“You were refusing to answer our questions.”

  “Well, I didn’t need to answer questions. I have a constitutional right to resist unlawful arrest.”

  “Those are two different replies,” Faith said, “and you don’t have a right to assault federal agents. We didn’t place you under arrest. Had you talked to us in a respectful manner, this situation could have been avoided.”

  “You said you were going to take me to jail if I didn’t answer!”

  “Yes,” Faith agreed, “and unless you know that your answers are going to demonstrate that you are indeed the murderer, you could have saved yourself a lot of trouble by providing them at your garage.”

  Brian sighed and said, “Well, look, I’m sorry about that, okay? And I don’t have any animosity to those girls. I wasn’t pissed about getting rid of the dogs. It is what it is, you know?”

  Michael walked in, and Faith looked hopefully up at him. Her hopes were dashed when he said, “Well, Brian, your alibi checks out. We caught you on security camera loitering, littering, and committing an act of public urination. So, you’re going to catch a few vice charges and some assault and resisting arrest, but you won’t get murder.”

  “Ha!” Brian said triumphantly. “See?”

  He tried to lift his finger to tap his head, but shackled as he was, he couldn’t reach it. He decided instead to impress by leaning forward until his finger could tap his head. When he straightened, he said, “Big Brain. That’s how I roll, baby.”

  Faith and Michael couldn’t wait to get out of the interrogation room.

  In the conference room they were using at the precinct, Michael said, “Goddammit. I really thought he was our guy.”

  Faith sighed. “It is what it is.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  With their lead once more turning out to be nothing, Faith and Michael decided to go visit Trisha Sinclair's sister. They got the address from Sergeant Trent, who warned them that Paula Sinclair had yet to be notified of her sister's death and may react unpredictably.

  Faith imagined she could predict how Paula would react.

  Paula lived on the east side of Moorhead, a slight drive from the precinct. Michael stopped for coffee on the way, since neither of them had a chance to drink some earlier.

  "Why do you need that every day?" Faith said, "Isn't that bad for you?"

  “Depends on who you talk to. Right now, coffee is fashionable in healthcare. Next year, it’ll be the worst thing you can do to your body. The year after that, it’ll be healthy again. You want some?”

  “Yeah,” Faith said. “Sure.”

  A part of her wondered if they were subconsciously stalling so they didn’t have to watch yet another explosion of grief. If watching the dogs grieve was bad enough, how would it be to see Paula’s face fall when she learned her only sister had been beaten to death with a baseball bat?

  At times like these, Faith could understand why so many law enforcement agents suffered from depression and alcoholism. When these were the memories you made every day, it was hard to keep your sanity. Faith had nearly lost hers more than once.

  As they drove toward Paula Sinclair’s house, Faith reflected on her feelings toward the job. She still enjoyed the chance to bring criminals to justice and keep innocent people safe, but she no longer had the same fire for the work involved. She approached each case now impatient to just get it over with so she didn’t have to immerse herself in darkness anymore.

  She didn’t know if that was because of her trauma at the hands of first Jethro Trammell and then Franklin West or because of what West had done to David, but for the first time in her career, she wondered how much longer she could cope with the reality of her job.

  Then she remembered West’s promise to break her, and her spirit hardened.

  You first, West, she promised herself. I’ll break you first.

  They reached Paula Sinclair’s house shortly after, and Faith’s anger toward West drifted away as the reality of what she was about to do settled on her. She had never notified anyone of a loved one’s death before. She had always interviewed them after the fact, after the initial shock of grief had worn off. This would be her first time as the messenger of such grief.

  Michael’s face was ashen and lined, and Faith could tell he relished this as little as she did. When Faith knocked on the door, the noise sounded to her like a funeral dirge.

  Paula Sinclair answered the door, a pleasant smile on her face. That smile faded when she saw the FBI uniforms and the presence of a large German Shepherd with a K9 vest.

  “Hello,” she said tentatively. “Can I help you?”

  Faith would have sacrificed nearly anything not to have to say what she said next. “Good afternoon, Miss Sinclair. I’m Special Agent Faith Bold with the FBI. This is my partner, Special Agent Michael Prince, and my K9 unit, Turk. I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

  Paula’s shoulders tensed. She took a step backward and closed the door halfway. “Okay?” she said warily.

  Faith sighed. “I’m sorry to say this, but your sister Trisha was found dead earlier this morning. We believe she was murdered.”

  Paula stared blankly at them. Then she chuckled nervously. “I’m sorry, is this some kind of joke?”

  “No, ma’am,” Faith replied. “We’re very sorry.”

  Paula looked from Faith to Michael, then at Turk, whose big brown eyes wore a compassionate expression purer than any human could show. It was Turk’s expression that finally convinced Paula of the truth.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. Her shoulders began to tremble, then her whole body. “That can’t be true. I just talked to her last night. I just spoke with her last night, how is she dead? We just talked! She was telling me all about her new dog, and… no.”

  “Miss Sinclair,” Faith began, “I’m so sorry—"

  “No!” Paula shrieked, tears beginning to fall. “No! You’re lying! Dammit, I just talked to her!”

  “I’m so sorry,” Faith finished.

  “No!” Paula shrieked. “No!”

  She burst into tears and slammed the door in their face. Michael and Faith heard her shrieking and throwing things in her living room and shared a dejected look with each other. Turk whined plaintively and lay down, putting his head in his paws.

  The agents waited while Paula processed the reality of her sister’s death and endured the first wave of grief. When the noise inside quieted, Faith lifted a hand to knock again, but the door opened before she could.

  Paula was still trembling, but the weeping and shrieking had stopped. Tears leaked from her eyes, but her voice was steady as she said, “I’m sorry. Please come inside.”

  Evidence of Paula’s shock and grief lay strewn about the living room. A vase lay shattered in one corner of the room, the soil and ceramic shards half-burying a peace lily. The tv was overturned, splinters of glass poking out from underneath its frame. Books and throw rugs were scattered over the floor, and Turk had to step carefully to keep from slipping or stepping on broken glass.

  Step carefully, he did, straight to Paula's side. Paula didn't seem to notice his presence, but when she sat at the kitchen table, she reached down and stroked his fur. Faith and Michael remained standing until she gestured to the other chairs around the table and said absently, "You can sit."

  The agents sat and remained silent for a moment. Faith had no idea what to say. She didn’t like feeling so helpless. The situation reminded her absurdly of how it felt to be tied to a chair in Trammell’s barn, unable to do anything but wait for the Donkey Killer to hurt her. Like then, this was an unfixable dilemma, worse in a way, because Michael couldn’t swoop in and shoot Trisha Sinclair back to life the way he shot Trammell dead.

  Paula spoke first. “She was always a dog person more than a people person. Hell of a lawyer, and good with people when she needed to be, but she never had a relationship that lasted longer than nine months. Always had a dog, though. Before Rusty, she had a pit bull named Skyler. He made it to seventeen years old before she had to put him down. He was our family dog, but I had already moved out when my parents got him, so I let her keep him when she moved out. She wasn’t mean to people, though. I don’t get why someone would kill her. She was always kind, she just liked living alone.”

  “What happened isn’t your sister’s fault,” Faith assured her, “not in any way.”

  “I know that,” Paula replied. “I just don’t understand it.”

  Faith and Michael shared a look. They, unfortunately, could not understand very well. Maybe that was what really weighed on Faith, not the fact that she was surrounded by darkness, but the fact that she could understand it.

  “Some people are just evil,” Faith replied.

  “I know, but… I just talked to her.” She chuckled emotionlessly and shook her head. “I just talked to her.”

  “I’m sorry,” Faith said.

  Paula took a deep breath and then said, "Can I see her?"

  The two agents looked at each other. It would be a very bad idea for Paula to see Trisha the way the three of them had found her, but Faith didn’t want to bring that up right now. “The Fargo Police Department will reach out to you after they’ve completed the autopsy. For now, we just need to ask a few questions about Trisha.”

  Paula nodded blankly. Faith had a feeling the blank look would remain until the agents left, and she had nothing to distract from her pain anymore.

  “Did Trisha have any friends besides you?” Faith asked.

  “Um… I don’t know. Not really. Like I said, she wasn’t very social. She got along with the people at her law firm, but I don’t think she was close with anyone besides me and our parents. Oh God. Do Mom and Dad know?”

  “No,” Michael assured her. “Not yet.”

  “Good. I’ll tell them. Oh God, they’re going to be so upset.”

  She shut her eyes, and her lips trembled for several seconds before she gasped and steadied herself.

  “So there was no one new in her life that you’re aware of?” Faith continued.

  Paula smiled weakly. “Just Rusty. Um… do you know what’s going to happen to him?”

  “He’s at the Fargo Rescue Shelter for now,” Faith replied. “You’ll be able to take him if you’d like. Otherwise, they’ll find a home for him.”

  “I’ll take him,” Paula replied. “Trisha would want that.”

  “So would Rusty,” Michael added with a compassionate smile.

  “Did Trisha’s behavior seem any different to you lately?” Faith asked.

  Paula nodded. “Well, yes, actually.”

  “How so?”

  “She was happy again. When Skyler died, she was so depressed. I kept telling her to get another dog, but she wouldn’t listen for the longest time. When she finally picked up Rusty, I was so happy! I finally had my little sister back. I hadn’t seen her smile in so long.”

  She squeezed more tears from her eyes again, and Faith asked, “How long ago did she pick Rusty up?”

  “Um… about a month ago, I think.”

  That was after Amanda Milleson adopted Doris, of course, but before Rebecca had adopted Luna. But their murderer had killed Rebecca first. That was curious. Had he now known about Trisha until now, or had he just decided to kill Rebecca first?

  “When was the last time Trisha dated that you know of?”

  “That I know of? College. She dated some guy who played guitar in some nineties pop punk cover band. Said she liked his tattoos. Nothing since then. I’m sure she had one-night stands or brief flings here and there, but I never heard about any of them.”

  Faith was beginning to get frustrated. Once more, it seemed like the only similarities between the victims were the fact that they were all young women who had recently adopted dogs. There was nothing they could use to form a real lead, and the suspects who had turned up had alibis. What were they missing? Or were they missing nothing and fated to chase their tails until they got lucky?

  “One last question,” Faith asked, “Do the names Rebecca Green and Amanda Milleson mean anything to you?”

  Paula shook her head. “No. Should they?”

  “We believe they were murdered by the same killer.”

  “Oh my God,” Paula said, “there’s a serial killer?”

  “Yes,” Faith replied. “The killer seems to be targeting young women who recently adopted dogs from shelters.”

  “Oh God,” Paula repeated. She shook her head. “What is wrong with people?”

  “I wish I knew,” Michael said.

  Paula looked down at Turk and shook her head. “I just talked to her,” she whispered.

  She buried her face in her hands and wept softly. Faith looked down at her hands while Paula revisited anew the knowledge that she would never see her sister again.

  The agents stood to leave, moving quietly so they didn’t disturb Paula. Turk remained a moment longer with his head on Paula’s lap before he too left the woman to her grief.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The killer understood people who were afraid of the dark. Predators lurked in the dark. Cougars stalked their prey during the early hours of dawn or the late gloom of twilight. Snakes slipped quietly through the shadows, drawing ever closer until they struck, and their venom sapped the life out of their quarry. Crocodiles lurked beneath the murk of muddy rivers and sharks remained in the dim depths until with a rush of speed and the snap of powerful jaws, both consumed the unsuspecting victims that clustered at the surface.

  Ironically, most prey also lived in the dark. The small and weak rushed furtively through the shadows, hoping to feed and mate and shore up their nests without being noticed by the strong, hungry animals that tasted the air hunting their scent. The more social animals clustered together in large groups, hoping through sheer numbers to overwhelm the solitary killers. These dwelt not in literal darkness, but they were blind just the same. They could quite literally see only themselves, carbon copies of the same stupid ground feeders as far as the eye could see, until one of their number bared its fangs and revealed itself to be the wolf and not another sheep.

  He liked the dark as well, not for what it hid, but for what it revealed. In darkness, one didn’t have the shelter of sunlight to distract from the reality hid within each and every person to ever have lived. He welcomed the dark because in darkness, he had discovered how truly alone he was, how lost, how abandoned and overlooked by the other sheep of the world. In darkness, he had learned to sharpen his fangs, to shave the excess fat that wrapped so many in a blanket of false safety and hone the lean muscle that allowed him to strike back at a world that had left him for dead.

  He worked in darkness now, candlelight flickering in his den as he polished the mementos of his past victims. In this respect, he supposed, he was different from other killers. Cougars didn’t hoard the bones of the deer they slaughtered. Snakes didn’t save the skins of the mice and rats they consumed. Perhaps it was the killer’s past as a victim that caused him to view the remains of his own victims with such sentiment.

  Perhaps it was just a peculiarity of humanity that memory was so critical a piece of the species’ development.

  He picked up the latest dog tag and polished it carefully, cleaning dirt and dust from the tag with a mild detergent before polishing it and protecting it with a thin coating of wax. When he finished, he held the tag up to the nearest candle and smiled at the dull gleam it gave off. The names on the tag glowed red in the fire.

  Rusty. If found, please contact Trisha Sinclair.

  Trisha’s name was followed by a phone number, but if anyone called that number, they would find no one there to answer. Trisha had been taken from the world, and she existed now only as a memory.

  The killer’s smile faded. No one would remember him. When he was gone, no one would mourn him. As in life, his death would go unnoticed, his bones left to rot, bleach and crumble to dust under the light of a sun that cared nothing for prey and predator alike, a ball of unfathomable heat that had existed since before the first strands of RNA began to replicate and mutate in the oxygen-choked murk of prehistory and would exist for long after its heat had seared life away from Earth and left the universe once again desolate.

  In the end, no one mattered.

  But this mattered to him. For now, at least, it gave him the strength to continue.

  He set the tag gently down among its fellows and closed the lid, watching as the names slowly dimmed, then faded completely, locked in his own private box of memories. In a way, his memory was the greatest gift he could give his victims. Their friends and families would move on, their grief replaced by new loves, new friendships, until their memories dulled to a few flitting images that would float across their minds like dust.

  He would never forget. He could see the first as clearly as he could the day he had killed her. He closed his eyes and smiled, savoring as though yesterday the look of shock on her face, the brief instant of realization, of regret, before the poker’s hook had burst through her skull.

  He remembered her. Her husband had remarried, the other children moved on to find other families, her business assumed by others who claimed to care but wanted only a paycheck, but the killer remembered. That was more than he would get when he died.

  His smile widened as he thought of Trisha Sinclair. She truly could not understand why this was happening to her. He chuckled as he recalled the confusion in her face. Even as the bat sailed toward her head, her fear was less powerful than her confusion. Why?

  “Because you deserve it, bitch,” he whispered.

  His voice clashed with the symphony of darkness around him, and he frowned and opened his eyes. He waited for the flickering shadows and dimly illuminated relics of the past and the future to bring his mind back to the present, then slid his chair further down his desk.

  Photographs and dog tags memorialized his past. Photographs and files immortalized his future. He opened a filing cabinet and sifted through different folders before withdrawing one at random.

  Hannah Peterson. Ah yes. He remembered this one. He had seen her a few weeks ago while he was planning the murder of Rebecca Green.

 

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