“Not even you can pretend to be immune to the intricacies of this case, Silas.” Don swiveled in his seat as Dad moved toward the door. “This isn’t a simple case of tracking down your run-of-the-mill murderer. You’re asking us to bring down a real, live, masked crusader. He’s a damn hero in the eye of the public.”
“And he’s the villain in the eyes of the law.” Dad stopped in the doorway, his wide shoulders seeming to span the entire width of the doorframe. “It’s simple. Decide what side of the line you stand on, and let me know.”
“I stand on the side of the line that translates to the best bolster to my bank account,” Will announced, Titus intervening before he could help himself to another topped-off glass of vodka.
“We would expect no less from a notorious mob defense attorney,” I rattled off.
“Still jealous, Gracey girl?” Will quipped.
“Of what? Your diseased liver?” I fired back, ignoring Noah’s subtle hints to back off.
“That I made more last year than you have in your entire career working as a public servant?” A small burp slipped from Will.
“Enough, for Christ’s sake.” Titus took the glass from Will’s hand, issuing me a warning look. “We’ve got enough problems without the two of you staging a status rivalry.”
“Look at the big boy using big words like staging and rivalry. Bet they didn’t teach you that in mercenary school.” When Will reached to pat Titus’s cheek, Titus grabbed his wrist and made no small show of the size he had over Will.
“Where do you stand on the whole messed-up Huntsman topic, Dr. Wolff?” Titus asked, not taking his eyes off of Will. “You seem to be the most impartial person in this room tonight.”
“Impartial?” Will laughed several hard notes. “He peddles psychology sorcery to pedophiles. He runs support groups for kiddie predators. He’s a sympathizer if there’s ever been one.”
“His wife puts those men in prison, and he’s a father of a young woman. My guess is Dr. Wolff isn’t as crystal on the subject as you think, Cunningham.” Titus let go of Will’s hand, grabbing the glass out of his other and dropping it in the garbage. The sound of it shattering pierced the air.
Noah shifted in his seat as all eyes transferred to him. “From where I’m sitting, there’s nothing blurry on the topic. I see things—and people—exactly as they are.”
Will clucked his tongue. “And what do you see when you look at me?”
“Would you like the condensed or comprehensive account?” Noah twisted in his chair so he was angled Will’s direction.
“Make an appointment if you want a diagnosis,” I interjected, giving Will a once-over. “Better block out a whole week, but I should warn you that Noah’s private pay rates rival yours, Will, so let’s get back to the reason we’re all here. To catch a killer.”
“You don’t want my diagnosis,” Noah answered Will, plowing right through my attempt at circumventing the topic.
“Amuse me.”
“I dare not consider the conditions that would amuse someone such as yourself,” Noah replied.
“Pussy,” Will chanted under his breath, thumping Titus’s chest in search of a partner. He received nothing from the wall of stone beside him.
Noah sighed. “I haven’t been called that since middle school.”
“I find that hard to believe. You strike me as the delicate type who’d make his buddy whack his catch of the day because you don’t have the balls for it.” Will pulled at his tie, staggering a couple of steps toward the table. “That the way of it? That the reason you’re not a real doctor? Can’t stand the sight of blood? Can’t stomach the idea of being responsible for losing a life?”
Noah’s eyes circled the table. “Is he always this angry?”
Teddy huffed, cracking his neck. “Most of the time. Yes.”
“Don’t psychoanalyze that for us.” I lifted my hand at Noah. “We already know what Will’s issues are.”
Across the table, Don fought with a smile.
“Doctor Wolff, back to the reason we asked you here tonight.” Teddy folded his hands across his chest, leaning into his chair. “You’re telling us your patients and your colleagues’ patients around the country are terrified, paranoid even, of this Huntsman character?”
“That’s correct,” Noah answered.
“You’re telling us the Huntsman is scaring pedophiles straight?” Don pointed his pencil at Noah before scribbling a note.
“For lack of a better phrase, that’s correct.”
“And we’re wanting to turn this guy in why?” Don grumbled, dropping his pencil on the table.
When everyone remained quiet, Noah answered Don’s rhetorical question. “Because he’s killed thirty-three people?”
“We are people. The scum the Huntsman’s taking out are animals.” Don’s gaze floated to the door, probably to make sure my dad hadn’t returned to witness what was being said. “History has proven that going to prison isn’t enough of a deterrent for these types of criminals. Dying at the hands of a shadow in a macabre way sure as shit seems to be an effective one.” Don raked his hand through his hair, frustration creasing his expression. “So I’ll ask again, why are we so hell-bent on hauling this shadow into prison?”
“Because he’s breaking the law.” Will pointed at Don, leaning into the table as though it were keeping him upright.
“You’re the expert on that topic, Cunningham,” Don grumbled. “You’ve figured out a way to bend, muddy, and loophole every law in the land.”
When Don made eye contact with Noah across the table, Will seemed to take that as some kind of nonverbal insult made against him. “Pedophiles have a seventy-five percent recidivism rate, correct?” Will’s brow cocked at Noah. “You get paid well to fail at your job.”
Noah ignored the forearm squeeze I gave him, my silent way of suggesting he ignore the half-drunk, ego-bloated boychild in the room.
“My approach is more successful than yours of sending them to prison, if you’d like to compare those numbers.” Noah angled in Will’s direction, a level calmness sculpted across every piece of him.
Will chuckled, shaking his head. “Show me when you get close to zero percent and we’ll talk.”
Something obscure, almost dark, ignited in Noah’s eyes. It was gone as suddenly as it appeared. “Looking forward to it.”
Twenty-Three
The outside of Joshua Price’s childhood home was well-kept, though lacking the details that exuded welcome. The windows shone, the yard was tended to, and the mailbox appeared freshly painted.
It was a stark contrast to the last residence I’d visited—a dilapidated shanty where broken bottles and used needles made up the contents of the yard. Gerald Volkner hadn’t resided in it for over a decade, but the structure seemed to have been permanently diseased by the evil of one of its past occupants.
I’d taken my pictures of that place from the driver’s seat of my rental car, trying not to consider what had happened within the walls of that house, or what still did. Amidst the broken glass and unsanitary needles was an upside-down tricycle and an abandoned toddler-sized rain boot left on the crumbling walkway.