Rico ran a tongue under his upper lip. “There’s always another option.”

  A chill ran over her. She didn’t want to hear that option.

  “In fact, that could be the best way.”

  “No. You’re right.” She stumbled over her words. “Devon will be fine for a day or two. Caleb can take care of him.” She grabbed the syrup, stumbled to the refrigerator, and put it away.

  Crackers whined through the mud room door. She’d forgotten all about him, poor dog. Fiona poured dry food into one bowl, water into another and took them into the mud room. He whimpered and wagged his tail furiously between his hunched hind legs.

  “Hey there,” Fiona cooed as she pet his head. He ignored the food she’d set down for him and pressed himself against her instead. This moment away from the man in the kitchen was a welcome relief, but she knew she couldn’t stay long.

  Crackers’ gaze focused on something over her shoulder and the rumble started in his chest again. The hair follicles at the back of Fiona’s neck prickled—the reaction the result of a primal sense carried over from an early time. Somehow, she knew Rico was watching her. She rose and wiped her hands on her jeans placing herself between the dog and the man. She was afraid Crackers would attack and didn’t want to think about what would happen to him if he did.

  Rico stood in the doorway. He moved closer to her, so close she could smell syrup and stale coffee on his breath. “I like you, Fiona. Things will go easier for your family if you and I work together.”

  Pots and pans banged inside her, raising an alarm no one heard. “I... I... ”

  Crackers lunged. The only sound was the clack of teeth snapping at the air near Rico’s leg. Fiona grabbed the dog’s collar and hauled him back.

  Rico eyed the animal dispassionately. “Control him, or I’ll have to take him out back.” The words were quiet, and she was sure he meant them. He turned and walked into the kitchen.

  Please. The word rang inside her like a bell, resounding again and again, its reverberations circling like birds around a church steeple. Please.

  She would bankrupt herself or kill or leave everything she knew to save her family, but friendship with Rico... Whatever that meant, she wasn’t sure she could do that.

  One last pet, and she closed the mud room door on Crackers. Rico had resumed his place at the kitchen table. He was reading something on Devon’s phone and ignored her as she passed to go into the living room. She mumbled something about checking on Devon.

  Her husband lay on the floor by the fireplace with Caleb nestled into the curve of his body. The child sucked his thumb, a habit they’d broken him of last year. A wave of love washed over her, raising a sob from somewhere deep within. She would do anything for them.

  She knelt beside them and ran a hand through Caleb’s hair. Devon’s eyes opened. He gazed into hers but didn’t speak. His face was flushed and feverish. “I’ll put him into bed,” she said. Devon nodded, and she lifted their son into her arms. Caleb’s head lolled for a moment then fell heavily onto her shoulder.

  Before she stood, she glanced behind herself. Rico hadn’t followed her into the living room. In a swift movement, she slipped the spice grater from her pocket into Devon’s back pocket. His eyes widened for a brief instant, but no words passed between them.

  Fiona carried Caleb into the bedroom, nestled him under the blankets, then sat on the side of the bed. The thought of her innocent child huddled against Rico in the back of the car the way he had been huddled against his father filled her with an acid bath of emotions: rage, grief, helplessness, despair. She tried to isolate the rage and allow it to seep into her veins. The other emotions wouldn’t help her now. What Rico wanted must never happen.

  Except, perhaps, friendship. Another image filled her mind. She and Rico in the master bedroom. His lanky body, sweaty and foul, pressed against hers—a weapon in her hand. Perhaps she could make use of the common DNA she and Chuck shared, channel her inner psychopath. She’d read somewhere that there was a genetic component to psychopathy.

  She stood. First, she had to find a weapon.

  Fiona left Caleb’s room and shut the door softly behind her, hoping her little one would sleep through the night and remain innocent of what would transpire. She glanced toward the larger bedroom. The door was open and faint moonlight glowed through the doorway. She walked toward it, thinking she might find something she could plant under a pillow or on the floor by the bed.

  Before she stepped inside, she heard a growl, a sickening thud, and a cry of pain. She turned and ran to the living room. Rico, his face contorted in anger, stood over her husband, a spice grater in his hand. He drew his foot back and shot it into Devon’s stomach. Devon cried out again.

  “Stop!” Fiona bolted toward them and threw herself on the floor in front of Devon. “Stop. It’s my fault. I put it in his pocket. He couldn’t have gotten it himself.”

  Rico was transformed. The bland, sardonic expression he’d worn was gone. White showed all the way around his blue irises. His lips were bared, exposing yellowed teeth. His skin, normally so pale, was mottled purple, red, and white.

  They stared at each for what seemed an eternity. Finally, Rico ripped a zip tie from a pile on the bookshelf, grabbed Fiona’s wrists, and tied them together, pulling the tail so tightly she gasped. She didn’t fight him. There was no point. He grabbed her by the back of her sweater, yanked her away from Devon, threw her into the easy chair, and tied her ankles.

  He turned, paused by Devon’s crumpled body, and launched another kick into him. As Rico stomped toward the front door, Devon vomited onto the pitted wood floor. The door slammed, and Fiona and Devon were alone for the first time since she’d arrived. She had so many questions, but Devon was too sick to answer them. He panted on his side, heaving bile between breaths. Fiona closed her eyes and tried to locate the rage she’d felt earlier, but all she found was despair.

  MOLLY: I don’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed that Fiona didn’t get to go through with her plan. The sacrifice she was planning was big. I don’t think I could’ve made it, but I’m not a parent.

  Rico made a comment in one of his diary entries. He said, “... this kid’s parents would cut off their hands and feet to save him.”

  I’d do a heck of a lot to save Diesel, my dog, but I’m not sure I’d go that far. Parents have a connection to their children I can’t quite comprehend. What do you all think? Those of you who are parents, what lengths would you go to or what lengths have you gone to in order to protect your children? I’d love to hear about it in the Facebook Group.

  Join me next time for more Murders Under the Sun.

  (cue music)

  VO: This episode is brought to you by Fawkes Press, with stories right up your dark alley. Murders Under the Sun is edited by Jim Wilbourne, theme music by Eclectic Blends, and I’m your host, Molly Shure.

  Part Six

  MURDERS UNDER THE SUN

  SEAON SEVEN; EPISODE FIVE

  * * *

  MOLLY: Welcome back to Murders Under the Sun. I’m Molly Shure, your host.

  I didn’t expect the flood of emotion that accompanied my question last week. Some of the stories you shared about protecting your children were heart-wrenching, others were comical, but all of them were truly inspiring.

  Another thing you all agreed on was that using threats against a child as leverage with a parent is something done by only the lowest of the low. A couple of you said that despite the fact that Rico wasn’t a good man, you felt sorry for him. He’d obviously had a difficult childhood and suffered from a psychological disorder. But once he decided to use Caleb as a shield or a bargaining chip, you lost all sympathy.

  I agree. It seems a child’s pain is magnified in their parent’s heart a hundred fold. I’ve always hoped to become a mother one day, but after reading your posts I have a much more circumspect attitude. I don’t think parenthood is for everyone. Maybe I’ll stick with dogs.

  I’m opening today’s episode with one of Rico’s diary entries. It’s very disturbing. I’m not sure if he was escalating, or if he just revealed a darker side of his nature that had been there all the time. You can decide.

  The sky was clear. I turned in circles until I found Orion’s Belt. One, two, three, I counted the stars. One, two, three. One, two, three. I counted them over and over until the hot, white anger inside me dimmed to yellow and finally red.

  They were working together against me. I should have known they would. The woman only pretended she wanted to help me. She didn’t want to help—it was a ploy to save her family.

  I understood why she wanted to save the kid. She was a mother. Mothers should protect their children. That made me like her more, not less. But why the husband? He was useless and weak.

  I walked across the field behind the house, my boots crunching through the thin crust of ice that lay on top of the snow. I had to calm down and think, find direction.

  Getting angry at Fiona wasn’t productive. I needed her to get past the roadblocks. I could use the kid to force her to do it, but I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to be like Hal. He’d enjoyed torturing my mother by torturing me.

  I walked faster to escape the memories that threatened to crash over my head like a tsunami. I came to the edge of the woods and paused. If I walked between the trees, I wouldn’t be able to see Orion’s belt. But I had to walk between the trees to get to the car.

  Things weren’t happening the way I’d planned. First the bank wouldn’t cooperate, then that cop came by, then Bob. When Fiona showed up, I thought maybe my luck was changing. How could I have been so stupid? She wasn’t luck. He must have sent her.

  I gazed at the belt one more time. It would be there whether I could see it or not. That thought fortified me. I plunged into the woods.

  The moon made a patchwork quilt of the ground, lighting up a pile of dirt here, and a patch of snow there, leaving the rest in darkness. Something black flitted behind a tree ahead of me. I stopped and listened. There weren’t many left, but there were still bears in these woods. Mountain lions too.

  No sound. I moved ahead cautiously, knife ready in my right hand, but the shadows were still. Just as I began to relax, it happened again. Something dodged from tree to tree. I trained my gaze ahead where I’d seen the movement and tripped over a root.

  I caught myself before I fell, and that’s when I saw the neat pile of new dirt. This was where we’d buried Bob.

  Ah, the shadow was explained. Bob was restless.

  I paused, seeking a solution from the night sky. When it came, I searched the area, found three good sized stones, and lined them up equidistant on the grave. That would hold him.

  I walked on more quickly now, wanting to put this whole thing behind me. The exercise and the altitude forced my breathing to become deep and regular. By the time I got to the clearing, I was in control of myself.

  The Subaru was barely visible under the branches I’d thrown over it. I walked to the driver side door, wiped snow from the handle, and pulled it open. I smelled stale sweat and cheap cologne, just as I’d feared.

  I leaned in and saw him. He lay on the back seat, curled into a fetal position, white-lipped and coughing. He acted like he didn’t see me, but he knew I was there. “You were going to die, dude,” I said aloud.

  Chuck didn’t answer.

  “It was a mercy killing.”

  There was no response. I tried again. “Come on, man, don’t be like that. Don’t ignore me. I’m talking to you.”

  Chuck rolled onto his back and fixed his cold, cat eyes on me. I licked my lips. They felt dry and cracked.

  “I’m sorry. Okay? I thought you were going out anyway. I swear.”

  An owl cried in the distance, just like that night. I shivered inside my thick jacket and looked away. The cat eyes were making me nervous.

  A moonbeam landed on a pine bough that hung over the car, lighting it up. The green was brilliant, St. Paddy’s Day green, luck of the Irish green, four leaf clover green. It was a good sign. I never met my father, but my mother told me he was Black Irish. I liked that. Black Irish. It sounded wild and dangerous.

  I looked at Chuck again. He was sitting up now, still wearing that dragon T-shirt. “What do you want me to do with your sister?” I said.

  He didn’t move.

  “You still pissed at me?”

  No answer. I was starting to get frustrated.

  “I’m trying to do the right thing here.”

  His head pivoted on his neck. It was an unnatural gesture. More owl than man. His eyes beamed in the black interior of the car like the light of a projector streaming through a dark movie theater.

  We stared at each other for a long minute, images playing on the screen of my mind. When he was done, he closed his eyes and lay down again. I shut the car door and trudged to the house. I knew what I had to do.

  MOLLY: What does this mean? Is Rico delusional? Or does he see into the supernatural? Are his ravings a glimpse into the unseen realm I’ve been wondering about since Season One? Or are they simply that—ravings?

  I’m going to save up all these thoughts and try to put them into some kind of cohesive question for you by the end of today’s episode. But for now let’s get back to Devon and Fiona.

  7.5.2

  DEVON

  Devon’s cheek was pressed into the floorboards, the smooth wood cooling his flaming face. He might be sick, or it could be an infection from the knife wound. Either way, the better Rico got, the worse Devon felt. The man was sucking the life from him.

  Why not? He had everything else—Devon’s money, his phone, the cabin. His family.

  The smell of vomit rose like a noxious gas from the pool on the floor. He scooted as far away from it as he could get, wishing for a glass of water with every fiber of his being.

  “Dev?” Fiona said from her place on the chair.

  He dampened his dry mouth and said, “Yeah.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “I think he broke a rib.” He knew what that felt like. Devon had broken two ribs in a Frisbee football match when he was in college. He’d been proud of that injury. He left off the word “Frisbee” in the retelling. Football sounded better on its own. He grunted a laugh at the memory, and instantly regretted it.

  “We have to get out of here,” Fiona said.

  He wanted to laugh again but knew it would hurt too much. “How do you plan to do that?”

  She didn’t say anything for a long time. “He’s... He wants... ” She couldn’t make herself finish her sentence, but he knew what she was trying to say.

  “No.” He gave the word as much husbandly weight as he could manage.

  “I might not have a choice⁠—”

  He cut her off. Suddenly he was in the courtroom, intoning his closing argument. “You always have a choice. You can run. You can fight.”

  “You didn’t let me finish.”

  There was no sound but the crackle of the fire for a long moment. “Okay,” he said.

  “I could find something, a lamp, a doorstop, something heavy. When he’s... you know... I could hit him.”

  The thought of that man, with his chipped, bitten, filthy fingernails, touching his wife almost made Devon throw up again. “That’s a terrible plan,” he said.

  “You have a better one?”

  “I’m gonna get these ties off. My hands were halfway out when he found that thing you put in my pocket.”

  “The spice grater?”

  “Is that what that was?”

  “Yeah.” She paused. “Sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “I shouldn’t have put it in your pocket.”

  Devon rolled onto his back and a fire lit in his rib cage. He wasn’t sure if it was the knife wound or the broken rib, but he guessed it didn’t matter. White lights danced in front of his eyes for several seconds. He didn’t try to speak until they dimmed. “Yes, you should have put it in my pocket. This doesn’t matter. Injuries don’t matter. Death and rape—those matter.”

  “I’m not going to let him hurt Caleb, even if it means death or rape.” There was no indecision, no room for argument, in her statement.

  Devon drank in oxygen as he mulled over the situation. He searched for a precedent. Something from his past he could use in the present, but he couldn’t think of a thing. He’d never experienced anything like this.

  He’d had clients who’d lived for years with abusive spouses, trapped and fearing for their lives. He’d always said the right things, been sympathetic, supportive, encouraging. Told them they were strong and brave, that they had what it took to stand up to their abusers. But inside, tucked into a place he didn’t often look, he’d thought they were weak.

  If they weren’t weak, they’d leave, right?

  By that standard, he should have told the sheriff about the man in the kitchen with his kid. He should have let Bob know what was going on. Why hadn’t he?

  Caleb. It was always Caleb.

  The women he’d defended, the ones who didn’t leave until a friend or neighbor reported what was happening, they had kids. They’d been willing to sleep with the enemy for their children’s sakes. Now that he had an inkling of what they’d gone through, he couldn’t imagine that kind of courage. He was the weak one. His wife was courageous, like those women.

  He turned his head to look at Fiona. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  “And you’re right. We have to think about Caleb first.”

  “Yes.” The word slipped from her lips without thought.

  “How do we save him?”

  “I look for a weapon. You work on the zip tie.”

  “We both look for an opportunity.”

  “Yes.”

  Talking took more energy than Devon had. He lay down again and rested while Fiona laid out her plan. As he listened, he made a vow. He would get loose, even if he had to put the tie into the fire again. And once he got loose, he’d wrap his burned and bloody hands around Rico’s neck and squeeze until the life was gone from his eyes.