Written in Blood

by Layton Green

  Kirby cursed, grabbed his sweatshirt, and sprinted for the door.

  35

  Kirby caught a glimpse of a gray hoodie disappearing into a tract of woods on the other side of the gym parking lot. He dashed after the figure, beeping his car door and stopping only to yank out his gun.

  Dusk had fallen. Shadows rippled through the trees as spindly vines and branches whipped into Kirby’s face. After a hundred yards, the forest spilled into the rear of an apartment complex.

  A flash of gray slipped around a corner. Kirby followed, gun raised, stepping over a pile of trash overflowing from a pair of dumpsters. He gave chase through the center of the complex, sprinting past pickup trucks and aging imports, praying his quarry had not ducked into one of the apartments.

  Heads turned as he ran, wary eyes tracking his movements. A young black man sprinting through a working-class apartment complex with a gun? Someone was probably calling the cops on him.

  Kirby could call for backup, but that would mean handcuffs, police cars, a trip downtown.

  Preach wanted answers, not more red tape.

  At the end of the apartment complex, Kirby spotted the gray hoodie fleeing down a narrow country lane. He assumed he was chasing Kim Vu, but whoever it was, he was fast.

  Vines poked out of scraggly bushes and stretched onto the road like sleeping snakes. Trailers and ramshackle houses dotted the sides of the blacktop, cars and toys littered the lawns. This was the poor side of Creekville, and it only got worse.

  A pit bull barked and lunged for him. Kirby shouted as he jumped into the middle of the road. The dog was frothing at the mouth, trying to pull its tether out of the ground. Kirby swallowed and kept running. The gray hoodie had turned at the sound of the dog, then fled down a gravel road.

  Kirby topped a small knoll, sprinted down a steep incline, turned right on an even narrower gravel road. He slowed as the road dead-ended at a low-lying cul-de-sac surrounded by an unruly mass of weeds, sickly oaks, and overgrown bushes. Interspersed among the vegetation was a loose circle of shacks made from cement blocks and topped by corrugated iron. Rusting vehicles were parked haphazardly in the weeds.

  The cul-de-sac had the stink of sewage water. Kirby scanned the shacks and saw broken windows, moss-covered woodpiles, and broken furniture lying in the grass.

  The cul-de-sac was eerily quiet. He peered around in vain for a glimpse of the gray hoodie. The only sign of life was a young child poking at a bird’s nest with a skateboard that had lost its wheels. The light had almost failed, but Kirby could see far enough down the gravel road to know that no one was on it.

  His quarry was here somewhere. Hiding.

  Kirby gave the shacks a nervous glance. He had his badge, and could go door to door if needed, but he doubted it would help. It could even be dangerous, if the runner had holed up with someone familiar.

  Kirby stood with his hands clenched, debating what to do. He glanced at the little boy, who had stopped poking at the nest and was staring at a rotting barn tucked between a dying oak and a thicket of bamboo. Bag worms hung grotesquely from the desiccated branches of the oak.

  Why was the kid staring at that barn?

  Kirby decided to report his location, in case something went south. By the time he finished his call, the kid had run into one of the shacks. Kirby raised his gun and waded through knee-high grass toward the barn, his head on a swivel.

  The barn door was half off its hinges. A crow cawed, causing him to jump. This was the diciest thing he had done as a cop. Hands down.

  He berated himself for his cowardice. Preach would already be inside that barn.

  Preach might also be on his knees, retching at the memory of whatever he had seen in that tree house in Atlanta.

  The door creaked as Kirby pulled it open. Huddled against the back of the barn was a boy in his late teens, wearing gray track pants and a matching hoodie. A quick glance revealed mildewing bales of hay and spider webs feathering the eaves, grimy with trapped debris.

  Kim Vu—Kirby recognized him from the mug shot—had the dark hair and smooth features of a teen model, though his eyes were harder and shrewder than any kid on a billboard.

  He was staring at Kirby with a sullen expression. The teen’s slender, effeminate hands were empty. Kirby breathed an internal sigh of relief.

  “It’s okay,” Kirby said, dialing up a smile as he lowered his gun. “I’m a pol—”

  A starburst of pain exploded in Kirby’s head. He dropped the gun and reeled, dimly aware of the sound of shattered glass, trying to stay on his feet. Something wet and sticky ran down his neck.

  A voice, a female voice, shrieked in a foreign tongue as Kirby toppled backward. His vision was blurry, but he saw Kim racing toward the barn door, leaping into the air to clear Kirby’s prone form.

  Kirby mustered the strength to snare an ankle, jerking Kim on top of him. The impact hurt like hell. Someone kicked Kirby in the ribs. A girl. Tram. The sister.

  Kim went for the gun, but Kirby punched him in the side and ripped it out of his grasp. Kirby’s vision started to clear as the girl came at with him a pitchfork. It grazed him as he twisted to the side, ripping his shirt. The lunge overextended her, and he rushed forward, tackling her before she could regain her balance. He twisted her arm behind her back and pointed the gun at Kim. He didn’t want to hurt either one of them, but the situation was spiraling.

  He nudged the gun toward the rear of the barn. “Back there,” he yelled at Kim. “Now.”

  Kim didn’t move, and Kirby wrenched the sister’s arm higher up her back. Tram yelped, and Kim limped backward to the rear of the barn, hands holding his stomach, eyes spilling hate.

  “I just want to talk,” Kirby said. Moving carefully, he used his gun hand to lift his sweatshirt and reveal the badge clipped to his belt.

  Kim gave a high-pitched laugh. “Cop just want to talk. Right. So what you want, a freebie sandwich?”

  “You think I chased you all this way for a lay? I’m looking for information.”

  “We don’t know nothing. And we don’t snitch.”

  Kirby softened his expression and stepped to the side, still holding Tram. “My bad, then. There’s the door. You can go ahead and leave.”

  Kim took a step toward his sister, eyes mistrustful. Kirby put a hand out. “I said you’re free to go. Your sister, she just assaulted a police officer with a deadly weapon.”

  Kim stopped moving.

  “You know how quickly she’ll move through the system for that?” Kirby said. “I’d have to look it up, but I’d say that goes for ten, maybe fifteen years.”

  Tram squirmed. Kirby held her tight. “I’ll pretend I never caught you,” he said. “I won’t say a word about this, and Donnie will never know. Neither will Mac Dobbins.”

  Kim’s coffee-colored face paled at the mention of Mac’s name. “You think people haven’t seen us? You one stupid cop.”

  “I need to talk to you about Damian Black and Farley Robertson. That’s it. I don’t care about anything else.”

  Kim looked around the barn, searching for a way out. He locked eyes with his sister, and some telepathic message seemed to pass between them. After balling his fists, he slumped to the ground, his back against the wall. “You give us money for bus ticket out of town. I tired of this place anyway. This place crazier than Hanoi.” He turned to his sister, said something in Vietnamese, and she nodded. He turned back to Kirby and held out his hand.

  Kirby took out his wallet and gave him fifty-five dollars. It was all he had. This better be worth it, he thought.

  “Did Donnie send you to Damian’s house?” Kirby asked.

  Kim nodded.

  “How many times?”

  The teen inclined his head toward his sister. “At first it just her. Then he find out about me and pay to watch us together. Then he pay to join.”

  Kirby struggled to contain his revulsion. “Where was this? At Damian’s house?”

  “Yeah. In that weird basement.” />
  “What about Farley Robertson? Was he there from the beginning?”

  Kim shook his head. “He come later. First for videos, then for me. My sister not his type.”

  Kirby gritted his teeth. “Did Farley and Damian . . . did they ever participate together?”

  “Sure. But never with each other. Side by side, sometimes.”

  “Was there ever anyone else?”

  Kim thought for a moment. “A few times. Another man. I don’t know his name.”

  “How did you know Damian’s and Farley’s names?”

  “Farley owns bookstore. I buy books to practice English. And Damian, he famous.”

  “This other man, was he balding? Tall, thin face, probably arrived in a good suit?”

  “That sound right.”

  Kirby pulled up Elliott Fenton’s website on his phone, stomach churning as he enlarged a photo of the attorney and showed it to the siblings.

  Kim stepped closer, and Kirby kept a firm lock on Tram’s elbow. “That him,” Kim said, and then chortled. “An attorney? How come he no pay us better?”

  “Were there ever any other prostitutes involved?”

  “Sure. He have reputation on the street. An appetite.”

  “Who? Farley?”

  “Damian.”

  Kirby started. “What do you mean, an appetite? Were there minors involved?”

  “Why not? People like him, they always need different. I know he love sushi.”

  “Sushi? What’s that?”

  “People who don’t hook but need the money. Amateurs. One-timers. Fresh fish.”

  Kirby’s opinion of the deceased was sinking lower and lower. “When was the last time you were with them?”

  “Damian?” Kim said. “Maybe a week before he die.”

  “What about Farley and Elliott?”

  Kim pondered the question again. “Been some time.”

  Alarm bells started ringing in Kirby’s head. “Were all three of them together the last time you saw Farley or Elliott? About six weeks ago?”

  “That sound right.”

  Kirby swallowed and tried to think of other angles. “Have you heard anything on the street about who might have killed Damian or Farley?”

  “That your job, not mine.”

  “It’s your sister’s future,” Kirby said grimly, “not mine.”

  Kim’s expression turned sullen, warping the silky contours of his face. “We answer your questions. Let us go.”

  “Look at me, Kim.” Kirby waited until he was looking him in the eye. Tram squirmed again, and he gripped her elbow harder. “What’s the word on the street? Who took them out? J. T. Belker? Mac? Who?”

  “The only word on the street is that cops asking too many questions, and Mac not happy.” He pointed at Kirby. “The word is that you next.”

  36

  Preach woke to a stiff neck from sleeping in his car. Officer Haskins had agreed to watch Ari’s apartment until two a.m., and Preach spelled him around midnight, right after leaving the mayor’s house. Elliott had still been inside when Preach left, but he didn’t want to risk being seen. Ari’s lights were turned off when he arrived, and he had fallen asleep with his hand on his gun.

  Silvery predawn light slunk through the windshield. He debated waking Ari and decided against it. She needed to rest. Instead he drove to Jimmy’s Corner Store as the case churned through the fog in his brain.

  Elliott and Damian and Farley, friends since high school.

  Elliott at Damian’s house the night before the murder. A murder that was committed by someone who most likely knew the victim.

  Elliott’s connections to Wade and Mac Dobbins. Elliott sleeping with the mayor, protected at the highest levels.

  Elliott, Elliott, Elliott.

  Sipping a coffee, he drove down Main Street, passing the station. His aunt had agreed to see him early, before the day began. It was his fifth session, and she said she was close to making a decision.

  His stomach fluttered thinking about which way she might go.

  After greeting her, Preach asked his aunt about the Byronic Wilderness Society. She barely remembered it and gave him the names of a few teachers who had been more clued in to the social scene, Preach thanked her and then hesitated. “Once this case calms down, I’d like to get you and mom together for dinner. I’ll host.”

  His aunt gave him a sad smile, and then surprised him by nodding.

  “You will?” he said.

  “If Virginia agrees.”

  She squeezed his hand, then resumed her professional demeanor as they entered the therapy room. As always, the abruptness of the change unsettled him.

  “It’s time to talk about Atlanta,” she said, after they sat.

  A knot of tension formed in Preach’s stomach. He had known the time would come and that he wouldn’t be prepared. When he shifted, the movement felt wooden.

  “During your time as a homicide detective, before your last case in Atlanta, did you have any other incidents? Even minor ones?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “Why do you think that was?”

  “I don’t know why it triggers, unless it’s a buildup of emotion that has to release. Or when something happens that . . .” he trailed off, unsure how to finish.

  “It’s so terrible your mind can’t accept it?” she offered. “Was it something you hadn’t dealt with before?”

  “I saw plenty of terrible things in Atlanta. Daily.”

  “As bad as the incident at the prison?”

  “Maybe not,” he mumbled. “But close.”

  “Were you afraid it would happen again, as a police officer?”

  “Of course I was. And it did.”

  “But not for a long time. Almost a decade.”

  Preach lifted his palms. There was nothing much to say.

  “You’re a brave man for facing your issues head on, in the line of duty.”

  “Was it brave? Or selfish and stupid?”

  She looked confused, and he gave her a grim smile. “You don’t know the details of the case.”

  “I was going to ask you to tell me, when you were ready.”

  He looked down. He had never admitted his lack of ability to discuss that day, not to anyone but himself.

  Whenever his mind edged closer to the events of that night, his thoughts got fuzzy and it felt hard to draw a breath. Yet he knew the memory was there, hiding inside him like some crouching gargoyle.

  What if he let the memories in and he had another breakdown in front of his aunt? She would be forced to turn in a negative report. He would probably lose his job.

  “Joe?” she asked, as carefully as if trimming a bonsai tree. “Can we talk about the tree house?”

  When she said those two words, tree house, the tension in his body hardened into a point, a dagger of repressed memory.

  Her voice softened, a warm compress settling over the pain. “Why don’t we work our way there?”

  He blew out a breath. “Sure.”

  “What can you tell me about the case?”

  “I had never dealt with a child murderer before. At first, we thought it was just one body, a missing runaway we found at the bottom of a pond. Then we found three more in a field nearby and realized we could have a serial killer on our hands.”

  “The children had been molested?”

  His jaw tightened. “Yes.”

  “And how did that knowledge affect you?”

  “How do you think?” he snapped. “It’s the worst crime of all. The betrayal of innocence. An abomination of what it means to be human.”

  “But you were able to carry on.”

  He fidgeted in his chair. “When I read the coroner’s reports on the bodies, I had a rough night. Lots of soul searching. But not an episode. I thought the worst was over. Maybe I should have backed off, but it would have been extremely awkward to explain to my captain. And also, I don’t mean to be arrogant . . . but I was good. Very good.”

  “Are very
good,” she said.

  He waved a hand. He wasn’t so sure about that. “I wanted the bastard caught. Put in a hole. And I knew I was the one with the best chance of doing it.”

  “What happened next?”

  “I found him,” he said simply. “A local schoolteacher. Third grade. The year before, he had won a teaching award. His MO was following kids around homeless shelters at night, then luring them into his car.”

  “How did you find him?”

  “I discovered a pattern in the victims, a certain type, and I interviewed street kids all over Atlanta. Eventually I found one who had seen a suspicious man prowling the streets near one of the shelters. The kid was able to give a description. Another confirmed it, said the same man had tried to lure him into his car. I won’t bore you with the details, but I found the guy in the system, a convicted pedophile from California who had changed his identity and gotten a job as a school teacher.”

  His aunt’s eyes briefly lowered.

  “Yeah. Exactly. It was two a.m. the night I made the connection. I couldn’t bear to wait another second. I called my partner and told him to meet me at the address, but he was groggy and lived thirty minutes away. I grabbed a random patrolman and went to the teacher’s house. I left the patrolman to guard the door and, on a hunch, explored the property. Pedophiles who kidnap victims often keep them in a basement or a separate structure. In the backyard I found a path leading into a tract of woods. A hundred feet inside I found . . .”

  He trailed off, and when he failed to continue his aunt laid a hand on his arm. “Don’t do it for the job, do it for you. Or it will weigh you down forever.”

  Preach’s tongue felt coated in glue. He took a long drink of water, then kept swallowing until his tongue didn’t feel so thick.

  Maybe his aunt was right, and maybe she wasn’t. He had to try something, because he knew what the memories were doing to him. He knew their vicious power.

  “I found a . . . tree house . . . that looked like something out of a fairytale. A miniature castle painted in bright colors, with gingerbread trim and plastic candy canes all around it. Any child in the world would have loved it.” He paused to collect himself again. “The tree house was completely hidden. There was a kid in there, I could feel it. And that child wasn’t staying in there for one more second. I called for backup, radioed the patrolman to keep an eye on both the house and the backyard, then climbed the ladder and tried the door.” He cradled his glass of water as he croaked out the words. The memories were an oncoming train and he was tied to the tracks. “There was a deadbolt. I had to use my shoulder. I remember feeling enraged but calm enough to do my job. I was a professional. I opened the door and—”