Win (Windsor Horne Lockwood III #1)(49)

Jessica says, “That must have been very hard on you, Stuart.”

I try not to roll my eyes.

“Just don’t upset her any more than you have to, okay?”

She nods. He looks to me. I mimic her nod. Stuart then leads us into a living room with high ceilings and skylights and blond hardwood floors. Vanessa Hogan, who is now over eighty, is a shriveled thing propped up by pillows on an armchair. Her skin is sallow. The top of her head is wrapped in a kerchief, the tell-tale sign of chemotherapy or radiation or something in that eroding vineyard. Her eyes seem huge in her shrunken skull, wide and bright and denim blue. Jessica starts toward her, hand extended, but Vanessa waves us both toward the couch across from her.

She has not taken her eyes off me.

“Who is this?” she asks.

Her voice is youthful, not so different from the one in her “I forgive them” press conference from back in the day.

“This is my friend Win,” Jessica says.

Vanessa Hogan gives me a quizzical look. I expect a follow-up in my direction, but she instead shifts her attention back to Jessica. “Why did you want to see me, Ms. Culver?”

“You know about the discovery of Ry Strauss.”

“Yes.”

“I would like your thoughts.”

“I have no thoughts.”

“It must have been hard,” Jessica says. “Having it all brought back.”

“Having what brought back?”

“The death of your son.”

Vanessa smiles. “Do you think a day goes by that I don’t think about Frederick?”

That, I think, is a pretty good reply. I glance at Jessica. She tries again.

“When you heard that Ry Strauss had been found—”

“I forgave him,” Vanessa Hogan interjects. “A long time ago. I forgave them all.”

“I see,” Jessica says. “So where do you think he is now?”

“Ry Strauss?”

“Yes.”

“Burning in hell,” Vanessa replies, and a mischievous smile comes to her face. “I may have forgiven him, but I don’t think the Lord has.” She slowly turns her eyes back to me. “What’s your last name?”

“Lockwood.”

“Win Lockwood?”

“Yes.”

“He stole your painting.”

I don’t reply.

“Is that why you’re here?”

“In part.”

“You lost a painting to Ry Strauss. I lost a son.”

“I’m not comparing,” I say.

“Neither am I. Why are you here, Mr. Lockwood?”

“I’m trying to find some answers.”

The skin on her hands looks like parchment paper. I can see the bruises from the intravenous needles. “There’s another painting that’s still missing,” she says. “I saw that on the news.”

“Yes.”

“Is that what you’re looking for?”

“In part.”

“But only a small part. Am I right?”

Our eyes meet and something akin to understanding passes between us.

“Tell me what you’re really after, Mr. Lockwood.”

I glance at Jessica. She leaves it up to me.

“Have you ever heard of Patricia Lockwood?” I ask.

“I assume she’s related to you.”

“My cousin.”

She sits up and gestures for me to say more. So I do.

“During the nineties, approximately ten teenage girls were kidnapped and held against their will in a storage shed in the woods outside of Philadelphia. They were brutalized for months, perhaps years, raped repeatedly, and then murdered. Many were never found.”

Her eyes stay on mine. “You’re talking about the Hut of Horrors.”

I say nothing.

“I watch a lot of true crime on cable,” Vanessa Hogan tells us. “The case was never solved, if I remember.”

“That’s correct.”

She tries to sit up. “So you think Ry Strauss…?”

“There’s evidence he was at least involved,” I say. “He may not have acted alone though.”

“And one girl escaped. Would that be…?”

“My cousin, yes.”

“Oh my.” Her hand flutters and settles down on her chest. “And that’s why you’re here?”

“Yes.”

“But why come to me?”

“You may forgive,” I say.

“But you don’t?” she finishes for me.

I shrug. “Someone murdered my uncle. Someone abducted my cousin.”

“You should leave it in God’s hands.”

“No, ma’am, I don’t think I will.”

“Romans 12:19.”

“‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord.’”

“I’m impressed, Mr. Lockwood. Do you know what it means?”

“I don’t care what it means,” I say. “What I do know is that men who do things like that don’t stop. They kill again. Always. They don’t get cured or rehabilitated or, apologies, find God. They just keep killing. So tonight, when you hear on the news a young girl has gone missing? Perhaps it’s those same killers.”