Blood of Dawn (9 page)

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Authors: Tami Dane

BOOK: Blood of Dawn
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“Y-yes.”
“Then trust me.” He slid his hands beneath my shirt.
 
 
My mind went blank. As if I’d been watching a movie and a heavy black curtain had fallen over the screen, shutting it off from my view. My hand burned and my eyelids snapped open. The stone was glowing red.
“That’s good. Very good.” Elmer snatched it from me and pocketed it.
“What happened?” My gaze bounced back and forth from my hand to Elmer.
“We’re even now,” he said.
“We are? How? All I did was hold a rock.”
“You’ve paid my price. You’ve given me a treasured memory. It’s mine now, and your debt is paid. In full.”
“Memory? Of what?” I searched my brain, trying to recall whatever images I’d just seen. Nothing was there. Not one little glimmer. “What memory did I give you?”
Elmer shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. Yet. I haven’t taken a look at it. But I will. Soon.”
Poof,
he vanished.
I stared at the empty spot where he’d just been sitting, and I tried to figure out what I should be feeling.
There was a touch on my shoulder. A soft tap.
I turned.
“I’m sorry, Sloan,” my father said, looking extremely apologetic. He was standing in my room, fully dressed as if he’d just come home from work. “I tried to warn you about the
Sluagh.
He’s a good man. But when it comes to collecting a debt, he’s merciless.”
“What just happened?”
“Remember, when you asked him for his help, I warned you that the
Sluagh
are collectors. The price he asked—in return for his help—was ‘I’m gathering a very special memory you’ve been carrying around with you for years.’”
“I got that. But how do I figure out what memory it was? Is there any way to get it back? To remind myself?”
My father shook his head. “Once it’s gone, it’s gone forever. Unless you can find a way to strike another deal with the
Sluagh.
If you can do him as great a favor as he did for you, he will be honor-bound to return it to you.”
Me do him a favor? Haven’t I already done several?
“Really? Another favor? I’ve done a lot of favors for that man already. I’ve been helping him find a wife, gone to a horrid speed-dating night, found a way for him to get his stupid
Who Wants to Marry an Undead Prince?
show filmed, so he could meet women. What more can I do?”
“Those favors served your interests as well as his,” my father said, patting my knee. “Whatever favor it is, it has to be only for him. Maybe something will come up. Either that, or you’ll live without that memory. If you’re fortunate, it wasn’t something that led to a lot more memories. To a life you didn’t realize you’d lived. A wife you hadn’t remembered marrying. A child you didn’t recall holding.”
“Are you saying . . . ?”
My father sat in the exact same spot where Elmer had been only moments ago. He stared down at the floor for several seconds. “I didn’t know how to tell you the truth, so I lied. There was no threat to your lives, at least none that I was aware of.”
Aha!
“I didn’t believe that excuse. I knew there was something else going on.”
“There was.”
“So let me get this straight. Because of a deal you made with a
Sluagh,
I grew up without a father, and Mom without a husband. You didn’t remember us at all? Nothing?”
Dark shadows filled his eyes. “Absolutely nothing about either of you. I remembered everything else, so I didn’t realize what I had lost.”
Something about his story still wasn’t making sense. “What about the money you were sending to Mom?”
“I didn’t send her any money. If she was receiving something, I’m guessing it was the
Sluagh
who was sending it. I guess he had something of a conscience.”
I stood. I sat. I stood again.
This story was true. I knew it in my gut. The pieces fit.
“But what about your research?” I asked as my mind went to work, shifting ideas, sorting through conversations. “You said you’d caught meningitis and had forgotten your research.”
“That much is true. I did have meningitis, and I cannot recall much of my research.”
“Okay, so you didn’t realize you had a wife and child. You forgot your research. How did you end up coming back and finding us?”
“That’s a long, complicated story.”
“It’s okay. It looks like I have plenty of time tonight.” I sat back down. After settling in, I grabbed my father’s hand. “Dad, I’m sorry I didn’t trust you. I was confused. Your story, about trying to protect us by staying away, made no sense. I thought you were lying.”
“I would’ve thought the same thing.” My Dad took my other hand in his, cupping them both in his palms. “It’s okay. We have a lot to do, to make up for all that lost time. At least we have the chance to do that now.”
“Yes, we do. And I’m going to make sure we take advantage of every minute we get.”
Dad’s smile was a little shadowed, happy but with a ghost of sadness lurking at the corners. “I’ve missed so much. You’re such a wonderful young woman now. Intelligent. Capable. Responsible. Independent. Kind. My last memory of you was when you were a tiny infant. You smiled up at me. And I saw something special in your eyes. Even then. Before you could speak. Before you could read. Before you could do anything.”
“I’d like to think I got some of those special qualities from you.”
He blinked a few times. “Maybe you did.”
“At least, it seems, Elmer didn’t take my memory of you away.”
“Like I said, he has a conscience.”
“It was
him
? Elmer?”
My father nodded. “None other.”
If you don’t make mistakes, you’re not working on hard enough problems. And that’s a big mistake.
—F. Wikzek
9
The next morning, JT was standing on my parents’ front porch when I came sprinting outside, bedecked in an outfit that made me grateful my high-school days were far, far behind me. He handed me an envelope and followed me. I pulled the piece of paper from the envelope as I walked, but I didn’t unfold it until I was sitting behind the wheel of my car.
JT made himself comfortable in the passenger seat. He remained completely silent while I read the copy of Megan’s final words. It was hard to get through. When I was done, I couldn’t help exhaling a little harder than normal.
“This is so sad,” I said as I returned the copy to the envelope. I handed it back to JT. “We have to stop this guy. I don’t care what it takes. He’s destroying so many lives—not just the victims’. There’s Megan. And Mrs. Walker.”
“We’re doing our best.” JT fiddled with the envelope’s flap.
“Has Forrester come up with anything? Has anyone come up with anything?”
“No. So far, all we’ve found is that the two girls attend the same school. They don’t look alike. Don’t share the same circle of friends. We’re really hoping you can get something at the school.”
I stuffed the key into the ignition. “It isn’t going to be easy. Teens don’t just openly embrace a new student. I’m the new kid, with no friends. I’m not going to hear much.”
“All you can do is try.”
“I’m trying.”
“You’ve done more than that. In one day, you found this girl.” He shook the envelope. “She might have been a witness.”
“But I couldn’t save her life.” A horrible thought crossed my mind. “What if the killer saw us talking and killed Megan, making her death look like a suicide?”
“I guess that’s possible. We’ll take another look at it, see if there’s any way she might have been murdered.”
My insides twisted into a tight coil. “If she was killed because someone heard us talking, then I don’t think I can go through with this assignment.”
“One step at a time, Skye. One step at a time.” Once again, he looked at me. This time, I got the vibe he was trying to tell me something else, more personal. “Sloan . . .”
“What is it?”
He cupped my cheek and I lifted my hand to his, curling my fingers around it. I wanted to pull it away. I really did. But when his gaze snagged mine, and I was swept up in all the emotions I saw in his eyes, I froze.
He pulled gently, coaxing me to lean into him. I knew where this was going. There was not a single shred of doubt. And I also knew I couldn’t let it happen. My mind was screaming. Warning sirens were shrieking. Still, I didn’t fight it. His lips brushed across mine in the softest kiss of my life. I sucked in a gasp and gulped it down.
But the minute his mouth settled more firmly over mine, I pulled back.
“JT, there’s a lot going on right now. You’ve just lost a child. You’re grieving. This shouldn’t be happening. I shouldn’t let it happen. It’s wrong.”
“You’re not doing anything wrong.” His fingers grazed my jaw. He tried to cup my head again, but this time I moved out of his reach. “You want to comfort me. There’s nothing wrong with that. You’re attracted to me. There’s nothing wrong with that either. I’m attracted to you. And again, there’s nothing wrong with that. You’ve tried to hide it. And maybe you’ve convinced everyone else that you don’t want me—maybe even convinced yourself. But you haven’t fooled me.”
“I am attracted to you. I won’t deny that. But that doesn’t mean we should go there.”
Moving quickly, he jerked me into his arms and kissed me again. This time, it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t shy. It was hard and demanding and convincing. And I almost lost control and let it continue. But I didn’t. I flattened my hands against his chest and pushed. And to make sure it didn’t happen again, I leaned backward and opened the door. If I had to, I’d leave the car.
“JT, I said
no.
”
JT’s jaw clenched. “Damn it,” he muttered as he stared out the windshield. He visibly exhaled. “I apologize, Sloan. I’m fucked up in the head right now.”
“I understand. You’re upset. At least you’re letting your emotions out now. I’m sorry. So sorry. I don’t want to be rude or hurt your feelings. I want to help. Please tell me what I can do.” I closed my door and crossed my arms over my chest, trying not to look conflicted and confused, which was exactly how I was feeling. Here I had a great guy who liked me. We had a lot in common. And the chemistry was definitely sizzling. But I also felt that way about someone else—a man who wasn’t a coworker.
“You’re just trying to be a good friend. Shit, Sloan. I pushed too hard.”
“Don’t worry about it. We’re still friends.”
“The fact is, I don’t want to be friends with you.” He shook his head. “I don’t.”
“I don’t know what to say, JT. You know what I think about that.” I gave the key a twist, starting the car. “I don’t think now is a good time to deal with this, anyway. Obviously, you’re hurting.”
I glanced at the clock. It was ten to eight. I was going to be late for my first class. Very late. “I need to go.”
His eyes drilled into me, seeming to peer deep into my soul. “Yeah, you’re right. Now is not the time to talk about this.” JT reached for the door handle. “Good luck.”
“Thanks, I’m going to need it.”
 
 
After JT climbed out, I drove to the school, parked in the very last parking spot in the whole lot, and hiked what felt like a mile inside. When I entered, the hallways were empty. I went straight to my first class and slinked into the room, sliding into a seat at the very back.
The teacher cleared his throat and said, “Well, look who decided to join us.”
Everyone turned around. A few dozen sets of eyes focused on me.
I was mortified.
When I’d signed on to be an intern at the FBI, I’d imagined myself in all kinds of situations, but not once did I visualize anything like this.
I smiled and waved.
The teacher humphed.
A few of the students smirked.
The smartest kids—who couldn’t be all that smart, since they were attending summer school—gave me a look of disdain. I immediately confessed my sins for doing something similar when I was in high school.
Thankfully, the teacher let it drop after that and went back to rambling on about the economy of post–USSR Russia. A fascinating subject.
Not.
I pretended to take notes while trying to overhear whispered conversations among students. I heard one girl mention Megan’s name. But that was it. Evidently, there’d been a very brief announcement made at the beginning of class about Megan’s death, with no details shared. When the bell rang, signaling the end of the period, I had nothing more to go on than I did when I’d stepped into the building. Already I was beginning to think this undercover assignment might be a waste of time. Whether it was better or worse than sitting around the PBAU, waiting for the phones to ring, was still undecided.
During my second and third classes of the day, I had the same experiences. I caught a few muttered mentions of Megan, some speculation about her having committed suicide, but nothing more. By the time the final bell rang, I was ready to head to the unit and ask the chief if I could be reassigned to another task. This was getting us nowhere.
But then, as I was walking out to my car, I heard two girls talking about a party. It was tonight. At someone’s house. Supposedly, the student’s parents were out of town.
Alcohol. Teens. It was going to be an ugly scene. But I would be far more likely to hear something useful at a party than I would here.
It was decided; I would attend my first high-school keg party tonight.
Feeling a little better about my lack of progress, I stopped on the way back to the unit and grabbed a submarine sandwich and a bag of chips. I rolled into the parking lot a little while later. I hauled my lunch-in-a-bag inside and made a beeline for my cubicle. The unit was quiet.
I powered up my laptop and skimmed my e-mail while I munched on the six-inch turkey-and-Swiss sub, cheddar-flavored chips, and slurped down diet cola. Just as I was finishing up, I heard the unit’s door open. I glanced up.
Gabe Wagner? What was he doing here?
“Hey, Skye,” he said as he strolled toward my cubicle.
I blinked. “Hi,” I said, unable to hide my confusion and disbelief. I hadn’t seen Gabe Wagner in years, since college. What was he doing here?
His brows scrunched together. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“N-nothing.” I didn’t ask him why he was standing in the middle of the PBAU, acting like he belonged there. For some reason, I felt like I’d look like an idiot if I did that. Why? I had no idea. “I’m just eating my lunch.”
“What do you have there?” He rested his butt on my desk. I couldn’t believe it. He’d never acted so friendly to me before. What was going on? He shoved his hand in my almost empty chip bag, pulled out a couple of chips, and stuffed them into his mouth. He crunched, and I sat there, gaping, I’m sure. “Mmm. Good.” His brows scrunched. “Skye, why are you looking at me like I grew a second head?”
“Um.” I glanced right. I glanced left. “Um.” I felt so stupid and confused. I clamped my jaw. “Nothing. I was just thinking . . . about the case. Yes, that’s what I was doing.”
“What were you thinking about the case?” he asked.
Why had he asked that? He wasn’t a part of our unit. He didn’t belong here. Come to think of it, how the hell did he even get in here? Our offices were located on a U.S. Marine base. There were guards at the gate.
His father must’ve pulled some strings, somehow. His father was a fairly influential man. He was a state senator, with dreams of running for the U.S. Senate someday.
Had his father talked the PBAU into hiring him?
Just in case Gabe wasn’t there legally, I decided not to tell him anything about the case. I’d clear it up with the chief when she came in. “I was thinking I need to get to work.” I shoved the remainders of my lunch into the bag and stuffed it in the trash can. Then I poked my computer’s power button, waking it up from sleep mode.
“Okay. Give me a holler if you need some help.” He removed his butt from my desktop. I tried not to look at it as he strolled away. I failed.
Imagine that. Gabe Wagner. Here.
And he’d looked at me with some sparkly eyes.
And he’d smiled at me too.
Sheesh, I sounded like a sixth grader. I was somewhat socially challenged, but I wasn’t
that
bad. Usually. In this case, it was Gabe Wagner. He had been my secret crush in college.
Shoving my thoughts of Gabe Wagner aside, I went on a fact-hunting mission on Google. As of right now, we had very little information about this unsub. We knew he or she was killing at night and using some sort of tool that produced a current of electricity. There were no clues at the scenes, which would lead me to the conclusion that we were dealing with an organized killer.
Speaking in the most general terms, the FBI classified serial killers in one of three broad categories—organized, disorganized, or mixed. Organized killers were the Ted Bundys and John Wayne Gacys of the world. They were intelligent, selected their victims with care, generally killed strangers, and planned their crimes methodically. And they took measures to cover up their crimes and avoid capture.
Disorganized killers, like Ed Gein, were very different. They tended to have average or below-average IQs, were impulsive killers, using whatever weapon was available at the crime scene, and tended not to hide the body. Their crime scenes often showed excessive violence and sometimes necrophilia or sexual violence.
It was fairly clear, by the lack of evidence, as well as the lack of violence, that we were dealing with an organized killer.
As far as gender went, I was leaning toward a male killer, but I didn’t have any facts to support my theory. Female killers tended to kill for material gain. They often had a relationship with their victims. They killed their spouses, their children, or elderly friends or family members. And they frequently employed covert methods to kill, like poison. At this point, I wasn’t seeing the fingerprint of a female killer. But I wasn’t going to completely dismiss the idea either.
And then there was motive. This was the big question mark in our case. Why? Why were Stephanie Barnett and Emma Walker dead?
The motives of serial killers were generally classified into four categories: visionary, mission-oriented, hedonistic, and power or control. Killers motivated by lust, thrill, and profit fell under the hedonistic category. Because we weren’t seeing any sexual torture or mutilation, I was willing to eliminate lust from the list of potential motives. I also didn’t see any signs that the victims were being killed for profit. Their belongings were left at the crime scene. But the remaining motives couldn’t be crossed off the list yet, including thrill.

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