The Poet's Blood (Heinous Crimes Unit Book 7), page 18
I’m not that fucking lucky, he thought as Windsor’s door closed with a slam. I’m going to die years from now with my reputation still in tatters.
Without lowering his head, Patrick said, “Windsor, were you trying to fuck us in there? When exactly did you decide to ruin me and get more people killed in the process? Was that always the plan, or did you decide to do it once we were sitting in front of the senator?”
“I’m sorry?” Windsor didn’t sound sorry. “What did you say?”
Patrick whipped around and glared at Windsor over the top of the car. “I said, what the hell just happened in there? None of that was what we prepped for. None of that was what my boss approved. None of that moved us any closer to finding these killers. So, what I’m saying is, what the hell were you thinking?”
“It’s almost over, Patrick,” Windsor said.
It was the first time he’d called Patrick by his first name. His whole demeanor was distant, as if he was seeing into another world.
“It’s almost over for us, yes. Because you and I,” Patrick waved his finger between the two of them, “we’re off this case. You went in there and asked Franklin about a group of people who died thirty years ago, almost insinuating that he covered it up. Don’t think he didn’t realize that’s what you were doing, either. If you don’t think he’s calling Sins right now, or someone even higher up the food chain, you’re delusional.”
Patrick stopped talking and leaned against the car, placing his arms on the roof. “Did you trick me, Windsor? Did you know what you were doing? Because for a moment there, I almost thought you were telling me the truth, that you were actually onto something.”
Windsor turned and Patrick saw his eyes for the first time. They were glazed over, as if he was about ten beers deep.
“I’m going to know what I need to very soon,” Windsor said. “You don’t have to worry.”
Patrick shook his head, then leaned his forehead against the car in disbelief. “I don’t even know what the hell you’re talking about anymore. Just get in the car and we’ll go to the hotel. I’ve got to see what Sins has to say about all of this. I’m sure she’s getting an earful right now.”
Windsor did as he was told, still in a daze as he climbed into the passenger seat. Patrick remained outside the car, needing a moment to figure out what he was going to say when he got on the phone with his boss. There wasn’t much doubt that Windsor had lost it. Patrick didn’t even want to look into whatever the hell he’d been talking about in the senator’s office. It was like dealing with a paranoid schizophrenic. He’d constructed this convoluted plot from points that didn’t actually connect, and only he could see it.
Patrick shook his head again, then got into the car and started it without speaking to his passenger.
“They covered it up,” Windsor said as they headed back down the through parking deck.
Patrick wasn’t sure whether Windsor was talking to him or to himself. He glanced across the car and saw that the felon was staring at a world he couldn’t comprehend. Right now, he didn’t want to comprehend. As much as his opinion of Windsor had changed, this had gone too far.
“That’s why he didn’t want to talk about it,” Windsor continued. “He doesn’t think it has anything to do with this, but he did something wrong back then. They all did. I don’t care what decade it was, if someone burns down their house after the Alabama Bureau of Investigation shows up, it’s going to make news. They made sure that didn’t happen. What I can’t see yet is who’s left to commit these murders if everyone died?”
“Yeah, Windsor,” Patrick said as he turned onto the road. “That’s the problem we have.”
He didn’t want to speak about it anymore. This whole situation was a disaster, but at least he could deal with the Luke Titan problem. Windsor would be in no danger once they sent him back to prison. He’d be safe from Titan and whoever Titan said was after him. Thank God for silver linings.
“You’re going to talk to your boss when we get to the hotel,” Windsor said. “Do you mind restraining me on the bed? I know you don’t trust me right now. I’d like to go into my mansion.”
Patrick sighed. “Sure, Windsor. Go wherever you want. Just don’t ask me to follow you anymore.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Patrick did as he said he would, and Christian was grateful. He recognized the switch in how he was referring to the FBI agent, although he didn’t know if Patrick had heard it. It wasn’t a conscious change. Christian thought it had happened because he and the agent were nearly done with each other. Patrick didn’t see the end for the same reasons he did, but Christian would be able to give him everything he needed very shortly.
Christian lay back on the bed with his hand chained to the nightstand, and he closed his eyes.
He opened them again in the library that the Poets had used to educate themselves. He hadn’t thought he would need to look at anything around him as he made his way to the room with the giant babies and their worshippers. That wasn’t the case.
The library had changed. Everything had become...
Death, he thought. That’s what this place is now. Death.
Blood dripped from the black and white décor, pooling on the tables and couches. It flowed down the walls, creating rivers of death that coagulated in dark maroon puddles covering what had been pristine marble the last time he’d been here. The ceiling rained red, the wide rivulets running down the massive light fittings that had looked so modern before this change. Even the books lining the walls and shelves oozed.
The couches looked as if someone had slashed them with knives and pulled out the white stuffing inside. The stuffing was all stained red. Christian stuck his hand out and a single, red droplet landed on his palm. He looked up and saw a larger droplet falling. He stepped back and it splashed on the floor in front of him.
He let his hand fall to his side without wiping the blood from his palm. The blood pouring from the books had caught his attention first, but that wasn’t the only change to the shelves. Someone had spray painted huge letters, single words that stretched multiple feet across the wall.
Christian read the words slowly, taking them in.
Scared.
Alone.
Help.
It was the last word Christian focused on. Help. Who wanted help? The killers? Were they the ones asking?
No, he thought. This isn’t them as they are now. This was them at some other point in their lives. They’re too busy killing to be reading these days. Those words are from who they used to be.
What about the blood?
Christian didn’t understand what was generating it, but he didn’t want to stay here and be covered in it. He walked quickly across the library, feeling the patter of droplets striking him as he went. He attempted to convince himself it was only rain and tried not to think about it as he skirted the destroyed couches and chairs.
He stepped out of the raindrops from hell when he reached the hallway. He’d expected to see the giant babies and their worshippers, but neither of them were in the circular room at the end of the hallway.
In their place was a white couch. This one had not been destroyed, unlike those behind him. Chris, the Unbroken version of Christian, was sitting on it with one leg crossed over the other.
Chris grabbed a towel from beside the couch and held it out to Christian. “Here,” he called loud enough to be heard from where Christian was standing. “Come and clean yourself up.”
Christian didn’t know what Chris was doing here, but he did know that he wanted the blood off him. He walked the rest of the hallway and took the towel from Chris. “Thanks.”
“No hay problemo,” Chris replied. “I know it’s gotten a bit messy back there.”
“Did you come through it too?” Christian asked as he wiped the towel over his hair. He pulled it off and shuddered at the red streaks staining the white fabric.
“Nah,” Chris answered. “I showed up when you did, right here on this couch.”
Christian rubbed the towel over his shoulders and arms to get the blood off him as best he could. Despite knowing it only existed in his mind, he still didn’t want it on him. “What does all this mess mean?”
Chris shrugged. “Christian, you’re the one with the answers. I’m not a tour guide. You’ve never needed anyone else to tell you what the contents of your mind mean. I don’t know why you think you do now.”
Christian let the almost completely red-stained towel drop to his side. “I was hoping you might make this a little easier on me.”
Chris shook his head and reached for the towel. “I can take that.”
Christian handed it over and looked around. There was a wall to his right, but the hallway continued to his left. It ended with another couch…and a television.
Someone else was sitting on this couch. His back was to Christian, but Christian knew who it was all the same. The Other.
Chris whispered, “You’re close, aren’t you?”
Christian nodded, still staring at the Other. “Why are you here?”
“Because there’s danger ahead for you, Christian. I’m here to tell you to turn back. I’m here to try to keep you safe, because you nearly let yourself be destroyed last time. You should turn back. I don’t think you’ll survive what’s waiting for you if you go on.”
Christian glanced at the couch where Chris was looking at him with concern, then back to the flickering light of the television. “I can catch them. That’s what I’ve got to do. So that they don’t kill anyone else, and for Patrick. He trusted me. I can solve all of this.”
Chris stood and walked past Christian, heading toward the blood-soaked library. He stopped for a moment before entering the hallway and turned his head to look at Christian. “I won’t be able to help you out there, Christian. This is the last chance for you to stop before you make a mistake.”
“I never asked for your help,” Christian said, unable to take his eyes from the television. He knew what was waiting for him there. He left the warning behind him as he walked into the next room and sat down next to the Other.
“I knew you’d come,” the Other said.
“Hush, now,” Christian responded, pointing at the static on the screen. “This is why I’m here.”
The television came to life as Christian’s mind did what no other on Earth could.
THE POETS
Christian sees the man clearly. The other people in the scene have blurry faces. He doesn’t worry about what that means. In this moment, he’s simply happy that his mind is working again.
The man is walking across a field that hasn’t been mowed in some time. The grass is midway up his shins, but it doesn’t bother him. He’s carrying two dead rabbits on the barrel of the rifle in his left hand. The rabbits hang with their hind legs tied and knotted to make it easier for the man carrying them.
Two children are waiting for him at the far end of the field. One is a girl and the other a boy, and they are no more than nine years old. Christian can’t see their faces, but he can tell by their movements that they’re excited.
This is their father, he thinks. He’s bringing the rabbits for dinner.
The children don’t rush forward to hug their father as most their age would. Instead they wait. As the father passes them, he places his right hand on the girl’s head. They both turn as he goes inside the house, his footsteps echoing on the wooden porch.
Once the door closes and he’s inside, the children follow.
“They fear him,” Christian says aloud, “but they love him, too.”
The children disappear inside the house, leaving Christian alone outside. He doesn’t go after them just yet. He walks around the cabin. He knows where he is. This is the place Senator Franklin didn’t want to talk about. Hollytree.
The senator hadn’t lied about the remoteness of this place. As Christian walks around the property, he sees nothing and no one else. The cabin is situated on a plateau in the land that is nestled in the side of a small mountain. The large cabin is two stories high with a porch that wraps around the entire structure.
The mountain stretches up behind the cabin and falls down in front of it. Christian is silent and he can hear the sound of water flowing somewhere nearby. He walks down the hill until he reaches the place where the green pasture that surrounds the structure abruptly turns to forest.
There’s a single road made of dirt snaking out of the trees. Christian follows it with his eyes and sees a truck waiting at the end of it. He doesn’t know if it runs or not. It doesn’t appear to get much use.
How much time do I have? he wonders.
His ability to stay here doesn’t depend on him, but on when Patrick decides to wake him. He wants to walk down the dirt road and find out how remote this place is, to see how far he would have to go to find a paved road, let alone another person. He decides against it, figuring it’s more important to go inside the house and see what is waiting for him.
Christian turns and walks back up the hill. He goes to the window and peers inside when he reaches the porch instead of going through the front door. A woman has taken the rabbits and is heading to the back of the house. She’s carrying a knife in her hand. The children follow her and Christian hears the man’s footfalls thumping from the floor above.
He walks around the porch, reaching the back of the building a few moments after the small family comes outside.
The children watch while the woman cleans the rabbits, removing their hides with a practiced hand.
Everyone has a role here, Christian thinks. There isn’t any arguing about it. This is simply understood.
The woman looks even tougher than the man. Christian imagines she’s what sharecropper’s wives used to look like. People like that knew what hard work meant and would think anyone complaining about modern society were as ungrateful as kings and queens sitting on their thrones and eating cake.
The woman glances at the little girl. “Bring me some water.” She goes back to skinning the rabbit and the children run into the house together.
Christian follows the children. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to be seeing. This isn’t like what he witnessed in the childhoods of Bradley Brown and Lucy Speckle. It’s a different upbringing, yes. They are living a hard life, but they aren’t being abused.
Yet, he’s here because he needs to understand something.
The children run to a sink that uses old-fashioned plumbing with a hand pump. It takes some effort before the water spits from the faucet, but it eventually flows and the little girl fills up a glass.
The girl walks back outside, holding the glass carefully so she doesn’t spill a drop. Christian is about to follow, but he stops cold when he hears the man’s footsteps coming down the stairs. A chill runs down his back. The arrival of the man shouldn’t frighten him, but it does.
Christian takes a step back and his ass hits the counter.
The man is standing stark naked at the bottom of the stairs. He has long hair and a beard that hangs four inches below his jaw. He’s not looking outside at his family. He is staring directly at Christian.
“You know what I teach ‘em?” He sounds like he’s from the deepest reaches of the Confederate South. Northerners might dismiss that southern drawl as an indication of stupidity, but there’s cunning and intelligence shining in the man’s piercing blue eyes.
Christian scans the room, but there’s no one else here. He doesn’t understand how the man is seeing him. Yet, he does.
The man’s hands are at his side, framing the thick hair covering his groin. He hides nothing and is showing no shame or fear of his nudity. “You hear me, interloper?”
“What do you teach them?” Christian whispers.
The man’s face does not soften when he looks out at his family. He has the look of a predator surveying the land, ready to fight any who might harm his kin. “I teach ‘em they can only trust family. I teach ‘em we gotta stick together, and that I’ll always be there for ‘em.” He turns back to Christian. “Know why?”
Christian shakes his head.
“‘Cause it’s the truth, boy,” the man tells him. “Ain’t no help comin’ from out there, and there ain’t no reason to look for it. Y’get ya family in this life, and that’s all ya need.”
Christian grips the top of the counter behind him. He doesn’t like being seen or spoken to. His mouth is dry, but he manages to ask, “What happened here?”
“What I told ‘em’d happen eventually. It just happened sooner than I thought. They came for us. Came for our family.”
“You set the house on fire?” Christian whispers. “To keep them from getting your kids?”
A cruel grin twists the man’s face. “You’n a special kinda stupid, ain’cha, boy? I ain’t done hurt my kin. There was a fire, but I ain’t the one who set it.”
Right then and there, everything makes sense. Christian knows that the same arguments raged after Waco and Ruby Ridge. Who shot first? Who started the fire? One side says one thing, and the other says the opposite.
“No one survived,” Christian says. “So who is doing the killing?”
The man chuckles and shakes his head, never breaking eye contact with Christian. “I guess you’ll believe anything you’re told, just like everyone outside of this place.”
One second he’s across the kitchen, and the next, he’s an inch from Christian’s face. He moves faster than anyone Christian has ever seen anyone move before, even Luke.
The man is taller than Christian, and their noses almost touch as he leans in. Christian can smell the sweat from his hunt and see that his teeth are stained but not rotten.
“I told ya, I ain’t the one who hurt my family, boy. Whatever is happening now is retribution. That’s how the world works, ain’t it? What goes around comes around, and it’s come around.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Christian opened his eyes back in the motel room. His right arm was still chained to the bed, but he didn’t see Patrick anywhere. The curtains were drawn, but the burnished light shining through the sides told him the sun was almost down.
