The Blood of Seven

by Claire L. Fishback

  “This is a block search,” he said. “We did that with Ruthie’s house.”

  What was it, Dummies Guide to Crime Scene Investigation?

  Ann cleared her throat. Marcie jumped to her feet as if caught with her pants down. Was that relief on her face?

  “Hi, Detective.” She grabbed her coat from the back of George’s chair and kissed him on the cheek. “Bye, George.” She hurried out.

  “This is not a make-out site,” Ann said.

  George held up his hands. “We weren’t making out. I was showing her how to investigate a crime scene.”

  “And she seemed so interested. Was she here when you radioed me?”

  George somehow managed to make his linebacker-sized-self shrink. “No?”

  Ann raised her eyebrow at him.

  “Yes, but I went to the back. She was out here looking at the book. She was only here for a few minutes. I swear. She don’t know nothing about the case.” He closed one eye. “Except that we did a block search on Ruthie’s house.”

  Ann grumbled and sat at the other desk, facing George.

  “Tell me about the lab report.”

  George shoved the faxed pages toward her. “I don’t know nothing about science stuff. I’m really glad the lab tech wrote her findings in—what do you call it . . . when something is simple?”

  George Riley.

  “Layman’s terms.” Ann flipped through the report and came to some pictures of the substance under the microscope.

  “Do we have any lab equipment here?” she asked.

  George shrugged. “There might be some in storage.”

  Ann looked at him. “Storage?”

  “The holding cell is also storage.” He shrugged like it was a normal thing.

  Ann held in a groan. This place needed a lot of work.

  Not your problem.

  She found the holding cell packed with boxes. They were, thankfully, labeled. One had “lab” written on the side. Ann pulled the box out and opened the flaps. Inside lay a dusty old microscope. She remembered enough from science classes to know how to prepare a slide and how to operate the equipment. She brought the box to the office area and took out the microscope.

  “What are you gonna do?” George asked.

  “I’m going to compare the crispy stuff from McMichael’s house to the stuff from Ruthie’s to make sure they match.”

  “What if they do?” George asked.

  “The abductor is likely the same person.”

  “Serial killer?”

  “Serial kidnapper,” Ann said. “No bodies, no murders. Got that?” She didn’t believe it, but she also didn’t want George spreading rumors or getting his manties in a twist.

  George nodded.

  “Did you call the State Police and CBI like I asked?” She continued setting up the microscope.

  “Yeah.” George said. “They said they would send assistance.”

  “Did they say when?”

  “I didn’t think to ask,” George ducked his head. “Sorry.”

  Ann went into Sheriff McMichael’s old office. The phone on the desk was far more sophisticated than anything else there. She lifted the receiver. The line crackled, but there was no dial tone.

  “George, is the phone out there working?” Ann called.

  “Nope,” he answered, matter of fact.

  Then, the phone rang. Ann jumped. She pressed the button next to the flashing light.

  “Castle County Sheriff’s Department, Ann speaking.”

  Static filled the line. A deep chuckle rumbled through. “No one can help you.”

  A jolt of fear prickled her scalp.

  “Who is this?” she asked.

  The line went dead. After a few moments of stunned silence, the repetitive tone of a phone off the hook beeped in her ear.

  Prank callers. That’s all.

  Ann set the phone down in an overly calm manner and picked it back up. Dial tone. She called CBI first.

  Neither agency had received a call from Castle County. After requesting assistance in their case, she hung up and walked back to the desks in a measured stride.

  “George,” she said through her teeth. “They said you never called.”

  George peered up at her and tilted his head to the side. “Yes, I did. I swear.” He pressed buttons on his phone. “See? Right there.”

  Ann jerked his desk phone toward her and read the list of recent calls. Sure enough, both numbers were listed.

  “Sorry.” Ann frowned. “They said they hadn’t received a call from us.”

  George merely stared at her, his eyebrows crinkled together. “Maybe the same person who abducted the sheriff and Ruthie did something to our phones.”

  Or perhaps the dispatchers George had spoken to were incompetent or lazy. Ann sighed and returned to the microscope. She paused in setting up the equipment and dialed her cell, let it ring once, and hung up.

  The number appeared in recent calls, of course. She wanted to believe George was telling the truth, but he had fought her about calling in for help.

  Well, now help would be on the way. It wasn’t her place to manage him. She wasn’t his boss.

  Thank god.

  She flipped the switch on the microscope and the light bulb came on. She let out a triumphant ha-ha. Small victories.

  She prepped her slide and pushed it under the clamps. George watched her the entire time like she was performing a sleight of hand magic trick and he wanted to catch how it was done. With the photo from the fax beside her, she compared the black and white image to the mottled pink and brown one under the lens.

  “Match,” Ann said in a low voice, as if speaking too loudly would disturb the cells and change the image. “Same substance for both Ruthie and Sheriff McMichael.” She made note of this in the case file.

  George sucked in a breath. “That’s amazing.”

  “It’s just science and basic deduction, George.”

  “You’re still amazing.”

  Ann snorted, but inside she warmed a little. Her expertise was needed here if they were going to stop people from disappearing. She could do this. She could redeem herself.

  “The problem I’m coming up with is the victims are so different. If they were both women, or both older men, we could build a profile based on gender and age and compile a list of suspects who matched.” Ann scratched her eyebrow. She flipped through the scene of the crime photos looking for any other clues.

  The sheriff had taken good pictures of Ruthie’s house. He paid close attention to detail. She wished he was around so she could talk to him about anything he might have noticed. What he excelled with in photography he lacked in his reporting.

  “We need to open Ruthie’s house,” Ann said. “McMichael might have missed something. Some indicator.” She looked at George. “There has to be something.”

  She knew there would be nothing. Once a crime scene was sealed, the possibility of finding anything was little to none. For the first time in her career as a cop, she wasn’t sure what to do. It made her feel helpless. Panic crept up her chest and tightened her throat. It replaced the momentary warmth at having done something helpful.

  Once a failure, always a failure.

  The thought was stupid, of course, but her mind went to stupid places when presented with helplessness. Elbows on the desk, she clasped her hands in front of her and bit her knuckles.

  George stared at her again.

  Ann spread the pictures out and lifted a magnifying glass from the pencil cup on the desk.

  “What are you doing now?”

  “I’m looking for clues.”

  “Sherlock Holmes,” George said with a snort.

  Ann glanced up at him.

  “He had a magnifying glass, right?”

  Ann rolled her eyes, though a smile tried to tug at her lips. She scoured every photo but came up with nothing. George stared at her expectantly the whole time. When she finished the last photo, she sat back. His face fell.

&nb
sp; “You didn’t find anything?” He stood. “You didn’t find anything? What did you do to find the Stabber? Maybe you should do that.” He started to pace. “I mean, they didn’t find anything until you were assigned to the case. What did you find? How did you find it?”

  “George,” Ann said.

  “Was it a small thing? A big thing? What was the clue? How did you know where to look? How did you know where it led?” His questions dug into her, each one a kick to the ribs.

  “George!” Ann slapped the desk. “Stop it. I’m not the fucking hero you think I am, okay?”

  He looked at her with wounded eyes. “What do you mean?” His mouth hardly moved when he spoke. He sank back into his chair.

  “I’m not here on vacation,” she said. “I’m on administrative leave. I didn’t pass my psych evaluation. I can hardly look at a gun anymore.” Her eyes flicked to the one on his hip and back to his face.

  George’s mouth dropped open in a way that would have been comical if she didn’t feel like total and utter shit.

  “Your hero’s a pussy.” Ann sat back in the chair and avoided eye contact.

  “Nah,” George said. “You’re still a hero.”

  “I got my partner killed,” Ann said.

  “An accident.”

  “I knew McCoy had a gun.” Ann had never told anyone why she harbored so much guilt for what happened. Not even her therapist. “I saw him reach for it before I shot him.” She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for a gasp, or some other surprised, devastated, horrified sound. George didn’t say a peep.

  Ann leaned forward again, and this time, she did meet his eyes.

  “Firing my weapon brought my partner into the room, so the Stabber could kill him.” She blinked rapidly to keep the tears at bay. “It should have been me.” Tears fell. “I tossed protocol out the window and based everything on a fucking hunch.”

  George scooted his chair around their desks and put his meaty hand on her shoulder. Ann leaned into him.

  “I didn’t put any of this in the report.” She wiped her nose on the back of her hand. “I left out that Bruce let me take the lead even though he was primary. I felt so strongly about that old blue house—I wouldn’t let it go. I even threatened to check it out on my own.” She took in a gasping breath. “I should have gone alone. He’d still be alive if I’d gone by myself.”

  “There, there,” George said, patting her shoulder. She let out a tear-filled laugh. Her guts were on the table, and he patted her like the crying baby she was. She stopped leaning against him and wiped at her eyes.

  George shrugged. “You still caught him,” he said in a soft voice. He took a deep breath. “It’s not always about what happened. Maybe it’s about what might have happened. Sure, your partner might still be alive, but the way I see it, no more kids died.” He shrugged again. “Besides, everything happens for a reason. That’s what I believe anyway.” He stood and grabbed his hat and coat. “If the whole Stabber thing hadn’t happened, you wouldn’t be here, now, helping me.” He pulled on his coat. “And we both know I need all the help I can get.” He smiled a big goofy grin. “I’m going on patrol.”

  George closed the door behind him, and Ann leaned back in her chair. A heavy weight lifted from her shoulders. Not because of what George said, but because she had finally gotten the whole story out. Every single detail. She finally let go of her guilt.

  Chapter 34

  Teresa dropped her cross and pressed her hand against her throat, as if touching it would help her swallow what felt like a sand-covered cotton ball that had lodged there.

  “What is he doing down here?”

  “He’s paying for his sins,” Louise said. She took Teresa’s elbow and guided her to the stairs.

  Teresa ascended on numb legs. She should tell someone about this. Ann deserved to know her father was here.

  Or did she?

  Teresa stepped through the warmth of Louise’s hallway and to the front door.

  “Wait.” Louise turned the music back on, closed the door, and bolted it shut. “Where does this leave us, Doctor?”

  Teresa didn’t understand what Louise meant. Her eyebrows furrowed.

  “You have secrets, I have secrets.” Louise held up her hands and shifted them up and down like the scales of Lady Justice.

  Teresa sucked in a gasp. “Are you suggesting blackmail?”

  Louise smiled with half of her mouth. “Not blackmail, per se. We have dirt on each other. You tell anyone what I have in my basement, the entire town will learn all your secrets, and I don’t just mean your part in the disappearance of Ruthie Gill.” Louise smiled and moved toward the door. “I know about your sordid past, Doctor Hart, and I’m not talking about your dead child this time.”

  “What do you mean, my past?”

  Louise only gave her a smug, close-lipped smile and shrugged. She ushered Teresa out the door and onto the porch.

  “You spill my secrets, I spill yours.” Louise closed the door.

  Teresa tugged her coat tighter. She stepped down the porch stairs and glanced over her shoulder at Louise’s old house, at the crumbly stone foundation. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know what information, what secrets, what rumors Louise had on her.

  Teresa wandered toward town. What if Louise knew nothing? What if she knew everything? The whole town would learn . . . something. Rumors ruined her family, her mother’s and her father’s lives. Her life.

  When Teresa reached the town square, she walked directly to the sheriff’s department and paused outside the door. She considered going in, but passed on by, head down, eyes on the sidewalk. At the end of the block, she looked up.

  Across the street Tiffany hopped from side to side. Teresa hurried toward her. What if someone saw her?

  A milky-red, pulsing cluster of zoe strands shifted on the sidewalk. Teresa stopped and raised a hand to her mouth. Tiffany jumped over them. Back and forth, back and forth, giggling as if it were an extra fun game. The strands shifted again, and Tiffany squealed and hopped out of their reach. Teresa gagged, composed herself, and finished her trek across the road.

  “What are you doing here? Someone will see you!” Teresa threw glances all around. What would people think, Teresa running through town with a little girl who obviously wasn’t Maggie? Word would get to Derrick. “And what are those doing here?”

  Tiffany motioned for Teresa to follow her and ducked down the alley between the pawn shop and a real estate office.

  “First of all, Mommy”—Tiffany held up a finger—“no one can see me but you, because you love me so much.” She grinned.

  Teresa crouched down and pulled her daughter into a hug. “Thank goodness.”

  “Second of all, those are here because it’s time.”

  “Time?” Teresa pulled back and peered up at the overcast sky. “In the daylight?”

  Tiffany pressed her hands against Teresa’s cheeks.

  “Isn’t this exciting?”

  Teresa didn’t think it was exciting at all. Without the cover of night, it seemed dangerous. She wondered if Tiffany would come again later that night to take another. The thought of taking two lives in less than twelve hours sent chills through her body. Chills both sickening and pleasurable. They frightened her.

  The zoe lines had followed them into the alley, writhing and slapping like fat sausages on pavement.

  “Pick one,” Tiffany said.

  Teresa scowled at the mess of coiled ropes. They inched closer to her, and her stomach lurched. She’d never seen them move like that before. She touched one with her toe, and the rest slithered away as if they’d been burned. She didn’t like this. It didn’t seem right.

  “Where’s Ruthie?”

  “She doesn’t come out during the day.”

  “Is that why you’re here?” Teresa asked.

  Tiffany nodded. “She scares me.” Her daughter hugged her around the waist and buried her beautiful face into Teresa’s hip.

  “I thought Yaldaba
oth rested during the day.”

  “He does. But you woke him, so he thought he’d put you to work since you seemed so eager to be with me.”

  Teresa looked down at Tiffany. She would do this. She had to.

  She followed the zoe down Forest Parkway toward the square. The line veered again into the residential district. She strolled with her hands in her pockets. Tiffany held her arm and followed. The zoe line veered again, and they followed it to a ranch-style house at the end of Evergreen Avenue. No cars were in the driveway. Teresa swallowed hard. She didn’t think the zoe would lead her to an empty house.

  The front door was locked. Ruthie missing would definitely be enough in a small town like this to cause alarm. Teresa scanned the neighborhood. It was quiet. Not a soul stirred. Except the zoe line leading into the house. It twitched, like a hose when the water is first turned on.

  She crept around to a side window and peered in. A living room. No people. Next window. No one in the exercise room. A fence blocked her from entering the back yard. She went around to the other side where a string ran down through an eye-screw in the wood. She tugged the string, and a gate opened.

  Teresa slipped through and closed it behind her. She stood, silent and still, and listened. There had been no Beware of Dog signs, so she hoped there were no dogs.

  A window toward the end of the house was cracked open. Skunky smoke, the same scent from the kids at the cemetery, wafted out.

  She crept to the window and peered inside. A young man sat in a recliner. The zoe line disappeared into his chest. He wore a headset and had a video game controller in his hands. He took a drag off a joint and held the smoke. On the exhale, he emitted a series of shallow coughs before setting the joint in an ashtray.

  Teresa ducked when he leaned over to grab a bottle off the same table. Beer. This kid, who couldn’t be a day over nineteen, was home alone drinking beer and smoking pot.

  “My parents moved to fucking Florida and left me here,” he said into the headset, as if responding to Teresa’s thought. Perhaps he was older than nineteen then. “Living in their house rent free, bitches.” He pushed buttons on his controller.

  Teresa went around to the back and tried the sliding glass door. It opened smooth and quiet. The screen, however, rattled and screeched along the track.