I made the connection immediately: Celine Dover. The young woman whose body a farmer had discovered in a soybean field northwest of Liberty near the Kearney, Missouri border. And now I knew why Reed had stashed the phone in a fireproof safe and that it had belonged to Jacob Cahill. I was also now convinced Reed had not only murdered Cahill but also Clive Barstow, Mason Muldoon, and David Snyder in retaliation for her sister’s murder. And I now understood why the shooter at the railroad trestle had intentionally fired over my head.
I remembered Reed preferred to carry a Heckler & Koch handgun. I wasn’t well-versed on that particular weapon, but I did know it didn’t shoot 9mm ammo. Of course, most detectives owned a second gun, which they carried when off duty. Reed was on duty the night White and Tiegs robbed her apartment. She hadn’t stored her off-duty gun in the safe because she had plans to use it that night.
Four of the five men suspected of murdering three women were now dead. Was Reed out there now hunting the fifth man? I considered alerting Ramirez or Donahue or Franklin but, deep down, didn’t feel Reed deserved punishment for her crimes.
Sitting at Quaid’s desk, which had recently been assigned to Reed, I wasn’t surprised to find every drawer locked or that her computer was not only shut down but she’d also implemented password protection. Although I could see every item—from paperclips to pens and various notepads—within her desk, I was unable to adequately decipher every notation she’d made. I scrubbed my forehead, then leafed through the folders stacked neatly within a wooden tray on the corner of the desk. I scrutinized each individual case file related to the rash of inner-city homicides but didn’t find anything I hadn’t seen before. I blew out my frustration and slid the desk chair back in its original position.
Franklin smacked a hand down on my desk to get my attention, to which both my nostrils automatically inflated. “I’m making a Denny’s run. You want anything?”
I squinted through an insincere smile. “No thanks.”
He double-tapped the desktop and said, “Suit yourself, but don’t forget I asked.”
Sergeant Nelson had a phone in one hand and a radio in the other when I approached the tall desk he sentineled, the street side largely covered with images of missing persons and KCPD publicity posters. I waited until he’d finished the call and had sent his intended corresponding transmission over the airwaves.
“I’m headed over to Detective Reed’s apartment. She could be on her way here. Give me a call if she shows up, would you?”
Nelson nodded and bounced two fingers off his forehead, his attention drawn once again to the clanging phone and his computer monitor.
I curbed the Dodge near the intersection of Linwood Boulevard and Prospect Avenue and waited for a convoy of firetrucks and ambulances to scream past, bright flashing lights constricting my pupils. Reed wasn’t at home when I arrived outside her apartment.
On a hunch, I broadened my search to include the blocks that separated Muldoon’s residence from Cahill’s residence, Snyder’s apartment complex approximately midway. Parking the car in a potholed lot attached to a deserted motel, I rocketed skyward, my hair streaming behind me as I glided over treetops. Soaring over Salem Heights—not so long ago taking the prize for Kansas City’s Seediest Neighborhood, with a two-hundred-seventy-nine percent increase in violent crime—I spotted the pumpkin-orange roof of Reed’s Mustang, tucked between an alleyway and two abandoned houses, and a convoy of unlicensed vehicles strung along the curb near the corner, a few graffitied with local gang symbols. Apparently, Reed wasn’t the only one who had located our fifth suspect. Right place. Wrong time.
Projectiles whistled past—originating from the house—as I exited the car. The rival gang members responded immediately, the unmistakable rat-a-tat of automatic machine-gun fire reverberating off the house and all the surrounding houses, aligned in a unified row and constructed at a time when neighbors enjoyed rather than feared social interaction.
Another car rounded the corner, headlamps out, and squealed to a stop. Four men exited the vehicle and hopped the chain link fence. With the front of the house covered, I assumed they intended to snake their way in through the back door and surprise our fifth suspect. I caught a glimpse of Reed, pinned down halfway between the rear entrance to the house and an old shed. But I wasn’t the only one aware of her presence.
“Reed, get out of there!” I yelled a blink before the gangsters trained guns of various calibers on both of us. Reed dashed toward the shed, nearly tore the door off its hinges, and tumbled inside. I had just clacked a fresh clip into my Glock and identified myself when a third bullet—fired from a sawed-off shotgun—struck my torso. The impact propelled me backward and I slammed against the ground. A sobering silence fell over the neighborhood; the only sounds were hushed voices and the scraping of neglected branches against gutters. Soon after, the whispers drew closer as soft-soled shoes crunched fallen leaves. I knew I was about to lose consciousness when my pores oozed sweat, a cold wave washed over me, and my ears began to ring. Don’t pass out! On my back and out in the open, I scooted beneath an abandoned car. The lead pellets began to sizzle as bloody tissue closed over my wounds, and I covered a scream. Jagged incisors pierced my hand while superhuman strength expanded every muscle. Suddenly overcome with the desire to kill, I launched the car into the air, and the advancing footsteps stopped abruptly when sirens began to wail in the distance.
Crashing to the pavement, the car spun on its top in the middle of the street, as a lone male figure hurtled from the rear entrance of the house wielding a long-bladed knife. Reed tore out of the shed—a blur of Kevlar, handcuffs and dark hair in motion—and took pursuit. She caught up to him and the two scuffled as Reed struggled to disarm him. I didn’t have a clear shot and zipped in their direction to assist her just as Reed sank to her knees and fired her weapon at our fleeing suspect. Her bullet met the target and he fell facedown in the dirt.
The sirens drew closer, alerting the four shooters intent on killing the cult member, who had just fled the house. The clandestine posse made a run for it, toting AK-47s, AR-15s, and illegally manipulated shotguns inside the fleet of garish vehicles parked near the corner, and left behind the scent of gunpowder and burning rubber.
Rather than pursue them, I attempted to give Reed first aid. She clawed the gaping wound across her throat, tissue hacked, muscles exposed. Blood bubbled from her nose and when she tried to speak, her words gurgled.
“Don’t try to talk, Christina. You don’t have to confess to me.” She tried to sit up, and I pressed her back down. “Look, I know what you’ve done, and I get it. The ambulance is on the way,” I assured her, but I knew no one, other than me, could help her now.
She must have known she was about to die, because she shook her head, then tipped it toward the knife lying next to the man she had just shot in the back. “For. My. Sister,” she said, manipulating her larynx, as blood spurted between words.
I could see the flashing lights from the emergency vehicles, and I knew I had to make a decision. My heartbeat accelerated and it was all I could hear. Oh God. Can I do this? Does Christina Reed deserve immortality? Am I doing the right thing? “Christina, you’re dying,” I said as I leaned over her, “but I can give you immortality. You just have to trust me.” I waited until the last traces of life left her eyes, then I drew a deep breath and sank my fangs in.
Her eyes opened, wide and wild, her skin shrank then closed over the bite marks and the long, serrated slash across her throat that the suspect had inflicted. Her lips parted to accommodate long dagger-like incisors, and she emitted a primal growl, arched her back, and transferred all her weight to her lower extremities. She somersaulted backward and sprang onto her feet. I hissed a warning, my fangs once again obscuring my lower lip. She studied the preternatural glow in my eyes, then took a step back. The transformation was in the early stages, and I knew from experience that unmitigated pain would soon render her unconscious.
“They’re coming,” I said as the winged cacophony grew louder, and I watched her legs wobble while her eyes searched the night sky overhead. “Don’t be afraid.”
She opened her mouth to speak but, instead, passed out and crumpled to the ground. I picked up her gun, hurled it across several backyards, and heard it land on a nearby rooftop.
The Elders descended, wings sounding a final whoosh as webbed feet thudded the grassless yard. Nostradamus was the first to embrace me. “Do not torment yourself, my child. The correct decision is not one made either hastily or selfishly but one insufferable, nonetheless.”
“Well done, Celeste,” Elizabeth said, but her tone suggested uncertainty. She folded her wings and observed Christina through cold, beady eyes. “Matilda will be delighted.”
Socrates grumbled something in Latin and didn’t appear particularly pleased. Leonardo couldn’t take his eyes off Christina.
I thought about the baby, the world in which we lived, and the unparalleled protection for the innocent I hoped Christina would soon provide.
Flashing red and blue lights and wailing sirens nearly upon us, the Elders formed a closed circle around Christina, then soared toward the Hollow Earth, the chuff-chuff-chuff sound from fluttering wings dissipating as a silhouette, not unlike the Rod of Asclepius, raced across the moon.