Page 81 of Noble Neighbor
Oliver banked his escalating fear, knowing he had to get ahold of his emotions and calm his boy down. “Clement. Listen to me. Help is on the way. Now I need you to stop crying and give me information. Can you do that, son?”
“Y-yes, Dad.”
“Okay. Good.” He passed his keys to Louis.
“Where’s the man, Clement? The one who … hurt Mommy,” he asked, sliding into the passenger side of his vehicle.
“Gone.” Clement gulped, continuing, “He’s gone. He … ran away. I s-stabbed him, Daddy. With t-the knife Grandpa gave me. But … Mommy’s n-not waking up, and … I can’t … feel her breathe, Daddy,” he ended, crying harder.
Oliver wanted to howl, rail to the heavens above, hit his head against the dash, but instead he clutched the cell to his ear and placated his boy. “The paramedics will look after Mommy, Clem. I just need to hear your voice. Okay? Keep talking to me. Tell me about school today.”
Over the next thirty or so minutes it took them toreach their destination, Oliver talked to Clement. During that time, first the police, then the paramedics arrived on the scene.One officer spoke to him briefly and confirmed that Clement was unharmed and being taken care of. She refused to give him updates before handing Christie’s cell back to Clement. Her reticence alone told Oliver what he already suspected, but he kept the charade going for Clemmie’s sake.
He needed to have his boy in his arms before hearing those dreadful words.
*
“I’m sorry for your loss, Detective Armstrong.”
Oliver wondered if Special Agent in Charge Williamskept count of the number of times she’d uttered those words to a grieving family. He knew his number and could even recite the names of the victims he’d donenotifications for. How trite of him to have ever imaginedthose words brought comfort, for they did not.
Nothing could change the fact that his wife, hisbeautiful Christie, had been murdered; the eighth victimof a serial killer dubbed the “Silk Rope Strangler” by the media.
“Instead of sitting here in our home, inChristie’shome, you should be out there” — he flung his arm out — “finding the fucking scumbag who killed my wife.”
“My team is on the hunt. And thanks to your son, we now have DNA. We’ll catch him, Detective.”
The clutch of pain that had taken hold of his heart during the night tightened, and Oliver rubbed the heel of his hand over his chest. Clement, his brave six-year-old, had used a pocketknife and stabbed at the man, drawing blood. The man had swatted Clement away. Approaching sirens — called to the area by a domestic disturbance farther down the road — had sent the man fleeing. Those sirens most likely saved the life of his boy.
But not in time to save his wife.
“Christie … the name he’d given her …,” he started hopefully, but the look on the agent’s face told him it was a dead end.
“I’m sorry.”
Oliver leaned back and stared at the ceiling. He wanted to be in on the investigation. He wanted tocatch that bastard and fucking choke him to death. Oliverwould take great pleasure in using his bare hands.
But his hands — no sick pun intended — were tied. The FBI was working the case, and Oliver’s only job was to look after his son. To protect him. Even though Clement couldn’t give a description beyond “hair color like Mommy, big like Daddy,” his boy was a witness and at risk.
And not just from the murderer. If the media found out …
He hadn’t protected his wife, but by God, he was going to make sure he protected his son.
*
Two-and-a-half days later, SAC Williams was back at his door. It was late, close to midnight, but sleep was elusive and Oliver still up. He opened the door before she rang the bell. He might be a wandering, sleep-deprived zombie, but his father and Clement were asleep.
“We got him, Oliver.”
Relief took the use of Oliver’s legs, and he sagged against the hallway wall, slowly sinking to the floor. It was over. The murdering asshole would pay for his crimes and spend the rest of his life behind bars.
Williams closed the door and joined him on the floor, resting her torso against the wood. Exhaustion etched her features, too. Over the past days, Oliver had grown to respect the woman. Dedicated to her job, she had kept in contact, even when there’d been nothing to report. He’d watched her appeal to the public last night; had recognized the frustration of endless dead ends.
The same frustration played across her face now.
“Don’t tell me he’s going to get away with it?”
She snorted. A low, mirthless sound, dripping with disgust. “He’s dead.”
