Like slitting a man’s throat.
“Suffering is everywhere, Drake. And only once you come to terms with that fact, will you be liberated.”
Liberated…
The word struck a chord with Drake for more reasons than one.
“Let's end this,” Dane said as he started toward the jungle again. “Let's end this suffering once and for all.”
Chapter 47
Dr. Karen Nordmeyer gawked.
“This is a joke, right?”
Beckett mimicked her walleye expression.
“An owl? Are you drunk?”
“Not at present, no. Although, to be honest, I would much rather be drunk than sitting here talking to you.”
Dr. Nordmeyer blinked rapidly and ignored his comment.
“You're going to go ahead and write a new report about Mr. Armatridge’s death, contravening what I wrote, what you told me to write? You’re going to state that Mr. Armatridge wasn't pushed by his wife and brained on the stairs—which is what you told me initially—but that an owl flew in from outside, clawed his fucking head, and then flew off again without anybody seeing it?”
Beckett rocked his head from side to side.
“Yep. That's what I'm going to write.”
Dr. Nordmeyer threw her head back in frustration.
“That's bullshit—this is bullshit.”
“Nope, it's the truth. Look, I get it, you alpha female types don’t like getting things wrong. But—”
She glared at him.
“Me? Me? You told me—”
“Potayto, Potato. Hakuna Matata. There’s blood spatter on the back of the man’s wheelchair. There is no way that blood could have gotten there if he was pushed forward. And I found a piece of an owl feather embedded in his scalp. Moreover, my dear Watson, the wounds are consistent with owl claw marks. And, sorry to say, but this isn’t the first time that an owl has attacked somebody with the same claw pattern. What I say, is that we should put an APB out for Hedwig, ASAP, what do you think?”
Nordmeyer thought about killing him at that moment, or so Beckett surmised.
“This isn’t going to look good, Dr. Campbell.”
Beckett stared at her.
“Look at me,” he instructed, indicating his dyed hair and the tattoos running up his arms. “Does it look like I give a shit what anything looks like? No, and you shouldn’t either. What you should give a shit about, is making sure you do your job properly.”
“But you told me, you said—”
“And Michael Jackson's doctor told him to take those pills. He still ended up dead, didn’t he?”
“What?”
Beckett was starting to get frustrated now. He had more important things to expend his mental energy on, like planning a trip with Suzan.
Or adding a new tattoo to his collection, perhaps.
“I don't give a fuck who told you what happened. Me, the Pope, Steven Tyler; I don’t care. It's what actually happened that matters. And Armand Armadillo or whatever the hell his name is was killed by an owl, not his wife. It was an accident. You want to report me to the review board? If you really think I’m wrong here, do it. I give zero fucks about that. I mean, I already know those assholes by name, anyway. So, go on, do it. Or you can put on your big boy pants, go out and drown your sorrows with a Crantini, do some goat yoga, whatever, and get over it.”
Dr. Nordmeyer’s mouth fell open.
“This is the report that I'm submitting,” he said with what he hoped sounded like finality. To emphasize his point, Beckett spun around and started from the room, intent on making a copy to give to Screech before he submitted it to Sgt. Yasiv and his team.
And then he would tell Screech that this was it, that this was the last time he was going to do the kid any favors.
In his mind, Beckett was already planning this conversation, thinking that no matter what Dr. Nordmeyer said, he would ignore her.
But then she said the one thing that could give him pause.
“That's how it's going to be, then? How would you like it if someone started digging into your old cases, Beckett? Digging up all your dirty laundry?”
His footsteps faltered, but only briefly.
“Yeah,” he said in a much softer tone as he pulled the door wide and stepped into the hallway. “You do that. You see where that gets you.”
Chapter 48
Hanna hurried after Steffani Loomis, tucking her chin to her chest as she moved.
“Screech? You ready for this?” she whispered.
“What? Ready for what? Just observe, Hanna.”
Yeah, right.
Hanna picked up the pace. Steffani was now just a dozen strides from her, and she was closing the distance fast.
“There's no way that I got dressed up and not have any fun.”
She heard a grunt.
“Leroy, look after her.”
Hanna rolled her eyes.
Amateurs.
“Still me, douchebag.”
Screech swore.
“Don't do it, Hanna. Please.”
She heard a click, and then radio silence.
Well, listening to men never got me anywhere, so why would I start now?
“Steffani,” she called. The woman in front of her slowed but didn't turn. “Steffani!”
This time, the woman stopped and spun on her heels. She was indeed attractive, with a strong jaw, straight nose, and eyes that seemed to sparkle even in the dim hallway.
“Yes?” she said. “Can I help you?”
“You don't… you don't remember me, do you?” Hanna said, feigning being hurt.
Steffani shook her head.
“I'm afraid not. I meet a lot of people in my line of work, and I was never good at names.” Yet despite her words, Steffani took a step forward and Hanna noticed that the woman's right arm twitched, as if she was preparing to shake hands.
Most people would have seen this as nothing more than an involuntary movement, but Hanna wasn’t like most people. She saw it as an invitation.
“Well, I'm not really from this line of work,” Hanna said casually, raising her hands and gesturing to the ornate hallway in which they stood. “We went to high school remote together.”
Screech, you better be listening…
Steffani's brow furrowed and she inspected Hanna more closely.
“Greta Armatridge… We were at—” The mic in her ear clicked on suddenly, giving Hanna the answer that she needed. —”Pinedale Heights. Don't you remember?”
Another micro expression, this one confirming that Steffani had indeed attended Pinedale Heights. Hanna decided to grab onto this thread and pull, even if it meant unraveling the entire sweater.
“We were in science class together—Mrs. Trottier's class.” This was pure bullshit, but Hanna knew that if she showed confidence, then the other party was likely to accept her claim. “No, no that’s not right. I was in Mrs. Trottier's class, you were in the other science class.”
Steffani nodded, but to Hanna’s surprise, she held back from completely accepting this narrative.
She’s careful, guarded. I would be too if I was in charge of a heroin smuggling ring.
“What did you say your name was again?”
Hanna made sure her smile never slipped.
“Greta Armatridge,” she replied.
“Huh. Well, it was nice to see you again,” Steffani said, hooking a thumb over her shoulder as she spoke. “But I need to get moving, I've got something to do for the auction. Please, make yourself at home. If you need anything, be sure to ask the waitstaff. They’ll get you anything you need.”
With a curt nod, Steffani receded down the hallway.
Hanna watched her go. When she was out of sight, the smile slid off her face.
“You get all that, Screech?” she whispered. “Cool as a cucumber, that one.”
“Get the fuck out of there, Hanna. Get out of there before someone makes you. This was supposed to be an observational mission, you were
n’t supposed to interact with the mark.”
Hanna once again rolled her eyes, this time at the use of the terms mission and mark.
Both Screech and Leroy were making this out to be more exciting than it really was. It was as if they were trying to turn it into a Mission Impossible movie. Now only if Mackenzie was about six inches shorter and had a beak on him like a toucan, they'd be pretty close.
“Relax, act like you've done this before,” Hanna shot back as she turned and started to follow after Steffani. “Besides,” she continued, finding an open door to what looked like a study, “the woman said to make myself at home, didn't she?”
Before waiting for Screech to answer, Hanna pushed the door wide and slipped inside.
Chapter 49
Drake wanted to run. He wanted to leave his brother and this nightmare somewhere deep in the Colombian jungle and never return.
His brother had murdered a man who had turned Drake in so that he could protect his own family.
The worst part? The worst part was that Dane had done all of this without even skipping a beat.
But Drake had logistical and psychological barriers. He didn’t know how to get out the jungle, and he knew that if he left without confronting Ken Smith, the nightmare would never end.
In the end, he fell into line behind his brother, half-heartedly chopping at the vegetation to clear their path. They walked for hours, the sun reaching its apex before languidly beginning its descent. To Drake, it felt as if they were walking in a giant circle or not even moving at all; everything just looked the same. At one point, he even came across strange markings on a crooking sapling that he could've sworn he made himself with his cutlass hours ago.
They moved mostly in silence. Every once in a while, Dane grunted and pointed at something in the distance or a particularly nasty thorned bush to avoid, but Drake barely heard him.
It dawned on him that he was at the complete and utter mercy of his brother.
And this feeling of helplessness was frightening.
With this in mind, Drake wiped sweat from his eyes and looked up. His brother had paused about five paces ahead of him, raising his cutlass high in the air. As he did, Drake saw blood on the blade, even though that was impossible given that they'd been hacking through the jungle for hours now. And yet he saw it, he saw it as clearly as he saw Diego's Adam’s apple jutting out of his throat seconds before it was sliced by this very blade.
A shudder ran through him, and he tried to distract himself by sipping on his canteen of water.
He finished the last drop.
“I'm dry,” he croaked.
Dane turned around, glanced at his canteen and then slipped his own from his shoulder. He tossed it to Drake.
“One more day,” he said.
Drake stopped mid-sip.
“Another day?”
Dane looked at him with a neutral expression and then nodded.
“We need to set up camp before dark. We won’t be able to sleep in the open like last night; too deep in the jungle now.”
Drake felt a headache coming on, which in turn reminded him of the pain in his side, of his damaged liver.
“What the fuck, Dane. What's out here? Jungle cats? Bears?”
When the same dull expression remained in the man’s eyes, Drake began to question whether or not this was indeed his brother. How can this be the same person who came with Screech to save me from Ray Reynolds? How can this be the same person that I used to ride bikes with, play cards, run through the sprinkler?
The man was empty.
But are we really that different? Drake wondered suddenly. He wasn’t empty, that was certain; he was full of rage and resentment toward Ken Smith.
All the other things in his life, however, had been pushed to the wayside. Ignored, abused, neglected. Shit, he had a son that he hadn't seen but for five minutes. He’d also nearly sent a young boy to his death just so that he can infiltrate a gang of street thugs. He’d coerced a woman into helping him break out of a psychiatric facility, letting a known serial killer loose in the process. He’d failed Chase when she was struggling with her addiction and needed him most.
And then there was Clay.
Clay, his best friend, the person who, for many years, meant the most to him in the entire world. He’d let him down, too. Got him killed by not protecting his back.
For what?
For the Skeleton King? A fable? A crutch upon which to place all his problems?
Are we really all that different, Dane? When it boils down to it?
Sure, Drake wasn’t empty. But what would happen after his showdown with Ken Smith, should it take place here on this foreign soil, in this jungle?
“No, I'm not scared of the animals,” Dane said, turning his eyes forward once more.
Drake didn't need to ask what frightened his brother, and not just because he knew Dane would eventually finish his sentence.
No, he already knew what his brother was afraid of because it was what he feared most as well.
“I'm afraid of people,” Dane said, his tone softening for the first time in hours. “I’m afraid of what people can do.”
So am I, Drake thought. So am I.
Chapter 50
Beckett squinted up at the address that Screech had given him over the phone.
What the hell?
Not only were they no longer working out of a condemned building, but it wasn’t even Triple D Investigations anymore. No, it was some acronym—DSHL—that he’d never seen before. Folder in hand, he had to knock on the door three times before a tired-looking Screech opened it. He had some sort of Bluetooth device jammed in his ear and he was practically scowling.
“Beckett,” he said with a nod.
Beckett said hello and then for Screech to step aside and allow him to enter. The man surprised him by doing neither.
Okay, it’s going to be like that, then.
He glanced over Screech’s shoulder, trying to get a glimpse of Drake in the background, but so far as he could see, the new digs, as impressive as they were, were empty.
Just as well, he thought. Things had been strained between him and Drake, and with what was going on in his personal life, Beckett wasn't sure that having Drake as an acquaintance let alone friend was in either of their best interests.
Beckett held the folder out to Screech, but someone must've said something in his ear, because he suddenly looked off to one side, the corners of his lips pulling down even further.
“Observe only,” he hissed, grabbing the folder. He tried to pull it away, but Beckett held fast.
“This is the last favor I'm doing for you, Screech,” Beckett said, offering his own severe and unwavering expression.
Screech nodded and yet Beckett still didn’t relinquish his grip on the folder.
“One more thing,” he continued.
“Yeah? What?” Screech asked. Something crossed his eyes, not just distrust and unease, but something more primal.
Fear.
That's good, Beckett thought. He should fear me.
He shook his head; that was just the headache talking. He wouldn’t do anything to Screech, unless…
“I wasn’t the only one looking into this case.”
“Really? Who else was looking into it?”
Beckett shrugged. He'd seen a red flag on Dr. Nordmeyer’s report, meaning that it had been accessed recently. His first thought was that it was just Sgt. Yasiv, or the DA, or even Dr. Nordmeyer herself, but when he’d investigated further, he saw that this wasn’t the case.
“Some law office, Smith, Smith, and Johnson or something. Don’t know if it means anything, I just thought I’d give you a heads up.”
He let go the folder and Screech took it. He was so preoccupied that Beckett wasn’t sure the man had heard him. Without even a thank you, Screech closed the door.
“You’re welcome,” Beckett grumbled as he made his way back to the car.
As he took up residence behind the whee
l, a sudden sadness and loneliness overcame him. He'd been friends with Drake for nearly a decade and at times like these, he missed the man. He missed Drake's serious demeanor, but he also missed sharing drinks with him and shooting the shit.
He liked doing that with Dr. Ron Stransky as well, but he'd ended that friendship, too. And there was no going back on that one.
He wondered briefly if there would be a time when he and Drake could reconnect, share a beer once again as they’d done in the old days.
Something in the back of Beckett’s mind, something mixing with his headache, told him that that was unlikely. The path that his life had taken him on after a chance meeting with Craig Sloan was a divergent path; a lonely, desperate path.
Beckett’s fingers started to tingle, making it difficult to pull out his cell phone and dial a number. He managed and after two rings, a female voice answered.
“Suzan? It's Beckett. I think we should go on that vacation now. But I'm thinking about going somewhere warm.”
Somewhere warm, but also a place where I can add to my tattoos.
Chapter 51
“Just observe,” Screech reiterated in Hanna’s ear.
Hanna, as she’d done with the last dozen requests, ignored him. This was her gig, she set the rules.
She found herself in an office complete with a large desk in the middle of the room. There was no computer on the desk, but there was a folder. However, any thoughts of a slam dunk—photos of Steffani standing on a street corner, heroin brick in hand, perhaps—were dashed when she saw that it was only images of a building adorned with the name Hart Investigator. Still, she made sure that all of this was picked up by the camera around her neck.
Hanna tried the drawers next, but they were all locked. She debated trying to pick them, but with the noise picking up outside the room, she decided not to press her luck. Instead, she turned around and stepped toward the bookshelf.
Encyclopedias? You gotta be kidding me…
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