by Stone, Mary
“Why wasn’t I taken?”
Arthur regarded her for a moment. “You wasn’t never part of the family. You were hers, not his. She was fat with you when they met up. Don’t matter what some piece o’ paper says, you ain’t blood.” He grinned a little. “You ain’t under the protection of the family neither. That badge might help a bit, but you’re as easy to dispose of as anyone else.” He nodded to Autumn. “Just like her. Now, I’d take it kindly if you’d get the hell out of my house and leave an old man alone with what time he has left. I’ve had about enough of family for one day.”
24
Noah stood in the cemetery as the backhoe moved into place. Two men in yellow reflective vests watched as the driver of the equipment maneuvered the heavy machinery around tombstones, leaving deep tread marks in the sod. There was no way to get the big thing into the cemetery without driving it over the top of some of the graves, and the thought of that made Noah wince more than a little. Someone somewhere was going to take offense at the callous disregard this particular operation required.
It wasn’t superstition, or how the dead would take to be being driven over. This was a matter of respect not only for the dead, but for the living. For the survivors who still looked to their departed with love and memories of their time on this earth, these tracks would be an abomination. To come and see the final resting place of a parent—or worse, a child—and find large tread marks ground into the grave site seemed to be a terrible thing for someone already mourning.
Yet, there was no other practical way to do it. The two men in the yellow vests leaned heavily on their shovels. Noah wished something so simple as gravediggers might have been an option, but it was December, and the ground was frozen. It would take the power of a diesel engine to break through the hard surface and tear up the earth over The Preacher’s grave.
Noah had a single superstitious moment, however, as the thought that maybe Kilroy wasn’t in the grave after all and was still at large, his death being faked. It was a foolish fear, and not founded in reality.
But then this was The Preacher. They were digging up the boogeyman. A serial killer was the stuff of nightmares.
To think that after all this time, to exhume his body and find the box he was buried in empty was too creepy and too much like a Hollywood version of The Preacher’s life to not consider it.
Noah shuddered and crawled deeper into his coat, hands buried in the pockets, the lapels turned up to block the wind from his neck. Bree stood next to him, but her attention was fixed on the digging in front of them. The shovel of the backhoe skidded on the top of the grave, the ground refusing to give way under the teeth of the machine.
“It’s worse than I thought.” Marcus Finch, the general manager of the cemetery looked at Noah from under a knit hat with a big red poofy ball on the top. His round, florid face was bright red with the bite of the wind, but the bright bulbous nose spoke more of a heavy drinker than frostbite. “It’s going to take a little time to pull him out of there.”
Noah nodded absently.
“Why don’t we wait in my office?” He gestured with his head toward the small building at the center of the cemetery, the little puff ball on his cap bouncing wildly.
“We’re required to be here to witness the exhumation,” Bree said. Noah could see the haze of her breath as she spoke. His own breath came out in little plumes of steam.
For some perverse reason, the order from the judge for the exhumation of one Douglas Kilroy had been delayed long enough for a cold front to roll down from Canada and freeze the city. Of course, it would be the same day that he had to stand outside for an hour or more while a grave was being desecrated.
With a partial match from Winter, it was now all but certain that it was Justin’s DNA that was left at the scene of the Ulbrich murders. Justin’s claim that Kilroy was his “grandfather” was unsubstantiated, and since there was no DNA report filed in the server, this was the only way to be sure. To be brutally honest, finding out if there was a connection between Justin and Kilroy wasn’t going to be much help in locating Winter’s brother, but to establish a blood-relationship might be helpful in other ways. At least that’s what he told himself.
Lately, he’d been telling himself a lot of things. Starting with the idea that when Justin was caught, there was bound to be a lengthy trial and one that would be under close scrutiny. Of course, he wasn’t so naïve to think the boy would be taken alive, but for Winter’s sake, he liked to make the leap of faith.
Carrying through that particular fantasy, he had to think about whether there was a chance of not convicting him. If there was any doubt in a jury’s mind that Justin wasn’t the killer that the Bureau knew him to be, then a preponderance of evidence might just be enough to bring them around to his eventual conviction.
On the other hand, a genetic relationship to someone who was clearly insane might be what a good defense attorney might need to plead insanity and get Justin life instead of the death penalty. In most cases, it wouldn’t have mattered that much if the suspect had gotten either sentence. Either way, the killer would be off the streets for the remainder of his life. But for Winter’s sake, Noah wanted Justin put away nice and safely, preferably in a way that kept him alive and well. It was tough enough on her for her brother to be a hunted man. Putting him on death row for the next decade would be brutal.
“Really?” the manager was conversing with Bree, asking her exactly how this was supposed to work. Noah supposed this kind of thing didn’t come up often, then almost laughed on the unintended joke. He wasn’t sure anyone would appreciate the darkness of the humor. The manager shook his head to whatever she’d replied. “Why do you need to watch? They’re not opening the casket here, are they?”
“No,” Noah answered for her. “They’ll take him back to the coroner’s office and then bring him back and rebury him later. The testing will need to be done there.”
“Then why freeze your ass off out here?” The rotund man rubbed his thick mittens over his face.
“Just need to be sure that all the procedures are followed,” Bree answered. She ducked her chin back into the thick rolls of her scarf and pulled her heavy coat up a bit farther. She had a hood lined with some kind of fake fur that looked toasty as well as fashionable. Her face was framed in a gray fox faux fur that somehow made her smile seem brighter, like a burst of sun in the clouds.
Of course, what he’d given was the diplomatic answer. The truth was that they had to watch to be sure no one swapped bodies during the process. It had been known to happen. There had also been instances where the person to be dug up had already been removed from the ground. Grave robbing still happened even in modern society.
Noah stamped his feet and shifted, trying to find a way to warm himself. The men with the shovels seemed to be just as cold, but as the backhoe was able to break through the frozen level of the ground, they jumped in to continue the work. Dig too deep with the machine and the coffin would be compromised, so they had to do the fine-tuning work to dig out the box without shattering it.
“Call me if you need anything.” The manager waved a thick mitten and turned on his heels, heading for the warmth of his office and the coffee he’d offered them when they’d arrived. Apparently, he’d decided there was no particular reason for him to wait.
“I almost envy him,” Bree said through chattering teeth.
“Being able to get to a warm place?”
“No.” Bree shook her head and flashed him a mischievous grin. “I was referring to the extra weight he carries. I could use a little of that insulation right now.”
Noah barked a laugh. “It’s not that cold.” He regretted the words the moment he’d said them as the wind picked up and the chill it carried grew worse. He glared at the sky, wondering what he’d ever done to Mother Nature.
“You had to say that.” Bree dug deeper into the warmth of her jacket.
“I have an idea.” Noah turned toward her. “One of us has to be here to overs
ee this. But only one.”
“You’re my partner.” Bree shook her head in immediate protest. “You freeze to death, so do I. That’s how it works.”
“What I’m suggesting is that we take turns. Go inside for twenty minutes, warm up and get some coffee in you. Then come back out and spell me while I go do the same for twenty.”
Bree looked at him for a long moment before grinning. “Okay. That actually sounds reasonable.” She turned and half ran to the building the manager had entered only moments before. Noah grimaced against the wind. He would have smiled but his face would probably crack under the strain. He pulled the collar of his coat more snugly about his face and resolutely stared at the activity in front of him.
The two men with shovels, at least, had their physical labor to warm themselves. For a moment, the wild thought of grabbing a third shovel and helping out just to keep from freezing played in his head, but there were rules against that. It was his job to stand and try not to lose body parts to frostbite.
The driver of the earthmover was cocooned in the cab of the machine, the heat from the engine keeping him warm enough that the windows on the cab steamed up. Periodically, Noah could see a bright red cloth wiping at the glass from the inside. It took a few close observations to realize that the driver was using a scarf to remove the condensation.
He pulled the collar higher and ducked his head to try and get his ears covered. Lucky bastard. He needed to get a scarf. Maybe a hood like Bree had. Maybe just a backhoe where he could sit in the warmth all day no matter where he went. It would make parking a bother, though. At least it would for other people. He wondered at how hard it would be to shift a Prius with that bucket on the front.
Noah smiled at the little fantasy, stamped his feet and began walking in circles to keep the circulation going and warm himself as best he could.
At least it’s too cold for the press. There was that dubious benefit to the biting wind chill. The judge’s order to dig up Kilroy was public record, so there had to be someone at city hall who monitored the paperwork and reported it to the press. Police news almost always made it to the papers. It seemed odd that, so far, the frenzy he’d expected at the grave site hadn’t materialized.
That didn’t mean it wouldn’t. It was likely that the morning papers would be filled with half-truths and suggestions, which just meant that the eye-witness reporting would be done from the comfort of a warm office somewhere by reporters who didn’t want to risk frostbite.
Noah stopped and stared. They were almost done. It had taken a lot less time than he’d thought it would. They were bringing thick, heavy straps to the site, which were being lowered from the shovel of the backhoe down into the open grave. A few minutes later, the two workers guided the machine and brought the straps back up, presumably having wrapped the casket.
As he watched, Bree reappeared beside him. “Your turn.” She looked at the grave site and shook her head. “Sorry I took so long.”
“It’s okay.” Noah said, never taking his eyes off the activity in front of him. “I really didn’t want to listen to that manager anyway.”
“I can understand that.” Bree snorted in amusement. They both fell silent as the two workers scrambled out of the grave and gave the thumbs-up to the backhoe driver. The shovel lifted and Kilroy’s casket dangled from the end of it, swaddled in two straps.
The backhoe swung gently and lowered the remains on a wheeled platform, guided by the two workers who unstrapped the coffin and slid it into a waiting hearse.
“You know,” Bree said as the rear door of the hearse closed on its cargo, “we could have used one of those core sample drills and gotten DNA from that. So much easier.”
“Procedures.” Noah chuckled at the thought. He turned and headed to the car. Now that the show was over, he was anxious for the warmth and wanted to get out of the wind. “Always procedures. And red tape. The right way is always the one that costs the most.”
Bree followed and climbed gratefully into the car. The engine had cooled, and it would be a while before the heater would blow anything but ice, but it was good to be out of the wind. They tucked in behind the hearse and began following it back to the coroner’s office.
“At least we don’t have to be there for the opening,” Bree pointed out.
“If it’s going to be this cold,” he said under his breath, “at least it should snow. The city looks so much better under a blanket of snow.”
They followed the hearse in companionable silence until they reached the medical examiner’s office. There, they signed over the body to the coroner so he could do his gruesome work.
Within minutes, they were free to go.
To wait.
To learn if Justin Black, in addition to being Winter’s half-brother, might also be the spawn of a devil.
25
It was me. My picture. My image. Me. On television, large as life. My name. My face. Everything. I couldn’t believe it.
I’d been so careful. I thought I’d been completely draped in shadows. I thought I was hidden in the darkness, but they’d somehow shone a light on me, brought me out into view, and there I was for all the world to see.
They knew my name. They knew me. Jaime Peterson. They called me Justin too, but that was no longer the real me. I hadn’t heard that name for a long time. Grandpa would get mad if I used that name. I once had a friend named Justin at one of my schools, but I had to stop being his friend because Grandpa refused to let me even say his name.
If I ever forgot…I shuddered at the memories of Grandpa having to teach me a lesson. The pain. The terror of not knowing when it would end or how bad it would get.
The humiliation, followed by the love Grandpa showed me when it was all over.
Grandpa loved me. He told me so, and he told me that making me feel good even when I’d been bad was how he showed that love.
I closed my eyes, trying to shut away the thoughts. Or was I trying to savor them? I couldn’t always be sure.
It was so confusing. The Bible said that a man should only be with a woman, but Grandpa said that didn’t count with us. Because we were special. I was special, and he needed to show me his love.
Opening my eyes, I immediately wished I hadn’t because my face was on the television screen again.
They were saying bad things about me.
They said bad things about Grandpa too. He never minded that. Grandpa said that no one understood his mission. “No prophet is accepted in his own country.” It was a verse he quoted from the book of Luke. He never cared what people said about him. He didn’t care what people said about me. “Turn the other cheek, forgive seventy times seven.”
But my name. That mattered. That mattered a lot. No one could know that other name, that old name, that boy I used to be. That bad boy who thought he was better, that weak boy who moaned and cried and wet himself.
I wasn’t him. Not for a long time. I was Jaime Peterson, and now everyone knew. Everyone. Everyone knew I was the disgrace, the spoiled boy, that…Justin.
This was bad. Lots of people watched television. Lots of people. My neighbors watched TV. I could see the glow flicker in their windows. They lived in RVs, they lived in trailers, they lived in tiny little places with large televisions that glowed all night long.
The TVs were bigger than their bedrooms, bigger than the RVs they lived in because the television was more important, more consuming than their lives. Each of them saw my face. They knew me too. They knew where I lived.
And they were connecting the dots right now, even as I sat there, trying to think of what to do.
I had to stop thinking and start acting. I needed to move.
Right now, I could imagine each of them picking up their phones and calling the police to tell them that they knew where I lived. They knew the kind of truck I drove too. Hell, most of them probably knew what I’d had for breakfast that morning. Nosy bastards.
They’d be wanting that reward too. Two hundred thousand dollars for my hea
d, dead or alive.
The Judases. Every last one of them.
All this because I left a message for my half-sister, because I just had to set the record straight. I told her the truth just the way Grandpa told me, and this was because I told her that she wasn’t my father’s daughter. In so doing, I’d failed. I was about to be caught. I was about to fail to carry out Grandpa’s mission because of my own arrogance and stupidity.
I hated myself.
I couldn’t breathe. The air left my lungs in a single whoosh, and I couldn’t breathe anymore. I was about to be caught. I was going to jail and there was nothing I could do about it.
They were talking about me on the television. Reporters crawled over each other to shout questions about me, about Grandpa, about the mall. I couldn’t move. The lack of air in the RV made me unable to move, the questions they asked, the warnings that people shouldn’t approach me. That I was dangerous, that I was deadly and needed to be put down like a rabid dog kept me from leaving. Kept me from running.
Running?
That single word brought me back to reality.
Why would I run? Why should I?
I needed to be smart, yes, but it wasn’t running. It was planning. Following the path.
I wasn’t the one in the wrong, after all. I was doing something important. No, more than important. Something worthy. Something that Grandpa had started and would have finished if not for my si…my half-sister. She was the one who had gotten in the way. She was the one who defied the natural order, the way things should have been. She was the one who caused all of this, the one who had gotten Grandpa killed. She was the one who needed to pay for her crimes. Not me.
Suddenly, I could breathe again. I could stand, I could scream, I could swear, and I could fight back. I reached for the gun, for Grandpa’s pistol.
