A Fortress Defiled

By Connie Johnson

Jillian Jax is an agent in the Special Homicide Unit, an elite division within the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. Special in Jillian s world means serial killings, mass murder, and ritual slaughter. As Jillian embarks upon each investigation, troublesome past life experiences, shared with the killers, are revealed. The murderers of today are malevolent manifestations, ghoulish beings echoing down through the ages. They have committed atrocities in the distant past, and are reincarnated in the present day, intent to repeat the crimes of their former lives. It is now Jillian s job to break the links that have chained her to the traumatic events of the past, and bring the killers to justice. In A Fortress Defiled, Jillian confronts a blood-thirsty thug who is kidnapping and murdering St. Paul s promising young men and women. The killer is a mirror image of his former self, a prince who, four hundred years ago, preyed upon the youth of the Carpathian Mountains.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hillcrest Media Group
• Release date: May 28, 2015
• ISBN: 9781634135719

Book preview

Epilogue

Prologue

Dreaming Ileana

I am scrabbling, falling down a rocky escarpment; scrub pines dot the landscape, and I grab at the rough brush to help break my fall. The castle is behind me, a gray stone structure that exudes evil. A crushed body lies below one of the three turrets. Far below me, I see my village.

I am escaping, running away, and I travel as fast as the mountain slope allows. A cold wind whips my hair around my face. Cold. I am so cold. My bare feet are bruised and bleeding.

The scene switches, and now I am on flat ground. I am sprinting toward the castle. I run as if life depends upon it. Fear overwhelms me, and I know someone will not survive if I do not reach the stronghold.

I look up to see a fearful countenance peering down at me from one of the three turret windows. This castle has changed size, shape, and color. The stone is now brown, and the structure is smaller. Still a pall of malevolence hangs over it.

I pick up my pace. The heat is sweltering, and sweat runs down my back. My boots are clumsy on my feet and slow my stride.

Two castles—one gray, one brown. I am escaping one, running toward the other. Both have three towers built into the structure, and it is from these battlements that wisps of evil seep out and into the surrounding landscape.

An overriding sense of foreboding fills my body. Houses of death. I am overcome with a primal sense of grief—something precious lost; something cherished gone forever.

Chapter One

Present—Wednesday, July 6

Wake up, Mommy. You’re making noises again. You’re scaring me.

I can sense Binky’s sweaty little body snuggled up against me. I reach for the reality of her voice, struggling out of the deep, malevolent place where the mean dreams live.

I am still partially submerged in the nightmare, but an incongruous thought drifts through my mind. I need to get air-conditioning in Binky’s room. She doesn’t complain about the heat, but still I think we might forego some of these early summer mornings with a cooler room.

Not that sleeping in is a standard in our lives, and certainly not today. Dad came over late last night to snooze on the couch and watch over Binky so I could join the team in Elko. We didn’t get done out there until after two in the morning. Nick wants us back in the office by eight thirty for a meeting.

I am not unhappy to feel Binky’s sticky body pressed into mine at this early hour. She is the best part of my life. Bettina—Binky to those who know and love her.

My husband, Joey Jax, named Binky after his own Grandma Betts. Betts was a remarkable woman. I am still sad she never got to meet her great-granddaughter. But I am glad she died before Joey did, because his death would have killed her.

If it weren’t for Binky, I think his death might have killed me, too. Binky has no memory of her daddy. He died in Afghanistan before her first month of life on earth. He is her hero, though, as he remains mine; not for the war, but for the beautiful person he was then, and is now.

My own dad, the one who graciously came over last night to catnap on the couch until well after two in the morning, was a cop. He spent thirty years on the force in Minneapolis.

When I was thirteen years old, he was wounded in the line of duty. Dad intercepted two men involved in an armed robbery and was shot in the shoulder. He sustained a minor injury and returned to the job within a few weeks.

The shooting changed my world forever. My perception of my safety, and the safety of those I loved, was altered. The gunfire triggered something terrible in me, and the nightmares started.

My doctor diagnosed me with an anxiety disorder. I lived in a constant state of hypervigilance, always scanning my environment for possible threats. When Dad worked, somewhere in the hidden reserves of my mind I felt it was my job to keep him safe. If I didn’t do it, something bad would happen to him, or me, or the world. How did I know?

I was a wreck. My grades suffered, I quit the swim team, I lost my appetite, and I didn’t dare go to sleep for fear of the nightmares. Except for Sondra, my social life ceased to exist. Not so good for a young girl in her teens.

With the support and assistance of the Minneapolis Police Department, Mom and Dad found a good therapist for me. The counseling was tremendously beneficial and helped me put names to things, to put my thoughts and feelings into a proper context.

Dad provided me with the best training possible, however. He enrolled me in gun safety classes and took me out to the range so I could learn to shoot his guns. He found a martial arts school for me with a heavy emphasis on karate and judo. He taught me how to be deliberately watchful of the physical space around me.

On my own I found a six-week rape aggression defense course in Indiana. In camp, I developed my love of kick-ass boots. And my disdain for high-heeled girly shoes.

I tamed my beasts to a manageable level and finished high school and college without undue discomfort. I understand the anxiety, the nightmares, and the hypervigilance will always be a part of me, but they don’t plague me like they used to. The intensity is diminished; the frequency is reduced.

Except sometimes. Joey’s death brought back the worst of it. I was pregnant with Binky when he left for Afghanistan, so I thought I would be obliged to do the birth without him. He was, however, granted a short leave for the birth, so he was here for her first two weeks. I am grateful for that—grateful he saw her, named her, held her, and kissed her; because within a week of his return to Afghanistan, death came for him.

Even in the throes of my deepest grief I understood I had to find my balance, if not for myself, then for Binky. I realized I needed to empower myself. I understood what had worked in the past. I spent every single one of my spare moments at the shooting range or at the dojo. I tamed those god-damned beasts back to a manageable level.

I worked up until the day of Binky’s birth. The city of St. Paul gives the standard twelve-week family medical leave, plus I managed to accrue a good bit of overtime. Altogether I had almost five months’ leave before I needed to return to my job. Time needed to get my shit back together after Joey died.

I suppose it was almost inevitable that I became a police officer, what with the influence of my dad. Police Officer Standards and Training came right after college. I applied for various cop jobs around the metro area as soon as I graduated from POST.

St. Paul hired me almost right out of the chute. Coming from a police family didn’t hurt, and neither did being a woman. I started on patrol, as we all do. Within three years I accepted a promotion to work as a homicide detective. I worked in this position for an additional two years.

Then Binky was born and Joey died. I had intended to return to my cop job with St. Paul, but the BCA, the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, had just developed a new unit within their Homicide Division. Special Homicides. Leave it to the bureaucrats to use the words special and homicide in the same name. Special in this case means bizarre, unusual, excessively violent serial murders, particularly violent murders that cross jurisdictional lines, murders associated with cult or cult behaviors.

I applied for the job and was more than a little surprised when I got it. The Special Homicides Unit is almost six years old and I am one of the original hires, as are the others on the team. Certain cases move me dangerously close to the worst of the bad times.

My nightmare tells me this is going to be one of the bad ones.

I am Jillian Jax, and this is my story.

Chapter Two

In the Beginning—Lucas, Friday, June 17

Lucas Devereaux is pleased with himself. Today the mantle of the artist settled comfortably on his shoulders. Many people visited his booth and, after listening to a day’s worth of overheard comments, he is as close to euphoric as he can get. And these were the pieces he painted in high school. He will only get better.

In his own definition of himself, this day is the day he moved from being an art student to an artist. His parents would disagree; already they see him as the artist he intends to become. Lucas recognizes and appreciates their unflagging support and the multiple opportunities they have given him.

Mom and Dad fought hard to get him a place in the renowned Montage Academic Arts School, and Lucas began attending classes there shortly after his tenth birthday.

The Montage has its home in White Bear Lake, and the school is located in a historic cottage on the lake itself. The city owns the building, and it is on permanent loan to the Montage with the understanding that, as long as the school remains dedicated to the betterment of the arts, the cottage remains theirs to use.

Calling the structure a cottage is a bit of an understatement. The home boasts seven thousand square feet of space, and the eight spacious bedrooms have been adapted to fit the needs of the various arts. A porch wraps around all sides of the building, and the lakefront side features multiple floor-to-ceiling windows.

The cottage had been the perfect setting for Lucas to explore his fascination with the colors and textures that various shadings of light and weather make on the waters. His captivation with light and water began early.

Lucas’s mother is a musician with a passion for art history. Her favorite painting is Monet’s The Manneport, Rock Arch West of Etretat, and she owns a reproduction piece which is prominently displayed in the upstairs family room. As a young boy, Lucas spent hours in front of the painting, studying the diverse colorings of the water as the light moved across it.

When the family spent time at their North Shore cabin on Lake Superior, Lucas created hundreds of studies of the lake, preliminary sketches done in preparation for pieces he would complete at the Montage. His finished works included the lake and the landscape around it, Gooseberry Falls, the Baptism River, and the Split Rock Lighthouse. All were done in the Impressionism style of Monet.

He expanded his artistic education when the family spent a summer month in England. Dad was sent to London for work, and the family joined him there. Lucas soon discovered the National Gallery and the Tate, and it was here he spent the bulk of his time.

In the Tate, he discovered James Abbot McNeill Whistler and was particularly fascinated with The Old Battersea Bridge nocturne piece. The Battersea piece inspired his own series of paintings; his bridge was the Stone Arch Bridge in Minneapolis, however, and he painted approximately thirty different works involving the historic structure.

He painted at dusk and at dawn; he painted fog, sleet, rain, and snow. He painted bright days and gloomy days. Again he did hundreds of studies and completed his work at the Montage.

Today he sold one of his Split Rock Lighthouse paintings and two from the Stone Arch Bridge series. Many other pieces attracted attention, and Lucas gave away numerous business cards to those who expressed interest. His biggest coup, however, occurred when a local gallery owner chatted with him for a few minutes and asked for his contact information.

Now he is on his way to meet Zach and Micah, childhood friends from Woodbury. As previously agreed, he meets them at the merry-go-round, in the park where the Art Festival is being held.

The young men drink beer and lazily kick the merry-go-round into an unhurried movement. They discuss the day’s events and celebrate Lucas’s success. Numerous toasts are offered as each new beer is cracked.

Sometime around one in the morning, Lucas decides to go home. The victory of the day has inspired him, and he expects a similar success in the upcoming days of the festival.

Lucas, Micah, and Zach part; Lucas goes to his car, and Micah and Zach depart to theirs. As Lucas nears his vehicle, a rustling sound behind him disturbs his inebriated reverie. He turns to investigate, but his responses are slow due to the alcohol consumed.

He feels a sharp pain in the head and all goes black; he floats down and down and into the waters under the Battersea Bridge.

Chapter Three

Present—Wednesday July 6

I need to get out of bed, call Mom to let her know I am coming (hopefully Dad is still sleeping), and get Binky over to Grandma and Grandpa. No time to waste. I need Sondra’s wisdom before I meet with Nick and the rest of the team.

I let Binky stay in my bed; although she is a six-year-old, she still loves Doc McStuffins, so I tune in her program for her. She fancies herself a budding veterinarian and is apparently taking her early training here. Lately she has been begging for a pet. She would prefer a horse but would settle for a bunny, a cat, or a dog.

I use the excuse of my job to forego pet ownership—having a living creature would not be fair to the animal, what would happen when Binky is with Grandpa and Grandma, and so on.

I am beginning to reconsider. Maybe we could get a pet that could go back and forth from here to Grandpa’s and Grandma’s. I doubt my parents would be opposed. Lord knows we had tons of pets when we were kids.

Having a real live animal companion would provide Binky an expanded measure of continuity. Right now Binky relies on Bobby the Bunny, but he is wearing out, and Binky is quite insistent she wants to trade Bobby in for a real bunny.

I need a short fifteen minutes to get ready. Thank God I have easy hair. When I was a kid I used to wish I was a blonde, but I long ago accepted my own thick, dark hair, which requires almost no care at all. A quick hair and body wash, towel dry, clothes, mascara, and lip gloss. I am good to go.

Binky’s auburn curls, and breakfast, must come under the capable hands of Grandma, as will the cleaning of Binky’s glasses. Like any six-year-old, she seems to be able to view the world though smudges and smears with no apparent discomfort.

By design, we live just a few short blocks from my parents, Grandpa and Grandma Bjornson. It took me awhile to crawl up out of my grief after Joey died, and even longer to begin to make a plan. I decided that if I wanted to continue my career in law enforcement, and I did, the best arrangement was to return to the neighborhood in which I grew up.

Mom and Dad retired several years ago. Their home is a lovely brick affair, built sometime in the 1930s. I was just a little kid when Dad hung a tire swing from the oak in the backyard. I grew up with the swing, as did my sister Robin; and now it’s a favorite for Binky as well.

Unlike my own tiny home—the house my sister and I were raised in—the Bjornson family home is one of the bigger ones in the neighborhood. My old bedroom is now Binky’s. She has been allowed to decorate her room as she wishes.

Mom and Dad share the biggest bedroom, and my sister continues to reside in the bedroom she has had since she was a baby. The fourth bedroom was converted into an office/computer room. The finished basement serves as a TV room, a playroom for Binky, and a general family recreation area.

The elementary school is within walking distance of both of our homes, not that Dad ever let me walk. This really pissed me off when I was a kid. Now that I am an adult with a kid of my own, and a cop like my dad, I won’t let Binky walk either.

When I was accepted at the BCA, Mom and Dad volunteered to do child care for Binky. We all recognized my hours would be unpredictable and inconsistent, so the flexibility they offer is greatly appreciated.

I think they were eager to step in. They tried hard to hide their worries for me, but I am pretty sure they were uneasy about my unsettled past and foresaw the ghost of my troubles looming over me.

They wanted this BCA job for me; working for the BCA is a great career move. I know they had an additional goal, however. They hoped this job would give me a different focus. As Sondra might say, a shift in energetic expression. However said, their combined hope was to move me into attention, or curiosity, or whatever it took to keep me interested in life.

They were right about this. Not for a moment do I regret taking this job. Some of the things we experience, however, are so gruesome, so shocking, that I am also, at times, thrust back into the nightmares, anxiety, and hypervigilance.

Mom, Dad, my sister, and Sondra are all there is to Binky’s family, and they love my little fatherless babe almost as much as I do; maybe as much. I don’t know for sure, but I know mother love is powerful, indeed. If Binky must be without a daddy, then she is extremely lucky in her extended family. As am I. Her clan may be small, but it is devoted.

As a bonus, my mom is a retired emergency room nurse, and my dad is a retired cop. Binky gets the best in terms of love, commitment, and safety. Being this close to my parents also means if Binky is in bed at night and I am called out, either Mom or Dad can come over and sleep on the couch, at least until I get home, as happened last night.

When Binky was born and I took the job with the BCA, I bought a little house just a few blocks from them. I found the perfect home in no time at all. We now live in the Lake Nokomis area in an older, two-bedroom bungalow built just after World War II. Apart from the air-conditioning issue, our house is perfect for us. The tiny detached garage in the back of the house faces the alleyway. My SUV barely fits, but fit it does.

Binky runs up the sidewalk into the willing arms of my adopted sister, Robin. Robin and Binky. Surely they are the founding members of the mutual admiration society.

We adopted Robin when I was ten. No one knows where she came from. As a newborn, she was abandoned on the front doorstep of a Duluth-area hospital—left in a pink plastic baby bathtub sometime in the night.

Fortunately for her, it was a warm June morning when she was discovered. The hospital staff opened the door, discovered Robin, and noticed the front lawn was covered in birds, most of them robins. Someone had inadvertently left the sprinklers on in the night and the birds were feasting on the worms that came to the surface.

The staff called her Robin. Social Services and the foster family called her Robin. By the time she got to us, we agreed the familiarity of the name might be a comfort and, accordingly, she remained Robin.

There was a great deal of speculation that Robin was the result of an unreported home birth. Of course there were many who thought she might also be the result of an incestuous relationship. A great deal of secrecy surrounded the circumstances of her birth.

The Safe Haven law protecting the surrender of unharmed babies was not in effect then. Still, Social Services made strenuous efforts to find the biological mother so Robin could be reunited with her if reunification seemed like a workable plan. Their efforts came to nothing, and Robin found her safe haven with us.

Robin continues to live at home with our parents: if I have my way this is where she will stay. Robin, however, is becoming increasingly insistent about moving into her own apartment.

She makes good money at Patrizio’s Pizza and Pasta and can move if she wants. She is good with her assets and shops the thrift stores for items she deems necessary for her future apartment. The thought of her moving makes me nervous.

Robin is one of the nicest people I know. She is sweet, clever, hard-working, and happy; she is astute in a way that is sometimes scary. And she has Down syndrome. Robin does not define herself as vulnerable in any way. I do. I think she is willing to take far too many risks. I would keep her in a safe little bubble if I could.

Chapter Four

In the Beginning—Angela, Saturday, July 2

Angela Parker lives on the farm with her family, as does her cousin Aubrey. Their great-great grandfather acquired hundreds of acres of prime agricultural land during the Great Depression, obtained unethically and, some say, criminally. When he died, the land passed down to his only son, the girls’ great-grandfather.

Their own grandfather, another only son, inherited the farm. Grandpa Parker broke tradition, however, and fathered three sons. Uncle Jerome lives in the old homestead and epitomizes the stereotypical Norwegian bachelor farmer. He is aloof, lacks adequate communication skills, and is none too clean.

The other two sons, Robert and Steven, completely broke tradition by building new homes on the property and moving out of the old farmhouse. After marrying childhood sweethearts, each man proudly produced two daughters.

Angela is the older of Robert’s two children. Her cousin and best friend Aubrey is Steven’s daughter. Both Angela and Aubrey enjoy an interest in animals. Aubrey loves her goats; Angela loves her horse.

Angela’s