Carved in Darkness

by Maegan Beaumont

  “It was a good shoot. Witness accounts were able to corroborate your report. The bullet holes in Sanford’s shirt didn’t hurt either.” He cracked another humorless smile, and she returned it. “Why didn’t you come to me?” he said out of nowhere, throwing her off balance.

  “Sir?”

  “Sanford. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Instantly, she understood what Nickels was doing in Richards’s office so early in the morning. “Nick needs to learn how to keep his mouth shut.”

  “Wasn’t just him. Lloyd, Tagert, McMillan, Davis … there’s been a steady stream coming in since you filed for a transfer. Nick was just the latest,” he said. The names of her SWAT teammates closed her throat. Suddenly she missed them almost as much as she wanted to kill them for getting into her business and dumping it on Richards’s desk. He leaned forward and put his elbows on his desk. “You want to tell me what happened after the raid?”

  She thought of that day, of the ride back to the station. Kevlar stopped bullets, but that didn’t mean getting shot didn’t hurt like a bitch. Taking two to the chest had Sanford laid out in the back of the wagon. All she could hear was the excited buzz of the other team members. Her actions and the fact they’d saved Sanford’s life were all anyone could talk about. She didn’t have much to say, just endured the shoulder slapping and knuckle bumping with a vacant half-smile while Sanford glared at her through the slits cracked in his eyelids.

  He’d said nothing to her after she dropped the banger, just lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. Someone yelled her name. More shouts sounded from unseen rooms. The heavy tread of pounding boots shook the floorboards under her knee, getting heavier and louder. The guy she had cuffed and pinned to the ground with her knee in his neck threw up all over her boot. She barely noticed. She stood and rushed forward. She knelt, first in front of the kid she’d shot—he couldn’t have been more than twenty—to check his vitals. He was dead. She kept her gun trained on him while she removed the 9mm still in his grip and jammed it into her waistband. It took only seconds, and when she looked at Sanford, he was watching her.

  “Are you hit?” she said. She moved to run her hand along his chest and sides, checking for possible wounds.

  “Get the fuck off me.” He practically snarled at her, shoving her hand away while he struggled to sit up. She looked up to find Nickels in the doorway, a look of sickened relief plastered all over his face. She stood and shoved her way past him. The rest was a blur.

  On the way back to the station, Nickels watched them both, his temper showing plainly. “You’re an asshole,” he said to Sanford,

  his voice loud enough to quell the incessant chatter that filled the small space. “She saved your life, and you practically shit on her.”

  Sabrina felt her stomach hit her boots. The last thing she needed right now was a confrontation.

  “Nick—don’t,” she said quietly, but they both ignored her.

  “Fuck her and fuck you. Just because you got a hard-on for the unit dyke doesn’t mean I have to kiss her ass.” Sanford tossed her a snide glare. Before she knew it, Nickels hauled Sanford off the bench and the two of them were tossing each other around the back of the wagon.

  Without thinking, she dove in and wedged her shoulder between them to pry them apart. Sanford took the opportunity to punch her in the mouth with a sharp jab that snapped her head back. It took the entire unit to drag Nickels out of the wagon when it finally pulled into the station lot. She’d had a busted lip she blamed on a takedown during the raid, and she’d expected the rest of the unit to back her story. Apparently, her expectations had been too high.

  “I can handle it, Sarge.” She wasn’t saying a word.

  “You know I’m required to investigate the matter.”

  “I never filed a formal complaint, and I’m not going to. So you’re not required to do anything.” It was a technicality, but she exploited it shamelessly.

  “I can’t let it go, Vaughn.”

  “I said I can handle it.” The abruptness of her answer caused Richards eyebrows to shoot up on his forehead. Great, now she was noncompliant and insubordinate. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “He’s having a rough time, sir. His wife left him.”

  “When?”

  She sighed, picked at a loose thread on the knee of her pants. “A few days before the raid.”

  Richards’s eyebrows slammed down over his eyes, and she knew she’d said too much. “How do you know?”

  “Come on, Sarge. The guys around here gossip more than a sewing circle,” she said and was rewarded with a snort that might’ve passed for a laugh.

  “He drinking again?”

  Last week she’d stopped at the corner market a few blocks from the station to pick up a gallon of milk on her way home. Sanford had been at the register when she walked in, a fifth of Beam on the counter in front of him. She strode past him, pretended not to notice him or his purchase. When she made it up to the counter with the milk, he was gone.

  She shrugged her shoulders, “Not that I’ve seen.”

  Richards wasn’t buying it. “I’m pulling him in here because of what happened. Whether you want to file a complaint or not, he assaulted a fellow officer. Not something I can let slide. I’ll get the rest out of him and treat it accordingly.”

  “It’s really not a big deal.” She wished the floor would open up and swallow her whole.

  “See this?” He rooted around under a stack of papers and pulled out a brass nameplate that read Sgt. Daniel Richards. He slapped it down on his desk in front of her face. “This gives me the right to decide what’s important and what’s not. You transferred out of my unit because of Sanford and his schoolyard bullshit. That’s a big deal to me.”

  She shifted in her seat, uncomfortable. Her leaving the unit had everything to with that raid. Sanford had his hand in it, sure—but it had just as much to do, if not more, with Nickels.

  When she’d looked up from where she knelt next to Sanford, she’d seen Nick’s face in the doorway. He’d looked wrecked, on the verge of losing it. If it’d been her laid out on the floor, he would’ve fallen apart, compromising not only himself but the entire team.

  She decided then and there she couldn’t work with him anymore. Backing your teammate was one thing—letting your emotions lead the way was entirely another. He’d be exactly the kind of idiot to ignore his own personal safety in favor of hers. She didn’t need that on her conscience.

  “Okay.” She looked at her watch. It was seven thirty. Time for the briefing. “Can I go?” She stood, ready to hit the door.

  Richards frowned at her. “Yeah, you can go. Home.” He held up her 4-40 again and pointed to a box at the bottom of the page marked Office use only. “Do you know what this says?” he said, and she shook her head, not trusting her voice to stay steady. “It says Special Services Recommendations. Below that it says you’re required to attend three, sixty-minute sessions with the department therapist within thirty days of the incident. It’s been more than thirty-five days since the shooting, and you still haven’t complied with department policy. That’s a problem, Vaughn.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I forgot—”

  “You forgot?” He looked at her like she was on drugs. “Okay …

  well, since you’re so forgetful, you must have forgotten you scheduled an extended vacation before you transferred out of my unit.”

  “A vacation? I can’t just take a vacation. This is my last day on the team, Sarge. We have an eight thirty—”

  Richards just shook his head. “We have a warrant to serve—you don’t. Your discharge from SWAT is effective immediately. Go home, Vaughn.”

  Go home. The words caused panic to swell in her belly. She shook her head. “Strickland and I are working a double homicide, we’re waiting on a search warrant now,” she said, the panic rising up from her stomach to choke h
er.

  “You don’t seem to understand. This isn’t a suggestion, or a request. You’re either going to take the vacation, or I’m going to suspend you for thirty days for noncompliance with department policy.”

  She grasped at the few straws she had left. “I’m in my first ninety days in Homicide. Mathews hates me enough as it is—”

  “I’ll take care of Mathews,” he said, referring to her new boss.

  “Please.” She was begging. She was actually begging.

  Richards stared at her for a long moment before looking down at his desk. “You can finish out the day so you and Strickland can make your arrest, but come tomorrow morning, you’re gone.”

  She nodded, felt hopeful. “The serve and search?”

  “No. Your discharge stands. I don’t want to see you until you’ve completed your sessions. You read me?”

  She moved toward the door. Drawing a deep breath then another, she struggled to rein in her boiling temper. She knew better than to turn around and look at him. She was being forced out on vacation because she saved Sanford’s life. What kind of shit was that?

  “Vaughn?” He was waiting for an answer.

  “Yes sir, loud and clear.” She opened the door and left, slamming it behind her with a resounding bang, blending perfectly with the gun shots from the range as they bounced down the hall.

  Ten

  Careful to close the curtains, he dropped Lucy’s limp body into the nearest kitchen chair. He found a roll of duct tape in a kitchen drawer, along with a few other items that might prove useful. He used the tape to strap her to the chair and slapped a piece over her mouth for good measure, then set the rest aside for later.

  First things first.

  Bypassing the rotary phone, he made his way into the living room. He remembered seeing a cordless handset tucked in her knitting basket. He hit Redial with no real hope. It was unlikely the person she called would be the same number she last dialed on the cordless phone, but—

  “This is Michael. I’m unable to get to my phone. Leave me a message, and I’ll try to call back.”

  O’Shea. The end of the outgoing message gave way to a prolonged silence. He listened for a few moments before ending the call. He knew the two of them were close. Lucy lived in his foster parents’ old house, and he’d taken to staying here whenever he was in town, but why call him? Had Lucy called Frankie’s brother to tell him her killer was eating lemon pound cake off the good china in her sitting room?

  It was doubtful. O’Shea was protective of Lucy, took care of her. If he knew the fox was in the henhouse, the phone would be ringing off the hook right now, but it was silent.

  O’Shea had no idea he was here.

  He walked through the house closing curtains and drawing blinds. Lucy lived miles from the nearest town—between Jessup and Marshall—so he wasn’t too concerned someone would drop in unannounced at this hour. She said the cake was for company, but he knew it was really just for Melissa’s birthday. Still, people were unpredictable. Caution was always prudent.

  He perused the bookshelf next to the small fireplace. It held an odd mix. Dime store trinkets mingled with pricey collectables. The historical romance novels and Westerns he knew she loved shared space with Hemingway and Steinbeck. O’Shea—had to be. Tiny signs of him were all over the place.

  Finding Lucy’s record collection, he flipped through the worn jackets until he found one he liked. He slipped the album out and placed it on the turntable, setting the needle down carefully so as not to scratch it. He raised the volume when Gene Kelly began singing in the rain.

  He set the turntable on repeat and headed back to the kitchen. The music followed him through the house and he whistled along, the tune putting a spring in his step.

  He went back into the kitchen and was pleased to see Lucy was waking. Her head lolled on her scrawny neck, her creased lids fluttered open, but she remained silent.

  He smiled at her.

  The look she gave him said she was only mildly surprised at the sudden turn of events. That irked him.

  “Who is this woman? Is this Melissa?” He spoke calmly and showed her the picture.

  She stared at him for a moment before shifting her eyes to the photo. She studied the picture as if considering his question, and his excitement mounted. He peeled back the strip of duct tape he’d stuck to her mouth. “Tell me the truth, and I’ll let you go.”

  She shifted her eyes to his. Her face was calm—resigned, even. “No, you won’t.”

  “It’s okay, I won’t hurt her,” he said. This made her laugh—the sound saying, like you could. The rage, always simmering in his gut, started to bubble. The bouncy rhythm of Gene singing about the sun in his heart and being ready for love filled the space between them for a moment. He took a deep, cleansing breath, determined to stay calm.

  “See this?” He showed her the knife he held. The folding blade was roughly the length of a child’s forearm and nearly as wide. It sported a double edge—one smooth and sharpened to a razor’s edge, the other serrated with teeth that looked like they were made to bite. His father had given it to him for his twelfth birthday, but despite its age and countless uses, it showed little wear. He took care of what was his.

  “This is the knife I used on Melissa.” He leaned in close and whispered in her ear. “Did she tell you, Lucy? Did she tell you what

  I did to her with it? You know, a gentleman never kisses and tells but I have to tell you, it was … magical.” He pressed his lips to her cheek and she reared back, twisting her face out of reach. He grabbed her by her hair and yanked, pulling her back to him with a laugh. “She fought me in the beginning, and toward the end she just begged me to kill her, but between you and me”—he smiled and lowered his tone to a whisper—“I think she kinda liked it.”

  Lucy started to cry. Tears coursed down her wrinkled face, dripping off her trembling chin, but they only seemed to strengthen her resolve. She looked away, terrified but still silent. A thumping scratch signaled the end of the record before the needle lifted and set itself down to repeat the song.

  He decided to change tactics. He loosened his grip on her hair and smoothed his hand over her head before letting it fall to her cheek for a moment. Gently, he took her chin in his hand, lifted her face to his, and waited for her to look at him.

  “Why did you call Michael O’Shea?” he said, and she looked surprised.

  “I didn’t.”

  “You’re lying.” It bothered him that she would be so bold. “Does he know where Melissa is?”

  “You killed Melissa.” The words stuck in her throat, hitched on a sob.

  “Stop lying,” he said loudly. His fingers dug into her face, deep enough to bruise, and she fought hard not to cry out. He let go, took a step back to steady himself. Losing control now would serve no purpose.

  She was lying. She had to be. But doubt crept in, and the absolute certainty he’d felt only moments before began to waver. Could it be he was so desperate to have her back that he fooled himself into seeing things that weren’t there, into believing things that couldn’t possibly be true? He looked at the picture in his hand and instantly felt the connection. The woman in the picture was Melissa, he was sure of it. Somehow, some way, she’d come back to him.

  “This is Melissa, I know it is.” He flashed Lucy the picture he held and grinned. “She’s mine. She belongs to me, and you’ve been hiding her from me all this time … you’re smarter than I gave you credit for.”

  “No. Melissa’s gone. Been gone for years.” She turned her face away, dismissing him. He felt himself bend, his control threatening to break. He slipped the picture in his pocket and picked up his knife. He leaned in close, putting his face within inches of hers.

  “You are a stubborn one, Miss Lucy … ” He drew the blade down her cheek. Blood mingled with the tears, but she remained silent. “Where is she?�
�� he said quietly, not at all surprised when Lucy refused to answer. “Okay … we’ll do things your way.” He straightened and returned to the counter to take a quick inventory of what he’d collected there. A hammer and nails. A roll of trash bags. An extension cord. A dishtowel.

  Whistling along with the music, he opened an upper cabinet and rifled its contents. He found a carton of salt, gave it a testing shake—nearly full. He added it to his collection. Not at all what he was used to, but he’d worked with less. He retrieved a mixing bowl from the sink and rinsed it out before filling it with hot water.

  “You know, of all the things my daddy taught me, the value of hard work stuck with me the most,” he said to her over his shoulder. “‘Nothing worth having ever comes easy, boy.’ Every time he said it to me, I wanted to cut out his tongue. But he was right.” He chose the hammer and nails and showed her what he held. Cocked his head to the side and gave her a lopsided grin. “Last chance,” he sang and waggled the hammer at her.

  She spat at him.

  His smile widened. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  He carried it all to the table and set it out carefully, prolonging the pleasure he felt at the prospect of what lay ahead. Breaking them was always the best part.

  He opened the carton of salt, poured it into the bowl of water. He shook out the last few grains and tossed her a wink over his shoulder. “Every bit counts,” he said before he dropped the dishtowel into the briny mix.

  “You’re insane.” She said the words quietly, but he heard her and for a split second, hated her.

  “There’s no cause for name calling, Miss Lucy.” His tone was light, but she shrank away from the look he gave her. “I tried doing this the easy way. What happens next … well, you got no one to blame but yourself.”