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CHAPTER 25

“I n troubled families, abuse and neglect are permitted; it’s the talking about them that’s forbidden.”

-Marcia Sirota

Wilder

We weren’t just a dysfunctional family. We were beasts created in a labyrinth of agony and lies. We were the darkness devouring the light. Our minds were full of fractures and sharp edges, the substance forbidding us from finding our way to a sanctuary.

And forget the concept of salvation.

Those with violence running through our blood would never be forgiven.

I’d come to accept that long before being provided with a horrible link to our past lives.

I’d heard it said more than once that every human was put on this earth for a single purpose. Until the lesson was learned, we’d be reincarnated over and over again.

Truth be told, our father no longer needed to live to destroy our lives or dozens of others. He managed to thrive through his murderous sons.

Just hearing anything about my father had set me off. I’d been immediately shoved into the same nightmare as before, only even more detailed. It had been a bad idea to learn anything about the bastard freak.

I’d almost reached my hand through the phone and ripped out the warden’s throat earlier that morning. That didn’t mean I wouldn’t eventually do so. The fucker was inept as hell.

Another girl’s body had been found. Another action from a brutal serial killer. While the news had highlighted the horrific incident, little was known about her identity or time of death.

But it added credence to Drew’s insistence he was nothing but a naughty boy taking directives from a monster. Not one of us was taking the news lightly.

“What a crock of shit,” Zach huffed.

I chuckled and closed my eyes briefly. “There are reports of people seeing crazy individuals in masks as well, at least according to the story in the news.”

“Someone is trying to imitate our… festivities.” Xander was curious as to my thoughts.

“Not necessarily to try and destroy us, but to try and taunt us,” I responded.

“You killed David Foster.” Xander made the statement sound almost bad. But I knew better. “That could complicate things.”

“It was necessary.” My answer was succinct.

“Careful, brother. Your anger is increasing.” Xander lifted a single eyebrow.

I took a deep breath. “Maybe that’s exactly what needs to occur.” As soon as I’d made it back to the city, I’d had a call from the detective who’d arrested Drew. His questions had led me to realize Drew’s story held some merit with them even before the latest victim had been found.

“The police are fishing, nothing more,” Xander reminded me.

“In the span of twenty-four hours, our sanctity has been challenged. What the fuck do we do now?” Zach asked after the surprise had settled in.

“We do what we do best. We hunt for anyone involved,” Xander offered as he tipped his head in my direction.

I nodded. After dealing with David, it was all I’d been able to think about. “The police aren’t finished yet. I can assure you of that. They have too much damning information not to move forward.”

“So the fuck what?” Zach jerked to his feet, heading toward the window in Xander’s den.

“So, we handle it,” I told him.

“A little like father, like sons?” he threw out in passing.

Exhaling, I rubbed my tired eyes. For once, the rush of adrenaline hadn’t prevented exhaustion. Killing David had done nothing but provide another reminder of why we’d never been adopted.

We were fucked up.

We were sick in the head, as all three of us had heard dozens of times.

We were spawns of the devil.

That had come from the particularly religious man who’d taken me in as his third foster child, only to become obsessed with exorcising my demons. That was the single home I’d been removed from.

Yet that hadn’t meant my wrath hadn’t been served. I’d simply waited for six months before returning the favor.

Right now, dealing with two significant issues had all three of us on edge. We’d need to be very conscientious in how we handled our nighttime activities.

“There’s no idea what happened?” Xander asked. “How is that possible?”

“They know exactly what happened, but it didn’t mean shit then and doesn’t now.” Which was the truth, which also meant we had no way of knowing how or where to begin the hunt. But it had to be done. What we knew about monsters.

More killing would occur.

It was necessary to feed the beast.

“Fucking sons of bitches. This is what we pay taxes for?” Zach demanded. When neither Xander nor I answered, he slammed his hand against the window.

Xander glanced in my direction, obviously as perturbed as the two of us. Usually, the three of us were more easily able to hide our anger, yet at that moment, the air thickened with malevolence.

“We hunt until it’s done,” I said casually, while the hunger to spill blood was stronger than ever before.

“Until it’s done,” Zach repeated.

“Until it’s done,” Xander finally agreed. “It would seem serial killers are all the rage.” He tried to laugh as I glared at him.

“He’ll kill again. Won’t he?” Zach was experiencing more difficulty with this than either Xander or I were.

“I think so.” In fact, I was certain of it. “If I’m right, then we could be on the hunted list.”

“Fuck.” Xander looked away. “We’re not going to allow that to happen.”

“No, we are not. No one can beat us at our own game.” I laughed softly, eager to begin the chase.

The sudden quiet in the room was thick, but I could easily tell what my brothers were thinking.

The need for bloodshed was greater than any normal desire for business or anything personal.

“Then we take steps to protect our families,” Xander added. “I will not allow anything to happen to Jessica.”

“If the fucker comes near Sara, this entire goddamn earth will be scattered with his flesh and blood,” Zach snarled as he glanced from one to the other of us.

My thoughts once again drifted to Cassandra. “What are the odds we’ve been tasked to fulfill our father’s legacy?”

“Meaning what?” Xander asked.

I turned my head, locking eyes with his. “Don’t you remember?”

“I don’t remember anything,” Zach said, not bothering to turn in our direction, but his shoulders had tensed.

“We heard him. All three of us. Maybe you were too young to comprehend what our fucking father was saying, but I will never forget his words.” I shook my head as the image of our father’s face formed in my mind. The bastard was smiling just as he’d done while still holding the bloody knife in his hand.

Xander’s heavy breathing was followed by a haunting, very guttural sound that I’d likely never forget. “He said one day he’d return to nurture the fruits of his loins.”

Zach slowly turned around. I’d never seen his expression so conflicted. “He killed our mother.”

“And others,” I reminded him. “Brutally.”

“As we’ve done all through our lives.” Xander laughed, the sound full of anger.

“Yes. We already fulfilled his legacy.” My words were little more than scattered whispers.

“The legacy of kings.” Xander glanced from Zach back to me. “That was the last thing he said.”

We had indeed fulfilled our destiny, one our father had nurtured from the beginning. There was only one way to stop the continued madness.

Eliminating the source.

* * *

Cassandra

Another woman had been killed.

She’d been kidnapped from her office, taken to an undisclosed location, bound and kept, eventually found dead. That had come from the morning news. It was both what hadn’t been said and what had been assumed that was even worse.

Her body had been brutalized with no details given and fingers were pointing that Drew Monahan couldn’t be the killer.

There was no reason for me to place any credence into the thoughts racing through my head, the ugly concept that Wilder had something to do with the crimes. That wasn’t him. Then who was it and why did I have a terrible feeling that the murders had everything to do with the Blackwell brothers?

Nightmares.

I’d slept very little after my confrontation with David. I’d even considered confessing my sins to my boss, but instead, I’d gone into the office as if nothing was wrong.

Between the experience online the night before and David’s threat, I remained on pins and needles. I’d even thought about what other cities I could move to so I could get another job. It was crazy. I wasn’t a quitter, but my ex had meant what he’d said. I just needed to figure out how best to handle the news when it surfaced.

My only ammunition was doing so with grace and truth.

Then I’d kill the man.

Ha. Wouldn’t that be an illustrious addition to my career?

Right now, I was concentrating on learning everything I could about the Blackwell brothers. It had suddenly become a vendetta, a need so strong I’d given up sleeping at three and had spent a few additional hours surfing the internet and going through the files once again with meticulous precision.

I pulled my car down the woman’s street and sighed.

It was funny how people reacted to being threatened with prosecution if they didn’t provide what I was looking for. I’d done so many times over the years with great success, even if my threat had been empty.

Most people didn’t want to get into any kind of trouble, just like so few ever stepped in to stop a victim from being hurt or worse. The excuse was they didn’t want to get involved, but I knew it was something much darker, their inner psyche hungering to taste the outcome. They craved to experience a moment of heinous activity if only from afar.

Yet they never allowed themselves to be put in a place where they could be caught doing so.

I’d successfully used the tactic once again in my effort to discover if any of the original case or social workers from the foster care system remained alive and in the area. There’d been a single name I’d found buried in the paperwork provided by Mr. Wells.

Jeanine Franklin.

Jeanine had been a young woman early in her career when the three Demarco children had arrived in the system. That had been six months before a petition had been placed in front of a judge to legally change their surnames to their mother’s birth name. Under the guise of protection of course.

Sadly, from what I’d been able to piece together, even though the judge had locked down the children’s files, as usual, people talked. It had taken me hours, but I’d found a single article out of the dozens written on Cain Demarco that had divulged the three children’s names and that they’d been taken into foster care.

That had set up a tragic set of circumstances in which people came out of the woodwork to foster them.

So many under the guise of protecting them while exploiting them instead. When the fifteen minutes of fame had passed, the first set of ‘parents’ had grown bored and additional families had stepped forward. Then onto a third. While the documentation from there was sketchy based on another judge getting involved, that’s when trouble had started.

In almost every case, something tragic had occurred within the foster families, the father figures either disappearing or dying. However, the circumstances were so sketchy, the few police reports that had been issued providing nothing but circumstantial information. Not even evidence.

In other words, people had swept the entire nasty business under several rugs.

As I headed down the cracked sidewalk toward the quaint house with lovely pots filled with flowers and a nice swing on the front porch, I couldn’t help but wonder if the children had ever experienced a normal family situation.

My guess was they hadn’t.

Jeanine lived outside the city, the forty-minute drive filling my head with more questions than I’d had before.

I rang the bell, immediately hearing the bark of what sounded like a small dog. The woman answering the door appeared slightly haggard, the fluffy white dog I’d heard barking up a storm behind her.

“Yes?” Her cheeks were gaunt, her eyes filled with sadness, and her expression was wary.

I certainly couldn’t blame her for that.

“Ms. Franklin?”

“Um, well, actually it’s now Mrs. Marcus, although my husband died last year.” She laughed nervously as if realizing she was giving out way too much information.

“Mrs. Marcus. I’m Cassandra Penticoff, a prosecutor for the city.”

Her eyes opened wide. “Oh.”

Perhaps she’d expected someone would eventually knock on her door. “I need to talk to you about the Blackwell boys.”

“Who?” The single slight twitch in the corner of her mouth was a clear indication I was right.

The dog continued to yap, racing toward the door and growling as if on command.

“I believe you know, the children of Cain Demarco, the man considered one of the most notorious serial killers in Chicago’s history.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about and I have a few things I’m in the middle of so if you’ll excuse me.” As soon as she tried to close the door, I placed my foot past the threshold.

“I don’t think you understand, Ms. Marcus. I have a court order and unless you’d like me to call the police so they can assist me with obtaining the information I need, I suggest you talk with me.” I cocked my head, also furrowing my eyebrows.

Of course I was bluffing, but I was also very convincing.

She acted as if she was confused at my intensity but bit her lower lip and opened the door. “Hush, Sweet Pea. Let the nice lady in.”

The dog immediately stopped yapping as she moved aside so I could walk in.

“Thank you.” Her house was neat and tidy but still showed signs of age. On her walls were pictures of both her and a man about her age. What I didn’t notice were photographs of other family members including children. The room was cold and dark, the drapes drawn. It was as if she was shutting out the world.

“I was just making some tea. Would you like some?” she asked, more than a hint of nervousness in her voice.

“That would be lovely.” I followed her into the kitchen, the room much brighter than the living room.

A kettle was on the stove, almost ready to whistle. She didn’t ask me anything, nor did I grill her as she pulled two cups from her cabinet, taking her time to prepare the hot tea.

After she placed them on the table, she pulled out a pitcher of cream and motioned toward one of the kitchen chairs.

One aspect of my job was being a keen observer. Her hand was shaking, which meant not only was she disturbed by being confronted with the past, but with what she’d been forced to do in the moment.

“What do you want to know, Ms. Penticoff?” She also couldn’t look me in the eyes. “That was a very long time ago.”

“Yes, it was. The three young children were placed in your care when they were brought in. Yes?”

She took a sip of her tea before answering. “Their cases were assigned to me. Yes.”

“I understand you hadn’t been working at the agency very long.”

“About eighteen months.”

“A difficult case for someone new to the system herself.”

Mrs. Marcus flitted her gaze toward me. “Ms. Penticoff, all cases involving children are difficult. Any time you have a minor brought in under any circumstances, everything you learned and everything you believe will benefit them is tossed aside. Children simply can’t understand why their parents left them or died. They can’t fathom why they can’t go home to their beds and play with their friends. They cry pitifully at night from loneliness and despair. They begged me to take them home. Do you know what it’s like to look a child in the eyes and need to remind them that their parents are dead?”

Her entire expression had changed, her eyes locked on mine and full of darkness and hate. There was so much hate.

“No, Mrs. Marcus. I can’t say that I do. I’m certain with the three young boys, the situation was even worse.”

She nodded about six times, the liquid sloshing in her cup as she tried to take a sip. “They were sweet boys, at least at first. They were just hurting so much and far too young to understand. The older one, Wilder, tried so hard to look out for his brothers, but he was just a lost little boy himself.”

“Why were they split apart?”

“I tried to tell the administrators that the children desperately needed to be kept together, but was told time and time again, no one would want three boys at the same time. They were all so young.”

“There was another reason they were split apart, wasn’t there?”

“What do you mean?”

I leaned over, trying to offer a comforting smile. “They came from a horrible situation. Didn’t the children begin to lash out, becoming violent?” I was only guessing at that point, but I considering the anger and continued pain I witnessed in Wilder’s eyes, I could only imagine what he and his brothers went through in the first years after the tragedy.

“Yes. After about three months all hell broke loose. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. But they just… it was as if they became different children altogether. They were so angry and acted out. No one could calm them. I did my best. I tried everything. I spent days and nights with them. I wanted to bring them home, but it was just… not feasible. I wasn’t married and lived in a small apartment.”

When she looked away, I could see the memories burning in the back of her mind.

“Completely understandable. I am curious as to the reasoning they were never adopted, only being pushed from one family to another. From what little I read, and there’s not very much on the lives of these three children, they were not well taken care of. It almost seemed as if the people were in it for the money and nothing else.”

I wasn’t trying to piss her off, but I sensed she wouldn’t open up to me unless absolutely necessary.

“Sadly, that happens more than you think. I’m not saying the system is perfect, but there are so many children. So many of them. And everything about what you’ve heard regarding it being difficult for older children to be adopted is true. Very true.”

“Were the children abused, Mrs. Marcus?”

“Are you insinuating I hurt them?” The look of horror in her face wasn’t an indication of her acting skills. She’d suffered right along with them.

“Not at all. I’m talking about within the foster families. It appears a few of them were agreeable for financial gain. My guess is that you had your hands tied. Perhaps you weren’t allowed to talk to them or see the children after they were placed. And my guess if you were asked to just let their cases slide.”

“I tried to maintain contact, Ms. Penticoff, but you’re right. There are some amazing, decent people willing to enlarge their families out of kindness. But there are others… brutal people who should never be allowed to go near a child. I didn’t have any say in the matter. After pushing so hard to save all three, I was told I wasn’t allowed to talk to them if I wanted to keep my job. But I still managed from time to time. I did so without anyone knowing. Things weren’t the best in the organization for a few years. Some wanted to forget the children who were considered special needs.”

“Because of their father’s crimes.”

“Yes. Plus, after a few incidents, the children were labeled as sociopaths.”

“Sociopaths? As in they were dangerous.”

She acted as if she was going to blink away tears. “Yes.”

“Were they?”

I sensed the push and pull within her, the ache that she’d likely experienced for years, even long after they’d aged out of the system. “They were, Ms. Penticoff, but it wasn’t their fault.”

“Because of the abuse.”

“And because of their father. I’m a firm believer that children are often born with the same bent on violence or peace. Cain Demarco was simply a monster. Imagine a doctor using his skill to dissect his victims while they’re still alive. He even conned young men into luring women to him. The young men were from prominent homes, their parents pillars of the community. Such a horrible tragedy.”

It suddenly dawned on me that Cain Demarco had been a doctor. My thoughts shifted to Cash’s case. Including that Drew had insisted he hadn’t been the killer. A lump formed in my throat. “Are you trying to suggest children of predatory men and women often mimic their actions, including something as horrific as murder?”

“It’s very possible. There have been case studies that corroborate certain findings. But I saw the sweetness in the boys. I was there with them for eighteen hours a day for several months. I knew they were good inside. From what I heard, their mother was a true angel. They took after her, Ms. Penticoff, which is why I could never believe the horrible stories about what they did to their foster families.”

“Please call me Cassandra.” I smiled. The woman was tensing with every second, even glancing over my shoulder as if expecting someone to be walking through the door.

“Cassandra,” she repeated.

“What did you hear? There are no formal records as to anything they were accused of.” I finally took a sip of my tea to be polite even though my stomach was in knots.

“I was told they murdered several of the people caring for them in heinous ways similar to what their father had done.”

“Then why weren’t they put in juvenile detention?”

“Because there was no evidence. Because there had been reports that… that the people who fostered them were abusive. I’m not proud of that and I should have gone to the authorities with what I knew, but I was threatened time and time again.”

I took a deep breath. That sounded an awful lot like another situation where people looked the other way. “You were threatened if you exposed the truth?”

She looked away briefly, chewing on her lower lip.

“It’s okay, Jeanine. You can trust me. Were you threatened?”

“Yes, I was.”

There was something about the stilted way she offered the information that raised my hackles. “You’re still being threatened. Aren’t you?”

She brought her hand to her mouth and her entire arm was shaking. “Let’s just say I was reminded to keep my mouth shut.”

“By whom?”

“I can’t tell you that, Cassandra. You just don’t understand.”

Shit. She was genuinely frightened. Why did anyone feel the need to slide this under the rug after all this time?

“I understand, Jeanine. So they allowed those children to be turned into monsters.”

“That’s what everyone believes. But here’s the thing, Cassandra. They never touched the women in the households. Not one of them. I was curious about their reasoning and checked their files. A couple of the women had either called 9-1-1 for domestic abuse or had tried to walk away from their relationships only to find themselves back where they started.”

“The Blackwell boys were trying to protect them,” I said absently. That fit Wilder’s behavior.

“Like they couldn’t their mother.”

I sat back, exhaling slowly. “Did something happen with Wilder in particular when he was a teenager? Not because of something he suffered, but maybe a friend at school or a teacher who was nice to him?”

She glanced away briefly. “Patty Bennett. She was another foster child living in the family he’d been assigned to a couple years before. At that point, he was almost sixteen. She was fourteen.”

“What happened?”

“Almost a year later, she was attacked, abducted, raped, and murdered. Wilder found the girl’s body. From what I heard, he never forgave himself. It was so sad, so tragic. During the year they were together, Wilder excelled in everything he did. His grades went from failing to making straight A’s. He was into art and sports. He had a part-time job. Things were looking up for him. It seemed as if the young man would finally be able to thrive.”

“Until she was murdered.”

“Even before he aged out, he left home. He disappeared for a long time. When I saw news about the Blackwell Group in the papers, I felt a sense of relief.”

“I’m sure you did. Was Patty’s killer ever caught?”

She almost had a smile on her face. “Four delinquent town boys. They were found murdered. All four of them.”

“They got what they deserved,” I whispered more to myself. Wilder. There was no shadow of a doubt in my mind.

“The system is broken, Ms. Penticoff, but there are some of us who try, many of us who care about these children. We just become overwhelmed.”

“Do you think the Blackwell men are still dangerous after all this time?”

“I think anyone with darkness inside can choose one of two paths. To follow the road that will eventually lead them into hell or to reach toward the light, no matter how hard the struggle. It also helps when they find someone they can relate to, someone they can love. Love is vital for everyone.”

Love.

I thought about her profound statement and tried to smile. She was right. Three young boys had endured a nightmare, not just once, but repeatedly, the vicious cycle molding the boys into cutthroat men. They’d done the only thing they could do to counter the agony they’d suffered.

They’d tried to save others from the same fate.