Before I Wake (27 page)

Next to her, Harley added his own choked sob of disbelief.

Franny spun around and started to run. She was too upset, and the snow was too deep. She floundered.

Harley caught up with her, grabbing her by the arm as she dropped to her knees, sobbing.

“Who did this?” Daniel asked.

Arden’s mind raced, coming upon one possibility after the other. She cast a swift glance around. Was the killer still out there? Watching them?

“Are you armed?” she asked Fury.

He nodded and patted his coat where a shoulder holster would be.

“Someone could have gotten here on foot,” he said slowly, as if not really thinking about his words but concentrating on something in his head.

“Or snowmobile,” Arden added. “But we probably would have heard a snowmobile unless it remained out of hearing range.”

“What about motive?” Fury asked.

There had been no motive when her parents were killed. Just bloodlust. Just a drive to kill.

“Could it be the same person?” she whispered to Fury, not wanting the others to hear. They were already on the verge of hysteria.

There was no need to explain what she was talking about.

“
I
don’t know.” He sounded troubled and confused.

“Why did we come here?” Franny’s voice rose with each word. “What was the point? This is a bad place. An evil place. That’s what Eli said the first night. He’d still be alive if we’d stayed in Madeline. If we hadn’t run off.”

She was right.

It was Arden’s fault.

Once again, she’d dragged innocent people into her own nightmare.

Daniel Davis did what any other red-blooded American boy would do in his situation—he went for his gun. In the barn, he jerked open the truck door. The dome light came on, and his gaze immediately dropped to the floor. No gun. He pulled down the bench seat, accessing the storage area where he sometimes kept the weapon.

Not there.

His heart began to hammer even harder.

Christ.

He quickly rewound a mental tape of events, starting with the fight with Arden’s bodyguard.

He’d put the gun back in the truck. He was sure of it. That’s where he kept it. Where he always kept it.

He forced the seat into the locked position, then reached and opened the glove compartment. The box of bullets he kept there was also gone. Head bent, he backed out of the truck, slammed the door, and ran from the barn, flashlight beam bouncing.

Arden and Nathan Fury were buried waist deep in snow tinged pink and red, the body of the dead kid between them.

Daniel had been on some deer hunts. He’d seen that kind of snow. “The .22’s gone,” he announced, his voice tight and breathless and sounding foreign to his own ears.

His sister looked up. Snow fell on her face. It caught in her eyelashes. In the dim light, he couldn’t see the circles under her eyes and the gauntness in her cheeks. For a second he could almost imagine that they were kids again, helping their dad feed the livestock before going into the warm house for supper.

Almost.

“The rifle,” he repeated. “It was in my truck. It’s gone.”

Somewhere in the shadows, beyond the snow-muted glow of light, the girl, Franny, let out a gasp, and Harley, the bodyguard, made some murmur of comfort that set off a spark of annoyance in Daniel. For a fraction of a second, he’d felt the urge to comfort her himself. But who was he to say everything would be okay, especially when it wouldn’t?

“Douse the lights.” Arden clicked off her flashlight.

Daniel did the same.

He thought he was being paranoid. He’d hoped he was being paranoid, but Arden was thinking what he’d been thinking—that somebody was out there watching them.

He was always surprised by how dark dark was when there were no stars, no moon, and no man-made light.

Humans were so fucking helpless, so vulnerable and unable to cope.

His mind raced. Somebody was out there. Somebody with a gun. Hi’s gun.

Franny was right. It was Arden’s fault. She’d brought evil and death before. Now she’d brought them again.

“Everybody get back to the house,” Fury said.

“W-what about Eli?”

The question came from Franny. Her voice was all scared and trembly.

Daniel had grown up in a world where most women stayed home to raise their kids. Where many didn’t go to college, and the men took care of them. Franny, with her piercings and short black hair, represented a world he didn’t know much about. A world that was exotic and strange. But in the dark, she sounded like any other scared girl. And where he lived, men protected women.

He approached the sound of sobbing. He reached for her, touching her coat sleeve. “Take my hand.”

She clasped his gloved hand.

He and Arden were the only ones who knew the immediate layout of the farm. And Arden might not remember, might not know the exact location of the rock wall and the covered well.

He had a good sense of direction, even in the dark.

“Eli?” Franny asked again.

“He’ll be okay.”

It was a lie. It wouldn’t be good to leave the body there. Animals would come as soon as the storm let up.

Coyotes were everywhere. You could hear them at night, sounding like people in pain. Packs of them, climbing on top of round hay bales lined up in the fields, howling at the moon. Whenever Daniel heard them, he was always reminded of those drawings they used in Sunday school to put the fear of hell in kids. Pictures of people screaming and reaching imploringly to the sky while flames cooked them to a crisp.

Arden’s voice came out of the darkness, very near now. “We have to get inside,” she said. “We can’t do anything for Eli. We have to protect ourselves.”

Animals would come and eat him. By tomorrow or the next day, Eli would be gone. Daniel had seen a dead cow cleaned to the bone in a matter of hours. Meat was meat. Food was food.

They made a human chain, with Daniel leading the way.

They slipped and stumbled. When one of them went down, they all went. The falls confused him, made him briefly lose the direction of the farmhouse.

All of them were breathing hard, as much in fear as from the struggle with nature. The only comfort Daniel took in the situation was that whoever was out there, whoever had killed Eli, would also be hampered by the snow and the darkness.

They stumbled, falling against one another, their terrified, blind flight reminding Daniel of the time they’d lost a dozen sheep in a blizzard. The animals were finally found the next day, some exhausted and running in the small confined area they’d trampled in the snow just a few yards from a storm shelter. Others were bleating, legs flailing at the air, their wool frozen to the ground.

Familiar landmarks stabilized him. The stone wall that wrapped around the barn. The leg of the old windmill. The corner of the garage.

Up the sidewalk to the back door, all the while Daniel intensely aware of the mittened hand clinging tightly to his. He felt proudly protective and tender at the same time. He felt like a man instead of a boy.

Franny crowded up next to him. “What if the killer’s in the house?” she whispered.

This could be true.

“We can’t stay outside,” Daniel said.

Nathan Fury stepped forward. “I’ll go in first.”

Fury unbuttoned his coat. With stiff, frozen fingers, he managed to slip his Glock 23 from his shoulder holster. Pointing the barrel skyward, he edged past Daniel. “Let me have your flashlight.”

He held out his hand, and Daniel slapped the light into Fury’s palm. Once inside the kitchen, Fury clicked on the flashlight and rested it against the handgun so barrel and beam pointed in the same direction.

He had the feeling his display of making sure the building was secure was just that—a display. He doubted anybody else was in the house.

For a long time, he’d had his suspicions. As long ago as the winter day he’d found Arden in the top of the corncrib, staring at him with half-mad eyes. Even before that, when Fury was still in Project TAKE.

During that time, he’d had thoughts and urges that hadn’t been his. More than once, he’d found himself toying with the idea of cold-blooded murder. No need to wonder how it would feel. He’d known. Known it would be thrilling and erotic. Known it would be the biggest rush of his life.

He’d never told anybody about his thoughts. He’d been ashamed, and at that time he’d believed his response to the indoctrination was an anomaly.

Arden was suddenly behind him, just beyond his right shoulder. “I wish I had a weapon,” she whispered.

She used to carry a Glock 23 on her waist, and a single-shot Smith & Wesson strapped to her ankle.

This was almost like old times. For a moment, he could almost forget everything that had happened.

He bounced the beam around the kitchen, checking the floor for fresh snow or wet footprints. “Doesn’t look like anybody’s been here.”

Death was in the air. It was all around them. The farm, the ground, was imprinted by death. The house was a crypt. A crypt of evil and sorrow and unspeakable deeds.

French’s voice came back to him. Fury could almost see his eyes, staring at him from behind the death chamber glass.

I’m not sorry for anything. I’d do it all again if I had the chance.

Blood.

Fury looked down and saw dark smears on his hands. It was rich and bitter, smelling like both life and death.

Eli’s blood.

Definitely not killed by French.

But the same house. Same MO.

Can a place make people crazy? Can a house make people do things they wouldn’t normally do?

He and Arden moved through the kitchen, the dining room, the living room. Behind him, he heard the others step into the kitchen and stop in a cluster just inside the door.

Fury ran the flashlight beam along the floor, in front of the door that led to the porch.

He wanted to find a stranger.

Nothing wet there. No sign of recent entry.

Down the hall, then a quick check of the bedroom.

An unmade bed of rumpled sheets and handmade quilts. A backpack. An MP3 player and headphones on a dresser.

Eli’s room.

It smelled like kids in their early twenties. That exotic mixture of spices and incense. The not-unpleasant odor of young, healthy bodies.

Arden tugged at his coat. “Upstairs,” she whispered.

Being in Eli’s room bothered her.

Together they moved up the staircase. When they reached the second floor, Fury raised his voice for the first time since entering the house. “There’s nobody here.”

“I want to see it all.”

She’d always been that way. Had to see everything for herself, even though logic gave her the facts.

Down the narrow hall with its wooden, creaking floor.

Open the door to the bathroom.

Claw-foot tub, shower curtain pulled aside. No place to hide.

Next to the pedestal sink was a small wooden step stool Arden had probably stood on as a kid when she’d brushed her teeth. “Bathroom okay,” he said.

They moved back down the hall, past a small bedroom.

“Clean.”

Then another—Arden’s room, also clean.

They finally stopped in the doorway of the master bedroom.

Perfume.

The smell was intense.

“It’s called Violet,” Arden said from behind him.

“Wait here,” he said.

He felt her hand on his back as she urged him forward, then followed him into the room.

She’d never liked to follow. Never liked to be told what to do. If she’d had a gun, she would have been the first inside.

He stopped a few feet from the bed, in the room where Arden’s mother had been murdered. The overpowering scent of perfume hung in the air.

He would have to remember never to buy that particular scent for anyone for Christmas.

He pivoted to face Arden.

He was so damn cold. He couldn’t even feel his feet. He hadn’t been able to feel them for a long time. Arden was right. He was a city guy. He hadn’t come prepared for the weather. Stupid of him.

“I have to talk to you,” he said.

She looked at him, chin down. The circles under her eyes were more pronounced in the glow of the flashlight.

“What?” she asked.

He could tell by her voice that she was distracted by the room, that she wasn’t giving him her full attention.

“I have a theory.”

Arden glanced uncomfortably at the bed. “Let’s get out of here,” she said.

“Wait.”

He grabbed her by the arm before she could get away. He walked backward, pulling her deeper into the room, his flashlight and gun pointed at the ceiling, the bounced light casting long, weird shadows.

She struggled to free herself. He released her.

“Don’t go.”

“Not here,” she said. “Not in this room.”

“I don’t want the others to hear.”

“Say it. Hurry and say it then.” She shivered, and rubbed her arms over the bulk of her heavy jacket.

“I don’t think there’s anybody else in the house.” He watched her for a reaction. “And I don’t think there’s anybody outside.”

“What are you talking about? Eli is dead. Somebody killed him.”

He knew she wouldn’t want to face what he had to say. She’d been an FBI agent. A good one. Her mind was still quick. She had to have put it together. She had to have at least formed an assumption. “Noah didn’t kill Vera Thompson.”

“What do you mean? What about the bloody shirt? The footprint of his shoes?”

“He may or may not have been there, but he didn’t do it. Someone taller than Noah killed the old woman.” He paused for effect. “And now here we are. Back in Ohio with another dead body.”

Full circle. Except that this time everything would finally be tied up. This time, they would finally get the right answers.

She was watching him, her eyes wide. He could tell she wanted to leave. That she didn’t want to hear what else he was going to say.

“Who was here when your parents were murdered?” he asked softly. “Who, out of everyone currently in the house, was present when your parents were killed?”

Daniel had been in town with a girlfriend. His alibi had been tight. Harley hadn’t been there. Franny hadn’t been there. Fury hadn’t been there.

Arden stared up at him and slowly shook her head. “No.” Her bottom lip trembled. “You’re wrong.”

He slipped his Glock into the shoulder holster, and dropped the flashlight on the bed. He grabbed her hands.

Her gloves were bloodstained. He removed the gloves and dropped them on the box spring, near the flashlight.

Her hands were caked with dried, black blood. Eli’s blood, transferred when she’d checked for a pulse.

He held her hands in both of his. Their bloody hands. As he stared at her face, he watched in fascination as a huge tear gathered in each eye, then slowly broke loose to run down her cheeks.

This was so painful for him. “You,” he said softly. “You are the common denominator.”

She stared at him for so long that he began to wonder if she’d heard him, or if he’d even spoken. Finally she said, “Your hands… they’re like ice.”

Hers were warm.

“You should have worn gloves. I’ll find you a pair. There are tons of gloves in this house. Or mittens.” She was talking rapidly. “Mittens are awkward, but a lot warmer. But then you can’t shoot a gun very well with mittens, can you?”

He heard voices downstairs.

Franny and Harley and Daniel were getting nervous. It was too quiet. He and Arden had been gone a long time.

The temperature in the room was frigid. He could see their breath. He could hear wind howling around the window seams and joints the way it did in old houses.

“It’s not your fault,” he said. “It was the program. Harris went too far. Instead of taking you into the mind of a killer, he gave you the mind of a killer. He made a copycat killer out of you.”

French’s webcast execution had been the trigger for the renewed bouts of killings. And New Mexico bordered Oklahoma—where the more recent copycat murders had taken place.

Arden tugged her hands from his and shoved him away. Then she shoved him again. “Who do you think you are? Who the hell do you think you are?”

“That’s why Harris pushed the bleaching. He suspected what had happened, but wouldn’t admit it even to himself.”

“I did not kill my parents.”

But he could see her doubt. See that it was something she’d thought about before and pushed away.

“Everything okay?” came Daniel’s voice from the bottom of the stairs.

Her eyes locked with Fury’s. She was pissed. Anger had always been Arden’s defense.

It was a good one.

He waited, arms at his sides.

She moved fast, pulled his weapon from the holster, and turned it on him.

He smiled.

He loved her.

Even though she didn’t remember him, even though she didn’t know his middle name or his favorite food, he loved her. He would love her until the day he died.

Arden watched him, her eyes narrowing. “You brought this all on me,” she accused. “On us. You were the one who instigated this whole thing. You wanted me to go back to the Hill. Why, if TAKE wasn’t working?”

Why was she so mad? she asked herself. Fury had only voiced the very thing she herself had subconsciously feared. Wondered and accused were two completely different things. But her instincts had told her he was hiding something. Something big. From the very beginning, her instincts had told her there was something secretive about him. Something bad,, or at the very least, disturbing.

And the way he stood there, so calm, so collected…

“Who are you?” she demanded. “I don’t mean your name. I mean what are you doing in my life? Really?”