Cause to Kill

Five minutes away.

Two.

The house of Edwin Pesh was in a dismal state. Grey paint was chipped off the wood-panel exterior. A blue shutter hung from a single latch, and the roof was piled with leaves and branches. Unlike any other house on the block, trees enveloped the entire property in a gloomy shade. The lawn hadn’t been cut in months, and any flowers were limp or dead.

A dark blue minivan sat in the driveway.

This is it, she thought. This is his house.

Everything came back to her: her conversations with Randall, the car routes from Lederman Park and Cambridge, the abduction of Cindy Jenkins, and the killer, as he bowed and twirled and entered his vehicle to drive away.

She kept the car at a slow roll and moved right up the street. At the intersection, she turned and parked. An extra clip was shoved in her back pocket. A powerful, portable flashlight was attached to her belt. The walkie-talkie was left in the car seat.

Don’t go in there alone, she thought. Call for backup.

What if he has another victim? she wondered. Right now, you have the element of surprise. Don’t make a scene. Go in alone. Silent. Quick.

You need help! she fought.

For a second, she thought about calling Connelly or Thompson, or even Finley. No, she argued, not them. Why? she demanded. You don’t trust Connelly or Thompson, and Finley is a loose cannon.

A voice came into her head, one of the speakers at her police academy graduation, a woman who had said, “Everyone needs help. You’re not alone as a police officer. You’re part of a team. Rely on them.”

For years, she’d been on her own. No one had been her friend after her world had collapsed. During her early years on the force, nearly everyone had been an enemy. Strangely, one person stood out in recent memory: Ramirez. From the start, he’d been honest with her, and appreciative, and a true partner in every sense of the word. He’s hurt, she thought. Out of commission. Still.

She dialed his number.

Ramirez picked up on the first ring.

“Where you been, Black?” he said. “Heard O’Malley took you off the case. What the hell happened?”

“Where are you?” she said.

“I’m at home. Hospital let me go. I’m not supposed to do any strenuous lifting for a while but I’m bored out of my mind. Please tell me you’re in my hood.”

“I found the killer,” she said. “His name is Edwin Pesh. He lives in Watertown. I’m right outside his house.”

“Whoa.”

“How soon can you get here?”

“Did you call it in?”

“I called you,” she said.

“All right,” he muttered and thought it through. “All right.”

“Take down this address,” she said and gave him the details.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” he replied, “maybe sooner if I blow all the lights. Don’t go in there without me, understand?”

She hung up.

As if she were just another stroller on a balmy Sunday afternoon, Avery shut her car door and headed down the street.

Her heart was beating fast.

At the house, she crouched low and ran up the drive.

She placed a hand on the back of the minivan and stared at the side of the house. No lights were on. The interior was slightly visible through the first and second floor windows. Basement windows had been painted black.

Her fingers ran over the license plate and instantly felt an extremely sticky substance around the edges. Minivan, she thought. Fake license, taped on. Family. Villasco had talked about. The dark house loomed above. In one of the windows, she spotted a gray cat.

Probable cause.

Avery drew her gun.

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

Edwin Pesh was having a tormented weekend. The All Spirit refused to leave him alone. No sleep had come on Saturday night; the voice in his head had continually asked for more, more, and the many responsibilities he still had to deal with on his own began to take a toll.

Beaten down and weary, he sat in one of the rooms on his second floor surrounded by cats. Cats of all shapes and varieties purred and tried to sit in his lap. There were at least ten of them in that room alone. Some stared out the windows. Others slept in corners or on the single bed, or they ate from one of the many food dishes available on the wooden floors.

Wanda Voles…the name of Wanda Voles was repeatedly mentioned by the All Spirit, so much so that Edwin knew what he had to do. Pick yourself up, he thought. Take care of the cats, walk the dogs, and then go back to Bentley and get Wanda Voles.

No! his mind screamed.

Yes! he screamed back.

A bark came from downstairs, and then multiple barks.

Instantly alert, Edwin stood up and looked out the windows.

The backyard was empty.

On the side of the house, someone was crouched behind his minivan.

Police, he thought.

An initial moment of fear slipped away from his thoughts and Edwin prepared to become the vessel of the All Spirit, a living body inhabited by a god.

Eyes closed, he took in a deep breath, opened his arms wide, and pressed his hands together above his head. A simple squat, performed three times, and he opened his eyes anew, lit by an internal fire.

In his mind, he imagined the All Spirit had taken control of him; the celestial being was inside of his body, forming his fists and directing his thoughts and actions.

I accept you wholeheartedly, he swore.

No traditional exercise had ever appealed to Edwin. Instead, he typically performed a series of hops, flips, and taut-muscle motions that had been mentally provided by the All Spirit to prepare him for hunts and in the event of an outside attack.