She scuttles away from us with a small smile on her face. I’m not sure if that means she knew this was going to happen or if she’s hoping for a miracle and that when she comes back, my father and I will be best friends.
“How’s Lauren?” my father asks.
“We broke up,” I admit.
He frowns. “I’m sorry to hear that. The one time I saw you two together, you seemed like a good couple.”
I shrug, wishing I could find a way to change the subject, but it’s not like we have that much to talk about. The only other option seems to be his alcoholism.
“What happened?” he presses.
“We had a difference of beliefs, and had different opinions on a future with children,” I say.
“You don’t believe in God, do you?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Sorry. All those times you took me to church didn’t do much.”
He smiles. “It’s fine. I always told you that I thought you would find God out in nature more than a building anyway.”
“Well, I didn’t find Him there either.”
“Maybe someday you will,” he says. “What about children? You’ve never really talked about it since high school.”
“I don’t think I should have any,” I say. “I live a life where there are bombs exploding in my place of work. I’ve been shot twice with a nail gun. And this has all been within a month.”
“That’s not really a reason to not have a child,” he says. “We’re all afraid of something happening to us and leaving our children behind. I was a policeman, too, when you were born.”
“I don’t see the point in bringing a life into the world if I can’t give them the best life possible.”
“That would leave very few babies being born a year,” he says. “I’m guessing this means that Lauren does want children. Does this mean you don’t think she should have children because she has the same job?”
“No, she should absolutely have children. She would be a great mother,” I say. “But I’m impatient, I’m angry, and I’ve never done well around kids. Do you really think I’d miraculously become good if I have my own child?”
“I think love changes people,” he says. He raises his hands in surrender. “I’m not trying to change your mind. If you really don’t want kids, you shouldn’t have them—but if you do want a child, I don’t think you should discard the idea of having one because of your fears. Children are tougher than you think. You were the toughest kid in the world when you were growing up and that’s how you became who you are today. It seems to me that it worked out really well for you.”
“Except that I’m alone in life,” I say.
“You’ll find somebody,” he says. “Or Lauren will realize how good you two are together. It’s not the end of the world.”
I shake my head. “Wow. Rehab must have really changed you. If this was a few weeks ago, you would have told me to stop whining and focus on my work.”
He chuckles. “Yeah. I was an asshole. I guess I’m probably still an asshole, but I’m a human-in-progress. I’m working to actually see things from other people’s points of view.”
“How did they manage to get you to do that?” I ask. “Torture?”
“Mental torture,” he says. “Nobody told me therapists were like sneaky drill sergeants. Once they get ahold of the smallest bit of emotion, they like to hold onto that until you confess everything.”
I look down at my shoes and realize my father and I are wearing the exact same black dress shoes.
“Lauren wanted me to give you her well wishes,” I say.
“She’s a sweet woman,” he says. “I’m okay with you deciding your beliefs and whether or not you want kids, but that woman is a keeper. I’ll be a bit disappointed if you don’t try to win her back.”
“What makes you think that I haven’t tried?” I ask.
“Because I know you,” he says. “When you were younger, your first dog, Bacon, ran away. I remember you spent half an hour looking and crying about him being gone, and then you decided Bacon just didn’t love you and gave up. The same happened when you found out Anna cheated on you. You pretty much decided you were unlovable until Lauren came around. You assume the worst about yourself, so you assume the worst about a relationship and don’t try to make things work.”
“She decided what she wants,” I say. “I’m not going to start stalking her or anything like that.”
“I’m not saying to stalk her,” he says. “I’m saying to keep loving her and making sure she knows that you love her. You don’t just decide that this is the way things have to be. You have to try.”
“And if she still rejects me?”
“Then you know you tried.”
Everyone begins to clap. I turn to see the founder of the rehab, Timothy Wringer, walk into the center of the crowd. My father begins to clap too, so I join in. I always saw our differences and I thought that’s why we didn’t get along with each other, but now I see that I am my father’s son and as his son, I carry his weight and his love like a cross.
* * *
A car passes by as I walk back to my apartment. Its headlights break through the dimness of a city that can't afford to have sufficient street lights. Through the car’s open window, I can hear one of Mary Fitzgerald's songs blaring, evident by her voice that's a mixture of childish and soulful. All I can hear is her begging Jesus to save her before the car disappears around the corner.
The problem with saviors is that they allow us to be weak.
Maybe I should listen to all of Mary Fitzgerald’s music. It could lead me to The Son. She has a full album and an EP out, so it wouldn’t take me that long. It would be excruciating, but I haven’t found any other clues that lead me to him, so I might as well do that in order to increase my chances of accomplishing something.
I stop in front of my apartment building, pulling out my phone. Maybe I should call Lauren—I have no idea where she’s staying tonight. Her grandmother probably called her, though, and besides, Lauren’s made it clear that she doesn’t want our personal lives intertwining. I pull up the site of a music store called Vinyl Sun and find Mary Fitzgerald’s music. It looks like all of the recent reviews of her CD are a mix of 1-star accompanied by terms like “psycho” and “religious nut,” and a few 5-star reviews that are insisting on her innocence.
The faint sound of police sirens interrupts my thoughts. I look up as they grow louder. I’ve heard them so often—most of the time because I’m in the car with the siren blaring—but it still puts me on edge. Every part of my body prepares for battle because it’s used to running into danger minutes after switching on a siren.
Three police cars speed past me. Three of them can’t be a good sign. That must mean multiple people are hurt, multiple people could be hurt, somebody important was hurt, or multiple people and/or an important person are in a crisis.
My phone vibrates in my hand.
Hamlin: New Captain was attacked by Commandment Killer. He’s injured, but OK. Meet us @ Sheeran Junkyard.
Shit. The Son clearly has a problem with the police—more than Mary or Christopher Lush did. To the other two, we were just pawns that they were forcing to move to defend the other pieces. Now, it seems, the killer has made us into the King and he intends to win this game.
My grandfather didn’t force me to play chess as a child until I won in order for me to lose against a sociopath. I don’t lose, I don’t surrender, and I certainly don’t let anyone determine my next move.
* * *
The junkyard is in the outskirts of Detroit. I follow a pair of forensic technicians through the maze of trash and abandoned car parts. Does this mean that our killer is connected to cars, considering his choice to attack our boss and the polyurethane? Or is his place to attack Captain Hotchens a coincidence?
A few more forensic technicians, along with Jack and Lauren, are circling around an area that has been blocked off with barricade tape. I walk straight up to Jack.
“W
here’s Captain Hotchens?” I ask.
“Paramedics took him about five minutes ago,” he says. “You didn’t pass by it?”
“I took the long route,” I say. “I figured with how many emergency vehicles would be coming this way, I should take a different path.”
“Good plan.”
“Did he say what happened?”
“His memory is a bit hazy,” he says. “He remembers seeing a car being parked with its hazard lights on, so he stopped to help, but when he walked around to the driver’s side, nobody was there. That’s the last thing he remembered until he woke up with a bad headache—so, we’re assuming he was knocked out by somebody—and the killer was nailing him to a cross.”
“Did he see his face?” I ask.
Jack shakes his head. “The killer was wearing a wooden mask. Hotchens says it had eye holes and a mouth hole, but otherwise, it didn’t have any distinguishing marks. He also said the killer was wearing a hood and that he thinks the hood was taped to his head or something because it never moved enough to see what color hair he had. The killer told him he was guilty of coveting what wasn’t his—”
“What was he coveting?”
“The killer didn’t say and the Captain didn’t know,” he says. “Maybe the Captain’s job? He is new.”
“That wouldn’t really be coveting though,” Lauren interjects. “It’s not like there was any sign that Hotchens wanted it before Mattinson left.”
“That we know of,” I add.
“But, as the killer was nailing Hotchens’s other hand to the cross, a homeless man spotted them and came charging at the killer. The killer ran. I don’t know if he didn’t have a weapon beyond a hammer and nails or if he just didn’t want to attack a homeless man, but the homeless man—Damon Jenkins—called 9-1-1. I talked to him briefly and he didn’t see any distinguishing marks on the killer, either. Some of the boys took him to get some coffee, so maybe they’ll get more info out of him.”
“So, we have no descriptors?” I ask. “Not even his race?”
“Well, his whole body was covered with clothing—even his hands with black gloves, which might explain why we haven’t found any fingerprints that belong to him—and both Hotchens and Jenkins say the killer was thin…and they assume he was male.”
“Well, we kind of had that second one with The Son as a label,” I say. “And thin doesn’t help us at all. Neither of them could come up with a height?”
“For Jenkins, he was never close enough to determine a height, but Hotchens thought he might be a few inches taller than the average male—between 5’11” and 6’2”. He said it was hard to tell because the cross was flat on the ground while he was being nailed to it.”
“And he couldn’t attack back?” I ask.
“He was barely conscious when his attacker was still around. Besides, the attacker put a car fender and a wheel on the captain’s legs.”
I shake my head. “This guy was prepared for him to wake up.”
“Well, from what we heard on the surveillance footage, and what we saw of Mary Fitzgerald’s last victim, it seems like he wants them to be awake through the pain,” Lauren says. “It’s part of his beliefs that the person needs to repent and feel the same pain that Jesus did.”
“Well, at least now we have a victim that not only survived, but is also a trained policeman,” I say. “We need to go talk to him.”
“You really think he’s going to have that much more to say since the first policemen here questioned him?” Lauren asks, following me as I leave the junkyard. “He has two injuries.”
“So did I after Mary Fitzgerald shot me with a nail gun, but I was still around to question her,” I say. “Besides, the killer is probably going to go after Hotchens again. He doesn’t seem like the type to leave loose ends.”
“He’s left us alive,” she says.
“That’s his fucking mistake.”
Chapter Six
Lauren
Sean’s hands are wrapped up, making his hands look triple the usual size. However, it doesn’t seem to make him self-conscious because, as I sit beside him and Tobias stands at the end of Sean’s hospital bed, he bounces his two hands against each other. Then again, that could just be an effect of the painkillers the hospital staff gave him.
“Captain Hotchens, we just wanted to go over what happened to you again,” Tobias says. “Have you remembered anything that you didn’t tell the first officer you talked to?”
“Uh…” Sean stares at Tobias as if Tobias were the one bouncing his hands against each other. “I don’t think so. The killer was a skinny guy, and he tried to crucify me…well, first he knocked me out—”
“Okay, start at the beginning,” Tobias interrupts.
“I was driving home. I live outside of Detroit in Woodhaven and to get to my house, there’s this long road that nobody ever drives down. But this time, there was a car. It was a white car…possibly an old Ford Escort from the early nineties. I think the license plate had an eight and a P in it. It had its hazard lights on, so I got out to see if I could help. I got to the driver’s side, but nobody was there. I guess I must have blacked out because the next thing I remember is feeling a nail driving into my hand and this heavy weight on my thighs. I begged the guy to let me go—he was wearing a wooden mask and hoodie, so I couldn’t see any part of his face. Oh, oh, I know! He had pale skin. He tried to hide his, uh, his complexion with his clothes, but the mouth hole from his mask, it made it so I could see he had really pale skin. It almost glowed underneath that mask. At one point, he took his gloves off too—for a second as I was becoming conscious—and he had calloused fingertips. He was doing that thing where people form a cross by touching their forehead and across the chest—”
“The sign of the cross,” I interject.
“Yeah, except he was doing it on me,” he says. “Anyway, after he began nailing my second hand, which hurt like a bitch, this homeless guy came charging at him with a piece of metal I think he found in the junkyard. That homeless guy is okay, right? I remember everyone rushing to help me, but I don’t remember what happened to him.”
“He’s fine,” I reassure him. “Do you need something to drink? Are you allowed to eat anything?”
“I’m good, I’m good,” he says, patting one of his wrapped up hands against my arm. “Don’t worry about me. It could have been worse. I mean, imagine the possibilities of having holes in my palms. This just means I’m ready for that future technology where they insert a screen into your hand or that I could dip my hand in that liquid bubble stuff and blow them out. Every kid would love me…or be terrified of me. Either way, it would be fun.”
“I think the drugs are affecting you a little bit,” I say, squeezing his arm. “We’ll go and let you sleep.”
“Get better, Captain,” Tobias says.
As I turn to Tobias, I see something flash in his eyes—anger, sadness, and anxious uncertainty. I’m usually better at reading people, but he blinks and it’s gone. I’m not sure I even saw it in the first place or if I was just hoping to see that despite our problems, he still cares.
“Maybe we should question Mary,” I say, standing up. We walk out of the room.
“She’s too devoted to The Son to give up anything,” he says. “You might as well tell her to be Judas.”
I rub my eyes, my lack of sleep suddenly feeling like a weight on my eyelids.
“You should go back to your grandma’s and get some sleep,” Tobias says as we step up to the hospital elevator.
“And let you do all of the work?” I tease.
“I won’t do too much,” he promises. “But I need my partner in good shape if we do get a suspect. You’ve always been better at getting confessions out of people.”
“Why do you think that is?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Because you don’t judge them,” he says. The elevator doors slide open and we both step in. He presses the button for the ground floor. “You actually do live up to Jesus’ message
and they feel like they can confess their sins to you.”
“You think too highly of me,” I say.
He shakes his head. “I’m not the only one who thinks it,” he says. “Everyone loves you.”
There’s a weariness and a vulnerability in his voice. It breaks my heart and builds it up at the same time. I know how much he has sacrificed his pride to tell me all of this—he has raised me above him, which is always dangerous to do—but I’m not a god and I’m not a savior. The faith between us is weak and faith is the only thing that makes sacrifice worthwhile.
Chapter Seven
Tobias
As I drive into the parking lot of the library, I see Peter sitting at one of the benches in front of it. The sunglasses and cane that signify that he’s blind already make him stand apart in most public scenarios, but his platinum blond hair is what always catches my attention.
I jump out of my car, lock it, and walk over to him.
“Hey, Peter,” I say.
He turns his head toward me. If he had vision, he would be looking closer to my neck than my eyes. “Hello.”
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Oh, you know, just taking in the great sites of Detroit,” he drawls. “I heard about one of your policemen—the Captain, I believe—being attacked. I wanted to make sure Lauren is okay. She hasn’t answered my calls.”
“She’s fine,” I tell him. “This serial killer only attacked our Captain.”
“She’s fine now,” he says. “But what about when this killer attacks again? Clearly, he doesn’t like law enforcement. I’m concerned, and so is our grandmother.”
“I’ll keep her safe,” I promise him. “You don’t need to worry. Besides, he’s made a point to send a message to both of us, but he doesn’t seem interested in killing us, so I think we’re both safe.”
Vengeance of the Son (A Trinity of Death Romantic Suspense Series Book 3) Page 5
