Spilled Blood

29

He knew her.

To him, she was the essence of youth, pretty and vivacious. You couldn’t see her and not smile; couldn’t be in her presence and not fall in love. Her expressions changed with the speed of coins dropping from a slot machine, always different, always inviting. She moved with confident grace, not like the other gangly teenagers who were catching up with their bodies. She was young, and yet she was already mature in ways that counted. You could hear it in her seriousness of emotion when she talked about love and loss. She wasn’t a melodramatic teenager weeping over a dead kitten on the highway. She understood better than most adults that life was fragile, quickly birthed, quickly spent.

Seeing her, talking to her, laughing with her, made his heart ache. She reminded him that his own youth was behind him. She made him wish he could go back and live it all over, even if he could change nothing. Then again, Ashlynn made his heart sing, too, because she had such promise. When he was caught up in the evil of the world, she showed him a glimmer of light. He imagined her growing up, learning, working, marrying, having children of her own. Someone like her couldn’t help but do great things.

For that reason, he’d hoped to spare her. He would have found a way to keep her safe, even if it meant taking her to a sanctuary where she couldn’t escape. He wouldn’t let her become a victim of his plan.

It was not to be.

He remembered the rainy afternoon when she showed up in his doorway. He hadn’t seen her in a long time, so he was surprised. Without her saying a word, he realized that she knew. It was in her face. She looked at him in a new way, as if she were seeing him for the first time. Her hair was wet, and the rain poured over her, but she didn’t hunt for cover. She simply stared at him. He could feel her reaching out, as if the secret they shared had drawn them closer together.

Ashlynn was a smart girl. You could see it in those ocean-blue eyes, how they didn’t miss anything. He wasn’t really surprised that she’d learned the truth. He’d fooled everyone else, but not her.

‘I know who you are,’ she told him. ‘I know what you’re doing.’

He didn’t answer, and she didn’t give him time to explain. She vanished as quickly as she’d come, as if she didn’t want anyone to see her. Maybe she’d simply wanted to deliver a warning, to let him know that if she could figure it out, others would, too. She didn’t tell him to stop. There was no judgment in her face.

Now it was too late to save her. She’d become another victim of the sins of Florian Steele. Her death hurt him more deeply than he’d ever imagined, but if anything, it made him more convinced that he’d chosen the only path possible.

Retribution. Destruction.

He was parked behind an old barn twenty miles west of Barron. After months acquiring materials, and weeks of overnight labor, he was nearly ready. He got out and undid the deadbolt on the tall side door, and when he was inside he relocked the door behind him. The floor under his feet was lined with a thick rubber sheath; he couldn’t risk static during the dry winter. He disabled the motion sensor alarm by entering his security code. He switched on the fluorescent lights strung across the ceiling, making the oversized building as bright as an airport hangar.

The Ford E-350 cargo van waited in the center of a musty space that still carried a decades-old smell of farm fertilizer. The van was dark blue and windowless, except for privacy glass installed on the windshield and side doors. He’d purchased it used in December, for cash, from a seller in Ames he’d found on Craigslist. The maximum payload was 4,000 pounds, which was more than adequate for his purposes.

He’d left bread crumbs for the police in Ames. He’d done the same here in Barron, little tracks for them to follow if they were smart. In the end, in the aftermath, he wanted everyone to know why. He wanted them to understand. He wondered if the police had begun to nibble at the crumbs. He wondered how close they were to finding him. It didn’t matter. He would drive the cargo van out of the barn tonight and never return. His plan began tomorrow. He didn’t expect to sleep between now and then. He’d barely slept at all for days, as the time of execution drew near. Death had a way of focusing the mind.

It would begin in the darkness, and in the first light of dawn, it would be over.

I am the vengeance of God.

My name is Aquarius.