<meta content="urn:uuid:6ab7c8ca-fa8a-4e41-ba4a-5a4beed4fa51" name="Adept.expected.resource"/> </head> <body> <p class="p1"> </p> <p class="p1"> </p> <p class="p1"> </p> <h1 class="h10"><a id="ncx977"/><a id="a43"/>CHAPTER ELEVEN</h1> <p class="p1"> </p> <p class="p1"> </p> <p class="p1">“Yeah—that one!” Ilse was saying, frowning from the paper note in her hand to the address on the side of the house. “No—no <span class="t13">that </span>one! Tom!”</p> <p class="p1">Sawyer growled, “I see the Prius, doc. We're good!” He jerked the steering wheel along the side of the road of a neat, newly painted suburban house with no driveway. A water feature tastefully meandered through the neat grass garden. The home had no porch or patio but did boast an impressive oak door with a golden knocker shaped like a lion's head.</p> <p class="p1">Ilse and Sawyer hastened to the front door, took a step onto the slab concrete platform, and both of them knocked simultaneously. And waited.</p> <p class="p1">Ilse breathed heavily, brushing nervously at the hair over her maimed ear, staring at the sealed door. She glanced towards the Prius in the drive and felt a bout of nerves. “He's definitely here,” she muttered.</p> <p class="p1">“Yeah, alone... with a woman,” Sawyer growled. He ducked his head, peering through one of the windows. “Dark upstairs,” he said. “Shit. Hey!” he called, raising his voice. “Nolan Kent! Open the door! FBI!”</p> <p class="p1">Ilse pressed the doorbell and a faint ding echoed from inside the home. But there was still no answer. Sawyer worried his lip, glancing sharply at Ilse. “Car's in the drive,” he said, a faint glimmer in his eye as if trying to explain himself.</p> <p class="p1">“I—yes, I see—what are you doing—!”</p> <p class="p1">Ilse tried to protest, but Sawyer's elbow was in mid-motion. His flannel sleeve slammed through the glass of the nearest window. The oak door was too thick to try and kick down. But now, he scraped at the shards of glass with his sleeve, wincing as a faint trail of red crept down his elbow, soaking through a small rip in his sleeve.</p> <p class="p1">Normally so calm, controlled, Sawyer looked... scared. Panicked. His eyes had a haunted, almost distant look to them.</p> <p class="p1">Sawyer flung himself through the window, hitting the ground inside. Ilse stared, stunned, glancing over her shoulder and wondering if anyone was watching. Before she could ruminate though, the door clicked then swung in.</p> <p class="p1">Sawyer stood in a dark entrance, gesturing urgently at her.</p> <p class="p1">“Hear that?” he said. He blinked a few times and then looked at the scattered glass, frowning suddenly as if surprised. Ilse had seen PTSD before in survivors of trauma.</p> <p class="p1">Ilse paused at the threshold, wondering if she ought to say anything, but Sawyer was already moving again. She swallowed her nerves and moved into the house. She paused long enough to frown and nod. She <span class="t13">did </span>hear that. Music—faint, strobing music.</p> <p class="p1">“Coming that way,” Sawyer said. “FBI!” he called again, louder.</p> <p class="p1">But now, the music only seemed to increase as they padded down a hallway, away from the front entrance in the direction of a basement with a closed door.</p> <p class="p1">Sawyer gripped the handle and yanked the door open.</p> <p class="p1">The sound of music swelled up the stairwell, resounding in their ears and swishing through the hall. Ilse hesitated a moment at the top step, but then she heard the faint sound of grunting. The sound of a sudden <span class="t13">crash! </span>Then a scream.</p> <p class="p1">“Shit,” Ilse gasped, bug-eyed, her fingers scrambling for her weapon.</p> <p class="p1">But Sawyer didn't take a second. He bound down the stairs like some sort of mountain cat, a snarl on his lips, but the sound restrained to conserve his breath. Ilse followed as quickly as she could, but Sawyer was moving so recklessly that he reached the bottom step, nearly striking into a wall by the time Ilse was midway down the stairs.</p> <p class="p1">Once she was on the ground as well, she spotted a flash of motion as Sawyer lunged towards two figures in the middle of the room, near a couple of yoga mats. A big screen TV was flashing images, displaying people performing a workout routine. The music was so loud, Ilse's ears heart—the strobing, thumping rhythm and faint melody that was the cousin to elevator music everywhere.</p> <p class="p1">Ilse spotted a ceramic pot—neat, new and well-kept like everything else in the house. It had smashed on the tiled ground in front of the TV, falling from the display cubby hole it evidently had resided in.</p> <p class="p1">The two figures struggling on one of the yoga mats, though, soon snared her entire attention. A woman in a sports bra and workout pants was trying to scream, bucking her hips to attempt and dislodge a man who had her wrists pinned above her head.</p> <p class="p1">His back was to them, the music completely overwhelming his senses.</p> <p class="p1">The man had slick hair and muscles for days, which he boldly displayed in a short cut, two-sizes too small, t-shirt. He was panting, and saying, “Come on—you know you want to. Don't be a tease!” He began to say something else as the woman shifted and struggled trying to get free.</p> <p class="p1">But the words never arrived, as Sawyer reached him now. Tom didn't pause, didn't shout, he just slammed right into the fellow, knocking him off the struggling woman.</p> <p class="p1">The man's spine arched, and he let out a sound like a whoopie cushion followed by a <span class="t13">thud </span>as his meaty form hit the floor.</p> <p class="p1">Sawyer landed on top, but then kept right on going, carried by his momentum. He rolled off the man. For a moment, Ilse just stared in horror. The muscular attacker groaned, but was slowly rising, shaking his head dully and muttering, “What the hell...”</p> <p class="p1">The woman on the ground was scrambling to her feet, retreating back towards Ilse, eyes wide and in horror, searching for the first friendly face she could discover. “It's all okay,” Ilse said quickly. “Holding out a hand. It's all—” then her eyes widened, her gun raised, and she pointed it towards the man Sawyer had tackled. “Drop it!” she yelled. “Drop it now!”</p> <p class="p1">The jock had picked up a piece of the porcelain pot, holding it above his head. He heaved a breath, but then his small eyes fixed on Ilse, glanced to her gun.</p> <p class="p1">“FBI!” she said. “Drop it, now!”</p> <p class="p1">Sawyer, groggily, was rising to his own feet.</p> <p class="p1">The man with the raised piece of pottery hesitated a second longer, his eyes suddenly registering what she'd said. “Aww, shit,” he muttered.</p> <p class="p1">Sawyer then clocked him from behind, catching him on the side of the head and sending him in a pile to the ground.</p> <p class="p1">Gasping, wincing, his elbow bleeding, Sawyer stepped over Mr. Kent and looked towards the trembling woman who was staring in horror from her attacker to the gun in Ilse's hand.</p> <p class="p1">“Are you okay?” Sawyer said, his tone earnest. “Miss, are you alright?”</p> <p class="p1">She just stared, shocked, stunned. “A—are you really FBI?” she whispered.</p> <p class="p1">“Yes,” Ilse said. “You're safe. Don't worry. You're safe.”</p> <p class="p1">The woman bit her lip, inhaled shakily then let out a long breath.</p> <p class="p1">Sawyer, once he seemed convinced the woman was alright, glanced back towards the man on the ground. He reached for his cuffs, muttering, “Under arrest...” before dropping to a knee and grabbing one of those muscular wrists.</p> <p class="p1"> </p> <p class="p3">***</p> <p class="p1"> </p> <p class="p1">Ilse crossed her arms where she sat across the table from Mr. Kent, frowning in his direction while watching him cry.</p> <p class="p1">Sawyer's expression was impassive where he sat next to her. They were using the interrogation room of a local precinct which had only been a five-minute drive from the would-be victim's house. Ilse could still see the fear in the woman's eyes, and the sudden way it had changed to hope. Even still, an attack like this would leave scars. It would lead to long nights awake. Locked doors. Weapons beneath the mattress, phone calls to friends in fright. It would lead to reinforced windows, maybe even a move to another house.</p> <p class="p1">Things like this traumatized their victims.</p> <p class="p1">Now, though, Mr. Kent didn't look anything like the macho aggressor he had projected down in that basement. Alone, the sounds drowned by music, hidden from sight—or so he'd thought. A different animal had been released in the dark. A cowardly animal.</p> <p class="p1">Across from them, someone else sat.</p> <p class="p1">“I—I, I know I have a problem,” the muscle-bound personal trainer moaned, sobbing between breaths. “I know it... I—I shouldn't have done it.”</p> <p class="p1">“Done what?” Sawyer said, his tone completely devoid of emotion, his eyes empty of anything near compassion nor condemnation. He simply watched the man, a puzzle to be figured out.</p> <p class="p1"> “A—attacked her,” he said between another round of sobs.</p> <p class="p1">“You tried to sexually assault her,” Sawyer prompted.</p> <p class="p1">The man just continued to sob.</p> <p class="p1">“Say it,” Sawyer said. “You need to say it.”</p> <p class="p1">The man just shook his head, his lips peeling back. “I—I didn't mean to,” he sobbed. “I swear it... I swear it, just, just... I'm sick. I know I'm sick.”</p> <p class="p1">“Sick?” Sawyer said, some of his tone changing now, a layer of anger rising. “That's what you call it? <span class="t13">Sick</span>? That's one word for it. Scumbag is another. Evil is probably the clearest. So you do admit to it? You tried to rape her. Then what were you going to do, hmm?”</p> <p class="p1">The man just shook his head, tears now streaming down his cheeks. He stared off, vacantly across the gray room, his shoulders trembling. He didn't look like some big brutish jock anymore. Rather, he looked like a child. A large, bawling child with oily hair and a curled lip.</p> <p class="p1">“I got twisted young,” he was saying, sobbing. “Got twisted young... I didn't know—didn't mean to. Just sometimes, sometimes I can't help myself.”</p> <p class="p1">Sawyer grunted in disgust.</p> <p class="p1">Ilse, though, remained quiet. She was thinking of the man's mother. She truly seemed to love her son, though she hadn't hidden him from them. Ilse could only imagine what her life might have been if she'd also had that sort of love. There was no father in the picture... Twisted young. What did that mean? Did it matter. This wasn't her client—she wasn't his therapist.</p> <p class="p1">This man had chosen another path. He'd chosen to damage others for his own pleasure.</p> <p class="p1">Part of Ilse pitied the man, but another part of her wanted to scream at him. She'd seen the cycle so often. Especially by those who came <span class="t13">late </span>to sessions with her. A cold, hard truth of her career: some of her clients, who'd survived, could cause damage to others. Oftentimes by putting up defensive walls to protect themselves, hiding from the world. But other times, they would cause more serious damage. She'd spoken to women and men before who had passed on the abuse, the fear of their altercations. She'd spoken to killers in prison, spoken to trauma-victims acting out in violence.</p> <p class="p1">That was one side of the story. Hurt people hurt people. But on the other side, she'd looked into the eyes of children, of women—so often women—and seen them weep. Seen the scars that went deep. The majority of her clients only harmed themselves in response to their abuse or their traumatic events. They locked away, hid—they didn't deserve what had happened to them.</p> <p class="p1">And so the cycle of victim and victimizer so often continued. People could use their pain as an excuse to damage others. And people could choose to help those who were in pain.</p> <p class="p1">Sometimes, though, the only way to help a predator was behind bars.</p> <p class="p1">Ilse thought of his would-be victim. Thought of the two other victims of the serial killer. No one deserved that. The whole world, sometimes, seemed as if it were in pain. Agony spreading like a virus. No one to do anything about it except to try and catch it before it was too late.</p> <p class="p1">This was always the hardest part for her, when it came to the job with the FBI. She had two parts to her. Not just a law enforcement agent. Not just someone focused on the bad guys. She didn't think in such simple terms—not really. Good, bad... She looked at her own life, looked at her sister Heidi. Both of them brought up in the same home. If Dr. Mitchell hadn't found Ilse, hadn't acted like a second father figure... who knew what might have happened.</p> <p class="p1">Heidi, on the other hand, had been abused just like all of the Muellers... things had turned out much different for Ilse's sister. Twisted young.</p> <p class="p1">That's where it all started. Evil perpetuated itself. She didn't hate the man in front of her. She pitied him a bit. She felt rage at what he did to his victims. But also... she felt sad. Sad at it all. She wished she could just bleed all the pain, all the hurt out of the world.</p> <p class="p1">Sawyer's tone didn't carry any form of pity, nor pain. He just looked mad. “And the first two,” he said. “You rape them also? Is that it—you swing both ways, huh? The guys and the girls. Coroner didn't seem to think so but you tell me.”</p> <p class="p1">The man suddenly froze, staring at them. “The... wait, what? Coroner? What coroner?”</p> <p class="p1">Sawyer snorted, pointing a finger that jutted out further even than his baseball cap brim. “We caught you in the act Kent. Don't play dumb. It will go way easier if you just own up to it.”</p> <p class="p1">Now, though, the man's eyes widened to the size of saucers, and he stammered horribly. “Own up to... I—I told you I had a problem. I didn't...”</p> <p class="p1">“What? Didn't do this before?” Sawyer snorted. “Please. Nice try. We have a statement from the gym you used to work at. Complains of harassment. One from one of our victims no less. Is that where it started? Assault escalating to murder?” Sawyer shook his head, wagging that same extended finger. “It's always the same shit with you guys, isn't it?”</p> <p class="p1">Now, though Mr. Kent looked as if he'd been hit by a truck. “Wait—what? I didn't—hold on. Murder? I wasn't going to—I didn't—I'd never!”</p> <p class="p1">“Kill someone?” Sawyer snorted. “Right. What about your last two victims? They were clients of yours at Jade Fitness. One of them filed a complaint against you.”</p> <p class="p1">Now, the man's entire demeanor had changed. His face went from pasty and pale to straight-up horrified. He gaped like a landed trout, mouth opening and closing rapidly. “I didn't kill anyone,” he said, all in one exhale. “I never! I got a little frisky, handsy maybe, with a couple of my clients at the gym. I'll admit it... But I never, ever hurt anyone!”</p> <p class="p1">Sawyer seemed to spring up all of a sudden. One moment he'd been sitting, quiet and docile, the next he'd surged forward, eyes raging, neck muscles bugling. He slammed a hand against the table with a thundering <span class="t13">clap! </span>“Never hurt anyone? That's what you call what we walked in on?”</p> <p class="p1">“That was an accident!” he moaned. “An accident!”</p> <p class="p1">Ilse frowned, studying the man. He was lying to himself, that was clear. But was he also lying to them? Why admit part but hold back the rest? Feeding a grain of truth as a form of camouflage to deflect the rest?</p> <p class="p1">Perhaps. Or perhaps he was telling the truth about the murders.</p> <p class="p1">“Where were you this week?” Ilse said calmly, ignoring Sawyer's furious figure.</p> <p class="p1">The man's eyes darted from Sawyer's glare to Ilse's stare. At least, with a swallow and a final nervous flick of his eyes to Tom, he settled his gaze on Ilse, pleading. “I was at my mother's after work.”</p> <p class="p1">“So you had work?” Ilse said.</p> <p class="p1">“Yes! Yes—I did!”</p> <p class="p1">“When?” she pressed.</p> <p class="p1">He now glanced at Sawyer again and back to Ilse, stammering, “All day—I work all day! It isn't cheap what I do!”</p> <p class="p1">“You were working the afternoon on Wednesday?” Ilse asked.</p> <p class="p1">“Umm... Umm, yeah that would've been the Kilo residence. Couple of old fellas. Nice folk.”</p> <p class="p1">Sawyer looked frozen, like a marionette gone stiff. He glanced at Ilse, then back at the man across the table. He remained standing, but his clenched fest released after a moment. “You saying you had clients the last few days?”</p> <p class="p1">“Every one of them!” the man exclaimed, wagging his head. “Yeah!”</p> <p class="p1">“Got proof?”</p> <p class="p1">“Yes. Yes!” The man's head wagged so wildly, his gelled bangs flapped up and down like one big fan. “I have my day planner in my phone. Any one of them can vouch for me. I'm good at my job—really... just sometimes... sometimes I get a bit overwhelmed and...”</p> <p class="p1">“Christ,” Sawyer muttered. “I don't wanna hear your belly-aching. Pass-code for your phone.”</p> <p class="p1">“Umm...”</p> <p class="p1">“Pass-code!” Sawyer barked. “Now! You say you have an alibi? Prove it. I'm going to call every one of those clients of yours. If you're lying...,” Sawyer pointed a finger at the man, his eyes blazing. “You'll wish you hadn't.”</p> <p class="p1"> “If... if I'm telling the truth,” the man said in a hopeful, hurt voice, “does that mean I'm free to go?”</p> <p class="p1">“Hell no,” Sawyer snapped.</p> <p class="p1">“No,” Ilse said with equal firmness. “Sexual assault is a serious offense,” she said. “You'll spend time in prison. But perhaps you'll be allowed out...”</p> <p class="p1">“If you're telling the truth,” Sawyer said. “Now give me the pass-code for your phone, dammit.”</p> <p class="p1">The man's head was hanging now and his lip jutting petulantly. But before he could start to reply, Sawyer's own phone began to ring. He growled in frustration, yanking the device out. He glanced at the screen, but before he could shut it off, he went still, staring.</p> <p class="p1">Ilse watched Sawyer quizzically as the sandy-haired man lifted his phone and said in a hoarse voice. “Yeah?”</p> <p class="p1">He paused. Ilse watched the way the muscles bunched around his eyes, feeling a rising sense of anxiety in her gut.</p> <p class="p1">“You sure?” Sawyer said. He sighed, exhaling a breath. “Be right there,” he muttered. He lowered the phone, staring at it for a second, then glancing to Ilse.</p> <p class="p1">“What is it?” she murmured.</p> <p class="p1">Sawyer's lips pressed in a narrow line.</p> <p class="p1">“Another one?” Ilse said suddenly, eyes widening. “Another body, you're sure?”</p> <p class="p1">Sawyer winced, glancing towards the man behind the table. He pointed a finger. “You stay put,” he snapped. “I'll send a boy in blue in. Tell him your pass-code. Tell him everything you told us, hear me? Leave nothing the hell out!”</p> <p class="p1">Kent just hung his head but nodded to show he'd heard.</p> <p class="p1">Then, Sawyer looked back at Ilse, jerking his head to the door. “Let's go,” he muttered.</p> <p class="p1">“So it is?” Ilse said, trying to keep her words cryptic for the sake of their present company. “Another one?”</p> <p class="p1">Sawyer rubbed his chin but closed his eyes and released a weary huff. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Another one. Let's go.”</p> <p class="p1"> </p> </body> </html>