Vicious Minds: Part 3 (Children of Vice 6)

CALLIOPE

I enjoyed movies, books, and anything that told stories because they all followed the same pattern—introduction, rising action, climax, falling action, resolution, the end. Someone’s life in a few hours. Everything of importance was laid out right in front of me. I enjoyed that. Being able to see the whole puzzle of a person’s life. Able to see everything wrap nicely in a bow. Whether the main character lived or died, I enjoyed it because we didn’t get that in real life. In real life, you could spend years thinking you understood someone only for them to surprise you and be someone completely different. In real life, you could feel like you were at the climax of a moment, only to realize you are the beginning or, worse, you were at the end.

There was no order.

Was I at this rising action?

Was this the resolution—the end or the beginning?

For myself, I didn’t know.

For Neal Callahan, the bomb was the climax. His goodbye to his family and his deal with me were his falling action or resolution, and then his end was death.

I stood out in the back yard in the cold December air, under the winter’s sun, staring at what was left of his body, the blood that scorched the ground. The force of the blast had left him in pieces. Though that was sad, I was grateful. I was thankful that his remains were now being cleaned. The blood was being washed from the patio and the side of the house was his, and not my daughter’s. However, the thought that it could have been stirred the anger, and need for vengeance. And I knew it was nothing compared to the rest of this family.

There was no plan.

There was only anger, pain, and hate. Feelings that could only come from a loss so deep it burned to think about.

It was my job now to focus that rage.

But it seemed like the world was laughing at me.

“Ma’am?” Monk spoke, standing beside me, patiently, or at least he had been patient ten minutes ago when I had first ordered him to come.

Since I had destroyed most of the other cars, we needed new ones, or at least I thought we did. I thought being the key words—my thoughts were irrelevant. If this were a Greek play, someone would see the gods were messing with me.

“Say it again,” I asked, watching the blood mix with the water over the patio stone.

“We got a tip from the Chicago police about a murder-suicide in Winnetka,” he repeated and waited again.

“You’re telling me he killed my mother and sisters before killing himself?” I coughed, shaking my head. “Why in God’s name would I believe that?”

“He left you a voice message. There is a 9-1-1 call from your sister, Bellarose. They want to know what you would like them to do with this. The press will find out if you don’t act—”

“Do you have this 9-1-1 call?”

He brought out his phone, pressing play, allowing me to hear what first started as gunshots.

“9-1-1: What is your emergency?”

“Send help! My father’s lost it! He just killed my mom—Ah…no…” She cried as more shots were fired in the background.

“Where are you now? Can you escape, or are you hiding?” the dispatcher asked.

“I’m under the bed… I think he’s coming?”

“Bellarose? Come out, sweetheart. It’s okay. We aren’t going to suffer anymore.”

Silence. Then…

“No! Daddy! Please no! Stop!”

BANG. BANG. BANG.

“Hello? Hello, is anyone there? Sending units to 1447 Blackthrone—”

“Why do people hide under beds?” I asked, suddenly turning to look at the lanky person beside me.