“The one yesterday?”
“Yeah, yesterday and today. It’s escalating.”
“What are you thinking?”
“Don’t know what to think. Working with the Indianapolis Metropolitan PD and they’re scratchin’ their heads too. Dump sites are clean, no footprints, no evidence, no witnesses. He goes in, does his business, gets out. All the victims are gang bangers, all black, none of them older then twenty-one, not big players. Bullet to the forehead, no signs of struggle, no marks on the body, wrists, ankles, they haven’t been bound. It’s like the killer took ‘em by surprise, they were facin’ him when it happened, saw it comin’, it came fast and he’s a damn fine shot.”
“Gang war?”
“Gang boys, they don’t cart a body fifteen miles from the city into the sticks and dump it so it’ll be found.”
“Hate crime?” Feb asked.
“Maybe,” Colt answered though he didn’t believe that. Racism was prevalent in their town, no denying it, but he doubted that was the motivation. If these boys had infiltrated the town, started recruiting, he could see it. But their territories were in the city, likely murdered there and transported. Someone had gone hunting.
Feb read him again. “Vigilante?”
She was quick.
“That’d be my guess.”
“Is it gross?”
“What?”
Her voice dipped quiet. “The bodies. Is it gross?”
Something about that made him smile. “My opinion, dead bodies are gross all around, honey, even if it’s your Grandma laid in a casket. Dead bodies who’ve had a hole blown through the back of their heads, definitely.”
The bottom half of her face scrunched up, wrinkling her nose and he couldn’t help but chuckle. He reached out and wrapped his hand around her knee, giving her a squeeze before letting her go.
“Gonna get this man to bed,” Jackie announced and Colt and Feb looked to their sides to see Jackie guiding a stumbling Jack to the side door using both her hands on him.
Jack emitted a rumble and muttered, “’Night kids.”
Jackie gave them a smile and they disappeared through the door.
Colt stared at the door long after it closed then his eyes cut back to Feb when he felt her move in a fidget.
“This is getting to you,” she said softly.
Colt nodded. “Most of those boys don’t have a high life expectancy. They survive the street, they usually end up doin’ time then gettin’ out only to get caught and go back in again. Every once in awhile one of ‘em will get their shit together and pull themselves out. Any one of those boys we found could have been one of those who eventually got their shit together. What they do with their lives is no good but you never know when life will turn. Those boys didn’t get the chance to have the epiphany that led them to gettin’ their shit straight and I don’t like it.”
She put down her drink then her hand lifted high, toward his face then it hesitated and dropped down. He felt it settle at his neck, her fingers curling around and she leaned in, slightly, but she came closer.
He’d been right. Feb touched him and his mind went blank.
“You should know, people sleep easier knowin’ you do what you do,” she told him and he shook his head but she kept going, her hand tightening at his neck. “I don’t mean generally, Colt. People sleep easier knowin’ it’s you doin’ what you do.”
Christ, he wanted to kiss her.
Before he could do it, she dropped her hand, hopped off the counter and gave him a smile that was a challenge.
“Bet I’d kick your ass at pool,” she said.
Again before he could move or say a word, she grabbed her glass and walked out of the kitchen.
He watched her ass sway while she did it and then he poured himself more bourbon and followed her.
* * * * *
Colt came awake with a jolt; this was because Feb was shaking his shoulder.
He knifed double on the couch and stared at her silhouette in the dark.
“What?”
She leaned into him to reach around, the light flashed on and he blinked at the sudden brightness.
“My journals,” she whispered.
She was crouched beside him at the couch wearing her big t-shirt and she surged to her feet, her hand going to her hair, yanking it from her face. Her movements were rough. She was agitated.
She kept talking. “Awhile ago, not long, weeks?” she asked, her voice high, strange, stressed, “I went home. Felt funny, I didn’t know, just felt something weird.”
That cold started curling around his chest; he threw back the blankets and stood up, his movements taking him close to her.
She tilted her head back to look at him and dropped her hair but her hand waved to the side, palm up, a gesture that seemed both scared and helpless and it made that cold slither closer.
“Why’d it feel weird?” Colt asked.
She shook her head but said, “My apartment just didn’t feel right. It happened a couple of times actually. Didn’t think, forgot all about it, thought I was bein’ stupid. A woman, livin’ alone, thinkin’ stupid shit…” she shook her head again then said, quieter this time, that fear and vulnerability stark in her voice, “the thing was, one of those times, I found a journal on the floor of my closet.”
The cold started clawing.
Since he could remember, Feb had diaries. She didn’t hide when she wrote in them. When she was a kid and a teenager she’d be in Jack and Jackie’s living room, her legs thrown over an armchair, her journal at her thighs, her pen scratching on the page. When she broke up with him, had her turn and he didn’t understand why, he considered stealing one, reading it to find out why, but he knew that was a betrayal she’d never forgive. He’d hoped back then whatever had caused her to change would reverse and she’d come right back but she never did and then it was too late.
She still did it, he knew. He’d been into Meems’s to get coffee enough times to see she hadn’t changed. She’d be at her regular table, the book in front of her, her head bent, one hand holding her hair away from her face at the back of her neck, the other hand writing on the page, her coffee cup in front of her, muffin remains on a plate. Hell, she’d even been at his kitchen bar writing in one that night.
“I’m guessing you don’t keep your journals on the floor of your closet,” Colt prompted when she said no more.
She shook her head again. “I’ve kept them all, starting from the diary Mom gave me when I was twelve, the little one with that lock on it you could break with your thumbnail.” She licked her lips then said, “They’re in a box at the top of my closet. I thought nothing of it, don’t know why, it was weird but you don’t think someone will…”