Blown Away

by Shane Gericke

  No reply.

  She let go to examine him. His skin was a sickly yellow, his normally lustrous hair oily and matted. He smelled like old bacon, and his bruises had merged into a giant black oil slick. He bristled with tubes, hoses, monitors, and bandages. His stockinged feet pulsed when the pressure cuffs kicked on. But his jaw was firm, his gaze clear and straight into her eyes.

  Blink.

  “Oh my God,” Emily whispered. “You can’t speak. You’re paralyzed. Like my…my…”

  Blink.

  “Dammit, Ellis,” Dr. Winslow barked as she charged into the room. “Didn’t you warn her?”

  Marwood shook his head. “I assumed she knew, Barbara,” he said. “Commander Benedetti said he told her about the paralysis.”

  “But her memory’s playing tricks. She might not even recall that conversation.”

  Emily’s nerves pulsed. “I’m sure Marty told me, Doctor. I just don’t remember.”

  Winslow squeezed Emily’s arm. “Give me a minute to finish up a patient, and I’ll answer all your questions.” She pantomimed sipping. “I’m stopping at the cafeteria. Anybody need a drink?”

  “Me,” Marwood said, stifling a yawn.

  “Coffee?”

  “Nah,” Marwood said, eyes flicking to Branch. “I’ll take a nice cold pop.”

  “Regular or diet?”

  “Any pop will do as long as it keeps me awake….”

  Branch is paralyzed, and you’re discussing soft drinks? Emily nearly screamed as they debated the wake-up effects of Coke, Mountain Dew, and Winslow’s “all-time favorite during residency, Cherry-Ola Cola spiked with No-Doz.” But Winslow dealt with tragedy all the time. Marwood, too, she supposed. They weren’t heartless. Just inured.

  “How are you, Emily?” Winslow asked when she reappeared. “Annie says you’re a little sore. Don’t worry. That’s to be expected.” She placed her pop can on a tray and ran her fingers over Emily’s ribs. “How does this feel…good…now here…excellent,” she said. “You’re healing nicely.”

  Emily pointed to Branch. “He’s healing nicely, too? He’s coming back from this?”

  Blink, Branch said.

  “Yes,” Winslow agreed. “The bullet sideswiped a vertebra, making it swell like a balloon against the spinal cord. That’s why he’s paralyzed. When the swelling decreases, so will the pressure on the cord, and with it the paralysis. His speech will return then, too.”

  Thank God! “When will he be back on his feet? Memorial Day? Thanksgiving?”

  “We don’t know. The body heals when the body heals.”

  “But he’ll recover completely.”

  “Well,” Winslow said, taking a sip. “Naturally, our goal is 100 percent—”

  “What?!” Emily objected.

  Winslow sighed. “Branch will walk and talk again. How completely, there’s simply no way to predict right now. He may come back only 90 percent. Maybe 80. Perhaps as low as—”

  Blink-blink.

  Winslow touched Branch’s arm. “Still insisting on one hundred, are we?”

  Blink.

  “You’re prepared to do everything the therapists say? No matter how painful or exhausting? Sixty days or six years, you’ll stick with the regimen to the bitter end?”

  Blink.

  “OK, then, Hercules,” Winslow said, breath catching a little. “I won’t let this killer beat you. I’ll get you that 100 percent.”

  Blink.

  Emily swallowed hard, thinking of Mama. “He understands what we say?”

  “Every word. Mind’s not affected, just his body.”

  “So”—she swung her eyes to Branch—“you can talk by blinking?”

  Blink.

  Emily blew out her breath, knowing that Mama somewhere, somehow, was helping Branch out. “Can you spell out words? Sentences?”

  Blink-blink.

  “One blink or two,” Winslow said. “Yes or no. That’s all we’ll get for awhile. His eyelid muscles go into spasm if he works too hard.”

  “I remember,” Emily said, tucking her hands in her armpits for warmth. “Mama never could semaphore. Only yes or no.” She glanced at Marwood, who hadn’t said a word since snapping open his pop can. “Semaphoring is how you spell words with blinks, Ellis,” she explained. “One blink means A. Two equals B, three C, and so on. Given enough time, you can blink out Hamlet.”

  “Mm-hm,” Marwood said, sipping.

  Emily looked at Branch again. His expression was a little off center, like ice cream melted and refrozen. “You will get back to your old charming self, right, Captain?” she pressed. “So Lydia won’t have to wait on you hand and foot?”

  Blink.

  “I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Winslow said.

  Emily noticed Branch staring at Marwood. She realized he might not even know the profiler. Or had completely forgotten, if his memory blanks were as bad as hers. “Do you know this man?” she asked, pointing.

  Blink-blink.

  “Then please meet Dr. Ellis Marwood, the criminal profiler Chief Cross brought onto the task force,” she said. “Remember telling us about the task force at Grandma Sally’s?”

  Blink.

  “Ellis is an industrial psychologist,” Emily continued. “His clients are large corporations and federal law-enforcement agencies. He’s born, raised, and still lives in Manhattan, so he’s an arrogant so-and-so”—quick grin—“but we forgive him because he’s so dedicated to hunting.”

  Blink-blink.

  Blink-blink.

  Blink-blink-blink-blink-blinkblinkblink-blinkblinkblinkblink…

  “Doctor!” Emily gasped. “Do something!”

  Winslow shook her head. “He’s just falling asleep.”

  “No, he’s not. Look at him! He’s in pain!”

  “Branch is fine,” Winslow assured. “He’s fighting to stay awake for you. When his body can’t take it anymore, his eyelids start to spasm. A minute later he falls asleep, to regain his strength. It’s been happening since he woke.”

  Blinkblinkblinkblinkblinkblinkblinkblinkblinkblinkblinkblinkblinkblinkblink…

  “Cross wants us back ASAP,” Annie called from the hallway. “Let’s go.”

  Emily squeezed Branch’s hand, then headed out.

  They drove to Jackson Avenue so she could change, then headed for the police station. Emily drove her own car, Marwood her sole passenger at her request.

  “So what was that about?” Emily said at the first red light.

  “What?”

  “You didn’t talk to Branch during the visit,” she said. “Not once. What gives?”

  “What should I have said to the man, Emily? ‘Gee, pal, your life sucks. Bummer.’”

  She stomped the accelerator at the green. “How about a simple, ‘I’m happy you survived, Captain?’ Or maybe, ‘We’re gonna get this scumbag, Branch. Let me tell you the profile I created.’” Her volume climbed. “A little something to acknowledge he’s a living, breathing human being and not just a piece of your puzzle.”

  “Yes, I could have,” Marwood said. “I chose not to.”

  Emily passed Safety Town, turned into the patrol-car lot. “Why?”

  No answer.

  She nosed into a space. Annie glided by. Emily held up a finger—one minute—then turned to Marwood. “Tell me, or my cooperation with you is finished.”

  Marwood glared at her. “All right, Detective, if you insist,” he said. “This nightmare isn’t happening to Joe Citizen. It’s happening to you. A member of the tribe.” His expression was hostile. “Meaning Branch, Cross, Bates, Benedetti, and everybody else around here are too emotionally distracted to make their usual sound judgments. I certainly understand that. Hell, if family doesn’t go to bat for you in a crisis, who will? But someone needs to see the bigger picture. To stand at arm’s length and point out where emotion is clouding judgment.”

  “And that’s you?” Emily snapped.

  “Damn straight. I’m the designated driv
er for this punch-drunk outfit.” Marwood’s body was a coiled rattler. “Ken Cross knew exactly what would happen to his department when word leaked you were the target. That’s why he brought me in. To be his profiler, sure, I’m good at it. But most of all, to be the one set of eyes and ears without an emotional stake in this.” He poked Emily’s shoulder. She slapped his hand away. “I start caring too much about things like whether Branch walks again, I become less objective. Meaning less effective. So I let others play those roles. I play mine.”

  “Professional detachment, huh?”

  “Yup.”

  Emily slumped back. “All right, I get it. Sorry I keep blowing up at you.”

  “Don’t be sorry, dammit!” Marwood raged. “Just quit pissing on me all the time!”

  “Ellis—”

  “I have very good reasons for what I do!” he said. “So quit the sniping and second-guessing. It’s a distraction neither of us can afford!”

  She touched his forearm, letting her hand linger to say, if not sorry, then thanks. Marwood released his door handle and smiled. “You ready to meet the task force?”

  EMILY AND BRADY

  Chicago

  January 1975

  “Any idea how this got started?” the Chicago Fire Department engineer yelled over the howl of sirens.

  “Not a clue!” the battalion chief replied, ordering hose teams down the alley to knock down floating cinders. What had started as a routine garage fire—two trucks, one hose, back in time for the Bulls game—had exploded into a three-house conflagration when flames hit the drum of stove fuel the homeowner stored under the workbench. The chief waved over a cop. “Still too close,” he said, pointing to the wide-eyed kids watching the fire. “Push ’em back another hundred feet so they don’t get hurt, OK?” The cop nodded and ran off.

  “Always count on the neighborhood boys turning out for us,” the engineer said, waving his sooty helmet. They waved back, thrilled to be noticed by their heroes.

  “Good thing they do,” the chief agreed, saluting the boys himself. “Half our guys joined the department because they saw a fireman scale a wall or save a kid.” The kids cheered the arrival of the snorkel truck, prompting its driver to toot the air horn.

  Brady Kepp saluted back, his dick harder than he’d ever known. This fire was his best yet. He’d never dreamed of an explosion, too! A shame he couldn’t light the whole city on fire…

  CHAPTER 21

  Wednesday, 5 P.M.

  Thirteen hours till Emily’s birthday

  Emily was halfway into the auditorium when Marty grabbed her arm from behind. “There’s something new in the case, Detective,” he growled, steering her into an interrogation room and shutting the door. “Something you need to know now.”

  His slate-hard expression unnerved her. “What?” she asked.

  “This,” he said, wrapping her in his arms and kissing her lips.

  “Ohhh, Marty.” She returned the kiss, trying to grab all of him at once. He was warm, solid, reassuring. “I’m so glad to see you!”

  “Me, too, Emily Marie,” he said, stroking her hair and ears. “’Nother?”

  She closed her eyes.

  He kissed softer but longer, matching his breath to hers. She leaned into him, heat lightning sparking from every place they touched. He backed off after awhile but kept his face close. “You scared me, darling,” he whispered, eyes bright. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

  Emily’s legs wobbled. “A big ol’ tough guy like you?” she teased. “Scared?”

  “Out of my mind.”

  They embraced without saying anything. Then Benedetti sighed. “I’d comfort you right on this table if we had time. We don’t. Take my IOU?”

  “I’m cashing it in the minute we catch this guy. Plan on calling in sick for a week.”

  “Happily, Miss Nightingale. But till then it’s strictly business between us.” He kissed her again, massaging her head with both hands. “Agreed?”

  “Agreed…Commander Benedetti,” she said.

  “Good.” He pointed to a double stack of printouts. “Dig in.”

  “What is it?” she said, combing her hair into place.

  “Personnel roster from the Pentagon. Our Unsub’s in there somewhere.”

  Emily lunged for the treasure trove. “Ellis predicted he was military!”

  “So did you,” Benedetti said. “Remember asking if military ammo meant the Unsub’s a soldier?”

  She looked at him.

  “Never mind. Bottom line is the Unsub’s a veteran, and he’s on one of those sheets. Read fast.”

  “Are you serious?” she said, thumbing the stack. “There’s thousands of names here!”

  “Millions,” Benedetti corrected. “But I sorted them by home address, nearest to farthest from the three places you’ve lived—Naperville, college dorm in Wisconsin, childhood bungalow in Chicago—”

  Emily gasped as a memory surfaced. “Marty! I quit playing games when I buried Mama! I didn’t start again till Lucy was murdered!”

  Benedetti’s eyes widened as the meaning hit home. “You know the Unsub from childhood. Because you stopped playing games at twenty-one!” He paced. “Did you tell anyone about those game and ice cream nights? I mean, after your mother died?”

  “No.”

  “Are you certain?” he pressed. “Your memory’s fragged.”

  She thought hard. “After Mama died, even thinking about game night turned me into Niagara Falls. So I never told anyone.” A chill swept her body, and her hand darted to the closest thing she had to a rosary—the handcuff key taped to the back of her neck. “The only adults I ever told are Jack, Branch, Annie, and you. Though I assume Branch told Cross and Ellis.”

  Benedetti pulled out a chair and gestured at it. “Em, you just cut the suspect list by two-thirds. Now find a name. Take all the time you need, of course, but the quicker we find the guy…”

  Emily sat and picked up the first printout. The scent of the predator was heavy in her nostrils.

  CHAPTER 22

  Wednesday, 8 P.M.

  Ten hours till Emily’s birthday

  “I’m never gonna find this clown,” Emily groaned, rubbing her burning eyes. The first name she’d looked for was Daddy’s. She’d turned light-headed when she saw it pop from the end of the page—THOMPSON, GERALD FLANDERS—and quickly moved on. The hunt was tedious, and so far fruitless. She’d waded through the navy, air force, and half the army and still wasn’t done with Illinois. Nobody knew for sure the Unsub was in fact ex-military. Criminal profiles were educated guesses, not facts.

  KEPP, BRADY MAURICE. Captain, U.S. Army. Born 23 January 1965, Chicago. Inducted into service 23 January 1982, East St. Louis. Final posting USSOCOM, MacDill AFB, Tampa. Separated from service 06 June 1990…

  “Get the commander!” Emily hollered through the door. Marty charged into the room. “I know this name,” she said, breathing fast. “I went to grade school with a Brady Maurice Kepp.”

  Benedetti read over her shoulder. “USSOCOM. That’s United States Special Operations Command. It fits. Do you remember him?”

  She screwed her eyes shut, willing Kepp to appear. “No,” she complained bitterly. “My memory is so—”

  “Just relax,” Benedetti said, studying the information. “Tell me about Kepp. He’s your age. Lived in your neighborhood.” He frowned. “Wait, that doesn’t fit. His house was more than a mile from yours. That’s two neighborhoods away at least.”

  “I attended Catholic school,” she said. “The parish boundary might have stretched wide enough to include both houses. I could know him from school but not from the neighborhood.”

  Benedetti leaned against the table. “Makes sense. Were you friends with this boy?”

  A little of Brady floated back. “He didn’t have many friends, mostly kept to himself. He played baseball. Maybe football. I think I liked him. I don’t know why.” She thought hard. “There was something about his family. Something unu
sual. I don’t know what.”

  Benedetti paced. “We’ll search newspaper archives and police reports. All Kepp’s government records. If there’s anything there—”

  Emily jumped to her feet. “I beat him up once.”

  “You did? When?”

  “In eighth grade. Brady asked me to a dance.” She closed her eyes, concentrating. “I blew him off for some reason. He got mad and called me a cunt.”

  Benedetti tapped her elbow with his notebook. “Ah. Like Ray Luerchen did at the ditch.”

  “Same result, too—I went after him. Brady fought back. He got in some good licks. But I was quicker and whaled on him from every direction.” She made a face. “All the kids gathered ‘round, chanting, ‘Fraidy Brady, beat up by a girl! Bed wetter! Retard!’” She felt mildly embarrassed. “Kids were pretty stupid back then.”

  Benedetti wrote fast. “Em, that could be his motive. Revenge.”

  “It was a school yard fistfight,” she argued. “No big deal. I had them twice a month. So did my friends. Fighting came with growing up on the Southwest Side. How could anyone be so angry about a meaningless little dustup”—she counted on her fingers—“twenty-eight years later?”

  “Hey, tinfoil can jump-start a wacko,” Benedetti pointed out. “That’s why they’re wackos. Plus this kid was a bed wetter. Do you know if he tortured animals or set fires?”

  She shook her head.

  “We’ll find out.” Scribble-scribble-scribble. “Did your school have yearbooks?”

  Emily shook her head. “We had class photos, though. I threw them in the trash when I left for Madison—big, tough, unsentimental college girl, you know—but Daddy fished them out. I found them in the basement after he died, along with a note. Your children will want these, Princess. Don’t cuss too much. Love, Daddy.” Her skin prickled as an image of Brady Kepp took shape in her mind. Stocky build, big puppy eyes, bright yellow hair, and dandruff. Handsome except for the ears sticking out like dinner plates. Eager to please in grades one through four, moody in fifth, surly till graduation. Her hatred for this man was building like a runaway train, and he wasn’t guilty of anything but his name. God help him if he’s the Unsub! “Maybe the FBI can age his school photos with their computers,” she suggested. “See what he’d look like at twenty, thirty, and now. If it matches his official photographs—”