“I have no interest in inciting a national riot where the subject of justice is concerned. My interests on that topic are strictly personal.” Noah’s gaze lowered to the binder on the bench. “As a collective whole, we should follow the laws of the land. Order is derived from a population who ascribes to the same rules, knowing what is expected and what will be punished. But there is a need for alternatives like mine. The rules work for those who follow them, but you know more than most that the worst of our society are also the least likely to adhere to the law. That’s where I come in. Those who don’t play well with others don’t get to play at all.”
“We’d be sacrificing the entire system our country’s been built upon if we allow this,” I argued.
“Instead, we sacrifice our children in the name of civil justice.” His eyes panned across the pictures of children before he flipped to another page. More children. Additional lives eclipsed by the insatiable proclivities of sick men. Noah’s voice was a whisper, the ghosts of his past choking his words as he said, “It’s the raping of innocence.”
Kneeling, he reached for something tucked toward the back corner of the bench, hidden from sight. When I saw what he was holding, the air siphoned from my lungs.
Setting the potted plant in front of me on the bench, he flipped to the last page in his binder while I stared at the small plant. The white flowers were tiny, mere buds thinking about opening. Compared to the size of the mature plant I’d witnessed in his mom’s garden, this one seemed so delicate. It appeared too tender to survive the hardships of this world. Yet I knew otherwise. It was the hardships that forced its roots to wind deep, and encouraged growth in all directions to better soak up the sun when it shone.
“This man is next.” Noah’s throat moved when he glimpsed the booking photo. “I’ve had him marked for weeks, but I’ve been laying low, waiting for the country to calm before ending him.”
I skimmed the basic info—name, date of birth, address, criminal record—before letting myself inspect the faces of his victims. Three girls on the cusp of becoming teens, all similar in features. Below the second photo, a date followed her birthdate.
“Some people deserve to die?” I asked theoretically, trying to understand as I stared at the picture of a man my husband was determined to kill, and would, if I didn’t stop him.
“Some people shouldn’t be allowed to live.” Noah’s hand covered the photo of his target, his eyes dragging along the pictures of the young victims.
“You’re risking everything. Your freedom, reputation . . . your life. Why do you do it?”
“Because somebody has to.” His answer rumbled in the air like thunder on a summer night.
My mind was plagued with questions and one looming decision, but all I could do was stare at the white plant and the faces of the victims, experiencing a degree of certainty I rarely felt toward anything. Removing the layers of civility and social expectation, the solution was obvious. Lowering the lens of domestic justice revealed a sharp and clear truth.
Noah remained silent, awaiting whatever fate I conceived for him.
Out of nowhere, my father’s voice cut through the cacophony of internal noise.
It wasn’t until Noah’s attention diverted to the door behind me that I realized my imagination was not to blame for my father’s voice.
Scrambling, Noah had the entire contents of his bag sealed back inside, binder included, and stuffed under the bench before Dad could bellow my name again.
“What’s he doing here?” Noah whispered.
“No idea.”
Taking the clematis pot, he carefully set it under the bench. “It’s after midnight—it must be important.”
“With my father, it’s always important.”
“Grace! You in there?” Dad hollered, his words dragging just enough to hint at the amount of alcohol in his bloodstream. “Noah!”
Before I could open the door, it popped open, causing a rush of fresh air to cascade in—followed by the thickness of expensive bourbon rolling off of the great Silas Payne.
He was in a smart suit as always, though this one was crumpled in places and lacking the refined polish of a sober man. Tie loosened and askew, one tail of his dress shirt sticking out of his pants, hair mussed and eyes crazed. I’d never witnessed my father like this. Behind him, Teddy Montgomery stood with his tan Stetson and tweed sport coat, an apology stretched into the slant of his mustache.
“What in the hell are you two doing in here at this hour?” Dad’s gaze roamed the shed as he staggered closer.
My arms crossed, blocking the entrance to keep him outside. “You first.”
“I’ve been trying to get a hold of you the past hour.” Dad patted his chest with his fist. “Why aren’t you answering your phone?”
“I’m not answering your questions until you tell me what you’re doing here.”
Peeking around me, when Dad noticed Noah, his forehead wrinkled. “Christ, Noah, you moonlighting for the Seals these days?” He waved in Noah’s direction. “What’s the deal with all the black?”
“Fair to assume my moonlighting gig’s more productive than yours from the looks of you.” Noah’s delivery was collected, cool almost.
“You can wiseass with the best of us.” Dad scoffed.
“Learned from the master himself, right?”
“Dad, stop.” I raised my hand, looking between Teddy and my father as to why they were in my backyard after midnight. “Why are you here?”
“Can’t an old man decide to drop in on his only daughter?” An unexpected burp erupted from him.
I had to lean away to keep the alcohol fumes at bay. “Yes, he can. One who’s built a history of displaying the care and concern that accompanies unannounced visits in the middle of the night. My ‘old man’ is here because he wants or needs something. So which one is it?”
Dad pulled on his tie, giving me a look I had no interpretation for. “The Huntsman,” he sputtered, grabbing the edge of the doorway to steady himself. “We know.”
When I heard Noah step closer, I put myself between him and my father.
My heart hammered in my ears as Dad looked between Noah and me, his expression grave.
Some scrap of evidence someone on the task force had drudged up had revealed the killer’s identity, leading my father and his trusted former US Marshal sidekick here tonight. I found myself scanning the night for the far-off scream of sirens, wondering how long we had before the police would show up to take in the notorious Huntsman.
“Do you want to know who it is? Or do you want to keep gawking at me like I’m talking in tongues?” Dad swatted Teddy’s arm, sharing a one-sided laugh.
The floor creaked behind me as Noah edged closer. “She already knows.”
My fingers curled into the doorway, bracing my arm a little firmer.
“You’ve heard the news?” Dad threw his hands in the air, eyes darkening. “Fucking LAPD gets the collar and, therefore, the glory that should have been ours. God knows I threw enough cash at you all to earn that right.”
I felt the patch of skin between my eyebrows draw into a deep line. “LAPD?”
“Should have known the guy would be a Californian.” Dad huffed. “A bunch of rogue debutantes down there who think the law applies to everyone but themselves.”