The Girl and the Hunt (Emma Griffin FBI Mystery Book 6)

by A J Rivers

  “Sounds exhausting,” I tell him.

  “It definitely can be,” he acknowledges. “But I don't mind. At least I don't have the pressure like the doctors do.”

  “There was a man in this room yesterday. He came in just shortly after you left. Do you have any idea who it was?”

  “No,” he shakes his head. “I did think it was odd the agents weren't here, but we aren’t privy to everything. There must have been some reason they weren’t needed here. Bellamy just asked me to check in on him before she left, so I assumed she knew what was going to happen.”

  “No, she didn't. The two agents assigned to yesterday told us they received a call from the hospital, releasing them from duty. Do you have any idea who would do that?” I ask.

  He shakes his head slowly. “I don't make patient calls. The head nurse would handle everything like that. Yesterday morning it was Laura. She might be able to tell you what happened. Anything else?”

  "Are there security cameras in the hallways?"

  "Not on this floor. Some of the patients and events we deal with here are too sensitive to risk footage," he tells me.

  "That's what I thought." I let out a sigh. "Thank you. I appreciate your help."

  "I'll be back around later if you think of anything else."

  He leaves, and I go over to the table, peeling away the cling film so I can take a sip of juice.

  "Be right back," I tell Eric and grab my bag, bringing it with me into the bathroom.

  Ten minutes later, I emerge dressed, my hair brushed, and with enough makeup to make me feel presentable. I'm still only wearing hospital-issue gripper socks, but the rest is a victory. Eric looks troubled as he stares at the tablet in his hand, rapidly flipping through screens. I sit down on the couch and pull my shoes toward me.

  "What's wrong?" I ask, peeling away one gripper sock to replace it with a regular one.

  "Remember the cold cases you asked me to look for?" he asks, not looking up from the screen.

  I nod and stuff my foot into my boot, then repeat the process on the other side.

  "Yes. The man in the cabin. I actually brought the necklace if it would help to see it," I tell him, but he's already shaking his head.

  "I don't think I need to," he says.

  "Did you find something?" I ask, standing up and walking over to him.

  "There weren't many cases that fit all the specifications you gave. Only a few. But I think you need to see this one."

  He turns the tablet toward me. For a second, I think I'm looking at Greg. Then I realize the plastic-wrapped man's body is lying on the cracked pavement of a parking lot. Bits of blond hair is visible at the top of the plastic, and I can see what looks like pictures, documents, and money rolled up with him and scattered around him.

  I flip to the next screen, a scan of the autopsy report. The non-descript human form sketched on the page has arrows and slash marks to indicate all the injuries sustained on the body. One points to the neck.

  "The back of his neck was bruised," I say.

  "But not the front," Eric points out. "Like someone was trying to choke him backwards."

  "Or tore a necklace off him."

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  I'm still poring over the case file two hours later when Eric tells me he has to go into headquarters for I bit but would be back.

  “Agent Jones is supposed to be here in about twenty minutes,” he tells me.

  I shake my head. “Tell him he doesn't have to come.”

  “Are you sure?” he asks.

  “I don't need him,” I say. “I'm here, and I'm not planning on going anywhere for a couple of days. Everything is essentially at a standstill with the investigation in Castleville. They're still waiting for some test results and surveillance footage from the train station, but there isn't anything else to do until they get that information. Nicolas knows if he needs me for what's going on in Feathered Nest, he can call me. Other than that, I'm not doing anything.”

  “Yes,” Eric says sarcastically. “It sounds like your schedule is so free and clear.”

  “It's how I like it,” I offer. “We already learned I don't relax well.”

  “Don't I know it,” he chuckles. “Well, I shouldn't be too long. I'll get in touch with Agent Jones and tell him he doesn't need to come if you're okay being here by yourself.”

  “Not by myself,” I tell him. “I've got Greg here.”

  He walks up to the couch, and I put the tablet down to stand and hug him. The amount of time we've been apart suddenly feels more real in that hug. I give him an extra squeeze just for good measure.

  “It's not the best of circumstances, but it's good to have you back. Even if just temporarily,” he says.

  “Thank you,” I say. He starts towards the door as I sit back down. “Oh, Eric. Will you see if you can find Martin and ask him to bring me some coffee? Or show me where I can get myself coffee?”

  He laughs and nods. “I'm on it. Be back soon.”

  “See you then,” I tell him.

  I delve back into the cold case. As I'm reading over the autopsy report again, Martin comes into the room with a mug of coffee and a handful of creamer pods and sugar.

  “I went ahead and brought you a cup. If you ever want some and I'm not around, there's a break room at the very end of the hallway on the opposite side of the floor. There's coffee and some snacks. Sometimes volunteers deliver sandwiches and stuff,” he tells me.

  “Thank you, Martin,” I say. “You could have just told me to go to the break room and get it myself.”

  “It's not a problem,” he says.

  I empty a pod of creamer and a couple of packets of sugar into the coffee and stir it up. Usually, hospital coffee isn't the best quality, so I augment it as much as I can just so I can tolerate it. One sip tells me I've missed the mark. The drink is now so cloyingly sweet; I can't get it down. I feel bad for wasting the cup Martin brought me, but there's no way I can drink it. Setting it aside, I go back to my reading.

  Just a few minutes later, the door opens. I'm not expecting anyone, so my eyes snap up to the door. They narrow slightly when I see Agent Jones coming into the room.

  “Jones? What are you doing here?” I frown.

  “Hey, Griffin. I heard you were back in town. On Greg duty today.”

  “Didn't Eric call you?” I ask. “He was just here; he was going to let you know we don’t need you to come in.”

  “Oh,” he says. “No, I didn't get that call. My service around here isn't the best, though. I might have already been in the parking deck when he tried to call me. I've been sitting down there for the last twenty-five minutes or so.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “I was searching my car for something. Found it in the abyss under the back passenger's seat,” he tells me. “Well, I guess if you don't need me, I'll head out.”

  “Actually, do you mind waiting for a second?”

  “Um, sure?” he raises an eyebrow, sounding confused.

  “I just want to run over to the break room and grab some coffee, but I don't want to leave him alone,” I explain.

  Jones points at the cup beside me.

  “You mean, coffee like that?” he asks.

  “Oh, no. I ruined that. Just give me a second, I'll be right back.”

  “Okay. Greg and I will catch up on the most recent basketball scores. He has a really impressive fantasy league going on this season,” he tells me.

  “I'm sure he does,” I say.

  I leave the room with a slight smile on my face. It's good to hear everybody talk to Greg like he's there. Even if they're joking, it feels better than everybody standing around being morbid and too serious. Greg may be one of the most serious people I've ever known, but letting it weigh too heavily on us isn't going to help him. I don't know how much stock I put into the idea of healing energy, but I figure some levity and positivity couldn't make him worse, so we might as well give it a try.

  An empty breakroom means I get
free rein of the coffee machine. Part of a pot is already sitting there, but it seems old, so I pour it down the nearby sink and start brewing a new one. When it's done, I find a new cup, add the cream and sugar, and carry it back to the room along with a turkey sandwich wrapped in white butcher paper.

  When I get back to Greg's room, Jones is actually sitting beside him, reading out basketball scores, and making comments about it. I smile.

  “How's he doing?” I ask.

  “Kicking everybody's ass as usual,” he says. “Did you get everything you need?”

  “Yep,” I say, holding up my coffee and sandwich. “Thanks.”

  “And you’re sure you don't need me?” he asks.

  “I'll be fine. I have a lot to keep me occupied,” I say.

  “Great. Well, it was good to see you. Stop by the headquarters before you head out of town again,” he tells me.

  “I'll try,” I say.

  He leaves as I take a sip of the vastly improved coffee. My phone rings, and I set it on the arm of the couch so I can put my tablet in my lap.

  “Hey,” I answer when I see Dean's name on the screen. “I was actually going to call you. You would not believe what Eric found.”

  “I don't think you're going to believe what I found,” Dean replies.

  I must not have gotten enough sleep last night because my eyes suddenly feel heavy. Maybe I've been staring at the screen for too long. I shake my head and open my eyes wide to perk myself back up.

  “I'm sorry, what did you say?” I ask.

  “I said I don't think you're going to believe what I found,” he repeats. “But you tell me first.”

  “Eric researched all the cold cases that matched the man from the cabin. We think we found him.”

  “Seriously?” Dean asks.

  “Yeah. Perfectly matches the description, and he was wrapped in plastic, just like Greg. The autopsy report even mentions a deep bruise on the back of his neck. Like a necklace was yanked off.”

  “Where did they find him?”

  “In Florida. He was dumped in the parking lot of an old hotel that had been torn down and was under construction. There was no identification on the body. No driver's license or passport. The only thing they found was a label on the inside of his jacket collar. It said Murdock.”

  “That's incredible,” Dean says.

  It sounds like his voice is coming at me from a far distance. My head swims, and I fight to keep my eyes open. My heart feels like it's trembling slightly in my chest. I try to ignore it. I'm just exhausted, and I'm probably dealing with the adrenaline dump after the race to get here yesterday. Dean is saying something, but I don't understand any of it.

  “What was that?” I ask. “I missed it.”

  “Are you doing alright, Emma?” he asks.

  “I'm fine,” I sigh. “Just really tired. Tell me what you found.”

  “I went to the hospital,” he tells me.

  “Did you get inside?” I ask.

  “I did. Turns out there were a lot of former patients of the Rolling View Hospital who didn't make the move over to the new facility,” he says.

  “You found the records room,” I say, feeling slightly more breathless.

  “Not only did I find the record room, I found your mother's file. We've officially made it through the looking-glass. I found our Alice.”

  Black spots are dancing in front of my eyes and my skin tingles. I try to speak, to tell Dean what's going on, but suddenly it's like my lips won't work. I only hear him say one more sentence before everything goes black.

  “Your mother's nurse was Alice Logan.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  One night when I was a little girl, an earthquake hit our area. It came in the middle of the night, so I was in bed. It woke me up, but I wasn't aware of what was going on around me. I thought someone was standing beside the bed, shaking the mattress. Maybe my father was being silly and jumping on the bed again. He’d done it before when I wouldn't get out of bed in time to go to school. But it was still dark. It wasn't time to go to school yet.

  It took a few seconds for me to get my eyes all the way open and my brain clear enough to realize there was nobody by the bed. But everything was shaking. I was so scared I couldn't move. I just lied there on my bed, hanging onto my sheets and wondering if the ceiling fan was secure enough so it wouldn’t fall and hurt me.

  It probably only lasted a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity. When the shaking finally stopped, it still felt like my body was trembling. For a long time, I wondered if aftershocks of an earthquake could be so isolated, so only I would have been able to feel them. That was the only earthquake I ever felt, but I never forgot it.

  The memory immediately comes to mind as my consciousness starts to come back. I can't open my eyes. I can feel my body but can't move. The ground below me is shaking, and I want to hold on to something beside me, but I can't get my hands to cooperate. A few seconds later, everything goes black again. I don't know how long I'm out, but it's probably not long. When I wake up again, I'm still moving, and I become aware of layers of sound. The rhythmic rumble beneath me is like wheels. Voices speak in hushed tones to each other. Somewhere in the background, there’s the soft beeping of machines.

  I'm still in the hospital. But why can't I wake up? There's something over my face. It's not stopping me from breathing, but the sensation of it touching my nose and mouth makes my lungs constrict. As I keep moving, I realize I'm on a stretcher. I try to make a noise to get the attention of anyone around me but can't force my voice out of my throat. Moments later, I'm asleep again.

  This time when I open my eyes, my skin stings with cold. I'm not moving anymore. Everything is still around me, and I can no longer hear any of the sounds. Consciousness rolls through me, bringing me more and more out of the sleep with every breath I manage to take. The sheet is no longer over my face, but when I open my eyes, I see only darkness.

  I manage to move my hand slightly to the side and feel cold metal. Panic starts to build, worsening as the blackness creeps in around the edges of my eyes again. I can feel myself being dragged back down into the sleep, but I try to fight it. I try to stay awake, to pull myself into a sharper state of mind. But it's no use. My eyes close and again I'm lost.

  By the time I wake up again, the cold is so deep in my bones, it hurts. I'm struggling to breathe in, and my fingers tingle and sting. I force myself to move them, to reach out to either side of me. Again, I only feel cold metal. The smell around me burns my throat and turns my stomach. I know where I am. There are few places in the world that can mimic the drawer in a morgue.

  Gathering every bit of my energy and strength, I kick at the end of the drawer. It makes a hollow clanging sound and sends a shock of new pain rattling up my leg. But I don't care. I have to try again.

  This time I reach deep into my chest and find my voice. Battling to push away the feeling of sleep wanting to take over again, I kick hard and let out what I hope is a scream. It's nowhere near as loud as I want it to be. I muster more to try again. With every kick and every scream, I struggle and fight to force the exhaustion away. It’s barely enough. But I can’t give up. I have to keep fighting.

  I struggle and scream and thrash around with every ounce of strength. It’s working. Slowly, but it’s working. Soon I'm loud enough anybody walking past can hear. But I can't sustain it for long.

  The cold is affecting every part of my body, and panic is starting to settle in over the adrenaline, making it harder to breathe. I don't know how long I've been in here or how I got here. All I know is I need to get out fast.

  I scream out again, but my voice is getting weaker. I’m losing air too quickly.

  Suddenly I hear a click in the distance that sounds like a door opening. Relief finally washes over me. I kick again. The drawer jostles, and suddenly I'm being yanked forward. I'm about to thank whoever rescued me when his face appears, hovering over mine. Somewhere in the distance, I'm aware of the sound of an alar
m as eyes that look like mine stare at me and a mouth that looks like my father’s curves into a smile.

  “Hi, Emma,” my uncle says.

  I draw in a deep breath and try to move, but I'm not fast enough. His hands grab me by the front of my shirt, and he pulls me up off the cold slab.

  “Stop,” I groan.

  “Emma,” he says. “Emma, look at me.”

  His voice had sounded muffled, but now it's clear and familiar. I force my eyes open to look at him. It's no longer my uncle's face staring at me. Instead, it's Dean Steele.

  I sag in his arms, and he scoops me up against his chest. He runs out into the hallway, and the sound of the alarm becomes piercing.

  “I have her,” he calls out to someone. “She's right here.”

  A few moments later, I'm out of his arms and on another bed, but this one is warm and soft. It starts to move, and I panic, my hands clamping down on either side of me. A hand smooths down over my hair.

  “You're alright,” Dean whispers. “You’re alright now. We're going to get you to a room. Just hang on.”

  The next hour is a blur as I try to regain my grasp on consciousness and reality. Doctors and nurses swarm in and out, and two uniformed police officers come to the side of my bed to pepper me with questions.

  “What happened?”

  “Who did this to you?”

  “Were you injected with something?”

  “What did you eat?”

  “What did you drink?”

  I have no answers for them. I tell them everything I remember, from waking up on the couch that morning to waking up in the morgue. Suddenly a thought snaps into my head.

  “Greg,” I say. “Has anybody checked on Greg?”

  “He's fine,” Dean says. “Eric and Bellamy are there. I'm going to go let them know you're alright while the doctors check you over more thoroughly.”