by L T Ryan
"I haven't met a storm I couldn't weather." Hatch smiled at Cruise.
The former SEAL turned and faced the sun. Reaching skyward, he grabbed the pullup bar. Hatch looked at his rippling back and then over to her dresser drawer, now almost empty, as she shouldered her bag and headed out the door.
Seven
Savage sat in the waiting room. It was sterile. A couple chairs, a coffee table with an assortment of magazines, everything you expect from a doctor’s office. Why should he expect anything less from a psychiatrist? Although he did notice the magazines were more geared towards wellness, yoga, and healthy lifestyle stuff. No gossip magazines, nothing that could incite or infuriate. No newspapers. The TV in the waiting area played tranquil images, and the PA system filled the area with the soft, soothing sound of rushing water and wind chimes. A serenity candle burned in the corner.
Dr. Becca Somers was renowned in her field of study and had been hired by the Graver family after they left Hawk's Landing and moved to Steamboat Springs, Colorado. The state police had kept Savage informed on the status of their investigation in the days since the shooting. Although Billy Graver had still not spoken, and his attorney had not offered up another opportunity for a conversation, they had learned that Billy Graver had spent most of his time in inpatient and outpatient mental health therapy. He spent four years at the Somers Institute, an inpatient, well-living facility for challenged youth, which made mainstream schooling a challenge. So not only was Dr. Somers a psychiatrist, but also a teacher, mentor, and parent figure to many of these children.
Savage had sought her assistance seeing that as far as clinicians went, A, she was easiest to access—the attorneys weren’t surrounding and protecting her; and B, she had spent the most time with Graver. The case was open and closed. There was no question whether Graver pulled the trigger and killed Miller. Evelyn Mann stood a foot away as a witness, and there was surveillance on the grocery store's camera. But simply knowing that Graver committed the crime did not explain why he did so. For Savage, the why was his itch.
Of every homicide he’d ever worked, the only ones to haunt him were the ones where he could not answer why.
Just as he reached down and picked up a magazine cover with someone standing in a Warrior One pose, reaching up with the sunset behind them, the door opened. An attractive woman about Savage’s age entered the waiting room.
Having already seen patients both in her office and on the grounds of the Somers Institute that morning, she still looked bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, as if she'd just woken up and had a bit of Jasmine’s coffee. He found it funny that the moment he saw this attractive woman, he first thought of Hatch's mother and then Hatch.
This happened often, more often than he’d ever admit. Hatch was on his mind all the time, but the woman standing in front of him caught his attention. However, he wasn’t here for socialization. He wasn’t here to fill the void that Hatch left in his life for a second time when she left for good. He was here for answers, and the lean-built woman approaching him with her bright blue eyes and welcoming smile was his best chance.
"Sheriff Savage?"
Dalton stood. "Dalton. Dr. Somers, I presume?"
"Becca. Follow me."
They walked down a short hallway and entered her office on the left-hand side. Across the hall, he saw another closed door. Through a window, he could see it was a room designed for therapy play for younger patients.
"Have a seat. Now, I’ve heard the news, so I know this is a tragic time. I can’t speak to Billy Graver’s condition without being held liable, even though he is no longer my patient. So I would need a legal consent from the family or the family’s attorney to proceed in disclosing any information to you. I don’t think I can tell you much more, and I hate to waste your long drive out here.”
"Driving helps clear my head. If nothing else, maybe I can come to some resolution between the here and there."
"I like that," Somers said with a genuineness that made Savage believe it. "Between the here and there. Well, I know the Gravers must be dealing with a lot, as well as the victim's family. This is a very upsetting situation, an outburst like that.
"That’s what I’m getting at. All I have on Billy Graver is the story I’ve been told by my deputies and the research I did afterwards. A young boy, age twelve, disappears with his sister. A week later he’s found alone, and there were droplets of his sister’s blood on his clothes, but her body was never found."
"Well, you have the story. I’ve never been told more than that."
"My deputy knew of Billy and said that she believed he was on the spectrum."
"So you may have a partial diagnosis. There’s more to Billy Graver than that. And I don’t think he killed his sister. I don’t think he did it at all."
"Is the behavior in line with someone with his condition?"
"Heavens no. Although there can be extreme behavioral outbursts with people like Billy. Nothing I've experienced or read as a clinician would support what happened in that grocery store." Somers gave a pensive look. "No. Something else was at work there. I just don't know what."
"Is there anything you can tell me about Billy that would shed any light on this case? Or maybe you could act as an intermediary in an interview setting and assist me in trying another go at the questioning?"
"As to Graver's medical information, I can only speak in generalities to the condition and not the individual. And as far as assisting in an interview, it would be a waste of time. For the most part, Billy Graver is non-communicative. Meaning he is just as likely to remain silent with me as he would you. I’m just trying to save you from spending unnecessary energy on trying to get him to talk, so you can focus your efforts in a direction that may give you the answers you seek."
"Hard to let go the idea that trapped inside Billy's mind is the answer to what happened to his sister and the reason he opened fire on Glenn Miller."
"I can see that this case, or something else, is burdening you." Somers offered a gentle smile. "It’s what I do for a living."
Savage thought about his own shooting. The one that had derailed him, the burden that he always carried with that, and wondered if Somers could see it. He looked around her room. It was painted a soft green with a yellow accent wall. Everything was warm and comforting, even the woman’s demeanor. Savage wondered if maybe she could help him with his other burdens. He let the thought slip from his mind as he continued his focus. Billy Graver.
"Do you think he killed his sister?" Savage asked. “This isn’t a clinical question. Just two people talking.”
"No." Her voice steady. No trace of hesitation in her answer.
"Did you see the news? Miller's murder was witnessed by several bystanders and captured on the grocery's security camera. For whatever the reason, Billy Graver is a murderer. What makes you so sure he wasn't capable of killing his sister ten years before?"
"Sheriff, do you ever get a hunch and it turns out to be correct?"
"Sure. Best cops always follow their gut."
"I'd say the same is true in my line of work. The brain is referred to as gray matter. For me, its grayness is the murky depth of the mind's many secrets. I often find myself following my own gut instincts when dealing with the uniqueness of my patients."
"I guess you would know his psychology, probably better than most. Maybe even better than the doctors caring for him now."
"Well, school is part of the formative years, yes. I do get to counsel and work with these kids at a closer level and on different tasks besides just daily sessions. But I will tell you that in my four years with Billy Graver, he said very little."
"He said little. What did he say?"
"Now that, I cannot say."
"Well, could I tell you what I know and maybe you could tell me if where I’m going may be right?"
"We could try it."
"That’s the point. I had seen something like this when I was with homicide in Denver, a similar case. A killing that seemed unc
haracteristic for the quiet, unassuming boy. Turned out he was attacking his alleged abuser. Billy Graver is much like a timepiece, but something caused him to work his way back and find Miller. I haven't figured out how he got from here back to Hawk's Landing not being able to communicate."
"Well, just because he doesn’t speak doesn’t mean he can’t use a computer, order some tickets, and get to where he needs to go." Somers said.
"He was able to acquire a gun and use it to kill somebody, so his resourcefulness has nothing to do with his communication. There was a witness." Somers keyed in on this as Savage spoke. "She heard him saying something, and I guess that’s what’s nagging me. I didn't want to say it over the phone because I don’t like to speak about active investigations, just like you don't speak about your patients."
Somers gave a half smile and a nod. "All right, I’ll bite."
"Okay." Savage wanted to barter, a tit-for-tat, but felt that whatever Somers's image, she would respect his honesty and maybe offer something of an answer in turn. A witness heard him say something. He was still mouthing it when we got to him, but at a distance and my commands and the tension, I didn’t hear it. The witness thought he was saying, 'Protect him.' Mean anything to you?”
Somers sat back for a minute. Her face first looked as though it didn’t make sense, but then her eyes widened. "You're saying that Billy was saying, 'Protect him.' He wasn’t saying that."
The psychologist reached across her desk and pulled a small set of keys from underneath a stack of papers. She used one of the keys to unlock the oak cabinet behind her. She rifled through its interior. A few seconds later, she held an old composition notebook.
On the cover, written in very neat handwriting on the "Belonged to" tag, "William Graver, age 14," with a date range underneath it that Savage couldn’t see. “I shouldn’t show you this, and I’ll never say that I did.” Somers passed the notebook to Savage.
Savage opened the book and flipped about two-thirds of the way through it. The pages were rippled with hard-pressed lines from a dark pen. It felt like braille. He looked down at the scribble and swirls, some letters shaped hardline, some round, some small, some big, the words forming overlapping figure eights, and all saying the same thing.
Dr. Somers was right. He wasn’t saying, "Protect him." He was saying, "Prodigium."
"Prodigium? What does that mean?" Savage asked.
"It's Latin for monster."
Eight
Hatch had used the six hours of travel to commit the details, what little she had at this point, to memory. She also fleshed out the narrative of her cover story, mentally rehearsing the answers to the likely questions that may arise once in town. The best lies were born in truth. Covers were just a lie by another name.
During the first leg of her travel, she'd had the entire row to herself. But she wasn't as lucky after changing planes at George Bush Intercontinental Airport in Houston.
The two had shared their three-seat row by the wing of the plane and the emergency exit to Hatch's left provided her row with extra foot room. The seat between them had been vacant, although the large man in the aisle seat occupied a portion of it, having lifted the armrest to allow his ample girth to spill out from his own seat. He hadn't been much for talking when he boarded, which Hatch had been ok with. And the nipper of spiced rum he'd added to his Coke had aided in putting the man to sleep before the wheels had lifted off in Texas.
Hatch's flight touched down at Nashville International Airport just as the Tennessee sun was setting. The interior cabin was ablaze in the dazzling magenta hue of its glow. The tires of the plane bumped and skipped, jostling the small tablet in Hatch's hand. She found her place and continued to reread the short article Tracy had forwarded her. Just as he said, there wasn't much there.
The newspaper column was only five short paragraphs. The Shepherd was quoted only once, saying, "I was called here. And my flock followed." There was mention that The Shepherd refused to answer a question about how he came to purchase three hundred acres of land for a man who claimed to have no ties to the outside world.
The man sharing Hatch's row awoke with a jolt as the plane taxied along the runway. Hatch hoped he would pull out his phone and ignore her like most of the other passengers on the plane were doing. He turned to Hatch and smiled. She could see he was the type to seize opportunities like this to make idle chit chat, that thing travelers do to ease the awkwardness in the last few minutes of a sharing a close space with a total stranger.
He twisted in his seat and extended a big hand in Hatch's direction. She politely—if not reluctantly—accepted. Shaking his hand in the awkward position had pulled Hatch's right sleeve up above her wrist, exposing the tail end of the twisted scar that ran her entire arm up to her right shoulder. Hatch figured now to be as good a time as any to take her alias and backstory for a little test drive.
"Jack Burnside. My friends call me JB."
"My friends call me Hatch."
"That's a mean scar. Fire?" JB’s eyes darted towards Hatch's exposed wrist.
She tugged the sleeve down. "Something like that."
"Military?"
Hatch answered with a nod of her head, mixing the truth of her past into her cover, remembering to keep it vague enough.
This pleased Burnside, and a smile widened on his face. "Me, too. Long ago. Two tours in ‘Nam. Feels like a lifetime ago, but some days it feels like yesterday. Don't know if that makes any sense?"
"It does. Hatch knew the truth in Burnside's words better than she'd care to admit. There were moments where she felt she was back in that moment. Sometimes when her mind jerked her back in time, Hatch let it play out differently. In this alternate reality, she didn't hesitate. Instead, she fired her kill shot in that split-second interval before the little girl appeared from behind her mother's dress. In those rewrites of her memory, the bomb never detonated. Graham Benson, former Task Force Banshee member and friend, would still be alive to see his little daughter grow up. But the alternate universe never lasted. The scar along her arm served as a permanent anchor to her reality.
"You deploy?" Burnside asked.
"A couple times."
"War is all the same."
"How's that?"
"It all comes down to the guy in the foxhole next to you."
"Or girl," Hatch flashed a smile.
"Brave new world. You still in the service?"
"No." Hatch gestured to the tablet and fished out the reporter badge from her pocket. "I traded my rifle for a pen."
"Is it true what they say?"
"About what?"
"That the pen is truly mightier than the sword?"
"Sometimes." Hatch thought of Miguel Ayala, the reporter from Juarez, Mexico, who had shown her the truest meaning of bravery and the power of the human spirit.
"You heading to Nashville on business?"
Hatch felt now was as good and safe a time as any to practice her backstory. "I live here. Well, I do now. I was visiting a friend in California."
"I see. How long have you been in the area?"
"Little less than a year. Still getting my foothold."
"How do you like it?"
"It's been great so far. I can’t really complain."
"So, less than a year. Were you here for the big one?"
Hatch had read up on the area and found several references to a devastating series of tornadoes in March 2020.
"No, I got here a few months after. Caught the rebuild. Devastating."
"I live east of here, away from the city up in Mt. Juliet. My house got torn up real good. Those nasty twisters stripped it down to the foundation."
"That must've been tough."
"My family wasn't home. Kids are grown and off tackling the world. My wife passed years back. Just me and my lonesome. Took to my shelter, everybody with half a brain around here has one, and rode it out." Burnside shrugged. "But I lived through it, and houses can always be rebuilt. Not so easy with people."
&n
bsp; Hatch thought of the fire that nearly took her family's life. It still wasn’t lost on her the irony of now working with the agency responsible.
"The contractors just finished the remodel. Stayed at my brother's house in San Diego while it was under construction." He shook his head and chuckled to himself. "Got the damn thing rebuilt just in time to see another end to tornado season."
"How long's it last? The tornado season." Hatch asked.
"Things are at worst February through April, but November can be a bit dicey too. Each season is different. Some knock the snot out of this state, like last year’s. Others not so much. This year's been pretty timid. Fingers crossed it stays that way."
The stewardess walked by, and Burnside plucked the empty nipper out of the seat pocket in front of him and tossed it in the trash bag. The stewardess gave a knowing look. Burnside's cheeks reddened as he offered a playful wink in return before she moved on to the next row.
"So, any big stories you're working on?" Burnside turned his attention back to Hatch.
"I'm doing a piece on the Eternal Light."
Burnside grumbled.
"You've heard of them?"
"Don't know much. But I do business in Jericho Falls from time to time. I know they're a bunch of crazies and halfwits. They follow that lunatic preacher, calls himself The Shepherd. Walks around like some kind of prophet. Reminds me of those Branch Davidians out in Waco years back. "
"Have any dealings with them?"
"Is what I say going in your story?"
"I never know until I know."
Burnside gave a slow nod. "I haven't had much to do with 'em, but they meander about town from time to time. Ever since he showed up in the area with those tunic-wearing nut jobs, I feel like they've been nothing but trouble."
"Trouble is what I do best."
The captain announced their arrival at the gate. For a large man, Burnside made quick work of getting out of his seat and into the aisle. They exchanged well wishes. As they departed the gangway, Hatch bypassed the baggage claim. She’d taken her duffel as a carry-on.
