Twelve

by Jennifer Lynn Barnes

  But the alternative was that we were dealing with escalation.

  You’re the watcher. You serve as witness. But Kelley didn’t go over the edge of her own volition.

  “What if she was supposed to?” I asked suddenly. “What if Kelley was supposed to jump?”

  I’d wondered earlier what the killer had seen in Kelley.

  “She was vulnerable,” I told Dean. I closed my eyes for a moment, then shifted to Kelley’s perspective. “I was vulnerable. I climbed the steeple willingly. I just…I hurt.”

  Despite Kelley’s father’s objections to the contrary, he’d believed she’d killed herself.

  “You were in pain,” Dean said simply, “and now you’re not.”

  Maybe I’d been looking at the markers—ivy, stone—all wrong. Maybe they weren’t signs of mourning—or remorse.

  Maybe they were symbols of honor. Release.

  “I trusted you,” I said, still trying to view this from Kelley’s perspective. “I either told you what I was planning…”

  “Or,” Dean replied softly, “it was my idea.”

  How could an UNSUB have known in advance that two teens were going to kill themselves? Either they told you—or it was your idea.

  Standing outside the church, looking up, it was too easy to picture Kelley up there, staring down.

  “I didn’t jump,” I said, speaking on her behalf. “Maybe I wanted to. Maybe I thought about it. But it didn’t feel right.” I’d recognized earlier that Kelley wouldn’t have wanted a death that would mangle her body beyond recognition. Was that what she’d realized, up on the steeple? “I didn’t jump,” I said fiercely. “I didn’t want to.”

  “You were in pain,” Dean repeated what he’d said earlier. “And now you’re not.”

  “Is that what you think this is?” I asked. “Not murder, but mercy?”

  “There’s something holy about what I do,” Dean replied steadily.

  I couldn’t stay in Kelley’s perspective any longer. “Something holy,” I echoed Dean, “about the height and the fall.”

  If jumping to her death hadn’t been Kelley’s idea, if someone had pushed her toward it, that suggested the manner of death held significance to the UNSUB instead. You planted the idea in her head. You encouraged it. And when she couldn’t do it…

  “It’s a sacrament,” Dean said. “A rite.”

  I thought of Kelley, looking down at the world from high up on a church. She hadn’t wanted to do it. She’d chosen not to.

  “Kelley didn’t want your mercy,” I said lowly, addressing the nameless, faceless killer with that much more vehemence than before.

  “But,” Dean countered, “she needed it.” For the longest time, he was silent on the other end of the line, and I stood outside the church, my face chapped from wind, my limbs like deadweight on my body as I sorted through all I knew.

  “What have you read,” Dean asked me finally, fully himself and not speaking for the killer anymore, “about assisted suicide?”

  The question took me by surprise, but it shouldn’t have. If our UNSUB had witnessed the first two suicides, if he or she had known they were going to happen, had in any way encouraged them…

  That could be seen as assistance.

  And Kelley? She’d been “assisted” right over the edge.

  “What do you know about mercy killings?” Dean said, amending the term he’d used before. “So-called ‘angels of death’ typically begin with a loved one, often one who has asked for assistance. But after that…” He trailed off for a moment. “They don’t stop, and their victims aren’t always willing.”

  “Mercy,” I said, latching on to part of what Dean had said. “Even for the unwilling.”

  Like Kelley.

  “What’s the typical profile for a mercy killer?” I asked, trying to view this objectively, trying not to think what Kelley’s final moment, rushing toward the ground, realizing she’d been pushed, would have been like.

  “Most often,” Dean said, “you’d be looking at someone whose occupation grants them access to victims whose health has degraded to the point that they cannot fight back.”

  Kelley had been young and healthy—physically. Mentally, however, she’d struggled. I hadn’t spent enough time on the other two files to know anything about the first two victims, but given that they had jumped, I had to assume that they’d had that much in common with Kelley.

  Young. Vulnerable. In pain.

  We were looking for someone with access to vulnerable teenagers—most likely, an adult. A teacher. A volunteer. A parent. A coach. Someone these kids trusted. Someone who could lead them right up to the brink and watch them fall.

  “A mercy killer needs more than access,” I said. “They need a skill set that will allow them to go undetected.”

  “Right,” came Dean’s reply. “In most cases, you’d expect some form of medical training.”

  Medical training. Access. “Have you ever heard of an angel of death who preys on people with mental health issues?” I asked Dean.

  “No.” He hesitated, just for a moment. “But I’d give it ten to one odds that the person who fits that particular profile has some kind of background in the mental health field.”

  We were looking for someone with access to vulnerable teens. Someone with experience in mental health. Someone, I thought, with psychological training, who knows exactly what to say to push someone over the edge.

  I barely felt the first drop of rain—or the second. I could see the lighthouse in the distance, and suddenly, I flashed back to the moment when I’d been close—so close—to talking Mackenzie down from the ledge.

  “Dean,” I said suddenly. “Our killer likes to watch.”

  My boyfriend replied, but I couldn’t hear him. I couldn’t form another coherent sentence, because all I could think, as the sky opened up and rain came down in sheets, was that Mackenzie was still out there on that ledge.

  Right where you want her.

  YOU

  Poor little Mackenzie. What she’s been through. What she’s suffered. She needs help. Your help.

  Release.

  I took off running. Cape Roane was a small town. The church and the lighthouse were separated by a matter of blocks.

  “Call Lia,” I told Dean, “or Michael. Tell them we have to get back to Mackenzie.”

  I didn’t wait for a response. I just hung up and kept running. I never should have left. It was part and parcel of being a profiler that I tended to get absorbed in cases. I’d been so focused on Kelley and her killer, but I never should have taken my eyes off Mackenzie. From the moment I’d realized that this killer liked to watch…

  I should have known you’d be there. Watching.

  The lighthouse was closer now, but not close enough. My sides were already starting to burn, my lungs beginning to tighten like a vise in my chest, but I managed to keep enough presence of mind to give my cell phone a verbal command.

  “Call Celine.”

  She answered, and I stopped running, just long enough to catch my breath—long enough to ask: “Mackenzie?”

  “Everything is fine here.” Celine’s response was measured—unnaturally so. “The rain is a problem, but Mackenzie knows that, and we’re discussing next steps.”

  I was soaked. Mackenzie must have been, too. And the ledge…

  “You need to get her in,” I told Celine. “And if you can’t, you need to get her psychologist out of the room. Now.”

  As I reached the lighthouse, I could hear a voice ringing in my mind. You can trust them, Mackenzie. We’ve talked about trust, haven’t we?

  I’d thought the woman treating Mackenzie was incompetent. She’d said exactly the wrong thing at precisely the right moment to throw a kink in the works. If she’d kept her mouth shut, I could have talked Mackenzie down.

  Maybe that was the point.

  Thunder crashed, loud enough to jar my bones, but all I could think about was getting to Mackenzie.

  Celine and our
suspect met me halfway up the lighthouse stairs.

  “Agent Delacroix said you needed a consult?” The psychologist didn’t sound annoyed, but her tone was brisk. “Something about adolescent depression?”

  I glanced over at Celine. Apparently, she’d had to think on her feet to get the woman out of the room without causing a scene.

  Point, Agent Delacroix.

  “You should get back to Mackenzie,” I told Celine. “Let her know that Lia and I held up our end of the deal. She can come in.”

  Tell her, I didn’t say, that I know who killed Kelley.

  The psychologist stiffened. “If you’re going to be talking to Mackenzie,” she told Celine, “I should really be there.”

  I stepped up, coming even with the woman. “Please,” I said. “This won’t take long, and it’s urgent.”

  I could feel Celine looking at me. I was asking her to leave me alone with a woman I believed to be a killer. Under normal circumstances, she would have refused. Based on protocol, she should have.

  But with the storm—with Mackenzie still out there—protocol was the least of our worries.

  “Don’t worry,” Celine told me, even as her eyes said Be careful. “We’ll bring Mackenzie in.”

  Celine returned the way she’d come, leaving me alone with the suspect. Now I just had to keep the suspect occupied long enough for Celine and the others to talk Mackenzie down.

  Without interference this time.

  Also, I thought, hyperaware of the space between my body and the killer’s next to me, I have to keep you talking long enough for my backup to arrive.

  “We’re trying to get a handle on the motive behind the first two suicides,” I said, wishing Lia were here to sell the lie for me. “Is your practice focused on children Mackenzie’s age and younger, or do you treat older adolescents as well?”

  “I primarily work with teenagers,” came the impatient response. “Mackenzie was referred to me by a colleague several months back. I’m afraid that without an in-depth look at your files I cannot comment on the specific cases you’re interested in. I can say, however, that children and adolescents have emotional lives every bit as complex as that of adults. Teenagers are individuals, not statistics. I could no more talk to you about a unified motive behind adolescent suicide than I could were we discussing adults.”

  “I understand,” I said, also comprehending that unless I wanted to turn this into a confrontation, sans backup, I needed to give her something to stay for.

  You’re drawn to pain. People with scars that run deep. The vulnerable ones, in need of your mercy.

  “It wasn’t that long ago,” I said, laying the trap, “that I was a teenager myself.”

  There was a moment’s pause, during which I registered exactly how narrow the stairs we were standing on were.

  How easy it would be for her to push me.

  “I have to confess, when you said you’d been working with the FBI since you were seventeen, I looked for the signs.”

  Keep her talking, I thought. Give her what she wants.

  “The signs of what?” I asked.

  “Psychological trauma.” Her expression was neutral, but I could feel her stare crawling over my skin. “Working cases like Mackenzie’s when you were still a child yourself—that’s a lot to take on.”

  Her tone was open, almost kind, and I remembered everything that Dean and I had concluded about our UNSUB from the files.

  You see yourself as an angel of mercy. The first time you saw someone—or helped someone—commit suicide, they were probably in incredible pain, you probably loved them, and they might well have asked for your help.

  You know trauma. You recognize it. Some part of you craves it.

  Down below, I heard the door open and prayed that it was Lia—just like I prayed that up above, Celine and the crisis negotiator and Mackenzie’s mother had talked Mackenzie down.

  “I really should be getting back to my patient.” The psychologist took a step up, positioning herself above me.

  I said the only thing I could think of to stop her in her tracks. “I killed my mother.” You know trauma. You recognize it. You liberate the sufferer from it. “She made me do it, but it was my hand holding the knife.”

  I only needed another minute, maybe two. I needed to distract her from the sound of footsteps running up the stairs toward us.

  “I dream about it,” I said. “All of it, all the time.”

  “I’m going back to Mackenzie.” Her voice was sharp, her movement up the stairs sudden.

  I followed and grabbed for her arm. I’d offered her a taste of my pain. It wasn’t enough to keep her here—but I had to keep her away from Mackenzie.

  “Let me go.”

  “Did you treat the Summers boy?” I asked her, hoping to catch her off guard. “What about the girl who killed herself? Were you treating her, too?”

  The response was chilling. “What are you trying to imply?”

  In for a penny, in for a pound. “I’m implying that you wanted them to kill themselves,” I said, buying precious seconds. “But you overplayed your hand with Kelley.”

  She jerked her arm out of my grasp, sending me flying backward into the wall. I steadied myself and prepared for another blow.

  It didn’t come.

  “It’s a mercy, isn’t it?” I pressed. “What you offer them? What you do? What you did to Kelley.”

  The footsteps were right upon us now, but I couldn’t afford to turn my back on the killer above me.

  She leaned forward. “I had nothing to do with what happened to Kelley Peterson.”

  I saw a flash of motion out of the corner of my eye. Lia rounded the corner, Michael beside her, gun in hand. He raised it.

  “You with the righteously indignant, yet distinctly guilty expression on your face! Hands in the air!”

  The psychologist’s gaze darted from me to Michael to Lia.

  “Batman said to put your hands in the air,” Lia told her. “And while you’re at it, repeat what you just said about the death of Kelley Peterson.”

  “You’re feeling annoyed.” Michael Townsend offers the headmaster what passes for a twelve-year-old’s most charming smile. “But also: secretly impressed with my hijinks. And is that…anticipation I see?” Michael gestures toward the headmaster’s face. “Asymmetrical lip tilt, dilated pupils. Is someone secretly hoping for a new auditorium? Tennis courts? A donation to the development fund, perhaps?”

  Michael’s father has a history of buying his son’s way out of trouble. Michael has a history of making that difficult.

  It’s a point of pride, really.

  “What is it that you want, Mr. Townsend?” The headmaster has that austere, you-will-respect-me tone down. “What exactly are you hoping to accomplish?”

  There was a time when Michael tried not to make his father angry, but it’s easier now that he does the reverse. Now Michael sees the punches coming.

  “What am I hoping to accomplish? Boarding school.” Michael makes a show of examining his own knuckles as he answers the headmaster’s question. “I’m hoping to get kicked out of this fine establishment, at which point my father will have no choice but to send me to boarding school. Possibly a string of boarding schools. Very far away, very in favor of generous donors with troublesome offspring.”

  “You want to be expelled?” The headmaster seems to find that preposterous—and also somewhat concerning.

  “I need structure,” Michael declares, propping his feet up on the edge of the headmaster’s desk. “Discipline.”

  I need to get away from my father.

  “Feet, Mr. Townsend.”

  Michael leaves his feet exactly where they are. He hears the secretary enter the room behind him. “Thatcher Townsend will be here shortly,” she announces.

  Michael can feel the muscles in his shoulders and back start to tense. He won’t let them. “Wonderful man, my father,” he comments.

  That gets a response from the headmaster: a subt
le curl of his upper lip, too slight for 99 percent of the population to see. Michael recognizes the emotion for what it is. Distaste, not quite disgust.

  The headmaster doesn’t think that Michael’s father is a wonderful man. He knows.

  “You’re a school official.” Michael keeps his voice light and pleasant. “That makes you a mandatory reporter, doesn’t it?”

  The headmaster stiffens. “You should wait outside.”

  “I will be thrilled to wait outside,” Michael promises, “after I tell you a tale of great woe.” He pauses. “You might want to pull up my attendance records as corroboration.”

  “Mr. Townsend—”

  Michael meets his gaze. “It would be unfortunate for you to have to report one of your biggest donors for suspected child abuse.” Michael doesn’t enjoy thinking of himself as abused, so he doesn’t dwell on the word.

  He relishes the moment.

  “Almost as unfortunate,” he adds, “as if I were to report you for not reporting one of your biggest donors.” Michael allows his feet to thump down on the floor and leans forward. “Or,” he says, his voice low, “you could expel me, and I could refrain from telling you anything unfortunate at all.”

  “I didn’t push Kelley Peterson. I didn’t kill her. I didn’t even know her.”

  The suspect’s hands were in the air. I took one step away from her, then another, easing down the staircase toward Michael and—

  “True.”

  I whipped my head toward Lia, who shrugged. “She’s telling the truth.

  My heart skipped a beat, and I looked for a loophole in the psychologist’s statement. You didn’t push Kelley. You didn’t kill her. You didn’t even know her.

  “Then why, pray tell,” Michael said, his gun still pointed toward her, “do you feel guilty?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Head tilted downward, forehead fighting furrows, gaze averted, mouth drooping—don’t even get me started on the direction your eyebrows are arching.” Michael lowered his weapon—most likely to put her at ease. “That combination puts you somewhere between shame and guilt, even if that lovely narrowing of your eyes and the way your muscles just tightened suggest you’re pissed, too.”