Carved in Darkness

by Maegan Beaumont

  He cut Lark a quick glance, but his friend wouldn’t look at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about your sister and the man who murdered her.” Shaw said, waving the denial away before Michael could even voice it. “You mustn’t blame Mr. Lark, he really had no choice but to tell me everything.” He smiled again. “You have one week to settle the matter.” His magnanimous tone served as a warning. Quebec or not—the clock was now ticking. “And you’ll have to do so without the aid of Mr. Lark. His involvement puts my investments at risk, and I’m afraid I can’t allow that.”

  The limousine glided to a stop and the rear door opened. The Pip opened the door and stepped back, allowing Shaw to exit. Before he did, Shaw turned toward him. The angle at which he sat brought him much closer than Michael was comfortable with. “The locator chip. In your back. It’s a marvel of modern science, designed by our weapons department, but it’s not infallible.” His gaze flicked over to Lark, who continued to look straight ahead. “That’s why there’s a failsafe built into it. A simple phone call—seven digits and one word from me—is all it will take to detonate the equivalent of a dirty bomb nestled against your spine. I can kill you from across continents, Michael. Please remember that.”

  Shaw exited the car, taking the case and Lark with him.

  Quebec had proved a challenge but in the end, Shaw’s confidence in his abilities was well-founded. He’d been given seven days to find his man; Quebec had cost him two. Michael had five days left to find Frankie’s killer, while attempting to safeguard not only Sabrina but her family as well. He glanced out the window again, this time without the aid of his field glasses. He could see a tiny white square in the distance—a note Sabrina had stuck to her bedroom window.

  WATCH VAL.

  He changed into jeans and a navy blue Hanes. The knife stayed where it was. He shrugged into a shoulder holster that held his .40 S&W before putting on a light-weight hooded jacket.

  Miss Ettie was in the kitchen, the smell of something sweet drifting through the open door. It reminded him of Lucy.

  Five days.

  It wasn’t enough. He’d wasted too much time—weeks and weeks of sitting on his hands, waiting. Now that it was finally happening, now that the wheels were finally turning—time had suddenly run out.

  Thirty-six

  Forty-five minutes later, Sabrina left the precinct the same way she’d come in. It’d gone well. She’d managed to survive without cracking up.

  She walked into the windowless waiting room with a reminder card for next session clutched in her fist. She’d find Richards, show him the card. Ask him to let her quit her vacation and come back. Afterward she’d make good on her promise to find Strickland and explain as much as she could. Hopefully, that would be enough.

  She was so focused on her goal that she’d closed the door to the shrink’s office and was halfway across the waiting room before she noticed him.

  Sanford was sitting in the ugly orange chair.

  As soon as she recognized him, she looked away. No way could she afford his brand of bullshit, not with the shrink less than twenty feet away and her path back to active duty so clear. He glared at her, obviously as surprised to see her as she was to see him. It made sense though. He was on administrative leave for assaulting a fellow officer after taking two to the chest. Kevlar or not, getting shot messed with your head. Of course Richards would order him to attend sessions.

  She continued to ignore him and headed to the row of weapons lockers. After a second or two of debate, she decided to leave her shoulder holster in the locker, retrieving only her service weapon. She’d come back for the holster later, once Sanford was gone.

  She clipped her SIG to her hip and slammed the locker shut. She dropped the key into her coat pocket and headed for the door. Sanford said nothing, just glowered at her around a still swollen nose with the kind of malignant rage that made turning her back on him a bad idea.

  She made it as far as the precinct’s main lobby when she felt a light tap on her shoulder. She turned, expecting an exasperated civilian, unsure of where or how to retrieve an errant child or spouse.

  What she got was a whole lot worse.

  When she pivoted, her long hair swung out and Sanford took full advantage. He wrapped a heavy hand around it—again and again—until the knuckles of his fist dug into her scalp while the other lashed out and connected with her face. This was no glancing blow—this was a full contact punch that instantly split the skin above her eye. He cocked back and swung again. This time she was able to block the punch but remained unable to extricate his hand from the tangle of her hair. “Where you goin’, bitch? Where you think you’re goin’?” he hissed in her face as he swung a third time and a fourth. Both blows connected with varying degrees of success. She landed a few blows of her own but was unsure of where; blood dripped from the cut above her eye, making it difficult to see.

  Rough hands pulled them apart. Sanford kept his grip on her hair, unwilling to let go. Hair tore from her scalp in a painful clump. Someone screamed, and she thought maybe it was her. She lunged forward—she hadn’t started it, but she sure as hell was going to finish it.

  “Stop. Stop,” someone shouted at her. Arms and shoulders barred her from charging Sanford while he shouted things she couldn’t make out. Spittle flew from his mouth, and his eyes had that blind look that belongs exclusively to someone caught in the middle of a rage-induced blackout. It took six men, civilians and officers alike, to drag Sanford away. They hauled him somewhere, back down the way they’d both come. She had no idea where, and she didn’t care.

  She was half-led, half-dragged in the opposite direction, into an empty conference room. Someone pushed her into a chair. An impenetrable wall of blue instantly erected itself around her. A wet wad of paper towels was shoved into her hand, and someone crouched down, into her line of sight. It was Richards.

  “You think maybe you want to file that complaint now?”

  Michael went around the side of the house and knocked on the back door rather than the front. Valerie’s home office was toward the back, in what was probably once the solarium, and she liked her music loud. Banging on the front door would likely draw the attention of nosy neighbors. Considering how he spent his morning, that was the last thing he needed.

  Etta James wailed through the windows, and his knock went unanswered. He waited for a pause between songs and knocked again. This time she opened the door but said nothing, just stared at him.

  He cleared his throat. “Ms. Hernandez, I’m—”

  “Took you long enough.” She took a step back and to the side, inviting him in.

  He paused. “You talked to Lucy? She told you who I am?” It was the only explanation for why she’d be so willing to invite a stranger into her home.

  She shook her cap of short black hair. “No. I recognize you from the other night on the porch. Are you coming in or not?” She jerked her chin at him. He hesitated for an instant before he stepped into the kitchen. She closed the door behind him and gave the deadbolt a twist. They stood and stared awkwardly at each other while she finished sizing him up. She looked at her watch. “Coffee or beer?”

  Scotch. “Coffee. Please.”

  She nodded again and turned toward the counter. “Sit,” she said to him over her shoulder, and he dropped himself into the nearest chair. “Cake?”

  “What?”

  “Cake. Would you like a piece?” She gestured toward the cake dome on the counter. His throat closed up. He nodded again. She took a plate from the cabinet and cut him a slice. The tangy-sweet smell of lemons and sugar drifted across the room. She brought both coffee and cake to the table and set them down in from of him.

  “You make it a habit of inviting strangers into your house for coffee and dessert?” He picked up his fork and took a bite. It tasted just like Lucy’s, and he knew without
asking who’d made it. He tried to swallow it but it stuck in his throat like a lump of wet cement.

  “You’re not a stranger,” she said. She returned to the table with her own coffee and sat across from him.

  “You saw me for what? Five seconds, almost a week ago. I could be dangerous.” He picked up his coffee and took a drink, trying to dislodge the clump in his throat.

  “I’m sure you are—but not to me.” She looked him in the eye.

  “How do you know that?”

  She shrugged. “If you were a danger to me or the kids, Sabrina would have killed you five seconds and almost a week ago.” She took a sip from her mug and set it down. “Enough chit-chat. You can start with your name and how you know Sabrina, followed by telling me what the hell is going on.” She pushed her cup away and leaned her elbows on the table, staring directly at him.

  He followed suit, leaning into her until they were separated by inches.

  “My name is Michael O’Shea, and it’s not Sabrina Vaughn I know; it’s Melissa Walker. As for what’s going on … well, I think you already know.”

  The cut above Sabrina’s eye continued to ooze blood. She took another swipe at it with the back of her hand.

  “Keep pressure on it,” Richards said, forcing the handful of wet paper towels against her brow.

  She hissed and jerked her head back. “Okay—okay, let me do it.” She pulled her hand from under his but kept pressure applied. Richards let his hand drop to his side but stayed crouched in front of her.

  “What the fuck just happened, Vaughn?” he said.

  She looked at Richards and shrugged. “Guess he meant it when he said it wasn’t over, huh?” She cracked a smile and looked up at the cluster of people in front of her. Lloyd, Tagert, and Davis stood in a tight semicircle around her. Her team. Tears prickled the back of her eyes and she had to blink them away. She looked to her left. McMillan had Nickels backed into a corner, talking quietly. He might have been listening to McMillan, but he was looking straight at her. She glanced away but everywhere she looked, she saw hard faces full of livid concern staring back at her. Her eyes bounced around, looking for a safe place to land. They settled on the trash can. Richards stood and said nothing.

  “This is funny to you? That asshole jumped you—one of our own—and you’re making jokes?” Tagert said. He was six-foot-two, black, and built like a linebacker. She gazed up into his face and gave him a long look before she stood.

  “He’s one of yours—not me. Not anymore. I transferred out, remember?” She tossed the bloody towels into the trash can while they all stared at her in stunned silence. “Look, I appreciate the assist, but I’m fine.” She looked at Richards. “What are you guys doing here, anyway?”

  “Shrink said she thought Sanford needed an intervention. We were on our way in when shit hit the fan,” Richards said.

  “The only intervention that asshole is getting is one that involves my foot up his ass,” Tagert said through clenched teeth. She looked away from Tag and found Nickels still glaring at her from the corner McMillan had him backed into. It seemed like every person she knew either wanted to beat the shit out of her or saw it as their mission in life to save her. It was so tragic, it bordered on the ridiculous.

  She shook her head, stifling a laugh she knew would probably earn her double sessions with the shrink she was already seeing. “No, Tag … just leave it alone.”

  “Like hell—”

  “I can take care of myself.” She moved toward the door, but the semicircle refused to break rank. They stared down at her, unwilling to let her go.

  “You heard her, Tag. She doesn’t need our help. Let her go,” Nick cut in. She looked at him. The face she’d always thought of as open and friendly was gone. In its place was the impenetrable face of a stranger.

  For a split second, she wished she was different. That she was softer. That the walls she’d built around herself weren’t so thick and high.

  The feeling passed.

  She gave each of the men in front of her a look, and they finally shifted to let her through. She headed for the door. Nickels followed her with his heated glare but remained where he was. She stopped in front of Richards.

  “Don’t let them do anything stupid, Sarge. He’s not worth it,” she said in a low voice.

  “You’re right, he’s not—but you are. I want you to file assault charges.”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “So, what? He gets away with this. Again?” Richards leaned into her. “For whatever reason, Sanford has it bad for you—and not in a good way. He’ll come at you again, you know that.”

  Whaddya gonna do, shoot me? Yeah, he was going to keep coming at her until he got what he wanted.

  “Save the DV speech for someone else’s punch bag. I can take care of myself.” She left without saying another word.

  Thirty-seven

  The lobby was busy. People milling around, talking on cell phones, waiting for help. She still had the reminder card for her next counseling session clenched in her fist. No way was Richards going to help her now. She dropped it in the nearest trash can. She suddenly didn’t feel like looking for Strickland. One look at her face and he’d be just another guy she’d need to talk off a ledge, all hopped up on testosterone and protective instincts.

  She walked with her head down, wanting to avoid letting people see the mess her face was in. She ran right into the uniformed officer without even seeing him.

  “Sorry ’bout that,” he said. She looked up, and his face changed. “Oh, hey—Inspector Vaughn. You okay?” he said.

  “Yeah, thanks.” She just wanted to go home.

  “I saw what happened—I work the information desk. You sure you’re okay?” He must’ve been one of the officers that took Sanford away. He gave her a sympathetic smile. “Looks like it hurts—shitty way to spend your birthday, huh?”

  Her head snapped up. “What? What did you just say to me?”

  The uniform’s smile wavered. “Your birthday … it’s your birthday, right?”

  The gift tag tied to the dead girl’s wrist flashed in front of her.

  Happy birthday—sorry I missed it.

  She took a step back, her hand falling to her SIG. “Why would you ask me that?”

  She must’ve looked as crazy as she felt, because he held up his hands and started shaking his head. “Look, all I know is some bike-messenger guy delivered a package with your name on it a little while ago. It was wrapped in paper with balloons and stuff on it, so I just assumed it was your birthday,” he said in a rush.

  She dropped her hand. “Who left it? Is he still here?” she said, thinking that the frantic tone of her voice sounded odd coming from her mouth. The uniform must’ve thought so too, because he faltered a bit before scanning the crowd.

  “He was here when … everything happened. He’d just dropped off the box and was standing right over there.” He pointed back the way she’d come. She turned and scanned the lobby. Nothing but civilians—all minding their own business. None looking back at her.

  She turned toward the uniform. “What’d he look like?”

  “Medium height and weight. Sunglasses, baseball cap. Riding gloves, backpack. No distinguishing features—honestly, once the punches started flying, I forgot all about it until I ran into you,” he said sheepishly, scanning the lobby again. “He’s not here. I’m sorry.” He looked at her with something close to panic.

  Great. She’d succeeded in freaking the poor kid out. She shook her head. “Where’s the box now?”

  “I gave it to Anderson to run up to you, so it’s probably at your desk. I’m sorry,” he said again. She had no idea who Anderson was, but she nodded her head anyway.

  “No, no—it’s fine.” She turned and started to retrace her steps.

  “Inspector?”

  She turned back and waited
for him to speak.

  “It’s not your birthday?”

  According to her personnel file, Sabrina Vaughn’s birthday was in July. “No, it’s not.”

  “Then what’s in the box?”

  The question formed a hard knot of panic in her belly, but she forced herself to remain calm. She shrugged and gave him a smile. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Probably just someone’s idea of a joke.”

  Thirty-eight

  His outing had been a success. More than a success, actually. He’d just delivered Melissa’s gift when a commotion broke out across the lobby. He turned to see what was going on and could hardly believe his good fortune. She was here.

  He watched a man twice her size grab her by the hair and punch her—once, twice—hard in the face. Any lingering doubt he might’ve had as to her identity vanished.

  Her level of skill had improved. He had no doubt that she’d be a very dangerous opponent in a fair fight. The shiver of fear spilled down his spine again. During their time together, she’d been a spitting cat, all claws and teeth, but the way she fought back—her will to survive—remained the same.

  She swung, connecting again and again. It lasted only seconds, thirty at best, before people dove in to break it up. The man had her by the hair and refused to let go. He ripped it out when they were pulled apart. She screamed—the rage-filled sound was one he remembered well.

  There was a trio of officers behind the information counter where he stood. One of them came out and charged across the lobby while the other two stayed put. The man was hauled backward, screaming and cursing with every step. Melissa was dragged into a room by what looked like a professional football team in cargo pants, and the door was slammed shut. The lobby had come to a standstill—stunned civilians gaped at the empty space where there’d been violence only moments before. Someone coughed and it was enough to break the spell. Around him life resumed, but he continued to stare, let his gaze drift down the hall where the man had been taken.