by Blake Pierce
Currently, she was teaching a class of fifteen highly gifted students how to code. The kids were an average age of seven years old, the sort of children that truly did show promise but would likely have that promise crushed when they made it to middle school and all they cared about was impressing the opposite sex—or, in the case of one of the little boys in the class, the same sex. It was already quite clear.
Working with children while harboring this deep, dark secret provided an odd sort of thrill. There was shame, sure. She knew what the higher-ups might think if the secret was ever discovered. How could you teach kids so well but also so easily take life? Honestly, it was something she still considered herself when she was unable to sleep. There was no real answer—or at least not one that could be learned and processed in the course of nine days.
Besides, she would never hurt these children. She cared deeply for these children and every single child that had come through this classroom in the past five years. The children had been nurtured with the love and care their parents likely withheld from them by working too hard or not taking the time to speak to them.
But while she loved the children, they were also like a cancer—a cancer that ate at her from the inside out. She’d learned nearly a decade ago that she could not have children. Even if there was a suitable lover (which there had not been for a few years now), there was no hope for children in her future. It was the only reason teaching had made sense; it was a way to be around kids, to enjoy their smiles and stories and their wide-spanning dreams of a future they naïvely believed was going to be bright and shining.
After coding, there would be some nonsense that the school liked to refer to as Independent Thinking. What it was, essentially, was time to goof off…which was perfectly fine. Half the fun of being a child was goofing off a bit. At this age, they should not be consumed with excelling at miserable tests the state used to measure their intellect. It seemed especially stupid for these children, who had already proven they were leaps and bounds above the other kids in their grade.
She loved the kids, but hated the school system. It was just a place for kids to be stored while their mothers and fathers were out milling away to pay outrageous bills and mortgages so they could fit in and catch up with those slightly above their social class. These children would all grow up with the scars of that system on them, affecting the way they viewed politics and justice, love and sex, respect and hatred. She saw this every single day and it was why she had initially convinced herself that she did not even want to have children. They were born into this world destined to already be screwed up in a million ways. So if she could not have any of her own, maybe it was for the best.
But these kids were different. These were the sort of kids she would have surely enjoyed raising. Special. Independent. Not just carbon copies of their messed up parents. The thought of it was both inspiring and depressing all at once.
She sat behind the small oak desk and watched the kids at work. Sometimes, one would look up, as if for recognition or encouragement. She would smile brightly even though her thoughts were elsewhere. Her thoughts were on plans for the night. There was already another woman out there, another that she would visit.
Thinking of how the night would play out, her smile widened even when there was no child looking back.
She found herself smiling often these days, as a way to cover up the horrific things she had done. But she had to. She’d made a mistake recently and she had to correct it. No one else would…that was for sure. That’s when she’d started killing those women—when she realized she was the only one that had the power to correct her mistake.
She’d had a moment of weakness several months back and that had been the first true mistake.
Of course, her mother might tell her that the first mistake that started this whole mess was going out to the bar that night during her freshman year of college. She’d not been old enough to drink, of course, but a short skirt in a college town was an easy work around for such a problem. She’d only had three drinks, but it had been enough to cause her knees to wobble as she made her way through the back alley with her friends, a shortcut back to the dorms.
Her knees had still been wobbly, her head still a little off kilter, when the three men stepped out of the shadows. One served as the lookout while the other two raped her and her friend. And then they alternated. Her only mistake had been trying to fight back when they switched places. For that, she’d received a head slammed against a brick wall that resulted in fifteen stitches. She’d also received cuts and bruises between her legs, one cut receiving five stitches. And she’d also received the news that she would likely never be able to have children.
Maybe her mother would be right. Maybe the visit to the bar had been the very first mistake. The very bad decisions she’d made of late had stemmed from that bad news from the doctor. Her choice in men had been affected, as had some pivotal life decisions. But then there was the really big mistake—the thing she’d meant for good but had come back to burden her and cause her to kill. The—
The bell rang. She snapped out of her dark thoughts and for a moment she had no idea where she was.
School. The children…
The kids got up in an orderly fashion and put their laptops away. They then exited the class, chattering and laughing. A few waved to her and one young boy that seemed particularly drawn to her even gave her a fist bump.
She’d really wandered off there. It had never been that bad before. She wasn’t sure how many more she was going to have to kill but she certainly hoped her work would be over soon. If not, she wasn’t sure how long she’d be able to separate these two very different sides of her life. Even as she watched the children file out of the room, her mind was already wandering towards the plan of how to take the next life and what it might feel like to take just a single moment to truly enjoy that first push of the knife as it pushed through skin and muscle, tissue and life.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
There was a small group of protesters outside Regency Fertility Clinic when Rachel and Jack arrived. There was nothing destructive or overly boisterous taking place, just a gathered group of about a dozen people with Pro-Choice signs. Rachel wasn’t quite sure why, but their presence aggravated her—not that she was vehemently on either side of that debate. It was just an unwanted and unexpected source of noise and distraction from the case.
That slight irritation followed her inside as she and Jack entered the clinic. The place was cool and air conditioned. The small waiting area outside of the appointments and reception area was decorated in a cute farmhouse style. Pregnancy and childcare magazines filled the small tables by the chairs.
As they approached the reception window with the smallest line—the window all the way to the right, only containing one other person—Rachel was bombarded with something else she did not expect. She felt an overwhelming depression trying to dig its claws in. Being here in the midst of hopeful women and couples that were fighting to do what they could to bring life into the world was a stark reminder of the rapidly approaching end of her own. She felt it pressing into her chest, a feeling not unlike a severe panic attack.
But before it had time to consume her, it was their turn at the reception window. She was so distracted by the feeling that it took a gently, prodding nudge from Jack to get her moving forward.
“Can I help you?” the receptionist behind the window asked. She seemed very cranky but was trying to mask it with some degree of professionalism. Rachel noted that she was wearing a light blue bandana over her head. From the looks of it, there was no hair underneath.
Rachel showed her badge and ID with a practiced fluidity that had come with years of making the motion. “Agents Gift and Rivers, FBI,” she said.
“Hopefully here to send those protesters home?” the receptionist said, making the object of her frustration known.
“Actually, no,” Rachel said. “We’re looking into two murders that both seem to be leaning towards some
sort of fertility link. We know for a fact that the first victim had been in touch with Regency. I’d like you to confirm that, if you can.”
“Sure,” the receptionist said. She no longer seemed irritated, but slightly unnerved. She nervously felt along the edges of the bandana, covering what Kate assumed was a bald head. “What’s the woman’s name?”
“Gloria Larsen.”
The receptionist typed the name into her laptop and waited a moment. She then clicked her touchpad a few times and nodded. “Yes,” she said. “I have her right here. In fact, Gloria Larsen was scheduled for her first appointment tomorrow at two in the afternoon.”
“Does it say what the appointment was for?” Jack asked.
“Looks like just a few basic tests and to discuss potential treatment plans going forward.”
“So she hadn’t been here before?” Rachel said.
The receptionist did some more clicking and scrolling before eventually shaking her head. “No, it doesn’t look like it.”
“Would you mind taking a look for the name of the other victim? Her name is Lucinda Masters.”
More typing, more clicking. “Yes, I see her here. She has an appointment scheduled for next week. From what I see here, she was set to begin her treatments.”
Rachel and Jack shared a look. They’d just gotten a pretty unshakable link—one that might tie this whole case together. Rachel leaned in close and said, “I know there are hoops and logistics, but I really need a list of all women scheduled to receive fertility treatments in the next week or so.”
The receptionist frowned and looked rather torn. “I’m sure you know, ma’am, that I can’t just give out information like that. What I’ve already given you was probably too much. But women not involved in your case…I can’t—”
“Who can make those decisions, then?”
Flustered, the receptionist shrugged. “Doctor Jergens is the lead doctor today. Maybe she could talk to you about it.”
“I need you to buzz her, please. Agent Rivers and I will be over there,” she said, nodding to the little farmhouse-decorated area.
They left the window and took a seat. Jack shook his head playfully and said, “You sounded pretty cut-throat with her.”
Ignoring the comment completely, Rachel steepled her fingers in her lap and started working her way through what they knew. “A killer that is targeting women seeking fertility treatments is a bit specific, don’t you think?”
“Yeah. The question then becomes if he’s doing it because it’s a fairly vulnerable population or because he feels very strongly about pro-life versus pro-choice.”
“Doubtful,” Rachel said, now sensing some of that cut-throat tone Jack had mentioned. “Someone concerned with the sanctity of life wouldn’t take it so brutally.”
“Not someone thinking logically, sure,” Jack said.
Rachel looked back out to the reception windows. She eyed a couple holding hands as they walked to one of the windows. The fact that she and Peter had been trying to have a second child weighed on her. From trying to bring life into the world to being taken out of it in just a matter of hours…it was beyond jarring.
Rachel nearly started to brainstorm a bit more, but a woman in a generic doctor’s smock came walking to them from the long hallway to the right of the receptionist windows. She looked hurried and annoyed—which was apparently a common theme today.
“I’m Dr. Jergens,” she said. “I take it you’re the FBI agents?”
“We are,” Rachel said, getting to her feet.
“I’ve been informed that you want a list of women that are due for fertility treatments over the next week or so. But surely you understand I can’t just give out that sort of personal information.”
“I understand the principle of it, yes,” Rachel said. “But two women have been murdered in a span of three days and this is the only link between them—and it’s a very strong one. This is not coincidence. He’s targeting the women because of their fertility treatments. I’ve been working these sorts of cases long enough to tell you with almost one hundred percent certainty that he’ll do it again. I have no idea how he knows or how he’s getting this information, but it seems he is.”
“Still, there are rules and—”
Rachel lowered her voice and stepped closer to Jergens. “With all due respect, this killer doesn’t give a damn about any rules. If I leave here without that list, I have no way of knowing who is next. And I’d rather you break some rules and give me the list now than have me back in here in a few days with a third body on our hands—a third name in your database. Would you give me this same argument then?”
The shift in Dr. Jergens’ face told Rachel that she’d convinced her. But Jergens was not at all happy about it. “Wait here,” she said. “I’ll bring you your list. And I need you to sign a few papers if I’m handing over that sort if information.”
“Of course.”
Jergens stormed away and Rachel took her seat again. She was aware of Jack looking at her and waited for him to say something. As usual, he did not disappoint.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said. “But you were sort of a bitch. Don’t get me wrong…I kind of love it. But yikes.”
She turned to him and she saw that he was smiling. They knew one another well enough for her to know not to take offense to his name calling. They’d certainly called each other worse in their few years together, and it was always in good fun.
“We’re getting our list, aren’t we?” she said. She meant for it to sound snarky, but it came out with an edge.
He nodded and looked at her with concern. “Hey…it’s me, Rachel. Seriously, is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” she said, the lie burning in her chest. “I think this case is just getting to me.”
Jack dropped the subject and neither of them said another word until Jergens reappeared, walking down the hallway with their list in hand.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Back outside, the voices of the protestors seemed louder than they had going in. They came from behind poorly made signs and the collective cowardice of the group. Maybe it was just the stress of the day, or the faces of hopeful parents she’d seen inside, wanting to bring new life into the world. Whatever it was, the mere presence of the protestors annoyed Rachel. She did her best to look away from them as she and Jack returned to the car.
But as Rachel reached for the door handle on the driver’s side, there was one woman’s voice that seemed to rise over the rest of the din. It came hurtling toward Rachel as if the woman had thrown a spear at her, not an uninformed, stupid comment.
“So were the two of you in there opposing God’s will, too?”
Rachel knew she should just get in the car and keep her mouth shut. But when her arm froze as she reached for the door handle, she knew it was too late. God’s will, she thought. I wonder if my doctor’s appointment yesterday was part of God’s will. What the hell do you know about God’s will?
“Not that it’s any of your business,” Rachel said, “but no.”
Jack opened up his door on the passenger side and gave her a curious look—one that seemed to say: Please don’t engage these people.
Undaunted, the same protestor stepped forward, dropping her little carboard sign to the ground. She pointed a beefy finger towards the clinic and said, “What they do in there is a direct violation of the will of our sovereign God! Freezing eggs and taking stem cells and—”
Rather than rolling her eyes and telling the woman to shut her mouth, Rachel instead pulled out her badge. She flashed at the woman as if she were brandishing a magic wand. “Back away from me, please,” she said. “And do us both a favor: go home. What the people going in and out of this building might be dealing with is absolutely, one hundred percent none of your concern.”
The woman and some of her friends eyed the badge and slowly stepped back a bit. Rachel noticed that one of the women slightly behind the presumed leader even lowered her sign and turned it a
round so that the blank side was showing. With that, Rachel finally got back into the car, swallowing down about five different further responses.
Jack also got in, closing his door and looking over to her as she cranked the car. “Well, that was fun,” he said with a nervous grin. “Rachel, what the hell is going on?”
“Nothing,” she said, trying not to bark at him. “I guess I’m just more irritable than usual.”
He nodded and said, “And that’s saying something.”
But she knew he wasn’t buying it; she knew he was worried about her, trying to determine how much pressure he should apply before backing off. Rachel gave the protestors one final glance in the rearview mirror as she pulled back out onto the street and headed in the direction of the local precinct.
***
The case felt pretty big to Rachel, so it confused her when the local PD only provided three additional officers for them to work with. Rachel and Jack stood at the front of a small conference room with three officers sitting at the table in front of them. She had elected to take the back seat for this meeting, not trusting the tumultuous wave of her emotions that had, so far, proven not to be very trustworthy today.
“Here’s what we’re dealing with,” Jack said, placing the list of women from the clinic on the table. “We have a list of five women that look like they might be potential targets for this killer. Our job right now is to locate them. I’d prefer physical, face-to-face meetings, but if it has to be on the phone, we can deal with it. We need to make sure these women are not left alone until we find this killer. And even if they aren’t alone, we need to keep eyes on them. The latest victim was at home, her husband upstairs and the killer got her anyway.”
