by Hadena James
“Marshal Cain, is he missing an ear?” Some reporter asked, trying to shove a microphone in my face. I walked past, unwilling to make a comment. Losing an ear was a lot better than being dead in most people’s opinions.
“Nice,” one of the Marshals’ standing guard at the van said to us as we handed our suspect to him.
“He should have known better,” Gabriel shrugged. We were out of ear shot of the cameras and reporters. This area was sealed for their protection.
“By the blood on her hands, I’d guess it was her work,” one of them smirked.
“Better than a bullet to the back of the skull,” Xavier answered. “The ear will heal. Most bullets in the head don’t.”
“Are we using your plane to get him to KC?” Someone who looked to be in charge asked.
“No, they have something lined up for him in Pittsburgh. We’ll follow you into the city,” Gabriel answered.
We may not get invited to other Marshals’ parties very often, but we were respected by our fellow officers. They might yank our chain once in a while, but the death of Michael had proved we were just as much a part of the Marshals’ as anyone else with the badge. Every Marshal with a day off out of the eight states that touched Missouri had shown up for his funeral. All of them had given their condolences to both his family and us. Michael had been buried with the full rights and rituals due to a fallen Marshal.
After handing off the Amish serial killer, we got into our SUV. There was a collective groan. It was my turn to pick the music. I hooked up my iPhone to the stereo. Angry Johnny by Poe instantly began to blare from the speakers when Gabriel turned the ignition. This was a new thing we were trying for long car rides. None of us agreed on music, so we each took a turn playing music for an hour. I had built a playlist with the intent of annoying my fellow passengers. They made me listen to Johnny Cash and Nelly, I could make them suffer through girl grunge bands and German industrial.
Just for the record, I am not a fan of “The Man in Black.” I like my music hard, Rob Zombie and Rammstein were the chart toppers, along with Nine Inch Nails, Garbage and Ozzy Osbourne. They didn’t need to know that in private, I listened to Carrie Underwood, Lady Gaga or Simon and Garfunkle. Nor did they need to know that I liked the song The Highway Man which featured Johnny Cash or that I had over 48,000 mp3s in my music collection. There were some things that were still private.
Two
It was night, but not dark. Cities like Pittsburgh are plagued with light pollution that keeps night time from ever being truly dark. The Marshals’ Building was in a rundown part of the city. I had been told to watch myself, it was a high crime neighborhood. The Marshal that had told me had smiled while saying it.
Now, leaning against the building, having a cigarette, I could see a group of young men coming down the street. They crossed the road after making eye contact, but flashed gang signs or some other nonsense as they passed me. I watched them until they disappeared. Occasionally, a member of the group looked back, but they always whipped their head around quickly. Being around me, even during the daylight, was unsettling for most.
The group of hoodlums gone, I returned to thinking. My ribs hurt. The giant oaf hadn’t broken anything, just bruised me, that didn’t stop it from hurting. My back also hurt, but the pain was less determined to be noticed.
My family could be proof that violence was a genetic condition. Few of my relatives, on either side, had died natural deaths. Most had died violently. My dad and sister were just the tip of the iceberg. We had generations of Clachans and Connors that had died prematurely, most cut down in their prime, shortly after producing someone to carry on the family name. One of my great grandfathers had been hung by an angry mob after he robbed a bank. A great aunt had been killed by a drifter around the turn of the century. Her body had been carved up like a jack-o-lantern.
Perhaps, if my parents had married other people, it would have been different. My siblings and I wouldn’t have been born, but maybe the cycle of violence would have been broken.
They hadn’t. They had been attracted to each other, possibly because they shared a bond of violence. My paternal grandfather had disappeared when my dad was only five and the day my paternal grandmother was murdered. My dad and his brothers had been raised by different aunts and uncles.
My maternal grandparents had both died in a house fire set by a niece. My mother had lost her parents and a baby brother in the fire. She had been just nine. My mother and surviving siblings had been raised by an aunt because her grandfather had been hung. The aunt lived to be in her seventies, but died of cancer and from what I had been told, it had been a slow, painful death. Finally, the aunt overdosed on morphine just to end the suffering.
The cycle went back further. Its impact was wide and reaching, like the Reaper swinging his scythe at the branches of my family tree. Three hundred years of mostly unnatural deaths on both sides of my family. Not for the first time, I wonder if we were paying for the sins of some long dead ancestors.
Gabriel came outside. He lit his own cigarette. His lips were turned down and frown lines were deep set in his forehead and around his mouth.
“What’s with the scowl, Kemosabe?” I asked, flicking my cigarette into the street. The city of Pittsburgh could fine me for littering if they wanted. There wasn’t an ashtray where we stood.
“Snow storm in Kansas City,” Gabriel replied. “We can’t land there. We are going to have to fly into Columbia and drive home.”
“With an Amish serial killer?” I looked for evidence that he was joking and found none.
“What’s with the label? You don’t call serial killers that happen to be Baptist, Baptist Serial Killers.”
“He’s Amish,” I gave my boss a blank look. “In the history of the US, how many Amish serial killers can you think of?”
“None come to mind immediately,” Gabriel said these words slowly, as if chewing on them.
“Me either,” I answered. “It’s interesting.”
“We’ll agree to disagree there,” Gabriel said. “But no, not with the Amish serial killer. He is going to stay in a penitentiary here for a few days. We, on the other hand, do not have the luxury of not flying while the Midwest is ass deep in snow and places that don’t normally get snow are having blizzards. We have to go home because your buddy has a lead.”
“A lead on what?” I asked, then realized I needed more clarification. “What buddy?”
“Malachi Blake has a lead for us.”
“On?”
“I don’t know,” Gabriel answered. “I just know that ten minutes ago, I was told we needed to get our asses on the plane and get home, come hell or high water.”
“Or ass deep snow,” I giggled.
“Or ass deep snow.”
“Well, I’ve seen enough of Pittsburgh.”
“You’ve seen like three blocks unless you count car rides.”
“And discovered the hoodlums here are not much different than the hoodlums in other cities.”
“Don’t use the word hoodlum.”
“Why? It’s a good word.”
“No one uses it, except you and old men. Try the word thug.”
“So, I should just assume that every juvenile or young adult on the street is a cult member and serial killer?”
“Why does thug imply that they are all killers?”
“Because general wisdom says the word is derived from the word Thugee. The Thugee were a cult that practiced human sacrifice in India. One leader was said to have...”
“Stop,” Gabriel held up his hand. “Never mind. I do not want to know.”
“It’s really rather interesting.”
“I’m sure it is, but we should be leaving and we’ll never get there if you start in on a history lecture that involves death, cults, and serial killers.”
“I’ll tell you on the plane,” I followed him into the building.
I didn’t tell him on the plane. I didn’t tell anyone on the plane. Everyone but
me slept. I was concerned about the weather. They had closed Interstate 70 from Highway 65 west into Kansas. There would be no travelling by car from Columbia to Kansas City. Some places were reporting three feet of snow.
This was the second storm to sweep through the Midwest. The first had come a few days earlier and been much milder. We had been in Pennsylvania for it and it had surprisingly dissipated before reaching the Eastern Coast.
My concern was that it was almost 1 a.m. in Central Missouri and the Columbia Regional Airport was not an all hours airport. Either we were landing at an airport with no personnel in the face of a serious winter storm or they were paying someone to open the airport specifically for our landing.
Land we did, with runway lights and a scattering of snow piles along the tarmac. Two people, dressed in bright orange vests met us as the pilot opened the door. One seemed to be a supervisor. The other was obviously not happy, but was probably getting double time for this unexpected inconvenience.
“Sir,” the first guy said to Gabriel as Gabriel descended the steps. “You have hotel arrangements in town. We have an SUV rental for your use while in Columbia. The storm is expected to hit about dawn. You won’t be able to travel any further west though until the interstate gets opened back up.”
I gave Xavier a look, wondering why this guy knew our hotel information. Xavier gave a slight nod and I looked at him closer. Under the bright orange vest, the outline of a badge could vaguely be made out. I nodded.
The others lagged behind as I raced for the waiting SUV. It was running and the windows were clean, so I was betting the heat was on inside. Moving slowly through the cold, in the wee hours of the morning was not my idea of a good time. I threw my two bags into the back and climbed into the driver’s seat.
“What the...” Gabriel asked.
“I grew up here,” I reminded him. “Who better to drive?”
“Where are we going?” Gabriel asked.
“That depends on what hotel we are staying at,” I told him.
“You’re staying at the Hampton Inn at Clark Lane,” the guy with the badge told us.
“I know where that is,” I told Gabriel. “So, I’ll drive.”
Most people were of the mindset that I hadn’t been back to my hometown in ten years or so. This was incorrect. I had driven through it several times and planned my trips to coincidence with meal times. Despite all my travel, I had never found a better pizza than the Masterpiece at Shakespeare’s or a better sub than the veggie at Sub Shop. There were competitors to be sure, but they always fell a little short. I hoped that since I was in town, I would get to enjoy both.
The team loaded into the SUV. John Bryant, our newest member, climbed in back with Xavier. It felt strange to not have Lucas also climbing into the vehicle, but he was at home, buried under snow and watching our progress on the news. Scalp grafts are more difficult than back grafts as it turns out. He was still not cleared for duty.
However, this meant we were all getting our own rooms. Gabriel still hadn’t made a decision about the new guy and Xavier would not share a room with anyone but Lucas. It made travel more expensive, but I believed Gabriel was paying for his own room. This didn’t really affect me, as the only girl, I always got a room to myself.
“Where’d you grow up?” Xavier asked as I started towards the exit of the airport.
“Here,” I frowned at his reflection in the mirror.
“No, I mean, what house?” Xavier said. “I’m curious where Aislinn Cain got her start.”
“Oh,” I thought for a few moments before turning onto Highway 63 Northbound. “You want to see the house where I grew up?”
“Yes,” Xavier said.
“Only if we don’t get snowed in,” I answered.
Three
Columbia is climatically charmed. Storms that were terrible tended to go around the city. During my lifetime, I could remember five snow storms. Daylight brought the realization that the storm that had hammered everything west of the city, had somehow missed Columbia. There was maybe four inches of snow on the ground and the sun was shining.
It also meant that I would be enjoying food from my favorite Columbia places. While my favorite foods were pizza, subs, and Mexican; there was a place for everything in the college-oriented city.
A knock on my door reminded me of my tentative agreement to show my team where I had grown up. A part of me hoped the house had burnt to the ground. I knew it hadn’t, at least it hadn’t last time I had checked three years ago. It was more likely that aliens had invaded and replaced most of the citizens with pod people. This was not because house fires didn’t happen, they did, more often than people wanted to admit. It was because Xavier wanted to see where I had passed my childhood. The tiny little inconvenience would ensure that the universe had preserved my home.
I climbed from bed. The digital clock told me it was almost noon. I had slept for about seven hours. The last time I had slept for that long at one time, I’d been in a medically induced coma. I’d taken the time to change into pajamas, it was a matching flannel set. The pants were purple with blue and green hearts. The top was green with blue and purple hearts. I had no idea where I had gotten such an outfit, but it was warm.
The knocking continued, becoming louder. I groaned, hoping they would hear me and stop. They didn’t, instead they began beating a rhythm on the door. It had to be Xavier.
I never used the peep holes, I was convinced that someone would shove an icepick through my eye if I did. The very idea of sticking my face against the door filled me with dread. Instead, I unlocked it and opened it fully.
Needless to say, I was not surprised to see Xavier on the other side. I was surprised by the brown bag he had in his hands. If we had been anywhere else, I would have wondered what was inside, but the white receipt taped to the bag told me I had a warm, extremely cheesy veggie sub in my very near future.
“The bag may come in,” I took it from him. “You may not.”
“Nice jammies,” Xavier came in anyway and shut the door behind him. “I’m still not used to Lucas not being here. I ordered him a sub too.”
“It is very strange,” I agreed, opening the bag and pulling out the full sized sub wrapped in foil. It was still hot to the touch. “Did you have them fly it by helicopter?”
“No, they were just hot when they showed up,” Xavier said.
“How long ago was that?” I asked.
“Three minutes, maybe four.”
“Where’s yours?” I asked.
“In the bag you snatched from me.”
I looked in the bag and saw a brownie and another foil wrapped sandwich.
“I call dibs on the top of that brownie,” I told him.
“You don’t eat brownies and why do you want just the top? Why not half of it?”
“I only like the top of the brownie and then, I only like them from Sub Shop,” I answered. “They make the tops crunchy, for lack of a better term. The inside is gooey. I don’t know how they do it. But I only like the crunchy top.”
“I guess I don’t have a choice in this, do I?”
“That would be correct,” I pulled the brownie out and peeled off the top. I put the top of the brownie on a napkin and handed the rest to Xavier. “Where’s everyone else?”
“John is still sleeping. Gabriel is on the phone, arguing with Malachi and someone of significance.”
“One of our mysterious committee bosses,” I raised an eyebrow.
“That would be my guess.”
“What are they arguing over?”
“Road conditions. It didn’t sound very interesting, so I dropped off his sub and came here instead.”
“I see,” I bit into my sub. Mayo dribbled out the side. Xavier had ordered extra. This was at least ten million calories, but it was a small price to pay. There were three types of cheese, a ton of veggies, thick mayo, and all toasted to perfection on Italian style bread. Few things made me happy, this was one of them.
“You�
�re smiling,” Xavier said.
“It is yummy,” I answered. “So, about the trip to my house.”
“You aren’t getting out of it. The snow disappeared around the river and we only got a couple of inches. Interstate 70 is a disaster though. Even after it was cleaned and then cleaned again, there have been three or four dozen wrecks. Gabriel thinks it’s unsafe to drive on. Malachi disagrees. I don’t know what the other person on the phone thinks.”
I nodded and wrapped my sandwich back in the foil. I grabbed my brownie top, my sandwich and my keycard and left Xavier sitting at my table. Using my foot, I knocked as gently as I could at Gabriel’s door. After a few seconds, it opened. His cell phone was still glued to his ear. I set my stuff down on his table, yanked the phone away from him and hung up.
“Uh, I was on the phone,” Gabriel gave me a look.
“I know, but it’s rude to talk on cell phones while eating at a table with others. It’s rude when there isn’t anyone else there, but it’s ruder when there is. Besides, it was Malachi and one of our eight billion bosses. The worst that can happen is that they can chew you out for your phone going dead. And Malachi can’t do that, he can only get cranky about it.”
“That was the head of the US Marshals and Malachi,” Gabriel said. “Malachi thinks he has a lead on The Butcher.”
“Do you think this is the first time Malachi has thought he had a lead on The Butcher?” I sat down and opened my sandwich again. “What’d you get?”
“It doesn’t bother you at all that you did that, does it?” Xavier sat down.
“Nope, not in the least,” I answered. Gabriel’s cell phone rang. I willed it to disappear, but it didn’t.
Gabriel answered it. He was quiet as the voice on the other end spoke. It wasn’t loud enough for me to hear, but I was sure he was getting his ass handed to him.
“It’s for you,” Gabriel handed me the phone. His face had a quizzical look. Perhaps I had pushed the boundaries a little far by hanging up on the director of the US Marshals.
“Marshal Cain,” I said taking the phone.
