by Charly Cox
What Alyssa heard in the unspoken words was that, even if Callie survived, she may never be the same, mentally, emotionally, or physically. As the impact of that hit, failure filled her, magnified tenfold when Rafe finally collapsed onto the table, his enraged howls full of heartbreak. Before she could stop it, the memory of her mother’s anguished cries, so similar to Mr. McCormick’s, flashed through her mind.
When he finally lifted his head and stood, his movements slow, he said, ‘Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate your candor. Now, unless there’s more,’ he choked on the last word, ‘I’d like to go be with my wife.’
‘That’s all for now.’ When he reached the door, Dr. Homa stopped him. ‘I’m sorry, Mr. McCormick. But, despite the bad news, I swear we will be doing everything possible to keep your wife alive and get her healed.’
Rafe’s head fell forward in acknowledgement, the only indication he’d heard, before he left the room.
As soon as the door closed behind him, Alyssa thanked the doctor.
She pushed back her chair and stood. ‘You can thank me by catching whoever did this.’
‘That’s the goal,’ Alyssa said, just before the doctor was paged over the loudspeakers.
PART TWO
Chapter Twenty-One
Thursday, March 28, 10:00p.m.
It was breaking all over the late-night newscast that Callie McCormick had been rescued from the Jemez Mountains, her body stumbled upon by hikers. Outraged, Evan pounded his head into the wall several times for making such a sloppy mistake. He knew it was the midazolam, that the amount he’d injected her with hadn’t been enough to kill her.
This was all her fault! If she’d behaved the way she should’ve instead of constantly crying and begging, he wouldn’t have had to get rid of her at all. He could even have forgiven her for her disgusting messes.
He should’ve tossed her in the river like he had the last one. Evan shook his head. No, that had been risky. Far too many potential witnesses with the growing homeless population down there. Besides, should’ve didn’t matter. He hadn’t, and now he had to live with the fallout.
You never were that smart. His adopted father’s voice intruded in his thoughts, and his footsteps faltered, fingernails digging into his skin.
The voice was right. If only he’d taken the time to properly bury her, he knew she would’ve suffocated to death before ever being discovered. But anger had clouded his judgement every time he looked at her, the vomit still on her chin where it had dribbled that last time. So, instead of using the shovel he’d brought with him, he’d stumbled upon that trench far back from any of the regular hiking trails, tossed her in, and concealed her body with leaves and broken limbs from nearby trees, beating her once more for making him do this.
He resumed pacing and forced himself to think. There was no possible way she could lead the police to him. She couldn’t identify him even if she could describe him. Besides, according to all the news reports, she’d been unconscious and in critical condition since she was brought in.
What if she wakes up, you fool! What then? This time the voice was so loud, he half expected his father to be looming over his shoulder, even though he knew that was impossible. He’d made sure of it.
For just a second, he considered breaking into the veterinarian’s office down the road and stealing some of their pentobarbital, the medication they used to euthanize animals, and then sneaking into the hospital and administering a fatal dose to Callie. This time, he’d make sure he got the job done. He’d double what was needed. He’d triple it.
What about the police guards, and that husband who hasn’t left her side since he arrived?
Frustrated with the voice as well as his carelessness, Evan pummeled his head with his fists and then chewed at his nails until they bled. Ever since that very first girl, he’d been meticulous, perfecting his technique along the way. ‘Where were you then?’ he shouted into the empty room, the pulsing behind his eyes threatening a severe headache.
And even though he fought against it, he couldn’t help but remember that first time.
Ready for a change, he had decided to leave the muggy, humid, mosquito-infested Midwest. Uncertain where he wanted to go, he drove aimlessly, stopping whenever something drew his attention. During one of these stops he saw her. She walked past him with the sparkly bangles jingling on her wrists and long, blonde, braided hair bouncing against her back, and he felt a spark of something that was there and gone in the blink of an eye.
He approached her to talk, rage overtaking him when she blew him off, like courteousness was a foreign concept. Without thinking, he grabbed her, jamming his finger into her side as he dragged her along. She sucked in a breath and opened her mouth to scream, and he jabbed her harder, ‘Make one sound, and I’ll blow your bloody insides out all over this sidewalk!’
Unsure what had come over him; he knew only that he had to teach her a lesson for acting as if he didn’t exist. But when they reached his car, he hesitated. He couldn’t just shove her in the backseat, and he didn’t have any rope, so he couldn’t tie her up. Besides, that would look suspicious. His hesitation cost him because she began screaming and flailing her arms, scraping her wicked nails down the side of his face as she did.
Scared and taken off-guard, he punched her hard enough to knock her out, her head making a sick thud as it hit the cement. He left her there as he sped off, his heart racing, driving until he reached Tijeras, New Mexico, where he was forced to make a pit stop for gas, food, and tires. Something about the small village drew him in, and so as he waited for his car, he explored, and in doing so, knew he’d arrived at his destination.
Several weeks passed, and he stopped worrying about that girl, about being caught.
He got a job at a feed supply store in the canyon, and with that salary, along with the money left to him by the man who’d raised him, he purchased a lot and built his house.
Shortly after he’d moved in, he crossed paths with his second victim. Instantly drawn to her in a similar way as the first one, he planned his attack this time. Tuesday nights were slow, and he offered to stay and lock up for the night. Just before closing time, like clockwork, she came in.
She never knew what hit her.
Each night, he descended into his basement to tell her about the investigation, watching the terror as it played across her face. It made him feel powerful – even more so when the mystery of her disappearance remained unsolved, due in large part to the fact that the relatively safe village of Tijeras wasn’t a big enough community to warrant closed-circuit surveillance cameras. And the feed store was a small, family-run business that had been around for sixty years and had never seen a need for ‘spying’ on its own employees and customers. In the end, it had all been a matter of denying she’d ever been there that evening when the police came to question him, leading them to believe something had happened to her along the way.
Eventually, frustrated when she refused to behave the way he imagined she would, he killed her.
He was wiser now, so although it was all Callie’s fault, the fact was, he’d still screwed up. But the likelihood of anything coming from it was slim, and dwelling on it changed nothing. He’d just have to watch the morning news for any updates.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Friday, March 29
Alyssa slapped the button to shut up the annoying alarm. When continuous hitting didn’t quiet the obnoxious sound, she cracked open one eye. Her cell phone screen was lit up with an incoming call. So, that was why she couldn’t stop the incessant buzzing – because it was her phone. She checked the time – 5:37 in the morning. She’d only been home from the hospital two hours, asleep for one and a half.
The ringing stopped before she could answer, so she flopped back down. Brock’s arms came around her, pulling her back into his chest. ‘Who is it?’ he mumbled sleepily.
She started to tell him she didn’t know when the ringing started back up. ‘Jus’ ignore it,’ her husband suggested
groggily.
‘Can’t. Might be important,’ she responded while simultaneously picking up the phone and swinging her legs to the floor so she could sit up. ‘Hello,’ she said around a yawn, wiping sleep from her eyes.
‘Detective Wyatt?’ The voice on the other end sounded exhausted but familiar.
She stood and moved away from the bed. ‘Yes, this is she. Who’s calling?’
‘Detective, this is Dr. Homa. From Rust Presbyterian Hospital. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you. Callie McCormick succumbed to her injuries early this morning, about an hour after you and your partner left. Her husband was with her, which is a small comfort. He’s still here now. He didn’t answer when I asked if there was anyone I could call for him, so I’m contacting you as the lead investigator on this case.’
Alyssa felt a rush of anger at the unfairness of it all as she quietly closed the bedroom door so as not to disturb Brock. ‘I know you said it was a strong possibility, a probability even, but I’d hoped you were wrong, that she’d be strong enough to overcome what happened to her.’
‘As we all did. However, the strain on her body was more than she could handle, and there was some internal bleeding after all. Combined with the midazolam found in her system, she really didn’t have much of a fighting chance.’
‘Mid – what?’
‘Midazolam. It’s a very powerful drug that’s often used as an anesthetic. We discovered it when the blood tests came back from the lab. To be honest, Detective, with the amount she had in her system, I’m amazed she wasn’t dead when they brought her in.’
‘How would someone get their hands on something like that, Doctor?’
‘Well, now, I imagine that’s something for you and your partner to figure out.’ A heavy sigh drifted over the line. ‘Though I can tell you this: with the internet and dark web and all those other frightening things out there, people can get their hands on just about anything they want with very little effort on their part.’
She was right about that. ‘Thank you for the call, Doctor. I’ll get dressed and head back over there right away. One more thing; do you know when she’ll be sent over to the medical examiner for an autopsy?’
‘Yeah, about that. Her husband pitched quite a fit, saying she’s been cut up enough. I explained the purpose behind it, that his wife died from an egregious attack committed against her, and that the police are going to need to gather any evidence they can to catch the person who did this to her. He still didn’t like the thought of it, but he said he did understand.’
Alyssa sighed, already feeling the beginnings of another headache. ‘Okay, thank you again.’
‘You’re welcome. If you need to, please have me paged when you arrive. I should be here a few more hours at least,’ Dr. Homa said before hanging up.
Alyssa wanted to throw her phone. Damn it. Why, Callie, why couldn’t you hold on at least long enough to tell us who did this to you? she whispered as she walked down the hall. In the bathroom, she splashed water on her face. When she looked at her reflection in the mirror, she cringed. Her hair was a tangled mess, and mascara was smeared under her eyes because she hadn’t bothered to remove it last night before collapsing into bed.
When she called Cord to break the news, his reaction was much the same as hers. After she hung up, she traipsed back upstairs to brush her teeth and take a quick shower. Fifteen minutes later, she was in the kitchen. She poured a cup of coffee and allowed herself a few small sips before heading out the door, the weight of failure heavier with every footstep.
* * *
At 6:42a.m. Alyssa greeted Cord in the hospital parking lot. ‘I was able to get ahold of Liz and Hal. They said they’d head in and put a fire under the lab technicians to move Callie’s car up the priority chain and dust it for prints. Hal’s planning on contacting the medical examiner again to see about any potential DNA left at the scene. Were you able to get ahold of Tony and Joe?’
‘I was. They said they’d meet up with the rest of the team.’
At the entrance, she said, ‘I feel like we’ve overlooked something obvious that could’ve saved Callie McCormick.’
Cord placed his hand on her arm and held her back, pulling her out of the way of two elderly volunteers making their way inside. ‘Lys, you know you can’t think that way. You’re the one who taught me that. Remember?’
She nodded.
‘Besides, that’s not going to help Mr. McCormick right now.’
Her shoulders dropped. ‘No, you’re right.’
They navigated the elevators and halls back to the intensive care unit, where they were told by the desk that Callie had been moved to the morgue. Just as Alyssa was about to request Dr. Homa be paged, she spotted Rafe coming from the room where his wife had died. He was hunched over, his hands hanging limply at his sides, as he stared at the floor instead of where he was going.
Despair and desperation were feelings she was once married to, and though she wished she could offer advice that would help him heal, she knew it was a road he would have to navigate in his own way.
‘Mr. McCormick,’ she said softly as she and Cord approached. His head jerked up, surprised to see them there. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Red, puffy eyes drilled into the detectives, his voice breaking as he said, ‘Yeah, well, if you’d done your job, you wouldn’t have to be sorry, now, would you?’ He knocked her shoulder as he moved past, seeming to shrink into himself with every step he took.
His words turned her stomach into a knot as nausea worked its way up her esophagus. She knew she deserved his reproach. She had failed. Reluctantly, she followed him through the doors, Cord beside her. In the elevator, Rafe leaned heavily against the wall, simply staring ahead with wet, dull eyes when he realized the detectives wouldn’t be waiting for the next car.
Silence, like a damp, wool blanket, weighed heavily in the enclosed space, and Alyssa wanted to fill the air with promises of retribution and justice. But speaking now would likely ignite the flame burning inside the pressure cooker that was Mr. McCormick.
Seconds after the elevator doors opened, it exploded anyway when the three of them were greeted by a crowd of reporters shoving microphones into their faces, eager for the best angle and soundbite. Cord’s arm shot out to separate the waves of bodies crushing in as Alyssa ordered everyone back.
But he was too late. A reporter she didn’t recognize had pushed his way to the front of the mob of media vultures, stopping just shy of Rafe.
‘Sir, is it true that your wife died from the torture she sustained? Can you tell us what you’re feeling? Is it true she was raped? Tell us –’
Rafe’s fist came up. At the same time, Cord used his full height to shove the offender away, a breath before Rafe’s knuckles could make contact with the idiot’s face.
His face mottled, nostrils flaring, Rafe snarled. ‘Keep them,’ he swung his arm wide towards the reporters, nearly hitting two who were dumb enough to stay too close, ‘out of my face, and find the asshole who killed my wife and baby. Think you can manage at least that much, Detectives?’ His fist, still clenched, rammed the space between the elevators. Shaking his hand, he stormed off, shoving anyone unfortunate enough to be in his way.
Every single second of it was caught on camera. Alyssa could already see the viral video that it would become, playing on every news outlet around the nation, as well as every social media site. In other words, this was about to turn into a circus.
The grieving husband no longer available, the reporters turned to Cord and Alyssa. ‘Detectives, do you have any idea who did this?’
Yes, of course. It’s just police procedure to let the bad guy get away with murder. ‘An official announcement will be issued from the department later today,’ she said, before forcing her way through, ignoring the shouted questions chasing after her.
‘Damn vultures,’ she muttered under her breath.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Friday, March 29
‘We have breaking new
s this morning. Let’s go ahead and cut over to Rust Presbyterian Hospital where Gabrielle Sanchez is standing by. Gabrielle, we understand that Callie McCormick has died? Is that right?’
‘Yes, that’s correct. We received an anonymous tip early this morning that Mrs. McCormick was unable to recover from the trauma inflicted upon her person. As you know, Callie was the wife of Rafe McCormick who owns The Espresso Grind cafés and who recently offered a $25,000 reward for information leading to his wife’s safe return. We’re waiting to speak to Mr. McCormick –’
A loud commotion behind her interrupted the reporter’s words. The cameraman zoomed in. A reporter was shoved back before a man’s fist could plow into his face. ‘Keep them out of my face and find the asshole who killed my wife and baby. Think you can manage at least that much, Detectives?’ The man punched a wall before storming off.
Evan hit pause on his DVR. Baby? He rewound and hit play. ‘… find the asshole who killed my wife and baby.’ So, she really was pregnant.
Immediately, his body felt lighter with the release of tension that came with the knowledge of Callie’s death. He was still processing his good fortune when another reporter shouted a question to the female detective, the cameraman zooming in on her as she tried to move past. A buzzing began in his ear, making it difficult to hear as another flicker reached out and grabbed him by the throat. One little boy, staring at a basement door…
His eyes glued on the detective, he shook his head to clear it and moved closer to the television as if by doing so, he could be closer to her. She was short and athletic-looking with long auburn-colored hair pulled back into a ponytail. As she pushed through the throng of people, she snapped a rubber band around her wrist. His head tilted to the side, he watched her, curious about the strength of the spark she’d elicited.
