Ilse could still see the image of the tortured man in the barn, even as she now slowly lowered herself into a cushioned seat at the long, farmhouse table in the dining room. The blinds had all been closed—understandable given that they overlooked the barn.
The man's widow didn't sit across from them, but rather stood, arms crossed, head high as if in some sort of military posture. She frowned at Ilse and Sawyer where they watched her from over steaming brews of unsweetened tea which she had offered when they'd set foot in the house.
Ilse glanced back towards the end of the hall, through the mud room towards where her shoes sat neatly by the door. No shoes in the house. That had been Mrs. Jackson's first comment.
Sawyer rubbed a hand through his hair, letting out a long, leaking sigh. “So you found him, huh?” Sawyer said.
Mrs. Jackson watched him, her features gaunt, her expression severe. Her eyes were dry, but everything about her seemed in shock, from the dilation in her pupils, to the faint trembling of her left hand pressed to her elbow, to the way she kept asking them the same question.
“Can I get you some tea?” she murmured for the third time, a far-off stare in her eyes. She blinked a couple of times, then glanced towards the steaming mugs in front of the agents. “Oh,” she murmured. “Right.”
“Please,” Ilse said, gesturing towards a chair across the table. “Have a seat.”
The woman flinched and shook her head. “No, no I'd rather stand.”
Sawyer glanced at Ilse then back at the woman. “You found your husband, yes?”
Mrs. Jackson swallowed, but then nodded. “I—I, yes. I found him.” She stared off again, at the window, even though the blinds were shut. “I—I didn't recognize him at first,” she murmured. “It was so horrible.” She blinked, glancing towards Sawyer. “Would you like some tea?” she murmured, but she didn't wait for a response, and instead continued as if answering to some unspoken question. “I—I heard sounds from the barn. Thought one of the hounds must have gotten out. I went to investigate with a flashlight and then... then...” Instead of getting more emotional, her voice only numbed further. “I found him dangling there,” she said simply. “Blood dripping everywhere. His eyes were open... Staring at me.”
She trailed off, glancing into the distance and then releasing the faintest huff. Ilse spotted the woman's hands both trembling violently. One hand, gripping a steam mug of her own by the handle, sent sloshing liquid over the edge of the thing. The liquid hissed where it struck the top of the lacquered farmhouse table.
“Do you know the names,” Sawyer started, raising his phone, “Adelaide Stevens or Arthur Lehman?”
The woman frowned, glancing towards the pictures on the phone. She waited, considering her response carefully, studying the photos, then looked up. “Never seen them before in my life. Did they do this?”
Sawyer just shook his head.
“Did your husband have any enemies, ma'am?” Ilse asked. “Did anyone threaten him?”
The woman seemed to snap out of her reverie at this question, and her eyes narrowed as she stared at Ilse. “He had nothing but enemies. He made a mistake years ago. It's haunted him forever.”
“What sort of mistake?” Sawyer pressed.
“You know,” she retorted. “You undoubtedly looked him up when you got here.”
“He's on the registry,” Sawyer asked.
The woman just scowled. “Like I said, he made a mistake. He served his time in that hellhole of a prison. And now he keeps paying for it for the rest of his life. My husband had many enemies. Not the least of which wore badges like yours. Now please, I've said what I know. You need to leave.”
Sawyer hesitated, then got slowly to his feet.
Ilse paused long enough to murmur, “You said you heard sounds. What sort of sounds?”
“I couldn't say. I wasn't paying attention. Good evening, agents.”
The woman then turned, marched stiff-legged towards the door, her long dress swishing, and opened the door, pointing a finger angrily out into the night.
Ilse got slowly to her feet as well, the chair creaking beneath her. Sawyer allowed her to move first. Together, they both nodded farewell to the widow and moved into the darkness. The door thumped shut behind them, leaving them on the porch to the ranch house.
Sawyer ran a hand through his sandy hair, causing his cap to tilt forward. “No connections then,” he muttered, glancing at her. “Old farmer. Didn't know the other victims. Different career, different age bracket, different appearance.”
“Maybe his criminal past is related,” Ilse said.
“Maybe. But how does that connect the first two victims? If anything, there are fewer connections than before.”
Ilse put a hand against a load-bearing wooden beam of the porch. She looked out across the dark land, in the opposite direction of the barn and red and blue flashing lights.
“Maybe there are no connections,” she said. “Maybe he's killing at random.”
“Hmm.”
“You think so?”
“Huh.”
“Sawyer, hello,” Ilse waved a hand towards her partner who was also staring off, but only as far as his fingers, which he'd curled, as if examining his nails. “Hey—Earth to Sawyer! You there?”
He looked up suddenly, blinking as if jolting from a nap. He stared at her, frowned, then said. “What was that?”
“Are you okay?”
He waved a hand distractedly. “Fine, fine. Look—we have no leads, it's getting late. Best call it a night and start fresh in the morning.”
Ilse hesitated, glancing at Sawyer, but then looking quickly back in the direction of the barn so he wouldn't catch her staring. She wasn't sure why he was behaving so distractedly. He seemed even gruffer than usual. Standing next to him, he still smelled of sawdust. A farm like this seemed far more suited to a man like Sawyer than any FBI office.
And yet he stood out of place here, too, after a fashion.
This whole case was just sad. A woman who'd been born with less than pleasant features—she'd volunteered to have her features altered by surgery. A man who'd committed a grave crime who'd tried to start over, but never really managed it. Another man, completely different, who was a marathon runner—an athlete.
So much wasted life. The bleak skies seemed a fitting testament.
“I'll find my own way back,” Ilse said quietly, stepping down from the porch and using the thick, wooden stairs. They looked, judging by the screws and the slight angle of the rails, to have been homemade.
“You sure?”
“Yeah. One of the officers can drive me back.”
“City is like two hours away.”
Ilse shook her head. “It's fine. I'll rest, don't worry.”
Sawyer watched her for a moment, but then shrugged once, patted her on the back with a warm hand, then began strolling up the dusty road, his thumbs hooked in his belt loops. As he moved away, head downturned, quiet as ever, Ilse's gaze flitted back in the direction of the silo with the missing vines.
What did a soybean farmer have in common with a red-haired marathon runner? What did a fashion model have in common with either?
Something had to connect them, didn't it? The first two victims had died in the city. But this latest one was a hundred miles away...
It didn't make sense.
Sawyer reached their car parked on the side of the road. Ilse gave a faint wave which he returned in the form of a nod as he slipped into the seat and spun the wheel, kicking up dust as he tore away from the farm.
Ilse double-checked the number of police cruisers around the farm. She'd have to speak with one of the sergeants to make sure she wasn't left stranded.
But she didn't want to drive with Sawyer. Not now. He carried an aura now... a strange sense. She couldn't quite place it. Was he still thinking about his sister? Was he regretting telling Ilse about any of it?
She stared at the silo, at the missing vines...
Why vines?
There had been rope in the barn. She'd seen it. Cable as well.
Why vines?
She'd read the arrest report for Mr. Jackson. It didn't have anything to do with the assault. Almost as if the killer hadn't cared.
If anything, Mr. Jackson had managed to carve a life out for himself. He'd served his time in prison... Most of Ilse's clients weren't nearly so lucky. Men like Jackson preyed on people who came to Ilse for help. Many of them, over time, were given freedom from the shame, the horror... Others, though, remained stuck for years... forever...
Ilse herself, now in her thirties, still remembered the horrors of her childhood home, the lakeside house. The memories still haunted her. At least, the ones she didn't repress.
Thirty years was a long time to take from another soul.
And yet the soybean farmer was trying... trying to rebuild, trying to reroute, trying to end better than he started...
She frowned at this thought, stepping into the middle of the dusty road, hands in her pockets, her sweater sleeves bunched at her hips. She stared at the barn. Then she turned, looking over the soybean stalks through the fields.
The vines... the beans...
Jackson.
Jack.
She snorted to herself and shook her head faintly. Smiling at the silly idea. “Whatever, Beck,” she muttered. “Dream on...”
But even as she thought it, she felt a faint prickle of something... some sort of realization. As if her subconscious was just trying to whisper.
She took another step towards the barn. A red-headed runner... Ginger? That's what some people called red hair. A ginger runner.
“No...,” she murmured. “No... you can't be serious...”
A cold chill now spread across her skin. Her eyes suddenly widened as she thought of Adelaide. The ugly little girl turned pretty princess... Suddenly, the prickle turned into a buzz. Adele's eyes bulged. Her hand almost darted for her phone. But she paused, just standing in the road, her mind spinning.
It wasn't possible, was it? It couldn't be...
Unless... Unless it was...
But she couldn't call Sawyer. Not now. Not yet. It was just a hunch. A crazy, ridiculous hunch. A coincidence at the most, but still... She needed to get home. To do some of her own research. But what if she was right? What if the murders didn't just fit a pattern—what if the pattern was so obvious it was practically screaming?
“Officer!” she called suddenly, waving towards a man by the barn doors. “Officer, I need a ride back into Seattle!”