Winter's Redemption

by Mary Stone

  Her face was hard, tight with stress, and her dark blue eyes looked haunted. A fresh bruise was blossoming just underneath her right eye, a bandage in the center. He squashed the instant wave of concern.

  “What brings you out on a night like this?” Aiden asked instead, his tone faintly sardonic.

  She dropped down in a chair across from him. Not her usual one that was beside his, where she’d taken to eating Chinese food with him while she talked about her latest case. He wasn’t the only one distancing.

  “I need you to get me in.”

  He laced his fingers together and leaned back in his seat. Letting a little sympathy show on his face, Aiden shook his head slowly. “Listen, I’m sorry about today. I’m afraid Max has his mind made up. I invited you to that meeting because I thought I could change it.” He shrugged. “I was wrong.”

  Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, and she stared at him steadily. “Why do I feel like you’re lying to me?”

  He’d have to be careful. She was intuitive and quick.

  “Why would I lie? I know how much this means to you.” He reached down to a shelf on his side table and picked up a piece of paper. Holding it up, he watched her face.

  “Would you have given me this if you didn’t trust me to help you?”

  It was a drawing of The Preacher, near sketch artist quality. Winter hadn’t told him what was behind the creation of it, or how she could be sure it was him, but Aiden didn’t doubt for a second that it was an exact likeness of the killer. With pencil and paper, she’d captured a man, approximately sixty years old, with a short white beard. He had a smooth, innocuous face and thick glasses. Behind the lenses, she’d shaded black eyes that looked almost hungry. The face of a beloved grandpa with the eyes of a ruthless predator.

  “And what have you done with it since I gave it to you?” Winter asked, her voice low.

  Aiden just smiled, a slight twist of his lips. “Your trust is fleeting, isn’t it?”

  “You had plenty of time to tell me whether you’d found anything after my team wrapped the Presley heists. I was on vacation after that, but last I knew, you had no problems calling me.”

  She was referring to the calls he’d made to check on her when she was a teenager. As the case agent on her family’s murder, back when he was younger and more idealistic, he’d taken on the responsibility of keeping tabs on her over the years. Partially to atone for failing her and partially to protect her. She’d been The Preacher’s only surviving victim.

  He admired her tactic. Reminding him of their previous relationship and laying the foundation for a counter-argument with a big dash of guilt. He pretended to consider her words, letting the moment draw out.

  “I don’t have anything new,” he finally said. “But I have something else you need.”

  Winter’s tension seemed barely leashed. She didn’t move from her position, leaning forward, elbows on her knees. Her braid fell over one shoulder, brushing against her folded hands.

  “You’re going to go over Osbourne’s head? To ADD Ramirez?”

  Aiden shook his head, pasting a regretful look on his face. “Ramirez won’t budge, either.” It wasn’t a lie. He didn’t need to talk to Cassidy to know that she’d agree with Max Osbourne. Besides, getting Winter included on the VC investigation wasn’t what he was after.

  But he had to dangle a carrot. This would be the tricky part.

  “What if I told you I can give you access to my personal files. Information, case notes, handwritten docs that the violent crimes unit hasn’t even seen yet.” He gave her a significant look. “It would be up to you whether you shared that information or kept it to yourself.”

  Aiden couldn’t read her face. She’d sat back and was now just outside of the circle of light cast by his tableside lamp. When she spoke, her face was in shadow. Even as a trained observer of human behavior, he couldn’t tell what she was thinking.

  “And what would you get?” Her words were casual. She betrayed nothing in her body language. “As admirable as your character is, SSA Parrish, you always seem to have an endgame in mind. If you were being altruistic, you would have already given me everything you have. A gift isn’t just a gift with you.”

  “Sometimes it is,” he murmured, thinking about the impulsive gift he’d given her a week ago, before she’d left for Fredericksburg. A mistake.

  “In this case, let’s assume I’m right.”

  “I want you.”

  That managed to startle her. Winter’s eyes widened. Reminding himself that he was doing this by any means necessary, he lowered his voice a fraction. He had to keep her off-balance. Take advantage of the awareness that had sprung up between them in the last several months. He had to use any feelings she might have for him.

  “I mean,” Aiden clarified in a honeyed tone, “I want you in the BAU.”

  Winter was already holding herself very still, but at that, she seemed to freeze. When she spoke, her words were frosty. “I think you already tried this once, Parrish. Not as creatively, maybe.”

  He smiled, aiming for charm. “And it didn’t go well. I was doing it for the wrong reasons. Now, I think—”

  “I don’t care what you think. Let me remind you how that ended.” The words were clear and spaced slowly, so he’d be sure to understand. Winter leaned forward so he could see the cold blue fire that burned in her eyes. “I would rather quit the FBI than put myself behind a desk. Specifically, under your control,” she added. “I haven’t changed my mind about that.”

  “I don’t blame you,” he replied, his voice smooth and soothing, not even hinting at the sting her words had produced. “If I were in your position, I’d feel the same way. By all means, quit the FBI. With your talent, you could track The Preacher. Hunt him down. Kill him.” Aiden paused, letting the seconds draw out. “But, under my terms, you’d have access to more than just a sketch. You’d have a complete psychological profile. Evidence. The ability to catch him before he goes into hiding again. Maybe you’ll find him before he targets anyone else.”

  Self-loathing was secondary to satisfaction, he found as he watched her face. He saw hatred, temptation, strategy. Soon, he’d see the resignation he was counting on.

  But the silence stretched out. He was well-versed in its value during negotiations, but she was so quiet, it started to get to him.

  “I’ll give you a year.” She didn’t look up at him.

  “It’s a permanent move or no deal.” He was irritated to realize he’d been holding his breath. Beside him, he picked up the transfer documents he’d already completed. His hand shook the slightest bit, which pissed him off. It was steadier when he held the packet of paperwork out to her.

  Not a carrot, maybe. But she would have to come to him.

  “Fine.” She pushed to her feet and gave him a hard look, tinged with betrayal as she took the final step toward him and snatched the papers from his hand. The last rosy glow of hero worship had finally been extinguished. She saw the man he was now, and not the FBI agent she’d idolized as a child. Without another word, she headed for the door. It slammed behind her, hard enough to rattle the glass bowl on his foyer table.

  A normal man would feel guilt right now. Almost smiling, Aiden levered painfully to his feet and headed for the liquor cabinet. He felt satisfaction. Mostly.

  In the kitchen, he refreshed the ice in his glass and picked up a prescription bottle from the counter. Washing down Norco with Scotch was probably against doctor’s orders, but as he waited for the room to go pleasantly blurry, Aiden hoped he’d be able to blur the hurt he’d seen in Winter’s eyes too.

  It made him think of the first time he’d put that look there.

  Winter had been tall for a teenage girl, and coltish. She’d showed hints of maturing, but she was still miserably awkward. Much more a kid than a young adult.

  Her vibrant eyes were watchful, and she’d worn her hair loose back then. Hiding behind the glossy black curtain, in her black boots, jeans, and a gray, hooded sweat
shirt, she’d still managed to project the vulnerability she was trying to hide behind angsty teenaged attitude.

  When he’d shown up at the restaurant where her grandparents had taken her to celebrate her seventeenth birthday, Beth McAuliffe had seen him first. Her sharp eyes had narrowed quickly with recognition, followed by dislike and suspicion. He couldn’t blame her. He was the FBI’s failure to capture her daughter’s family’s murderer, personified. Winter’s Grampa Jack, a bluff, straightforward old guy, had just given him an inscrutable look.

  Winter, though, lit up when she looked up from her menu to find him at their table. He handed her the gift he’d picked out and wrapped before he’d driven up from Richmond.

  Aiden sat down at their table when Beth made the sweet but probably grudging offer before waving off the waitress. He wouldn’t stay. He was interrupting their family time. Bringing up memories that should be put aside on a kid’s birthday.

  Winter ripped off the paper with childlike greed and opened the box. Holding up a stuffed cat dressed in a graduation outfit, she grinned widely. The smile lifted the shadow that lingered around her, and for a second, she just looked like a normal kid. One that didn’t carry a stain that lingered long after her brush with death.

  “You’re so predictable, Parrish,” Winter teased. Her eyes gleamed as she smiled wider. “I love it.” Despite the sarcastic tone, she rubbed her cheek against the stuffed animal’s soft head.

  “It’s a little early,” he admitted, “but you’ll be graduating high school before you know it. Happy birthday, kiddo.”

  Aiden reached out without thinking and tousled her hair affectionately.

  The sparkle in her eyes went out. Her smile disappeared as she sat back quickly. She dropped the stuffed animal back into the box.

  “Thanks.” Winter picked up her menu again, holding it in a white-knuckle grip. Her hair fell forward to shield her face.

  Shit. He realized what he’d done almost immediately. He wasn’t the only one. Beth was biting her lip, looking at Winter’s bent head with sympathy. Jack just winced and made eye contact with Aiden, shaking his head.

  Mortified, he’d made his excuses and left.

  He’d quit making his periodic calls after that disaster. It was uncomfortable to realize that he’d accidentally broken a teenaged girl’s heart, totally oblivious to what had obviously been a strong crush.

  Aiden had been working on his dissertation for his Ph.D. in Psychology at the time. The lingering self-disgust with his inability to read basic human emotion kept him from sending another birthday gift or making any attempt to check up on her in person. Even after he quit any direct contact with her, he’d still get the occasional hopeful-sounding emails. Eventually, he’d gotten an invitation to her graduation. He didn’t respond to it.

  She’d seen him there, at the end of the ceremony. Winter had grown out of the awkward stage and looked much more mature at eighteen. Her emails had finally stopped months before, and she’d only acknowledged him with a nod. Her grandparents never noticed him.

  After that, he kept tabs on her remotely, and with decreasing frequency. Winter had finally begun to slip off his radar. He’d been in a serious relationship at the same time, and it ended badly. He’d turned his considerable focus toward his career instead, throwing himself into advancement. Aiden created a new purpose for himself, and if The Preacher case still haunted him, he was the only one who knew.

  Until Beth McAuliffe called him one day, out of the blue. She’d told him, her voice brisk with worry, that Winter’d been serious when she’d started saying at fifteen that she was going to be an FBI agent. She was about to graduate with a double master’s and was already talking about applying for Quantico. Beth had hinted heavily that he should try and change her mind.

  So, he made one more appearance in Winter’s life. He’d owed Beth that much. But at twenty-three, he hadn’t expected her to be…such an adult. She’d seemed determined, bright, and less vulnerable. If she held any resentment against him for embarrassing her all those years ago, she didn’t let on. Instead, she talked enthusiastically about her plans. She was dead set on achieving her goal of joining the FBI.

  She’d changed. He’d changed, too, but Winter hadn’t noticed. He hadn’t allowed her to.

  He wasn’t the same young FBI agent she’d known. No longer idealistic and hopeful, making the world better, one bad guy at a time. He was selfish and ruthless. Controlled. He’d moved up the ladder in the BAU, but he had his eye on Ramirez’s spot as the Associate Deputy Director, whether his former colleague had to move up—or out—for that to happen.

  Aiden didn’t let on. After focusing on her again, he’d discovered Winter’s secrets. He wasn’t afraid to turn them to his advantage. By penning her in the BAU, she’d be behind a desk, and she’d stay safe.

  It was just an added bonus that she’d be spending her time using her considerable intuition to create incisive profiles, increase their apprehension rate. If any of that helped him into the ADD spot, so much the better.

  Having Winter in the BAU would erase the only black spot on his record. She’d track down The Preacher. He hadn’t lied about his confidence in her ability. He was sure she could do it.

  But Aiden would never let Winter take the killer down solo. Instead, he’d use Winter to get him to the killer, putting an end to an ugly story that should have been shelved years before.

  8

  Noah had witnessed the bloodiest, most gruesome crime scene of his law enforcement career only a month ago. Heidi Presley, a vicious sociopath bent on carving her mark in the world with a string of heists modeled after the most famous robberies in history, had lost her temper with one of her victims. She’d slaughtered a man in a fury, rather than simply executing him, breaking from her previous MO in a spectacular show of violence.

  Heidi had mutilated the body afterwards, careless of the blood that had spattered the ceiling, floor, and walls of the hotel suite. With her vengeance finally satisfied, she’d left the hotel room, tracking gore nearly twenty feet down the hallway. Her victim had been left behind in his bed, an unrecognizable mess.

  That had been nothing compared to The Preacher’s latest crime scene. The similarities between the two stopped at the victim being killed in bed. The differences were chilling.

  Detective Bardo, a slim, gray faced man in his late fifties, led them to apartment 218. His face was grim, and he kept conversation minimal. He didn’t need to tell them, though. Noah had known it would be bad. Bree stayed close to Noah, silent, as they donned gloves and booties outside the door.

  They’d been given some warning ahead of time. They’d both read the reports on Officer Delosreyes. It was impossible not to personalize the victim, knowing her background and getting a feel for who she was. It was especially hard when the local law enforcement officers in charge of her case were so obviously grieving her loss.

  The smell hit them first. Overpowering and coppery, it reminded Noah of the meatpacking warehouse his grandpa had used to process deer during hunting season.

  Beside him, Bree swallowed audibly, her face visibly pale.

  “If you’re going to puke, do it outside,” Bardo snapped. “This is still an active crime scene.”

  “I’ve never puked on scene,” Bree countered evenly, without heat. “It disrespects the victim.”

  The detective’s aggressive expression eased a little when he saw that she meant what she said. He nodded with a degree more friendliness than he’d shown since they arrived and led them to the bedroom at the back of the apartment.

  Noah had never puked at a crime scene either, but this time, it was close.

  Unlike the Presley murder, The Preacher hadn’t been in a rage when he murdered Tala. He’d been thorough in his destruction. Meticulous. Devoted.

  The remains had already been autopsied, but the white sheets and cheery yellow comforter where they’d lain were stiff and dark. Noah grimaced. The average body had a capacity of about a gallon and a h
alf of blood. Looking around, anyone would think that the killer’d brought extra along with him.

  Preliminary reports labeled cause of death as cut throat. That only accounted for some of the victim’s massive blood loss. Ritualistic post-mortem mutilation was responsible for the rest. Along the walls, in tight, neat rows, was handwriting. Filling every available surface, the words began at one end of the room and stretched to the other side along the apartment’s beige walls. Dripping crimson letters that formed words and phrases that spelled out the Bible verse that somehow was crystal clear in the suspect’s twisted mind.

  “How many hours would it take someone to do this?” Beside him, Bree’s voice was hushed. Her face was tipped back, eyes almost blank with disbelief as she studied the serpent that had been painted to look like it had slithered up one wall and was moving on to the ceiling. And then there was the cross, dripping blood in zagged lines.

  “Days?” Noah had a hard time imagining it.

  “Try a couple of hours,” Detective Bardo corrected. “Based on the approximate time of death and the time the body was discovered.”

  He tried to fathom how fast a person had to move to create something of this magnitude within that amount of time. It would take manic, nearly boundless speed.

  The Preacher had been killing for decades. He had to be an older man by now, at least in his sixties. How had he managed to overpower an experienced police officer in her own home, maneuver her unresisting, dead-weight body into the bed, secure her so that she wouldn’t escape, kill her, and then do this?

  A young man would have a hard time accomplishing it all. The Preacher was either extremely spry for his age—or possessed.

  “I’ve just started looking into some of these Preacher cases since you all called with the ViCAP flag,” Detective Bardo said. He ignored the screed on the wall, facing Noah squarely. Either he’d seen enough of the crime scene, or he couldn’t take seeing it anymore. “I haven’t gotten far. Is this type of thing normal for the sick fucker?”