Sanguinary

By LS Sygnet

Darkwater Bay is sliding back into dangerous territory. Between upheaval in the police department and the semi-retirement of Helen Eriksson, criminals have found another foothold. A new face in the department offers hope, if only she'll commit. Mere hours after her arrival, all hell breaks loose, when a high-profile mass murder lights the city afire all over again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: LS Sygnet
• Release date: Aug 4, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463332962

LS Sygnet

LS Sygnet was a mastermind of schoolyard schemes as a child who grew into someone who channeled that inner criminal onto the pages of books. Sygnet worked full-time in the nursing profession for 29 years before her "semi-retirement" in March 2014.She currently lives in Georgia, but Colorado will always be her home.

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Chapter 1

Detective Kyra Pepper

My mother is French. Or she was. She passed when I was about seven years old. One of the things I recall most clearly about her was that when frustrated, she would revert to her native tongue to express herself. I suppose she thought it would be less traumatic for my older sister and me to hear the rant without understanding the words. Needless to say, Josephine and I learned to swear most foully in French. One of Mom's favorite expressions in French was, plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose. Precisely translated, the more it changes, the more it's the same thing. It was a quote from the French critic, journalist and writer, Jean-Baptiste Alphonse Karr sometime in the mid 19th century. Perhaps he had a notion of Darkwater Bay long before the city was founded, because there was not a more apt description for our fair and foggy city than that.

My partner Alec Krypsek (AKA Lucky) and I were speeding to Edgewater, an old neighborhood within Darkwater proper, on a domestic call. A neighbor of a couple with a history of domestic disputes according to said neighbor, none of which were on record with us, were at it again. Shouts, crashing furniture, and what sounded like gunshots to the complainant. Lucky and I were once part of Tucker McAvoy's newly established vice unit. We covered mostly drugs and human trafficking. But recently, he transferred us to robbery homicide. Today, we were on patrol. It was a quiet Sunday afternoon, and for some reason, our uniformed officers were swamped, so we offered to help out. Though to be fair, domestic calls never seemed to abate, but we'd never been tapped while on duty to go settle things down. Today was our turn. Because the neighbor reported something that sounded like either J.J.'s shitty car backfired a bunch of times, or somebody's over there's shootin' a gun, we were in a rush to reach the residence.

Naturally, a slew of marked police vehicles were following in our wake. The Snow residence was in Edgewater, technically a subdivision of Darkwater proper. It was old, even for the city's standards, and the neighborhood we whizzed through was particularly rundown, to the point of what most would call ramshackle houses, complete with more than a few lots where weeds grew around rusted out, abandoned vehicles. The Snow residence was the only home left standing on a cracked, decaying cul-de-sac.

I frowned at Alec. The complainant actually heard the sound of an altercation?

He promptly snorted in response. Possibly, say if it started in the yard and managed to find enough open space to echo down nearly a block of weed and sapling invested empty lots. Either that, or Superman is taking the day off and called 9-1-1, he added with a cheeky grin.

Another point, the cul-de-sac was nestled into an unruly thicket of forested land where a housing development terminated upwards of at least sixty years ago. The house itself was much different than the others we'd seen en route to the destination. There were two predominant styles: the old ranch style with brick facades, and the bungalow with cramped one and a half story windows peeking out from beneath the eaves. This house was neither bungalow nor ranch, but something that looked cobbled together out of spare parts. The Snow property looked dingy and gray. Not from poor paint choices, but because the house looked like it hadn't had a fresh coat of paint in more than thirty years. Few remaining threads of white paint clung to the weathered wood siding. There were several cars parked in the cul-de-sac in front of the house.

When Lucky and I stepped out of our vehicle, we could hear the sounds of a television program blaring from inside the house.

Dammit, Lucky muttered. If this jackass neighbor called in a noise complaint as a domestic call, he may find out what real gunfire sounds like.

Calm down. These people have a history of domestics, at least according to the neighbor, Alec. Let's just get someone to the door so we can see... my voice died, because even from the bottom of the steps to the front porch, I could see the front door was slightly ajar.

I see it. Let's wait for another car to get here, so we have a team at the front and another at the back, he spoke low and quietly.

Good plan. Suddenly this doesn't feel so cut and dried, Alec.

Or maybe somebody went for a beer run and had a senior moment, Lucky replied. Either way, I want the back covered just in case.

The closest patrol car arrived and Lucky conveyed with hand signals where he wanted them positioned. I made my way carefully up the steps, poised to announce our arrival. The television sounded like it was a football game. I raised my fist and rapped against the side panel hard enough to rattle the glass pane in it.

Silence.

Lucky nodded.

Open the door! Darkwater Bay police! I shouted, banged again and waited.

Nothing.

Push it open, Lucky was at my side, standing to the right side of the door, presumably so neither one of us would get blasted should someone shoot as a response to the police at the door.

Carefully, I reached for the edge of the door, poised to hold it by the thin edge, and frowned. I don't want to mess up any prints should we need them, Alec. Do you have gloves?

He winked, and dangled a pair of black nitriles in front of me, and I quickly slipped them on.

A moment later, the ajar door opened fully with a prolonged squeak. No sneaking up on the Snows, that much was certain. I pushed the door open, announcing our entrance when I noticed a pair of legs protruding from inside the door, about a couple of feet from the television.

Ah, hell no, I groaned.

Lucky saw the same thing and pulled his sidearm, pushing the door all the way open and getting a better look at the carnage inside. Guess they did hear gunshots, he muttered. Shit house mouse. What a mess. We'd better call the Chief, Kyra. He might have other ideas about who takes the lead on this murder investigation.

I nodded absently while my mind silently counted the bodies in the living room. Two, a couple of feet in front of the TV, obviously dead, gunshot wound to the chest, the other to the abdomen, both male, possibly moving toward the front door when they were shot. A few feet away were two women practically lying on top of a third. Another woman was on the far end of the sofa, and next to the fireplace several feet away from the sofa lay a man, shot in the head from the size of the exit wound visible at the top of his skull. There wasn't a lot of blood at the entrance wound, but I could see a large pool of blood beneath his head, splattered on the wall and fireplace. It looked like he might've been shot straight the skull from under the chin, where a small hole was present, straight through to the gaping mess at the top of his head. I glanced around the room again when it hit me.

The woman on the far end of the sofa didn't have a chest or head wound like the others. Oh, there was blood on her chest, but it looked... I leapt forward and crouched beside her, careful not to disturb anything if at all possible.

Alec! I shouted, We've got a survivor. Get an ambulance over here right away. A moment later, he was behind me.

She's alive?

Yes, I said. Her pulse is strong, but she seems like she's unconscious. Maybe she unconscious from blood loss. I don't know, but we need to get medical treatment for her right away. She's a witness to whatever happened here this afternoon.

I don’t see a gun anywhere, Kyra.

I could see his eyes darting around the room. Go on. I’ve got this. We’ve got to make sure no one else is in the house hiding somewhere.

Right, he muttered. I’ll get the team from the back to help search the house. Stay put. Keep your sidearm out and ready, Kyra. This is bad. It’s very, very bad.

We should call McAvoy, I said. Right now, Alec. It can’t wait.

He nodded. Go for it. Tell him we’re gonna need CSD out here right away.

Do you think it could be a murder-suicide? I wondered.

If our vic bleeds out and dies before we get the chance to question her, we’ll never know, Kyra. I’ll get a bus. You get McAvoy.

I whipped off my jacket and pressed it against the bleeding wound at our victim's left upper arm area. Good lord, a few inches to the right, and the shot would've gone straight through her heart. Do both, Alec. I'm trying to keep this woman's blood inside her body where it belongs.

Vaguely, I heard him radio in for EMS support before asking dispatch to locate our fairly new Chief of Detectives, Tucker McAvoy.

While my eyes struggled to make sure I saw the slow rise and fall of our victim's chest and not just my own adrenaline-fueled wishful thinking, I began to take notice of other elements inside the living room.

This happened fast, I said. Two rushing…here?

Yeah. The positioning of the male victims across the room looked like they were heading in the same direction. At first, I thought it was toward the door, but now, no, I wasn't so sure.

Another victim, female, lay sprawled over the sofa, her wide glassy eyes no longer looking quite brown. They were darker than that.

I shuddered.

There was another man lying a few feet away from our living victim, the fireplace vic. Lost the top his head.

A wave of nausea hit so hard it left me dizzy. We didn't see this quite so graphically in vice, and when we did, we were adjacent to homicide, not managing the scene.

McAvoy needed to get the real detectives down here. This was beyond a domestic.

My thoughts were interrupted by voices from the back of the house.

Back of the residence clear, no more victims.

My mind quickly tallied the body count. Six dead, one hanging on for dear life. Three men, four women.

Just then, the obnoxious voice of Tony Romo blared through the television screen.

My God, they got together to watch football before somebody came in here and slaughtered them all. My voice sounded hollow, like I was speaking to myself through a can on a string.

I don't care if he's with the friggin' commissioner herself! Krypsek's voice snapped me back to the here and now. This is a major homicide scene, well beyond the scope of his Kyra and me, and we need the supervisor out here right now!

I'm sorry, Detective Krypsek, the bored voice responded. He's out of command today, Chief Conall's orders.

I felt Lucky's eye roll clear across the room.

He didn't think much of the shuffling of personnel that had occurred in Darkwater Bay over the past year and change. Johnny Orion's retirement had been the first big blow. The second was the closure of the state police's major crime's unit at the Darkwater Bay annex. Between the city's police and the new FBI field office, it was felt redundant, so the squad moved back to our state capital in Montgomery.

Then Commissioner Darnell retired—according to some, surely a sign that he'd die shortly thereafter, something about not knowing how to slow down. Last I heard, he was happily off golfing with another legend in Darkwater Bay, retired detective Tony Briscoe.

Crevan Conall opted out of moving to Montgomery, and was shortly thereafter appointed to fill the former chief of police's shoes. Former Chief Sheila Julliard was took over as Commissioner, and promptly hired Tuck as the new Chief of Detectives. To our vice team's delight, our mentor was officially over all detective work in the city.

But we all felt it, just as surely as I could feel this woman's blood seeping into the lining of my jacket—bigger changes were about to hit our department. Tuck's absence this weekend seemed and eerie harbinger of sorts. The winds of change weren't blowing soon. They were blowing now.

Chapter 2

Dr. London Winchester

The interview room was a small cubical, encased with double-pane wired glass. It was a safety precaution for psychiatric units. Even if someone managed to hurl a chair at it before staff could intervene for a take-down, the glass would not shatter. It might eggshell, but it would remain firmly in place. Newer psychiatric facilities (an oxymoron if one ever existed) relied on more modern shatter-free precautions. Finding modern psychiatric facilities wasn't like looking for a needle in a haystack in most states. It was akin to finding a specific sprig of hay in an endless field of haystacks.

Over the past few years, I've encountered many people who believe that those suffering from psychosis are boring, one-dimensional. Normally I quell the urge to point out that a flat personality differs greatly from the theoretic dimensions ascribed ofttimes to literary characters. It's an inapt description.

And true psychosis is never boring.

What's even more fascinating is those who attempt to feign it for the purpose of a legal defense. Fortunately for me, these folks too, seem to base their understanding of psychosis on pulp novels and bad movies. It'll screw them up every time, and eventually, I catch them in a poorly constructed ruse.

I watched through the window, knowing that the subject could see me, that most likely it could've been the motivating factor in her behavior. She sat in a straight back chair, upholstered in cracked burgundy Naugahyde. I could see dirty tufts of chair guts where her thin frame revealed cushion beneath her.

Alternatively, she chewed at the cuticles on her left hand before curling it into a fist and shaking it at the ceiling. She'd mutter something, shriek with maniacal laughter and start rocking harder.

You see what we're dealing with here, Dr. Winchester. When we ask her questions, she rants about the government putting ground up glass in the water supply. It seems that's the way to turn us into crystal figurines.

One side of my mouth quivered. Points for originality, I said. When did you catch her?

The detectives from Downey Division picked her up in the state park. They got a tip from hikers that a woman was digging a hole in the bank of the Elegiac River. Uniforms showed up first, and after what they found, there was no question that homicide had to be called.

I was briefed on the case via fax from my friend Tucker McAvoy before I left Boston, the latest location in my consultation business. Two years ago, a single mother of one reported her daughter missing several weeks after anyone could actually remember seeing the child. The police in Darkwater Bay had investigated, but could never turn up a solid lead, never found anything that incriminated their prime suspect, Jennifer Kerr, the woman I watched put on a show in the interview room.

Her knowledge of the location of her daughter's remains cemented her guilt to my way of seeing the situation. My job was to simply poke holes in an insanity defense. I don't suppose she mentioned why she decided to move her daughter's remains after all this time.

Dr. Reynaldo shook his head. Nothing that doesn't smack of delusions. The bones cannot be allowed to crystalize or they will be enslaved forever.

Friends, coworkers, neighbors?

She's a party girl who mostly lives off the generosity of her parents. She hasn't held a job for more than a couple of weeks ever. No one describes her as odd, but they do feel that she drinks too much.

What about other mind-altering substances?

Her drug screen was clean for the most part. During her early treatment, she went through alcohol withdrawal, but the medical workup doesn't indicate that she's suffering from cirrhosis, nothing that would cause this degree of psychosis.

Head CT?

Normal as a non-drinker's, Reynaldo said.

The case for a con job grew a little stronger in my mind.

Then again, she's only nineteen. This case has opened up a can of worms for the prosecutor, Dr. Winchester. I'm sure I don't have to explain that to you, considering your background.

He didn't. Jennifer Kerr was a minor at the time of her daughter's murder. If she truly suffered from an major mental illness and bouts of psychosis, the prosecutor didn't stand a chance of achieving real justice.

Do you mind if I observe your interview?

I'd heard the question many times over the past couple of years. Part of what I do is education. There isn't enough of me to go around most of the time, although I had more free time on my hands now than ever. Of course you can observe, Dr. Reynaldo.

I opened the door and stepped inside the room. Kerr stopped rocking long enough to assess a new presence.

Ms. Kerr, I'm Dr. Winchester.

Jenny, she said and resumed the rocking. Jenny, Penny, Henny, Denny.

Any half-wit can Google psychiatric symptoms. I was pretty sure even Wikipedia had an entry on clang association, the technical term for Jennifer's little rhyme. I sat down at the table and spoke softly, gently, as if dealing with a feral cat or a very slow child. Jenny, I'd like to talk to you about Megan. You recently went to visit her, is that right?

Something flashed in her eyes, a spark of anger, perhaps affront. No amount of willpower could mask what my patronizing tone dragged out of the emotional vault. Point one: Jennifer Kerr wasn't so unhinged from reality that she was incapable of experiencing a normal reaction to an antagonistic approach.

You visited her grave, is that correct?

Jenny nodded, but the rocking ceased. All her attention focused on the cuticle of her left thumb. She crunched a dry morsel of dead skin between her teeth and peeked up through her eyelashes, as if to gauge my reaction.

Who told you where to find Megan? You told the police two years ago that your daughter was abducted, Jenny. Did the person who took her contact you?

Only the crystalline angels sing songs of Megan.

You told Dr. Reynaldo that the ground glass in the water supply will make all of us into crystalline angels. I'm curious about something, Jenny.

What? Wary eyes peeked up at me again.

Glass is comprised of silica, calcium oxide and sodium carbonate, all of which in one form or another can be found in the human body. If adding water would make those elements solidify us into crystalline angels, why would you bury Megan so close to the water?

Lucid eyes snapped into focus. Kerr's jaw dropped. She couldn't drink the water.

Why not?

Because she was dead.

What sort of songs did these angels sing to Megan? Lullabies perhaps?

Done talking, done talking. The angels say I'm done talking.

Yeah, Wikipedia has an entry for palilalia too. I was the one done talking. Done talking nonsense at least.

I crooked my finger toward the window. The hydraulic mechanism hissed when Reynaldo pushed the door open. This woman appears to be actively psychotic, Dr. Reynaldo. I think we should go ahead and proceed with the court order for antipsychotic medications and electroconvulsive therapy, possibly even a partial frontal lobotomy. Her hallucinations seem far too pervasive for traditional therapy.

My chair grated like fingernails on a chalkboard when I slid away from the table to rise. Kerr stared up at me.

What? she hissed.

Don't you worry, dear. We'll take good care of you and protect you from the crystalline angels for the rest of your life. Even if I can't make them go away completely, I can promise you that they won't bother you in the psychiatric ward. Angels tend to avoid psychiatrists.

Wait a minute!

Don't worry, Jenny. We can talk more later. You'll have years to talk to doctors just like me.

You can't keep me here forever!

I dropped back into the chair and perched my chin on one fist. But Jenny, you're clearly psychotic, probably schizophrenic with a pervasive delusional disorder that makes you a danger to yourself and others. When I go to court for the district attorney and testify that you believe without a doubt that crystalline angels told you to murder your daughter —

I never said that!

It's all you've talked about, these angels and the ground up glass in the water supply. We can infer that you killed Megan. Now, I don't know about you, but if I were on a jury, it wouldn't take a whole lot to connect the dots about how that came to be. You killed your daughter, which was the reason you knew where she was buried. All of this other nonsense, while it may mitigate your criminal responsibility, most certainly does not cure you of what Dr. Reynaldo and I, and I'm sure a number of other psychiatric experts have concluded is the most severe case of violent schizophrenia we've encountered—possibly ever.

My lawyer said—

He's not a medical doctor, Jenny. We'll be the ones who decide what's best for you now. Dr. Reynaldo, does she have insurance or will we have to use the old antipsychotic medications. I leaned forward, It's a shame, the irreversible side effects those drugs can cause, Jenny. Pretty girl like you… you could end up looking like you're 40 by the time you reach 25.

There are no angels! Jenny screamed. The little brat wouldn't stop screaming. I only wanted her to shut up.

What did you do to Megan, Jenny?

I… I…

What did you do to her?

I shook her. Hard.

And who came up with the idea to act crazy?

Who do you think, she sneered, the crystalline angels? I know how this works, doctor. You can't tell anybody what I say to you. Doctor patient confidentiality.

I shook my head. I don't understand why you went back, Jenny. I mean, you got away with murder. Why risk going out there and digging up that poor child's remains like that?

You should watch the news more often. There's a hell of a storm coming, and they say the river's going to flood half the city.

From what I'd heard about Darkwater Bay, it rained most of the time anyway. If two years hadn't eroded the soil away from her daughter's grave by now, it would have to be one hell of a bad storm to do it now.

This time when I rose, nothing Jenny Kerr could say would make me stay. I dropped my bombshell on the way out the door. Jenny, there is an exception to doctor-patient privilege, especially with psychiatrists. We're permitted to share what we know with law enforcement when we're aware that a crime has been committed or may be committed. We already know that your daughter died from a massive blow to the head. You didn't merely shake her the night she died. It's my firm belief that someone who would concoct an elaborate scheme to appear psychotic most certainly is a continuing threat to the community. Nice to meet you.

Reynaldo was squirming over my nontraditional but effective approach to dragging the truth out of Kerr. He regarded me with suspicion.

Dr. Reynaldo, I'm not only a psychiatrist, I'm acting as an agent for law enforcement. I'm well within legal boundaries by using trickery to elicit the truth from her.

How were you so certain she wasn't really psychotic?

Were you paying attention at all? The last thing Jenny Kerr expected was for someone to play along with her delusions. If she were really psychotic, if she really believed what she was telling me was true, she wouldn't have been stunned to hear me talk about the components of glass that occur naturally in the human body. She'd have latched onto it as proof that she was right. I would've never pushed like that if a patient were really mentally ill. Unfortunately for Ms. Kerr, pure evil isn't a diagnosis in the DSM. Yet.

One of the orderlies rounded the corner, red faced and panting. Um...are you Dr. Winchester?

Yes, I said.

You've got a phone call at the desk. They said it was an emergency.

Cold fingers of foreboding wriggled through my chest and strangled my heart. Exactly two people knew I was in Darkwater Bay—Dr. Reynaldo and the my old comrade from my consultations in Seattle, Tucker McAvoy. I took a faltering step after the orderly and followed him to the telephone. If the call was from Tucker, it was likely a scolding for not telling him I'd taken an earlier flight to Darkwater Bay. His offer of employment was intriguing, but I preferred to get the lay of the land before being sold some pie in the sky version of the city's problems.

So far, I was not impressed with what I'd seen. A clinical psychologist should've been able to figure out Jenny Kerr's malingering state. And it was a fairly well known fact that Darkwater Bay already had an excellent psychologist capable of consulting for their police department—even though Helen Eriksson's reputation was a tad on the shady side in an infamous sort of way. Still, I had to respect her results over the years. It was also pretty well known in Boston at least, that she didn't play well in the sandbox with other jurisdictions. I had my doubts that she'd welcome my appearance with a happy smile and work with me.

Still, Tuck was a friend, someone I did respect and admire tremendously.

I followed the orderly to a desk enclosed in Plexiglas and took the phone as he held it out to me.

Winchester.

London, it's Tuck. I'm at the airport, only to discover a text from Dr. Reynaldo that you arrived ahead of schedule and were already interviewing Jennifer Kerr. Why didn't you call me when you decided to take an earlier flight?

I shot a brief arrow of disgust in Reynaldo's general vicinity. I think you should know me well enough not to require an answer to that question, Tuck.

He sighed. You can't even trust me to tell you why I asked you to listen to our pitch?

What can I say? I’m old school, Tucker. I prefer to see things with my own insight before letting others influence me with their perception. Besides, you were quite vague with the reason you wanted me to come. Don't believe for one second that the pretense of a consultation was convincing. No offense to Dr. Reynaldo or any of his fine staff at Metro State, but I believe there was no real question regarding a true psychosis versus malingering.

Then you think she's faking it? he asked.

Begging your pardon, but this isn't the way we should share this discussion, detective, I said.

Tuck chuckled. I'm not a detective anymore, London. Well, technically, I suppose being Chief of Detectives makes me one, but—

Congratulations on your promotion, I interrupted. Where would you like to meet? I’m finished at the hospital. I'll be happy to dictate a report for your officers at this Downey Division, or for your district attorney, whichever you need.

Actually, there are a couple of people I'd like you to meet. Well, technically three of them, London. We...we sort of have a proposition we'd like you to consider.

I scoffed for a moment, silently in my head. Here it comes. It's not like you haven't heard this a hundred times before. You're not accepting some local-yokel offer to work in one place.

It seemed conceited even to me, the feeling that I was too important nationally to ever tie myself to one local jurisdiction. Or maybe it was the fact that I'd sort of grown up internationally before my father and mother realized that they had a bonafide genius on their hands.

I hate that term, genius. Whatever. My brain works the way it works, and when I was ten years old and still struggling to grasp fractions in math class, nobody imagined that the simple act of my parents getting married would decrease my stress so much that I'd...how had that school psychologist put it? Blossom.

I graduated with a JD/MD at the age of twenty-four. Yes, I am a doctor and a lawyer. My specialty, however, is medicine, psychiatry to be specific. My value as both a juris doctor and medical doctor in law enforcement should be obvious. I make cases for prosecutors that are damned near impossible to lose. I don't make stupid mistakes that allow evidence to be lost in court. Prosecutors love me for that, because I can, and have, over the past few years, even before I passed the bar exam, helped countless police departments shore up shaky cases before the prosecutors have to submit to grand juries for indictments.

And this, rather than what even my parents worry is an extreme case of hubris, is why I want nothing to do with putting down roots anywhere. There is part of me that refuses to acknowledge the real truth of the matter.

London? You still there?

Yeah, Tuck, I'm here. I know what's coming, and I gotta tell you, this isn't something I'm likely interested in even hearing, let alone willing to consider as a legitimate offer. I suspected once I reviewed your little psycho's medical record that the slam dunk of figuring out she wasn't really psychotic would've taken your resident expert about ten seconds to figure out for herself.

Helen isn't working in law enforcement anymore, London.

Don't lie to me, Tucker. I'm not illiterate. Nor do I ignore journals, newspapers or scuttlebutt in law enforcement. Eriksson has participated in a number of investigations over the past two years since her alleged retirement.

C'mon, London. How much do you think she's really able to do now with three kids?

Her sons are twins, not triplets.

Helen had a daughter less than a year after her husband nearly died on the job. She's about eighteen months old now, and a handful that dwarfs her big brothers when they were that age, which apparently is saying something. Just meet with us and hear what we have to say. I think you'll be pleasantly surprised.

I sighed. Give me the address.

He rattled something off, that just by the street name sounded decidedly residential, upscale residential at that.

Do you need directions? he asked.

Already got the GPS on the phone, map in memory, I said.

I heard him snort softly.

I wasn't bragging, Tuck.

And I haven't forgotten your eidetic memory. This is going to be an interesting meeting. How soon can you meet me?

According to the current traffic conditions, less than an hour by about eight minutes, I said. Of course, that assumes I travel at posted speed limits.

London, don't get a ticket on your way over here. It's an important conversation, but speeding, getting pulled over and ticketed is only going to delay the conversation even more. Behave.

Yes, Dad, I chuckled.

I'm not your father, he scolded.

Father McAvoy, I disagree, just one more needle was irresistible. Goodness, I'm not even Catholic, which we both know. My upbringing was a whole lot farther to the religious right than Catholicism, a fact Tucker knew full well. It was part of the dichotomy of my childhood, how my father could be so devoutly religious and still do what he did for a living.

I sped across Darkwater Bay, dodging and weaving while at the same time, not speeding too much that it would mandate a traffic stop. As usual, I shaved about fifteen minutes off my time.

Tuck met me at the courtyard in front of a rather impressive home, one that looked to be larger than the one my famous father and I lived in before he married Mom. I knew this woman had money. It seemed to dwarf the combined assets of my parents, which was saying something.

Hey. Thought I told you not to break any laws getting here, he said.

Did they make you sit outside waiting for me? I asked.

Tuck shook his head. I saw you come through the gate on the security camera and decided to meet you before we go inside and you meet them. I'd ask you to be on your best behavior, London, but I think we both know how fruitless that request is.

Hey, I protested. I didn't fly out here for a nothing case and personal insults. The least you could do is respect the fact that I am in demand and know very well how to do my job.

The door popped open, and behind Tuck appeared the woman I'd read about, extensively, but had never actually met. She had a small girl with curly chestnut hair propped on her hip. I had to look up, seriously look up, to make eye contact with her.

You must be Dr. Winchester, she said. I'm Helen Orion.

Eriksson-Orion, the not quite little mini-me on her hip announced.

I frowned. Didn't Tuck say the kid was only eighteen months old? She looked and sounded like a four-year-old.

Elizabella, what did Mommy say?

Don't correct grown-ups. The little girl scowled at her mother fearlessly.

I felt a sudden pang of sympathy for Eriksson. Tuck hadn't lied about the handful that apparently dwarfed two older brothers.

And almost on cue, one of those brothers, a rather tall, brick-like mass of child with blond hair and startling blue eyes appeared. Mom, I've got her, he said.

Elizabella squealed and practically clawed her way out of her mother's grasp and into the arms of what had to be a very, very big brother.

Is the other one as big as that one? I asked Tuck out of the corner of my mouth.

That was Jack, my second born, Eriksson said. Erik is the oldest, and while he's not quite as...

Future football star, someone I couldn't yet see announced over her shoulder.

Eriksson laughed. Exactly. He's still big for his age. They all are. Please, Dr. Winchester, come inside. My brother is here as well, and we're eager to talk to you. Tuck shared your impressions after meeting with Jennifer Kerr.

"Not much of a test, Dr.