Serial Love: Saints Protection & Investigation (21 page)

He had watched his old man filet fish from the time he could first remember. The sharp blade making an easy slit through the fish’s gut. A quick slice across the head. It seemed the older the knife was, the sharper it became. His dad took care of it—cleaning and oiling it when necessary. Such a delicate instrument. And so clean a slice.

Suddenly speaking again, his mom said, “If you’d followed in your dad’s footsteps, you’d be here all the time to take care of me.”

“Ma, you know fishing for a living wasn’t what I wanted to do. Anyway, you always fussed about dad not making enough money.”

“He barely made enough to keep this roof over our heads, and then went and spent it on his whores.”

Her words weighed heavily on him, taking him back to a time he did not want to remember.
The first one. So pretty. I’d seen her around. Such a nice girl. Always smiled and talked to me when she saw me. One day walking into the shed on the back of their little property when his mom was at the store. The girl’s naked body as his dad bucked into her. I stood and watched for a while. She had huge breasts…much bigger than mom’s. Dad’s bare ass kept moving as her legs lifted in the air. I tried to be quiet, keeping my hand in my pants. My cock got hard and I wanted to pound into her also. Dad had no idea I was there, but the girl turned her eyes toward me. At first, she looked surprised. Then she smiled at me and brought her hands up to her breasts, playing with them.

He had gone back into the house and when his mother returned, she took one look and knew he was hiding something. Pursing her lips, she bit out, “Your father was with some woman, wasn’t he?”

He did not answer, but she had already known. The silence stretched out between them. His mother finally, said, “I’d get rid of them if I could.” Spearing him with a stony gaze, she added, “At least that’d be something you could do right.”

Now, his mother, too old to do much on her own except wallow in her own misery, stood and moved to the kitchen. “Want some coffee?” she called out.

Grimacing at the thought of the bitter brew, he just said, “Sure, ma. That’d be good.” Fighting the urge, he rubbed his hand over his face.
I need to find a new good girl.

*

The Saints once
again gathered in the command center. As soon as they entered, they could tell that something had changed with Jack.

“Boss? You’re kinda scaring us,” Cam commented. Seeing Jack’s raised eyebrow, he continued, “You seem sort of happy.”

Jack caught the smirks of the others around the table and hung his head chuckling. “Okay, okay, have your fun.” Looking back at them, he said, “If you bunch of women want your gossip then here it is. I have approached Ms. Bridwell about renewing our relationship and she agreed. There. Now are you happy?”

The men offered congratulations accompanied with head jerks in approval before they got down to business.

Luke flashed on their tablets the latest list that he had compiled from all of the data. “Let’s take a look at the victims because I have finally come up with a common thread among them all.”

The men eagerly looked at him, elated for the first opportunity to find a tie between the victims.

“Okay, bear with me,” Luke began. “We know the victims have had virtually nothing in common, from ethnicity, socio-economic backgrounds, jobs, majors, religions, grades…nothing. But the one word that popped up in every report from their friends and relatives—good.”

“Good?” Bart asked. Bart, known for believing in what he could see, hear, taste, and touch was not one for accepting things outside the measurable.

“Every single girl was described as a good girl by someone,” Luke continued.

“Yeah, but don’t you think that’s something that anyone would say about someone who’s died?” Marc asked. “You know, ‘Oh, he was a good man’, or ‘She was such a sweetie’.”

“Sure,” Luke agreed, “but take it a step further. None of the evidence supports any of these victims as partiers. None of them hung around bars, went clubbing, were in a sorority, visited frat houses. Not one.”

“Okay,” Chad said slowly. “What are you thinking?”

“From what we can gather, they were all doing something out of character,” Luke replied.

Suddenly, Blaise said, “Karen usually studied at the library—almost every night. Her roommates said you could set a clock by her with her study habits. But the night in question, she changed her routine and went to a bar with friends. What if someone had watched her and then followed her?”

“But that would take time,” Bart argued. “Time for someone to watch and then act.”

“Most serial killers take that time,” Jack said. “It would only take a few consecutive evenings watching a library to notice the same girl leaving late, giving the impression that they had been there studying. Even if they haven’t, the killer could easily make that assumption. One night they’re not and something flips his switch.”

“Or he actually follows and sees them go to a bar or somewhere that he doesn’t think fits the good girl in his mind,” Cam added.

“I’m not buying it,” Bart insisted. “It’s not logical.”

Monty quickly dialed the FBI profiler and had Luke set her up on video conference again, while Cam and Bart argued the merits of the theory.

“Shirley, thanks for joining us again,” Monty greeted, effectively shutting up Cam and Bart.

She laughed and said, “I caught some of that. You have to remember what is logical to you is not necessarily going to be logical to a serial killer.”

Chastised, Bart nodded, as Monty quickly explained their theory to her.

Excited, she said, “That’s actually a very possible scenario. You see, if the killer is fanticising about a good girl, he doesn’t have to necessarily prove she is a good girl by watching her for long periods of time. And of course he could have his own definition of a good girl. Maybe just someone he saw. Maybe someone he has determined does not party. Who knows what his definition is? A few trips out of the library could be enough to prove to him that she is good and then a trip to a bar would make her not good, or whatever it is in his mind that gives him the urge to kill.”

“What about the tie-in with a fishing filet knife?” Jack asked.

Shirley thought for a moment and said, “Well, it could simply be that he has a knife readily available to him as a weapon or it could signify something more psychological.”

“Psychological?” Chad prodded.

“Yes, some trauma or experience with a fishing knife.” Shirley looked down at her notes before glancing back to the computer camera. “There is the possibility he keeps the fingers as souvenirs.”

“Like a kidnapper sending something that proves they have the person?” Bart queried.

“No. In the case of a kidnapper, you’re right, it is for proof. In a killer, it could be that this is the keepsake, if you will, for that victim. Many serial killers like to keep a memento of the person they choose to sacrifice.”

Shaking his head, Cam leaned his large frame back in his chair. “This shit just keeps getting crazier.”

Thanking her, Monty disconnected and looked around the room, his eyes landing on Jack. “Now what, boss?”

Rubbing his hand over his face in frustration, Jack replied, “Keep digging. I want that photograph of the man from the bar shown around to more possible witnesses. And we need to plot out the locations again. Why did he start out in some campuses that were further out and now has localized?”

Divvying out assignments, including a few new security contracts that had come in, the men moved upstairs once more.

As soon as they hit the first floor, Jack’s front gate alarm rang. Checking the panel, he saw a familiar face in an old sedan smiling at him. Pressing the controls, he allowed her entrance. Moving through his men, he opened the front door and watched as she drove into view.

Seeing him through the windshield, Bethany grinned nervously as she glanced at the other vehicles parked around. She hoped this impromptu visit would not anger Jack, but decided to test his ability to accept her into his world.
At least for cobbler.

He met her at her door when she parked and assisted her out. She bent over and he was forced to tell his cock to obey when her jean clad ass was perched right in his line of vision. A quick glance at the front porch revealed the smiles of his men. All seven of them. One glare from him had them laughing.

Bethany shimmied back out of her car, her hands filled with another dish. “Apple cobbler this time,” she declared.

He took the heavy dish from her, escorting her up his front steps. The men who had been ready to leave now headed back into the house and straight into the kitchen.

By the time he set the platter on the counter, all seven had plates and forks ready. Looking at her in mock sternness, Jack growled, “You gotta bake for me when these vultures are here?”

Laughing, she shrugged. “I had no idea who would be here so I baked enough for all.”

The group dug in heartily, mummers of pleasure as well as thanks were voiced all around. Each of the men seemed to accept her in Jack’s life, for which she was grateful. During their conversations, she enjoyed their commraderie and banter and began to discern the different personalities of Jack’s Saints. And friends.

Jack watched her as she fit in well with his group and realized once again that he had been a fool to toss her aside for his own fear of failing. Before she left, she walked right into his arms and he escorted her to her car, he knew he would work harder than ever to give her the white-picket fence she deserved.

T
he dim lights
in the little Italian restaurant in town, with the candles lit on each table, could not keep Jack from seeing the beauty sitting across from him.
How could I have ever thought of not having this in my life?

Bethany’s hair, pinned back from her face, hung in waves down her back. The candlelight cast dancing shadows over her face, but could not hide the twinkle in her blue eyes. Wearing a turquoise wrap top, parted just enough at the front to show a hint of cleavage, she had paired it with a simple maxi black skirt. He had noticed it as she had walked into the restaurant in front of him, as it cupped her ass perfectly. Even paired with heeled sandals, she only came to his chin.

The scents of bread baking, garlic, and tomatoes wafting from the kitchen made his mouth water, but the woman sitting with him made him desire more than just dinner.
Down boy,
he willed his dick.

Interrupting his thoughts, Bethany leaned forward and said, “I haven’t been here in years. We rarely went out, but one summer when I was visiting, Gramps brought me here.”

“He must have been a special man,” Jack said, seeing the expression crossing her face at the memory.

She looked up, a smile curving the corners of her lips. “I was sixteen years old and my high school boyfriend had broken up with me. It seemed he found the…um…easy charms of Penelope Saunders to be more intriguing than me.” Giving a small chuckle, she added, “At the time, I was devastated.”

“Then he was a fool,” he said truthfully, his hand holding hers on the top of the table.

“That’s what Gramps said. He brought me here, we ordered pizza and then he told me that one day a man would come along who thought I was the most wonderful thing on earth. And I wasn’t to settle for anyone less.”

Rubbing his thumb across the back of her hand, he agreed. “Wise man, your grandfather.” Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to hers in a gentle kiss. Whispering, he added, “Just to let you know, I think you are the most wonderful thing on earth.” He saw her eyes widen before he kissed her again. This kiss gentle, but filled with all the promise he could send to her.

Lost in each other, they jumped when the waitress appeared with their food. They settled in to enjoy their meal, the conversation flowing as they learned more about the other.

“Can I ask you something personal?”

Jack looked up in surprise. “Baby, you can ask anything in the world you want to. As long as I’m able, I’ll answer.”

“When you had your shirt off, I noticed a medallion around your neck. I could tell it was a Saint’s medallion and it struck me that you named your business the Saints. I was curious about the significance.”

His momentary silence making her suddenly unsure, she stammered, “But…um…you don’t have to tell me…or anything.”

His eyes sought hers and he quickly reached over to squeeze her hand once more. “No, baby,” he said. “I’d love to tell you. I was just lost in thought for a moment.”

Seeing her smile return, he said, “The story goes back to my name. Or maybe, it begins long before that. My grandfather was born in a little village in France. He was named Jacques Fournier. He was named, as most males in that time, for saints. St. James, or in France, St. Jacques, was his namesake. He fought in the end of World War II and when it was over, most of his village had been destroyed. He traveled to America with his bride and ended up in Baltimore. They only had one daughter, late in life, and she married my father and moved to his farm in southwest Virginia.

“They also only had one child, me, and that was late in their lives also. Named for my grandfather, I hated the name Jacques as a child. Being bigger than most, if someone tried to bully me about my name, I usually pounded them.”