by Holly Hunt
"Well, the good news is that you boys are about to get a whole lot richer," she said, pushing all her papers and photos into the folder, and standing up. "I trust you know how to find your way out."
"You'll regret this," one of the lawyers said, his voice low.
"Even scummy cops like you have friends and family to lose," the other one said, both of them picking up their briefcases.
"Of course we do," she said, holding the folder to her chest to hide her shaking hands. "We're not scumbag lawyers working to make the world a worse place, after all."
The pair shot her looks as they left, and she headed quickly to her office for a mid-afternoon drink.
She was equal parts afraid and elated as she let out a sigh of relief and sagged into the seat. The Holiday Killer was caught. Now he just needed to stay that way.
The adrenaline rushing through her body was a relief and a stimulant, pushing her to jump and celebrate, even if she only allowed herself a shaky breath and a small smile. She hadn't bowed to those cowardly lawyers and their threats, and she was sure their words were caught on the security cameras up in the corner of the ceiling. She'd have their asses, too, and relish every second of it.
She decided to have a second mid-afternoon drink, just to make sure she was really good on her feet. She needed to get home, to tell Phil the good news, and to warn him and Rose not to be too relaxed; there was still a chance something terrible could happen, but as far as she could see, the nightmare was over.
The Holiday Killer was behind bars, and her son was safe.
But there was one thing she didn't quite have solved yet: the second man. Who was the man who attacked Officer Malcolm at the scene of Mike's body? And if he wasn't working with the killer, did the killer himself have another accomplice? Would the murders stop now? Or would they get worse?
The questions plagued her as she left the interrogation room, ready to go home to bed.
7
Mark Windsor was released from custody at the end of June, the charges against him dropped owing to a lack of evidence, in spite of the children's toys being found in his house. The district attorney claimed that none of the evidence submitted against Mark Windsor would hold up in court, and threw them out of his office.
Liz sought an investigation from Internal Affairs, suspecting that the DA was either dirty or being intimidated by Mark Windsor's people, but they didn't want to get involved.
On July 6th, the eighth victim was pulled from a basement on Reighurst Street, heavily mutilated and bearing the Holiday Killer's signature markings. Liz fought to get Mark Windsor prosecuted, but he remained out on bail, and even with new victims turning up, the DA ignored Liz's case, turning a blind eye.
By the time the ninth victim was taken on Thanksgiving, the man was actively avoiding her and her questions.
She took to the streets during the peak of the crisis, randomly patrolling, hoping to stumble across the man sneaking into a house or—on those desperate nights after a kidnapping—dumping the body of his latest child. She didn't even care if it was the man who discovered Mike's body, or if it was Mark, or if it was a pink elephant in a tutu singing the Star Spangled Banner. She just wanted the fear to stop, the dread to lift, for holidays to mean something other than fear and death.
Most of all, she wanted Jamie safe.
Not once had she seen anything of use, but she still tried, determined to keep the city safe for as long as she could, even if it meant sitting in a car with a broken heater for hours at a time, in the middle of winter.
Thoughts of Jamie kept her going. Thoughts of protecting him kept her awake.
Phil and Liz were a little more relaxed now about the Holiday Killer's threat to take Jamie, but that didn't mean they weren't vigilant. Jamie wasn't allowed out of their sight for even a moment on holidays, or the nights surrounding them.
The fact that the Holiday Killer hadn't made so much as a move on Jamie had both if them worried. Was the man attempting to lull them into a false sense of security? Was he deterred by the security kept on him at all times? Or had he given up, deciding that it wasn't worth the effort to take him?
The questions gnawed at her as she climbed into bed each night, but none of his threats ever came to fruition. Liz wanted to believe she was doing what was best for Jamie, trying to catch the Holiday Killer instead of bowing to his demands, but eight hard months of nothing more than frustratingly clean bedrooms and decidedly messy child-corpses was wearing her down.
Maybe it would be better if she stood down, she thought on those long, desperate nights as she stalked the city. Let someone else take on the danger. She and her family were already skating a knife's edge; one more holiday without an attempt on Jamie could very well undo them. The tension that surrounded each holiday led to bruised egos and fights over nothing, creating grudges that neither could let go of.
It was Christmas Eve; couldn't the Holiday Killer just give them one Christmas of happiness?
Liz was broken out of her thoughts by her cell phone vibrating in time to her ringtone. She pulled over near the mouth of an alley, killing the engine and the headlights.
"Hey, Phil."
"Hey Liz. How's Jamie doing?"
"I don't know. Isn't he with you?" A chill ran down her back, but she swallowed it down. She wouldn't have a heart attack over a prank!
Phil hesitated. "Officer Rhonda said you came and picked him up an hour ago, in the minivan."
"I'm at work, Phil; I'm in the cruiser." She could feel bile rising in her throat, but she swallowed it down. "See if he's at home. I'm on my way over right now."
"See you then."
Liz started the engine and swung out into a U-turn that almost caused an accident. She flashed her sirens at the men in their cars and they backed down, glaring instead of shaking their fists at her. She ignored them, so focused on where she was driving that she failed to take in the crashes she left in her wake.
What the fuck! What the fuck was she thinking, not waiting for us to reach the door before she let him go? Goddamn it, Mother, you said she was a secure babysitter! Fuck that bitch, she's going to pay if he hurts Jaime! Fuck, fuck, fuck!
Desperation had her skidding to a stop outside their house in what felt like minutes, leaving the engine running as she ran inside. Phil was standing at the top of the stairs, looking down at her, a sad, terrified look on his face.
In his hand sat a small Christmas cracker.
"Where did you get that?" Liz asked, slowly ascending the stairs to where he stood.
"It was on the bottom step," he said, clearly in a daze. Liz whipped out her cell and ran inside, and up the stairs.
"Denise, no pleasantries. I need you to send everyone to my place." She swallowed, gently pushing open the door to Jamie's room. Inside, everything was spotless—a drastic change from the pigsty it had been that morning. Phil had been gone since midday; the killer could have been there at any point between then and when he picked up Jamie.
Over the last four months, she'd realized that the cleaner the room was, the bigger the mess he made of the body.
The walls were gleaming, they were so clean, sending off glare from the light in the ceiling.
This was the cleanest room she'd ever seen from the killer.
"He's taken Jamie, Denise. And the fucker has been in my house!"
She didn't hear the woman's words, her own statement was so loud in her head. He's taken Jamie, he's taken Jamie… She sank to her knees, clutching at her phone. Her training didn't cover this, her disaster management skills couldn't help her cope with the fact that a madman had her only son. She shook, but made no sound, and otherwise didn't move.
"What do we do?" Phil asked her, resting a hand on her shoulder. "Liz, what do we do?"
Liz was stumped, her thoughts caught in loop. She climbed slowly to her feet and led Phil down the stairs and into the kitchen, where she poured them tea and paced, ignoring her own slowly cooling cup as she anxiously awaited her peers, who should
be barging through the door at any moment.
Fucker has been in my house! If I ever get hold of him, I'm going to rip him apart! If he touches a hair on Jamie's head, I will never rest until I find and gut the fucker.
Goddamnit, why didn't I have extra protection on him? It's Christmas Eve, for fuck's sake! What was I thinking? I should have dropped the case when he made his first threat, I never should have put my family in danger…
Oh, God, think, girl, think! There has to be a connection somewhere, something to tell me where Jamie is! Think, damn you, think, think!
"For God's sake, will you sit down? You're driving me up the wall."
She sat down opposite him, nursing her cup, but drinking none of the tea. Her leg bounced, knocking the underside of the table with every jump.
Where haven't we looked? The docklands? The marshes? The old courthouse on the far side of town? The vacant lot on Lowrig Boulevard? What do they have in common? Where could he be hiding? Goddamn it, think!
"Jesus, I can't stand this. I'll be in the living room."
Liz watched Phil abandon his tea and walk out to slump down on the couch with his head in his hands. She sat still for a few seconds.
Fuck this!
Phil said the man used her minivan to pick Jamie up. So that was her first stop.
She flicked on the light in the garage, and was surprised to find the minivan still sitting on the concrete, the wheels a little wet, as though it had recently been taken out. The floor was dry, though, so she reasoned that it had been out earlier in the day—the concrete dried a lot faster than the rubber.
How the hell did he get it out? she wondered, then looked at the lock on the garage door. She went to touch the lock, but pulled her hand back sharply. Mustn't contaminate.
She shut the door carefully, returning to the living room and looking to Jamie's room at the top of the stairs.
Without another word, she climbed the stairs, heading for the room, pulling on a pair of gloves as she went. But she stopped at the landing. She couldn't trust herself in there right now. She might throw herself on Jamie's bed and demand that he be returned from thin air, or she might throw something across the room in anger.
She felt ill with both guilt and anger, and could feel her heart breaking. Tears boiled up her throat, sitting behind her eyes, but she pushed them down, knowing that she had work to do. She didn't know how long they had until the Holiday Killer killed Jamie, but it couldn't be long. She had to find him, now, or face the idea that she could have stopped him, could have saved Jamie, if only she hadn't gotten emotional.
She stepped back down a couple of steps, then halted and looked back at his room. Climbing a step back up, she stopped again, and closed her eyes. She didn't know what to do—whether to go sit down at the table again, or sit in the living room with Phil, or examine Jamie's room, or…
Hell, she might just shoot someone to break the tension in her shoulders.
The knock on the front door broke her from her spiraling thoughts. She snapped out of her indecisiveness and hurried down the stairs, beating Phil to the front door. She gestured the forensics team and a couple of detectives into her home, wordlessly pointing to Jamie's room before vanishing into the kitchen.
"Liz," Sergeant Donhowi said gently, joining her for tea. "I've had to make a decision this afternoon. You've been removed from the Holiday Killer case and, effective immediately, you're on stress leave, on full pay, until the situation is resolved. One way or another."
"You can't remove me from this," Liz protested half-heartedly, looking her father-in-law in the eye. "Not without making yourself a target. You're giving him exactly what he wants! He won't just stop at me—"
"Which is why I'm standing down as well, Liz. There's too much conflict of interest. Orders are to treat you like any other potential witness, to drill you the same way you drilled the others."
"And what are you doing about my missing son?" she asked. "If you take me off this case, then there's no one who can solve it. And we need to solve it, Bill, before your grandson turns up in a gutter or hanging off a building somewhere."
"Believe me, Liz, I know," the man said, trying to calm her down. "He means just as much to me as he does to you."
The glass in Liz's hand shattered in her tight grip, and she swore, throwing the remains of the glass in the bin and cleaning her bleeding hand. "This needs stitches," she muttered to no one. "I'm going to the hospital."
"Not alone. Marcus and Mal are going with you. I don't want you doing something stupid."
"I don't need an escort, Bill. I'm just going to the emergency room, and it's not like you don't know where I live." Irritation made her face grow warm. "I'm a goddamn cop, suspension or not. It's not like you can't trust me. I'm just going to the hospital to get this fixed, alright?"
Bill huffed, looking her in the eye. "Fine. Make sure you're back within the hour. Use your badge to cut the queue."
Liz gave him a sarcastic salute and pulled on her coat, squeezing the towel in her hand. "Yessir, Sarge."
She felt his eyes on her back as she left, and ignored Phil's sobs as his father muttered comforting things between barking orders to the police team around him.
"Don't forget to tell them to check the minivan!" she called out to her father-in-law. "It's in the garage. No one's touched it. And don't leave a mess!" The door slammed after her.
She waited outside, hiding in the shadows, and watched. A younger cop slipped out of the house, heading for his cruiser, and she scowled. She was going to find her son tonight if she had to search every building in the city.
And I'll be damned if a rookie is going to stop me, Bill.
8
The police searched Mark's house a few times a year, raiding him for children he'd bought from slavers and kidnapped from playgrounds. He used the kids for pornography, and as very underage prostitutes to rich perverts. She'd been part of the raid that ransacked his house last time, so she knew exactly where she was going.
The house was lit up in the middle of the dark street, the occupant clearly having no fear of attracting the Holiday Killer's attention. Liz parked out the front of the house, making sure to stay in the shadows as much as she could.
Without waiting for someone to open the door, she kicked it in and strode into the hall, gun up.
"Mark Windsor, Matryville Police! Get out here!"
An older woman bustled out of a room, wiping her hands on her apron. "You have no authority without a warrant, miss—"
Liz ignored her words. "If I find out you had anything to do with my son's kidnapping, I'll have you up on obstruction and as a co-conspirator," she hissed. "If I were you, I'd tell me where he took my son."
"Master Windsor has been asleep since— No, wait, you can't go in there!"
Liz kicked in the door to the bedroom, giving it a quick sweep with her gun. The bed was empty, and there was a small light peeking out from under a secret door. Liz handcuffed the older woman to the door handle, ignoring her cries, and headed for the door, gun out.
She gently pushed the door open, then stepped lightly down the stairs. She was careful not to activate a trapped board or a squeaky plank, creeping downstairs. She could hear the older woman calling out above her, but she ignored her. If there was someone down here, they already knew she was coming.
She rounded a corner at the bottom of the stairs and froze, her gun up, as she looked at the scene.
There were children in cages around the right-hand wall of the room, dressed in rags and looking strangely clean. Two of the children recoiled from her as she neared, and more than one of them was sitting in their own blood. She felt sick looking at them—not for them, but for the things they'd suffered.
On the left were shackles and other bonds, some of them covered in the darkness of dried blood. Whips, floggers, and all manner of torture devices sat in brackets on the walls, one of them still dripping blood.
Liz did a sweep around the room, ignoring the children chatteri
ng in foreign languages, and realized that there wasn't anyone there other than her and the prisoners. An open cage sat at the end of the row, food spilled across the floor, the occupant removed in a hurry. She glanced around the room again, pulling out her cell as she neared the cage, taking a few photos and dialing dispatch.
"Anyse? Liz Donhowi. I need you to send ambulances, a couple of squad cars, and forensics to Mark Windsor's house, 1250 High Street. There're kids here, about a dozen, seriously injured." She looked to the empty cage again, noticing a sock buried in the back corner.
A superhero sock, one she'd put on Jamie's foot that morning, his name stitched around the top.
She took a couple of photos, but left the item where it was for forensics. She wasn't going to jeopardize the case, no more than she already had.
"He has Jamie, Anyse. I'm going after him."
*
Liz roamed the streets in Phil's Ford without direction, thinking, searching. She couldn't help but hope that she would find Jamie, alive and struggling against his kidnapper, around the next corner. She needed to find him alive—to find him holding out his arms for a hug.
The scent went cold as soon as she left Mark Windsor's house. There were no signs of tire tracks or footprints in the snow, no sign that anyone other than herself had been on the property since the last snowfall the night before.
The squad car that showed up spilled Bill out into the snow, and he really wasn't happy that she'd defied orders, lied, and lost her tail in order to run her own private investigation. When she started crying, however, he pulled her into a hug and took her over to where the children were being attended by paramedics. They did a fast stitch on her hand, which she'd completely forgotten about, and turned back to the children.
Bill escorted her home, urging her to wait for news, but she hadn't been able to sit still. As soon as Phil went to the bedroom, she slipped out of the house and took off in the search for Jamie.
