Indelible

by Laurie Buchanan

Mick holds a glass of water with a straw to her lips, and she drinks.

  “Thank you,” Emma says. “He named ten women that he killed, but I can only remember one. Rose Gonzales. He said that I was going to be number eleven. I asked him what I had to do with any of it. He said that I was bait.” Turning to Mick, she continues, “He said that he was fishing for Sean McPherson.” Emma’s eyes pool.

  “I asked what Mick had to do with any of it. He told me that five years ago, he and his brother orchestrated a heist involving over ten million dollars in heroin. It was in the San Francisco Police Department evidence lockup. But he said that wasn’t a problem because they had someone on the inside helping them—a dirty cop. He winked at me and told me to ‘stay wary, for treachery walks among you.’”

  The three men exchange questioning glances.

  After another sip of water, Emma continues. “Jason said the only thing they had to do was empty the station house. He said, ‘Police are predictable creatures. When an officer falls, they rally. Every one of them.’ All they had to do was kill a police officer. He said, ‘Any cop would do.’”

  Emma closes her eyes for a moment. “He said they used a diversionary tactic to draw a squad car to a bridge. And that’s when he got the driver in his sights and squeezed the trigger.” She covers her eyes with her hand and continues. He said, ‘“Boom! Sam was out of the game.’”

  Emma takes her hand down and sees the three men looking at each other, stunned.

  “I told Jason that I didn’t understand why he wanted to kill Mick, that Mick’s off the force and he got his drugs. He said that’s where I was wrong. He said, ‘I didn’t get the drugs. My brother was one of three people who got caught. He’s the one who stashed the drugs. He’s the only person who knows their location.’”

  After taking another sip of water, Emma says, “I asked him why his brother wouldn’t tell him where the drugs are. Jason said, ‘Dead men tell no tales. My brother was killed in jail before he could tell me. So, I’m out ten million bucks, and McPherson’s going to pay.’”

  Emma feels like she might shatter and blow away. She covers her face with both hands. Her shoulders are shaking. The men can barely hear what she says.

  “Jason said, ‘It would be too easy, too quick, to just kill Mick. I’m going to make him suffer first. He’s going to watch as I slit your throat. That way, he’ll die twice.’ I was in the dark, listening for a footstep. But my heart was beating so loud in my ears, I wasn’t sure if I could hear an elephant approaching. I was afraid that Jason was going to shoot Mick the moment he stepped into the mouth of the cave.”

  After a quick rap on the door, Dr. Timms steps into the room. “Your ten minutes is up. Ms. Benton needs her rest.”

  “Thank you, doctor,” Rafferty says. “We got what we need.”

  Bingham, Rafferty, and McPherson follow Dr. Timms to the door. “I’ll catch up with you guys in just a minute,” Mick says. “I want to say goodbye to Emma.”

  Rafferty chuckles and shakes his head.

  Bingham winks encouragingly and smiles like a fool.

  Dr. Timms’ face puckers as he warns, “A minute.”

  When Mick turns around, Emma’s eyes are closed, her eyelashes resting gently on pale cheeks. Exhausted, she’s fallen asleep.

  In the waiting room, elbows on knees leaning toward each other, voices low, the men debrief.

  Sean Raferty says, “I spend my days hunting people who couldn’t care less, who have little or no empathy, to whom conscience is a foreign entity.”

  “The fact that Hughes, or Berndt—or whatever the hell his name was—left DNA on his victims, makes me wonder if he wanted to get caught,” Joe says.

  “I don’t think it was carelessness or lack of control. I think it was intentional—like he was marking his territory,” Mick says. “He acted like he was invincible.”

  Rafferty agrees. “Most serial killers are arrogant, sure of themselves. They enjoy every hoop law enforcement jumps through in order to catch them. In their own minds they are invincible. They view themselves as the master of their victims’ fate.”

  Joe thinks back to the department’s mandatory course he took. “When I took the department’s class taught by a forensic psychologist, she said, ‘Serial killers are likely intelligent, of at least average IQ, charming, possibly married, outwardly optimistic, manipulative, and will appear to function very well within the boundaries of society.’”

  Mick laces his fingers together. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” he says. “We can’t tell who they are. Berndt told Emma, ‘Stay wary, for treachery walks among you.’ What do you think he meant? Do you think there’s a dirty cop involved?”

  Mick sits in his Jeep in the hospital parking lot. So much—so very much—is going through his mind. He thinks about agent Rafferty. He’s a good listener, and the way he respectfully considers everyone else’s ideas takes the sting out of his occasional pushbacks.

  His window’s rolled down, and he takes a deep breath. He looks up. I swear the light is different. Crisper. It seems bluer, and the edges of everything are more defined.

  A bevy of emotions run through Mick’s mind. He thinks of Emma upstairs in intensive care, grateful that she’s alive. And now that he’s learned the “why” behind Sam’s death, he also feels a sense of satisfaction at Alex’s death. I’ve never felt this emotion before at the death of another human being. As he starts the Jeep, his chest, heart, and shoulders feel lighter.

  CHAPTER 27

  “In the planning stage of a book, don’t plan the ending. It has to be earned by all that will go before it.”

  —ROSE TREMAIN

  During the next two weeks, Mick works on carving a beautiful pendant for Emma. Before he began, he put a lot of thought into what it would be and why.

  When he picks Emma up at the hospital, Mick notices that her hair is tucked behind her ears, revealing a single pearl dangling from each lobe. He smiles.

  After wheeling her down to the parking area, he lifts her and transfers her gently onto the front passenger seat of the Jeep.

  A new wheelchair is stowed in the back, waiting for her to use when they reach Pines & Quill.

  Before starting the ignition, Mick turns to Emma and splashes a broad smile all over her. His eyes drink in her auburn hair, sparkling green eyes, the smattering of freckles across her nose, and her cheeky grin.

  Reaching into his shirt pocket, he says, “I made something for you.” He pulls out a small black velvet bag and hands it to her.

  She looks up, into his eyes.

  “Well, go on. Open it.” He encourages.

  Emma loosens the drawstring at the top of the small pouch and pours the contents into her left palm. She inhales fast and deep. She picks it up and runs her fingers along its carved lines. “Oh my gosh, Mick. It’s beautiful.”

  “I’m glad you like it, Emma. It’s a ‘Honu,’ a Hawaiian green sea turtle. It symbolizes good fortune, endurance, and long life. When lost, turtles are excellent navigators and often find their way home—in your case, I hope it’s always to me.”

  Leaning over to put the leather cord over her head, he whispers, “Emma, I love you,” along her cheek, and draws closer still.

  Emma lifts her head to look up at him. “Tell me again.”

  His voice is low and husky with emotion. “I love you.” His mouth crushes down on hers, smothering any more words, any more thoughts.

  When they arrive at Pines & Quill, Mick presses a button on the remote attached to the visor over the driver’s seat. The huge entrance gate swings open and the vehicle sensor buzzes in the main house, notifying the occupants that Mick and Emma have arrived.

  Inside the main house, it sounds like someone poked a hornet’s nest. There are all kinds of whispered hushing, shushing, and jockeying for position in good hiding spots.

  As the Jeep pulls into the circular drive, Libby stays behind the front door, opening it just enough for Hemingway, sans Elizabethan collar, to race out and
greet them—a diversionary tactic on their part.

  Hemingway’s jumping and barking with excitement. Mick has to honk the horn to keep from running him over.

  Mick puts down the driver’s side window. “Hold your horses, big fella. I’ll have her out in just a minute.”

  Once the Jeep has stopped, Mick comes around, gets the wheelchair, and transfers Emma from the passenger seat to the chair.

  Hemingway yelps with joy at the sight of his friend, Emma. He nudges her hand with his wet nose.

  Emma coos and scratches behind his ear.

  Hemingway pushes his warm body against Emma’s legs. She bends down and buries her face in his fur.

  As Mick checks his watch, he says, “I’m sure Niall has brunch ready. Let’s go inside.”

  “I’ve missed his cooking. And after all that hospital food, I’m starving!”

  The moment her wheels cross the threshold, Emma’s nostrils fill with a delicious scent. She turns to Mick. “It smells like Thanksgiving!”

  “It sure does,” he agrees, rolling her down the hall.

  When they enter the massive kitchen and dining area, people jump out of the woodwork and shout, “Welcome home!”

  With her hands to her checks, Emma looks through tear-filled eyes and sees Niall with his arm around Libby, her parents with their arms around each other, Dr. Zimmerman standing next to Cynthia, Sean Rafferty standing next to Joe Bingham, and Fran standing next to a man in a police uniform. Emma has yet to meet him—Officer Herb who’d been on duty the night Cynthia was hurt.

  “Oh, my gosh, you scared the living daylights out of me,” Emma says as the crowd of people surrounds her.

  “I see Mick gave you your pendant,” Libby says.

  Emma reaches up to touch it. “I love it.”

  Niall raises a wooden spoon. “Your timing couldn’t have been better, you two. Brunch is ready.”

  “What are we having?” Emma asks.

  “A celebration feast,” Niall answers. “We have turkey breast with sausage and apricot stuffing, roasted Brussels sprouts, sweet potato pan dumplings, strawberry spinach salad, and soft yeasty rolls. I’ve paired it with a D’autrefois Reserve Pinot Noir from Vin de Pays, France. I chose it because of its rich undertones of vanilla and spice, and accent notes of cherry and cassis. It’ll go nicely with the pear cake we’re having for dessert.”

  The volume around the table rises and falls as they bring each other up to date on the current happenings.

  Niall says, “Officer Toni and my brother, Paddy, would have joined us this afternoon, but Paddy has mass and confessions today, and Toni has a pressing family matter. She said it just can’t wait any longer.”

  Mick says, “I’ll pull the van around shortly. I know some of you have outbound flights this evening.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Benton are catching an evening flight back home to San Diego. They’re ecstatic about Emma’s relationship with Mick.

  Cynthia is catching a flight back to Tucson. She doesn’t miss the look that passes between Fran and Herb and smiles—a look that promises a multitude of air miles being racked up between Seattle and Boston.

  “Will I see you tomorrow, Dr. Zimmerman?” Emma asks.

  Emma’s mom looks up. “See her for what, dear?”

  Emma clears her throat. “Well, you all had this lovely surprise gathering for me. I have a little surprise for you, too.” She scoots her chair back and stands up. Then, to everyone’s astonishment, she takes three steps before plunking down on Mick’s lap.

  Emma’s mom covers her face with her hands and bursts into happy tears.

  Even Cynthia didn’t see this coming.

  Dr. Zimmerman looks at the group and says, “When Mr. and Mrs. Benton shared the details of Emma’s Transverse myelitis with me, I started doing some tests of my own. Each day the sensation in her lower extremities gets stronger and more capable. Just as Transverse myelitis can develop in a matter of hours—Emma’s happened overnight—it can leave just as quickly. I’m not certain, but I think her recovery has something to do with the trauma she experienced. Not only in being shot, but in the surgery afterward.”

  Niall starts to move to the big urn for coffee, then changes his mind. On impulse, he opens the refrigerator and pulls out two bottles of champagne. It isn’t every day a nightmare has a happy ending. “Mick, will you get some champagne flutes, please?” And with that, he sends the cork cannoning to the ceiling.

  There are toasts all around.

  Cynthia walks over to Mick and whispers. “When you need help with future cases, please call me.”

  “What do you mean, ‘help with future cases?’”

  Cynthia smiles and pats his arm. “You’ll see, dear. You’ll see.”

  Turn the page to read an excerpt from

  Iconoclast: A Sean McPherson Novel, Book Two

  PROLOGUE

  “There is only one plot—things are not what they seem.”

  —JIM THOMPSON

  “Forgive me, Father, for I’m about to sin.”

  A suppressor muffles the sound of six consecutive rounds fired below the screen through the thin wooden partition separating saint from sinner in the confession booth.

  As Father Paddy’s body slumps to the floor, the iconoclast slips out a back door.

  Rounding the corner, she does a tactical scan to ensure there’s no one around. All clear.

  She looks up to make sure the black sock she put over the security camera is still there. In place.

  She removes the oversized trench coat and pulls off a short gray wig, mustache, and beard. She rolls them, along with her gun and suppressor, into the coat, and tucks everything into the briefcase. Before getting into the car she borrowed from Vito, she places the briefcase on the floor behind the driver’s seat.

  As she pulls away from the curb, she smiles. I entered St. Barnabas as an old man. I left as a woman. Now if that’s not a miracle, I don’t know what is.

  Thirty minutes later, she drives down a gravel road to The Scrap Heap. On the surface, to innocent passersby, it’s a wrecking yard where vehicles are brought, and their usable parts are salvaged and sold, while the unusable metal parts are sold to recycling companies. In reality, it’s a place where people and things who’ve outlived their usefulness pass through.

  The tips of Toni’s nails, polished in “dagger pink,” tap the steering wheel through thin, nitrile gloves. Usually, it’s a fifteen-minute drive, but she takes a route devoid of street cams.

  Two snarling Dobermans greet her through an eight-foot chain-link fence topped with triple concertina wire. The result is an extremely effective barrier.

  Tapping the fence, Toni muses. This is the second barrier I’ve dealt with today—first, the screen in the confessional, now the chain-link fence. If I had a shrink, they’d probably conclude that I enjoy keeping barricades between the men I don’t like and me. She smiles. And they’d be right. I can always see them from the outside, where I stay safe and maintain control. They’re defenseless and easily manipulated on the inside.

  A huge bald man in oil-stained coveralls steps out of the doorway of a small shack by the gate. He smiles. “Hey, Toni.”

  “Hey, Vito. Did you wait as I asked?”

  “I did. Just a sec. Let me get these guys.”

  After shutting the dogs behind the door of the shack, Vito opens the gate.

  Toni drives through, opens the back passenger door, and retrieves the briefcase.

  Before they head into the central part of the yard, Vito closes and locks the gate.

  Toni follows him to a waiting pile of wrecked cars. She hands him the open briefcase, peels off the nitrile gloves, and tosses them in, then tucks her hands into her back pockets. Such a waste. That was a sweet Smith M&P22 compact and .22LR suppressor.

  After closing the briefcase and giving it a speculative weight check, Vito shrugs his massive shoulders and tosses it through the air into the top car’s open trunk. Then he climbs up a ladder into a rig next to th
e pile of cars and starts the engine. When he pushes a black-knobbed lever, the car crusher begins its descent, closing the top car’s trunk as it does.

  Toni notices two words spray-painted on the side of the machine. “Big Bang.”

  She looks up at Vito. His face is red, and his head is glistening with sweat. He wipes the moisture from his forehead with the front of his hairy arm.

  He looks down at her, gives her a thumbs up and smiles.

  When it’s all over, he climbs down. “How about dinner sometime?”

  “I’d like that.” She mentally applauds herself for not finishing the sentence with idiota—Italian for idiot.

  Nodding toward the pile of crushed cars, Vito holds out a hand.

  Toni looks at his waiting palm. If his fingers were laced together, his hand would look like a baseball mitt.

  “That’ll be five hundred bucks,” Vito says. “But when we go out, it’s on me.” He smiles.

  “It’s a deal,” she says.

  After paying Vito in cash, he unlocks the gate and opens it.

  Toni thanks him again, then gets in her own car and drives away. Looking in the rearview mirror, she sees Vito. I’d rather die.

  Clutching her glasses in one hand and a crumpled tissue in the other, Carol Stapleton, an elderly penitent, steps into the confession booth. She’s crying because she knows she has to tell the priest the hateful thoughts she’s entertained about her neighbor. She sits down, closes her eyes, and tries to compose herself as she waits for the priest’s usual greeting.

  After tucking the tissue in her sleeve, her now-empty hand fingers the string of pearls at her neck. After a few minutes tick by in silence, she retrieves the tissue and blows her nose. Clearing her throat, she says, “Father MacCullough?”

  When he doesn’t answer, she wipes her lenses with the hem of her cotton dress and puts her glasses on. That’s when she notices the splintered wood. What on earth?

  She presses her wrinkled face to the small ornate screen in the partition that divides them. Red oozes down the wall where the priest should be seated. Her nose wrinkles at the faint coppery smell. Her forehead furrows. Is that blood?