The Defenseless (Brandon Fisher FBI Series Book 3)

by Carolyn Arnold

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  Table of Contents

  Book Blurb

  Note to Readers

  Newsletter

  Copyright Page

  In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at carolyn@carolynarnold.net. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Prologue

  Twenty-six years ago…

  He should be celebrating at home with a bottle of Cristal. Instead, he was outside of his neighbor’s house, frozen to the bone, his hands like ice.

  He hadn’t had a moment of peace and quiet all day. His project was getting further behind, the deadline ever looming, but the new resident next door gave no consideration to those around him. First it was his barking dog, but when he came to complain, the sight of it whelmed up pity into his heart and fueled his rage toward its owner.

  With the canine now tucked away back at his home, warm and secure, he trudged back out through the snow.

  The heavy-metal music that had drowned out the howls of the animal, now vibrated the deck.

  All he needed was silence. So he could think. So he could get what he needed to get done, done.

  He pounded on the door, and it sent pain flashing through his knuckles—the combination of determination and the bitter temperatures against flesh and bone.

  Wind howled between the two houses, gusting up the snow into miniature funnel clouds of ice crystals. They assaulted any bared skin—his neck and face taking the brunt of it. A quiver wracked his body and prompted a deep exhalation, which created a cloud of white in the night air.

  “Open the fucking door!” He pushed through the discomfort and knocked again.

  Still no evidence the man was even listening.

  He surveyed, left and right, glancing over his shoulder, feeling eyes on him. Were the neighbors watching him? Did they call the cops?

  The light was on in an upstairs room, but otherwise the nearby house was enshrouded in darkness. The only other illumination were the streetlights that cast dull beacons amidst the blowing snow.

  He went to bang again, but his hands refused. They had seized up from the cold. He blew on them to warm them. Surely, the occupant was drunk and would awaken from his stupor to—

  The door opened and with it, the music got louder.

  “What the fuck do you want?” The man stood there, six feet tall, a few inches shy of his own height, and his face was unshaven. His suspicions were confirmed by the strong smell of whiskey that flushed out of the house, and exuded from the man.

  But it wasn’t his neighbor’s appearance, or even the odor that burned his eyes and had his attention, it was his identity. He would never forget that face. It had scarred his childhood, and it wasn’t until this moment, until this reunion that he realized how much. Ken Bailey was the man’s name.

  A warmth encased his insides, his stomach lightened, and his vision grew clearer.

  “Freak, what the fuck is up?” Ken leaned against the doorframe but lost his mark and stumbled to regain his balance.

  This arrogant son of a bitch didn’t recognize him. It provided him clarity—and strength. A shiver laced down his spine as he stepped inside the house.

  “Hey!” Ken slammed a hand against his shoulder.

  It shuffled him back a few feet, but he never lost his balance. He was sober as a priest, thanks to Ken interrupting his evening’s plans.

  He pushed past Ken into the house. He shut the door behind him and stood there, facing his opponent, breathing as if he’d run a marathon. His heart beat so fast, it pained in his chest. Whatever happened next, Ken would deserve it for what he had done to her.

  “Get out of my hou—”

  He felt cartilage shift under the impact of his fist to Ken’s nose.

  Ken instinctively cradled his nose and blood poured down his face. A red mist spewed from his mouth as he spoke. “What the—”

  “It’s your past calling, asshole.”

  He landed another blow. Ken’s nose was definitely broken.

  Still, Ken retaliated, coming at him with force, and pinned him against the back of the door. It knocked the wind out of him.

  He doubled in half, clenching at his injured abdomen, his eyes only seeing one color—red.

  In that moment, adrenaline fused through his system, cording his sinew into tight springs ready to pounce. He would make him pay, make him beg for his next breath. He would no longer be viewed as weak and puny, instead, as powerful and in control.

  He thrust his fist toward Ken’s jaw, but missed when he diverted to the side and dipped low. He took aim again, but a blow to his face stopped all movement.

  White, searing pain hindered his vision. A constant rhythm pumped in his head, the music now a deadened cacophony.

  Ken stood across from him, winded, each exhale exuding alcohol blended with nicotine.

  “You don’t even know who I am, do you?”

  “I don’t need to know you to kill you.” The man charged at him, the motive clear.

  He had mere seconds, if not merely a second, to assess his surroundings and calculate the odds. They were in the kitchen. Dishes were piled on the counters and in the sink. Empty beer bottles covered the table. On the floor next to them were, easily, twenty to thirty alcohol magnums waiting to be returned for a refund.

  He ducked just in time.

  Ken’s fist met with the wood door and had him howling in pain—but not for long. He came at him again, wrapped his hands around his middle and worked to pull him to a straight position. “You think you can come in here and attack me!”

  The jab met his cheek, sliding his jaw askew and sinking teeth into tongue. He tasted blood.

  He glanced back to the bottles again. They were close enough that he could…

  Ken yanked on his coat and pulled him upright. His opponent threw a punch and he returned one. They continued to come at each other, both men juking to avoid the other’s blows, the odd one making purchase.

  It was a misstep that had his foot twisting on a precarious angle, the move to divert, working to his detriment. He fell. Hard. He scrambled to regain equal footing.

  It was too late. Ken came down on top of him with powerful force, straddling his mid-section and constricting his airflow.

  The music came back into focus. The droning guitar and screaming singer.

  The blows landed consecutively, meeting with his face, his shoulders, his gut, and his sides until Ken paused, panting, and looked down at him.

  “Now I know who you are.” Still mounted over him, his laughter shrilled above the noise disguised as music. “I recognize your shriveling nature.” More mocking laughter. Ken was driven to tears with his amusement.

  He saw the one color again. Did he have what it took to take a man’s life? He used to be peaceful…until he was eight and this man stripped his innocence. Life wasn’t but a dream, sweetheart.

  He bucked, trying to break his arm free, but Ken applied more pressure.

  It was time. He had a decision to make. Woul
d he continue to loll back and let the Baileys of the world overpower him forever? Or would he make it clear, once and for all time, that he wasn’t a man to be fucked with?

  His insides warmed. His extremities cooled.

  He assessed the bottles that were beside his head and he figured out what he had to do. But did he have the guts to do it? He had come over here prepared to fight, hadn’t he? Well, he found one. He just hadn’t expected it to be with Ken Bailey.

  But what real difference did it make? It only reinforced the direction and power of Fate. He had been brought to this point in his life for a reason. He was tired of letting everyone down—especially himself.

  His fingertips grazed the edge of the closest bottle—a clear rum bottle. His fingers danced across the glass until he had a hold on it.

  The hyena laughter stopped. Ken came to, realizing the intention in his eyes.

  Ken drew his arm back to make a fatal blow—it was too late.

  “For Molly, you asshole!” He let out a roar that challenged the music and ripped the bottle from the floor. He would be the last thing this man would see.

  He wailed against him with the bottle until, finally, the glass weakened and shattered, raining down over him, to reveal jagged edges.

  Minutes later, he hoisted the lifeless body of Ken Bailey, off of him and onto the floor.

  His legs were rubbery when he went to stand, but he had proven himself. He had stood up to the bully and had come out the victor.

  He gazed down and noticed Bailey’s chest still rose softly. Scanning the room, he found the perfect thing to fix that.

  When he was finished, he decided he had something to celebrate after all.

  Chapter 1

  Current day

  December 15th, 6 a.m.

  Denver, Colorado

  The plane touched down at Denver International Airport just after six in the morning. I was happy to have the tumultuous flight over with, and thought it should have been canceled, but apparently those responsible for that sort of thing had cleared take-off.

  Flying typically didn’t bother me, but high winds and various temperature pockets had buffeted the plane, rocking it almost like a ship at sea, only we were thirty thousand feet in the air. Land never looked so good.

  Zachery slapped me on the back and had me lurching forward from the momentum. “We made it, Pending.”

  Months into my probationary period but still not clear of it—something I was reminded of all the time by his beloved nickname.

  Jack brushed past, leading the three of us through the airport, no doubt driven by the undying urge for a cigarette. Paige hung back, and when I turned, she pushed a rogue strand of hair from her eyes and dipped to the left as she shifted the position of her suitcase strap on her right shoulder.

  We were called to Colorado because some old-timer detective by the name of Mack McClellan was certain the area had a serial killer. He believed it strongly enough we were convinced as well.

  The label serial killer no longer fazed me, and it only took a few horrid cases to rub off its shock value.

  Regular people, who didn’t have to hunt down murderers, lived life as if they were merely characters fabricated for entertainment purposes. The dark truth was, conservatively, there were an estimated thirty-five to fifty serial killers in the United States at any given time.

  The local FBI office was to provide us with transportation, but it was the local detective who insisted on meeting us at the airport and bringing us up to speed.

  Stepping out of the warm cocoon of the airport into the brisk winter air of Denver stole my breath. It had me wanting to retreat back inside for the warm, blowing vents.

  For recreational purposes, Denver would be an ideal location to spend the Christmas season, with its mountain slopes and deep snow. Even facing the search for a killer, I’d rather be here, miles away from home, than facing the emptiness of the house on Christmas day.

  This would be the first year without Deb. The only thing that could make it better was reconciliation, but we were beyond that point. Truth be told, I wasn’t even sure if I’d take her back. The divorce was already filed, and knowing my penchant for attracting negative events, it would be official in time for the holiday. It didn’t matter though. I had found a way to move forward in my life—at least I told myself that. Maybe I was burying my feelings, but I preferred to think I healed faster than most.

  “Hey, there they are.”

  A man pushed off the hood of a Crown Vic, the cup in his hand steaming in the cold air. At full height, he was all of five eight. His hair was sparse, and reminded me of a Chia Pet just starting to grow, but what he did have was a dark blond. He wore a thigh-length wool parka, zipped up shy of his collar by about six inches. It revealed a white collared shirt and a blue tie with white dots. I wondered if he dressed this way all the time or only when the FBI was in town.

  He put his cup on the car roof and came toward us with another man who wore a fur-lined leather jacket paired with blue jeans, which appeared stiff due to the mountain air.

  It had me wondering which scenario was more uncomfortable, frozen stiff jeans, or breezy dress pants. I experienced the latter and questioned the wardrobe I had brought, wondering if I’d be warm enough.

  Curse winter and all that’s white.

  “Gentleman, I’m Mack McClellan.” The man in the parka extended his hand, first to Jack. He must have sensed his authority despite the lit cigarette.

  Jack took a quick inhale and blew a stream of white pollution out the side of his mouth as he shook the man’s hand. “Supervisory Special Agent Jack Harper, and this is my team.” Jack left us to introduce ourselves.

  McClellan’s gaze settled on me, and I surmised what he was thinking—I was the young guy on the team, the inexperienced one he’d have to watch.

  He gestured to the man with him. “This is Detective Ronnie Hogan. He’s also with Denver PD. We’re not partners, but he’s of the same mind. There’s a serial at play here.”

  Hogan bobbed his head forward as a greeting, but made no effort to extend a hand. His eyes were brown and hard to read. He had etched crease lines in his brow, but he also had smile lines, so there was some promise there. Not that we witnessed the expression.

  McClellan grinned with a warmth that touched his eyes, giving me the impression he was used to Hogan’s aloofness. “Glad to see you made it all right. It’s quite the weather we’re having these days. How was your flight?”

  Jack took another drag on his cigarette. “Over now.”

  His retort killed the expression on the detective’s face. “A man who is all business, I see. So, the dead body. You know the name and details.”

  Another pull on the cigarette, and Jack flicked the glowing butt to the ground and extinguished it with the twist of a shoe.

  “We know what the file says, but we like to go over everything in person.” Paige smiled at the detectives, no doubt trying to compensate for Jack’s crass behavior.

  “Well, let us fill you in on the way to where the body was found. My, it’s mighty cold out here.” He rubbed his hands together and grabbed his cup before going around to the driver’s side. “For everyone to be more comfortable, two of you can come with me, and the other two can go with Hogan.”

  McClellan seemed like an open book—what you saw was what you got. With Hogan, there was something about him, whether it was his skepticism or what, I wasn’t sure. A quality that should repel actually made me want to get to know him.

  “I’ll go with Hogan.” Paige and I spoke at the same time.

  Our eyes connected. In the past this symmetry in thought would have elicited a smile from both of us. These days our relationship was more complicated.

  Paige stepped back and sought Jack’s direction. “I’ll go with whomever you want me to.”

  “It’s fine. You guys go with Hogan. We’ll all catch up at the crime scene.”

  She went past me and held out her hand to Hogan. “I don’t thin
k we’ve been properly introduced.”

  Hogan stared at her extended hand and, eventually, conceded to a handshake. The greeting was over quick.

  As he was getting into the driver’s seat, I whispered in Paige’s ear. “He’s not really the touchy-feely kind, is he?”

  I received a glare in response.

  Chapter 2

  “Things must be slow for you guys if you’re willing to come all the way here for this case.” Hogan kept his eyes on the road, his voice level as he spoke. He made a quick pass of a slower-moving vehicle.

  My fingers gripped the armrest on the door, indenting the foam beneath it. “You’re not buying that it’s a serial at work?”

  A small snort, which could have been construed as a laugh. “I’m not saying anything. McClellan can be a convincing man. I agree the situations surrounding these men are similar. Whether that means anything more, I haven’t fully decided.”

  He touched the brakes, and the back end of the car lost traction and swayed to the right. No one else seemed to notice or care.

  “How long have you been with Denver PD?” Paige asked.

  It warranted a quick, sideways glance from Hogan. “Is this where you try to get to know me better?”

  Paige’s jaw tightened. “If you don’t like people, why are you a cop?”

  I settled in to the seat, happy that I wasn’t on the receiving end for a change. Part of me wished to be elsewhere, the other part wondered who would come out the victor.

  “Who says I don’t like people? I like people. I just don’t like feds.”

  “And what have we done to you?”

  Hogan kept his eyes straight ahead. “McClellan feels the latest victim was left there for us to find. Like this guy wants to get caught.”

  “So that’s how you get by in life? You shut people down who try to get close.”

  “You want to get close to me, sweetheart, we’ll do it after hours, but now’s the job.”

  Air rushed from Paige’s mouth, skimming over teeth and making a whooshing sound on the exhale. She knotted her arms and kicked her back into the seat as she did so.