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She squeezed her eyes shut, digging herfingers into her temples like she could physically yank the memory out of thesludge of her mind. There was something, a fragment of a conversation, athrowaway line that had seemed like so much white noise at the time.
And then, like a sucker punch to the solarplexus, it hit her.
A lazy Sunday morning, limbs tangled insweat-soaked sheets. Martin had said, ‘Need to grab some kerosene fromstorage.’
She'd grunted something in response, tooblissed out on post-coital brain chemicals to give half a damn. Martin wasalways elbow-deep in some project or other - tinkering with his ride, cleaninghis fishing rods, gluing together those model planes he loved more than lifeitself.
So he needed some go-juice for his littlegrease monkey hobby. Big whoop. But now, with Trevor's autopsy report searedinto her retinas like a cattle brand, that casual remark took on a whole newflavor of sinister.
But where was this storage? It certainlywasn’t in Ripley’s house. She’d made it clear when Martin was talking about gasfor his lawnmower – no gasoline in the house, the shed or the garden. It was anexplosion hazard, and with how many enemies Ripley had, it was an easyaccelerant for her demise.
The possibilities rampaged through Mia'sskull like a horde of crank-addled spider monkeys. Each one more batshit thanthe last, each one leading to a conclusion that made her want to gargle Dranoand chase it with a chaser of buckshot.
But the facts were the facts. The tracesof kerosene on Trevor's corpse. Martin's stockpile of the stuff, so casuallymentioned you'd almost think he wanted her to know.
Mia choked out a laugh, the sound asjagged and bitter as broken glass. This couldn't be happening. Couldn't bereal. Her Martin, a cold-blooded killer?
The idea was so absurd, it bordered on theobscene. Like a bad joke told by a worse comedian.
Time to dig deeper.
She didn’t want to believe it, butsomething told her she was only just scratching the surface.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The evidence locker was a concrete tomb,all gray walls and harsh fluorescent light. It smelled like dust and oldsecrets, the kind of place where the ghosts of a thousand unsolved crimes cameto die.
And there, squatting in the middle of theroom like twin altars to some forgotten god, were the stocks. The devices thathad cradled Archie Newman and Georgia Bolton in their final moments.
Ella felt her guts clench at the sight ofthem. Even empty, even stripped of their grisly cargo, the damn things radiateda palpable aura of menace. Like they were just waiting for the next poorbastard to come along and fill the void.
Harland stood off to the side, his craggyface unreadable. ‘Just got 'em moved here,’ he grunted, jerking his chin at themacabre display. ‘Thought you might want to take a gander. See if anythingjumps out at you.’
Ella nodded, not trusting herself to speakpast the lump in her throat. She'd seen a lot of disturbing sights in her time,a lot of twisted trophies and souvenirs. But there was something about thesecrude instruments of torture that set her teeth on edge.
‘Good call, Chief,’ she said at last.‘Never miss a chance to get up close and personal with a psycho’s handiwork.’
She stepped forward. The first set ofstocks, the ones that had held Archie Newman in his final embrace, were atwisted marvel of blackened metal and rust. The iron was thick and sturdy, thecraftsmanship disturbingly elegant. Luca sidled up beside her, his face a shadeof green usually reserved for moldy bread. He reached out a tentative hand,fingers hovering over the pitted surface like he was afraid it might bite.
‘Damn, this thing is solid,’ he said.‘Metal. Iron. Heavy gauge. Looks like it could have been forged in the fires ofMount Doom.’
Ella snorted. ‘Nerd. But you're not wrong.Damn thing's built like a tank. Definitely not some DIY job cobbled together ina basement.’
She traced the contours of the metal,feeling the nicks and scratches that spoke of age and use. This was no one-off,no spur-of-the-moment creation. Their unsub had put time and effort into thismonstrosity, honing it to perfection like a demented craftsman.
‘So our unsub’s got a background inmetalworking,’ she mused. ‘Or at least access to the tools and know-how. Thatnarrows the field a bit.’
Luca nodded, still studying the stockslike they held the secrets of the universe. ‘Could be a welder, a machinist.Maybe even a blacksmith, if he's got a taste for the old-school.’
Ella snorted. ‘A blacksmith? In this dayand age? What, you think our guy’s some kind of Renaissance faire reject?’
Luca shrugged, unperturbed. ‘You neverknow. People are into all kinds of freaky stuff these days. Maybe he's got athing for ye olde torture devices.’
Ella shook her head, a grudging smiletugging at the corner of her mouth. The kid had a point. In a world wherepeople got their rocks off by dressing up like furry animals and dry-humpingeach other, a blacksmithing serial killer wasn't too far outside the realm ofpossibility.
Still, something about it didn't sitright. The level of skill, the attention to detail. This wasn't some hobby gonewrong. This was the work of someone who knew their stuff, who had the tools andthe talent to turn their sick fantasies into cold reality.
She moved on to the second set of stocks,the ones that had played host to Georgia Bolton's final performance. This onehad been made of wood, and even under the fluorescent lights of the evidenceroom, Ella couldn’t see any gaps in the creator’s craftsmanship. It was assolid as the first, but she struggled to reconcile the two disparate images.Why the switch from metal to wood? Was it a choice born of necessity, ofexpediency? Had the unsub simply used what was at hand, grabbing whatevermaterials he could find in his mad rush to bring his twisted vision to life?
