Detective Damien Drake series Box Set 2

by Patrick Logan

  “I can see that,” the doctor replied, still smiling. He held out a clipboard with some letters and numbers on it that Drake couldn’t make sense of. The doctor shrugged. “You’ve got dangerously elevated liver enzymes, as well as other markers for fatty liver syndrome.”

  Drake didn’t hear a question, so he refrained from answering.

  “The good news is that your doctor friend there, Dr. Campbell, managed to get some hooch in you before you died from methanol poisoning. Normally, this would take hours, but it looks like you also consumed a high dose of Temazepam—sleeping pills.”

  Beckett suddenly appeared beside the doctor.

  “Forced,” Beckett corrected, sternly staring at the man with the clipboard. “Dr. Ramsey, he was forced to consume both the methanol and the sleeping pills.”

  Dr. Ramsey looked at Beckett with wide eyes behind his spectacles. Then he scribbled something down on the clipboard. Beckett tried to look over the man’s shoulder, but he brought the paper to his chest like a student trying to avoid someone copying their answers.

  Drake watched this with morbid fascination.

  He wasn’t sure if Beckett knew what really happened back at the farm and was just trying to save Drake’s ass, or if he was just making assumptions. Either way, given the fact that he was still handcuffed to the gurney, Drake decided that it would be in his best interest to go along with his friend.

  “Ray… Ray Reynolds forced me to drink it.”

  Dr. Ramsey’s eyes turned to Drake. He had extremely thin eyebrows, which Drake found irritating, more so when they slowly inched up his forehead.

  Drake wasn’t sure what to say next, so again, he bit his tongue.

  The doctor scribbled something on his paper again.

  “Well, the good news is, I think you’re going to make a full recovery. The bad news is that you’re going to have to start making some lifestyle changes.”

  Drake frowned.

  Why is it that doctors all use the same refrain—except for Beckett, of course, who punctuates his speech with f-bombs. Lifestyle changes…? What’s with the euphemisms? Just tell me what you want me to do.

  “I’ll cut down on the alcohol,” Drake offered pro-actively. He just wanted Dr. Ramsey gone now so that he could be alone with Beckett.

  To find out what really happened back at the Reynolds’s farm.

  “And you’re going to have to start exercising. You might only be 37 years old, but your body is that of a man twice your age,” the doctor chuckled to himself. “Okay, maybe not twice your age, but at least fifty years old.”

  Drake couldn’t argue with that—if anything, he felt compelled to correct the doctor’s math.

  He felt trapped in the body of a 100-year-old punch-drunk boxer.

  “Sure, whatever.” Drake raised his handcuffed arm. “Not going to run very far with these things on, though. When are you going to take the shackles off, doc?”

  For the first time since entering the room, Dr. Ramsey’s face sagged.

  “I’m afraid that that’s not part of my purview. You’re gonna have to talk to the police about that.”

  Beckett clapped the man on the back, and he stumbled forward, nearly dropping the clipboard in the process.

  “I think I’ll take it from here. Maybe you should grab yourself a coffee.”

  Dr. Ramsey looked confused, but with further insistence, he eventually left the two of them alone.

  “A good doctor,” Beckett said after Ramsey was gone. “But my God, has he got some weird bedside manner.”

  “No kidding,” Drake replied. He opened his mouth to add something else, but then closed it again. The truth was, he wasn’t sure what to say. They had been through so much over the past few days that he figured anything he might come up with would either be inappropriate or insufficient. But the longer he thought about it, Drake realized there was only one thing he could say.

  He cleared his throat.

  “Thank you.”

  Beckett was never one for emotions, at least not for expressing them openly, and this was no exception. But Drake saw something in the man’s eyes, something that confirmed that he wasn’t just a heartless zombie. In his own way, Beckett cared.

  “You’re welcome, you asshole,” Beckett said. Drake let his eyes drift to the man’s left hand, which was wrapped in gauze.

  “How’s the finger?” Drake asked.

  Beckett shrugged.

  “How is it? Missing. But the only ones who care are my nose and my girlfriend, and I hate them both. If I’d been a surgeon… well, as ME, I don’t have to worry about that. My patients are already dead.”

  Beckett strode forward as he spoke, and then started fiddling with Drake’s handcuffs.

  “What are you doing?” Drake asked.

  Beckett grunted and then pulled the handcuffs away. Drake instinctively massaged his wrist.

  “Getting you the fuck out of here, that’s what,” Beckett said, helping Drake sit up.

  What the hell is going on?

  “Oh, don’t bother thanking me just yet,” Beckett added sarcastically. “Thank your buddy Yasiv first. He’s the one who gave me the keys.”

  Drake raised an eyebrow and waited for an additional explanation that never came.

  “And Screech? Where’s Screech?”

  Beckett’s brow knitted.

  “He’s fine… you really don’t remember anything?”

  Images flashed in Drake’s mind, images of dead bodies and red plastic cups. Bits and pieces of Ray Reynolds’s speech floated between his ears.

  He shook his head.

  “I remember… I remember leaving my office—that’s it. The next thing I know, I’m waking up to your ugly face in the ambulance.”

  Beckett observed him for a good thirty seconds, trying to figure out if he was lying or not. Drake did his best to keep a straight face and must’ve done a satisfactory job because Beckett eventually nodded.

  “Man, you got involved in some fucked up shit, you know that? Fucked up shit that cost me my finger and almost my life. If it weren’t for Screech… and your brother, shit, if it weren’t for them, we’d both be fucking our seventy-two virgins in heaven right now,” he raised his gauze-covered hand and stared at it. “Come to think of it, that wouldn’t have been that bad, especially with the shit drugs they’re giving me for this pain. Seriously, I think someone replaced their supply of codeine with Mentos.”

  Beckett kept on rambling, but Drake had long since tuned the man out.

  “My brother? Dane was there? Beckett, what the hell are you talking about?”

  Chapter 3

  Screech threw the tennis ball off the wall, and then caught it on the rebound.

  “You serious? You really put all my money into Bitcoin?” he said into the headset as he tossed the ball again.

  “Sure did,” the man on the other line replied. “You said you didn’t give a shit what I did with it.”

  Screech chewed the inside of his lip and squeezed the tennis ball as tightly as he could.

  Fuck.

  The vast majority of his money was from Bob Bumacher, the payout for ‘returning’ the man’s yacht. And given what had happened on B-yacht’ch, what Beckett had done, Screech wanted to put some distance between him and the cash.

  Still, he didn’t want to lose it, at least not all of it…

  Screech sighed.

  “Well, that’s that then. That shit crashed, man,” he said. Although part of him felt the burden of the loss, another part—a larger part, he was pleased to realize—was bathed in relief.

  The money just felt… dirty—bitter, even.

  “Yeah, but here’s the thing, Screech.” The man paused and Screech stopped tossing the ball against the wall. He tapped the microphone to make sure it was still working.

  “Alex? You still there? Hey, Banksy, you there?”

  “Uh-huh, I’m still here. I was just pausing for effect.”

  Screech tossed the ball again.


  “Well, okay, mission accomplished. What is it?”

  “Well, let’s just say I earned more than my ten percent management fee on this one. Screech, I turned your measly 75k into nearly half a million ducats.”

  Screech’s eyes bulged and the ball rebounded off the wall and struck him in the side of the face.

  “Fuck.”

  “A thank you might be more appropriate,” Alex said with a chuckle.

  “Are you fucking with me? A half a million?”

  “Not fucking with you, my man. Got out just before it peaked. And that’s half a mill after my fees—in a couple of months, no less. I mean, it can be a little less if you give me permission to treat myself to a nice bottle of Scotch…”

  “Get yourself an entire case, Alex,” Screech exclaimed. “This is unbelievable.”

  “Well, you better believe it. But now, we need to decide what to do next. My suggestion is to reinvest, because—”

  Screech’s heart was racing in his chest—he could barely contain his excitement. Seventy-five thousand was one thing, especially being dirty money, but half a million? Half a million could go a long way to appeasing anyone’s conscience.

  “No,” he said. His throat was incredibly dry—so dry, that he had a problem getting the words out. “No, I should cash out.”

  “Come on, Screech. At least give me 100K to invest in something new. Maybe not cryptocurrency, but something else… real estate, maybe?”

  Screech mulled his options. Turning 75k into 500 in just a few months—Has it been that long already?—was like winning the lottery. But Alex had done so well… and it was found money, after all.

  He licked his lips, but they failed to moisten.

  “I’ll tell you what, reinvest a hundred grand… but the rest, I need the rest in cash, babaaayyy.”

  Again, Alex chuckled.

  “Sounds good, Screech. You want me to just cut you a check, or…” he let his sentence trail off.

  Screech didn’t know how to deal with 400k. Shit, he had no idea how to deal with seventy-five large. Could he get cash? And how large would a suitcase need to be to contain 400k?

  With my luck, I’ll get robbed on the way home from Alex’s place.

  “A check will be fine, Alex. I think—”

  A sudden knock on the door drew Screech’s attention.

  It had been a while since Triple D had any visitors, ones that weren’t the men in blue, that is. But he thought he was done with all that. He’d told them what he knew, what he’d seen at the farm.

  He’d told them that he had no idea where Drake was, which was mostly true. But—

  He shook his head.

  No, stop feeling bad… you did nothing wrong, he scolded himself. In fact, if it weren’t for you, both Drake and Beckett might be dead.

  But there was a nagging voice in the back of his head that reminded him that if it weren’t for him, maybe Ray Reynolds would still be alive.

  You could have stopped Beckett; you could have saved Ray Reynolds and Donnie DiMarco.

  And the pictures, Screech. You took the photos—

  Another knock at the door pulled him out of his head.

  “Hold on, I’m coming. Shit, don’t bust down my door.”

  “What? What are you saying, Screech?”

  Screech shook his head.

  “No, not you, Alex. I’ll call you back, I’ve got a customer,” he said.

  “All right, all right, I’ll have that check made up for you, Screech. You swing by in the next couple of days, or I’ll throw it in the mail. And don’t worry about that 100k, cuz I’m gonna turn it into a cool million.”

  “Okay, sounds good, Alex. Talk soon,” Screech said, clicking off the mic. There was a third knock, and he felt his anger rising.

  These fucking cops…

  Screech reached for the door and yanked it wide, a scowl on his face.

  “I’ve already told you—”

  The words caught in his throat.

  It wasn’t the police.

  Instead, standing in the doorway of Triple D was a young girl who looked to be about seventeen years of age. She had dirty hair that hung in front of her face, and through those greasy strands, Screech could see that her cheeks were marred with tears.

  “Shi—shoot, geez, I’m sorry. Are you… are you okay? Are you looking for somebody?” Screech stuttered.

  The girl’s shoulders slumped, and for a second, he thought that she hadn’t heard him.

  “Are you—”

  The girl suddenly lifted her eyes and leveled the red lids at Screech.

  “I’m looking for Damien,” she said in a barely audible whisper. “I’m looking for Damien Drake.”

  Chapter 4

  “Drake… that was over a week ago. I tried to reach your brother, but after the farm… I have no clue where he went.”

  Drake’s eyes bulged.

  “A week? I’ve been here for a fucking week? What are you talking about, Beckett? I was just in the ambulance… and then… and then…”

  But Drake couldn’t remember and then—he just saw flashes of meals being eaten, short trips to the bathroom, a parade of nurses and doctors. Sleep; there was that, too—lots of it.

  His frustration bubbled over, and Drake yanked the IV out of his arm and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Another dizzy spell hit him them, but by gritting his teeth, he managed to stay focused. But when his feet hit the floor, his legs nearly buckled and he had to rely on Beckett for support.

  “What the fuck is he even doing here?” he asked in a far-off voice.

  “I’ve got no clue where he came from, Drake, or where he went. I only know that he came with Screech and if he hadn’t… well, I think you know what would have happened to the both of us.”

  Drake’s mind was swimming.

  Screech… Screech who had taken the photos of him and Beckett and… Jasmine? Was that real, or just a nightmare?

  Drake shook his head. It was a wasted effort trying to piece together the puzzle in his current state.

  Even though his legs were weak from days of limited activity, Drake found that if he took his time, he could still manage to shuffle.

  “Last time I spoke to Dane was eight or nine years ago, maybe even longer. He was backpacking through South America.”

  He bit back the urge to offer more. The truth was, the last time he’d seen his brother, really seen him, had been that day at the farm when he and their father had gone to pick him up.

  In all of the intervening years, Drake had never been able to get out of Dane what had happened that week. All he knew was that it was something horrible. Something that had changed his brother forever.

  And now he’s back…

  A flash of Raul and his thin mustache appeared in his mind.

  Mr. Smith has a keen interest in your brother.

  Did he come back for me, for Ray, or for Ken? Drake wondered as he searched the room for his clothes. He found them balled up on a chair, and he quickly slipped them on. They reeked of sweat and alcohol, which was becoming something of an unfortunate cologne for him as of late.

  “Hey, Drake?” Beckett said. Drake turned to face his friend and was surprised to see that the man’s face was pinched. “So, you know when I said that your buddy Sgt. Yasiv gave me the handcuff keys? Well, he may have given them to me, or I just might have borrowed them, if you catch my drift.”

  Beckett’s eyes darted back and forth dramatically as he spoke.

  Drake nodded.

  “And that deputy inspector asshole Larry what’s his name? Well, he wants to see you behind bars, my friend. Just giving you a heads up.”

  “No shit,” Drake grumbled. “Thanks.”

  “Where are you going, anyway?”

  Drake grabbed the door handle and spoke without turning.

  “I’ve got work to do… I’ve got to find the Skeleton King.”

  Drake started to open the door then, but Beckett raced over and slammed it closed.

&
nbsp; “What the fuck are you talking about?” he demanded.

  Drake tried to pull the door again, but Beckett kept his hand on it.

  “The Skeleton King… I’ve got to find him. I’ve got to put an end to this.”

  Beckett squinted at him for several seconds before answering.

  “Drake… don’t you remember?”

  “Remember what? Beckett, I’m not in the mood for—”

  “You caught him, Drake. You found the Skeleton King. It was Ray Reynolds, your brother’s friend from childhood. He was the one leading the Church of Liberation, and he was the one responsible for killing all those people—including your partner, including Clay. You caught the guy. Well, I mean, if we’re getting technical, I guess he kinda caught himself, so to speak.”

  Drake blinked several times as he tried to process what Beckett was saying. It sounded true… and Beckett’s story jived with his broken memories, but—

  The cups were scattered across the floor of the derelict farmhouse. Bodies were slumped against the walls, lying on the furniture, their eyes and mouths open. The smell of something astringent clung to the air.

  His face suddenly went slack.

  “No,” Drake whispered. “He’s still out there. The Skeleton King is still out there.”

  Beckett shook his head slowly.

  “You caught him, Drake. He’s dead. Maybe… maybe you should lie back down.”

  Drake’s legs, which had regained some of their strength over the past few minutes, suddenly felt weak again.

  And then his world started to spin.

  Part of his mind, the ancient part that recognizes balance, noted that he was falling, but the message failed to stimulate any form of preventative action.

  Before Drake realized what was happening, Beckett’s arms were suddenly around him, without which he wouldn’t be able to stand.

  And then he felt something else, something equally as foreign as being held: there were tears on his cheeks.

  “It’s been… two years… this can’t…”

  Drake suddenly seemed incapable of forming a complete sentence.

  …this can’t be it, he wanted to say. There has to be something more. The Skeleton King is still out there and I need to find him. I need to find him and make him pay for what he did to me, to Clay, to my brother, to Jasmine. To my life. I have to find him…