it.”
“Eh,” she said, offering the waitress a smile as she brought our drinks over. She tossed back her mug, closing her eyes and smiling. “Mmm. Okay, that’s good stuff. Goes down smooth. You should really have one.”
“Jessie.”
“I know, I know ,” she said. “I just hate this part. Fuck. All right. Better you hear it from me than from Linder. Or God, from Kevin. I just need you to be cool. Can you be cool, Harmony?”
“Test me,” I said.
“All right.” She took another swig of ale, then folded her hands. “Temple is my mother’s maiden name. I was born Jessie Sinclair.”
It didn’t mean anything to me. I gave her a helpless shrug. I peeled the paper on my straw, giving my hands something to do.
“My father was Russell Lee Sinclair.”
I almost dropped the straw.
“Russell Lee Sinclair,” I echoed. “As in, Russell Lee Sinclair, the Dixie Butcher?”
She stared into her mug. “Yeah. That one. He didn’t escape capture for as long as he did just because we moved around so much. I mean, that helped, but no. Dad’s official designation, in Linder’s records, is Hostile Entity 2. He’s one of the reasons Vigilant Lock was created in the first place.”
“So what was he?” I said. “Some kind of sorcerer?”
“Some kind, yeah. He was in contact with . . . something outside this world. That’s H. E. 3, for the record, but he called it the King of Wolves. The killings were sacrifices. Part of his payment to ‘ascend to a higher state of being.’”
“Part of the payment?”
“There were other rituals,” Jessie said, her voice fading. “He had to . . . do things. And on my eleventh birthday, he told me he had a very special present. It was time for me to learn the family trade. So I had to do things, too.”
“Jesus,” I breathed. “I’m sorry, I had no idea.”
She shrugged. “No reason you would. I was fifteen the year the feds gunned my dad down. Linder covered up as much of the story as he could, and April took custody of me.”
“‘Aunt’ April,” I said. I thought back to what I knew about the Sinclair story—the sanitized-for-the-public version, anyway—and blinked as the last piece clicked into place. “From what I heard, an agent was seriously injured when they tried to arrest him.”
“That’s right.”
I regrettably left the Bureau quite some time ago, April said when we were introduced. Taking an ax to the lower vertebrae tends to limit your prospects for career advancement.
“It was her. Dr. Cassidy.”
Jessie sipped her ale and sighed. “It wasn’t maternal instinct that made April take me in. She wanted to make sure I didn’t turn out as fucked up as my dad was. Joke’s on her. I’m just neurotic. Could have been worse. Linder wanted me taken out on general principle. She convinced him I’d make a better tool than a target.”
“Taken out?” I blinked. “You were fifteen years old.”
She didn’t answer right away. The waitress swung by, bringing plates laden with food. The rich scent of homemade barbecue sauce, spicy and honey sweet, made my mouth water.
“Spent four years ‘learning’ from my dad,” she said, looking down as she spread a paper napkin across her lap. “Hunting. Fishing. Tracking. The best ways to shut up a naked, screaming, bloody victim while you’re smuggling her across state lines in your trunk. Just your basic backwoods Serial Killer 101 stuff.”
She looked up at me. “They called it Stockholm syndrome. That, and being too young to know right from wrong, being dominated by a parental authority figure, et cetera. Fortunately, I can report that years of therapy have done wonders, and now I have a serious problem with all authority figures.”
I felt like I’d airdropped into the middle of a minefield. Reading Jessie was like trying to catch a bead of mercury. She slid from withdrawn and taciturn to smiling and gregarious in the blink of an eye, and it felt like she was daring me to push
“Eh,” she said, offering the waitress a smile as she brought our drinks over. She tossed back her mug, closing her eyes and smiling. “Mmm. Okay, that’s good stuff. Goes down smooth. You should really have one.”
“Jessie.”
“I know, I know ,” she said. “I just hate this part. Fuck. All right. Better you hear it from me than from Linder. Or God, from Kevin. I just need you to be cool. Can you be cool, Harmony?”
“Test me,” I said.
“All right.” She took another swig of ale, then folded her hands. “Temple is my mother’s maiden name. I was born Jessie Sinclair.”
It didn’t mean anything to me. I gave her a helpless shrug. I peeled the paper on my straw, giving my hands something to do.
“My father was Russell Lee Sinclair.”
I almost dropped the straw.
“Russell Lee Sinclair,” I echoed. “As in, Russell Lee Sinclair, the Dixie Butcher?”
She stared into her mug. “Yeah. That one. He didn’t escape capture for as long as he did just because we moved around so much. I mean, that helped, but no. Dad’s official designation, in Linder’s records, is Hostile Entity 2. He’s one of the reasons Vigilant Lock was created in the first place.”
“So what was he?” I said. “Some kind of sorcerer?”
“Some kind, yeah. He was in contact with . . . something outside this world. That’s H. E. 3, for the record, but he called it the King of Wolves. The killings were sacrifices. Part of his payment to ‘ascend to a higher state of being.’”
“Part of the payment?”
“There were other rituals,” Jessie said, her voice fading. “He had to . . . do things. And on my eleventh birthday, he told me he had a very special present. It was time for me to learn the family trade. So I had to do things, too.”
“Jesus,” I breathed. “I’m sorry, I had no idea.”
She shrugged. “No reason you would. I was fifteen the year the feds gunned my dad down. Linder covered up as much of the story as he could, and April took custody of me.”
“‘Aunt’ April,” I said. I thought back to what I knew about the Sinclair story—the sanitized-for-the-public version, anyway—and blinked as the last piece clicked into place. “From what I heard, an agent was seriously injured when they tried to arrest him.”
“That’s right.”
I regrettably left the Bureau quite some time ago, April said when we were introduced. Taking an ax to the lower vertebrae tends to limit your prospects for career advancement.
“It was her. Dr. Cassidy.”
Jessie sipped her ale and sighed. “It wasn’t maternal instinct that made April take me in. She wanted to make sure I didn’t turn out as fucked up as my dad was. Joke’s on her. I’m just neurotic. Could have been worse. Linder wanted me taken out on general principle. She convinced him I’d make a better tool than a target.”
“Taken out?” I blinked. “You were fifteen years old.”
She didn’t answer right away. The waitress swung by, bringing plates laden with food. The rich scent of homemade barbecue sauce, spicy and honey sweet, made my mouth water.
“Spent four years ‘learning’ from my dad,” she said, looking down as she spread a paper napkin across her lap. “Hunting. Fishing. Tracking. The best ways to shut up a naked, screaming, bloody victim while you’re smuggling her across state lines in your trunk. Just your basic backwoods Serial Killer 101 stuff.”
She looked up at me. “They called it Stockholm syndrome. That, and being too young to know right from wrong, being dominated by a parental authority figure, et cetera. Fortunately, I can report that years of therapy have done wonders, and now I have a serious problem with all authority figures.”
I felt like I’d airdropped into the middle of a minefield. Reading Jessie was like trying to catch a bead of mercury. She slid from withdrawn and taciturn to smiling and gregarious in the blink of an eye, and it felt like she was daring me to push
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