He had planned so carefully. Even in the days when he had allowed his first capture, he knew that he would escape-the Moth had helped him. Irene Kelly, as expected, let all the earth know that Nicholas Parrish was unlike any who had gone before. He knew even then there was a possibility that he would be recaptured, but he had already made arrangements for this, his second escape. And while his injuries had been unexpected, and delayed his freedom, he had not let them defeat them, had he?
All the pieces had been in place, and they had waited for him, just as he knew they would.
He had counted on two special devotees, who remained hidden among those who now called themselves the Moths.
Most of the Moths were thrill seekers, rebellious youngsters, and loners who took pride in identifying themselves as outré, unaware of the ways in which they could be easily manipulated.
These two were different. They had been his to control from the time of his adolescence. None of his sons knew who they really were, and he would keep it that way. The two were not gifted in the ways Kai, Quinn, and Donovan were. They were not nearly as bright, and they lacked imagination. But they were utterly loyal and subservient. He wrote to them from prison, seemingly harmless letters. They knew how to decode his letters, and they passed along instructions in a second code to Quinn.
He felt pride in Quinn’s abilities. He had kept track of all his children, watching to see which of them would prove most promising. At first he was disappointed to see how few of them exhibited the characteristics he was looking for, but as he considered his own genius, he accepted that they would be rare.
Quinn was not yet out of his teens when he first approached Parrish. Parrish was already aware of him, of course, and when they met, he startled Quinn by telling him that he had found Harold Moore’s body. He added that he had made sure it was not going to be found again. He pointed out all the ways in which it was a bad idea to not completely destroy a body if one was about to benefit financially from the victim’s death. He had shown Quinn how to do things properly when, together, they had ensured that a certain gossip at the airport restaurant would never again mention a connection between Parrish and Quinn’s mother.
It was easy work from there to both charm and dominate Quinn, to be the father he imagined he was looking for and yet to keep their lives separate and their relationship a secret.
Among the many lessons Parrish had taught him, Quinn learned that if his father needed his help, messages would arrive by mail, labeled in such and such a way, and how to decode them. He was told of a phone number he might call if he had questions or concerns. These would be passed back to Parrish.
And so, when the time came, Parrish’s plans had, of course, worked perfectly.
This property belonged to Quinn. He had purchased it to have a remote location when needed. At one time it had been a religious organization’s retreat, an irony that amused Nick Parrish no end. The grounds were extensive and included a lodge and twenty small cabins. Yes, Quinn’s financial success had proved useful.
Despite a few nagging concerns, he did not underestimate any of his children. He could now admit to himself that he had been anxious when he decided to fake trouble with his spine, knew that the drugs he would most likely be given at the prison would make him unable to fend off any attack his sons might make. He had not expected to be so completely sedated, and waking up-at all-had been a relief. Kai’s devotion had reassured him that he had not lost his touch when it came to control of others.
For a time, they would all need to lie low. It would not take long for some new demand to be made on the police, for some new crisis to distract them from their search for him. All the resources law enforcement could bring to bear were being used in the hunt just now, but his sons had followed instructions, and changed vehicles more than once. The trail was already growing cold.
He had found a great deal of amusement in watching television footage of the police swarming over the site where the explosion had gone off. And listening to the commentators (he could not think of them as reporters) had been even more amusing. There was a stiff-haired blonde who could hardly shut up about him. She liked to show photos of some of his earlier victims. That excited him so much he could ignore the idiot psychobabblers she brought on the show. He muted the television when they were on.
Quinn and Donovan were back in Las Piernas now. Thinking of Las Piernas made him think of Irene Kelly.
He thought of Ben Sheridan, too, but while he was angry with Sheridan, the man didn’t excite him in the way Kelly did. He could torture her through whatever he did to Sheridan, of course. That bitch would be driven crazy by the mere thought of harm being done to him. Which was, of course, what she deserved.
Irene Kelly was the reason he had been imprisoned. She had nearly killed him to do it. He thought of the long, hard road back from paralysis, and just how he would exact revenge on her for that.
Lying helpless for months, struggling so hard for every tiny victory over his nerves and muscles. Then the surgery, which only led to being transferred from the hospital. The experience of being held against his will-first by his own body, then within the prison hospital, and even during his brief stay in prison-had reminded him of childhood experiences, brought up a wellspring of hatred so strong in him, it had fueled his determination.
He knew exactly who to thank for his years of suffering:
Irene Kelly.
TWENTY-ONE
Persistent rumors were circulating in Las Piernas.
One was that Nicholas Parrish had been seen in town. Plenty of those reports came in during the first few days after his escape, but they tapered off after that. Every now and then, though, there was a spike in the number of calls to the task force that was trying to find him. Aloud, I blamed his fan club for the upswing in sightings-the Moths’ blog got more traffic whenever they claimed contact with him. Inwardly, I felt as frightened as any of the more hysterical 911 callers.
Another rumor was that the Express was coming back under new ownership. That was a little like being told your good friend Lazarus was up and walking around again. It didn’t seem to fit with what one knew about the condition in which he was last seen.
One night, not long after Parrish’s escape, I was home alone-if you don’t count two plainclothes detectives keeping the house under surveillance from an unmarked car parked nearby. I was wondering what I’d do if someone actually managed to revive the Express when I heard Frank’s car pull in the driveway. The dogs were at the door and waiting to greet him, but even before he got past them to pull me into an embrace, I knew he had news.
Frank and I have had to hammer out our own set of rules about our workplaces over the years. Essentially, home is home, and conversations there do not go back to our places of employment. So when he told me he wanted to tell me something but needed our conversation to remain private, I didn’t hesitate to agree.
Still holding on to me, he said, “We know who the frozen woman is.”
I felt myself tense. “The one who was in the trunk of Marilyn Foster’s car?”
“Yes. Her name is Lisa King. She was from Nevada.”
Lisa King. I said it to myself several times. The real progress in most homicide cases usually begins at the identification of the victim. Most. I thought of Cade Morrissey and Marilyn Foster, named for all these weeks. I thought of Lisa King and wondered if she, too, was somehow related to Nick Parrish. “How old was she?”
“Somewhere between nineteen and twenty-three.” He said it in a distracted way, while studying my face. “Are you okay?”
I nodded, although I was a little shaky. “Yes, but let’s sit down.”