“The doctor gave you something to help you relax.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry about everything, Jessie. Mostly I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”
“It’s not your fault. I rushed in when I should have been more careful.”
“By the time I heard your message and found out what was going on, you were being brought to the hospital.”
“It’s been a crazy time for both of us. You’ve been busy. We both have.” She pushed the covers off her, slid her legs over the side of the mattress, then got to her feet and wrapped her arms around him, holding him tight.
“It’s okay,” he whispered as he rubbed her back. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
Frightening images came to mind: Natalie lying in a pool of blood, Zee rattling the bars, trying to get out of her cage, the high-pitched wails as Forrest Bloom tortured the old man, and the silhouette of a man standing on the stairs.
Ben Morrison.
The look on his face when he’d seen Forrest Bloom torturing the old man was a look she’d never forget. As blood dripped off her face, she’d seen his eyes grow cold and hard, his jaw rigid as he wrapped his meaty fingers around the madman’s throat, pressing hard, still squeezing long after the life had left the other man’s body.
She stepped out of Colin’s embrace and headed into the living room where Higgins greeted her, his tail wagging. “Good dog,” she said, scratching the top of his head. The TV was on. One of the local news stations showed the long gravel driveway leading to the Bloom farmhouse lined with police cruisers and media vans.
Colin came to stand beside her. “You’ve been to hell and back. Maybe you should sit down.”
He was right. Her knees felt wobbly. She took a seat on the couch.
“People have been calling in to talk about how Forrest Bloom was tortured by his father,” Colin told her. “After his mother died, he returned to the farm to get revenge on his father. They’re saying he kept his old man chained in the basement.”
The man Forrest had called Dog, Jessie realized, was his father. Pictures of Ben Morrison flashed across the screen, and then a picture of a young girl with blonde hair and blue eyes. She was being interviewed from her hospital room. Her name was Erin Hayes. Ben Morrison had rescued her from the coffinlike box found on the property.
“I heard her screaming,” Jessie said, her heart racing again. That was the voice she’d heard before she’d run to the barn. Erin was alive. She’d made it. Her eyes watered. “What about Ben Morrison strangling Forrest? Is he in trouble?”
Colin shook his head. “There won’t be any repercussions. It was determined that Ben Morrison’s actions were in the best interest of everyone involved. He wasn’t carrying a gun, and he managed to get you and Zee out of there safely.” He took a seat beside her. “You’re lucky to be alive.”
“What about Natalie Bailey?” she asked.
“She didn’t make it.”
Jessie’s heart sank. “I could have saved her.” She shook her head.
“Don’t blame yourself, Jessie. It’s not your fault. If it weren’t for you, who knows how many more people would have fallen victim to the Heartless Killer? If not for you, Zee Gatley would still be locked up, and Erin Hayes never would have survived another twenty-four hours.”
“Any word on where Zee Gatley is staying?”
He nodded. “Her father was released late last night. Arlo and Zee are back home.”
“I’m glad.”
“In a day or so, when you’re up to it, we’ll need you to come down to the station and answer a few questions.”
She nodded. “You should go. I’ll be fine.”
After he left, she headed for the bathroom, turned on the water in the shower, and then went to the sink to brush her teeth, her reflection staring back at her.
Her hair was as tangled and matted as her thoughts.
A girl in a box.
A man named Dog.
A house of torture.
Fuck.
She couldn’t get the sound of rattling cages out of her mind.
Butcher knives and a young woman with schizophrenia rooting her on. That was fucked up. She was never going to be the same.
Blood. Knife. Guts.
Numb, body and mind.
Get a grip.
“I live in one fucked-up world,” she said to her reflection, using her toothbrush as a pointer.
She rinsed. Spit. “You could have stopped him.”
As she stared at the mirror, studying the line of stitches on her left side under her chin, where the killer’s blade would forever leave a mark, she decided if she was going to continue in this line of work, she needed to be vigilant, starting with taking a self-defense class. She would run and lift weights and figure out a way to overcome her aversion to blood.
Straightening, she narrowed her eyes and said, “You’ve got work to do.”
FORTY-SIX
Two weeks after Jessie escaped the bowels of hell, she found herself sitting in front of the TV, drawn in by a news reporter’s account of what they knew about the Heartless Killer up to this point.
The reporter started off by saying that psychiatrists across the country were still discussing the case, theorizing and seeking rationalizations for his actions. For the most part they agreed that Forrest Bloom wasn’t merely a bad seed. After interviewing teachers, neighbors, and people who’d known him growing up, he didn’t appear to have held any deep-seated hatred for his mother. The autopsy report showed no signs of brain damage.
Although most psychiatrists agreed that not all abused children grow up to be killers, they were quick to point out that every psychopathic killer known to mankind had been mistreated early in life. From what detectives had gathered so far, Forrest Bloom had been severely abused by his father since the time he could walk, prompting one female groupie to express her deepest sympathies for the killer and beg authorities for a lock of his hair.
Thanks to Mike Bailey, journals and reports written by Sue Sterling were found in storage. Although it seemed the ball had been dropped somewhere along the way by Child Services after Sue Sterling’s passing, it was also determined that by the time she visited the home in 1999, the worst of the damage had been done. All in all, investigators were still sifting through Bloom’s life on the farm, and would be for quite some time.
Jessie picked up the remote and shut the TV off.
Colin had filled her in on the rest. She knew investigators had talked to witnesses and people who had known Forrest Bloom over the course of his lifetime. As expected, the killer had been extremely isolated for most of his life. His relationship with his mother appeared to have been a normal one. During his years at UC Irvine, not too many people remembered him. With the exception of one professor and a roommate of two years, both of whom had described Forrest as quiet and socially awkward.
Forrest Bloom’s grades put him in the top 5 percent of his class. He had no criminal record, not even a traffic violation. He never held a job, and until he met Zinnia Gatley, it seemed he’d never shown any interest in the opposite sex.
Authorities found three journals in Forrest Bloom’s house. The killer had devoted an entire journal to descriptions of the abuse he’d endured at his father’s hands. Forrest Bloom was subjected to both physical and psychological abuse at a very young age. It was no wonder he went on to inflict pain on others.
The other two journals included a total of twenty-one names listed in order of date captured. The list of names did not include his father, the man he called Dog. Beneath each name were details about the victims: age, approximate weight and height, occupation, hobbies, favorite foods, hopes, dreams, and fears.
Of the twenty-two victims, there were sixteen females and six males, ranging from the age of five to sixty-four, Dog being the oldest.