Page 9 of So Savage (Faith Bold #21)

Special Agent Michael Prince reflected on his partner’s warning. He’d dismissed West’s bravado as the desperate attempt of an insecure narcissist to feel dangerous and important even with the looming threat of his sentencing hanging over his head. He still felt that way, but considering the consequences of being wrong, he wondered if maybe it was time to stop his extracurricular activities and bring these developments to Desrouleaux’s attention. He wasn’t arrogant enough to believe that he could keep Ellie and David safe on his own, but the Bureau’s monitoring of them when West was at large had kept them safe.

He would have to consider that. In the meantime, he would focus on his suspect. If Marion Ravenwood ended up being the Messenger Killer, then all of this was a moot point.

He pulled his SUV to the curb across the street. Marion Ravenwood had a comfortable home in Bustleton in the northeast portion of the city. The porch was shoveled and salted and the walk was similarly protected against snow and ice. The planter in front of the house was filled with poinsettias, a winter-appropriate flower popular in holiday arrangements, and a wreath still hung in the living room window. Michael imagined a smiling woman in an apron with shoulder-length hair and soft brown eyes who could believably spend most of her days in the kitchen watching sitcoms on a small countertop TV while baking cookies for the local homeless shelter.

In his career, he’d seen plenty of harmless looking people turn out to be incredibly dangerous. West himself was rather slightly built with a mellow voice that reminded Michael more of an NPR host than one of the most dangerous serial killers in U.S. history.

When he reached the door, he heard the theme song to a popular sitcom playing inside and stifled a chuckle. He knocked, and the music quieted.

He crossed his arms to bring his right hand closer to his pistol, just in case. The door opened, revealing a woman who almost perfectly fit Michael’s description. The only difference was that she wore a pair of jeans rather than an apron. She smiled politely at Michael, but with a hint of wariness. “Can I help you?”

Michael returned her smile. “Good afternoon, ma’am. I’m Special Agent Michael Prince with the FBI. Are you Marion Ravenwood?” The color drained instantly from her face, and Michael said, “You are. I can tell by the instant terror that came to your eyes. That tells me you also have something to tell me. So, shall we talk?”

Marion swallowed. “I don’t think so. I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t appreciate you walking up to my porch and telling me all of this nonsense.”

She made to close the door, but Michael stopped it with his foot. That was a huge no-no, but his entire involvement in this case was a huge no-no, so why stop now?

“See, the thing is, I have evidence that you’ve been corresponding with Franklin West, aka the Copycat Killer, aka the most dangerous serial killer since Henry Lee Lucas, aka the man who has repeatedly threatened the FBI and its agents with some very colorful promises of death and destruction.”

"I don't know what you're talking about. Now leave my property…"

Her voice trailed off when Michael reached into his jacket, not for his gun, but for folded letters with very clear handwriting on it. “So you didn’t write these?” Michael asked. “When we raid your office and find examples of your handwriting, it won’t match perfectly? We won’t see security footage of you mailing these letters? We won’t—”

“Okay,” Marion hissed. “Shit.” She ran her hands through her hair. “Come inside.”

Michael replaced the letters and showed her his gun. “I’ll come inside,” he said, “and I’m coming back outside. Are we clear?”

She paled further. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“You’ll have to forgive me for not believing you,” he said.

“Well, I’ll be in sight, and if you prefer, we can talk in the living room away from the kitchen knives.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Well, since you bring it up, I would love to talk in the living room away from the kitchen knives.”

Marion looked over Michael’s head, biting her lip. “Did anyone see you come in?”

He frowned. “A lot of people know I’m here. If you—"

“I’m not threatening you!” she snapped. “I just don’t want the neighbors seeing a strange man walk into my house. God, is that your car?”

She pointed at Michael's Grand Wagoneer. "That's it. Why?"

“Because it’s the size of a damned yacht. Honestly, why do people need cars that big?”

He rolled his eyes. “Let’s criticize my choice of transportation after we talk about the letters you sent to a known serial killer talking about how an FBI agent deserved to—and I quote—have her eyes cut out and fed to—”

“Okay,” she whined. “Come in then, and let’s talk.”

She made an impatient rowing motion with her hands, and Michael resisted the urge to move slowly just for the hell of it. He followed her into the living room, keeping one hand on his gun and letting his eyes scan back and forth for any accomplices.

When they reached the living room, Marion closed the blinds of the windows, moving briskly across the room. Soon, the outside world was cut off. Michael pulled his handgun and set it on the small table next to the couch.

Marion took her seat across from him on the loveseat. When she saw the gun, she cried out. “What the hell? Are you serious?”

Michael ignored her. “We’ll start with a direct question: are you the Messenger Killer?”

“The what?”

His eyes narrowed. “Are you responsible for the death of Grant Monroe and two other victims left with messages to Special Agent Faith Bold on their bodies?”

She paled when she heard Faith’s name. “No. I swear it.”

“That doesn’t mean shit to me. You wrote West saying that you were going to kill Faith. Do you remember that?”

“I didn’t say that,” Marion corrected. “I said that she deserves to die. I didn’t say I would kill her.”

“But you did write to West.”

She realized her mistake and swore. “Damn it. How did you figure that out?”

“I’m a good detective.”

In reality, he had blackmailed the warden of the prison where Dr. West was held, and the warden had given him the letters. The ones he had in his pocket were only copies. The originals were at home.

She ran her hands through her hair. She was starting to tremble, her lips shaking with emotion. “Have you told anyone else?”

“Not yet,” he replied.

She took a deep breath and tried to steady herself. “Please don’t tell anyone. If my husband found out I was doing this, it would be the end of my marriage.”

“One might argue that it should be the end of your marriage.”

“Yes, but it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Writing a serial killer and offering to murder his enemies—most particularly an FBI agent—to smithereens doesn’t mean anything?”

“God, it was just…” she sighed. “Look, it was just for fun. I wasn’t going to do anything. I just wrote to him because… I mean…”

She struggled for an answer, probably trying to come up with something that didn’t sound utterly stupid. What she came up with definitely qualified as stupid.

“You know, life is short.”

“Shorter when it’s ended by a serial killer,” Michael pointed out.

She slumped. “He’s in jail. Let’s be real, he’s not getting out. I don’t know if you’ve seen the prison they’re holding him in, but they have him guarded like he’s Hannibal Lecter. Yes, I know Lecter gets out in the movie, but this isn’t a movie. He’s going to be in jail for the rest of his life.”

“It’s a good thing he’s got friends on the outside,” Michael said. “Friends who can go after the biggest thorn in his side.”

“I’m not going to go after anyone,” she insisted. “I was just having fun. Don’t look at me like that. It’s the truth.”

“Help me understand what’s fun about a married woman having an emotional affair with a man who enjoyed tying people to chairs and cutting them until they nearly bled out, then severing their tendons until they didn’t look human, and then watching them bleed to death.”

Marion’s gaze lowered.

“Sounds a lot less fun when you say it out loud, doesn’t it?” Michael said.

She swallowed. “I didn’t think about all of that. I just…” She looked at the door and tapped her foot. “My husband will be home soon. Can we talk about this—”

“I am very close to telling the entire world about the letters you wrote West,” Michael interrupted, “And I could not give a single shit about what happens to you if that story gets out. If you want to convince me not to ruin your life and enjoy every second of doing so, start being honest with me.”

“ Okay !” she shouted. “God damn it.” Tears were running down her face now. “Look, strong men are sexy. Men who can dominate people are sexy. My husband is a good guy, but he’s so gentle all the time. I want to be with a man who will just take control, you know? West takes control.”

“By murdering people.”

“Yes, I know. You don’t have to keep reminding me. I wrote West those letters because I think it's sexy to imagine a man who treats me like a princess, screws me like a whore, protects me from people by tearing them to literal pieces, and takes what he wants when he wants, regardless of the consequences. Yes, in real life, I understand that it's wrong to do all of those things, and if West showed up at my door to fulfill all of those dreams, I'd probably be scared out of my wits. But this isn't real life. It's just a game. I'm writing someone who can't even write me back. And I would never come after Faith Bold. I'm not that kind of woman. It's just… a game."

Michael let the silence hang in the air until Marion began to fidget. “I’m going to guess by the fact that you won’t meet my eyes that you understand how absolutely stupid you sound right now,” he said. “Which is good, because you see, Marion, this isn’t a game. Thirty-two people lost their lives in brutal fashion at this man’s hands, including a colleague and personal friend of mine. Those are just the people we know about. There’s evidence to indicate that the actual number of victims might be twice that many. There’s a memorial for his victims at City Center. I’ve seen young children there put flowers on pictures of their mommies and daddies and ask God to take good care of their parents and maybe let them visit as angels in their dreams so they can see them one more time.”

Marion began to shake when she heard that. She lifted her head, her eyes wide as though a veil had just been lifted from her eyes. “Oh God. What have I done? I never… It was just… I just wanted to have fun.”

“Where were you on the night of November eleventh?” Michael demanded.

“I was with my husband. That’s his mom’s birthday. We always visit his mom on his birthday. I can show you a picture on my Instagram.”

“Show me.”

She complied, her hands trembling so badly that she nearly dropped her phone. Michael sent himself the image and said, “I’m going to confirm that this image was taken at the date and time stamped to it. If I find out it’s been tampered with in any way, I’m going to come back, and I’m going to be a lot less nice. Do we understand each other?”

“Yes,” she whispered softly.

“Good.” He stood. “Do your husband a favor. Leave him. Unless he’s a real piece of shit—which you say he isn’t—he deserves to marry a woman, not a spoiled, stupid brat who thinks murderers are sexy.”

He left the house without waiting for an answer. He was angry not just because Marion was a spoiled, stupid brat but also because after talking with her, he no longer thought she was the murderer. She was an idiot, but she didn’t seem violent to him. He would confirm her alibi just in case, but he knew already that this was a dead end. The Messenger Killer was still out there.

And until she was caught, they weren’t safe. Ellie wasn’t safe.

He sighed and put his car in gear. He wished more than anything that Faith was here to help him.

Actually, she had helped him. She had given him the tough love he needed to hear. He couldn’t do this on his own. It was time to get help.