Home Is Where the Hell Is

By Shawn Denson

Special Agent David Roberts is a top FBI profiler, focusing on violent offenders. His professional life is extraordinarily successful--but his personal life is in tatters. At the end of a difficult case, he finds himself with a unique opportunity: the chance to revisit his past and make up for the mistakes of youth.

Twenty years earlier, David was an awkward and bullied teenager living in a small Arkansas town called Grayson and suffering from unrequited love. Now, when a string of grisly and horrific homicides hits Grayson, David is ordered--against his will--to return to his hated hometown and investigate the crimes. As he searches for the killer, he encounters former schoolmates and peers, as well as Emily Anderson, the object of his teenage love, a woman he has never forgotten. David and Emily connect, and he begins to see that empathy and compassion should overcome the bitterness that has lived in his heart for so many years. But then the killer strikes much closer to home, leaving David not only questioning his career, choices and life, but also fearing for the lives of those he loves.

In this thriller, a gifted but flawed FBI agent faces the demons of his past while searching for a serial killer at large in his hometown.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Sep 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781480820647

Shawn Denson

Shawn Denson is a father of three who lives in rural Ohio. If the zombie apocalypse ever truly happens, he believes that he will be one of the first ones to get eaten. This is his second novel, and he is hard at work on his third novel, which is about a subject very near and dear to his heart.

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Copyright © 2015 Shawn Denson.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4808-2062-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-2063-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-2064-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015949350

Archway Publishing rev. date: 09/09/2015

CONTENTS

Election Night (2008)

Prologue: 1994

Part One: Brief Snapshots in Time

Part Two: Views of the Old Homestead

Part Three: Hell’s Backyard

Epilogue: Loose Ends

Author’s Notes

This novel is

dedicated to all my family and friends, because I couldn’t choose a lone person to send this one out to.

Thank you all for everything. I love you guys.

S.D.

ELECTION NIGHT (2008)

SPECIAL AGENT DAVID ROBERTS WAS A SENIOR FIELD AGENT FOR the highest branch of law enforcement in the United States of America. He knew his life was in mortal danger.

He never once feared for his safety, however. Despite his struggle with the sick bastard underneath him, Roberts wondered how this man would enjoy having a second asshole for the rest of his short time on this planet. Roberts himself would be the man who gave him that orifice.

Separated from his partner and best friend by a mix of gunfire and sheer dumb luck, he had no choice but to arrest the perpetrator himself. The suspect—a large black man identified as Jerome Harris—was hiding behind the door when Roberts entered the room. Roberts never felt the presence of the suspect because the bloody, screaming, blonde woman in the corner was distracting him. Harris pounced on Roberts as he entered, knocking him to the ground. Roberts’ sidearm flew from his hand, clattering on the wooden floor. The air whooshed out of his body in a huff. Roberts felt the strength of the large man above him. This man tried to crush Roberts. Harris attempted to bend him, causing him to scream in pain.

Roberts’ training from the Bureau won the day. Therefore, he turned the tables on the perpetrator, wrestling him to an even position. Manipulating his body, Roberts had him where he wanted him. A skilled thrust to the throat gave Roberts the advantage. In spite of losing his air Harris still fought, even as Roberts worked his large arms. With his stomach on the wooden floor he flopped and wriggled, like a fish on the bank of a river.

Roberts noticed Harris was trying to get to his sidearm.

He wants to use my gun on me, Roberts thought. That motherfucker!

Roberts realized Harris had the radio playing. The catchy little jingle began to play over the screams of the victim as the local news started.

And in breaking news, said the female news anchor. It has just been confirmed to us that Barack Obama has been elected President of the United States.

Congrats, Mr. President, Roberts thought. Now perhaps you should skip the speeches and help me with this huge son of a bitch.

Despite the pain and stiffness settling into his muscles, Roberts let out a large, donkey like yelp of laughter at that thought. Harris stopped struggling and cocked his head to the left. Roberts made eye contact with him for the first time. The one dark eye Roberts saw looked furious. In the corner of the room sat the next intended victim, a woman with her pale red dress sliced open, covered in blood. Her blonde hair was tacky with it, several of her knife wounds still pulsed claret. As large as saucers, her blue eyes were wide with fear.

Are you kidding me? Harris snarled in raw anger. You think this shit is fun, you honky cop asshole?

The man beneath him relaxed his muscles to speak. Roberts poised his, ready for this situation to be resolved. He leaned down and spoke in the man’s ear. His voice was mild, calm, yet with an edge. He felt the man below him break out in gooseflesh.

Roberts replied, No, but this will be.

Roberts sprang himself over the man and scooped his sidearm. His body rolled on the wooden floor. Pulling himself up and aiming, he pulled a bead on the perpetrator and fired. He hit the suspect in the right thigh as he was up to one knee. No matter how large or powerful Harris was, he was not bulletproof.

The perpetrator went down in a mound of agony, howling and falling on his back. Roberts’ ears picked up the sound of multiple popping noises issuing from the left leg. Estimating that the man tore at least two (and perhaps even three) of the tendons inside his knee, Roberts converged on the suspect.

Roberts cuffed Harris and read aloud his Miranda rights as he shackled the suspect. As a wail of sirens began to warble in the air, Roberts closed his eyes for a moment and smiled. The suspect was on the floor, hands cuffed behind his back. Over the sirens and the diminishing screaming of the blonde woman in the corner, Roberts could hear the radio. The President-elect’s voice issued from the speakers.

Obama’s voice was warm, sunny, filled with good cheer as he said, We are, and always will be, the United States of America.

Harris looked up at Roberts, his eyes filled with malice. Roberts returned the suspect’s malevolence with benign indifference. The sirens were close now, their wailing filling the air. He estimated himself and the suspect—not to mention the next would-be victim—would have company in less than two minutes. All Roberts wanted that second was a tall, stiff drink and a cigarette. And he would have them once all the formalities and loose ends were nice and tied up.

Honky cop, Harris spat on the wooden paneling. You’re a white, fucking devil.

Roberts looked at the man, his dark eyes mild. You’re the one who murdered eleven innocent people. Not me. He nodded at the woman in the corner before continuing. Almost twelve, you sick son of a bitch. But you’ll never harm another innocent soul. You’ve bought yourself a first class ticket to the lethal injection chamber. And for what you did to those poor victims and their families, I promise you I will be there to watch you die.

Roberts cast aside the screaming of the aches and pains in his body, rose, and went to the corner of the room. He knelt down and gently cupped the woman’s chin in his right hand. Her eyes were wide as she trembled from pure, raw, extreme fear.

Ma’am, listen to me, said Roberts. Don’t worry. The EMTs are on their way, you’ll be just—

He said nothing else. The woman rushed to him as she stood and hugged him, smearing her life force all over him, ruining his suit. She held him close, whispering and whimpering in his ear.

Thank you so much, she cooed. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you…

Roberts held her as she wept, saying nothing. His handsome features were as obdurate, cold, and set as stone.

PROLOGUE: 1994

The nice part about living in a small town is that when you don’t know what you’re doing, someone else does.

Immanuel Kant

In the 1990’s kids lost their power to reason. Less and less were they taught the very basics of language, truth, and logic and they grew up with the irrationality of a postmodern world.

Ravi Zacharias

Much unhappiness has come into the world because of bewilderment and things left unsaid.

Fyodor Doestoevsky

1

GRAYSON, ARKANSAS WAS JUST ANOTHER LITTLE TOWN SOMEWHERE in the middle of the United States of America. Located an hour south of Little Rock, Grayson was seen as a nice place to raise a family. In this little town on a pleasant October afternoon, a young man walked along, headed northwest. He was alone.

David Roberts, fourteen years old, was on his way home from school. His backpack hung uncomfortably over the right shoulder. The book bag slipped down on his back. The bottom of the satchel would strike the back of his knee as he shuffled along.

David was a very awkward young man, not sure of the body he had. He was tall and lean, with little muscle mass at all. His face—while attractive—was marred with the unfortunate paraphernalia of adolescence. The dark hair was a mess, only major help from hairspray and a heavy hairbrush would hold it in place. Behind large, steel-framed spectacles, his dark eyes swam. His forehead had a spray of small pimples on it. There was a big zit, popped just a day ago, on the bridge of his nose. The mouth was filled with metal; the braces were about a year away from being removed.

When adults saw David, who hated to be called Dave, they thought to themselves that there was potential. Here was a teenager who wouldn’t be confident in his own skin until he became a man. He would be a good-looking adult. Very strong and handsome features, they were just waiting to come out after puberty.

David was very polite and well-mannered. He would also hold the door open for a lady. There was no doubting his intelligence as well, he was smart as a whip. Always getting straight A’s in all his classes, David did it without even having to try very hard. The only thing that held David back was something that bothered many children his age. Like his peers, he didn’t know what he wanted to be when he got older.

When children his own age saw David they thought one thing, and one thing only. They mocked him, teasing him. The other children bullied him even, in the cruel way that kids can do before they learn or are taught empathy.

What a loser, thought David’s peers.

David walked along listlessly. His head hung low, studying the sidewalk. He somewhat noticed the glittering of the quartz as the sun twinkled off of it, the cracks in the walkway didn’t register. David took no notice of the hopscotch grid drawn in chalk on two sections of the blacktop. Looking without seeing, he walked by the chalk drawings of children, dogs, and houses. This young man was lost in thought, his brain filled with visions of one person.

Emily Anderson.

David knew about teenage crushes, but he did not think that it applied to how he felt about Emily. She was awkward, much like himself. Like David, she also had glasses and braces. Freckles littered her cheeks and nose. He saw past trivial things like that. Knowing she was beautiful he knew—in his heart of hearts—that if she would just give him one chance, he could make her happier than anyone else. Happier than a dumb, football-playing jock who would just use her and dump her without thinking twice about it.

Too bad he lacked the courage to ask her out on a date.

Outside of school functions, he had spoken to her twice in his lifetime. He replayed those conversations often (late at night) in his bed. He laid in sweat-soaked sheets, the pangs of teenage love tugging at his heart. So caught up in a harmless daydream of his beloved on this sunny October afternoon, David didn’t notice the shadow creeping up behind him.

Emily approached him, her dress sparkling despite the dimness of the room. Even with her glasses and braces, she was beautiful in her moment. David stood there, looking and feeling awkward. He looked presentable in a dinner jacket (loaned from his father and hemmed) and a tie. She looked good and smelled good, enveloping him in her beauty.

David, can I talk to you for a moment? Emily asked. Her voice was soft, squeaky.

Yes, Emily? David responded.

I have sometimes seen you looking at me in class. Is there a reason you keep looking at me?

No, no reason.

Oh, I guess I wasted my time coming over here then, Emily said. I thought that maybe you would ask me to dance.

And even though David could not believe that he was doing it, he heard his voice utter the words: Emily, would you like to dance?

I would love to dance.

Before he could even react, she led him onto the dance floor. She slid into his arms, just in time as a slow country song began to broadcast over the PA. I Swear, by John Michael Montgomery. In their dance, they moved like the adults that they would become one day. The two of them glided well together, despite having never danced before now.

David looked into her eyes and saw the light sparkling in them. Emily was staring up at her dance partner, looking at him as if she had never seen him in this light or any other. The music faded in his ears at first, then swelled as she moved her mouth toward his lips. His mind screamed at first, This can’t be happening! The thought repeated, but each time the thought sounded diminished as it echoed inside his head. David knew every nerve ending in his body was tingling at that moment as she was fading into him, further and further. The music was at a crescendo…

Suddenly she was out of his grasp, two steps away. Her hair was messy and filled with static. Emily’s eyes were alight with a fire that is neither love nor lust, instead it was blind and pure hatred. She laughed. Why would I kiss you!?

Then she screamed, You’re a fucking loser!!

2

LIKE MOST TOWNS, GRAYSON WAS NOT PLANNED. IT SIMPLY sprouted, with no rhyme or reason. The town saw the height of its commercial successes occur in the eighties.

The town was founded on a strange piece of land. There were hills, both large and small, these being the diminishing remnants of the Appalachian Mountains. Several streams, creeks, and ponds, that were offshoots of the Arkansas River, crossed the land in varying patterns. The two largest streams (named Deadman’s and Warmack) cut through the town at opposite and intersecting forty-five degree angles. They looked almost like the letter X. The two streams had cut the town into four wedges of land. Each wedge looked like a large piece of pie.

The two streams intersected in the center of town. Where the two bodies of water met, there was a small pond. This pond was swirling with violent currents and often plumes of foam would shoot into the air. Children for years had been asking their mothers if they could go swimming in the pond. The mothers would laugh at such inquiries, declining permission.

Rumor went among the townsfolk that two transients dropped off the train tracks in Grayson many years ago. The tracks, now abandoned, sat to the west of the town. If you were taking the main drag into town you could see the tracks—looking rusty and forlorn—sitting to the right of the town. They were about thirty yards away from the nearest home.

The story was told that the two transients, drunk on rye whiskey, stumbled into Grayson. They found their way to the center of the town. Not knowing there was a body of water there, they both fell in and drowned when they could not swim the choppy waters. Their muscles had been too intoxicated to fight the current. Legend had it, a woman with her two children had found them both washed up onshore the next morning. That, coupled with damage to the old and rickety bridge that ran above the pond, caused the residents to scream protests of outrage.

The town’s budget had been enough so a small but sturdy fence was constructed around the pond itself. The old bridge was replaced with a monolithic, semi-circular, wooden monstrosity. While it was huge, it was also pleasing to the eye, and quite the photo opportunity for visitors to this small town. It was also very strong, being reinforced with solid steel. This bridge itself ran over the width of the pond, and it supported the main highway’s asphalt. In a helter-skelter jumble, the sidewalks ran under the main bridge, each with several small foot-bridges to hold off the streams.

Shops in the town did not do poorly, despite the boom years being long gone. Most of the businesses still turned a profit. There was a barbershop, where most of the locals still went for a trim rather than head up to the fancy salons in Little Rock. Also located downtown were two mom and pop supermarkets, because most residents would rather spend an extra dollar for a gallon of milk than burn the gas to go to Little Rock. Near the pond was the local gas station, a place for most of the old-timers of Grayson to sit around and talk about how the world was going to hell. Then there was a department store, the owners not yet squeezed out by the big chain stores. A physician’s office took up shop in a residential home, the dashing doctor was quite a popular figure in town. Two restaurants sat in the middle of downtown. They did fair business during the week, but boomed on the weekends. Also there was a dance studio. Ask most of the little girls who had grown up in Grayson and you would discover most of them took dance at one time or another.

Downtown was where the Municipal Building was. This structure housed the offices of the mayor, police, fire department, and tax collector. The courthouse was side by side with the Municipal Building. It was a beautiful structure, reminiscent of the Capitol Building in Washington, D.C. The roof was done in bronze instead of marble.

The residential areas of Grayson appeared to have spread with no rhyme or reason from the downtown area. Wooded areas, wild and tamed fields, and bodies of water cut through the residential areas with no set pattern, as nature was random. Sitting in the southeastern area of town was Grayson High School. It was a large, three storied old monstrosity with two wings.

There were several roads (both paved and gravel) that intersected with each other. Anyone who had driven in Grayson for more than a month could avoid the main highway that ran through the center of town. Unless they had to leave town to head to Little Rock.

Seen from the perspective of a bird flying overhead, Grayson was a silent, sleepy, and picturesque little town. Something almost—but not quite—out of a Norman Rockwell painting. In the northwestern corner of the town the larger man-boy shoved the smaller child.

3

YOU’RE A FUCKING LOSER!!

David (cruelly ripped out of his daydream) felt like he was out of his body. Then he realized that he was flying. It appeared his destination was the ditch located just to the right of the sidewalk. He realized his glasses—which were too large for his head—had flown off his face. He heard them clattering as they hit the sidewalk. Thumping the ditch, he noticed the grass was thick. Feeling the air exit his body, he whooped. Aware of a bright pain in his left hand, he was more worried about putting oxygen back into his body. Able to breathe again, he did so. The pain in his chest was huge and unending. Swelling, his injured hand grew. David turned onto his side and standing there was Freddy Hill.

Freddy was, to describe him in one word, huge. He was fourteen years old—the same as David—but he stood four inches taller. Weighing one hundred and eighty-five pounds already, his body was thick with farm worked muscle. His hair was the color of copper. There were sun freckles on his arms and neck. The farm boy was wearing a cowboy hat, jeans, a tee-shirt, and boots.

David muttered, Oh, shit. Muttering was all he was capable of at that moment.

Freddy sauntered from the sidewalk into the gutter as if he was doing nothing more than taking a recreational Sunday stroll. With that same sense of informality, he raised one boot-clad foot and punted David in the crotch. The pain that flared up was a monstrous, cramped agony. David screamed aloud.

The pain in his groin was so intense, he barely felt it when Freddy scooped a handful of his hair. He raised David’s head from the turf and double-pumped him with his right fist. Freddy’s fist looked to be the size of a locomotive, from David’s perspective. David felt pain in his right eye and left jaw. Feeling a wetness on his face and in his crotch, his brain went fuzzy. Freddy let go of his hair and his face fell into the grass. The cool roughage felt amazing against his hot face. Craning his neck up, he had an idea that Freddy was yelling at him, but he could not make out the words at first.

Next time I tell you to let me copy your paper, Dave, you let me copy your fucking paper or you’re gonna get worse, you fucking worthless piece of shit!!

Freddy then leaned and got face-to-face with David, his voice barely more than a whisper. I’ve been kicking your ass ever since we were in elementary school, loser. You still got four more years to go. I figured you’d be used to it by now, asshole.

That said, Freddy rose and spun. He spied David’s glasses on the ground. Grunting to himself, a half-smile formed on his lips. He raised the same boot that had already made David wonder if he could ever have children. Still smiling, he stomped on the spectacles. Freddy twisted his heel left, then right, then strode away, whistling.

David, who could make out Freddy as a blur through the blood and tears, saw the blur stop after a second. The blur turned to the left. It looked like he put his hands on his hips. Leaning forward, the blur spoke.

David heard Freddy yell out, What are you staring at, you nerdy little bitch?

David heard no response. Neither must have Freddy. David watched Freddy, who was still a blur, walk away. He craned his neck to the left.

David (who could see somewhat without his glasses) spotted a colored object as he turned his attentions. At least now he could make out colors. Between the tears and blood obscuring his vision, he was curious who saw Freddy kicking his ass. But as the pain in his body flared and roared, he didn’t care that much. Unless it was one person. After much effort, he could reach a free arm up to wipe away the tears and blood so he could see who was looking at him.

It was Emily.

The one person.

Damn, he thought.

Emily was standing about ten feet away from him. Looking as beautiful as ever, she was flawless in his biased eye. She was wearing a red top and faded jeans, her hair was tied back in a ponytail. She was looking at him with a mix of emotions. He could read sadness as one of them. Pity might have been another, but David could not make out the other feelings.

Emily started toward him, then hesitated. Her head shook, the tiniest of nods. She stepped back, turned around, and ran away, clutching her books to her chest. David thought he might have heard her let out a single sob. It might have just been the wind.

It was just the wind, David thought.

David Roberts was then self-aware—for the first time in his young life—of two facts. The first was that Freddy Hill was right. David would have to endure four more years of beatings before he could escape that monster. But, he would endure. And one day, he would run as far and fast from Grayson as he could. Making a vow, he swore he would never come back.

Ever.

The other fact was even simpler and even more painful. No matter how much he loved Emily from the first time he saw her, she would never be his. No matter how much he loved her now, she would never be his. Because no matter how much he might love her for the rest of his life, she would never be his. He would never have the balls to ask her out on a date, much less make her the happiest woman on the planet.

Oh wait, what balls? Freddy kicked them clear up into my throat. Ha! David thought.

And at that moment, David Roberts wished one thing and one thing only. He wished he lived in Oregon. He wished he lived in Australia. He wished he lived in the Dead Sea. He even wished he lived on Pluto. He wished he lived anywhere but Grayson, Arkansas.

TWENTY YEARS LATER…

PART ONE: BRIEF SNAPSHOTS IN TIME

The world is a dangerous place to live; not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don’t do anything about it.

Albert Einstein

The true hero is flawed. The true test of a champion is not whether he can triumph, but whether he can overcome obstacles—preferably of his own making—in order to triumph.

Garth Stein

If you want to be a real human being—a real woman, a real man—you cannot tolerate things which put you to indignation, to outrage. You must stand up.

Stephane Hessel

1

FREE AND CLEAR! AGENTS, PROCEED INSIDE!

The SWAT team leader yelled aloud as his team exited the back door of the house. His voice carried in the chilly, Utah air. The words reached the ears of the two men by the front door as they crouched by the entrance. Special Agent David Roberts of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, thirty-four years old, glanced at his partner and nodded. Roberts’ handsome features and dark eyes were locked into a mask of determination. His jet-black hair—a perfect coif—moved with his nod. Beating hard, his heart raced in his chest.

His partner, Special Agent James Avery, also thirty-four years old, returned the nod with one of his own, his face locked into the same mask as that of his partner and best friend. Covered with cropped blonde hair, his head gleamed in the dying light of the day. His blue eyes were steely and cold. The full lips of the man were turned downward in a slight frown. Avery’s cheeks bristled with stubble because the man skipped his morning shave earlier in the day.

It’s game time, thought Roberts.

Roberts was on the left side of the entrance to the house. The door was no longer on the frame, one of the SWAT officer’s battering rams had just bashed it in. No longer rocking, the thick, wooden egress was still. The door rested on the floor. Avery was on the right side of the entrance. Both men had their Bureau-approved side-arms, the Glock twenty-two, drawn and ready.

The two friends looked at each other in the dim light, it was a cloudy day. Roberts pointed to himself, then pointed toward the front door. Nodding in response, Avery pointed at himself and made a covering motion over his head with his left hand. Both men tilted their heads at each other, moving toward one another. Roberts took the lead, darting into the small house. Avery was behind him a split-second later, scampering into the dark entrance to the domicile.

The house was dim, lit by the outside streetlights. Roberts and Avery, along with the local law enforcement, had found the breaker box outside with a smoking, black bullet-hole in it upon their arrival. Roberts secured the front of the house, a living room. Avery was busy securing the corners and the blind spots.

The den was clear.

The first room deemed safe by their standards, they swept the small, one-story home. As they moved from room to room, their noses wrinkled. The smell in the house was nothing short of horrible. A rancid mix of hot blood, decay, fecal matter, and spent sex hung heavy in the air.

God, it smells terrible in here, Roberts thought.

While the house was beautiful on the outside (there was even a white picket fence) the inside was quickly revealed for what it was. It was a slaughterhouse. A slaughterhouse for twelve poor, innocent victims. The walls were painted with drying blood splatters, still tacky in some areas. Human organs stood on top of dusty tables. Several knives, saws, and scalpels were strewn about, with no pattern to them at all. It was a random spreading.

Roberts and Avery scrutinized the house, checking every room. Both followed every protocol from the Bureau to the letter. They doubled back through the main hallway of the one-story home. Moving with a lithe grace, they worked as a team. As they passed the only bathroom in the house, neither of them noticed the section of the wall fall back. It slid to the side.

Roberts noticed the lights, however. Flashlights. Several of them bounced off the walls and ceiling. He looked at their location in the abode, deducing that most of the SWAT officers were nearing the front of the house.

The two men decided (without saying a word) that the basement was the one area of the house that was not secure. It was as if each could read the mind of the other. As they turned and swept the dining room one final time, Roberts noticed a severed penis sitting on the dining room table. Standing upright, the organ erected itself in a macabre way. The phallus was jammed onto a metal stabber used to collect discarded notes. Roberts wished at that moment he did not have eyes.

Repulsive, he thought.

Roberts shivered a little. He turned and opened the basement door, starting down the stairs. Avery scanned the room once more, his shadow moving on the dim wall. Turning, he followed Roberts into the basement. As they headed down the stairs, a small shadow on the wall moved. The shadow—in the shape of a man—grew to tremendous size.

The rapid beating in Roberts’ chest was fading. Then the smell hit him, stronger and more awful than ever. He almost had to pull his tie over his nose to act as a gag as he descended the damp, wooden steps. Bowing with his weight, the steps did not crack or splinter. Clearing the stairs and coming to a halt, his dress shoes kicked up a small amount of dust from the dirt floor of the cellar. Little dust puffed up, because most of the floor had blood splattered everywhere.

Avery came to a stop beside him a second later. Both men stood, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, at the sight they had just discovered. The basement was a half-finished, full sized space. It could almost be inhabited by a person.

Almost.

All twelve of the missing people were in the dank cellar, their bodies anchored to the wooden paneling with sharpened lawn darts. The darts looked to be hammered with a crudity that screamed desperation and urgency, perhaps by a sledgehammer. Every single victim was mutilated severely, some worse than others. At worst, one corpse appeared to be nothing more than a disemboweled torso, a head, and arms. As Roberts and Avery stood viewing the horrors unfolding before their eyes, the basement door upstairs latched shut. A deadbolt turned and Roberts did not hear it.

Fortunately for the two of them, Avery did hear the muffled click. Turning, he glared at the door and his eyes widened. He finally found his voice after the briefest of moments.

Avery yelled, David! Drop!!

That call—given many times during his career by his partner and best friend—had saved Roberts’ life every time Avery had to make the call. Often it was under severe stress and duress. Roberts listened to Avery again, he hit the deck as two gunshots rang out. Dropping, he felt the air move above his head. The shots fired just missed their intended target, whizzing in the air where his head had been just a second ago. With a deafening thud, the bullets embedded themselves in the wooden paneling. As Roberts dropped, he rolled his body. He could not believe they had passed the sick bastard they came in to arrest as they swept the house!

The profiling Roberts had done in this case had led them here, to Provo. Twelve homosexual men had disappeared. Due to the amount of blood found in the victims’ apartments and homes, it was believed all twelve men were dead. Roberts worked what Avery called his magic, his profile leading them to this normal-looking, picturesque home in Utah. Despite them following protocol to the letter, they found themselves trapped in the basement with the psychopath that had made headlines in the national news for the past month. It was a firefight to the death with a monster.

It was over in less than ten seconds.

As Roberts dropped and rolled he maneuvered his lithe, muscular body with astounding grace and ease. He came up in a classic shooter’s stance, aiming upward at the basement door. He fired off a round as did Avery. This killer (nicknamed The GLAAD Slayer by the insensitive tabloid press) got off one more round with his weapon. The bullet Slayer fired grazed Roberts’ right bicep. Roberts hit the blood-soaked floor, his arm spraying fresh crimson.

That bastard shot me! Roberts thought.

Roberts (despite being injured in the exchange) hit his mark. As did Avery. Both of their bullets—it was impossible to tell which man fired which shot—made contact, hitting the killer in the right hand and shoulder about a half-second apart. Slayer dropped the firearm as his right hand erupted in a shower of blood, bone, and muscle fiber. The shooting iron, a forty-five caliber revolver, fell from his grasp. The weapon clanked down four of the ten steps of the staircase, coming to rest on a wooden board. Sitting there forgotten, the firearm had a fresh coating of blood and tiny bits of bone.

The slug that hit the shoulder threw Slayer backward. For a moment, he looked like a classic bad guy who just taken a bullet in a major motion picture. It lasted a second. Then he hit the basement door. He lost his balance and fell, rolling down the stairs. He ratcheted down all ten steps, coming to rest about a foot away from Avery. Roberts was still on the floor, clenching his right bicep. His fingers could already tell him that his upper arm was soaked.

Ignoring his bleeding bicep and the accompanying pain, Roberts stood. He moved forward as Avery leaned down, and they both advanced on Slayer. Roberts attempted to cuff the suspect while reading him his Miranda rights. Avery, meanwhile, was tending to the wounds that both men had inflicted on the madman with their side-arms.

Cuffing him proved to be difficult, however. He was missing most of his right hand. All that remained was a portion of the palm, his pinkie finger, and his thumb. The rest of the hand was nothing more than a raw, bleeding hole of meat, tendon, and bone. Roberts finally settled on cuffing his left hand to the back belt-loop of his slacks. Using Avery’s cuffs, Roberts shackled his legs.

Once he was restrained, the two partners turned the suspect. They brought his face into the dim light, revealing him. Roberts leaned down as did Avery. Peering in, they tilted their heads back. They turned and looked at each other.

Roberts said, Jimmy, isn’t that—

Avery’s eyes were wide. His mouth was moving the slightest bit. He found his voice after a second, interrupting Roberts. Jesus H. Christ, David! That’s Gregory Dombovitch, head conductor of the Washington Symphony! We took those two girls from the office to a concert of his only two weeks ago!

Roberts nodded back in response. He was in a slight state of shock. Dombovitch tried to plead with his two arresters in English. Then, he tried Spanish. After that, he spoke in French. Giving up on languages, he sang. Even as they were restraining him and waiting on help to arrive, both Roberts and Avery could not help but marvel at the man’s amazing singing voice.

How long were the three of them locked in that musty, dank, and blood-soaked basement before backup and medical personnel arrived? It could not have been more than two minutes before SWAT, State Police, and FBI broke down the door and relieved the two men of duty. But to Roberts and Avery, it felt like hours.

That was always the case when you were locked in the dark with a monster. Dombovitch was a psychopath. A disarmed, wounded, and insane murderer who sang to you with a pleasant tenor range, but that that did not change the facts.

He was still a monster, no matter his vocal range.

2

FOR GINA WILLIAMS, PLEASURES IN THIS WORLD WERE RARE. ONE of her few pleasures was coffee in the early evening. Even more pleasurable than just coffee in the evening was when she had it on the porch, watching her daughter play. And even more enjoyable than that was when she did all of these actions with her best friend, Colleen Brinkmeyer.

That was what the two women were doing on a very pleasant evening in Grayson, Arkansas. Gina and Colleen—who had been friends since middle school—chatted as they sipped their java. They watched their daughters play together. The breeze held a slight chill, but the early October air was kind, warm, and just fine.

Gina was thirty-three years old, bordering on beautiful, with dark doe-like eyes and shoulder-length dark hair. Her smile was a mischievous grin most of the time. The petite stature of her body, while a little soft after the birth of her two children, was still good enough to catch an appreciative glance when she was out running errands. The posture, however, told another story. Not a life of champagne and caviar but rather a hard life, filled with sacrifices for her children.

She allowed herself to be talked into having sex with her high school boyfriend and got pregnant at a very early age. Her parents disowned her, her father calling her a slut and her mother slapping her face. The boyfriend never married Gina, instead he ran off after a few years. After giving birth to her first daughter, she toiled as a waitress for a few years, then she met a man. She was pregnant with his child not long after, which produced another daughter. Unlike her first sperm donor, he married her. After a short and very stormy marriage, he left.

Good riddance, Gina had thought.

Her friends, Colleen included among them, often joked that she was ready to give up on men. That she was ready to become a lesbian. Gina laughed at this, but knew that she was not ready for that step. She had given up on men, however. She mused—in her most private moments—that she was not that far away from trying another woman.

Instead of a lover, male or female, she devoted her life to her two daughters. To the best of her ability, she tried to raise them right. Despite her mistakes, she worked to instill in them superb values she hoped they would carry with them for the duration of their lives. She wanted her daughters to make better choices than she did. She worked hard after the end of her marriage and saved up enough to buy a home on the northern side of town. The northern side of town was a lot more upscale than the southern side of town, where she had lived her entire life.

Gina and Colleen sat on the porch, in the comfortable silence of longtime friends. The conversation had dried up about half an hour ago, but neither seemed to care that much. They watched, both of them smiling as Gina’s daughter, Cindy, ran across the yard. They chuckled as Cindy stole a doll from Colleen’s daughter, Samantha, and took off across the yard.

Gina was thinking. Not about her life. Or even that of Cindy’s life. She was thinking about her other daughter, Allison.

Allison was sixteen years old. She had a boyfriend, Sammy, who Gina just couldn’t bring herself to accept. Her daughter thought that the pimply faced geek with the hot-rod loved her. Gina found her daughter’s thoughts and actions naïve. Allison thought that a few dinners at McDonald’s and some awkward backseat groping was love. The teenaged girl had already proclaimed that she was crazy about Sammy and her intentions were to follow him to California as soon as they were eighteen. They would be movie stars and be rich and famous.

Gina tried to tell her she needed to focus on herself, and not on a silly boy. She answered in the simplest of teenage musings. Her broad statement for her mother’s nagging came with gestures. The mother had to use every bit of self-control she had in her fiber to not wring her daughter’s unappreciative neck when she delivered her base response. It was usually accompanied by a flip of the neck, which was bad. Or the flip of the hand, and that was even worse.

Allison said, Whatever.

Gina’s smile faded as she spotted Sammy’s hot-rod passing Colleen’s house. The dragster was heading toward Gina’s home at a high rate of speed. Frowning, Gina wondered where the local police were at that exact moment. She also knew it was time to get home. With a great deal of regret, Gina bade Colleen a good night. Both women smiled at each other. Colleen knew about Gina’s issues with Allison’s boyfriend.

The two women kissed cheeks and hugged. Gina walked off the porch and onto the front yard. She took Cindy’s hand. Finding out from her mother that they were leaving, Cindy wailed, yelling out her objections to her mother’s plans. Gina ignored her. Taking her daughter’s hand, the mother walked her child the four blocks back to their home.

Cindy’s feet were hurting, and she had no trouble expressing that to her mother. She complained often, but Gina did not hear her. Gina would not let go of Cindy’s hand, either. Focusing on getting home to Allison, Gina hoped she would find that punk Sammy there. Tired of Sammy, she was ready to put her foot down and put an end to the relationship.

As her house came into view, Gina turned her head to the left. She spotted Sammy’s hot-rod parked across the street from her house. A hard, tight smile found its way onto Gina’s face as she turned up, crossing the length of her driveway. She dragged Cindy along, despite the child’s protests.

Sammy was nowhere to be found. That mattered little to Gina. Maternal instinct told her he was inside already. She felt like she could float over the length of the driveway. With Cindy behind her—struggling to keep up—the two of them found their way to the side door. The door that led the way to the den. Gina used her key, opened the door, and forced her way inside her home. Entering her domicile, she yelled out.

Ah ha! Caught—

The last word she planned on saying died in her throat.

The Williams’ den was decorated with great taste. It was also covered in blood. The grandfather clock and several family photos—along with the tasteful furniture—were streaked with claret. Those streaks lined the walls, the wooden trim, family photos. Pools of crimson congealed in the fabric of the recliner, loveseat, and sofa. Despite her shock, the five senses were still working because Gina could smell the gore cooking into the light fixtures of the room.

Gina tried to shield Cindy’s eyes from the horror. Cindy was too fast and saw for herself the carnage, with the open eyes of a child. The child focused on the objects on the coffee table, and her brain registered what she was seeing. Mother looked down, and she could see her five year old daughter’s face contort with shock and horror as wailed aloud the screams of the forever damned.

Oh God, please no, thought Gina.

Cindy was against the wall, screaming as Gina noticed a note in the middle of the room, between the items placed on the coffee table. The items that got her daughter to go into hysterics. On legs that were less than steady, Gina lumbered across the room and picked up the note. Smeared with blood, the paper trembled in her fingers. She noted the objects on the table. Her mind could take in stimulus still, but she wished it wouldn’t.

On the Williams’ coffee table were a dismembered human heart, stomach, and liver. Arranged in the shape of a crude triangle, all three organs were coated in blood. Gina regarded the organs, with a slight shiver of disgust, then read the note.

The note was on a plain sheet of typewriter paper. Cindy was still screaming as blood smeared onto Gina’s hands. The paper came out of an electric typewriter.

It read: I got her before Sammy could spoil her. Just as you allowed yourself to be spoiled. Your daughter is dead. You will get the rest of the remains when I am ready to share.

That broke the paralysis within Gina’s mind. Just like her daughter, Gina screamed. The mother and daughter slumped to the floor, sliding down the wall. They were shrieking in unison.

Sammy (who was busy scoring an ounce of marijuana from his buddy across the street) was the one who found them. He wanted a little smoke before his date with his honey. His eyes widening in shock, he tucked the pot into his underwear. Then he called the police.

3

AS GINA WILLIAMS WAS DISCOVERING A HORROR SHOW IN HER DEN in Grayson, halfway across the country Roberts was trying to forget about the horror show he had just observed. The light was leaving the sky.

It was a lot colder in Utah than it was in Arkansas. Roberts did not know that. Nor would he have cared if asked, he had more pressing matters. His body was a mess of aches and pains from the firefight with Dombovitch. The battle in the basement had left him spent. Sitting against a tree far away