by CJ Lyons
And yet, knowing that the fatal insomnia might have been manmade had awakened a small spark of hope, one I could not ignore.
Tiny, fragile hope. Was it enough to risk Ryder’s future on?
Chapter Forty-Three
Inside the women’s room, I called Ryder. “Just wanted to let you know that it might be a while before I make it over to Jimmy’s Place,” I told him. “I’m going to sit with Jacob.”
“Is he doing any better?” His voice was filled with honest concern.
“I’m not sure. They were doing a procedure, so I haven’t had a chance to check on him.”
“You know, and I don’t mean this in a bad way, but a dying ex-husband trumps a family dinner.”
“Sweet of you to try to give me an excuse to avoid my family, but they love Jacob as much as I do. Tonight will be about him, honoring him. But you don’t have to go—” I held my breath. Wasn’t sure I could make it through the night without him.
“Of course I’ll be there. He’s my friend as well.” He paused, and I sensed a shift in his mood from grim to playful. “Besides, that way you’ll owe me.”
“Owe you?” I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of that. “Owe you what?”
“We do Christmas Eve with your family, then Christmas Day with mine. Well, not the whole day,” he hastened to add, no doubt sensing my hesitation. “Just dinner.”
“Meet your parents?” It was something I’d avoided these past three weeks.
“And my sister and brother, assorted nieces and nephews, my grandfather, and a great-uncle.”
“Do they know who I am? That I’m the reason you got shot last month?”
“That you’re the doctor who saved my life last month. Dinner’s at four, so you’ve plenty of time to chicken out.”
Except how could I? He’d done so much for me, tolerated my crazy family.
“I’ll sweeten the deal.” His voice dropped, becoming languid and sexy. “Know what we’ll be doing after dinner and two servings of my mom’s world-famous chocolate bourbon pecan pie?”
“Sit on the couch in a pre-diabetic stupor, watching football?”
“Oh no. I have plans for you, young lady. Testing your knowledge of the male anatomy.”
That sounded promising. “Really? Want to be more specific? Is this an oral exam or practical?”
“Both. I’m going to—” His phone beeped, cutting him off. “Damn. I have to take this. I’ll see you at your uncle’s. Remember, you stick with Price.”
“Promise.” And he was gone. Despite the trauma of the past week, I felt better than I had in ages. Other people might not understand the need to joke and banter in the midst of death and destruction, but I’d needed the light Ryder cast into the darkness surrounding me.
I washed my face, the cold water sparking against my flushed skin. That man…just the sound of his voice, much less the promise of being in his arms. Despite everything, I couldn’t help my smile when I caught my reflection in the mirror. Grinning like a silly schoolgirl who’d fallen in crush. In lust, was more like it.
Maybe even … in love?
Could I dare fall in love? Now?
Ryder had already seen me at my worst. And it hadn’t stopped him. I circled my fingers around his pendant, caressing the amber. It was so very old and fragile, and yet still so full of life.
Maybe how many days you had left to be in love with someone wasn’t as important as what you did with the time? To love so powerfully that a death sentence became meaningless. Could Ryder and I have that?
At least I’d die trying. A hopeful sigh born more of nerves and fear than joy escaped me. Focus. There were kids dying out there, kids I could maybe help. And Jacob. I had to pull myself together before seeing him.
I straightened as the door opened. A flash of black at the mirror’s edge grabbed my eye. Before I could react, the man was on me, shoving me hard against the sink, pinning my face against the mirror as he leaned his weight against me.
His gloved hand circled my neck, squeezing so hard he cut off blood flow to my brain, enough so that red spots flared in my vision. His breath was hot against my ear as he whispered, “Jacob has a message for you. If you want the cure, call us after you talk with him.”
Jacob was awake? There was a cure? Joy collided with my fear, a clash of emotions careening through my brain.
The man in black tossed a cell phone onto the counter, the sound a clatter of thunder as I strained to breathe, to stay conscious. Whoever he was, one of the Brotherhood, Littleton’s mysterious partners, he knew his anatomy. Could a doctor be involved in their twisted games? The thought sickened me. I kicked back, my foot hitting nothing but air. He didn’t react other than to squeeze harder until the world became a haze of gray.
He released me. I collapsed forward onto the sink, hitting my chin on the porcelain bowl as I slumped to the floor.
By the time my vision cleared, the door had swung shut behind him.
A moment later, Devon came rushing in. “Are you all right? When I came out of the ICU, I saw a man leaving—”
“He was one of the men who attacked Jacob.” My voice was hoarse, but my mind was clearing. Devon helped me to my feet. “He gave me this phone to call him. Think you can use it to find him?”
The phone was a prepaid cell, but in addition to his street contacts, Devon had access to technology beyond the law. He grabbed the phone. “I’m on it.”
We made it to the door, and he held it open for me. I stumbled to the wall beside the elevator, leaning my weight against it, still feeling shaky. “I have to check on Jacob.”
“I’ll take care of these bastards. I promise you won’t ever have to worry about the Brotherhood again.” The glare in his eyes was more dangerous than the man who’d attacked me.
“Call Ryder,” I told him. “He can help.”
Devon didn’t answer as he turned and ran to the stairs, leaving me at the ICU doors. I rushed inside, anxious to see Jacob awake, to learn what he had to tell me that was so vital that the Brotherhood had gone to such great lengths to learn it. Had Littleton told Jacob something covered by attorney-client privilege?
Why beat him almost to death, poison him with PXA, and now two days later, tell me to play messenger? It made no sense.
The ICU was made up of several treatment areas. One pod had six special isolation rooms designed for patients at risk for infection. The main area was an open space ringed with beds for post-op patients who needed overnight monitoring but not long-term care, and in the back was a row of cubicles with walls on three sides and a privacy curtain in front. These were for the long-term patients and ones needing an advanced level of care.
Heaven’s waiting room, I’d heard a medical resident call it once. The lights were always dim, the sounds hushed, even during a code. This was where I found Jacob.
The curtain around his cubicle was open, a hemofiltration unit parked at the foot of the bed. He was still on the ventilator, couldn’t breathe on his own, much less talk. But the man had said…
I stopped, my pulse beating so hard in my throat I couldn’t swallow. He said Jacob had a message for me. That I needed to talk to him if I wanted the cure.
I glanced over my shoulder, certain the man was there, watching me. No one except a nurse, busy charting, and Tommaso, Louise’s neurology fellow, both unlucky enough to pull the Christmas Eve shift. Neither seemed to notice I was there.
My vision wavered as I realized how wrong I’d been. This wasn’t about Jacob. It never had been. This was about me. Me and my damned fatal insomnia.
How could the man in black have known? My body trembled as I stepped closer to Jacob. No. It was impossible. There was no way the Brotherhood could have any idea about my ability to talk with people in comas.
Except…The PXA they’d injected Jacob with, sealing his fate, that couldn’t have been intended solely to test me, could it?
Maybe he’d meant some other kind of message? I scoured the area around Jacob’s bedside, looking for anything t
he man could have left. Nothing. Except Jacob.
He appeared shrunken—so strange for a man who always seemed larger than life. Skin pale, hair plastered to his scalp, making his face seem cadaveric. As if he’d already left this world far behind.
I sank down into the chair beside his bed, taking care not to touch him. His brain waves danced across the monitor above him, neon glows translating every nuance of consciousness. Or lack thereof. Jacob’s brain-wave pattern was filled with theta spindle bursts—a pattern exhibited by patients near death or exposed to PXA. The kind of brain waves my Swiss-cheese, prion-riddled brain could communicate with.
The Brotherhood had put him into this specific kind of coma on purpose. The beating was just to get my attention. It was the PXA they’d used as their coup de grace that was the real reason behind Jacob’s attack.
They wanted me to contact him inside his coma. I extended my hand toward his but pulled it back. No. I couldn’t.
Worse than trespassing, it was an invasion. Every memory, every hope and dream, every sin, every guilty thought exposed. Every secret. I couldn’t do that to Jacob. He deserved more from me, so much more. It would break us both.
The man in black’s words hammered at me. If you want the cure, he’d said.
If the Brotherhood had done this to Jacob, were they now offering a chance to save him? Turning Jacob into their proxy, a performance piece in one of their sick fantasies? I didn’t understand what that would accomplish. Except, if they knew of my abilities, maybe it was me they were after. Maybe I could barter my life in exchange for the cure for Jacob.
A lot of maybes.
Could I risk it?
How could I not? I placed my hand over Jacob’s and let myself fall into his black dream.
Chapter Forty-Four
The Children, Youth, and Family Services offices were deserted by the time Ryder arrived. No wonder, it was almost five o’clock on Christmas Eve. But Nancy Worth, the social worker who had handled Eugene Littleton’s case years ago, had said it was the only time she could meet. That gave him just enough time to shower and change.
“Nancy Worth?” he asked the gray-haired woman he found in a cubicle, typing furiously on a laptop, the keystrokes rattling through the otherwise quiet office. She was spindly thin, all angles, no curves. Except for the smile lines bracketing her lips. She waved a hand at him as she finished typing, then looked up. He saw how she’d earned those wrinkles; her smile was deep and engaging.
“If we can put men on the moon and supercomputers into the palm of our hands, why can’t we find a way to eliminate paperwork?”
He smiled back at her. “Wish I had an answer to that. I’m Matthew Ryder. We spoke on the phone.”
“Yes, Detective Ryder. It’s so nice to meet you.” She closed her laptop with one hand and gestured him into the chair beside her with the other. “You wanted to know about Eugene Littleton.”
“As I told you, we haven’t been able to unseal his juvenile records yet, but I was hoping for deep background. Personal insights. Nothing that would violate any confidentiality imposed by the courts.”
She considered that, then gave him a nod that reminded him of his third-grade teacher. “I think we can have a conversation within those parameters. Most of the story is public record anyway.”
He settled in, prepared to listen. “What can you tell me?”
“Such a tragic family. Parents both in and out of either prison or rehab, yet somehow they managed to have three children born within three years. Because of Mom’s history, we were involved almost immediately.”
“You were the initial caseworker?”
“Yes. Met them in the hospital. Both parents doted on their children, seemed to truly want to do right by them, but as often happens, good intentions simply aren’t enough. I removed the children for neglect several times, only to have the court return them to the home. Until Edward died.”
The little brother. “He was only seven, right?”
Her sigh bore the weight of the world. “Yes. Home alone with the others. Parents had been gone for days on a meth binge, leaving the children to fend for themselves.”
Ryder perked up. This was a different twist than he’d read in the case summary. “I thought the fire was begun by the father cooking meth?”
“No. Although there was plenty of evidence that he had been cooking meth in the home, and certainly all the volatile chemicals turned what may have started as a small fire into a deadly blaze.”
“Then what did start the fire?”
“No one could ever prove it for certain. The consensus was that one of the children turned on the gas stove in an attempt to heat the trailer.”
“You sound like you don’t buy that theory.”
She pursed her lips, the lines around her mouth digging deep. “This is solely my opinion, but it’s one based on decades of experience. I think one of the twins started the fire. On purpose.”
“Wait. Twins? Littleton has a twin brother?” That would explain so much. Brotherhood—true brothers in every sense of the word.
“No. A sister.”
Ryder blinked. “That’s not in the case notes I saw.”
“She was a pretty little thing, blond curls, the brightest blue eyes you ever saw. Was adopted as soon as the courts allowed, her records sealed. The adoptive parents didn’t want to risk her natural parents tracking her down. But poor Eugene, he was a sullen, moody child. Poor social graces. There’s just not much call for eleven-year-old boys suspected of arson when it comes to adoption. He stayed in the system until he was emancipated at eighteen.”
“You suspect Eugene started the fire?” He could see that. Fire-starting was classic psychopath behavior. Although, Littleton seemed more anxious than psychopaths he’d dealt with before. Narcissistic would have been his bet—a follower, dependent on others to shape his identity, not a leader.
Mrs. Worth shook her head. “Not Eugene. Although he never said a word in his defense. I’m ninety percent certain it was his sister. She’s a cold-hearted psychopath—lies tripped off her tongue with the prettiest, most innocent smile you could imagine. And Eugene, he would do anything she asked, totally devoted to her. Unlike Eddie. Poor baby, he had a stubborn streak, was always fighting with his sister and always paying the price.”
“You think she started the fire to kill Eddie? What could a seven-year-old boy do to deserve that?”
“Once she tried to cut his eye out with a paring knife because he’d dropped one of her dolls in the mud. That girl…” Her voice trailed off, lost in the past. “I wonder what became of her.”
“I don’t suppose you remember the adoptive family’s name?” he asked, keeping his tone nonchalant. It was a violation of confidentiality, but not like he was going to rat her out.
She stared at him appraisingly. “You think she’s back in Eugene’s life? Behind these crimes he’s been accused of?”
“He spoke of having a partner. A boss. And until now his record has been fairly clean. Not sure what else could have escalated things so violently.”
“They came from a suburb outside Philadelphia. Kravitz. That was the family name.”
He sat up, startled. “The sister, her name was Gena?” Of course it was. Eugene and Gena…twins.
“That’s right. Gena, with an e.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Worth. I can’t tell you how helpful you’ve been.” He popped onto his feet, energized now that he had a direction. Who would have guessed the new, flamboyant rising star of Cambria City’s roster of defense attorneys was a murderous psychopath?
He stopped one cubicle row away and turned back. “Can I ask? What happened to the adoptive parents? Are they still around?”
She glanced up from her computer and gave him a sad smile. “I’m afraid not. Both killed. In a fire.”
Okay. He had his man—make that, woman. Sister to their main suspect. Involved with Manny Cruz. Attorney of record for their other main victim: Sylvie Wysycki.
As h
e headed out the door, he wondered what poor Sylvie had done to piss off Gena enough to warrant the torture and killing of all those people at the NA meeting.
He pulled up short. Sylvie had never named her abuser when she’d been seen at the Advocacy Center for domestic violence. Rossi had said it was an attorney, though. Could her romantic partner have been Gena Kravitz? Was that why Sylvie had been targeted? Because she’d dared reject Kravitz? Just like Tymara had rejected Littleton seven months ago.
It made sense, the level of violence, even the lack of any male DNA from Tymara’s sexual assault except for Littleton’s. Not multiple rapists; one man who had raped Tymara multiple times. And the other injuries—Tymara’s beating, the assaults with foreign objects, the stab wounds—those could have been either Littleton or Kravitz.
He’d thought these crimes too intimate to be perpetrated by some anonymous “Brotherhood.” He just hadn’t realized how personal they truly were.
Twin brother and sister killing together. Killing for each other. What could be more personal than that?
Chapter Forty-Five
Devon sprinted down the stairs, hoping to catch his quarry before the man exited the hospital. He got to the ground floor just in time to see the door swing shut. More footsteps sounded from the steps below leading to the parking garage. Taking a chance, he kept going down. At the very least, he might get a license plate, which would be easier for Flynn to track than a number programmed into a prepaid cell phone.
Luck wasn’t with him. He chased the footsteps down to the garage, plowing through the steel door and almost toppling over a middle-aged man who was about a hundred pounds overweight. Definitely not the slim, athletic build of the man he’d glimpsed exiting the women’s room.
By the time he retraced his steps to the ground floor and main lobby, there was no sign of the man in black. Eugene Littleton’s partner was more elusive than Eugene had been. No surprise, Eugene obviously wasn’t the brains of the operation. He pulled his phone out, debating returning to Angela. Eugene’s partner could be targeting her for revenge, blaming her for Eugene’s death.
