by Jordan Dane
“That only works with vampires.” I locked eyes with Josh. “Your face was our invite. Consider this a welfare check, Bueller.”
Josh saw me glance down at his hastily bandaged arm. I did an inventory of his bruises and cuts. It looked as if he’d fought with an industrial-sized weed whacker and lost. Some of the exposed wounds were inflamed and swollen. He had an infection that could turn deadly in a hurry.
“Those cuts are infected. You need to see a doctor.”
Josh rolled his eyes and collapsed onto a brown sofa, cradling an arm and grimacing.
“It’s no big deal. I’ll live.”
“Actually, that may not be true.”
The kid did a double take.
“Sepsis is a life-threatening condition.” I noticed the greasy sheen to his pale skin. He looked clammy with sweat. “You have a fever. You’re showing signs of an infection.”
Reggie shot me a side eye and didn’t try to muscle his way into the conversation, not while he had a front row seat.
“You should take aspirin, for starters,” Jax said. “Do you have any in the bathroom?”
Josh only shrugged and waved him off, but I had a sneaking suspicion that Malloy would use his trip to the restroom as an excuse to search the kid’s room.
“You know why we’re here,” I said. “Where’s the gun?”
“What gun? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“How did you get those cuts? Some are pretty deep,” I said as I stood over him.
He ignored me. Big mistake.
“You’ll need water when he brings those aspirins.” I headed for the kitchen.
“Uh, no. Don’t…do that.” Josh sat up.
While I searched his cabinets for glasses, I noticed bloody towels in the sink, piled atop dirty dishes. I filled a glass with water and brought it to him.
“There’s a lot of blood on those towels in the sink. Is that your blood, or someone else’s?”
The kid clenched his jaw, but didn’t answer or look me in the eye.
“We have a witness who put your car in the parking lot near Colchester Road Overpass at around midnight, a woman walking her dog.” Detective Barry sat across from Josh and fixed his dark eyes on the kid. “What were you doing there?”
I didn’t flinch when Reggie lied to Josh. The detective conjured a witness and pretended to know something that would force the kid to loosen his lips—a tried and true investigator tactic—but when Jax returned to the living room, he carried a real ice breaker.
In his hands, he held a bloody and torn T-shirt.
“I found this in the hamper in the bathroom. I bet we find pants and shoes to match.”
Josh’s skin blanched and his chest heaved for air.
“Gunshot residue stays on the skin longer than most people think,” I said. “But clothes absorb the stuff. Did you know that, Josh?”
“What do you want from me?” The kid’s eyes watered.
Despite Josh bringing a gun to a drug deal and deserting a friend to take the rap for a dead man, I saw another kid caught up in a terrible shit storm. He lived virtually alone, with his dad gone for days at a time.
“We just want the truth. I’m sure you didn’t intend to let your friend, Bram, go down for a murder he didn’t commit.” I had to be careful not to lead Josh in my questioning. He didn’t need to know what Bram had told Detective Barry. “Tell us what happened. Now would be a lousy time to lie.”
“That bastard tried to kill me.” Color returned to his face. “The old man started it. He came at me with a machete. That’s why I look like something off the Walking Dead. You gotta believe me.”
Josh told us everything. Without his father home, or anyone else to talk to, the kid unloaded. His story matched Bram’s. With Jerome Whitcomb’s long record of criminal behavior and violent assaults with his machete, it would not be a stretch to believe Josh Atwood had fought for his life. His father had a legal permit to carry the weapon and neither Josh nor Bram could be arrested for what they intended to do that night, buying meth.
“Am I—” The kid’s voice cracked. “Are you gonna arrest me?”
I sighed and looked at Reggie.
“That’s up to Detective Barry. What do you say, Reggie? Is being a certifiable bonehead a criminal offense?”
Although Reggie glared at the kid as if he were dog excrement on his shoe, I knew he’d do the right thing. The kid needed a doctor to clean and stitch his wounds, prescribe an antibiotic, and give him a tetanus shot. Detective Barry would make it happen.
Reggie made a call to his crime scene techs. They would collect evidence at the Atwood apartment and take possession of the weapon that Josh had confessed he’d hidden in his closet, next to his expansive collection of porn. I had little doubt that gunshot residue would test positive on his hands and shirt, and that Mr. Whitcomb’s blood would be on Josh’s clothes.
Reggie would have what he needed to clear his case—a confession from the kid who pulled the trigger, Bram as a corroborating witness to self-defense, and a dead guy with a history of violence.
I didn’t see a need to stick around. Sinead had texted me that I should expect an expedited shipment—the case file from Texas on the murder-suicide of Evangeline Cross, Bram’s mother. I had my mind on Bram when I left the Atwood apartment, but Detective Barry caught me before I left with Jax.
“You can be an annoying asshole, but…thanks,” he said. “To both of you.”
“You’re welcome,” I said.
After we were beyond earshot of Reggie, I had something to clear up with Jax.
“He meant that we were both assholes.”
“No, that’s not how I read it,” Malloy said. “He clearly gave you that honor.”
I shook my head.
“You can’t cherry pick and accept his thanks, without taking your 50% share of being an ass.”
“You may have a point.”
After Malloy rightfully conceded, my thoughts turned to Detective Reginald Barry. If he had any sense of decency, he would expedite Bram’s release. I had my money on Reggie.
***
Woodbridge, Virginia
South of Washington, D.C.
Late afternoon
Ryker Townsend
After I dropped Jax Malloy off at his hotel in D.C., I headed south on I-95 to my loft in Woodbridge, Virginia, sixteen miles north of Quantico. Jax wanted to deliver the good news to Bram and work through the legal process with the attorney he’d hired from my recommendations list. Although Jax never came out and said it, I had a feeling he would take Bram back to Dallas with him, to his ranch, because that’s the kind of man Malloy’s momma had raised.
If that happened, I had to prepare. I didn’t have to be psychic to know I had another heart-to-heart coming with my Unit Chief, on the merits of my taking personal time to finish what I’d started with Bram and Jax.
I had a long night in front of me and needed a body punishing run to clear my head and think. My loft apartment butted up against a lighted trail system that snaked through a greenbelt and wetlands preserve. Ten miles of hills usually left me exhausted at the right pace.
After I drove through the secured gate for my loft complex, I stopped at my mail lockbox to pick up the package that Sinead had shipped to my home—the Evangeline Cross murder-suicide file. The Dallas police retained all physical evidence—to avoid breaking chain of custody—but I had received a duplicate of case notes, digital photos, witness interviews, and formal reports to bone up.
I requested all evidence be processed, from fingerprint analysis to DNA to trace. I didn’t have time to delay, given my Unit Chief’s scrutiny.
I tossed the unopened box on my kitchen counter—the stainless steel culinary wonder at the center of my exposed brick industrial oasis—and headed for my closet to change into running gear. After I secured my service weapon in a hidden wall safe, I retrieved a Glock 27 and placed it in a black nylon waist pack that I would take on my run, along with my
house keys, and ID credentials.
The sun hung low in the sky, casting vibrant pastels across the clouds. The air smelled of evergreens and rich soil. I hit a natural rhythm with my breathing and pace that pushed me into an endorphin high. Sweat trickled down my face and arms as I attacked the hills.
With my body on auto-pilot, I thought of my mother and father. Their faces stirred a pang of regret in me and it didn’t take long for guilt to follow—despite how hard I pushed my body into a good sweat.
I loved my father, but the bond I had with my mother had been special. She accepted my night terrors when I’d been too young to understand what they meant. She didn’t dismiss them as a mental defect, as my father worried. Not a day went by that I didn’t miss her.
That’s why Bram Cross haunted me. I couldn’t imagine the horror he witnessed the night his mother shot him and his little brother and sister. The betrayal must’ve torn him apart. It would’ve killed me if I had experienced anything close to what he did.
As I made the turn toward home, I drove my body harder and pictured the face of my mother, knowing she had saved me from a lifetime of therapists. In the intimacy of shadows I still heard my mother’s voice on quiet nights. She’d taught me to accept my dreams as part of who I was. She didn’t live long enough to know how I’d used my ability as a profiler, but her strength became a part of me and bolstered my soul when I needed her most.
A ‘not so harmless’ drive to church had changed everything. I remember seeing the car accident in a vision before it happened. The violent dream woke me up in a panic. When I called my sister to warn my parents, Sarah didn’t believe me and did nothing.
My sister resented how our mother doted over me after my nightmares when we were kids. Sarah eventually admitted she shared my guilt for not stopping them from making the ten minute drive to worship services, but my relationship with her would never be the same, especially after she got married and had a child without telling me.
‘I don’t want you in our lives. If you have another vision about something happening to my husband, or God forbid, my little girl…I couldn’t go through that again. I won’t. There are things a person shouldn’t know. You’d be forced to tell me and I...would be living in constant fear. I’m sorry, Ryker. I’m not as strong as you. I don’t know how you live with what you see.’
‘That’s just it, Sarah. Sometimes I c-can’t.’
My sister’s words haunted me, and because Sarah would always look like our mother, seeing blame and fear in her eyes hurt worse.
Ten miles came too fast and I went for another two. When I returned home, my body needed hydration and sustenance. I grabbed a hot shower and let the water sluice down my chest as my stall fogged with steam.
I lathered soap on my skin and slipped under the stream with my eyes closed until my thoughts strayed to Lucinda and my body reacted. It would’ve been easy to relieve the tension and take care of business, but nothing felt as good as having Lucinda in my arms. I turned the temperature to cold and lost my inspiration.
Minutes later, wearing tan cargo shorts and a navy FBI polo, I had cutlery in hand and prepped veggies and chicken for a quick and spicy stir-fry. I plated my food, poured a glass of an excellent Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand, and headed onto my balcony. With B. B. King playing low in the background, I ate and watched deer foraging at dusk along the wetlands preserve behind my loft—thinking of Bram Cross.
Even though it appeared likely he’d get out of jail in D.C., his mind would never be free of what truly held him hostage. Whatever scent he detected on Jerome Whitcomb had been a mere shot across the bow of his sanity, warning him to deal with whatever had been buried deep in his brain—a memory, a horror he didn’t want to face.
I would get a glimpse of his pain after I explored the case file of Evangeline Cross, his mother. Had Bram witnessed something too painful to remember—a mother turned monster? Or had someone else butchered his family and gotten away with murder, someone he’d blocked from his mind? With my head steeped in Bram’s misery, I finished eating, cleaned the kitchen, and got to work.
***
Hours later
I awoke with a start. Something had jolted me to open my eyes. Panting, I stared at my ceiling and listened. A hammer thumped in my ears as if it came from a distance until I realized the incessant noise vibrated the bones in my chest. When the sound grew louder, I knew it came from me.
My heart. It had been my heart, but what had startled me?
I lay in bed, listening for the familiar white noise of my loft—the low hum of the furnace or my icemaker. I turned my head toward a window to see the glass glistening with raindrops, but the soft patter of a drizzle wouldn’t have been loud enough to wake me. When I’d almost convinced myself it had been nothing, I stilled my breath and closed my eyes to sharpen my senses.
There. I felt it.
I sensed a presence.
It coiled in the darkest shadows, taunting me with its oppressive silence. It breathed in rhythm with me. No matter what I did to will the thing to reveal itself, it only mirrored me like a shadow. Sometimes the dead come to me and I can’t tell if I’m awake or still asleep.
I yanked back the covers and sat on the edge of my bed. I could’ve turned on a light, but my morbid curiosity won out. I had to know who or what had reached out to me.
“Is someone…there? Come out or I’ll shoot.”
The instant I spoke aloud, imagining the entity to be real, brought the heat of foolishness to my cheeks. I didn’t reach for the weapon I kept in my nightstand. No bullet would force the presence from its refuge in the dark. I fought to determine if the being meant me harm or was even aware of my existence. I had become a voyeur to death and didn’t always know if the dying sensed my presence or sought me out with pointed deliberation.
As the rain grew louder with its insistent tap tap tap, my heart countered the prickling of my skin to remind me that I could be intimidated by a world beyond my own. No matter how much I had dreamed of the murder victims who sought me out at the peak of their indignity, or witnessed them appear to me in waking nightmares like Jerome Whitcomb, I could never stop my body from reacting as it rightfully should. I never got used to the presence of death—and even though I knew one day Death would come for me—I wondered how it would surprise me.
“Jerome? Are you…here?”
In death, Mr. Whitcomb would not be silent or hide. I knew I’d been wrong, but as I dismissed the idea of the deceased derelict following me home, I heard a whisper. A woman’s voice—and she called my name. The sound brushed my ear.
“Who’s there?” I stood and slowly turned. “Show yourself.”
My gaze traveled the room, searching for any sign of movement.
Moonlight from a window cast pale ribbons across my bed. I didn’t need to flip on the lights to remember I had fallen asleep with the stark violence of a crime scene strewn across my mattress—photographs had captured Evangeline and her dead children forever.
I must’ve dreamed about her.
I slumped on the edge of my bed, exhausted, and ran fingers through my hair. My fertile mind must’ve gotten the better of me, but as I forced my lungs to calm down, my head filled with a voice.
A woman’s raspy whisper.
You could’ve stopped it.
“Evangeline?” I said her name on instinct. It had to be her. “How could I have stopped it? I don’t understand.”
I stood and turned to face my accuser and willed my eyes to see into the shadows. I spun, prepared to confront the horror of Evangeline’s carnage—her dead children—or face the woman herself.
Why didn’t you stop it?
The guttural tone to her voice had made it impossible to recognize, until the last accusation when the words became crystal clear and another face flooded my mind. I recognized her—the face and the voice. My eyes burned with a shocking rush of tears and I collapsed on my bed as if I’d been punched.
The voice I heard had been my m
other’s.
Chapter 5
FBI headquarters
Quantico, Virginia
Noon
Ryker Townsend
I couldn’t stop thinking about my mother.
Had I heard her voice or only conjured it as punishment, out of my deeply rooted shame?
Bram and his mother, Evangeline, had stirred feelings I thought I’d put behind me. The death of a parent holds great significance. It carries a sobering message that no one lives forever and when the bond severs in death, there’s no one to fill the void for that unconditional love and acceptance.
I knew my mother had loved me, but if my guilt had distorted her spirit, could I trust my gift when it came to Bram and his mother? In my wildest imaginings, I couldn’t picture my mother without her deep abiding devotion to her children, yet something had forced my mind to hear her voice, filtered through my darkest regrets.
I’d only glimpsed an inkling of what Bram suffered, but that made me wonder. Would my involvement in his life be an ordeal I wasn’t prepared for? Could I hurt him more than help? I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
When my cell phone rang, I checked the number on the display and answered it.
“This better be good news.”
Jax laughed and said, “Bram is out of jail, thanks to you. He’ll need to make a statement for Josh on his self-defense plea, but after that I’m taking him back to Dallas with me. He could benefit from ranch living.”
“I’m glad things worked out. Do you have any idea when you’ll be flying home?”
“In three days, unless another boot drops, but I have…I mean, I need to ask you something.”
I heard Malloy breathing on the other end, stalling.
“I’ve thought about what you said, about Bram dealing with his past,” Jax said. “I talked to him about it.”
“What did he decide?”
“He’s scared, Ryker.” Malloy sighed. “He’d sooner face that lunatic with a machete than dig into what happened, but if it means clearing the name of his mother, he’s determined to do whatever it takes.”
