Page 2 of Blossoming Dahlia

“-holy fuck, this one’s still alive. Radio for EMS immediately, we’ve got one female, responsive, requiring medical assistance!” The noise was almost overwhelming after living so long in silence. I raised my hands to cover my ears, catching the flash of metal as the lights spread out to surround me. Metal, like a badge. It was a badge, attached to someone in a vest that read FBI.Oh god!I lunged forward, trying to stand, but my legs were jello, and I fell instead. Strong arms caught me, and I clutched onto them, refusing to let go, scared that if I did I’d wake up and be alone again.

“Can you hear me? Can you tell me your name?” someone asked, and I nearly answered, the words rose to my lips before I clamped my mouth shut, biting my tongue until it bled. My vision was tunneling, the noise around me fading out like I was losing the signal. I looked up and caught a pair of blue eyes before my eyes shuttered closed.

My name is Dahlia Porter.

Chapter two

Asher

Idreamed about the dollhouse again. Every time it was the same. I was walking down an empty road when I came across a dollhouse under one of the street lights. I picked it up to look at it, and gallons of blood started pouring out of it, flowing down the street into the nearby gutter. I dropped the house and it shattered at my feet, spraying more blood over the road. There was a pile of bodies on the grass nearby, limbs twisted and gray, like someone’s discarded toys. Each body had a face I recognized, each woman was someone we’d failed.

I woke up and winced, sitting up from the desk that I’d fallen asleep on. I couldn’t have been asleep that long, or my neck would have been a lot more sore. I checked my watch and sure enough, it had only been about two hours, so just enough rest to keep my brain from shutting down, which was all I needed anyway. Stretching out my arms, I twisted my back until it popped, then stared blearily down at the papers spread out in front of me, blinking until my eyes began to focus once more.I’d been going through these files for weeks now, trying to find anything that may have been overlooked. We’d been in fifteen different cities across the country, gathering every last scrap of information from every single missing person’s case and Jane Does matching our profile. Eight missing women, and seven Jane Does had been correctly identified. Based on the profile that I’d been building, our killer kept his victims for roughly four months before killing them, and then quickly moved on to his next target. If he stuck to his pattern, our eighth missing woman was running out of time.

I shoved the chair back and stood, letting the blood flow back into my legs. I walked around a bit to wake myself up and moved to study the board again. Eight women, all medium height and average build, with strawberry blond hair and blue eyes, in their late twenties to early thirties. They all lived low-risk lifestyles and were all reported missing less than twenty four hours after they were taken. Aside from their obvious similarities in looks, they all came from different cities and, as far as we could tell, had no connection aside from our killer. Each and every one had been taken at some point in the early evening outside or near to their home without anyone witnessing the abduction and all but one had been found dead in a different city four months later.

I studied the crime scene photos, even though they were basically burned into my retinas at this point. Each woman had been found mutilated and naked, discarded in a dumpster and posed almost like a broken barbie doll. One particularly disgusting newspaper had dubbed him the Doll Maker, and it had stuck. I grimaced at the name, hating that these sick bastards get some infamous moniker while the people they killed were left forgotten in the background of the story.

A knock on the door startled me, and I turned to find Hunter pushing the door open as he balanced two cups of coffee in one hand and a stack of files in the other. I moved around the tableto grab the coffees before he could dump them all over my hard work, and he smirked at my obvious panic. “Thought you might need some caffeine, Sleeping Beauty,” he told me, and I nodded, taking a sip of it immediately. Hunter despised police station coffee and would always go out to pick up the good stuff, which I was grateful for. I wasn’t a snob like he was, but I hadn’t slept more than ten hours in the last five days so I needed proper caffeine. “Oh, and in case you were wondering, you look like shit.”

I frowned and looked down at myself. Sure, my shirt was a bit wrinkled, and at some point in the last two days I’d lost my tie somewhere under the pile of papers. And okay, I hadn’t brushed my hair in a bit, but I was sure it couldn’t be that bad. Plus, who gave a shit what I looked like anyway? My looks didn’t matter for this job, only my brain did. I ran a hand through my hair, trying to smooth it down a bit, and took another sip of coffee as I turned back to the board. “So, remember how we were trying to figure out how the killer is finding his next victim?” I asked, and Hunter took a seat in my abandoned chair, dumping the files on top of my piles of documents.

“Yeah, since he moves so much, and there’s such a short window between dumping the body and grabbing someone else, how is he able to find someone new who matches his type?” Hunter replied, leaning back in his chair. He looked crisp and refreshed, having slept and likely showered last night, and I hated him a little for it. I gestured back at the board, pointing at the pictures one at a time.

“We know each victim was taken in the same city that the last victim was dumped, and we know, based on Abby Keller’s dump site and Corine Ball’s abduction site, that he found her less than thirty miles from where he dumped Abby. Assuming this is similar for each of the victims in turn, I came up with this map.” I flipped the board around, showing the map of the US,now covered in push-pins and sharpied circles. “Do you see what I see?” I asked him, watching as he frowned, his body shifting from relaxed to tense all at once. “I bet his home base is right here.” I jabbed my finger in the center of the cluster of circles. “Probably close to the major highway that feeds off into each of these areas. We need to get everyone moving, canvas this area here, and start looking for anyone who matches our profile,” I explained, and I could tell I was talking too fast again. Hunter told me that when I got really focused, I forgot to slow myself down so other people could understand me. I always wondered why none of them could ever speed up to match my pace instead.

Hunter nodded and stood up, already dialing. “Grab your bag and a clean shirt, we’re on the road in ten.” He walked out of the room, leaving his coffee on the table. I grabbed the files I had yet to go through and shoved them in my bag. According to my map, we were heading to Columbus, Ohio. If we left now, we’d get there early tomorrow morning, and by then our analysts would have a list of possible suspects to start on. I took a look at the latest victim on our board, the one who might still be alive. Her name was Dahlia Porter, and I really wanted to find her before she had a second picture on my board.

“Wake up sunshine, we’re nearly there.” I jerked up in my seat, looking at my hands, which only moments ago had been covered in blood. That damn dream again; I hoped we solved this casesoon just to rid myself of those images and the feeling of blood coating my fingers. I grimaced and rubbed a hand over my face. I must’ve fallen asleep again just outside of Ohio. I’d gotten through two more files while we drove, as well as the detailed autopsy report for Aubrey Melborn, our fourth victim. Aubrey had been found in a dumpster in Louisville, but what I thought was curious was the samples they’d pulled from her hair.

“Do you know what a shagbark hickory is?” I asked Hunter, who looked over at me with one eyebrow cocked.

“Is it a sex thing?” he asked tiredly, and I rolled my eyes.

“It’s a type of tree. There aren’t many around Louisville, but they are found in Ohio.” I explained quickly. “They found leaves from a shagbark hickory in Aubrey Melborn’s hair.” I waited for Hunter to catch up.

“You want to ask all units to look out for these trees near the homes of our top suspects?” Hunter asked, giving me a sidelong glance. I didn’t bother to answer, since he was already pulling out his phone to call his contact in the Columbus PD. We had five suspects to check out, all of them matching our precise criteria. I looked at each of their addresses and started to do my own internal calculations, based on their locations, relative geography, age of the neighborhoods, and how long each property had been owned.

“Suspect four, Steve Curing,” I announced, and Hunter checked the list of addresses we had, plugging Curing’s into the GPS and pulling a very illegal U-turn to get us going in the right direction. He didn’t ask questions anymore, and I was grateful for that. He was a true-blue FBI, with all of the training and years in the field. He had been unhappy to get partnered with me at first, just like every other partner I’d had over the past six years. However, unlike the rest of them, he’d overlooked some of my… more frustrating qualities, and focused only on the results, and he’d figured out quickly that results were the thing I wasgood at. We’d been working together for almost two years now, and our arrest rates were the best in the department.

I held onto the door as we sped toward our destination, lights on but siren off so we wouldn’t spook the suspect if he was home. Local police were already waiting for us, parked across the street. Hunter pulled up to the curb and we jumped out. I shook out my legs a bit and walked around to the back of the car, where Hunter was already waiting, pulling his vest over his shirt. He held mine out, and I tugged it over my head awkwardly. Before Hunter, I was stuck waiting in the car as my partners would go in to take down the suspects. Hunter didn’t let me sit things out, and I appreciated the ability to analyze the crime scene with my own eyes, instead of having to wait for the crime scene photos. I checked my gun before stowing it back in the holster, and then I studied the house in front of us while Hunter talked to the officers waiting for us.

A hand tugged on my arm, and I met Hunter’s eyes. He was all business now, no trace of the easy-going partner who liked to poke fun at me. “Look between the house and the garage.” I pointed, and he looked, his eyebrow going up.

“Is that your Russian blue?” he asked me lightly, and I pursed my lips.

“Shagbark hickory,” I replied automatically, and he smirked. Okay, the easy-going partner was still there, just hidden beneath his professional persona. He motioned for me to stick behind him and took the lead, his gun drawn as he approached the house, the other officers not far behind. I followed, drawing my own gun and keeping it at my side. I listened as Hunter yelled out about a warrant, and then the door was kicked in. I stepped over the wreckage of the door as we entered the home, and the officers quickly went room to room, yellingclearevery time. I looked over the inside of the home, cataloging everything in my brain, filing it away for later review. The symmetry ofhis shelves, the antique dolls lining the walls, each perfectly positioned with not a hair out of place. I followed Hunter down the stairs to the basement once the main floor was cleared, and let him focus on finding someone to shoot while I took in the scene in front of us.

There was a cozy den space, complete with an old recliner facing a newer high-definition TV. Hunter kicked in the door nearby, swearing when he realized it was only a closet. I turned on the TV, and instead of a normal channel it was a security camera view instead. The view showed a small room, with the bed being center stage. There was a woman on the bed, lying face-down, and my heart stopped when she didn’t move. Where was she? Had we gotten the wrong house?

I looked around the room; it was small, and oddly proportioned. Hunter walked out of the closet, holding up a pair of dresses that could’ve been from a movie set. I nodded distractedly, studying the dimensions of the room we were in. I walked over to the far wall, knocking on it lightly, then I moved to the side where there should’ve been more room, knocking again. The hollow sound wasn’t right, and I followed the wall until I hit the bookcase. Checking the floor in front of it, I noticed a wear pattern on the concrete, and I hooked my fingers along the back of the bookcase and pulled. It swung out easily, opening to reveal a door that was bolted with three different padlocks. Hunter whistled loudly and the officers came down, one of whom had bolt cutters. They made quick work of the locks, but we were still missing the key to the deadbolt, so Hunter started kicking the door in. I checked the TV and was relieved to see movement, our noise causing the woman to stir.

The door flew in with a bang, and I quickly followed them into the room, going straight for the woman as one of the officers radioed for EMS. “We’re the police, you’re safe now,” I told her, walking toward her. She covered her ears and looked terrified,so I shoved my gun back in my holster to try to look less intimidating. She lunged forward abruptly and began to fall, so I caught her arms to steady her, and she grabbed me so tightly I thought her nails would rip through my shirt. “Can you hear me?” I asked, her eyes unfocused and full of fear. “Can you tell me your name?” I knew her name, her face was burned into my brain forever. This was Dahlia Porter, our eighth victim, and she was alive. Her mouth opened like she was going to answer me, but then she clamped it shut, despair painting her features. I looked down at her neck, my gaze catching on the metallic device pressing into her skin. “It’s okay,” I told her gently. “You’re okay now.” Her eyes met mine for a split second, then she slumped forward so suddenly I nearly dropped her. I cradled her shoulders and lowered her to the ground as Hunter came around to kneel beside us.

“Did she say anything?” he asked, looking her over, probably assessing for injuries. I shook my head, half-listening to one of the officers sending instructions to the EMTs who must’ve arrived outside. I heard footsteps on the stairs, and two people with a stretcher arrived, quickly shoving us out of the way to assess Ms. Porter.

“Watch out, there’s some kind of device on her neck, I think it’s a shock collar,” I told them, and the one closest to me, an older woman with short black hair, quickly moved Dahlia’s hair out of the way to assess the device, her face twisting in disgust. The skin under the prongs looked damaged; no wonder she hadn’t said anything.

“We’ll have a tech look at this before we try to cut it off,” she told me, and I nodded, stepping out of the way as they strapped Ms. Porter onto the stretcher.

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