Without Remorse, page 17
She redoubled her pace, throwing herself into the front seat. She hit the gas and the tires whirred, squealing as they tore out of the driveway and back onto the street.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
Agent Marcus Clement could feel his skin prickling as he knocked on the door a second time. He waited politely, patiently, listening for a response. He'd made good time to Ms. Peacock's address, but he knew time was of the essence.
Marcus glanced down at his phone, double-checking he hadn't received a message from Dakota.
Nothing. His partner was likely still en route.
He sighed, glancing back towards the parked police vehicle and the small garden hedge circling the home. This was a nicer area of town, and he'd spotted more than one mansion lining the suburban street. He'd even spotted a few children playing in their front yards on pink bikes or with foam baseball bats as he'd driven past.
A neighborhood where bad things didn't happen. Certainly not the sort of neighborhood he'd grown up in—at least not at first. Not until he'd been taken in by his uncle and aunt. Dakota didn't know how he'd grown up. He'd never really shared it. In his mind, he thought it was because she'd never brought it up.
But neither had he.
Afterwards, after the bad phase—his first ten years—everything had become good again. His aunt and uncle had been upper middle-class. They'd even adopted him, called him their own son. They hadn't been able to have children themselves, so they had taken Marcus in.
After that, he'd had everything a boy could ask for. And often he tried to forget those first ten years. The neighborhood he'd been from. What had happened to his parents...
What he'd seen.
He let out a faint little sigh, adjusting his shoulders.
“Hello!” he called, knocking louder. “Ms. Peacock? FBI! My name is Agent Clement!”
He tried to put a bit of good humor to his tone. Sometimes, neighborhoods like this didn't respond well to people who looked like him. He'd long since given up on resenting them for it. Sometimes, it twinged when he had to put on an extra smile just to walk into a supermarket without getting followed by one of the clerks. Other times, like now, he couldn't help but feel past experiences colored current ones.
He didn't like assuming the worst of people. Most everyone, in his experience, had a lot to like about them. But there were always a few who threatened to ruin it for the others.
He sighed, knocking on the door of the quaint two-story. He put a little bit more emphasis into his entreaties this time.
And as he did, the door swung inwards, scraping across something on the other side. He frowned, bending down and examining a bent carpet, folded in on itself, helping to wedge the door in place.
“Hello?” he said, a bit louder, his voice quavering. He frowned, shooting a look over his shoulder, scanning the street. No car in the driveway. No car parked on the sidewalk. But also, there was an expansive two-car garage.
He turned his attention back to the yawning door, pushing it open a bit further, a faint prickle now crawling up his skin.
The carpet resisted his motions for a moment, holding the base of the door in place, but he managed to shove past it. The extra momentum sent the door slamming into the wall with a loud thump.
A coat tumbled from a hook behind the door, falling across his arm. In the past, Marcus might have jumped, but he'd been on the job too long to be scared by something like a falling jacket.
Besides, the jacket—now on the ground—didn't look much out of place in the ransacked home.
He stared, his eyes as wide as saucers as he scanned the space, his gaze darting about. A dining room table had toppled. A TV lay smashed against the ground. Kitchen knives scattered across the hallway which led to a tiled kitchen.
“What in the world,” he murmured to himself.
Briefly, Agent Clement froze in place, his mind flitting back to another time, a past life. A similar scene of havoc. Then, they hadn't had nearly as much stuff in the house to destroy. But it had looked like a ransacking, on a smaller scale.
Marcus shook his head, heart in his throat. “Ms. Peacock?” he shouted into the house now, already pulling his phone to call for backup. “Hello? Anyone?”
His other hand moved towards his holstered weapon. He took a step over the carpet, sliding along the wall, moving carefully, cautiously. His ears were perked, and he listened for any sign of movement.
And that's when he heard it. A faint thumping sound coming from a closet in the middle of the hall. Was that a cry for help?
He stared, eyes wide. Was something seeping beneath the door? He slowed his breathing, steadying himself. This was the part of the job he hated most. This was why he needed Dakota around. When it came to people, interactions, psychology, or memory, he was happy to go toe to toe with anyone. But in moments like these, when someone was undoubtedly hurt, he mostly just felt a slow chill.
He approached the door carefully. For the moment, no sign of blood. The liquid he'd spotted on the ground was just water from a small bowl that had been knocked over.
More thumping against the door now that he approached. Another moan.
No... Not a moan.
He opened the door quickly, gun in hand.
A shape darted between his legs, bounding across the room and flinging itself up the stairs. Marcus jerked back, stumbling but catching himself a second later. He stood motionless, panting, staring after the fleeing feline. Not a moan. A meow.
He adjusted his spectacles and then heard the phone connect.
Before he spoke, he gave one last cursory glance around the place. No movement. No motion. No blood. He lowered his weapon.
She wasn't here.
A second later, this same thought gave him a flash of terror.
She wasn't here.
So then where the hell was she?
***
The craftsman whistled breezily as he strolled up the public street, nodding and smiling occasionally to anyone who caught his eye. In one hand, he gripped his rucksack. The same backpack he used whenever he jogged around the city—it helped him keep his legs in shape. Plus, he liked the added challenge.
Over his shoulder, he carried the carpet.
A special carpet—he'd made it himself. Padded with foam and cushion to perfectly maintain the muse. No blood either—she was unconscious this time. Normally, he liked completing his jobs on site. But this time around it hadn't been advisable.
His friend from the Wednesday night group had called. The silly little woman had a crush on him, had been trying to get him to ask her out for months. As if he'd ever stoop so low. Would a god dine with a mortal?
He snorted, hefting the rolled-up carpet and marching gamely along.
The woman in question who'd mentioned the cops had stopped by hadn't had any clue what she was aiding him in. He never would've told her. He didn't believe in coworkers. He would share his glory with no one, that much was certain.
But at least it had warned him. He even thought he'd passed one of the cops nearly ten minutes ago. But now he walked on, the thick carpet draped past his equally massive form. No one suspected what he kept inside his folded fabric.
No, no—they wouldn't guess. They never did. Hiding in plain sight—that's how he thought of it.
He smiled as he whistled and continued marching along.
“Need a hand?” a voice said.
He paused, glancing towards a squat man with peach fuzz and a sunburnt neck. The man looked like he probably smelled. He was smiling and pointing towards the carpet.
The craftsman just scowled.
“No. Don't be silly.”
He continued walking. But the squat man fell into step next to him. “Damn, dude, you have a girl's voice. Got some of that t-ball, huh? Steroids? I mean—haha, who the hell am I kidding? Course you're on ‘roids. Look at ya. Look man, I can help you carry that. You got a fiver or something? I just lost my wallet last wee—”
The craftsman turned, staring down his nose at the incessant, nagging thing. “Go away,” he said simply. His voice went deeper now, his eyes narrowing. His shadow spread across the irritant.
“I—okay, dude. Don't gotta take a tone. I get it. I get it. Fine! Sheesh.” He backed away and the craftsman heard him muttering expletives as he moved off, marching down the sidewalk, past other pedestrians.
None of them suspected a thing. They never did.
A few admired his physique, as was warranted. Others stepped out of his way, while still others pretended like they didn't see him. All of it stark jealousy. Even their frowns were praise in his mind.
He smiled now, feeling the comforting weight draped over his shoulder, and he picked up the pace, still whistling merrily.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
The priest's car protested such speed with whines and shudders, occasionally jerking to the left or right with no warning and forcing Dakota to correct or risk veering into oncoming traffic. She cursed as the car jolted again. As she sped on the tollway, though, setting speed records in the 15mph zone of the I-pass booth, her phone began to ring.
One hand gripped the rattling and jolting wheel, the other navigated for her device, clicking it on a second later. The car, of course, didn't have Bluetooth. So she was forced to raise the phone. But this way, the vehicle kept threatening to jerk to the side, so she hit the speaker button, tucked the phone inside her shirt, resting it on her shoulder, and shouted, “Yes?”
“Dakota,” Marcus's voice came hurried and faint.
She strained to hear him over the whine of her car. “Marcus—killer wasn't at Wolf's. I'm on my way to you now—”
“She's not here! Dakota, can you hear me?”
“I can hear you. What do you mean she's not there?”
“Someone was. But they're gone.”
Dakota felt an icy prickle at these words. “Is there sign of a B and E?”
“I'll say—the place is ransacked, Steele. A complete mess. One of the chairs was turned to splinters.” Marcus’s voice was tense, and she could hear the sound of panting as if he were hoofing it somewhere while giving her the update.
“Where are you headed now?” Dakota asked.
A pause, a long gasp then a deep inhale as if Marcus were trying to gather himself. Then as Dakota careened around a semi-truck, Agent Clement's voice came over the phone again. She missed the first couple of words thanks to the screeching horn of the truck behind her but managed to piece together the meaning regardless. “—too late. I've already put out an APB. Locals are combing the house for clues, but there's nothing. No sign.”
Dakota growled, her hands tensed on the steering wheel, her heart leaping in her chest in a desperate attempt to escape what felt like a tightening cavern. Again, she remembered the last time she'd split up with Marcus.
“No, no, no,” she murmured to herself. She refused to lose another. She couldn't. Wouldn't.
Now, she reduced her speed, forcing her mind to calm. She couldn't think clearly when she allowed herself to get too emotionally invested. But at this point that ship had sailed. If she didn't think of something fast, another body would be on her conscious. She could feel the familiar tug and whisper of promises that came with inebriation. It started in her stomach and moved up her chest like an ache. It felt almost like anxiety, but deeper and more painful.
She shook her head, growling. Part of her remembered the words written on that whiteboard back in the church basement. The first step to recovery... Forgiveness was a tall ask. Doing it in community was difficult. Dakota preferred acting on her own—she could control the variables that way.
Now, she was quite literally white knuckling it. At least, the jalopy was under her control for the moment. She racked her brain, trying to think through her options. Any clue she might have missed. Anything she might have overlooked.
She wrinkled her nose, moving through traffic...
It wasn't much, and perhaps it only came to mind due to the miserable effort driving this junker. But she thought back to the neighbors' camera footage outside the Kramer residence. The third victim's driveway had been empty. No car on the street either. No sign of an approaching vehicle.
Dakota wrinkled her nose, thinking how they'd located St. Mark's recovery group in the first place. Walking distance.
That's how the second victim had managed to reach the group every night. Walking distance.
She bit her lip.
What if the killer's car didn't show up on the neighbor's door cam because he didn't drive himself... What if...
She felt a flash of inspiration and pulled sharply to the side of the road, her heart pounding a million miles per minute.
“Marcus! Marcus, I think I might—hang on, okay, stay on the line! I'm looking something up!”
She hit her blinks, the front headlight scraping against the concrete barrier on the side of the highway as she came to a complete stop. More vehicles blared their horns as they surged past, but Dakota completely ignored them.
The car hadn't been on the door cam footage...
Walking distance. What if the killer was also walking to the Wednesday night groups?
It wasn't much to go on, but she had to try something. And she had another clue. A clue the killer had practically thrown in their face. On its own a data point wasn't very useful, but combined?
Walking distance and welding. Fabricating, as some of the professionals had called it.
She searched her web browser, her fingers shaking from how tightly she'd been gripping the steering wheel, her hands moving quickly. She pressed her teeth against her lower lip in a nervous gesture, scrolling through the results.
The line was still connected with her partner, and she heard Marcus trying to get her attention again. “One second,” Dakota was murmuring. “Give me a second.”
“Dakota!” Marcus pressed. “What is it?”
She ignored him briefly, reading through all the results for fabricator shops within walking distance of the church group. She wished Duncan had the killer's address—but the man clearly hadn't been a church member. Just a predator in the weeds. As for her working theory, the killer could easily have taken taxis or trains, paying in cash when needed. But if she was right—if he didn't have a car, then what if he was just walking everywhere? Or, perhaps, running. Some of the locations would've taken hours by foot. But the killer was some sort of health nut, wasn't he? That's what Father Duncan had described. Maybe he was quite literally running to his murder spots.
But what about the metal sculptures? Suddenly she realized... The abandoned trainyard, the scrapyard just by the Kramers' house. The killer wasn't bringing his wares with him. He was finding them on location. So where was he taking his newest victim? Had he knocked her out, carrying her under the cover of night? Was he threatening her with some sort of weapon?
Perhaps he'd even heard Marcus coming and had been forced to improvise...
Dakota stared at the search results. Two welding shops within a walking distance of St. Mark's. One of them, though, according to the webpage had odd closing hours. Specifically on Wednesday night.
“Marcus!” Dakota shouted. “I think I may have found him. I'm texting you an address. Meet me there!”
Even as she said it, copy-pasting the link to send to her partner, Dakota could feel her anxiety digging deep into her chest. There were no guarantees. What if the killer's version of walking distance was further than Dakota's?
For the kills, it seemed so... But for the Wednesday night group? There was something comforting about keeping recovery close to home... Dakota knew this firsthand. It was a gut call. No guarantees. She could feel herself wobbling, standing out on a loose wire over a sheer drop.
But she had to do something. Besides, the odd hours at the fabricator's shop on Wednesday fit the timeframe, didn't it? Dakota cursed, veering back into traffic, blinkers flashing, and speeding towards the exit ramp to return to the city.
She would reach the shop ahead of Marcus. Backup would take some time—they'd already sent their assigned units to the wrong addresses. Dakota cursed, lifting her phone to call the coordinating officer back at headquarters. They might as well get the help of some local beat cops just in case.
But Dakota was only a few minutes away now. If she arrived first, she'd have to be prepared for the worst.
She felt her stomach sink as she made her final phone call. The last thing she wanted was to stumble into a room to find another dead woman she'd been too slow to save.
“Come on!” she shouted as she veered off the highway, curving along the exit. “Come on!”
Her phone connected to the officer coordinating their assigned task force. At the same time, the GPS chirped, in two miles, exit left.
Dakota felt as if the world were closing in. They were out of time. The killer had his next victim, and all they had to go on was her own tenuous call. A life was in the balance, and Dakota wasn't even sure if she was heading in the right direction.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Dakota pulled sharply onto the side-street behind the fabricator's shop. No parking out front. Not much at all out front, in fact, in this part of the city. The shop looked something like a jeweler's, with barred windows, reinforced and bulletproof. The front door itself had two layers, with a second cage door just inside blocking anyone who made it through the glass.
Dakota left the car doors open as she pressed her hands against the glass, smudging it and peering into the dark office. The shop didn't have a sign. Didn't have hours posted. Didn't look much like a shop at all. Either it operated purely by word of mouth, or it wasn't intended to be visited by customers.
Dakota couldn't make out much. Night around her only served to further darken the streets, the alley, the reflections of the windows.
For a moment she considered knocking on the door, shouting for attention. But something told her this would be a mistake. If the killer really was in there, no sense in alerting him.
