a sharp instrument stuck in my side, though the pain was quite different than what I felt slice through my shoulder. The burden I carried was heavy, and I knew the trek was long and arduous.
“It doesn’t look as bad today as it was last week when she was here,” I said, gritting my teeth. “The discoloration is finally going away.”
“It’s going to leave a nasty scar, though,” she quipped. “You’ll have that for the rest of your life.”
The scar in the back was nearly two inches wide, and it broke an inch wide in the front. The doctor said it meant that he likely stabbed through up to the handle given what type of knife it was.
There was a knock on the door. LT Anderson was scheduled to drop off a new set of case files for me to scour through while I was still recovering.
“Good morning, Detective,” he said as he entered. He nodded to Katherine. “Miss.”
“Morning,” I said. Katherine started to redress the bandage. “What have you got for me today?”
He sat down slowly in the recliner. “Actually, I wanted to run something by you.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah…it’s come to my attention that the last time you talked to Detective Abraham was nearly a month ago.” He repositioned himself awkwardly in the recliner. “He always had an excuse not to come up here, whether he was busy going through paperwork, or had to question a neighbor.”
“Really?” I asked. “I always thought it was sensitive information you wanted to deliver yourself.”
“Oh yeah, Trotter,” he said sarcastically. “I’m the lieutenant of an entire precinct. I have all the time in the world to drive out here in the middle of the forest a few times every week.”
I shook my head. “So, we had a conversation.”
“I need to know what was said…what was implied,” he demanded, uneasily in his chair. “Because, by the sound of it, you have one foot out the door.”
I sighed.
Harlow.
Abraham had confided in her about the conversation and she spilled it to LT Anderson. Abraham had too much pride in his work that he kept from allowing the telephone game to circulate the precinct.
“We talked about the case quickly, but not much more was said about it.”
“What was said, then?” he asked, peering over my shoulder to Katherine who had taken an interest in the conversation.
“I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do.”
“Meaning?”
“I wasn’t sure I wanted to stay in this field any longer,” I said. “I just nearly bled to death and he was talking about me getting right back in the thick of things.”
“And now?”
“And now…I don’t know. I’ve had nothing but time to think about it, but I’m still jumbled up. I’m jumpy now. I’ve had dreams of what happened…different variations. I’ve had issues keeping lights off at night. There’s a lot going on right now.”
He narrowed his brows and sat back in the recliner. He unashamedly took out a fat cigar and lit it up and crossed his legs. He took a few puffs of it and lazily turned his head to face me.
“Have you accomplished what you wanted to accomplish in twelve years as a detective and ten as a uniformed officer?”
I winced as Katherine took the ice pack off my back.
My years as an officer were spent aimlessly arresting DUI offenders and breaking up domestic disputes. My one big break came when I shot Alvin Dugger in the back in the middle of a busy intersection. My time as a detective was spent investigating simple suicides and missing people.
Then Madison. LT Anderson hastily closed the case while I was working on it. I wasn’t ready to close it.
I wasn’t ready.
Something sparked within me. Something about the poor twelve-year-old girl who jumped to her death from Covey Bridge pierced me through the heart. It still didn’t feel like a typical depressed teen expressing herself through art hours before she forced her own demise in brutal fashion.
The fiery phoenix shown tearing the villagers apart held inadvertent significance to me. It felt forced and I couldn’t explain it, but the beast gliding purposefully through the sky attacking the helpless people below grew in importance over a few seconds of time, though I felt the importance from the beginning.
Madison’s case was closed too soon. Something about it didn’t sit right with me, and I all the sudden had plume of motivational thoughts short-circuiting my brain.
Sparrow be damned, I wanted justice for the girl who suffered so. The battle that waged within me wasn’t about agreeing or disagreeing with The Sparrow’s choice of victims…it was about Madison and what she experienced.
It was about Madison and her story.
&nbs
p; It was about Madison and her ability to affect those who never knew her in inexplicable ways.
I felt a peace overcome me because I knew I would find answers for Madison; I just wanted to be able to tell her.
“I may have had some second thoughts, that much is true,” I said. “But, I know there’s no walking away from what I’ve started…from what’s happened. I’m in too deep now, and there’s no way I’m going to stop this fight.”
LT Anderson nodded without as much as a grin or expression of any sort. “Good.”
“I have one tiny condition,” I replied. “There’s something that I absolutely need before I can fully dedicate myself again.”
“What have you got in mind?”
“I want the Madison Maise case opened again,” I said, sternly. “Just for a couple of weeks. I’ll work on both cases simultaneously.” I interlocked my fingers in my lap as I sat there, waiting for any semblance of an answer.
LT Anderson took one puff of his cigar and gave a light shrug. “Ah, you have yourself a deal, Detective.” He reached his hand out to meet mine and stood up to leave. “I want to tell you, I still don’t see the significance of the Maise case, but if you do not find any different ending than there is right now, you’ll have some explaining to do to me and the Commissioner.”
I nodded and gave him a pat on the shoulder as he walked out the door.
I was certain Madison Maise would have the justice she deserved.
***
The rain was heavy in my dreams that night. It fell from the sky and hit the ground with such force and shook the trees that surrounded me. All the nature around me peered through the brush to find me…standing alone in a field.
I would finally have my say in my own life. The control was once again mine after it was taken away from me hundreds of times before. I was used to it, though I didn’t despise it any less. The heavy raindrops were difficult to avoid, but I still tried my best. Getting hit with one was lethal to anyone that understood them like I did.
Once hit, you were doomed forever. You were stuck in place, staring at the same four corners and a roof for eternity.
Eternity was forever, and the rain knew that. Their goal was to trap you into a continuous vortex of complacency and failure until you finally had enough and either expired or saw yourself out. The landing spots for the bigger raindrops were basically craters, though they weren’t the same type of crater we all knew from the real world. They weren’t just holes in the ground, but holes in our lives.
Suffocating us and snuffing out any existence we think we might have. Looking up, a raindrop fell from the biggest and darkest cloud from right above me. The winds died down to allow for maximum accuracy straight down. The moment before it hit the top of my head, I screamed and sat up on the couch.
I felt a sharp pain in my shoulders where the tender muscles were still healing. I looked through the open doorway and Katherine readjusted a little, but was largely unbothered by my whimper.
My face was covered in sweat as if I had broken a fever. I took a deep breath and slowly lied down, nuzzling my head comfortably on my pillow.
Rain, Rain, go away. Come again another day.
My head was throbbing and I was sick of the nightmares. Talking with LT Anderson helped me cope with decision-making, but did nothing to circumvent subconscious thoughts.
The clock showed 1:57 a.m., and I was wide-awake. I dare not fall asleep again…because I was afraid of rain. I shook my head out of personal embarrassment, and sat up. The letter The Sparrow left me was still tucked in a book on the coffee table to easy access.
I turned on the lamp, yawned and pulled the letter out, unfolding it gently as I did. My eyes searched through the letter long enough for me to catch a glimpse of something I may have missed before:
What has the ground done to you, Little One? You are dirty, yes, but what more has the moldy ground done?
The ground seemed significant to the author of the letter, but it was the first reference. The letters were all filled with metaphors making my job so much harder. I wasn’t an expert on deciphering cryptic writings, but I wanted to know more about what the ground represented.
Or, who the ground represented.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The neighborhoods were more lively than usual on a Monday morning at 10:00 a.m. The dense fog had lifted and Brooks could finally see more than three feet in front of his sedan as he pulled down Fairfield Lane, slowly maneuvering through parked cars on both sides of the road.
Brooks was confused as to why people didn’t park in their garages or driveways. Fairfield was a posh part of town, and there were plenty of garages to go around. They weren’t hurting for money.
And, it was annoying to Brooks. He called in sick, telling Dr. Leggons that his head was throbbing so bad he was puking.
There was no headache. If there were, Brooks wouldn’t be driving around in thick fog for thirty minutes, trying to find his way across town. That didn’t make sense to Brooks. Dr. Leggons was fine with Brooks calling in because he had built up over five hundred hours of sick time, breaking a record for consecutive days working without an illness.
It was something he used to care about, until he found his calling. The fog returned again the farther down the road he drove.
This was good, Brooks thought. This allowed him to pull into the driveway at 4558 Fairfield Lane in Lincolnshire, a house he’s visited before.
He shut off the car and stepped out. The fog became so thick it was difficult for Brooks to make out the Buick parked less than a foot in front of him, its bumper resting against the garage door.
Brooks walked around back and into the shattered glass where the sliding-glass door once stood. The temperature inside matched the forty degrees outside, and Brooks turned on his flashlight, turning left down the dark hallway.
The stench bit his nose as he opened the last door on the right, so he grabbed the handkerchief and placed it over his face, squeezing his nostrils together. The power was turned off due to nonpayment last time Brooks was here, so he came prepared with a small battery powered lantern he took out of his coat.
He placed the lantern on the nightstand, and the light hummed on, revealing the corpse on the bed, nearly covered up from head to toe.
It was completely undisturbed, but the scene was very disturbing.
Brooks saw the knife marks penetrated through the comforter and the dark, almost black, blood that escaped. Brooks was quite sure he remembered the fatal blow, because Isaac James stopped fighting back. Isaac was a special kind of predator in Brooks’ eyes.
He spent nearly three years in a federal prison for kidnapping a five year old from a hotel and driving her across state lines from Ohio to Indiana in an attempt to evade police. His van was found parked at a rural rest stop in Indiana; both he and the disheveled girl were eating pancakes. She was wearing a wig and sunglasses, which tipped off the waitress and cook, and they called the local police.
Before he could get in his car again, he was arrested and the poor traumatized girl was sent back home with her parents with only memories of the unthinkable.
Brooks had stabbed him nineteen times; once for every hour he was on the run. He still wondered if the punishment fit the crime, as he was sure Isaac didn’t feel the last five.
Madison guided Brooks to Isaac’s address after Brooks returned home from visiting his cousin. He was looking through the registry and cross-referencing profiles with people caught in sting operations. Brooks thought this only solidified his cases against them, making them as expendable as they could possibly be.
Isaac’s name came up multiple times, and after reading the story about the Amber alert, Brooks drove right over. The scene was loud and messy, but even in the quiet neighborhood, no one heard.
I should’ve brought the gun, he thought to himself. The body on the bed was in bad shape, which only helped his cause, but it was somehow tainted now. Every detail was laid out for the police to find the body qui
ckly and begin processing the scene.
Brooks picked up the pictures from the dresser of the girl Isaac abused, no other identifying information other than a fourteen year old walking into a psychiatric facility, no doubt getting help from the trauma the dead man caused.
The display was for Isaac James to finally own up to what he did, though Brooks couldn’t wait to end his miserable life. The display was for the police; it was Brooks’ plea that what he was doing was truly and morally right.
They didn’t seem to care. Isaac’s body was unclaimed by the coroner after all.
The news had stopped reporting on Brooks as “The Sparrow,” and now reported on local spring sports and how they were about to start up.
No one cared about the vile walking the earth. Everyone else let them walk around like nothing was the matter.
Isaac’s body was supposed to be a message like the others, but it was a wasted attempt at punishing the unredeemable. The world was supposed to see it and understand it, but they didn’t.
Angela didn’t and she lived it.
Brooks turned up the lamp and stood next to the body. The colder temperatures slowed decomposition, but it was still in bad shape.
It was a waste.
Brooks ripped off the note he stapled to Isaac’s chest and crumpled it up, putting it in his coat pocket. He grabbed a fresh copy he Xeroxed from his office and re-stapled it.
He wanted it to be fresh for the police when they finally did arrive. Peering through the window, Brooks saw the fog begin to lift again, making his car more visible. He glanced once more at the body and made his way back down the hall, much like he did the first time at the home.
Outside, Brooks pulled out of the driveway and turned down the road the way he came.
The cars on both sides of the street were easier for Brooks to see, but that didn’t make it any less annoying.
