The Poet's Blood (Heinous Crimes Unit Book 7), page 9
“I’m talking to myself,” he eventually said. “You, this ocean, these oars, they’re all my creations.”
“This is true,” the Unbroken responded. The good-natured glint was still in his eye, as if everything amused him.
“Do you know why I’m here?” Christian asked.
The Unbroken nodded. “You’re trying to find the people nailing quotes to their victims’ chests.”
“Then why am I sitting on this boat looking at you, instead of learning more about these people?” Christian demanded. “There are two, right? Or is it more than two?”
The Unbroken looked out across the ocean, his smile fading slightly. “We’ve got to do something about you thinking of me as ‘unbroken.’ I can’t be called the Other, due to there already being someone by that name residing in your mind. How about you call me Chris? Does that work for you?”
Christian sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He wasn’t used to frustration, not in here. “Chris. Fine. Now answer my questions.”
Chris continued watching the gently moving water, radiating complete contentment. “The mansion has been repaired, at least the portions that you’ve seen so far. You’ve done a good job with that. When you banished the parts of you that Luke created, it allowed some healing to occur. But you neglected a lot of the damage that needed your attention, and that’s why this ocean is here. It’s why I’m here, I suppose.”
“Keep going,” Christian told him.
“I’m here to help you heal. That’s why you created me. You needed something other than your conscious mind, because it was being polluted by your subconscious. I’m the opposite of the Other, but together we still make up a large portion of you. That’s easy enough to understand isn’t it?”
Christian nodded. “I get it. What’s this ocean about?”
“You can’t neglect your body for years and then show up for a mental marathon. A neglected body isn’t going to do what the mind wants. Expecting the mind to work differently is sort of foolish, huh?” Chris reached over the boat’s edge and trailed his fingers in the water. He held his hand there for a moment, then brought it back up and flung the water into the rowboat. “You haven’t healed from what Luke did to you. You’ve ignored it. I think you probably could have done that for the rest of your life as long as you didn’t try to use your gift. But you’re asking your mind to do something it can’t do anymore.”
He smiled softly at Christian. “Do you know why?”
“If the answer is Luke, I don’t want to hear it,” Christian stated.
“Then I won’t say it,” Chris responded.
“So what are you telling me? That I have to kill Luke before my mind will give me control over it again?”
Chris laughed, the echo of it sharp and unexpected. Glee filled his face as he leaned back with his hand over his stomach. “Do you think killing helps people heal?”
Christian glared at him, wanting answers. “I don’t have time for these riddles.”
Chris straightened, his laughter fading. “There aren’t any riddles, Christian. If you want to prevent people from dying, you will have to deal with what Luke did to you. What he’s still attempting to do.”
“The letter?” Christian asked.
Chris nodded. “You know he has plans for you and him. He’s watching this case as closely as the FBI, and he’s reaching out to you.”
Christian shook his head and looked down into the boat. “This doesn’t make any sense. I’m sitting in the middle of an ocean because I have unresolved issues with Luke? And if I what, go to a whole bunch of therapy, then the ocean will dry up and I’ll be able to solve crimes again? That’s what you’re saying?”
Chris took hold of his oars. “I don’t know how you’re going to heal. You’re a smart guy. I think you can probably figure that out if you think hard enough. I came out here to tell you that you have to work on yourself before you can help anyone else.”
“What about the people who are dying?” Christian asked. “The FBI agent waiting on me? Am I supposed to tell them I’m sorry, but I can’t help until I figure out how to fix everything Luke did to me?”
Chris shrugged and shoved his oars into the water. “I only came out here to tell you what was going on. I figured it’d be too much for you to show up and see an ocean with no explanation. I think you’ll figure it out. I’ve got faith.”
He smiled and pushed his boat away from Christian’s with his oars.
“That’s it?” Christian called as Chris’ boat continued moving away from his. “That’s all you’ve got for me? Is it two killers, or more?”
Still smiling—and it was a kind smile, Christian couldn’t deny that—Chris yelled back, “That’s it for now. I’ll see you soon, I’m sure.”
Christian rowed back to the door and climbed through it, almost sure that he was going to fall out of the boat and somehow drown in his own mind. He made it unscathed. Once he was safely in the hallway, he shut the door behind him. He quickly reopened it, but the ocean remained. There was no sign of Chris. Just the little rowboat and endless blue.
“Collins is going to love this.” Christian closed the door and sighed. “You’re going to do an excellent job of convincing him you’re not insane. Just tell him one of your personalities showed up in a boat and told you that you have to sing kumbaya with Luke. Once you’ve done that, everything will be fine. You’ll be able to help, but first we’ve gotta make that pitstop by Luke’s asylum.”
No problem, he thought.
Christian started walking. He was unsure where he was going, but he didn’t want to return to reality just yet. He wasn’t ready to admit to his colossal failure.
After a few minutes, he found himself standing in front of the door marked The Priest.
The other rooms along this hallway housed the stories of troubled people, but all of them had been trying to hurt someone. Lucy had been troubled, but she hadn’t wanted to hurt anyone. All she’d wanted was to worship Christian.
And she got a blade across her throat because of it.
Christian didn’t know he was going to enter the room until he was turning the doorknob. He pulled the door open without any idea what he’d find on the other side.
“You came home,” the Other whispered. Black, bloody eyes and a wide, red smile crowned the face that was exactly like Christian’s. A steady stream of blood rolled over his lips, staining his white teeth as he spoke.
“You came back.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Patrick watched Windsor very closely for the first ten minutes. The man didn’t move a muscle. It was like he was in the deepest sleep ever, nothing was able to disturb him. Patrick had thought there would be fireworks or gunshots. This was a disappointing outcome.
It’s boring, he thought. I hope he doesn’t have to do this after every crime scene.
Patrick had bought a pack of cigarettes the day before. They were in his bag and he hadn’t opened them yet. He hadn’t smoked in ten years and he’d honestly believed he’d never smoke again, but he’d seen the yellow pack of American Spirits in the gas station and thought, fuck it.
He was seriously considering lighting one, not caring one bit that it was stress pushing him to resume the bad habit. His phone buzzed, stopping him from getting the cigarettes out of his bag. He pulled his phone from his pocket, wondering what bad news was coming.
Patrick didn’t groan when he saw the message, but the hair on his arms rose and an icy chill rolled down his back.
This can’t be possible, he thought. There’s no way this man’s name is on my phone, and there’s no way I’m about to read a letter from him.
LETTERS FROM A KILLER
Dearest Christian,
I have no doubt the Federal Bureau of Investigation has visited you. The only thing I am as of yet unsure of is whether you are reading my letters. You will at some point, as long as your handlers allow you.
You and I are not done yet. If you have gone into your mansion, I imagine you know that by now. Does it bother you that I can still see so far into you? I hope not, because I believe you see the same distance into me. You and I cannot be separated, regardless of what you desire.
Our newest case is not one of a twisted individual playing a game. There is no joy being taken in committing these murders. It is a solemn duty that has been carried around for a long time. Does that change things for you? No, no. Of course not. You have a duty, too. Or so you think.
You cannot see these things yet. You do not see this duty as I do. For once, I understand the murders that are occurring better than you do. How long will I hold that claim? It depends on you, which leads me to my next question. Do you realize yet? Your abilities are tied to me. If the vainglorious FBI wants you to be able to use them, then you and I will have to palaver yet again. Perhaps many, many times.
I look forward to it.
While you are unable to help the FBI yet, I can. I know that much of your mind is blocked off to you. That the mansion is unwilling to give up its secrets due to the shambles you left your subconscious in. Do you know that there is more than one killer? Have you realized yet that there are two?
If you are working with the FBI, then they are reading this letter before you. Whichever agent is in charge and reading over these words, you are welcome to my generosity in helping you solve these heinous crimes.
Two killers, Christian. Both of them carrying the heavy burden of their duty, and they are finally ready to put it down. They are building to something.
No refrigerated rooms filled with eyeballs. No basement with women chained to the walls. They do not want love. They do not want to worship anyone.
No, Christian. I believe they want to burn this world to the ground.
This will be an interesting case, without any doubt. Our killers know they have a duty to perform, and that it will likely end with forfeiting their lives. How much planning do you think goes into such an endeavor?
They know death awaits them, but they are still dedicated to their duty. They will burn the world if they can, and they are building their pyre as large as possible.
Come to me, Christian. Sooner rather than later if you want to help those scheduled to die. I feel confident in saying that I will no longer be offering assistance to the FBI through my letters.
Yours,
Luke Titan
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Patrick stared at the last few lines of the letter, unable to fully grasp what he had read. The letter felt as heavy as a metaphorical planet sitting inside his phone. He dealt with killers on a daily basis. He’d dedicated his life to bringing them to justice. Yet, reading this letter from Luke Titan, he knew in his bones that this case was different.
He glanced at Windsor. He was still sleeping. Patrick returned his attention to his phone screen.
Focus, he thought. What’s important in these words?
Only two things, perhaps three. The rest of it was psychological manipulation. Titan claimed there were two killers, and he wanted to speak with Windsor. Most likely face to face.
Patrick knew this had to go up the chain of command. His superiors would need to be made aware of Titan’s effort to insert himself into the case, although judging by the way things had gone so far, they’d probably shove the decisions back down to him.
Leaving those above insulated against the effects of those decisions, Patrick thought sourly.
He tapped the screen a few times and forwarded the letter to Sins, missing the moment Windsor returned from wherever he’d been in his mind.
“What’s wrong?” Windsor asked.
Patrick’s head snapped up. Windsor’s voice was alert, with no trace of sleep in it. His clear eyes were studying him. He’s too perceptive.
He clicked his phone screen off and slid it into his pocket. “Nothing.”
Windsor scrutinized him for a long moment, his face showing nothing of what he thought. Finally, he looked away. ”How long was I inside?”
“Inside?” Patrick asked.
“Inside my head,” Windsor clarified, clearing Patrick’s confusion. “The mansion. How long has it been?”
“About an hour.” Patrick stood, but he didn’t move closer to the bed. Windsor could kick him from his current position. The letter from Titan hadn’t put new parameters for how he handled Windsor into effect. If anything, the letter reinforced the danger this man could pose. “What did you find out? Anything?”
“You’re not going to like this,” Windsor answered. “Can you let my arm down first?”
Patrick carefully moved to the head of the bed and uncuffed his wrist, then re-cuffed his hands. He didn’t say anything until he was sitting back in the chair and facing Windsor. “I can tell you that I don’t like much of anything that’s happened in the past month, so why don’t we go ahead and pile on this new information?”
Windsor’s misery radiated from every word. “I think there are two killers. That’s about all I can tell you right now because my brain is apparently broken.”
The hotel room suddenly felt very small. All of the walls shrank, pushing everything closer together until Patrick’s face was only inches from Windsor’s nose. “What?”
Windsor didn’t notice that the laws of physics had ceased to exist in the room. He was too wrapped up in his misery to be perturbed by the sudden shift in reality. “There are at least two killers,” he repeated. “I can’t tell you much else right now because my brain isn’t working.”
Hearing almost the exact same words had no less impact the second time around. Stunned into silence, Patrick wished more than anything that he could leave this room or kick Windsor out. He needed some space for himself, so that he could think.
He didn’t know what was happening, but he knew that he felt very, very unsafe. He took his pistol out of the holster and placed the hand holding it on his lap.
Windsor tilted his head. “You didn’t like my answer?”
Patrick ignored the question. “What makes you say there are two killers? You hadn’t even hinted at anything like that before now.”
Windsor lifted his hands to run his fingers through his hair, but the chains kept him from being able to move effectively. He dropped his hands back into his lap and shrugged. “I don’t know any way to explain this to you that will make sense.”
“Try,” Patrick told him.
Windsor eyed the weapon in his hand. “I was told there are two killers. It’s true, but I’m having some…issues with getting any more information.”
Patrick realized how hard he was holding his firearm and relaxed his right hand with some effort. “Who told you?”
Windsor shrugged again. “It doesn’t matter.”
Patrick’s mind whirred with thoughts running too fast to pick apart. “I cannot stress to you in this moment how much it does matter. Tell me who told you there are two killers, Windsor.”
That snapped the felon out of the daze he was drifting into. Windsor’s too-clear gaze returned and he focused on Patrick. “What happened while I was inside my mansion?”
“Answer the question,” Patrick ordered.
They looked at each for a few seconds and then Windsor spoke.
“I call him Chris. He’s sort of new, but he’s a part of my subconscious, I guess.”
Patrick’s words were slow and measured. “Did you have any idea that there were two killers before you closed your eyes?”
“No, not at all.” Windsor swallowed. “Will you tell me what happened?”
Again, Patrick ignored his question and pressed on. “Why can’t you get any more information?”
Windsor turned away from him, seemingly forgetting the weapon and the tension filling the room. “That’s the part you’re not going to like. Chris said that I’ve got underlying issues from what Luke did to me. My mind isn’t going to give me what I want until I work those out.”
He shrugged. “Go figure, right?”
Patrick stood and waved the hand holding his weapon at Windsor. “Get up. We’re going for a ride.”
Patrick parked in a very large field. From his viewpoint, it looked endless. He knew that couldn’t be true. At some point, the grass had to end and make way for the supermax where Luke Titan was held.
Windsor had been silent on the way here, accepting Patrick’s explanation that he had to get out of the room and he had no choice but to come along. Now, here they were in a moonlit field with no manmade lights anywhere to be seen beside the car’s headlights.
Patrick desperately wanted a cigarette. They were in his pocket, but he hadn’t pulled them out yet.
“Are you going to kill me?”
Windsor’s words cracked through Patrick’s thoughts like a bullwhip. He looked at the man in the passenger side of the vehicle in confusion. “Huh?”
“Did you bring me out here to kill me?” Windsor repeated.
“Jesus Christ,” Patrick whispered. “No. I mean, if you do something stupid out here, I’m going to put you down. But I didn’t come here to kill you. Believe it or not, I have no desire to harm you. I want to get away from you, but I can’t do that right now.”
“Killing me would be a good way to get away,” Windsor responded. “Why did you pull the gun out in the hotel room?”
Patrick took his hand off the steering wheel and dropped it to his lap. “That’s why we’re out here.”
“You’re not making much sense.”
Patrick chuckled softly. “I don’t feel like the world is making much sense right now.”
He briefly debated the next words that came from his mouth, knowing that revealing too much personal information to a felon could result in disaster for an agent. Windsor wasn’t an informant, but that was probably the closest comparison for him at this point.
Later, when it was all over, Patrick would think back and wish he’d decided differently. By then, too much blood had been shed.
