by Mary Stone
Fear flooded her, and she thought she might barf. She thought about Barry for some reason and felt bad for him all over again. She struggled, trying to focus. Trying to get away. But the old guy was strong, with thick arms, and she couldn’t breathe. She was getting dizzy.
She’d been wrong, she thought, her brain getting fuzzy as the old man dragged her to a gross, rusty old pickup truck that was parked by the curb. All those times she’d felt dumb for running up the basement stairs as a little kid, scared.
The inside of the pickup smelled like dirty socks. Tears leaked down her cheeks, and her stomach pitched while the old man wrapped a dirty bandanna around her mouth. He pinned her down with his gross, old man body while he tied her wrists and ankles up with rope.
Wynona Parker Baines learned something very important in that instant.
Monsters were real.
Noah leaned back in the uncomfortable hotel room chair. It was a hard and unforgiving spot for a guy his size, especially since he’d been sitting in it for the last six hours. He glanced at Aiden. The guy was almost as tall as he was, but he didn’t seem to be affected. Aiden sat ramrod straight, studying the laptop screen in front of him with the same intensity he’d shown at five o’clock when they’d all finally hashed things out and had gotten to work.
He was probably too prissy to admit that his ass was asleep, Noah thought darkly. The guy probably never even used the word ass. Too plebian.
Bree looked tired, but even at eleven o’clock at night, she still seemed alert as her fingers flew over the keys of her own laptop.
There wasn’t enough room for two to work comfortably at the small round table in Noah’s room, and three was downright cramped. Behind them, Winter was stretched out on the bed with her own computer, propped against a pile of pillows.
He studied her for a moment. She seemed to have bounced back a little, especially after getting a slice of meat lover’s pizza down, even though he’d had to practically force-feed her. Now, her face was shadowed, and beneath her blue eyes, the skin was dark-tinted. Still, she radiated fierce concentration.
He worried about her. He’d tried to convince them all that she needed to get checked out at the hospital, but he’d been outvoted. Noah rubbed at the crick in the back of his neck. They hadn’t listened to him, he remembered grimly. The other three had been focused on the case to the exclusion of everything else.
It would serve her right if she worked herself to death. He shoved to his feet restlessly and grabbed his phone, unhooking it from the charger. He checked the voicemail display, even though he knew if the Harrisonburg chief of police had called, he’d have heard it ring.
The first thing the four of them had done as an actual team was to put out an APB for The Preacher. Finally combining all of the information they had, they’d contacted Gary, chief of the Harrisonburg police, who they’d worked with before. He and one of his officers knew Winter, and that added a personal stake in seeing The Preacher caught.
Plus, the killer was in their territory now. Noah had to trust that the Harrisonburg police were motivated and would work as hard to find him as his own team would, even though he wanted to be the one to take him down.
White knight, he reminded himself. Winter had been right. She didn’t need him to do it for her, and more, she didn’t want him to. However, when they found the bastard, he’d be protecting her every step of the way, whether she liked it or not.
Noah was still supremely pissed that Winter had never told him about the other times the sadistic fuckwad had contacted her. He probably wouldn’t get over the betrayal of that for a while. He’d been right there with her the first time it had happened, only one tacky hotel room away. He should have pushed her harder back then to tell him what was wrong. He’d had a hunch that there was something, but he’d let her get around him.
But at least he didn’t feel like she was holding back anymore. Everyone’s cards were on the table now. Except maybe Parrish’s. Who knew what that asshole was thinking. He was an FBI bigwig. Head of his own department. He probably had something to gain from helping, otherwise he’d still be in his office back in Richmond, busy being a control freak there.
Noah set his phone down on the nightstand and pulled out his own well-worn deck of cards. They felt soft and worn in his hands. He was going to need to get a new pack soon, he thought as he unwound the rubber band that held the dog-eared deck together.
It was an odd habit, but an old one. Ever since he’d been a teenager, learning Poker at his granddaddy’s knee, it had helped him think.
Before he’d shuffled once, Noah’s phone sang out the John Denver tune Country Roads. He stuffed the deck back in the breast pocket of his shirt and grabbed for it as the King of Hearts fluttered to the floor.
It was the chief.
“Dalton. What’s going on?”
He felt everyone else in the room still, eyes on him as he listened. His palms began to tingle and the aches and annoyances that had seemed so pressing a second ago burned away in the next instant.
Thrumming with new energy, he grunted and disconnected.
“Time to roll, posse.”
Noah grinned savagely at Bree and Winter. Aiden was already on his feet, unrolling the sleeves of his dress shirt and buttoning his prissy cuffs.
“The Preacher’s crawled out of his hole again. If we move fast, we might be able to catch him before he goes back in.”
23
Wynona was still numb.
She’d just had a bad dream, she told herself.
Even though she’d been saying that for the last two hours, she still didn’t believe it. But she didn’t want to poke at the thought. It was too raw. She’d pushed something in her mind way, way down, where she couldn’t hear it squirming around, but she still knew it was there.
She was scared that it was going to jump out at her—like a monster, no, no, don’t think about that—and she had the sick feeling that pushing it down would work about as well as slapping a Band-Aid on for a severed arm.
Somehow, she’d gone from walking home from school with Becca, talking about Barry, to sitting here at the Harrisonburg Police Station, way past when she’d have been told to go to bed because it was a school night.
Bad dream, she repeated silently.
Her mom sat beside her on one side, clutching Wynona’s hand tightly. Her eyes were bloodshot, and she looked pale and weird. She wasn’t wearing her usual makeup that she always put on before she’d let anyone see her. Her skin was blotchy from crying, and old acne scars made the surface look bumpy.
She looked away from her mom, toward the can of Pepsi on the table, picking reflexively at the zit on her own chin. She had to use her left hand, because of the thick white bandage the chief had wrapped around the pointer finger on her right one.
Her mom’s acne scars made her feel sad. She didn’t want to feel sad.
Wynona gritted her teeth. Why hadn’t her mom bothered to do her makeup? Why’d she have to show up here looking like that, in front of people?
She couldn’t look at her dad, either. He wasn’t holding her hand, but she could feel him at the table next to her. Big and mad. He didn’t lose his temper a lot—usually only when the satellite TV wasn’t working and he couldn’t watch football—but when he did get mad enough, he seemed different. Mean. Like a grizzly bear instead of his usual teddy bear demeanor.
He wasn’t mad at her, but it didn’t seem to matter. If she looked at him, she felt scared anyway. Guilty. He wouldn’t look at her, though, and hadn’t since…since she’d gotten home. Her brain shied away from the memory of how she’d gotten there.
Her mom made a noise next to her, like a pathetic little moan. Wynona wanted to scream. Her mom grabbed another tissue out of the box in front of her. It was her second one. She’d already used up the first box, just in the time since her dad had driven their old minivan to the police station and they’d been rushed back into this room.
They’d wanted to take her to a do
ctor, she remembered, nausea twisting in her tummy. She didn’t remember anything about the few minutes after they’d told her that. Her mind just…skipped when she tried to think about it. Like a scratched DVD.
She’d gotten home. Her parents had been super worried, asking all kinds of questions. The next thing she’d remembered, she’d been in the car, sitting in the back seat. The radio was playing country music, but her dad wasn’t singing like he usually did when he drove.
Garth Brooks crooned about thunder rolling while Daddy’s deep bass voice stayed silent, and her mom cried. Big, racking tears that shook her whole body. Her arms had squeezed around Wynona tight. Too tight. It hurt. Made it hard to breathe. Meanwhile, Daddy had driven so fast, the Dodge’s half-bald tires had squealed at every corner.
She got scared just thinking about it again, and her hands clenched around the warming can of pop. She wished her mom would shut up. The crying was getting on her nerves.
Guilty. Scared. Sad.
Wynona’s emotions went around and around, swooping like a Ferris wheel stuck on high speed, until she felt dizzy and wanted to throw up again. Had she already done that? Her mouth tasted sour, but she couldn’t remember.
The door to the room swung open, screeching on its hinges.
Mom stopped crying, and her dad shifted in his chair, suddenly alert.
Wynona looked up, afraid the kind and sad-eyed Chief Gary had come back to ask more questions she couldn’t—wouldn’t?—answer.
The chief walked through the door first, followed by four regular-looking people, one in a suit. Two girls and two guys, like her parents’ age. Big deal, except for one of the girls, who was looking at Wynona with dark, super intense eyes.
She caught Wynona’s attention because she didn’t look all cold and hard, like the brown-haired, rich-looking suit guy. She wasn’t sad, like the short black lady and the huge man who towered behind her.
This lady looked pissed off, actually.
But that didn’t make Wynona feel guilty, like her dad’s anger had. Because she looked like she understood. Understood what, Wynona didn’t know. But the bad thing she was avoiding, the deep cut that hurt like the worst toothache ever when she poked at it…this lady had been cut like that too.
She didn’t question the knowledge. Didn’t listen to the words the FBI agents were saying. Even the little tickle of excitement at the fact that she was going to meet real FBI agents—because she recognized FBI when she saw them and loved Criminal Minds—didn’t penetrate. She just stood up and moved toward the lady without thinking.
She looked so cool, like Wynona wanted to be. She had black jeans on, tucked into black combat boots, and a loose blue shirt on that looked like it belonged to somebody bigger than her. But the shirt didn’t make her look like a dork. It hung to her thighs just like it was supposed to fit that way, and she wore a black, beat-up leather coat over the top of it. She was gorgeous, like a too-skinny model, and her hair was black.
Wynona almost snorted. That was all they had in common. Long black hair that fell around her shoulders in carelessly perfect waves, like a shampoo commercial. Wynona’s teeth were too big for her head, even though her dad said she’d grow out of that and her pudgy baby fat. Her own eyes were just plain, boring blue, and too far apart.
But, she could admit without bragging, they both had awesome black hair.
The thought cheered her up, and without thinking, she smiled and grabbed the woman’s hand when she held it out. She almost got embarrassed when everyone in the room suddenly stopped talking all at once to stare at them.
She realized her mom was crying—again—and her dad had been standing up, yelling at the chief. Dad’s face was all red, and a vein had popped out on his forehead. Was he about to get arrested?
She winced, wanting to sink into the floor and die.
But the awesome FBI agent didn’t look like she cared. Her voice was calm and quiet, but powerful. Her fingers were smooth and cool, where they held Wynona’s cold, clammy ones, and she didn’t seem to care that Wynona’s hands were a little sweaty.
“We’ll be back,” she promised their audience like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Wynona and I are going to go someplace quiet and talk for a little bit.”
The other FBI agents looked at her, nodding like she was the boss, and made a wall between Wynona and the rest of the people in the room. As they walked out into the hallway, police officers watching them from their desks outside, the FBI agent pulled the door closed behind them.
Wynona was glad. Her dad had started screaming about victim rights and about how she was a child.
“I’m Special Agent Black. You want a Coke?”
Special Agent Black. Even the FBI agent’s name was cool. She did not want to look like a dork right now, on top of everything else.
Wynona shook her head. “They gave me a Pepsi. I didn’t drink it.”
“I don’t blame you.” Agent Black wrinkled her nose. “I’m a Coke fan, myself.”
That gave Wynona a warm little glow.
“Me too.” She tried to sound casual. “Pepsi tastes like cough syrup.”
Agent Black wrinkled her nose. “My friend in there thinks Coke tastes like battery acid.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Like he ever drank battery acid to compare it to.”
They shared a grin and Wynona giggled.
The agent let go of her hand when they got to the vending machine, digging quarters out of the black canvas messenger bag she wore slung across her shoulder. Wynona had seen one like that at the mall. She was going to ask for it for her birthday next month, she decided, and who cared if no one at school wore messenger bags anymore.
They were just kids. Their opinions didn’t matter.
Agent Black grabbed the Cokes and started poking her head into open doors along the dingy hallway until she found what looked like an empty breakroom. There was a fridge and a coffee maker and a couple of rickety tables in the middle. Dirty coffee mugs were lined up by the sink and a couple of squashy-looking chairs covered with cracked leather squatted in one corner.
“This okay?”
Wynona nodded. Agent Black could have been being just been polite, but Wynona had the feeling that if she’d said no, they would have kept looking for another room. She cracked the tab on her Coke and took a cautious sip. The familiar taste and fizzy bubbles made her stomach feel better almost right away.
They settled into the chairs, and Agent Black opened her own Coke and took a long drink.
“Better than Pepsi?” she asked Wynona with a smile.
Wynona couldn’t smile back, though. She realized with a sick feeling that, as casually awesome as this lady was, she still wanted what everyone back in that other room wanted. To talk about the thing Wynona wasn’t going to talk about.
But Agent Black seemed to understand.
“We haven’t been introduced.” She held out one of those slim, cool hands again for Wynona to shake. Just like a fellow adult. “I’m Winter. Do you go by Winnie or anything?”
“No. I’ve been thinking about Parker. It’s my middle name. You can call me whatever, though. I haven’t decided—”
Wynona let her fingers fall out of the agent’s hold. Darkness tinged the edges of her vision as she sucked in a breath. “You’re her. The one he wants to kill. His girlie.”
Winter’s face went grim. She showed no surprise.
“I’m her,” she confirmed, getting up to close the door of the breakroom, flicking the lock.
A stab of fear went through Wynona, and she carefully set her Coke down on the coffee table in front of her.
“I’m the one he wants.” Winter’s voice was soft as she sat back down in her chair. “And it’s my fault he got you. I’ve been tracking him for months. Years, really.”
“It’s not your fault.”
She was still scared and sick-feeling, and she didn’t know why, but Wynona wanted to make the older woman feel better. Her dark blue eyes were still m
ad, but sad now too. Because of Wynona.
Guilt.
“I should have run faster.”
Agent Black was already shaking her head no before Wynona had even finished her sentence.
“Listen, I want to hear about how you ran. You’re a badass kid, and I bet after a couple months, or even a few years, you’ll realize that. I knew without even hearing your story. But first, let me tell you something. Whatever bad things happened to you—no matter how bad—this was not your fault.”
She held up a hand when Wynona would have argued.
“They’re not. He’s a sick fucker—sorry—and you were just an innocent victim in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
The swear word made her feel a tiny bit better. An FBI agent was talking to her, a thirteen-year-old, like a grown-up. Then Winter held up a lock of her shiny black hair.
“You were targeted because of this. We have the same hair. Long, pretty, and inky black. Mine looked just like yours when I was younger. That’s all. The Preacher wanted me, and you have the same hair, so close enough. There was nothing you could have done to stop him.”
“The Preacher?” Wynona shuddered, trying not to think of a white beard and black eyes hiding behind wire-framed glasses. “What a creepy name.”
“He’s more than creepy. Monsters are real, and The Preacher isn’t a man anymore if he ever even was. He’s a killer. A monster.”
Wynona knew that, firsthand. The monster had touched her. In places that little kids were told were private. Stranger danger.
Monsters were real.
The smell of sweaty socks and the sour taste of the dirty rag he’d stuffed in her mouth.
The hard, mean hands.
With that, the floodgates opened. Through tears and snot and sometimes straight-up ugly crying, Wynona told Winter everything. About Becca, and Barry throwing up at school. About the harmless old man and about the monster that had whispered exactly how he was going to punish her while he drove down the road fast, away from Harrisonburg.
