by Alex Gates
“And I escaped.”
“He tortured you. Peeled off your skin. Started to eat you alive—”
“And I survived!” The declaration didn’t seem as forceful when my pajama tank top couldn’t hide the slices, patches, and jagged scars on my arms. Fortunately, it hid the worst ones—the long slices of skin he’d ripped from my belly. “Look, James. No one is eating those girls on the farm. But they are getting raped and assaulted and held against their will.”
“And you’re sure of it?”
“Do you think I’m just paranoid?”
“If I were you, I’d never trust another soul.”
Yeah, well, I trusted him. Wasn’t sure if that was a good idea yet or not.
Nothing like sleeping with the FBI profiler of my murderous captor.
And falling in love with the only man who had ever gotten into a serial killer’s head.
I said nothing, letting only my ragged breath speak for me.
The quiet abruptly shattered.
And the crashing of glass echoed from outside.
I shushed James with a harsh word and dove for the window.
The pre-dawn dark swallowed the street outside, but a figure loomed near my Jeep. A silhouette in the streetlight crept towards my car door. Another crash, and his arm was inside my car. Within seconds, he took off running.
“Son of a bitch!” I slammed a hand against the windowsill. “James, I gotta go.”
“London?”
“Hold on!”
I leapt over my bed, grabbing the first pair of footwear I could find. Fuzzy bunny slippers. Fantastic. A present from my mother who thought all ails could be cured with a soft and pink fuzzy lining. I cobbled together a robe and jacket to cover some of my shame and ran for the door.
Never in my life did I think grabbing a gun would feel routine—like tossing a scarf over my coat or hat over my head.
But, Christ, was I glad I had it. I didn’t need to be a cop to trust these instincts.
The asshole breaking into my car wasn’t some punk teenage reject.
He had found Louisa. And now he was coming for me.
Last mistake he’d ever make.
I bounded outside, flashlight searching in one hand, gun poised in the other.
Silence.
No firing of a car engine. No crunch of gravel under boots. Just…nothing.
I scanned with the flashlight, but I couldn’t pierce the entire darkness even with the high-intensity LED. Turning my back to the alley behind my house didn’t leave me with the warm and fuzzies, but I scanned my porch. No one lurked in the shadows, but this wasn’t the neighborhood for vandalism or worse. My Victorian centered itself in a nicer part of town, a wholesome street in Shadyside bordered by trees. They now offered too much privacy, as did the empty homes to my left and right, thanks to industrious house flippers who’d gone overbudget on renovations and couldn’t swindle grad students with the exorbitant rent.
A chill crept over my spine. Whoever had trashed my Jeep hadn’t stuck around.
I snuck forward, approaching my vehicle with a mounting paranoia—bad for a trigger finger. The bastard had slashed my tires. Whether that came before or after the rock through my windshield didn’t matter much now. Glass exploded over the gravel, and I doubted the pink slippers would protect me from a wayward shard.
The perp must have darted down the alley. Hell, he probably made it two blocks before I even raced from the house.
Damn it.
“London!”
James’s muffled voice called from my robe pocket. I lowered the gun, but I didn’t put it away. Not yet.
Not while the hair on my neck still prickled, and the air stilled, waiting for the flash of a bullet. I didn’t like being watched.
Would they wait for a reaction?
Or did they seek an opportunity?
I pulled my phone as I opened my Jeep. “I’m fine.”
“What the hell is happening?”
“Someone took out their frustrations on my car.”
“Are you okay?”
“Tires slashed. Window busted. Whoever did it came and left…”
My slippers squished against the floormat. I twisted, but the seats felt just as…
Slimy.
I reached over my head, retching against the coppery tang in the air. The scent stuck in my throat. I smacked the dome light and rolled out of the vehicle.
Blood.
Everywhere.
The crimson stained my seats, my dash, my floors. Thick, blotted puddles dripped over the interior, as if my seats had transformed into a slaughterhouse. I checked the back, but the vandal hadn’t stashed anything on the seats.
Was that a good thing? Had I expected a body?
Who the hell drenched the inside of my car with blood?
The calmness of my voice was all that prevented James from fulfilling his threat to leave then and fly home.
“There’s blood in my car,” I said. “Someone broke the window and pitched a bucket of it inside. I gotta call this in. Patrol might be able to find the idiot who did this.”
“Go back inside, London.” James often tried to order me around. It never took. “I don’t want you out there with a loaded gun.”
I grimaced, wriggling out of the blood-soaked robe. “You worried about me?”
“Worried about whoever pulled this practical joke.”
“Do you think it’s a practical joke? Just some vandalism?”
“I’m hoping that’s all it is.”
I edged towards the house, but my steps slowed as the blood wasn’t just splashed over my car. A message was scrawled across my door, staining the white with blotches of dripping scarlet.
“Deut 32:35,” I said.
“Deut?”
It took me a minute too. My poor mother never forgave herself while her oldest daughter slept through most of Bible study. Hated it even more when I threw the priest out of my hospital room during my recovery.
Forgiveness, he had said. It would help me to heal.
Funny. The skin grafts were more helpful.
“Look up a Bible verse for me…” My voice strained as I stared at the dripping words. “Deuteronomy 32:35.”
“Why?”
“The pranksters left me a note.”
James did as I asked, his voice low and grave as he quoted. “Vengeance is Mine, and retribution, in due time their foot will slip; For the day of their calamity is near, And the impending things are hastening upon them.”
“You’re the psychologist,” I said. “Still think this is a joke?”
“No. This is a threat. London, get inside the house. You’re in danger.”
14
Tell me what you think of me.
I’m very curious.
-Him
Pig’s blood.
The asshole had soaked my Jeep in pig’s blood.
I slapped the forensics’ report onto Adamski’s desk. He nursed two tabs of alka-seltzer and his bruised ego as I waited in quiet vindication. He plopped a third tablet into his glass before acknowledging the folder.
With a sigh, he read the findings, his eyebrows popping up. “Not very original, are they?”
“Message received though.” I tapped my foot—the bunny slippers exchanged for my boots once the patrol made it to my house and stole my clothes as evidence. “Not the best wake-up call.”
He knew me too well. “Were you really sleeping, McKenna?”
“I was awake enough to hear someone try to break into my Jeep.”
“I should send you home. You need sleep. You’re wired.”
“You should send me to Forest County.”
Bruce guzzled the water, snorting over the bubbles. “Why in God’s name would I do that?”
“Who else has access to pig’s blood?”
“Any person who goes to the grocery store and asks the butcher.”
“Great.” I followed him from his office to the coffee machine. The pot was empty, and
the grounds leftover from last night. He refilled the water anyway. I pushed him away, slamming the filter with the caked-on grounds against the garbage. “Here’s an idea then. Start calling butchers in the area. You speak with the Shop N Saves. I’ll call the Giant Eagles and Aldis. Someone should check Whole Foods, and then we’ll get the rest of the department on the local shops…”
The fresh coffee was bribe enough. He waved me away. “Okay, McKenna. What do you suggest we do about this?”
“We ask Harvest Dominion Farm. Jacob Goodman is already suspected of harassing other people close to this investigation.”
“You. You suspect Goodman. I’m not kicking your ass, London. I’m saving your badge. You need more proof than a gut instinct to go snooping. I can’t get you a warrant without proof.”
“These people targeted my home.”
“Was Agent Novak there?”
I stiffened. “Why would that matter?”
“Isn’t he staying with you?”
“That really doesn’t matter.”
“That’s a shame. I’d like to hear what Novak thinks of all this.”
“My instincts aren’t good enough?” I threatened him with the freshly brewed coffee, my fingers curling over the handle. “I swear to God, I’ll dump it out.”
Bruce surrendered. “Look. If what you’re saying is true, we’ve got something a lot more complicated than a murder-suicide on our hands.”
My eyebrows rose. “I just want to take a ride up to Forest County. Get a little information about the farm and charity.”
“And what do you hope to find?”
I hated to say it.
“I was wrong before.”
Adamski nearly toppled over. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what did you say?”
“Don’t get smart.”
“I’ve never heard you say the W word before.”
“Well, this one is on me. I’ve been looking at the case wrong. You were right—”
“I don’t think my wife has ever pleasured me as good as I feel at this moment.”
I ignored him. “I thought the Goodmans were kidnapping young girls just to rape them.”
“And they’re not?”
“No. When I visited the farm…they were planning a wedding.”
“Whose?”
The thought sickened me. “They didn’t say, but I suspect the wedding is for one of the little girls.”
“But why?”
“Because it’s not about the rape. It’s not about sex. Jonah Goodman married Nina Martin—even if it wasn’t in the legal sense. To the Goodmans, they were man and wife. Why would they do that if it was just for rape…unless they planned for something to come of it.”
“Like…?”
A reason for Jonah to highlight his Bible verse. “The Goodmans aren’t kidnapping children for pleasure. They want to fill their quivers. Every girl on that farm was kidnapped for a specific purpose.” My voice cracked. “The Goodmans want them to bear children, to give them sons so they can fulfill God’s plan.”
“Are you sure?”
I hoped to God I was wrong.
“The Goodmans kidnapped those girls so they could be bred.”
15
Why am I doing this?
I thought you had me all figured out…
-Him
Conventional thought said that small towns originally sprung up near rivers and streams. That was wrong. Most towns popped into existence around beer distributors.
Tionesta had two distributors for a population of six hundred. No one would have faulted a rural Pennsylvanian town for developing a crippling addiction to alcohol, but Tionesta had more charm than trouble.
For such a tiny town, it had a thriving market district—though the definition of district could be loosely interpreted. Without formal development from big-name corporations, the town had created their own homegrown outlet mall. Vendors of all sorts, jewelry to cupcakes, staked a claim in one of the dozen miniature storefronts poised along the main street. The vendors operated from little more than sheds, but they’d decorated the fronts in vibrant colors, planted shrubs out front, and adorned their stalls with cheesy chalkboards, signs, and decals.
Somewhere someone in the market knew the Goodman’s secrets, and I’d buy all the muffins and cupcakes the village could bake to make them spill.
January tourism was gawker-slow, the kind that welcomed strangers to the town with stares, whispers, and a healthy dose of curiosity bordering on suspicion. Only four of the town’s twelve stalls were open, and I doubted many were doing any business.
Gossip, on the other hand, thrived.
I could weasel CIs into my pocket all I wanted, but the best way to get information was to target the little old women in hats. Back in Pittsburgh, babushkas meant a code of silence. In the sticks? Old hats meant old news, stories they couldn’t wait to share with people who had heard them a dozen times before.
And judging by the size of the town, there weren’t many new stories.
The baker seemed the best bet for any gossip. Not hard to find either. Her booth—princess cream sprinkled with a pink framing—housed a plump older woman, wrapped in a pastry pink shirt slathered with screen printed cupcakes. She wore scrub pants dotted with wrapped-candy decals, Keds painted to look like a cake, and four cupcake shaped barrettes buried in her cocoa hair.
Oddly enough, her apron was covered in cartoon cats.
“Well, now…you’re not from around here.” The baker leaned over her counter though the shed was so small I doubted she ever stood up straight. “And who might you be?”
“London McKenna,” I said. “I’m just passing through.”
“Nice to meet you, doll. I’m Debbie Riker.” She rapped on her wall, shouting to the next-door booth. “Hey, Doris. Come here. We got a visitor!”
“A customer too.” I pointed to the deepest darkest most chocolatey cupcake she had on display. “I’ll take that one. Two if you got ‘em.”
Game point.
Tionesta’s Little Debbie got to work, and I smiled at her busybody friend, craning her neck out of her stall to peek at the stranger in the town. The would-be barista shared her friend entrepreneurial spirit…but not her fashion sense. This lady served her homebrewed coffees and teas bundled in jeans and a parka, completely mummified in scarves, mittens, and hats.
“I’ll take some coffee,” I said. “It’s cold out here!”
And the sense of commodity struck. Both women set to their tasks with a newfound glee. Debbie, however, boxed only one of the cupcakes. She instructed me to take a bite of the other before I paid.
“Go on, London.” She waited while I took a bite of the moistest cupcake I’d ever tasted. “Everyone says it.”
I accidentally smeared most of the icing over my lip. She handed me a napkin in exchange for the compliment.
“Very good!” I spoke with a mouthful of chocolate. “Delicious.”
“Best in state, four years running.” She knocked on the ribbon nailed to her stand. “Would have won it last year, but the judges chose some no dairy, no gluten, no taste excuse for a dessert. Looked pretty, but if I wanted no processed sugars, I’d eat a salad, thank you very much.”
I nodded. “Well, this is blue-ribbon in my book.”
“Locally sourced too. Eggs and milk right here from the middle of nowhere.” She shared a chuckle with her friend. “Can’t get good produce anywhere else. When those big corporations came knocking on Bill Maxton’s door, offering him those special, name brand chickens and zombie seeds—well…” Debbie winked at me. “We showed him some good old-fashioned hospitality with our boot up his you-know-what.”
“Do you get many business propositions like that?”
“Oh heavens, no,” Debbie laughed. “We’re just a small community, but we watch over our own.”
“Have you lived here for a long time?”
“All my life.” Debbie boasted of the fact. Her friend, Doris, offered me coffee and confirmed the
same. “We’re born and bred here.”
“Well, good. Maybe you can help me.” I sipped the tea, grateful for the paper cup’s warmth spreading through my gloves and into my fingers. “I’m a little lost right now.”
“Oh, Sugar. There’s not many places to go from here. Take 62 to the East, follow the river, and it’ll put you back in Oil City in no time.”
“Actually, I was looking for people who live here.” I gave an apologetic shrug as I showed her my badge. “I’m a detective with Pittsburgh Police.”
Debbie cackled. “You are lost.”
“I’m part of the family crisis division,” I said. Not a lie. “And I work with a lot of troubled teenagers.” Also not a lie. “A couple of my girls were out this way recently.” Nina had technically lived here. “I had a break in a case, but it felt better to talk with them in person.”
Debbie clapped her hands. “Which girls are you looking for? I know everyone in this town—going back two or three generations. But no one from the city ever came here…”
“They might be staying on a nearby farm.”
“Oh, Lord!” Doris snuggled deeper in her parka as she waddled from her booth to the bakery. “Debbie, she’s talking about Harvest Farm. We know the girls you mean.”
Debbie accepted a cup of coffee from her friend. “Yep, that’s right. You want the Harvest Dominion Farm. The Goodman’s place. They’re up the road a ways yet. Ten miles, I’d guess. Across Route 666.”
My eyebrow rose. “Route what?”
“Don’t fret. That road is a beauty. Rides straight through the game lands. Just gotta keep an eye out for deer and elk. Their farm is tucked away nice and cozy in the forest. Has to be, for what they do.”
And that’s what worried me. I took a bite of the cupcake, endearing me to the women. But I needed more information. I pointed to her display.
“Could you pack me up another dozen?” I asked. “I’ll put them in the squad room.”
“Bless your heart.” Debbie grinned. “Best sales day I’ve had in weeks.”
She busied herself in the store, and Doris settled in close, nursing her own cup of tea.
“So…do you know the Goodmans?” I asked.
“I knew the dead one.”
