Blown Away (14 page)

“I was going to say he wouldn't pass up the opportunity to tease us.”

Benedetti raised his eyebrows. “You told him about you and me?”

“I was going to. That's why I asked him to stop at the forest preserve. But he'd already figured it out.”

“I'm not surprised. He's always been a great detective,” Benedetti said. “Much better than me. But don't tell him I said so. I'll never hear the end of it.” He smiled crookedly. “You up for seeing Ken?”

She tugged the blanket to her neck, looking around. “He's here?”

“Playing ringmaster to the media circus in the lobby.”

She thought about it. “The chief would be fine,” she decided. “But nobody else. Especially no press.” She tried primping her hair, gave up. “I'm a wreck.”

“You're a vision,” Benedetti said, pulling out his phone.

A few minutes later Cross limped in. “Now this is a sight for sore eyes,” he said, with more feeling than she'd ever remembered. “How do you feel?”

“Pretty well, sir, considering.” She tried to sit up, but back spasms stopped her. “As long as I don't move too fast.”

“Physical pain goes away quickly,” Cross said. “The department's trauma counselor will stop by tonight to help you cope with the rest.” He looked her over. “You're a hero, Emily. A hundred cops want to shake your hand.”

Emily looked at the ceiling. “I'm not. I had the Unsub in my sights, and I couldn't get the job done.”

Cross dragged a chair to the bed. “It wasn't from lack of trying,” he said. “You hit him several times, according to the witnesses. But criminals buy body armor, too. His was probably a full combat package, helmet to boots, since your bullets didn't faze him.”

Emily recalled the Unsub's hat covering everything down to his eyes. “So that's why he didn't stop when I hit him. He wore bulletproof…” Her eyelids dropped to half-mast.

“Let's go, Marty,” Cross said.

“Just give me a minute to rest, sir,” Emily mumbled. “Wanna hear about the attack…gotta get back to work…fix up my house…”

Cross smiled. “Don't even think about that, Detective. You're on fully paid medical leave till this is over. Public Works will maintain your house and yard, and Finance will handle your checkbook. Recovery is your only assignment. I expect you to give it your usual 110 percent.”

Emily forced her eyes open. “I appreciate that, Chief. Please thank everybody for me. But I don't need more time off. I'm fine. I've slept eight hours, and I'm ready for duty. Dr. Winslow will confirm I have no medical restrictions.”

Cross shook his head. “No dice, Detective. I understand how you feel—”

“No, you don't.”

Benedetti threw her a look that said, “Don't push it,” but she was on a roll. “Chief, my head is on perfectly straight, and I have no intention of hiding. This man gunned down two cops in broad daylight. Shot up a crowd of civilians. He's a killing machine. If I vanish, he'll murder more innocents to flush me out. I can't let that happen.” She slumped into her pillow, panting.

Cross looked at Benedetti. “She's right,” he said.

“Unfortunately.”

“Can we protect her well enough?”

Benedetti nodded.

“All right then, Detective. You're on the task force,” Cross said. “Under two nonnegotiable conditions. First, you overnight at the safe house to regain your bearings. Second, you don't complain about the twenty-four-hour SWAT protection you're getting. Not one peep. Till we catch the Unsub, all independent movement is null and void.”

“Done.” She took a deep breath, released. “Has the task force learned anything yet?”

Cross shifted to his other hip. “Yes. The blast at Neuqua High was no accident.”

Benedetti's eyebrows flew up. “When did BATFE determine that?”

Emily looked confused.

“The Justice Department's Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives,” Cross explained to her. “BATFE. What used to be ATF before September 11.” Back to Benedetti. “Judy Stephens called on my way up here. The soil where the natural gas pipeline meets the school foundation contained plastic-explosive residue.”

“What kind? Semtex?”

“Judy thinks so. Her lab is still running tests. She theorizes the Unsub shimmied up the construction trench, set the bomb, and packed around enough dirt to ensure nobody found it. FBI and Homeland Security are ruling out terrorism, making our Unsub the most likely culprit.”

“Then it was Timebomb,” Emily said. She counted on her fingers. “The sixth game.”

“Seventh, I'm afraid,” Cross said. “The Operation game may be connected to last December's torture slaying of a Massachusetts state trooper. Do you remember that case?”

“No,” she admitted. “My memory is very spotty.”

“Trauma batters the brain,” Cross said. “Makes hash of your memory. It happened to me when I got shot. The good news is it comes back. Not tomorrow, maybe not for weeks or months, but eventually, you'll remember everything.” He looked at Benedetti, who took up the story.

“They found the dead trooper in a wall tent. It was set up like a MASH unit, a detail they withheld from the media,” he said. “There was an operating table, lights, air tanks, scalpels, saws, everything you'd find in an operating room. Their Unsub handcuffed the trooper to the table and surgically removed ten organs—heart, solar plexus, rib, stomach, knee—”

“Oh, that poor man!” Emily breathed, feeling herself shiver under the blanket.

“Yeah,” Benedetti said. “Turns out the trooper's organs match the plastic versions contained in the Operation game—Broken Heart, Bread Basket, Spare Ribs, Butterflies in Stomach, Water on the Knee, what have you. Nobody could have known then that it was a game, or that the two Unsubs are actually the same man. One of the FBI guys made the connection and told Ken.”

Cross popped a throat lozenge. “This killer is far more cunning than we realized. To that end, I've asked the State Police to reinvestigate the deaths of your parents and husband.”

Emily's mouth fell open.

“They may not have been the accidents they seemed at the time,” Benedetti explained.

Cross turned his palm over and back. “It's unlikely, I admit. But forensic science is far better than two decades ago. Especially DNA. We'll run each case from scratch, see what we find. Because your birthday is so near, we and the feds agreed to leave out the usual interagency backstabbing. An FBI lab team is working with our CSIs, and Homeland Security will funnel our data through its worldwide intelligence networks. Dr. Marwood's already working up a criminal profile.”

“Marwood? Who's that?” Emily asked.

“Ellis Marwood. An industrial psychologist who worked on the Massachusetts case. He created their profile, so he's familiar with how their Unsub thinks. He flew in several hours ago.”

“Why not a profiler from the FBI?”

“They're swamped with terror assignments. They've contracted with Dr. Marwood many times and highly recommend him. Plus he can stay as long as we need.” He looked at Emily. “I'm running the task force personally and named Marty my chief investigator.”

“Only till Branch is back,” Benedetti said.

“Goes without saying,” Cross said. “Local, federal, state, and county law enforcement are all on board. The University of Illinois made its supercomputer available for data crunching. As I mentioned, there's the profiler. Anybody I'm forgetting, Marty?”

“Me,” Emily answered.

Cross smiled. “Couldn't do this without you.” He pulled a badge from his pocket and placed it on her blanket.

She stared. It was gold instead of silver. “Detective” instead of “officer.” Her eyes filled. “Thanks, Chief,” she whispered.

“You earned it,” Cross said. “Any more questions?”

She strained to remember the shooting scene. “I think there was a white minivan?”

“Yes. It was stolen from long-term parking at O'Hare Airport, abandoned in a subdivision near the forest preserve entrance. We assume the Unsub had a second vehicle prepositioned.”

“Where did he leave my police card? In the van?”

Benedetti surprised her by saying, “He didn't leave one. And the scenario doesn't match your games, or any on that Web site. I don't think this was part of his master plan. It was spur of the moment, a twist he hadn't scripted.”

Emily nodded as another fragment shook loose. “The Unsub couldn't have known to stash a getaway vehicle, Chief. We didn't know we were going to McDowell till we reached River Road.”

“Damn. It was inside the van,” Cross said. “Had to be.”

“Something small,” Benedetti agreed. “Bicycle. Motorcycle. Dirt bike.”

“Electric scooter,” Cross guessed. “Doesn't stand out, because they're so common. Allows him to wear helmet and goggles to cloak his appearance, detour through fields or parking lots. He drives outside the roadblock zone and transfers to a third vehicle.” He pursed his lips. “This man is well prepared.”

“But not invincible,” Benedetti said. “If he'd made just one mistake at the parking lot…”

“That's his Achilles' heel,” Emily said. “He left the script because of his obsession with me, and he'll do it again. That's when we'll get him.” She thumbed her morphine button, felt the velvet hammer of the opiate soothe her joints. “What…now?” she croaked, wondering who'd stolen her voice.

Cross looked at her with fresh concern. “You rest. When you're discharged tonight, you go to the safe house.” He pointed to the SWAT cops crowding her doorway. “These are your new best friends, Detective. Sergeant Bates leads your protective team. She's at the safe house already.”

“We'll keep you nice and safe, Emily,” a SWAT reassured from the hall. “Like Robin and the Seven Hoods.”

“More like Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs,” Benedetti cracked.

“Yeah, Commander, you're just jealous of our snappy uniforms….”

“Can't they guard me at home?” Emily asked. “I'd kill for my own bed.”

“Forget it,” Cross said. “That log cabin of yours is too tough to secure. With all the media attention, too well known. Besides, the profiler wants you on neutral ground.”

“What profiler?” She saw Cross and Benedetti trade glances, didn't know why.

“Dr. Ellis Marwood,” Cross repeated. “He did the profiling on the torture-murder of that Massachusetts state trooper. Remember we were just talking about it?”

No,
she thought. “What does a profiler do? Like that TV show?”

“Except for the stiletto heels and shoot-outs,” Benedetti said. “Dr. Marwood will figure out what kind of person is targeting you—loves his mommy, wets his bed, works manual labor, hates cops, sleeps in a coffin, whatever. Then he'll create a personality portrait, hoping it'll suggest someone. If we have multiple suspects, the profile can narrow the field.”

Cross popped another lozenge. “Since the Unsub's obsession is you, the person Dr. Marwood will work most closely with is, naturally—”

“Me,” she said, already hating the invasion of privacy it implied. But she'd promised not to complain. “Make sure he talks to Annie,” she urged. “She was right there. She helped me stop Branch's bleeding.”

Benedetti frowned. “That was me, Emily. Not Annie.”

“You?” Emily said, astonished.

He nodded. “Annie was responding, but her car broke down. I got to you first. You knocked my hands aside to do the finger-in-the-dike—”

“God, Marty, I don't remember!” Emily wailed. “I'd have sworn on a stack of Bibles you were Annie Bates! My head is so messed up!”

“That's why you're going to the safe house,” Cross said. “A good night's sleep in a totally secure environment will help. Dr. Winslow prefers you stay at the hospital, and normally, I'd agree. But it's too open for us to guarantee protection against an Unsub attack. At the safe house, we can. You'll get a good night's sleep and start fresh in the morning.”

Emily wanted to say she could start right away, but her traumatized nerves were sending missile strikes into her body. “Now that I think about it, Chief,” she said, melting back into her pillows, “a night off isn't the worst idea I've ever heard.”

Cross smiled. “Glad to hear it, Detective. We'll be in touch.” He pivoted and limped out.

Emily punched the morphine button and drifted into space.

Chicago
October 1974

“Weakling!” Dwight Kepp screeched, hammering his son with the leather belt. “You wet the bed again! Nine years old and you keep wetting your fucking bed!”

Brady chewed his tongue to keep from screaming. While proud that he could take anything Father dished out, he had limits. Sobbing, begging, or other displays of “sissy-ness” would double the punishment, and his butt couldn't take it after last week's “correction” for a B on a spelling test instead of his usual A.

“I buy nice things for my family, and all you do is wreck them!” Dwight swung so fast that sweat sprayed Brady's back. “What the hell kind of a son pisses all over his father's love?”

 

“Bastard,” Gerald Thompson seethed, turning to stare at the house they just walked past. “That isn't right, beating the crap out of a kid like that.”

“Some parents use harsh discipline,” Alexandra pointed out. “Sad but true—”

“A normal kid would holler, beg the old man to stop,” Gerald interrupted, fists bunched. “This one isn't saying a word. He's scared he's gonna die. I'm gonna stop this.”

Alexandra linked her arm into his. “You can't just barge in there, Gerry,” she said firmly. “I see a police car at the corner. Let's tell the officers.”

“I'd rather grab some boys from the mill and beat this guy till Easter. See how he likes it.”

Alexandra shot back, “You head the biggest steel union in Chicago. Bring a gang to duke it out with this idiot and the police will wind up arresting you. It'll appear in the newspapers, and you'll get fired.”

Gerald snorted. “Boys would elect me pope if that happened.”

“It's still not worth it, honey,” she said. “That's what the police are for. Let's tell them.”

 

“Oh, no,” Alice Kepp gasped, running for the house. She'd heard screaming a half block away, and two policemen were headed for her front door. She darted around the side of the house, entered through the back, dumped the groceries, and rushed toward the front.

 

The doorbell chimed a half dozen times, halting Dwight's arm mid-swing. “Chicago Police!” he heard two men bellow. “Open up!”

“All right, boy, make yourself presentable,” Dwight hissed. I've got to take care of this. No whining to those coppers—they're not part of our family.” He looped his belt in his trousers, calmly opened the front door. “Hello, Officers,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“We heard someone beating his kid,” the senior cop said. “That you?”

Dwight put on his best salesman expression. “Officer, all I can say is—”

“Darling, what do the policemen want?” Alice asked, slipping her arm through his.

“They heard me punishing our boy,” Dwight said, sounding embarrassed. “I guess I got carried away with the theatrics we decided to employ.”

Alice nodded. “I'm so sorry we put you to any trouble, Officers,” she said, blushing. “I've been trying to help our nine-year-old quit wetting the bed. We've talked to him till we're blue in the face, put rubber sheets on the bed, everything. I've even tried spanking, but it doesn't take. A woman just isn't strong enough to handle a big active boy.”

“So she asked me if a good old-fashioned belt whupping, same I got from my old man when I misbehaved, would work for little Brady,” Dwight said. “I thought it might.”

“That's your son's name?” the junior cop asked. “Brady?”

Dwight nodded. “We tried all that Dr. Spock nonsense, and it didn't work.”

“Who the hell is Dr. Spock?” the senior cop said.

“He wrote that fancy book on raising kids,” junior said. “My wife swears by it.”

Alice looked at Dwight. “I was at wit's end and asked my husband to try the only thing left.” Her blush deepened. “Brady wets his pants at school,” she said, so soft the cops strained to hear. “You know how cruel kids are at this age, Officers. He's teased mercilessly. We just wanted to end the wetting so our boy won't be so miserable. Father Snowe wants Brady to go out for football, but he's petrified of wetting himself in front of the other boys. So we did what we thought was right, and it got out of hand. We're so sorry.”

The cops' expressions softened. “I understand, ma'am,” senior said, recalling the lickings he'd taken from the old man. And he'd turned out fine! This was a nice couple in a good neighborhood of churchgoing people. No previous police calls to this address. The husband talked educated, looked like a successful businessman. The wife was pretty, slender, and as graceful as a ballerina, clearly wanting the best for her family. Like any good parents, they simply made a bad judgment call.

“Would you like to see Brady, Officer?” Alice offered. “To make sure we're telling the truth?”

They're not trying to hide anything,
senior decided, following her.
I'll check out the boy. Then we'll take off.

Junior, meantime, escorted Dwight to the front porch. “Listen, Kepp,” he said as soon as the door latch clicked. “Raising kids is tough. Especially boys. You gotta smack the fresh out of them sometimes. But you were outta control, and we can't have that.”

 

“Hello,” Brady said, sitting up against his Chicago Bears headboard.

“Hello yourself, son,” senior said, smelling the urine. “How are you this evening?”

“Fine,” he said, looking at his mother in bewilderment. She patted his head and said, “This is a police officer, Brady. He wants to ask about your father's punishment.”

The boy's eyes widened. “Are you going to arrest me for wetting the bed, Mr. Policeman?”

“No, lad, nothing like that,” senior assured, kneeling to the boy's level. “It's just your father was hitting you, and I wanted to make sure you were all right. Did he use something besides his hand?”

“His belt,” Brady said, wincing. “It made my bottom sting. But I promised Father I wouldn't wet the bed anymore, and he stopped hitting me right away. I'm OK now.” He paled. “Please don't arrest Father, Mr. Policeman. He loves me, and I love him. He'd never hurt me for real.”

 

“The yelling was mostly theatrics,” Dwight explained, looking ashamed. “To reinforce the spanking. I figured I could scare the boy into behaving where my wife couldn't. But I went a little too long with that belt. I'm sorry.”

“It's OK,” junior assured, taking Dwight's elbow. “We've all been there, believe me. I have four boys myself.” He tightened his thumb into the elbow nerve, making Dwight gasp. “But if we have to come back here, my partner and I will drive you to the station house for a chat. Only three blocks away, but it'll take forty minutes to get there.” He pushed deeper yet. Dwight blanched from the lancing pain. “Do we understand each other, Kepp?”

 

“I wonder how it turned out?” Alexandra said as Gerry hung their jackets. She adored these “just us” after-supper walks with her husband of eleven years. Both late bloomers socially, they didn't meet and marry till their mid-thirties. She'd wanted only one child so she could keep her career as a legal adviser to poor women. Gerry said fine, the choice was every bit hers as his. And meant it. The man was a treasure—brave, sexy, and intelligent, and still in good enough shape to play league softball. He tramped the North Woods every deer season with Tommy Lutz's nephews and approached Saturday night's family games with optimism, even though their daughter skunked both of them regularly. She and Emily, whom Gerry dubbed “Princess” in affectionate teasing of her tomboy ways, were his worldly treasures, his shining lights. Who could ask more from a man, husband, and best friend?

“Don't know,” Gerald said, shrugging. “I hope they broke the shitbird's kneecaps.”

Alexandra laughed, and they went to check Emily's homework.

 

“You put the fear of God in him?” senior cop asked junior.

“He got our message loud and clear,” junior assured him.

“Good lad,” senior said, punching the kid on the shoulder. This rookie was going to make a fine copper, because he already knew justice isn't always served in a courthouse.

 

“Did I do good, darling?” Alice whispered, praying Dwight's anger at their son had cooled. She stroked his arm. “I didn't want you in police trouble.”

“You did great,” Dwight assured, patting her cheek. “I'm proud of you. But Brady still needs to learn not to wet the bed. Maybe some time in the closet—”

“No, please,” Alice begged. She hated when he wrapped Brady in the urine-soaked sheets and locked him in the broom closet till he “learned his lesson.” “If the police find out, they'll haul you to jail, and we'll never see you again!” She knew how to distract him. It would hurt, but sometimes a mother had no choice. “It was my fault, all of it. I allowed Brady to drink a can of pop right before going to bed. I knew better and did it, anyway, forcing you to beat him when it was really my doing.” Her husband's breathing became shallow, and she knew she had him. “Discipline me, Dwight, not the boy. Correct me so I can be the wife you deserve.”

Dwight smiled, pointed to the basement stairs. She descended, mouth dry. They walked into the root cellar, which Dwight had soundproofed several years ago for the express purpose of disciplining his family without alerting neighbors. “You scream too loud when you force me to discipline you,” he'd explained when she asked why he'd bought the truckful of insulation and Sheetrock. “So I'll handle it down here. It's nobody's business what goes on between a man and his family.” He'd been religious about using the cellar but was so eye-popping furious at the stench of urine—he'd just returned triumphant from Manhattan, having brokered millions of dollars of insurance for a new skyscraper called the World Trade Center—he beat Brady right in the bed. As the police response proved, that was a mistake he dared not repeat.

Dwight locked the door and removed his belt. “All right, dear,” he said. “If you insist on this discipline, I'm happy to oblige.”

“Yes,” Alice muttered. “I insist.” She tugged her flowered dress over her head, hung it neatly on an armchair. Dwight paid a lot of money for her clothes and didn't like them wrinkled. She removed her white bra and panties—any other color made her look cheap, Dwight said—locking her eyes with his. “Ready, darling?” she said, noting the bulge near his fly. Good. His anger was already draining. She cupped her small breasts and rubbed the nipples stiff, the way he liked.

“Bend over,” he directed.

She leaned over the chartreuse davenport she'd inherited from her grandmother. She pushed her breasts deep into the cushions and thrust her buttocks in the air, standing on tiptoe and spreading her legs wide. Dwight liked to see “everything” as he worked, in order to hit the “right spots.” She dreaded the cellar. Her slender body had so little fat that every blow was torture. But Brady had had nightmares for two months after his last closeting, so she did what she had to do. Dwight formed a loop in the belt, snapped it till she flinched. He drew back his arm. She closed her eyes and tensed, praying he'd tire before his usual twenty-five.

Bam!

“That's one, Father,” she gasped, determined not to scream. “May I have another?”

Bam!

“That's…two…Father. May I…have another?”

Bam!

He stopped at nineteen, wheezing. “Have you learned your lesson?” he said, slipping the leather tip back through the loops.

“Yes, Father,” she croaked, burning from pelvis to knees. Dwight's aim got sloppy when his arm tired.

“Good. I'll be in our bedroom so you can thank me for correcting you.” He ran his manicured hand between her legs, sparking new agony. But she didn't even wince. For that, she was proud.

“I'll be up soon, darling. Make yourself comfortable while I clean up,” she muttered through her dizziness.
Why do I put up with this?
she wondered.
Maggie says it's shameful. She says he'll kill us one of these days, and we should get out while we can. Maybe I should listen.
But her best friend didn't mind being divorced. She, on the other hand, couldn't imagine life without a husband. Even if she did find the courage to leave, where could she go? Her deeply religious parents believed “till death do us part” was an original Commandment. They'd never take her in and would, in fact, call Dwight to fetch her “so you won't embarrass your family any further.” She couldn't support herself, let alone a growing child. She had no job skills because “no wife of mine will ever work.” Tears brimming, she stiff-legged to the lotion she applied to keep her skin from cracking. She gingerly worked in the creamy white balm, heartsick at what she'd become.

 

“Don't stop now, Father. She hasn't cried,” Brady mumbled, listening to the whipping through the furnace vent. “It's Mom's fault I wet the bed, not mine. You're right to discipline her. Just like you discipline me for breaking your rules.” Still no scream. Disappointed, he abandoned the vent for his window, looking for the cat that visited every night.

“There you are,” he whispered happily as the gangly brown feline approached. He tapped on the glass. The cat hopped onto the wide sill, staring with its one good eye, pawing the window in friendship. He'd been taming this one for weeks, and tomorrow it'd surely accept the bowl of milk he'd put on the back porch. He'd smack the cat with the hammer as it drank, carry it to the woods. He'd already hidden fresh gasoline and matches in the tree crotch and couldn't wait to see how big a fire this animal would make.

He giggled. The puppy he'd stolen from the truck when the dogcatcher wasn't looking had screamed insanely when it burned, making his pee-pee go stiff in his pants. “You and I will have lots of fun tomorrow,” he whispered, waving good-bye to the cat. “Just you wait and see.”