by Alexa Grace
Launching herself at his chest, she knocked the wind out of him, and made him stumble backward until he regained his balance. Running from the room, she dashed up the stairs. The slam of their bedroom door echoed throughout the house.
Sinking down to the chair, he braced his elbows on his knees and his chest heaved as he wept. He’d already suspected he was a miserable excuse of a father, but now it seemed he’d also failed as a husband. Was he such a hard man that his own wife couldn’t talk to him? How could she have known these things about their sons and not discussed them with him? Didn’t Tisha know he loved their boys as much as she did?
Rubbing his hands over his face, Bradley sighed. He could almost imagine Devan and Evan bounding down the stairs with their athletic gear going to yet another practice. He’d loved his sons, but wanted them brought up right, and had created strict rules to govern their lives. Rules he never dreamed they’d ignore. How and why their behavior had turned so deviant was a mystery he may never solve. Answers to questions he may never get.
How could the two boys he loved more than anything make a game of abducting and murdering women? Where had he and Tisha gone wrong? How could they have raised such monsters? If he could go back and change things, he’d do it without hesitation, even if it meant giving his life. But what could he have done differently? He had no clue where he’d gone wrong.
He remembered the day he searched for his sons after reporting them missing when they didn’t come home after a night out. Devan and Evan always came home. Always. They were teenagers—seventeen-year-old high school seniors. They knew the rules and what happened if they broke them.
He had no clue why he’d thought to look for his sons at the storage unit he’d given them to store their athletic gear. Once inside the unit, he’d noticed the bed with the soiled, stained mattress first, and then the leather restraints bolted to the wall just above the headboard. Repulsed, his mind spinning with confusion, he’d backed away from the bed, and slammed against a stack of large plastic bins that tumbled to the floor, spilling out women’s clothing, some of it stained with what looked like blood. A ring had rolled across the floor like a plastic disc from a Tiddlywinks game. Picking it up, he held it in his hand and realized it was an engagement ring, a circle of glittering stones surrounding a bigger stone in the center. The stones were diamonds, and he’d been certain they were real.
It was then he saw Destiny Cooke’s name written with a black marker at the side of the bin. Destiny Cooke? Wasn’t she the beauty queen who had been found murdered? Why would his boys have Destiny’s clothing and ring? His mouth flew open as his knees weakened, realization sending him crashing down to the cement floor. He spread his fingers out in a fan against his breastbone in a futile effort to slow his racing heart. Gripping the sides of his head, he tried to stop the voices of denial shouting in his mind. They couldn’t have killed Destiny. Not his sons. There must be another explanation.
But Bradley would have known the handwriting on the bin anywhere, there was no denying it. It was a crude combination of printing and cursive that grade school teachers had harped about at parent-teacher meetings for years. It’d been written by his son, Devan.
There were other plastic bins with names, a lot of them. Storage bins filled with women’s clothing, jewelry, shoes, purses and more. All neatly stored and cataloged. He recognized some of the names from a whiteboard in the sheriff’s conference room, included in a list of murder victims the detectives believed were connected by the same killer or killers.
Picking himself up, he headed toward the door. As a father, his decision was far from easy, but he’d do whatever he had to do to protect his boys. He’d hide his sons’ evil from the rest of the world. They were his boys, after all. It was his job to protect them no matter what they’d done. He’d come back in the wee hours of the morning and destroy the evidence. No one would have to know. He’d pull down the unit door, lock the contents and secrets away. But it had been too late.
He’d backed out of the unit and reached for the door to pull it down.
“Freeze!”
A gun barrel pressed against his back, he’d turned to see an armed deputy. There were two more in the parking lot, standing behind the front doors of their patrol cars, with guns aimed at his chest. They handcuffed him and shoved him in the back of a patrol car. He’d seen their expressions of disgust when they returned to the car after searching the contents of the unit. They sealed it off as a crime scene and the rest was history, once they discovered the storage unit was a treasure trove of evidence that his boys had tortured and murdered seven young women.
His sons’ deaths left him with the disbelief the young men he loved more than life could be responsible for such absolute horror. There would be no escape from his overwhelming guilt for the pain they caused the victims and their families. The anguish they left behind could no more be undone than the murders they’d committed.
Chapter Seven
Retribution
Pretending to have car trouble, he pulled his old truck off the road, flicked on his emergency lights, turned off the motor, and watched the house. And what a house it was. Looked like one of those million-dollar places he’d seen on HGTV. Two chimneys indicated it had a couple of fireplaces, probably one downstairs where they sipped their after-dinner drinks, and one upstairs in the master bedroom. He’d find out soon. He intended to give himself a personal tour of the Lucas house when the right time arose. He wanted a good look at how the other side lived, the side that bred evil.
Hearing a motor, he glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw a farm tractor approaching, so he hunched down in his seat and pulled his hat down to better cover his face. The tractor soon passed, and he returned to watching the house.
It wasn’t the first time he’d had his eye on the Lucas place and wouldn’t be the last. The Lucas couple lived there alone, but a young woman usually arrived at the house mid-morning and didn’t leave until after dinnertime. He’d have to remember that. She was an innocent. She needn’t be involved. The girl drove an old Toyota with enough rust covering the car’s body that it looked like mold. He got a good look at her face once. Looked like she was in her twenties, wearing too much gunk on her face, and hanging her cigarette out the window. He figured she must be the housekeeper or some other menial job she probably felt damn lucky to have. Couldn’t fault her on that. He’d was a working stiff too, doing one job or another to keep food on the table and a roof over their heads. Beggars can’t be choosers or some such shit.
The Lucas garage door opened and a red Mercedes sports car backed up. That would be Mr. Lucas driving his middle-age-crisis car, trying to look half-his age, big-ass-deal architect. On his way to work, no doubt. The guy owned that big construction business outside the Morel city limits. It was one of those three-story brick buildings with large, double-pane windows lining the front, and the name “Lucas” in large, silver letters above the front door. No windows in the back, which seemed odd to him. But who was he to know what was going on in the minds of evil? He knew where the building was where Lucas worked every day, and he knew how to get into it when no one was around. That was all that mattered.
Lowering his shoulders, he acted like he was reaching for something in his glove box when Lucas drove past. The man probably didn’t give him a second glance. He didn’t seem the type to give a shit if a guy was having car trouble or not. The only things men like him cared about was a big-ass house, flashy car, and a pretty wife he could show off to the country club set. A man like Bradley Lucas didn’t care about other people, and that’s undoubtedly a lesson he taught his psychopath sons.
He flipped his wrist to check his watch. It was time. The young housekeeper was late, but might arrive soon, and he had an important mission to carry out. Checking his rear-view mirror, he saw no vehicles on the road. Once he’d slipped on a pair of blue latex gloves, he turned off the emergency lights, twisted the key in the ignition and pushed the gear to drive. At their mailbox, he pulled
a folded white note from his glove compartment and slipped it inside.
Soon, Mr. and Mrs. Bradley Lucas would know his intentions. That was only fair. He’d get what he wanted. Retribution or justice? In his eyes, they were the same.
Chapter Eight
The Storage Unit
Bradley Lucas pulled his truck up to the storage unit, slipped the gear to park, and turned off the engine. It was a place he’d visited often in nightmares. It was the unit his sons, Devan and Evan, used to torture and slay their victims as part of an evil game they played. He’d owned the Lucas Storage business for nine years or so. It had a hundred units, most of them rented to families who had outgrown their homes. But he’d been forbidden by law enforcement to enter Unit #13, the one he’d given his twin sons to store their athletic gear. The yellow crime scene tape still ran across the door.
It was his second visit to the unit. The first time seemed like a lifetime ago—when he’d been happily married with two teenage sons who made the honor roll and excelled in athletics.
Sergeant Cameron Chase had sent word that the crime scene technicians had finished collecting and recording physical evidence, and that his storage unit had been released as a crime scene. That’s when Bradley decided he wanted to see for himself what the unit was like before the cleaning crew he’d hired sterilized it, expunging the evil that resided there.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Cameron Chase stood before the storage unit door, sending him a pitying glance that made him ball his hands into fists at his sides. If there was one thing he didn’t need, it was pity. Not from anyone, and certainly not from one of the Chase brothers. He was a strong man, former military. Pity was for weaklings.
“Just open the damn door, Cameron. Give me the key and then get out.”
Cameron lifted the storage unit door and then stepped aside so Bradley could enter the unit. He waited until Cameron flipped on the light switch to illuminate the large, windowless room.
As soon as his eyes adjusted to the light, Bradley pointed a finger toward the left. “I remember big plastic storage bins stacked over there. Where are they?”
“After the crime scene techs photographed the room and its contents, they secured the bins so they could be processed for fingerprints. Then they were taken to our lab to be unpacked and processed in a secure environment.”
Bradley leaned against the wall. “I know what was in the bins. I backed against them and they fell to the floor that night your deputies found me here. One of them dumped its contents. Inside were Destiny Cooke’s belongings. I found her engagement ring.”
Cameron nodded, but said nothing.
“Have her belongings been returned to her family?”
“Not yet, but they will be.”
“And the other girls?”
“The same. Sometimes the victims’ belongings give the families some kind of closure. But other families want nothing to do with the items that remind them of their loss.”
Bradley shook his head, and blinked away the tears blurring his vision. “You may not believe this, coming from the father of two serial killers, but I know their pain. There isn’t a morning that goes by that I don’t sit at the breakfast table and listen for the sounds of Evan and Devan bounding down the stairs to join me. The parents of those girls must experience the same kind of loss. Add to that grief, their knowledge of how their daughters suffered the unthinkable prior to their deaths—at the hands of my sons.” Guilt and shame flooded him. Guilt and shame for the acts of his twins. His chest heaved as he began to weep.
Cameron grasped his shoulder, but Bradley brushed his hand away. No pity. He didn’t deserve it, nor did he want it. He wanted something he could never have, to go back in time when his boys were innocent, and his marriage was happy. Sweeping a hand across his cheeks, he cleared his throat and tried to get a grip on his emotions.
“Destiny Cooke? Did you know her?”
“Yes, I did. Went to school with her.”
Bradley remembered the ring that had rolled out of her bin when it fell. “She was engaged?”
Cameron nodded. “To Justin Andrews. They were high school sweethearts. Destiny was at the church for their wedding rehearsal when she was abducted.”
Bradley’s eyes clouded again and he looked away. “And Justin? How is he doing?”
“Listen, why don’t we get out of here and have coffee somewhere? You shouldn’t be here. Let the cleaning crew…”
“Goddammit, I should be here. I’m the one that gave this torture chamber to Evan and Devan. Their story was they needed it to store athletic equipment. That’s a far cry from why they really wanted this unit.” He glared at Cameron. “Answer my question about Justin Andrews.”
“What do you want me to say? Do you want to hear that Justin has forgotten about Destiny and he’s moved on? He hasn’t. His grief is palpable. There are times when I avoid him, because I can’t stand thinking about what he must be going through. Every time I look at Justin, I think about the day he threw his arms around the rocking chair where Destiny’s body was propped. He was hysterical. It took four men to get him to let go of her. Is that what you want to hear?”
“I’m so sorry. So very sorry.”
Cameron shook his head. “That’s the thing, Bradley. You didn’t kill Destiny or the others. Your boys made that decision all by themselves. You had nothing to do with any of it. You’ve got to stop beating yourself up.”
Bradley held up a hand to silence him, and moved to the foot of the bed. There was a section of wall at the head that had been removed. No doubt that was where he’d seen the restraints. He then noticed that the entire top layer of the mattress had been cut off. His stomach turned as he realized there must have been blood and other bodily fluids on the mattress that had had to be analyzed back at the lab. And, no doubt, were matches to the victims.
Bradley turned away, realizing he didn’t want to face any more memories of pain, terror and death. If he thought visiting this unit would bring him closure, he was mistaken. He turned to Cameron as he fished his keys out of his pocket. “I’m done here.”
It was too much. He ran from the storage unit, leaned against his car, and vomited until he dry heaved.
Chapter Nine
Not-So-Perfect Sons
Tisha Lucas watched as her housekeeper, Krystle Smith, cleared the lunch dishes from the dining room table. Yet another lunch alone, but what did she expect? Lunch invitations from any of her friends at the country club had dried up months ago. Who wants to share a meal with the mother of two psychopaths? Well, fuck them and their daddies’ trust funds. Throwing her folded napkin on the table, she headed for the den. It was a room they used to call the “family room.” One couldn’t very well have a family room when they’d lost half of their family. Did Bradley really think that renaming the room would help their situation? Ease her pain?
She’d begun to hate her own home. Bradley had the house built during their first year of marriage. Every square inch of the design had been perfect for the life they planned together. There were five bedrooms, four they’d planned to fill with children. Then the twins came along and they were a handful from the beginning. So their dreams of raising four children were reduced to two, and Tisha spent every waking hour caring for their needs. Her perfect little boys. The years flew by and Tisha became aware that her perfect sons were far from perfect.
When the boys were very young, her doubts surfaced. Something was off about them. It was the little odd behaviors that bothered her so much that she couldn’t push them aside, like their obsession to harm small animals. It solidified her fear of having a pet because of what the boys might do to it. And then there were babysitters’ refusals to return after their first time. Not one gave an explanation, as if they feared talking about the visit. The twins had no friends, other than each other. Why? Bradley had never been affectionate, but her sons were downright cold and actually recoiled when she tried to hug them. She remembered chastising herself. What kind
of a mother had thoughts like that about her own sons?
Like it was yesterday, she remembered the time the neighbors accused Devan of killing their cat, and she’d thrown them off their property. She’d dragged the boys into the house by their arms and sat them on the living room sofa. “Did you do anything to their cat?” Both boys shrugged their shoulders and said they didn’t do a thing to the cat. Not a thing. But she’d heard them both giggle as they marched up the stairs to their rooms. She’d kept her worries to herself, even when the Browns said their missing puppy was last seen with her twins and she’d later found a mound of fresh dirt near her garden.
Not that Bradley helped the situation. What father takes his seven-year-old twins to the gun range to teach them to shoot? What kind of a man takes his eight-year-olds hunting rabbits, and then spanks Evan for crying when Bradley made him carry the bloody rabbits by their hind feet all the way back to the truck? Who does that? No, she decided, Bradley didn’t need to know about her fears. He’d only laugh at them.
But the day when twelve-year-old Evan fell off their second-story roof, she’d realized something was very wrong. As his father dialed 9-1-1 for an ambulance, Devan calmly leaned against a tree. She’d seen the gleam in Devan’s eyes, and the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth when he thought she wasn’t looking. It was the same expression he got when he thought he’d pulled one over on her. His brother had broken both of his legs and was in unbearable pain, yet Devan found his plight amusing. She’d sent him to his room to wait until they returned from the hospital.
While the doctors tended to Evan’s legs, she’d pulled her husband into the hallway.
“This was not an accident,” she’d said, keeping her voice low so only he could hear her.
