The Girl and the Hunt (Emma Griffin FBI Mystery Book 6)

by A J Rivers

  He stopped himself. Now wasn't the time, and he wasn't the person to talk to her about what happened. She didn't know him. He knew her, of course. He had known her from the time she was born. But Emma didn't know him. That was by design. Planned before she even came into the world. She would never know. She couldn't know who he was or who her parents truly were. There was always the agreement that one day they would be completely honest with her. When she was old enough to fully understand it and make the decisions for herself, they would tell her the truth. None of it would make sense to her before then, and Ian and Mariya didn't want to give her a glimpse into a world she wasn't ready to fully know. She wasn’t yet ready to know the aspects of her life that he lived in. So, she couldn't know him.

  But the time would come. At least, that's what they always said. The time would come when she would be ready, and they could tell her. From there, it would be her choice of what to do with the information.

  But that time would never come. Not now.

  He went into the living room and sat down, turning on the TV to drown out the silence. A cascade of brightly colored jellybeans spilled down from the corner of the screen onto a bed of glistening green Easter grass as a pale brown bunny hopped into view, nose twitching as if to remind parents of the upcoming holiday.

  “If you haven't gotten your candy yet, time is running out!”

  “Don't forget to fill the eggs and stuff the baskets so they'll be ready Sunday morning!”

  “Set the alarm to wake up before the sun and hide the eggs for curious fingers to find!”

  “It will soon be time for the big hunt!”

  Above him, Murdock heard the sound of shifting movements hovering just at the top of the stairs. He didn't turn to look. If Emma wanted to come down, she would. But she didn't.

  It was already time for the hunt. But they weren't seeking out vibrant plastic shells filled with fanciful treats tucked in the bushes, forgotten in the ivy to be discovered weeks down the line. They were hunting for a monster.

  He stayed for several hours until a message on his phone told him Ian had left the office and was heading home. The message wasn’t from Ian. Murdock didn’t expect it to be. More time would have to pass before then.

  He slipped out of the side door of the house so he wouldn’t be noticed and walked away.

  Chapter Twelve

  Now

  We're starting back into the cabin when a sound stops me. The February night is cold and far too chilly for the animals of the woods around the cabin to be out roaming. The temperature dropped significantly after the sun went down, and even though spring is coming, they would know to forage for food earlier in the day to catch the last of the warmth. They shouldn't be walking so close to the cabin.

  Yet there's the sound. A distinct crack of a branch and shuffling in the leaves. Sam and I pause, looking at each other. My hand touches his arm as if creating a connection would keep us safer.

  "What was that?" he asks in a soft whisper.

  I nod slightly toward the back of the cabin.

  “It sounds like there's someone in the woods,” I say.

  Memories flood me, but I don't let them take over. Instead, I carefully step toward the door to the cabin. We left it standing slightly open when we came out onto the porch, so it's easy to slip back inside. But I have no intention of locking the door, pulling down the shades, and hiding away. Instead, I walked purposefully into the bedroom, pull a second of my bags up onto the bed and open it.

  “You stay here,” Sam says. “I'm going to go check it out.”

  “Not a chance,” I tell him. “You've never been here. You don't know those woods like I do. Besides, the last time I was here, I ran into those woods in the middle of the night with nothing but an idea and a whole lot of recklessness." I turn around with my freshly loaded gun in my hand. "Nothing's going to keep me out this time.”

  We step back out onto the porch and pause to listen. I don't hear anything for a few seconds. Then I hear it. Another crack deeper in the woods. If there is somebody near the cabin, they're trying to slink away. Not bothering with the wooden steps, I jump down from the porch and take off into the woods. Sam rushes after me, and I hear him prep his gun. A beam of light glows from behind me, and I know he's taken out his flashlight. I didn't bother to get mine. Both of us with full hands puts us at a disadvantage if we do find someone back here.

  I'm careful to walk as much on the beaten-down path as I possibly can to avoid walking across the piles of dried leaves and branches. It's not lost on me that the path is much wider and more tightly packed than it was when I was here a year ago. Back then, these woods were rarely used. Rumors and legends surrounded the woods and told of darkness existing within them. The older folks of town whispered about a house that once stood among the trees. None of them knew just how true those myths really were.

  But now that the truth about Jake's family home was revealed, the curious and morbid came from all over to sample the atmosphere and build their own stories. So many claimed to be disgusted and repelled by man's inhumanity to man. It's a theme, a trope, a personality trait of vigorous virtue signalers everywhere. But the reality is, people are fascinated by it. Blood and trauma and tragedy draw them in. Whether it's because it makes them feel alive or out of some sense of responsibility to not forget the dead or some twisted pleasure that comes from it, horrific situations are never short spectators and celebrants.

  We go deeper into the woods, listening intently for retreating footsteps. As we get closer to the house, I start to notice little bits of color on the ground in front of me. I pause so Sam can catch up, and the beam of his flashlight shines down on the path in front of me. It's flowers. Not growing up from the ground, but instead cut and scattered there. Torn and ground down by footsteps and animals. I follow the petals, watching their coverage become thicker and more consistent as we pass through the trees. Soon they become flowers again until I notice pieces of ravaged bouquets and even broken pots, their soil and roots and stems spilling out on the ground in scattered, disturbed piles.

  “What the hell is this?” Sam asks.

  I gesture ahead of us.

  “Jake's house,” I say. “Just up the way through the thickest part of the trees. These must have been left as tributes by visitors and then either scattered by vandals or animals.”

  "How is it not blocked off from the public?" Sam asks. "I would think they wouldn't want anybody getting anywhere near something like that."

  "I would think they'd want to bulldoze it to the ground," I say. "But it's not that easy. You know that as well as I do. They removed the bodies, of course. And boarded it up. The fire damaged it so much it's dangerous to even get near, but until the case is completely over, they're not going to destroy it. He's already in prison for some of the charges, but there are plenty more. If there are technicalities or appeals, anything that might even for a second get him out; he'll get scooped right back up."

  "So, the house still stands there," Sam says.

  "Yes," I nod. "And short of armed officers positioned around the perimeter to stop anyone from getting even close to it, there's nothing anyone can do to stop people from coming to it. The thing is, it's not just the gore-porn aspect of it. There are plenty of faked pictures and blurred crime scene images available to give them that kick. Some of the people who come here are looking for that kind of thrill, sure, but that's not all of them. The ones who come here, who leave flowers, they genuinely feel connected to the people who died here. They can sense that loss and despair. Some even grieve for Jake."

  "Why would anyone have any sympathy for somebody like him? He killed more than fourteen people. He tore them up and stuffed them like trophies to create his twisted museum display," Sam points out, a distinct note of disgust in his voice.

  "That's true. But those people will argue he did those things because he's a victim of the life he was forced to live. Everything that happened to him chipped away at his ability to be a normal human an
d crafted him into what he became. Whether that's what happened or not, and whether he's deserving of any kind of sympathy or empathy or not isn't the point. The point is these people feel it strongly and are drawn to come here and experience it. They don't want what happened here to be forgotten or to just fade away."

  "I don't think I'll ever understand something like that," Sam mutters.

  I glance over at him.

  "What is the strongest proof that there's something more than us, something bigger?" I ask.

  "You mean God?" he asks.

  "God. Gods. Goddesses. The Universe. The Spirits. Whatever anyone wants to call it, and whatever they believe it is, what is the strongest proof that it exists?"

  He shakes his head slightly. "Love?"

  "That's what everyone says. But I don't buy it. The things we call love, loyalty, compassion, friendship, bonding… they are all easy to link to survival. You feel that sense of connection to others because they will protect you, and you will protect them. You feel it to your partner so you will mate and reproduce. You feel it to your young, so you will take care of them. It means more than that on an emotional level, of course, but if you try to break it down and analyze its purpose, that's what you have. God gives love and shows love, but that's not the proof."

  "Then what is?"

  "Grief."

  "Your proof of a higher power is grief?" Sam asks. "Being sad?"

  "Yes. People find joy and happiness in the things more likely to keep them healthy, safe, and strong. Food. Fun. Relaxation. Sex. Friendship. Those feelings are rewards that keep you motivated and surviving. People don't grieve to survive. Purely from a survival perspective, if a member of your group dies, you find someone else to fill their role. If your partner dies, you find someone else to reproduce with. You don't grieve. Some say sadness is to motivate you to not lose what makes you happy, but that isn't true. You don't try to protect your children because you don't want to be sad. You protect them because you love them and want to take care of them. And it doesn't explain this."

  I gesture to the flowers on the ground. "These are strangers coming here because they grieve for people they don't even know. They feel the tear in humanity, the open wound every one of us shares when someone is ripped unfairly from life. We feel that because there is more to life than survival."

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lotan

  Fifteen years ago …

  No one would ever hear Thomas's screams. That was probably the best part. They were so far out, so far from any people and surviving businesses, it didn't matter how loud he was. His voice could creep higher and louder, echo out into the stars, and it would still mean nothing. It would never reach anyone. Even if there was someone who happened by and heard the traces of his cries, they wouldn't know what it was. They could just as easily think it was the angry scream of a mountain lion or the final, gasping cries of an animal caught in its jaws. Nothing they would pay any mind to.

  Not that it mattered. They could know exactly what it was. They could recognize the desperate, agonized screams of a man paying his debt for cutting down the most beautiful, most treasured woman ever to walk the earth. Even if they did, there was no way they would get to him in time. They could come into the broken, overgrown parking lot of the hotel and see exactly what was happening. They could watch the metal claw he wielded slice through Thomas's skin and drag it from the bones. They could see his terrified, blood-soaked hands grasp the edge of the building and try to climb his way over.

  After all, that's what Lotan offered him. In those first moments on the roof, he told him he had the option to go over the ledge. He could escape Lotan’s rage that way if that was his choice. But Thomas stayed where he was. He did everything he could not to make eye contact while still carefully watching Lotan and his movements so he could have some chance of responding to them. He never would. He never had that chance. As much as he thought he did— really, as soon as he stepped foot in the hotel—he was breathing air into a corpse.

  And so, it didn't matter at all if someone came. It didn't even really matter if Levi somehow found his way out of the building and ran. These moments on the roof were worth it. After all, Thomas was the one holding the gun that day two years before. When the two men walked away from him, on their way to fulfill the mission he entrusted them with, it was Thomas who left with the weapon already in his hand. He was determined and driven, ready for the challenge that presented itself to him.

  And now he would pay for that.

  To give the fool credit, he did try to escape. His devotion and loyalty were strong enough to keep him in place for several long seconds, facing off against the leader to which he had once deferred all things. But that drive—that internal, involuntary need for survival—won out, and Thomas turned to run for the door that led back down into the hallway. They were just far enough away that Lotan had the time to pull the chain from the bag on his shoulder. One swing was enough to plant the vicious metal points into the base of Thomas's neck. He didn't scream. Not in that moment.

  The shock of that first impact was so intense Thomas’s mind couldn’t process what his body was going through. He could only stop, his back stiff, his eyes locked on the door he couldn't reach. His hands moved slightly to the side, his fingers spreading out, like the jolts moving along his nerve endings were shooting out from his fingertips.

  Lotan yanked on the chain, sending Thomas tumbling off his feet. The spikes weren't embedded deeply enough in his upper spine to stay as he pulled the chain back toward him. They pried out of the muscle and clawed down his skin as Thomas fought against it. But it was no use. He crashed hard across the rough concrete of the roof. Lotan took the chain back into his hands and gripped it so he could swing it overhead. The heft was satisfying in his hands. He released mid-swing and let the claw catch Thomas again.

  The man was starting to crawl toward the door, but the metal spikes stopped him. This time they dug into the small of his back, crushing through bone and splattering blood in the moonlight. Thomas cried out, his hands digging at the roof to either side of him in desperation to find something to grab as if it would help him. This time yanking the chain back brought Thomas with it. It dragged him across the ground, so the course concrete of the roof scraped at his skin and pulled away clothes. The punctures in his spine kept him from moving quickly enough to have any chance of getting away. Thomas’ eyes moved desperately to the ledge of the roof. His wish was evident in that stare. He longed for the release of flight. Even if only for a few moments, he would have been at peace.

  Lotan felt fulfilled by each blow. Vindicated by the blood. Flesh tore from bones and screams turned to gurgles, then to gasps, then to silence. Anyone could have come at any moment, and Lotan wouldn't have cared. He wouldn't have stopped or tried to hide. There was no shame in what he was doing, no fear in what they could do to him in return. There was nothing anyone could do that was worse than the torment he already faced, or bad enough to make this not worth it. He'd been waiting two years, and he would happily offer himself up in return if that's what it cost.

  Of course, that's not what he wanted. Thomas was only part of this. A piece of the dreams that kept him up at night for two years. If he could only revel in this, he would accept it. It would be enough for him to enjoy these moments and then join Mariya. But if he could have more, he wanted it. There was still one more. He'd listened closely to the sounds around him, waiting for anything that might tell him Levi had gotten out of the hotel. But he heard nothing. He saw nothing.

  The screams were probably enough to paralyze him. From what he'd already shown, those sounds wouldn't propel him out of the disintegrating hotel. They would terrify him into hiding. That meant Lotan had time. He could enjoy his time with Thomas, then go look for Levi. He hoped he could find him. He had so many more plans.

  When he was finished, he dragged what was left of Thomas over to the ledge. The years on the run hadn't been kind to the man. He was much smaller than before. It made i
t easier to pull him up onto the top of the wall. Lotan looked over the edge, ensuring he was in just the right spot. He was very familiar with the surroundings of the hotel, and a thought flitted playfully through his mind when he remembered the pool. Taking the claws from Thomas a final time, he gave the man a push and let him drop.

  Lotan rolled the chain back up and tucked the metal spikes away in his bag. The weapon resembled a heavier, more menacing grappling hook. He latched it over the side of the wall. He swung his body over and moved down the side of the building. This was far from the first time he'd gotten off a roof this way, and his feet hit the pool deck with smooth control. He left the hook where it was hanging from the roof. Maybe he would reclaim it. Maybe he would leave it hanging there to be found.

  Right now, he was only thinking about the body stretched out on the cement a few feet away. When he’d first explored this hotel, he’d noticed the pool. Carved deep into the cement, it had been left without any cover or protection when the hotel was abandoned. In fact, it looked like it was forgotten when the final hotel employees shut it down, and when the team that came to revitalize it decided to walk away. Rather than being drained and lined with a tarp the way he'd seen done before, the pool still stood full of water. Green with algae, dark and murky, it sat still and stagnant without the benefit of the filtration system and being constantly fed by the rain. Leaves and bits of debris drifted idly on top of the thick algae cover, and occasionally it formed itself into eerie shapes as if something had taken over and was lurking in the depths.