The Depraved (A Sarah Roberts Thriller Book 26)

by Jonas Saul

  In the end, maybe there wasn’t an actual answer. We’re born crying, we cry through all the pain we deal with in life, and often we die crying—or at least people cry when we die. The Tao of Sarah—everyone hurts, everyone cries, everyone dies.

  She held Victoria tight until the girl calmed enough that the paramedics could examine her.

  “Victoria,” Sarah whispered. “These paramedics are going to examine you, make sure you’re okay.”

  Victoria nodded, staring at the ground. “You warned my dad,” she said.

  Sarah shot a look at DeOcampo who was close enough to hear that. “I did.”

  “You’re Sarah Roberts, and my dad knew that.” She glanced up, her eyes even more puffy from crying, if that was possible. “But he didn’t listen, he didn’t take enough precaution.”

  “I’m so sorry. I wish he had left the church with me.”

  “Can you catch the people that did this? Please?”

  “We’ll do everything we can to catch them.”

  “No.” Victoria angled herself to look directly into Sarah’s eyes. “Promise me you’ll catch them. You know stuff. If anyone can, you can.”

  Sarah nodded. “I’m involved now and won’t stop until whoever did this is caught.”

  Victoria held Sarah’s gaze a moment longer, then allowed herself to be lifted away from Sarah and guided toward the ambulance parked back up on the side of the highway.

  Sarah got to her feet.

  “Whoa, that was a tough one.” DeOcampo patted Sarah on the shoulder. “You okay?”

  Sarah nodded. “Yeah, but that was hard. Super hard.”

  “I mean, how do you promise her you’ll find her parents’ killer? You handled that well.”

  Sarah faced the way Victoria had pointed. “Oh, I’ll find the killer, all right. Vivian owes me after what just happened.”

  She edged away and moved along the path at a quick pace.

  “Sarah?” DeOcampo came up behind her. “How do you mean, Vivian owes you?”

  “She knew Pastor Blair was in trouble. She told me to warn him. I did that, but now the pastor is dead. Look what it’s done to that poor girl. Before this is over, my sister owes me an explanation so I can understand what the fuck is going on because I’m pissed now.” She shot a hand back toward the highway where Victoria was standing by the ambulance. “That girl deserves better. She deserves her parents.”

  They came out of the forest and moved into a large field. Corn used to grow here a long time ago by the looks of things.

  In the distance several men were gathered around the edge of a dilapidated wooden structure that was once someone’s barn. If there had been a house nearby at one point, there wasn’t now.

  The mid afternoon sun warmed Sarah’s shoulders as she trudged through the thick growth that covered what was once someone’s prosperous farmland.

  DeOcampo remained close on her heels.

  As they got within ten meters of the edge of the broken down building, the corner of a white van came into view.

  Sarah ran to the side to get a better look.

  It was the white carpet van from the back of the church that morning.

  She whispered several expletives to herself and moved to stand beside Detective Hunter. She had a beef with him for grabbing at her. That was something they’d have to deal with later.

  There were no bodies in sight. Several officers stood roughly twenty feet away, but Hunter remained by the van, staring at his phone.

  DeOcampo spoke first. “What’s going on? What have we got?”

  “Three dead.” Hunter pocketed his phone. “Over there, where the officers are. We’re waiting for the coroner now.”

  “The pastor? His wife?” DeOcampo’s voice had softened. Hunter knew these people.

  The detective nodded.

  “Who’s the third?”

  “A cop, out of uniform. We checked. It was his day off.”

  Sarah glanced away, astonished at the senselessness of murder. The cop had been the one waiting for the pastor. He then lured him and his wife here for someone else and was killed for his deed.

  “Did you see how they died?” DeOcampo persisted.

  Hunter nodded again. “I did.”

  After a moment, Sarah asked, “Are we going over there to look or are you going to tell us?”

  “Don’t go over there. You don’t want to see this.”

  They waited a few heartbeats. Hunter inhaled deeply, then let out a long sigh.

  “All three bodies were bludgeoned with a baseball bat. The weapon is covered in blood and brain matter beside the bodies.”

  Sarah recoiled at the brutality of it all. There was a lot of anger in someone to do that to someone else. This was a revenge plot in the making.

  “There’s more,” Hunter whispered.

  “More?” DeOcampo gasped the word.

  Sarah remained quiet. This wasn’t the time to push the man who seemed already on edge.

  “The pastor was violated with a wire coat hanger while he was still alive. He bled profusely from his rectum as whoever did this virtually attacked him with the damn thing. Then they bashed his head in—” Hunter gasped, spun sideways and spit into the bush. She wondered if he’d vomit.

  His friend was dead and he saw the body, all the disgustingness of it, all the depravity.

  Now Sarah knew why he was this far away from the crime scene—he didn’t want to contaminate it if he spewed his breakfast.

  Vivian had warned her this one was sick and at least on that count she wasn’t wrong.

  But why Vivian didn’t get her to kidnap the pastor and his wife still nagged at Sarah. Together, they could’ve saved these lives. It seemed such a waste without reason.

  Hunter wiped at his mouth, breathed deep, and tried to collect himself. “They’ll take me off this case now.”

  DeOcampo was nodding. “You can’t investigate the murder of a friend.”

  “It’s worse than that.”

  “Worse? What’s worse than that?”

  “It’s someone who knows us.” He stared hard at DeOcampo. “Knows our past.”

  “What makes you say that?” Sarah asked. “Because you got the letter? That’s it, isn’t it? And the pastor was your friend.”

  Hunter nodded, his face void of all color. “You were right, Sarah. I was targeted. Whoever did this went after my friend and added me to the investigation because of the letter, but my bosses will never let me investigate this now.”

  “There is more, isn’t there?” Sarah said, staring into his eyes. “It’s this place. We already established you grew up around here.” She paused to look around at the trees, the expanse of field.

  When she turned back to Detective Hunter, he was weeping.

  “This barn was our old hangout,” he said. “The last family who lived here moved away in the sixties. Twenty years ago, back when we were teenagers, we came here to smoke a joint, screw our girlfriends, drink on weekends. This was our home away from home—me, Alden, Brent, and William, plus a few others.” He stepped away from the van and started back toward the highway. “Whoever did this targeted Pastor Alden Blair and me, and I intend to find out who whether I have a job or not.”

  “Wait,” DeOcampo shouted at him. “Where are you going?”

  Hunter turned back around. “I have some phone calls to make. There are other friends who hung out here with us, friends who knew the pastor and his wife. They need to know what happened, they should hear it from me.”

  Sarah took a step closer to him. “Warn them.”

  Hunter frowned. “You think this isn’t over?”

  “It’s not over, Detective Hunter. Whoever you and Pastor Blair knew, warn them all.” She moved closer. “Do it as soon as possible.”

  Vivian was close.

  Something was wrong, very wrong.

  She whispered into Sarah’s ear.

  Frantic, Sarah stared after Hunter. “Call them!” she shouted, panic racing up her throat.
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  “Who?” he yelled back.

  “Everyone.” She didn’t think it was possible to shout louder, but she did. “More people will die today or tomorrow.” Her last four words were a frantic wail. “Hurry the fuck up!”

  Chapter 10

  Detective Donovan Hunter opened his front door, stepped inside quietly, dropped his keys on the small foyer table, and kicked off his shoes.

  Cell phone in hand, willing it to ring, he moved into the kitchen where he poured half a glass of whiskey without ice, then plopped onto the sofa, exhausted. He missed his day off at home, but there would be plenty of days off coming. His boss had ordered him to hand over everything he had—even Sarah’s and DeOcampo’s involvement—and go home. If anything else came up, he was supposed to call it in. Until then, stay home. A week, two weeks, who knew how long, but don’t come in. He was too close to the investigation by far.

  He set the cell phone on the couch beside him and drank from his glass.

  The whiskey burned going down, soothing the ache he felt inside.

  “You happy with yourself?”

  He jerked so hard at the sudden voice, his whiskey spilled on the cushion beside him and his cell phone dropped to the carpeted floor.

  “What the fuck, Beverly?”

  “You walked into the kitchen, all the way to the living room, sat across from me and didn’t know I was sitting here? Some detective you turned out to be.”

  “Fuck sakes. It’s dark. I didn’t turn on all the lights and I’m tired. I had a hard day.”

  “A hard day?” Ridicule laced her voice. “I called you a dozen times, on your day off I might add, and you talked down to me, then stopped answering my calls. You seeing someone else?”

  He glared at her a moment, wondering why they were still together, then wiped off his hand and drank from his whiskey.

  “How old are you?” she asked. “Oh wait, I know, thirty-five now. For a second I thought we were back in high school and you were giving me the silent treatment.”

  Hunter leaned over and retrieved his cell phone from the carpet, checked the screen and saw there were no missed calls, then placed it beside him again.

  “Really now?” She leaned forward in her chair across from him. “Nothing from you? No explanation on why your day off was spent at work, or wherever the fuck you are all day?”

  How much should he tell her? How much of an explanation was she owed? He was in the wrong when he ignored her, but considering the circumstances, wouldn’t an explanation make it all better? The question was, did he want to make it all better?

  “Remember that letter I got this morning?” he asked.

  “What about it?” Her tone hadn’t changed. It sounded like she hated him. Which would make sense because men had done her wrong her whole life, and he wasn’t that easy on her. Sometimes even Beverly needed to be taught a lesson.

  “I had to take it in to work and meet with someone—”

  “A woman?” she snapped.

  His forehead warmed with anger. The explanation was coming if she would just shut up and let him speak it.

  “Yes, I had to meet with Sarah Roberts—”

  “I fuckin’ knew it.”

  “Would you let me finish?” he shouted.

  She made a zipping motion across her lips and waved her other hand in a get-on-with-it gesture.

  He collected himself, then swallowed half of the leftover whiskey in his glass.

  “The letter said there would be murders.” Emotion choked his vocal cords, closing them off for a moment. “And there were murders.”

  “Okay, so you’re the only guy working homicide? You can’t have a day off?”

  The darkness prevented him from seeing Bev’s face clearly, but what he could see radiated anger.

  “Beverly, the letter came to me, to my personal address. What was I supposed to do, hand it off to other officers and hope they catch the bad guy? I had debriefings, meetings, and then I attended the crime scene.”

  “Crime scene? As in someone was actually murdered today?”

  “Are you listening?” he asked. “Yes, there were murders.”

  “How many?”

  “Three dead. More coming, possibly.”

  “Is that why you keep looking at your phone? Waiting for them to call you back in?”

  His head rested on the sofa as he let it fall backward. “No, I’m waiting to get return phone calls from half a dozen friends from the past that I’m still trying to get ahold of.”

  “Why are you calling old friends? You’re not making any sense. Were you out drinking?”

  He raised his head and stared at her again. How did he ever end up with such a bitch? Too many nights at the strip club, that’s how. Out with the boys, drinking. Nothing really dealt with the pain like alcohol did. And then Beverly, so sweet and pretty in her negligee, thong, and alluring fake tits, always at their table, week after week, month after month. Cops turned her on, apparently. Hunter knew she slept with a few of them, getting tied up, handcuffed. But then she chose him, said she would forsake all other men and even stop stripping and working at the massage parlor on the side. No more tricks, no more dicks. Just him.

  And he bought it, the whole story. Now his surgically modified model girlfriend was complaining about the job he did, the job that brought in enough money so that she didn’t have to do hand jobs anymore.

  How did anything make sense in this world? How could anyone rationalize where her head was at?

  When he hadn’t answered her, she started up again.

  “Okay, fine. Work calls. So, you go in, drop off the letter, meet some Sarah bitch, then go to a crime scene. Now, where’s the rest of the day gone? But here I am, waiting like a good little slut, sitting here for her man to come home and I find out you’re out drinking and calling all your friends. I mean, what the fuck man? Am I seriously just a warm pussy for you, and that’s it? Like, when you have time or want to bust a nut, I’m the cooze in the snooze?” She jumped to her feet and stared down at him. “You’re such an amazing detective you didn’t even see the luggage at the front door, either.”

  He glanced that way nonchalantly. Maybe it was better if she left. He’d be able to get through one day without someone yelling at him for something.

  If she didn’t leave, maybe she’d be the next homicide. Some men had limits, and Beverly was reaching his.

  “You’re not going to say anything?” she asked. “Really? Like, I’m moving out and that’s cool with you?”

  All the fight was gone from within him. He had nothing left to give her.

  She leaned down as if to kiss him, but instead she flicked her tongue and spit in his face.

  He snapped into action, the day’s stress oozing oxygen and fury into every muscle, and shoved her backward so hard she lost her balance and dropped onto their fifty-inch TV. It teetered off its stand and fell backward where it smashed against the wall.

  “You fuckin’ bitch,” he raged. “How could you do that? I lost a friend today.” He ran at her, his fists locked tight.

  She wore heels and she was able to raise one, missing his privates by inches as he ran into it. Hunter recoiled at the blow, his hands covering the wounded area. He stumbled away, barely able to stay upright.

  Beverly got to her knees.

  The pain in his crotch dissolved a lot of his anger quickly.

  When he stretched it out and stood to his full height, Bev was by the door to the living room.

  “Lost a friend today, eh?” she whispered. “You lost more than that, asshole.”

  “Oh yeah, cunt? What else did I lose?”

  She looked like she was crying now. “I told you bitch, whore, slut, and a batch of other names work with me, but cunt was never one of them. Call me a cunt and I walk. That was always our deal.”

  “Then fucking walk, cunt!” He shouted the last word.

  “You lost more than a friend today, asshole. You lost your whole life.” She moved away from the alcove.
The sound of a luggage clasp snapping into place was loud in the living room. “You lost your lover, your closest friend, your woman, and your confidante all in one blow.” The front door opened. “You once called me your everything. So, today, Detective Hunter, you lost your everything. I would’ve made a good wife. I truly would have. Don’t come looking for me. You’re dead to me, loser cop.”

  The front door slammed. The clicking of those heels reverberated in the living room for several moments.

  Then she was gone.

  Hunter moved back to the couch, downed the rest of his whiskey, then began to cry.

  He fell asleep weeping on the couch, wondering why life was so painful and hard.

  Maybe dying was easier. At least the pain ended that way.

  Chapter 11

  Sarah woke with a headache, which was quite rare for her. Yesterday’s trauma, the screaming, the crying, and Vivian whispering dreadful things into her mind. No wonder her head didn’t split in half with Vivian’s ranting sometimes.

  She rolled over to wrap an arm across Aaron, but his side of the bed was empty.

  What time was it?

  Her phone on the nightstand said it was past nine in the morning. How long had it been since she’d slept that late?

  She crawled out of bed and minutes later walked by the living room where Willow was engrossed in a show on monkeys and their natural habitat. She moved silently into the kitchen.

  “Good morning,” she mumbled.

  Aaron glanced up from his iPad. “Morning. Looks like you slept well.”

  “Slept like the dead.” She stopped. “Wait, bad humor after yesterday.”

  “Gallows humor.”

  She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Nice one.”

  Once her coffee was poured, she joined him at the table, wincing once with the flareup of pain behind her right eye.

  “You okay?”

  “Headache. I’ll take a tablet after the coffee. Need this first.”