by Trisha Wolfe
Regardless, this case just escalated. And until I know just who and what is involved…Avery’s not safe.
The roiling knot twisting my gut has never steered me wrong, but— “Could be two idiots picked the wrong damn van to steal. They’ll end up on some dumbest criminal show for hijacking a dead body.”
Carson’s laugh lightens my mood some. “So you’re going back to the scene?”
“No,” I say, passing the bank of elevators and taking the stairs, impatient to see Avery. “M.E. lab.”
Silence stretches out over the line, and I hate that he’s picked up on my train of thought. Which I need contradicted. Now. “Just get a visual on that bus, Carson. And drive safe.”
“You’re worried about me, Detective Quinn. That’ so—”
“Shut it, Carson. Do your job.”
“Yes, sir. On it,” he confirms.
I end the call as I reach the hallway. The deathly quiet that fills this floor has always been unsettling, but as I push through the swing doors, that stagnant stillness grips my spine with icy fingers.
“Avery—” I shout, her name a mocking echo in the empty lab.
My chest tight, I head straight for her office. Without conscious effort, I take in the scene. The lights are on, her laptop left out in the open, a stool overturned…and a body on a stretcher.
“Shit.” I pause long enough at the stretcher to confirm it’s the same vic from the crime scene. My heart thunders as I take off toward her office. I yank the door open. She’s not here. And she wouldn’t just leave her office unlocked.
I pull my cell out and click her name. The call goes right to voicemail. “Fuck.”
Fuck!
I call Carson, my question ready as soon as he picks up. “How do you know the vic is on that bus?”
His response is immediate. “The driver was attacked right after he left the scene. It was a pretty good assumption, but—why?”
“The body’s at the lab.” I grip the phone, my whole body tense.
“Car thieves making body deliveries to the precinct?” Carson tries to reason, sounding just as lost as I feel.
I cut him off before he can continue that thought. “I want that bus found.”
“GPS is still down—”
“Get the fucking techs to hack it,” I roar.
A moment passes, then: “Quinn, where’s Avery?” Carson asks.
I close my eyes, my breath sawing in and out of my constricted lungs. “I don’t know, but I’m going to find her.” Then I hang up before I lose my shit for fucking certain.
When’s the last time anyone saw her?
I click Sadie’s number with the weight of an anvil in my gut. Getting a grip on the climbing panic, I tell myself these two are as thick as thieves lately. Avery probably took off from the crime scene, pissed at me. She never even came back to the lab. She went to Sadie, needing someone to commiserate with. Hell, they can bash me and call me an asshole all day long…just as long as Avery’s safe.
When Sadie’s throaty voice answers, I swallow my pride. “Bonds, tell me you know where Avery is.”
Time seems to freeze as I wait to hear her confirm my theory. “Quinn, no. She’s not with me. Have you tried the lab?”
My fist connects with the wall. I grit my teeth as pain slices through my knuckles. But it’s nothing compared to the fear tearing me open from the inside.
“Quinn, what’s wrong? What’s going on?” Sadie asks, barely masking her concern.
The hitch of alarm in her voice steals the last of my clinging hope. “Avery may’ve gotten into something over her head. I need you to try to find her while I track her phone.” Do I put out an APB? Wexler will have my ass if she’s just sitting at home, ignoring my calls. But as I look around the lab, deja vu in the worst way crashes over me.
I wasn’t in time to save her before.
Every second counts. Deciding I’m not taking any chances with Avery’s life, I say, “Bonds, you check her house. I’m putting out an APB and then I’ll get a trace on her last location—”
“I’m coming with you,” Sadie says, her no argument tone clear. “Colton can check all her usual haunts. We’ll find her, Quinn.”
The reassurance in her voice overrides the brimming irritation at hearing his name. I don’t want that guy anywhere near this, but there’s no time to debate. Avery comes first. “Meet me at the lab,” I say and end the call, my mind already processing the scene.
Jesus. Why the hell would she be alone? She was abducted from this very fucking spot before—but that was different. Simon had access to her. He was her own damn lab tech. And maybe that’s it; she feels safer working on her own. Pushing the facts of what she suffered at the hands of Simon from my mind, I focus on the evidence here.
I slide the body hanger over with too much force, nearly ripping it from the wall. “Where is she?” I shout. The vic lies lifeless on the stretcher, the only witness.
I’m reliving Avery’s abduction all over again, only this time, I’m too close. And I’m not helping Avery by getting in my own way. Gaining a shred of composure, I radio in to the tech working on the search. “Jason. I need you to go through the M.E. lab security footage right away. I want as many eyes on it as possible.”
“Ten-four,” he replies.
My adrenaline soars. Focus. If anything happens to Avery… I can’t go there. Not yet. I make one last call to CSU and order a rush on processing the lab. This has to be done right.
I hope I’m wrong. For fuck’s sake, I pray Avery is at some dive bar drinking her bitter resentment at me away. I’ll take the hit from Wexler gladly if that’s the case.
Starting at the top, I trace my steps back to the double doors and slip on a pair of gloves, making sure I cover the blood on my knuckles. I fumble for a loose marker I put in my pocket at the crime scene and drop it by the doors.
When I reach the table with the overturned stool, I open the laptop. The screen blinks on, a passcode barring me access. I brace the heels of my hands against the table, my gaze hard on the screen. Then, I see it.
My chest ignites in a fiery ache.
I push off the table and search for print powder. Dammit. Where does she keep it? I locate it in a drawer and rush back to the table. With less than steady hands, I dust the brush lightly over the lower part of the laptop, right below the keyboard.
The white powder begins to reveal the message, but I already know what it reads before I reach the last letter: HELP
A message from Avery. As she sat here knowing some fate was about to befall her.
My heart rockets to my throat, and the jar of powder careens against the wall as I release a roar.
“That’s not going to help her.”
My chest heaves. I close my eyes—just for one second—before I turn to face Sadie. “I fucking let this happen. Again.”
She might be tiny, but there’s nothing inferior about her as she holds me in her perceptive gaze. Sadie fills the room with a determined presence, balancing out the loss of control I feel right this moment.
She pushes the sleeves of her jacket up. “It’s not your fault, Quinn.”
She’s dead wrong. I should’ve protected Avery. Even if that meant throwing her over my shoulder again and locking her up in my office. This time, it was within my power, and I pussied out. All because Avery tested my control. Regardless of whatever is skewing my perception of right and wrong…I knew what I was supposed to do, and I fucked up.
Fate’s a devious bitch. Toying with her twice so close together…Avery could lose this round. I might not get her back.
“Wherever your brooding thoughts are going,” Sadie says, snapping me back to the moment. “Stop.” Our eyes meet, and she nails me with a fierce look. “What do we know?”
And like that, she reels me in. My instincts sharpen on the case. When it comes to the job, Sadie’s my better half.
“Did Avery tell you anything about the drug—?”
“Yes,” she says, heading me
off.
Right. Thick as thieves. I nod, walking a circle around the table as CSU enters and immediately starts the sweep.
I give them explicit instructions, directing them to collect all trace from the vic, which is a complicated call to make. Wanting the evidence to be compromised for Avery’s sake, means that anything we find—any prior trace that existed before the two perps handled the body—might not hold up in court where the victim is concerned.
My consolation is in knowing that the perps who might have Avery are connected to the vic’s offender. When we save Avery…when we bring in the perps, we’re also bringing in the same fuckers who are connected to these deaths.
I walk Sadie through the crime scene, getting her thoughts on the timeline and method. No obvious signs indicate that Avery was hurt, but that only lessons the pressure on my chest a fraction. When this is over, I might just burn this damn lab down. Move Avery into the precinct upstairs and put a damn tracking device on her.
As the CSU team gets to work fingerprinting surfaces, I take a call from upstairs. The security footage cut off over an hour ago, but right before, the transport van was seen on camera pulling into the parking lot.
“She’s in that van,” I say, turning toward Sadie. “Or she was at least an hour ago. I can’t just stand here, waiting…” I ball my hands into fists and curse. “I’m going to find her.”
Sadie’s by my side as I exit the lab. I put the call in to Wexler, upgrading the scanner alert on the bus to include a law enforcement member aboard, which will ensure a safe recovery of the van, then I get a location on Carson.
The van is still off the grid, but the rookie made the right call. I have a new respect for Carson’s instincts.
As I duck into my Crown Vic, I glance over at Sadie climbing into the passenger-seat. “When I find these fuckers this time…” I say, letting my intentions trail off.
But Sadie is right there to pick up what I won’t voice. “We end the threat.”
Our gazes lock, and in the private restrains of the car, I don’t correct her.
I may still have issues with Sadie’s past, with reconciling her actions—but this we agree on.
And that realization terrifies the fuck out of me.
9
Under the Influence
Avery
The windowless room is freezing. Florescent lights hum, echoing off the cinderblock walls and tingeing the too bright, barren room in a sickly green hue. As soon as I was removed from the van and ushered inside, the bag was removed from my head and my lab coat was taken.
The thin blouse I’m left with does nothing to shield me from the frigid air.
I rub my arms to generate heat, giving myself something to concentrate on besides counting the seconds. I’ve only been locked inside for minutes, but panic threatens to pull me under when I imagine it turning into days.
No. Don’t go there.
I’m not shackled. I’m not drugged. So very different than before, but somehow just as terrifying. Logically, I don’t think these people have the same intentions as my abductor did when he took me, but that only serves to frighten me more. The not knowing.
I can still feel the steel of the gun pressed inside me, and I start to pace, keeping myself sane. I can’t stop thinking. I want my mind to stop.
Right when I think I’m going to lose it and start banging on the rusted door, I hear a click, and the door grinds open against the floor.
The man entering is tall and thickly built. He wears a mask. A Jason mask like on the horror movie. And he’s carrying an assault rifle. My stomach plunges, free-fall. I want the bag back over my head.
He jerks his head. “Move. It’s ready.”
What’s ready? But the courage to ask is lost. He doesn’t manhandle me, and somehow my feet move me in that direction. I’ve simply lost my mind. Days, hours, minutes—I’ve wasted so much time fearing the world after I was released from the hospital. And what I dreaded could happen—that which I told myself over and over would never happen again—has happened.
What else is there left to fear?
Death?
I’m almost relieved. Like I’m ready to welcome it. Like I can stop fearing it now.
The masked man stands in the doorway as I cross through. My eyes go wide when I see what’s on the other side of the room.
A lab.
But unlike any lab I’ve ever worked in. It’s dirty and smells of death. Not like the death in the morgue, where I’m accustomed to being surrounded by bodies. But a grotesque, sour stench that soaks my pores.
Tables are full of beakers and test tubes. A giant syringe station is setup with thin blue hoses curling down into a large tub. My gaze follows their path along the back wall to a large containment unit.
“Welcome, Doctor Johnson.”
I whirl around, trying to locate the source of the gravelly voice. That familiar voice that raises bile to my throat, remembering the feel of the gun.
Feedback pierces the air, and I look up to find a speaker in the corner.
The voice booms through the room again. “Go ahead. Get comfortable. There’s a smock on the hanger to your left, and goggles on the table.”
I shake my head. “What do you want from me?” I say to the room, hoping this unsettling PA system is two-way.
“It’s what we both want,” the voice responds. “I believe neither of us want any more dead girls littering our beautiful streets. So you should get to work.”
I turn around and see the man with the gun standing watch at the only exit.
I face forward, lick my lips. “And if I can’t?”
The silence stretches out, endlessly taunting. I’m sure the decision to end my life has already been made. Then: “I really don’t think that’s an option for you, Miss Johnson.” A beat. “Best focus on the task at hand. You have one hour.”
I glance up above the lab station at an old clock. The secondhand ticking down.
Quinn, find me.
With no other alternative, I approach the table aligned against the wall and find a box of disposable gloves. As I’m sliding on a pair, my eyes flit to the trashcan and my stomach roils with revulsion. Blood doesn’t faze me. I’m elbows deep in it most days. But this blood—the blood coating hundreds of pairs of gloves and gauze—is not from the deceased.
This is the blood of the living. The tortured. The tested and experimented on.
The women who—just as I was—are at the mercy of a sadistic monster.
I set to work analyzing the drug, putting the countdown and the women out of my mind. This is my area. I can do this. I just can’t think of the consequences once I do…
Surprisingly, the lab is well equipped for what they’re trying to achieve. All the chemicals and compounds that are nearly impossible for me to attain are readily available. And in large supply.
When I spot the independent variable, a nauseous tumble rocks my stomach. The drug compound that I notice in analysis right away is one that I would never mix with this cocktail.
Pharmaceutically enhanced MDMA.
Not the run-of-the-mill street drug that, once cut and packaged, is referred to as molly or ecstasy. No. This is pure and concentrated.
This is deadly.
I reach up and adjust my mask, fearful of any powder sneaking past.
“Forty-five minutes, Doctor Johnson.” The voice startles me, killing my concentration.
“Dammit,” I curse. Centering myself, I prepare my workstation.
I understand what they want. And God help me, I think I know how to give it to them.
* * *
Swirling the beaker, I help along the blending of the cocktail. Thin whips of deep blue coil and bloom out within the clear liquid, tingeing the concoction a bright baby blue. I carefully insert a syringe into the mix.
“It’s done,” I say, my hands clammy, my face glazed in cold sweat.
Slow applause performed by one erupts from the speaker. “Very good. I never had any doubt.”
/>
I set the filled syringe on the table and tear off my gloves. “I’ve done as you asked. I corrected the serum. Now I want to be released.” My words are bold, much bolder than I feel; exerting a forced bravado that I pray doesn’t get me killed.
“Not yet,” the man from the PA system says.
I spin around. He now stands in the room, his presence more threatening than the man next to him wielding the assault rifle. His face is hidden behind a featureless, white mask. Somehow, the lack of definition is more terrifying than the horror mask his lackey dons.
“I promise you,” I say, straining to remove any quake from my voice, “it’s complete. It will work.”
He tilts his head. “I have no fear that you believe that, Miss Johnson. But as a doctor, as a scientist, you must know that all experiments have to be tested conclusively.”
A whimper directs my attention to another one of his brutes as a woman is thrust into the room. She’s clad only in her underwear and bra. Her sleek dark hair mussed, her beautiful face pinched in fear and smeared with makeup as tears track her cheeks.
“No,” I say, shaking my head resolutely. “I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me. And I promise, my skills surpass whoever formulated this drug before. It will…get the results you want.” I cringe, wishing I could detach myself from this reality. “But I won’t be party to inflicting this torture on another human. On another woman.”
I will die before I become anything comparable to the man who tortured me.
“Brave words.” He stalks closer to me. “But I’m afraid this isn’t your choice.”
The brute of a man anchors an arm around her waist, eliciting a shriek from the traumatized woman. She struggles against his hold, but I can tell she’s already too weak, too drained from whatever she’s already suffered. Her fight dies too quickly.
The arrogant man before me slinks closer—so close that my trembling physically hurts; my muscles ache as I refrain from looking up to meet his eyes behind the mask. His hand snakes out and grabs the syringe. I flinch.
