The Poet's Blood (Heinous Crimes Unit Book 7), page 22
Christian looked at his feet and shook off the warning in his head. He was inventing shadows and ghosts that weren’t really there. No one was waiting for him at the top of this mountain. All that existed up there was the destroyed house, and perhaps the knowledge he needed to finish this.
When they returned to the car, Christian would go back to his prison cell and wait until the FBI caught the killers, then he’d be done with them. Forever.
Patrick interrupted his thoughts. “Hey, you coming?”
Christian had been so lost in his head, he hadn’t even seen Patrick pass him. He was about twenty feet in front of Christian, already stomping through the overgrown weeds.
“Yeah. Sorry.” Christian hurried to catch up with him.
“You okay?” Patrick asked.
“Sure,” Christian said. “Just ready for this to be done.”
Patrick began walking again. “I’d be pissed that we’re not canvassing the town asking questions, but the team Sins is sending will be here in a few hours. I suppose a few miles’ hike won’t hurt any.”
“Have they found any information about what happened to the kids?” Christian asked.
“Nothing besides the official story,” Patrick slowed to keep pace with Christian. “Which is that the kids died in the fire. That’s not great for supporting your theory, but they’re still digging through the paperwork.”
Christian stepped over a log that had fallen on the path. “If you doubt me, just think back to what Harold said in the diner.”
Patrick didn’t respond, and that was validation enough for Christian. Minutes turned to hours as they walked steadily up the mountain path.
“You sure this place is up here?” Patrick asked at the two-hour mark.
“You saw it on Google Earth, same as me,” Christian answered.
It had looked like a black spot in a field of green, but it had been there. After another couple of hours, they suddenly broke through the trees that had surrounded them for the majority of their hike. Just as Christian had seen when he was in his mansion, the forest ended at the boundary of an open field.
There was no designated path to the abandoned house. Patrick remained still at the forest’s edge, assessing the ruins from a distance. Christian waded into the waist-high grass, his focus firmly fixed on reaching the remains of the house.
The spot that had been black and flat on the computer screen now made sense to Christian. The second story roof that he’d seen in his mansion had fallen in, and the wraparound porch had rotted apart years ago. The front of the house had caved in on itself, revealing the crumbled skeleton of the interior structure.
It’s almost completely gone, Christian thought. Nature has almost taken the whole area back. The fire has been forgotten by everyone except the two survivors. They’re here to make sure no one forgets. Not ever.
“Hey!” Patrick called. “You can’t go in there! It’ll collapse on you!”
Christian stopped around five feet from the house’s cement base. Patrick was right. The only part of the building that wasn’t severely structurally degraded was nevertheless covered in plant life. If he climbed into the house, he’d probably fall straight through and bring the whole thing down with him.
He wanted to go inside. He wanted to walk through the kitchen and go down to the basement. He wanted to cross the same floors the Dollie family had and compare the real life experience to the one he’d lived inside his mind.
Patrick caught up to Christian and stood beside him, peering into the exposed interior. “This place feels haunted.”
Christian didn’t know if he agreed with that sentiment. Haunted meant that the dead walked this place. To him, they still felt alive.
He turned and waded back through the ocean of tall grass with Patrick at his side. When they reached the edge of the forest, he looked back at the cabin.
“What are you looking for?” Patrick asked.
“Not for,” Christian said. “At. The Dollies would have been able to see the cops and agents coming out of the woods. They would have understood their house was about to be under siege. Their home.”
Christian asked Patrick something he’d never asked any of his partners. This man wasn’t his partner. He wasn’t even his friend. Despite that, Christian felt close to him. Perhaps because they had climbed this mountain together, with the cold, brisk air raising goosebumps on their flesh. Perhaps because Patrick had trusted him enough to bring him up here. Perhaps there was no reason at all.
“Do you understand why they did it?”
Patrick snapped out of whatever deep thought he’d been having. “Huh? Who?”
Christian didn’t take his eyes off the house. “Do you understand why they’re doing it?”
Patrick frowned, catching his meaning. “The killers?”
Christian nodded. “Yeah.”
“I guess.” Patrick shrugged. “If your theory is correct, they’re angry about what was done to their family. I can understand that on a logical level, to some degree.”
Christian nodded again. “There’s something that probably isn’t in my file. What I can do is more than understanding on a logical level. I feel what they’re feeling. I see what they’ve seen. I live what they’ve lived. It’s exhausting, given that I have to work hard to understand what anyone outside of my mind is feeling. These murderers? I’ve seen them as children. They were born here. They played in this field, and the only people they had who loved them were their parents. When they lost their family, they lost everything. Their war is a righteous one. It’s about retribution.”
“You sound like you’re on their team,” Patrick said.
Christian shook his head. “No, but I wouldn’t be able to catch them if I didn’t understand them. I hate what they’ve become because I’ve seen who they were. Who they could have been if not for what was done to them.”
They stood in silence for a few minutes, staring across the field at the ruined house. Christian wondered if Patrick truly understood what he’d shared, and sighed. “We can go if you’re ready. I’ve seen enough.”
Patrick nodded. “Works for me.” As he turned to head into the trees, he paused to take in the view of the forest sweeping down the mountainside. “It must have been something to live here.”
“It was a hard life, but beautiful,” Christian agreed. “You ready?”
Patrick nodded and started walking with Christian following a few steps behind him. He paused at the head of the trail. “Do you feel bad for them, Windsor?”
Christian glanced back at the broken home. “I do. Maybe as bad as I’ve ever felt for anyone I’ve chased. Whatever their parents did, the kids didn’t deserve this.”
“Does it give them an excuse for what they’re doing now?” Patrick asked.
Christian’s eyes narrowed. “That’s the question these things always come back to, isn’t it? It’s why people treat me like a weirdo for my ability to empathize with the sickest people in our society. I’m not sure the question matters or is even legitimate. An excuse and a reason are two different things.”
Patrick laughed. “What’s that old biblical maxim? Hate the sin and love the sinner?”
Christian shrugged. “If that’s how you want to interpret it. It’s not a perfect explanation for how I feel about them, but it’s as close as I’m able to get. There’s rarely an excuse for murder, but society looked away when their parents were killed and the kids were tossed into a dark hole. We may not think they have an excuse, but does that matter to the people they’ve killed? I doubt it. They think their reason excuses their crimes, and that I don’t empathize with.”
Patrick turned and met Christian’s gaze. “It would have been interesting to work with you, Windsor. You’re not exactly what I thought you’d be.”
Christian dropped his gaze and chuckled. “Not exactly, huh? I’m pretty sure you were expecting me to be a bloodthirsty monster.”
“Okay, you got me. You’re a good bit different than I thought you’d be. If everything checks out like it looks like it will, you’ll have done some good work here.” Patrick nodded toward the trail. “You hungry?”
Christian grinned. “Always.”
“Let’s go get some food, then.”
Patrick took the lead as they headed into the woods. The sunlight that had shone down on the house was blocked by the thick canopy above their heads. Ten feet separated Christian from Patrick, and they maintained that distance as they made their way down the winding trail.
Heading down the mountain was an easier walk and Christian felt lighter. He felt like they’d catch the bad guys and he’d make it out of this. That for once they’d done their job without him getting hurt. Things would work out like it did in the movies.
Around a hundred yards from the main road, Patrick stopped walking and opened his left hand with the palm facing Christian.
Stop.
His right hand moved to the service weapon on his hip.
Christian took a step to the right to get a better view of what had spooked Patrick. He spotted the white van idling at the end of the trail. The break-lights burned red, the headlights were off, and the side door was shut. It looked like a painter’s van, if not for the tinted front windows.
“Get behind me,” Patrick commanded, his tone cold. He drew his weapon and held it in the ready position, his eyes never leaving the van.
Christian heard a stick break behind them as he took a step toward Patrick. He whirled around and was confronted by a masked figure with a pistol that was pointed at him.
Patrick turned and brought his weapon up to eye level. “FBI! Put your weapon down and get on the ground, now!”
Christian swallowed, knowing what was coming next even before he heard the van door opening.
“Ya can die here if that’s what ya want, Agent Collins,” the masked man drawled with no fear in his voice. “Or ya can give him to us and be on ya way. It don’t matter much to us which ya choose.”
Christian glanced over his shoulder. Another masked figure stood outside the van, a rifle in her hands. He had a brief flashback to the moment he’d died in his mansion, then he was back on the overgrown trail and the man with the pistol had taken a step forward, cutting the distance between them to fifteen feet.
“That rifle my sister’s holdin’ is trained on your head, Agent Collins. Trust me, if she pulls that trigger, your brains are gonna be paintin’ the pine straw beneath your feet ‘til the next heavy rain.”
A second passed as Patrick looked over his shoulder at the woman leaning against the hood of the van to steady herself for the shot.
“Tick-tock, Agent,” the man said.
Torn between protecting Christian from the man and keeping his brain inside his skull where it belonged, Patrick made the only choice he could.
“Christian, get do—”
His warning was cut off by the rifle’s discharge. The report caused the forest birds to take to the air, squawking in shock. Christian froze for a split second, then turned expecting to see Patrick on the ground with his head opened up. He got a momentary glimpse of Patrick’s left shoulder bleeding heavily as he crawled across the weeds, reaching with his uninjured right arm for the pistol that had been flung there when he’d been hit.
The man used the distraction to slug Christian in the stomach, then again in the temple. Dazed from the second blow, the sensation of being lifted made Christian’s vision swim. His eyes adjusted and he found Patrick again.
Blood from the wound flowed profusely from Patrick’s shoulder, turning his white t-shirt into a red mess. Yet the agent continued crawling with his right hand outstretched, trying to get to his weapon.
Christian slammed his knee into the masked man, aiming for his ribs. His knee met with the bulletproof vest beneath his assailant’s shirt. He swung with his right elbow and connected with the man’s temple. The man grunted and dropped Christian. The oxygen was knocked from his lungs as he hit the ground on his back.
He’s too strong, Christian thought. He fought through his hazy vision and tried to stand, but he’d barely turned over before the man was on top of him.
The man’s meaty fist came down like a hammer and blood spurted from Christian’s broken nose. He tried to raise his arms to protect his face but the man punched him again, severing Christian’s grip on his waning consciousness.
The man hoisted him again, and this time Christian had no fight left in him to resist. His head bobbed and his blood spattered the pine straw as he was carried to the van. He thought nonsensically, a trail of bloody breadcrumbs.
Christian was thrown roughly and he landed on his back again. His head ricocheted off the van’s floor, sending a bright bolt of pain through his skull. It was enough to bring him back from the edge of unconsciousness. The van door was still open and he raised his head slightly, hoping to see that Patrick had escaped.
His eyes widened when he saw Patrick kneeling on the trail, aiming his weapon at the van. The masked woman had lowered her rifle and was concentrating on getting into the van and shutting the door.
Patrick pulled the trigger and Christian blinked as fresh, warm goo splattered his face. He spat to remove the droplets that had gone into his mouth and glanced at the front of the van, where the masked woman had been sitting a moment before.
She was no longer masked, and she no longer had a face to hide. She slumped back against the seat before collapsing altogether.
His analytical mind taking control in the face of the horror he’d witnessed, Christian noted that the bullet had winged her skull, disintegrating the bone and spraying her brain matter all over the van—and Christian.
Christian saw and heard everything that happened next in a haze. Patrick was struggling to stand. The masked man was screaming. His primal cries of grief seemed louder than either the rifle or pistol shots to Christian’s muddied perspective.
Darkness threatened to swamp his vision, and he couldn’t understand why the stranger wouldn’t stop screaming.
Someone grabbed his hair and yanked him into the front of the van. Christian got another glimpse of the man’s fist, and then the darkness stopped threatening and came for him.
Patrick cursed as the van pulled off, leaving black tire marks and smoke in its wake. He heard someone screaming inside the van and hoped it wasn’t Christian. He was still on one knee and fought to get to his feet as the van sped off down the road. He didn’t know what he’d hit with the single shot he’d gotten off. He was losing a lot of blood and his vision was getting blurry.
He managed to get on his feet for a moment, then wobbled and fell to his knees again.
The van was gone. Christian was gone.
His left arm wasn’t working. He dropped his pistol and reached for the cellphone in his left pocket. He had two bars of service and the slim hope that it would be enough.
Otherwise, he and Christian were both dead. He dialed 911.
“Emergency services. What’s your emergency?”
The adrenaline rushing through Patrick’s body dulled his pain, but it also reduced his ability to think clearly. He swallowed, knowing he had to keep control of his faculties unless he wanted to die on this mountain.
“I’m Agent Patrick Collins with the FBI. I’ve been shot and I’m losing blood rapidly. My location is Hollytree, south of the trail near the old Dollie place on Route 46, north of the diner. The perpetrators are driving north on 46 in a white van with tinted windows. They’ve kidnapped an FBI informant named Christian Windsor. I do not know if anyone else is injured, but the perpetrators are armed and dangerous.”
The woman on the line snapped to attention quickly. “Is there more than one assailant?”
“Yes.” Patrick fell to his ass. “There are two. Both armed and extremely dangerous.”
“Okay, sir. We have an ambulance heading your way. Are you near the road? Will they be able to see you?”
Goddamn it, Patrick thought. He was too far away to be seen unless they were crawling by. “They’ll see a car with government plates on the side of the road. I can’t make it to the road in this condition. When they see that car, tell them to pull over. I’m on the trail about ten yards ahead.”
“Yes, sir. I want you to stay on the line with me,” the woman instructed.
“No.” Patrick shook his head. “I’ve got other calls to make. Just get that fucking ambulance here as quickly as possible.” He hung up and called Sins. He had to get this done while the adrenaline was still pumping. When it ebbed, he was going to be in too much pain to do a damned thing. “Answer, damn it. Answer.”
She picked up. “What do you got, Collins?”
“Listen carefully, Sins. I’m running out of time. The killers took Windsor. I’m wounded and bleeding out. I’ve alerted emergency services, but you need to put an APB out for Windsor. They’re heading north on 46 in a white painter’s van. Did you get that?”
Sins voice was calm but authoritative on the other side. “There’s an ambulance coming for you, correct?”
Patrick’s vision swam with dark spots. He didn’t have long. “Yes.”
“I’m sending agents to your location now. If the ambulance gets to you first, we’ll find out what hospital they take you to. Hang on, Collins. Okay?”
Patrick’s adrenaline faded and pain and exhaustion were rearing up, refusing to be denied any longer. “Find Christian, Sins. You’ve got to find him before they hurt him.”
“I’m on it,” she promised. “I’ll talk to you soon.”
The phone went dead and Patrick fell to the ground. His injured shoulder radiated the heat of a small sun and his pain matched it in intensity. He stared up at the sky as the life leaked from his body.
The moment before he passed out, he remembered what Luke Titan’s letter had said.
You do not have the time that you believe. There is now a target on your head.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Christian somehow found his way along a winding and torturous road to get into his mansion. His mind wanted to fall into the darkness that had come for him. It wanted to rest in the sweet darkness of the unknown, where neither knowledge nor dreams could reach it.
