Profile of Retribution: FBI Profiler Romantic Suspense (Profile Series #3) (6 page)

“I lived for Sara. She was all I had, and now she’s gone because two over-privileged teenaged losers wanted to get a cheap thrill by taking her life. I’m with Tate, I wish Evan and Devan Lucas were alive so I could have the pleasure of killing them.”

“Thank you, Charity. I’m glad you joined our group.” Margaret called a break. Charity ran to the restroom, some people headed for the coffee urn, while others went outside for a smoke break. Kaitlyn fought the urge to follow Charity. The woman needed some time to pull herself together. She just hoped Charity would stay for the rest of the meeting.

Chapter Eleven

David109

Outside, he broke away from the group and leaned against his old truck. Digging the cigarette pack out of his jacket pocket, he pulled out a cig and lit it. Glancing at the folks smoking near the door, he liked hearing that others wished they could kill the Lucas boys as much as he did. But it was all bravado and bullshit. He doubted any of them had the balls to follow through.

It wasn’t that he was condemning them. Who was he to talk? He’d been pushed down his entire life and never did a damn thing to defend himself. All that changed when he’d lost her. One second, they were a normal family with ups and downs, and in the blink of an eye they’d lost the glue that kept it together. He still had days when he wondered if they’d survive the loss. The only thing that put a fire in his belly was his promise to make Bradley and Tisha Lucas pay for what the monsters they beget took from him. It was a promise he would keep. He’d make them suffer, just as his girl had suffered.

Those who spawn monsters shall be judged, shall be condemned. Let justice prevail. David109 would get his retribution.

Margaret Bennett appeared at the back door to call them inside for the rest of the meeting. He tossed his cigarette to the sidewalk and ground it out with his boot.

Chapter Twelve

Families of the Murdered

The next person to speak was April Maud-Black, the mother of Sharon Maud. Kaitlyn had talked to her during the break. April reminded Kaitlyn of a favorite teacher she’d had in school, a compassionate person who wouldn’t hesitate to help others.

“My daughter, Sharon, was nineteen-years-old when I reported her missing. She and her three kids lived with us. When Sharon didn’t return home after work, I knew something was very wrong. There was no way my girl wouldn’t have called me if she was going to be late. I called all her friends, but no one had seen her. I called the restaurant where I thought she was working, and the manager told me Sharon had been laid off months ago when they had to do budget cuts.

I waited up for her all that night, but she never came home. Two days later they found her body, and our world was turned upside-down. She was beaten beyond recognition, and had to be identified through dental records. Dealing with her children’s questions was heartbreaking. How do you tell a four-year-old that Mommy is never coming home?”

April fingered a locket at her neck. “I gave this locket to Sharon when she turned thirteen. She never took it off. The police returned it to me yesterday. Sharon’s murder has enabled fear to take over my life. I keep thinking ‘Who’s next?’ I made my husband, Dwayne, change all the locks and install deadbolts on the doors. I’m terrified that something will happen to me, the kids, or my husband. It’s like when the unthinkable happens, you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop. Are we a target? When will it happen again?”

Her husband slipped his arm around her and she looked up at him. “Dwayne has been amazing. He bought me a shotgun and he’s teaching me how to shoot it, so I’ll feel safer at home with the kids when he has to work late.”

April patted the arm of the young man sitting next to her. “That’s my story. It’s time for you to tell yours, son.”

Kaitlyn had tried to start a conversation with Tom Engle earlier, but he’d walked away from her, seeming too angry to talk. She got the impression that beneath his calm demeanor lay an edge of fury and frustration. He sat next to a man who looked to be an older version of Tom.

“I’m Tom, and this is my dad, Thomas Sr. Marie Engle was my ex-wife, but we’d reconciled right before she was murdered. She was sixteen when I married her, and soon after she had our twins, who just turned two. Marie didn’t finish high school, and when she couldn’t find a job, she started stripping at a joint in Indy. Never liked the thought of my wife taking her clothes off for other men, but what could I say? I’d lost my job and she brought home good money that we needed to care for our babies. Marie was a good mom, and every time I think about what happened to her I get pissed. Like Tate, I feel robbed by the deaths of those fucking animals.”

“I’ll never know all the details of Marie’s death. I want to know. I’ve imagined a thousand times how she died, but I want to know the truth. What was her death like? Was it quick, or was it a slow, agonizing death? How much did she suffer? I want to know, but that means going through the nightmare all over again. Not sure I can do that. Because they’re dead, I won’t see Evan and Devan suffer like Marie did. They won’t be tried and punished by the justice system—or get the lethal injections they deserve. But if I let this anger eat me up, what use am I to my kids, or to Dad?”

When Margaret asked Thomas Sr. if he’d like to tell his story, he replied, his voice rough with emotion, “My son’s story is my story. I’ve got nothing to add to it, except I hope both Lucas boys are burning in hell.”

Kaitlyn had met Anthony and Bobbie Cooke the day they buried their only child, Destiny. It had been a tough day for the Chase brothers, as all three had been friends with Destiny and her fiancé, Justin Andrews, and had planned to attend their wedding.

“My Destiny was beautiful and smart. She was going to marry her childhood sweetheart and should have lived a long and happy life,” said Bobbie Cooke. “The happiest time of our lives became the most horrific. I lay awake at night asking, ‘Why Destiny? Was she just in the wrong place at the wrong time? Had she been targeted and stalked?’ We’ll never know. What I do know is that she is in God’s hands now, and I cannot move forward until I forgive her killers. I see the way most of you are looking at me with disbelief, and I hope you can someday understand. Losing Destiny created this agonizing pain inside me. It becomes excruciating and I can’t make it stop. If there was a surgery available to remove this ungodly pain, I’d be first in line.
But there is no miracle cure, it will be with me until the last day of my life.

“And then I ask myself what Destiny would have wanted. Would she want her mother to hold on to anger, resentment and thoughts of revenge—or embrace forgiveness and move forward? So I’ve decided to let go and move forward. That doesn’t mean the hurt will entirely go away, it will remain a part of me the rest of my life.

“I believe forgiving Devan and Evan Lucas will lessen the grip my sorrow has on me. Forgiveness doesn’t mean that you give the person who hurt you a free pass, and it doesn’t minimize or justify the wrong. I’m not excusing the horrific acts they committed. I know Destiny would want her dad and me to go on living our lives. She’d want us to focus on ways to turn this nightmare around, and to help others. That’s what I intend to do.”

Anthony Cooke, grasping his wife’s hand, did not hesitate to begin speaking. “Destiny was our miracle baby. Bobbie and I were beginning to think we weren’t able to have children. Then she became pregnant with Destiny and my world was happy and complete. Since her death, my world has become a dark and angry place. Unlike her mother, I cannot bring myself to forgive my daughter’s killers. I have this rage that burns inside me. The police think Destiny was abducted from the church parking lot as we sat inside waiting for her arrival. What kind of evil possessed them to abduct and murder a young woman on the eve of her wedding?

“I cannot get past the anger and resentment I have that those two boys died before paying for what they did to my baby. They got off easy, and they robbed us of discovering exactly what happened to our child. Now all I have are dozens of movies playing in my brain of how she died. Each one is uglier than the last. I keep asking myself why it wasn’t me. Why am I still here? What did I do wrong for this to happen to my Destiny?” Anthony slumped down in his chair and pressed both hands over his eyes as if they burned with weariness.

Kaitlyn sighed, physically drained by the stories of loss and the endless grief. Her entire body seemed engulfed in tides of weariness and despair.

Margaret leaned forward in her seat and let her eyes roam around the circle. “I thank each of you for speaking from your heart. It is through telling our stories that we facilitate the healing process. I must caution you about one thing. Don’t try to make sense of homicide. It is a senseless act that will drive you insane if you let it. In your cases, two young men made a conscious choice to take a life, numerous times. There isn’t anything any of you could have done to prevent it. You cannot feel guilty and blame yourself for what happened to your loved ones. In a way, this group is lucky. Few families of homicide victims are able to share their experience with those who truly understand their pain. You have each other. Be there for each other. I hope to see you next month, same time and place. Goodnight.”

Chapter Thirteen

The Dinner

Bradley scanned the living room and decided that Krystle had done an excellent job. He’d called her that morning and asked that she make a dinner for two near the fireplace in the living room. In front of him was a small round table covered with white linen, set with their best china, crystal goblets and silver. A chilled bottle of Tisha’s favorite Cabernet sat on the coffee table. A candle flickered from the table’s center and a fire roared in the fireplace. Romantic? Yes. Enough to warm his wife’s heart? Not sure. But that’s what he was praying for.

Wandering to the kitchen, he found Krystle lifting a roast with potatoes and carrots in a large baking pan from the oven. Small china bowls filled with tossed salads lay on the island.

She noticed him and smiled. “I hope everything is okay.”

“More than okay. It looks perfect. Thank you.”

“It was fun putting all this together for you and the missus.” Krystle lay a pair of pot holders near the stove and announced, “Dinner is ready to be served.”

Bradley shoved his hands into his pockets and took a deep breath. It was a sad state of affairs when a man was nervous about seeing his own wife. “Where’s Tisha?”

“She’s in the den, watching the evening news. By the time you fetch her, I’ll have the food wheeled into the living room on a cart. Then I’m heading home so you two can have an evening alone.”

In the den, Bradley found Tisha standing in front of the television with the remote control in hand, flipping from channel to channel. Wearing a short floral skirt with a pink sweater, she looked as fresh and young as she had in the early days of their marriage. His body ached for her touch. He wished he could throw her over his shoulder fireman-style, carry her to their bedroom, and make sweet, delicious love to her for hours.

It had been three days since they’d argued, and Tisha had been cold and distant ever since. He was a man who could weather a lot of life’s storms without flinching. His wife’s anger? Not so much. Truth be told, he missed her terribly. They hadn’t talked in days, and hadn’t made love in months. He didn’t know how much more he could take.

“Hi, honey. Slow news day?”

Startled by his voice, she spun around to face him. He raised his hands in a “don’t-shoot” pose.

“I didn’t hear you come home.”

“No matter. Are you hungry? I’m starving and Krystle has made a delicious dinner for us.” Extending his elbow, he said, “Shall we?”

With a questioning glance, Tisha slipped her arm through his and let him lead her down the hall to the living room. Pulling her chair out at the table, he waited for her to sit down, then used a corkscrew to remove the cork from the wine bottle. Pouring two glasses, he returned to the table, where he met her suspicious stare.

Taking the glass he handed to her, she asked, “What’s the occasion?”

“Do I have to have a special occasion to want dinner alone with my wife?”

Tisha shrugged her shoulders. “It’s been a long time, that’s all.”

“Too long.” Forking a cherry tomato in his salad, he popped it in his mouth and looked at Tisha. She was forty-years-old, didn’t look a day over thirty, and still turned heads when she walked down a street. He hadn’t looked at another woman since he’d met her. God only knew what he’d do if he lost her.

He’d been thinking about an idea for days, and rehearsing in his mind how he’d present it to his wife. In the end, he just went for it. “Tisha, I have an idea I want to run by you.”

Again, a questioning glance. “What’s that?”

Although his heart was in his throat, he swallowed, and tried to appear calm. “Our businesses have done extremely well, and we’ve made good investments. The result is we have more money in the bank than we could possibly spend the rest of our lives.”

“So?”

“I’d like to develop a plan where we could donate money to the families of our sons’ victims.”

Tisha choked, spewing wine all over her dress. “Mother of God, where did you get such an idea? Do you not realize how much they detest us?”

“They wouldn’t have to know the money was from us. We could find a way to do it anonymously.”