The Killer's Son

The Killer’s Son A Darcy Hunt FBI Mystery Suspense Thriller | Book 5 EVA SPARKS Copyright © 2023 by Eva Sparks All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Contents Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Prologue August 1993 In twenty-eight minutes, the young boy’s life would change forever. For now, he sat on the floor in his second-story bedroom clutching a plastic orange and gray gun and pointing it at the TV, aiming with one eye closed. The black cord connecting it to the console jerked in time with his index finger as new ducks flew onto the screen. He had been playing Super Mario Brothers for the last two hours but couldn’t find a way to beat Bowser on level eight. So after growing impatient, he inserted the Duck Hunt cartridge and quickly advanced through the levels. His birthday was coming up next month. He was hoping against hope that he was getting a Super Nintendo. He’d been asking for it all year only to have his father reply with a stock answer: “What’s wrong with the one you have?” His mother seemed a little more sympathetic about it, but he wasn’t sure she would be able to convince his father to actually get it. Still, a kid could hope, right? Video games hadn’t been a thing when his father was growing up, so he was unable to see how his son couldn’t find all the excitement he needed by exploring the woods, riding his bike, or tossing a fishing line into the water. In fact, he had nearly insisted that the Nintendo be left behind at home when they were packing for their trip here to the vacation rental. But his mother had mercifully intervened on that, too. Behind him, outside his open window, the sun was setting across the secluded lake. Pines, ashes, and maples stood high over the house and around the water. A gentle breeze rustled their leaves and whispered through their needles. He pulled the trigger and watched another duck spin toward the bottom of the screen. The hunting dog popped up from behind the grass with a smile on his face and the duck in his paw. The level ended with a track of tinny music and totaled his score. From somewhere far off, his name was being called. Was it from downstairs? It carried a ring of impatience. That was when he vaguely remembered being called a few minutes ago. Dropping the gun on the carpet, he abandoned his game, jumped to his feet, and hurried down the stairs. His father was waiting at the back door. “What took so long?” he asked, and without waiting for an answer, mumbled, “I swear, that stupid gaming system. You couldn’t hear God himself if he called you when that thing is on.” “What are we doing?” the boy asked as he stepped outside. His mother was at the top of the steps that led down through the backyard and terminated at the dock. She gave him a warm smile. “Going out on the lake,” his father replied. The boy froze mid-stride on the back deck. “I don’t want to.” Reaching behind his head, he grazed his fingers over a fleshy lump beneath his hair. His father frowned and set his hands on his hips. “We’re just going to cruise. Nice and easy. Nothing fast. No water skiing. It’s beautiful out there. I want us to enjoy the sun setting before the mosquitoes come out in force.” Wrapping his arms around his chest, the boy hugged himself protectively. He looked down at his feet and shook his head. His mother turned toward his father and spoke to him in a low, firm voice. “Just let him stay here, Darren. Yesterday was incredibly traumatic for him.” Cursing under his breath, his father replied, “Which is why he needs to get back in the boat. He needs to learn that there is nothing to be scared of.” “Oh, come on,” she bit back through gritted teeth. “There is something to be scared of. He nearly drowned yesterday. It’s not like he’ll never get back in a boat again. He’s seven years old. Stop pushing him so hard. Give him a few days to build his nerve back.” The day before, his father had taken him out on the lake and taught him how to water ski. It took almost a dozen attempts before he was able to get up on the water and hover there for a few seconds. The hardest part was keeping his body rigid at the same time he made sure that the tips of the skis stayed above the water. But he finally managed it. Skimming across the top of the water was more thrilling than he could have imagined. The wind in his face, the bump and jostle of the skis beneath him, the rush of adrenaline that coursed through his body as he held onto the rope for dear life and slid across the water at the rate of a slow-moving car. It was sensational; better than any ride he’d yet ridden at their amusement park back home. But then he drifted onto the wake and it jostled his skis like a small wave. He was completely unprepared for it. One second he was feeling like the