A Lullaby in the Dark

by Billie Reece

  “Not yet.” Lieutenant Gordon gives me a once over. “You look like shit. There’s a shower and spare room down the hall with a couch. I used it earlier to get a few hours. Your turn. I’ll keep watch. I’ll wake you up should anything come through.”

  Another yawn works its way up. I could use a shower. My body and clothes are dirty from chasing Fred. It’s been a long day and will be even longer tomorrow. A few hours of rest will give me new insight. Hopefully.

  I retrieve my overnight bag from my Dodge, make use of the shower, and stretch out on a plaid fabric couch.

  As I fall asleep, The Lullaby Man haunts my dreams.

  Twenty-Five

  The door flies open. Warm and putrid air rushes out. The smell twines through my senses. I can hear it. Feel it. Taste it.

  Rot.

  Decay.

  I know that smell.

  I’m too late.

  I move through the old house, going straight for the closet door. The handle turns. It opens.

  Mary. Opal. Rachel.

  Their bodies lie in a mangled heap. Forgotten. A rat feasts on the meat. I grab it and sling it across the room.

  Their little girl voices fill my head. Screaming. Screaming. Screaming.

  I couldn’t save them. I couldn’t save them. I couldn’t save them.

  Where’s the other girl? Where’s Ava?

  With a gasp, I come from the terror that frequently plagues my sleep. I’m thirsty.

  For alcohol.

  A shadow shifts. No, not a shadow. A person. Tucker to be exact. It comes back to me. I’m on a couch in a spare room at Chief Hickman’s station. I slept here last night.

  “There you are.” Tucker smiles. “Good morning.”

  My stomach flutters like I’m sixteen again. Good Lord. I sit up. “Good morning.”

  He touches his cheek, then points at mine. “That doesn’t look good.”

  I scrunch up my face. Ow. It doesn’t feel good either.

  Tucker hands me a coffee. “Everyone’s in the conference room whenever you’re ready.”

  One glance toward the shut blinds tells me the sun’s been up for a while. “What time is it?”

  “A little past eight.”

  Irritated, I stand up. “You all shouldn’t have let me sleep so long.” I take the coffee into the adjoining bathroom. “Tell everybody I’ll be ten minutes.”

  “Will do.” Tucker goes to leave and on a second thought turns back. “Thank you for requesting I assist in this case. Chief Hickman told me. I appreciate it. Truly. I want to learn. Whatever I can do, please don’t hesitate to ask. I won’t let you or the team down.”

  I nod to let him know I heard him, even more pleased now that I asked for him.

  Ten minutes later I walk into the conference room in fresh clothes. I always think sleep is overrated but every time I indulge I realize how necessary it is. My mind is clear and focused. I’m ready for this day.

  Lieutenant Gordon glances up. “Ah, Sleeping Beauty awakes.”

  “You all shouldn’t have let me sleep so long.” I give each one of them—Lieutenant Gordon, Dominic, Caroline, and Ignacio—a disciplinary look. “Where’s Sharon?”

  “Gone to get everyone breakfast,” Dominic says.

  As if on cue, Sharon strolls into the conference room carrying three white paper bags. She comes to a stop when she sees Tucker. “Who are you?”

  “Officer Tucker Elder,” he responds. “New to the team.”

  She hikes her chin. “Detective Sharon Buchanan.” She holds up the bags. “This probably should have been your job.”

  Tucker’s face turns red. “I’m…sorry.”

  “There’s nothing to apologize for.” I step up and take the bags. “If I would have been awake I would have gone and got this.” I level Sharon with a punitive look. “Just because I’m the lead detective on this doesn’t mean I’m above getting breakfast.”

  This time her face is the one that turns red.

  I open the bags and take out all the wrapped sandwiches. My stomach growls. “Looks like there’s an assortment of sausage, bacon, veggie, egg, cheese…who wants what?”

  Everyone approaches, choosing. Luckily Caroline selects the veggie. Vegetables in the morning have never made sense to me. I end up with bacon, egg, and cheese. Fine by me. I need the energy.

  We disperse around the room, each sitting and eating. I note Tucker’s still standing awkwardly against the wall. I nod for him to pick a sandwich. He shakes his head. Already ate, he mouths.

  That’s right. He has a little sister to tend to in the morning. They likely ate breakfast together before she headed off to school.

  Tucker clears his throat. “Shall I get everyone more coffee?”

  “Yes,” Sharon says.

  I swallow my bacon bite. “No. You are not the errand boy. If Sharon or any of us want coffee, we have two legs.”

  “I don’t mind,” Tucker says and hurries from the room.

  “I can think of a way to make use of him,” Sharon mutters suggestively.

  My palm slams hard on top of the table. I pin Sharon with a glare. “You will speak with respect to everyone on this team. I don’t care if that means Officer Tucker Elder, Lieutenant Cal Gordon, Detective Dominic Oats, Detective Ignacio Lergo, Caroline Christianson, or if that means me. Are we clear?”

  Sharon’s throat rolls on a forced swallow. “Yes, we’re clear.”

  “Good.” I go back to eating.

  On the other side of the room, Igancio munches while studying something on his laptop. Across from me, Lieutenant Gordon flips through a file. Over at the evidence board, Dominic draws a red line between Fred Xanders and Donna Stevens. Caroline stares down at the photos of the past victims: Mary, Opal, and Rachel.

  Lieutenant Gordon says, “We got forensics back on Fred’s house and the RV.” He shakes his head. “Nothing to suggest Danielle was ever there.”

  “Who does the RV belong to?” I ask.

  “Fred. He lived in it before he bought the townhouse.”

  “What about the hole in his attic?” I sip my coffee.

  “Construction issue. The community’s HOA has a lawsuit against the builder. Many of the homeowners have opted to take care of it. They’re sealing the holes themselves.”

  And there goes my last bit of doubt on Fred Xanders. But we still have him for resisting arrest and assaulting an officer. So, I don’t intend on letting him go just yet.

  Tucker comes back in with a carafe of coffee and sets it on the table. He stands back and studies the board that Dominic is currently notating things on.

  “Where are you?” Caroline whispers, now looking at the photo of Danielle Stevens in the closet.

  Everything to this point has been replicated. The doll. The photo. The envelope. I throw my garbage away. “Our copy cat is replicating, which means he’ll replicate it all. Including the timeline. Everyone, look at me.” I wait until each person does. “That means Danielle Stevens will be dead in less than twenty-four hours.”

  Silence falls across the room as the weight of that sinks in.

  Igancio is the first to speak. “I might have something.” He taps the laptop he’s been staring at.

  It’s only then that I realize he’s wearing the same clothes as yesterday. “Have you been here all night?”

  “Yes. I couldn’t sleep.” He grabs a sharpie and walks over to the evidence board. Dominic backs up to give him room. A map of the area lays pinned to the wall. Ignacio draws a circle roughly three miles north of where Danielle Stevens was taken.

  I walk over to the map. At first glance, the circle seems to be around a clump of trees. But then I notice a tiny black square. “Is that a house?”

  “Sort of. It’s deserted. But it’s the owner’s name that caught my attention.”

  Something crawls down my neck. “Who is the owner?”

  “A. N. Enterprise. At least that’s who is listed.”

  The sandwich turns over in my stomach. Ava Neal.r />
  Ignacio says, “A little more digging gave me the shareholder’s name. Mr. Thomas Quillen, The Lullaby Man.”

  Twenty-Six

  How could I have not known about this house?

  I personally went through every file on Thomas Quillen. I did all the research. I collected and double-checked every fact and detail. I didn’t want anything overlooked as we built our case against him.

  Bank accounts. Tax returns. You name it and I combed through it. I turned his life inside out and upside down. I compiled the report.

  But here it is. Another house. Tucked away in the woods. And I knew nothing about it.

  “What do you know about this place?” I ask Ignacio.

  He references his notes. “It was built in the 1800s and has changed ownership quite a bit. Looks like it was bought by Thomas Quillen’s uncle with ownership transferred to him back when he was in his early twenties. It became A. N. Enterprise twenty years ago when Ava Neal disappeared.”

  “To memoralize his first victim. Sick bastard.” I step in closer, staring at the tiny black mark that indicates the deserted home. “Ava Neal,” I mutter. Holy hell, I bet that’s where her body is.

  Or what’s left of it.

  “Do you think Danielle Stevens is there?” Ignacio asks.

  “No. That wouldn’t make sense. Thomas Quillen didn’t abduct Danielle. If he did, I’d say yes. But he didn’t, so, no.”

  Ignacio lowers his voice. “Is it possible Thomas Quillen isn’t The Lullaby Man?”

  My jaw clenches. I turn away from the map. “No, detective, it is not possible. I was there. I saw the bodies. Thomas Quillen admitted and he is guilty. The evidence proved that beyond a doubt.”

  To his credit, Ignacio doesn’t glance away. “You’re right. I apologize.”

  I rotate away to address the whole room. “Do I think Danielle is being held at that house? No, I do not. Do I think we’ll find the remains of Ava Neal? Yes, it’s highly likely. I hope we do. At least then Ava’s family can have some peace.”

  The room is silent for a moment, then Ignacio clears his throat. “I’d like to go check the place out.”

  “I’d rather you get a few hours of sleep. You’re no good to any of us without rest.” I soften my tone. Ignacio is a good detective. I don’t want to beat him down. “Ava Neal is a cold case that can wait. Our focus is on finding Danielle Stevens. Once we find Danielle, we’ll organize a full search of that property.”

  A knock comes on the conference room door. Nuna Dillon, the receptionist, peeks in. “Our lobby is filled with reporters. What should I do?”

  “I’ve got it.” Lieutenant Gordon motions Dominic to go with him and they leave the room.

  A Google alert comes in on my phone. THE LULLABY MAN RETURNS. I don’t bother reading the article. But I do note the reporter’s name. Lawrence Inglebird. Of course.

  I go to put my phone away and a text comes in. FORENSICS BACK ON THE CARE PACKAGE.

  Twenty-Seven

  Forensics emails over a file. Sharon brings it up on her laptop, projecting the image onto the conference room’s wall.

  I stare into the face of a woman whose fingerprint was lifted from the “care package” left at the home of Danielle Stevens.

  Or rather, I’m staring at her mugshot. Ugly woman. Dirty. Scrawny. Scraggly hair. Brown teeth. Meth-head.

  Beside me, Tucker speaks. “Geet Cafferty. She’s a mess. Everyone around here knows Geet. She’s in holding at least once per week. Drunk and disorderly. Trespassing. Shoplifting. Drugs. Pretty much whatever else. She’s a pain in the ass, but her brain is fried. I doubt she has anything to do with this. Or if she does, she doesn’t realize it.”

  “Could be the person who delivered the care package,” I say. “Which means this Geet woman may be able to ID whoever asked her to deliver it.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that.” Tucker shakes his head. “As I said, her brain is fried.”

  I look around the workroom, noting Caroline is absent. I glance at Ignacio, still studying the map. “Detective Lergo, you worked through the night. Go close your eyes for a couple of hours. That’s a firm request that I can make into an official order if need be.”

  He turns away from the map, giving me a tired smile. Then he takes his bottled water and walks out.

  I slip my arms into a windbreaker and grab my keys. “Tucker you’re with me. Sharon, I want a timeline of when Thomas Quillen was in prison, what prison, and cross match that with Fred Xanders’s stints in and out of jail. I need absolute peace of mind before we mark Fred completely off the list.”

  She nods. “You two should go out the back. The front is thick with reporters.”

  Good idea. “My car’s out front. Where’s your patrol car?”

  “Parked in back.”

  “Perfect. You’re driving. Let’s go rough up a meth head.”

  Twenty-Eight

  “God,” Caroline Christianson muttered as her Mini-Cooper bumped in and out of yet another pothole.

  With the narrow road, thick foliage on both sides, and deep holes, it was impossible not to go in and out of each one. She’d tried navigating around each crevice, but that just made her bottom out. Better to grit her teeth, go slow, and pray her Mini-Cooper made it.

  Her phone sat propped in a mount with GPS long lost. But at least the mapping she pulled up when starting the drive still displayed the route.

  Wait, she just got a signal!

  She stopped the car, letting the GPS catch up and the map refresh. Then she accelerated once again.

  Her eyes flicked from the phone up to the rough road. She slammed on the brakes when a deer hopped across. Her car thumped into the biggest pothole yet, throwing her forward. The seatbelt caught and Caroline winced.

  The phone tumbled from the holder down onto the floor. Caroline dug around and found it. She got it back into the holder only to discover GPS was once again lost.

  With her fingers gripping the wheel, she stared ahead. The abandoned house shouldn’t be much farther. Maybe a quarter of a mile.

  She didn’t ask anyone for permission to do this. Technically, as a profiler and consult, she didn’t need anyone’s permission.

  Caroline just wanted to see, to feel, to hear what the house had to tell her.

  Twenty-Nine

  Geet Cafferty sways in the doorway of her home, scowling out at me and Tucker. Her eyes blink slowly, she tries to focus, she blinks again. Except this time the open part of the blink doesn’t happen. Her lids stay closed.

  I snap my fingers. “Wake up.”

  Her lids pull back open sluggishly as if fighting against imaginary glue.

  Geet lives on a street with small one-story houses. Houses—that’s a generous term. Shacks would be a more accurate description. Once upon a time this road was probably up and coming. But the derelicts have long since moved in.

  With porches more off than on, broken windows, overgrown yards, and junk scattered about, this street and its shacks have seen better days.

  “I ain’t done nothing wrong,” she says.

  There are a good three feet between us but her rotten breath still fills the air. She’s dressed in baggy sweats and an oversize tee with a faded KISS logo. Down the front swirls a dried blend of food and beverage. She wears fuzzy pink socks with one dirty big toe sticking out the seam.

  “We just want to ask you a few questions,” I say.

  She sniffs and wipes the back of her bony hand under her nose. “You need a warrant.”

  “We don’t need a warrant to ask you a few questions,” I reply.

  She yawns and I hold my breath. I’ve seen a lot of meth heads in my day but holy hell, her mouth. Jesus. She needs a toothbrush, sure, after someone gives her a whole new set of teeth plus a tongue and tonsil transplant.

  She smacks her lips. “I gotta boyfriend. He don’t like it when I talk to strangers.”

  My jaw clenches.

  “We’re not strangers,” Tucker calmly speaks. “We’r
e the police.”

  “I ain’t done nothing wrong!”

  I take a breath.

  Geet points between us. “Get off my property.” She sways. “Or I’m calling the po-lice.”

  I blow out a breath.

  “We are the police,” Tucker succinctly replies.

  Geet sneezes and snot bubbles out her nose. She wipes it with her pale, skinny forearm. “Then you need a warrant.”

  Okay, I’ve had enough. I grab her non-snotty arm and yank her from the doorway. Geet yelps. I slam her up against the house and plant my palm smack in the middle of her boney chest.

  “Now I’m going to ask you a few questions and you are going to answer. Got it?”

  Her crusty eyes blink. They focus. That’s as good as it’s going to get.

  Thirty

  Caroline Christianson sat in her Mini-Cooper staring at the ramshackle house surrounded by trees. It was bigger than she expected and with the forest growing through the structure, it looked like something from a fairy tale.

  Or a Stephen King novel.

  She double-checked the map on her phone. Yes, this was it.

  Opening the driver’s door, she stepped out onto dried leaves and pine needles. All around, birds chirped merrily.

  The forest had long since closed in on the home. She tried to imagine it as it once was, but something told her it was never really a home.

  Caroline approached, noting the ground becoming softer as if moistened from underneath. A nearby spring perhaps. A nagging voice reminded her not to go in. This may be a crime scene. It may be the final resting place for Ava Neal.

  Still, Caroline walked the perimeter, careful to keep a distance.

  Moss stained the dark wood home. Some of the windows had been boarded up. Others were wide open with trees punching through. The front door was intact, still on its hinges and with a knob.

  She picked her way through a tangle of fallen branches, rounding to the back. Tire tracks cut through the soft ground. Thick and close together. ATV type.