by Debra Webb
Freud, her German shepherd, was stretched out on the floor in the corridor just outside the mortuary room door. He lifted his head from his paws as she approached. The mortuary room was off-limits to Freud, but she had a feeling he understood that their friend Burt was in there.
“Hey, boy.” She scratched the top of his head. “You missing our buddy, too?”
Freud and Rowan had much in common; they both had painful pasts. The first three years of his life had been spent being kicked around and neglected by his drug-trafficking owner. Rowan had found him when she and her team from the Nashville Metro Police Department were investigating a man who had murdered at least four people. As soon as the scumbag was arrested, Rowan went back for Freud. Of course, she hadn’t known his name. The dog hadn’t been registered. He hadn’t ever been to a vet. She made sure he had everything he needed, including a complete checkup, and he was answering to the name Freud in no time.
They had been good for each other. They had both survived their broken pasts and learned to trust again.
“Come on, boy. We’ll make an exception today. You can join me in the mortuary room.”
Freud followed her to the stainless-steel table where Burt waited and stretched out on the cool tile floor. Rowan checked the pump’s progress. Another five minutes and the task would be complete. She donned her apron, mask and gloves once more. After she removed the tubes and pushed the pump aside, she closed the incisions she had made.
A few more minutes were required to check the rest of her work. His face was set. Jaw wired shut. Lips and eyes sealed. The nose and other orifices had been cleaned and packed to ensure no leakages. Since his wake and funeral wouldn’t be for a few days, she would wait about adding any topical cosmetics.
She rolled the gurney next to the mortuary table, applied the brakes and transferred Burt onto it. She adjusted the sheet covering his private areas and added another larger sheet that would cover him fully. For now, she would park him in refrigeration until time for his service. His sister was trying to get an earlier flight from Cozumel. She hadn’t planned to return until this weekend. Under the circumstances, she hoped to be back by Thursday. Burt’s viewing—wake or visitation, as many called it—was tentatively scheduled for Thursday. All Rowan needed at this point was some direction on the clothing his sister wanted her to use. She was supposed to call with an update.
“See you tomorrow, Burt.”
Rowan exited the refrigeration unit and locked the door. Since a body had been stolen last October, she had started locking the unit door. That likely wouldn’t stop anyone determined enough to force his way into the funeral home, but with the security system it made getting in and then out far more difficult to accomplish in the scarce few minutes between the alarm going off and the police arriving.
Her stomach rumbled, and she reminded herself that she hadn’t eaten today. Breakfast had been long forgotten, and then she’d needed to take care of Burt. It was almost noon, and this was the first time she’d thought of food.
Freud followed her into the lobby. The front entry to the funeral home was fairly grand. Folks expected it to be. The lobby was spacious with clusters of seating areas. Charlotte ensured the many plants adorning the spacious area were watered and pruned as necessary. Lots of windows allowed the light to pour in during the day. At night the blinds behind the heavy drapes provided privacy and a sense of coziness. The shiny floors were blanketed with muted Persian rugs that were nearly as old as the funeral home itself. If she were to continue beyond the lobby, there was a corridor that led to a refreshment lounge, her office and the public restrooms. In the other direction were the viewing parlors and the chapel. Directly across from the main entrance and set back to ensure it was visible as a backdrop to all else stood the grand staircase that ascended up to the second floor.
Rowan stood at the newel post, looking upward as she often did. The wide stairs were lined with a Persian runner. The stairs rose up and spilled onto the landing. The ornate railing stood beneath the massive chandelier that lit not only the lower but also the upper level, as well. Beyond the chandelier was the towering stained-glass window depicting angels ascending to heaven. When Rowan was a child, her mother had painstakingly restored the beautiful stained glass.
But that had been before.
Before she tied a rope to that ornate banister and hanged herself. Just in time for her only surviving daughter to walk through the front entrance and find her. The police had come, and when they had finished documenting the scene, her father had been allowed to pull her mother over that railing and cut her loose. He had held her in his arms and cried like a baby.
Rowan couldn’t climb these stairs without thinking of how her own mother had betrayed her, which was why she more often than not used the back staircase. But sometimes these stairs were just handier. Besides, if she faced that hurtful part of her past often enough, perhaps she would grow immune to the pain.
Next to her, Freud whimpered.
“Come on, boy.” Rowan started the climb, and Freud followed.
Before everything happened—before her closest friend and mentor, Julian Addington, had been revealed as a serial killer—Rowan had come to terms to some degree with what her mother had done. Since she had hanged herself only months after Raven drowned, Rowan had always assumed that her mother had loved her dead daughter too much to go on without her. Too much to grin and bear life for her remaining daughter.
During the past year, Rowan had discovered many secrets about her mother. Not the least of which was that she had likely blamed herself for Raven’s death, which might explain why she couldn’t live with what happened.
Still, she had left Rowan as a twelve-year-old child to grow up believing her mother hadn’t loved her enough to stay. But Rowan had had her father. He had always been the perfect parent. Loving, patient, kind.
Sadly, he had been keeping secrets, too.
So very many secrets had been buried, and so many lies had been told. So much darkness to find her way through.
It was difficult to distinguish what was fact from what was fiction.
At the top of the stairs, she made the right into the corridor that led to the living quarters. The second floor and the smaller third floor had served as the family home for several generations of DuPonts. When the funeral home was built a century and a half ago, that had been the plan. All these years later, that reality had not changed.
Rowan unlocked the door that separated her private space from the public funeral home space. This was new, as well. Billy had insisted she have as many security barriers as possible between her and any trouble that found her.
She smiled as she opened the door. Now she had Billy, too.
On Halloween night last fall, she had invited him to stay with her. It was the first time they were together in that way. She closed the door behind Freud and moved on to the kitchen. She opened the fridge door and scanned the contents.
Being with Billy was exactly as she had imagined. Amazing. Beautiful. Perfect.
At first she had been terrified. What if things went wrong and her and Billy’s friendship was damaged by the falling apart of their physical entanglement?
So far that had not happened. Shortly after that first time together, he had moved in. They shared the same room she had slept in her whole life before going off to college. They had talked about cleaning out the larger bedroom that had belonged to her parents, but until all these mysteries were solved, she just didn’t want to tackle the job. It felt as if she needed everything to stay just as it had always been.
Besides, for now they were taking things one step at a time. No rushing. No stress. Just enjoying this new aspect of their relationship.
She grabbed the bologna and mustard—one of Billy’s go-to snacks—and made a sandwich. When she’d filled a glass with water, she gave Freud a snack and went to the table. As she ate she thought abou
t dinner at Billy’s parents’ house yesterday. Dottie, his mother, had hinted repeatedly at the idea of a wedding. She wanted grandchildren. But first and foremost she wanted her son happy. Dottie understood that Billy wanted to be with Rowan. Dottie was a wonderful mother. She was kind and generous to Rowan, and she would be an amazing grandmother.
But what if things didn’t work out?
She was so worried that her relationship with Billy would be over completely if this new closer, more intimate relationship fell apart.
Rowan looked down at Freud, who watched her every move in hopes of getting a bite of her lunch. “It’s complicated, boy. It’s not easy being human.”
She laughed. “It’s not easy being a dog, either, huh?” Freud had definitely survived a few complications of his own.
Rowan finished off her sandwich and cleaned up the crumbs. She pushed in her chair and walked to the window that overlooked the backyard. Was she ready for the next steps? Marriage? Children?
She shook her head, reminding herself she hadn’t been asked. Dottie and Charlotte were putting foolish ideas in her head.
Her arms went around her waist as another cold, harsh reality invaded her thoughts. There was the ever-present concern about Julian. She couldn’t pretend he was gone forever. She could hope, but there was no way to be certain. He would destroy Billy just to get at her. The serial killer Angel Petrov, who had showed up at the funeral home with a body in her suitcase, had warned Rowan that Billy might not be long for this world.
He has a very large target on his back.
Whatever else she did, Rowan had to be sure there was no threat to Billy. Just because there had been no contact from Julian and no other killers had shown up with messages or bodies didn’t mean the nightmare was over.
Rowan exhaled a big breath. It might never be truly over.
Copyright © 2020 by Debra Webb
Keep reading for an excerpt from Disruptive Force by Elle James.
Disruptive Force
by Elle James
Chapter One
Are you still assigned to help me? CJ Grainger hesitated before she sent the text to Cole McCastlain. The former member of Marine Force Reconnaissance now worked for Declan’s Defenders, the small but dedicated agency created to help fight for justice when the police, FBI and CIA couldn’t get the job done.
A week ago, CJ had helped Declan’s Defenders by providing them information she’d found on the dark web about a potential assault on the National Security Council meeting.
That attack had gone down as predicted. The VP and Anne Bellamy, a mid-level staffer for the National Security Advisor, had been taken hostage, amid another plot involving a deadly serum. Fortunately, Declan’s team had been ready. They’d rescued the vice president and the staffer, killed two Trinity sleeper agents embedded within the White House staff as well as two other agents who’d worked with them to abduct the hostages.
Trinity.
Even the thought of the name and organization made CJ break out in a sweat. She’d spent the past year hiding in plain sight. One of very few who’d escaped Trinity and lived.
I’m here, Cole texted.
Again, CJ hesitated. On her own for so long, she’d survived because of her independence and ability to disguise herself. She’d been very careful not to leave a trail a trained hacker, private investigator or Trinity-trained assassin could follow. And she didn’t have anyone to be used as leverage. No Achilles’ heel, no loved one Trinity could hold hostage to get her to come out into the open.
The part about no loved ones had been one of the reasons she’d been recruited into the Trinity training program in the first place. And by “recruited,” she meant stolen out of a foster care home she’d been placed in by Virginia State Social Services.
The state of Virginia hadn’t spent a lot of time and resources looking for a child nobody wanted.
Years ago, as a young adolescent, she’d been assimilated, brainwashed and forced to learn how to fight, how to defend herself and how to kill people Trinity ordered her to eliminate.
Until one year ago.
They’d ordered her to kill a pregnant woman. The wife of a senator. When CJ had sighted her rifle on the woman, who’d been probably eight and a half months along in her pregnancy, she hadn’t been able to pull the trigger. She’d hesitated, wondering if the baby was a boy or girl and thinking that if she killed the child’s mother, she’d be without a parent. And knowing that if Trinity decided the father was of no further use to them or was a risk who could expose someone within the organization, the father would be eliminated, as well. That would leave the child parentless.
Having been parentless, CJ had refused to let that happen to the unborn child.
Her hesitation hadn’t helped the woman. Trinity had a second assassin waiting on a rooftop to do the job if CJ wouldn’t.
The shot was fired, the bullet piercing the woman’s belly, killing the baby instantly. It wasn’t until much later that CJ learned the mother had died in transit to the hospital.
After she’d failed to take the kill shot, CJ had known what would happen next. Since most Trinity agents didn’t get second chances if they failed an assignment, she knew the man who’d assassinated the pregnant woman and her baby would be turning his rifle on her.
CJ, anticipating the inevitable, had ducked low, out of the sight line of the rooftop from where the gunman leveled his sniper rifle and pulled the trigger.
The bullets flew well over her head. She’d tucked her rifle into the golf bag she’d carried up to the rooftop and then crawled to the door and descended to the first floor. There, she hid her golf bag under the last step of the staircase, planning to retrieve it after the furor died down.
In the meantime, she’d pulled a hooded jacket out of her satchel and slipped it on over her sweater. The added bulk made her appear heavier. She slipped on a pair of black-rimmed plastic glasses and tucked her hair under the hood of the jacket. Then she jammed her hands into the pockets of her jeans and hunched her shoulders like a teen trying to be invisible. Slipping out of the apartment building, she’d blended into the rush of people heading home from work.
Instead of going to her apartment, she’d kept walking. Nothing in that apartment meant anything to her. It had been a place to sleep and shower. She always carried everything she needed in the satchel she’d slung over her shoulder. A laptop, a couple changes of clothes, three wigs in varying colors, makeup and her Glock 9mm pistol. She’d also had a burner phone in her pocket, along with a wad of cash and a couple of credit cards that would have to be shredded since she’d become a target for the same organization she’d worked for.
For the past year, she’d been on the run, dodging shadows and living from day to day looking over her shoulder.
Are you in trouble? Cole’s second message brought CJ back from her memories to the task at hand.
Are you still digging into Trinity conspirators? she texted.
CJ didn’t want help, but she had to find the leader of Trinity before he found her. Two or three people searching the internet was better than one person using borrowed internet from public libraries.
Yes.
Look into Chris Carpenter, the Homeland Security Advisor for the National Security Council.
Cole’s response was quick.
Got anything to go on? Any clues?
CJ hated to say she had a gut feeling about the man. A trained assassin relied on cold, hard facts, disregarding emotion and luck.
Prior to the attack in the NSC, the conference room coordinator received a text from Carpenter.
The guy who helped kidnap Anne Bellamy and the vice president?
Yes.
His assistant, Dr. Saunders, was the woman who was almost killed in a hit-and-run accident, wasn’t she?
That’s the one.
On it.
CJ had been doing her own digging on the dark web via the Arlington Public Library. She’d hacked in, making it past the firewall of the phone system used by Chris Carpenter to his billing information. She’d narrowed her search of his calls to the day of the attack. She’d gone through his phone records, searching for a connection to Terrence Tully, the conference room coordinator for the NSC meeting, and found one.
Terrence Tully had been one of Trinity’s sleeper agents, embedded in the White House, waiting for his call to serve.
That day, he’d helped orchestrate the kidnapping of the VP and Anne Bellamy, the woman CJ had contacted to warn about the attack.
Can we meet? Cole asked.
CJ frowned. Any contact she had with others put them at risk. She’d already broken the first rule she’d made for herself upon her defection from Trinity: stay away from anyone or anything to do with the organization. Including people who were actively searching to destroy it.
She’d broken that rule by contacting Anne to warn her of the attack.
Then she’d involved herself in Declan’s Defenders’ rescue effort. If that wasn’t bad enough, she’d gone to their base location at Charlotte Halverson’s estate. The Defenders knew more about her than she’d wanted to divulge, including what she looked like. And they’d assigned one of Declan’s men to be her protector and backup.
CJ snorted. Like she’d let that happen. If she allowed anyone to get that close to her, it would be one more way for Trinity to find her and the agent would be collateral damage when Trinity came to kill her.
Being a loner was better for all involved.
She typed, If I need you, I’ll find you.
CJ backed out of Carpenter’s phone records she’d been perusing and went back on the dark web, digging into anything she could find that might lead her to Trinity’s leader, the best kept secret in the entire organization.
