by Cate Ashwood
Ford felt almost catatonic. “Yeah, okay.”
“Good. Call me later and let me know how everything went, okay?”
Ford nodded, and as Sam picked up the phone and dialed, Ford slipped out of the room.
The hallways were quiet as he made his way to the stairwell. He was still processing when he hit the first flight. Joel had been killed in the hospital while his room had been guarded by a police officer. His mind raced through the possibilities of who could have done it. And why?
He pushed past the renewed sadness and forced himself to concentrate. Pieces were flying into place, and the more Ford thought about it, the more complex it became.
Whoever killed Joel was more than likely involved with the deaths of the other kids. It had to be someone the cop would allow into the room with no questions asked. Could it be someone who worked at the hospital?
Ford stopped in his tracks, holding tight onto the railing to keep his balance as his head reeled.
Peter.
Ford thought back to all the times he’d seen Peter since Joel arrived at Saint Joe’s. He’d been lurking near the psych unit more than once. He worked on the floor where Joel had died, and no one would ever question a doctor entering a patient’s room. Was Peter capable of killing?
The more Ford thought about it, the more certain he became. Sam said himself that Peter was a sociopath. He was cunning and manipulative and had access to the anesthetic medications. He could easily have slipped into Joel’s room without raising any suspicions.
Ford really was going to throw up.
He pulled out his cell phone and glanced at his screen, only to see that he had no reception in the stairwell. He raced to the top and out the door into the parking lot, waiting for the bars to appear before he scrolled through his contacts and dialed.
Jack’s phone clicked over to voice mail. He must still be talking to Sam.
“Jack, call me as soon as possible. I think I know who killed Joel.”
Pain sliced through his skull as something collided with his head. It took a moment for him to orient himself, and Ford felt cold metal pressed against the side of his temple.
“Drop the phone.”
The voice was so familiar and so filled with hate. Ford’s stomach dropped when he realized the metal was the barrel of a gun, held tight against his head.
Ford did as he was asked, letting the phone fall with a clatter onto the uneven pavement.
“What are you doing, Greene?” Ford asked, horrified by the trembling in his voice. Despite living on his own downtown and walking by himself at all hours of the night, he’d never been held at gunpoint before. Hell, he’d never seen a gun other than the one Jack kept holstered on his hip. This was much more terrifying. It wasn’t something Ford would ever have suspected the hospital administrator capable of.
“Move,” Greene ordered, pushing Ford forward with enough force that he nearly tripped. Images of Greene blowing his brains out because he was klutzy filled his head, and he began to sweat.
Greene led him to a car parked near the entrance, a white Buick that looked like it belonged to a seventy-year-old man. With the gun still pressed against Ford’s skull, Greene unlocked the door and pulled it open.
“Get in. And if you make a noise, I’ll put a bullet right through that pretty head of yours.”
Ford climbed in, aware that these could be the last few minutes of his life. He took stock of the situation, surveying his options. Ford couldn’t concentrate on anything other than that goddamn gun that Greene had trained on him as he rounded the car, the matte black of its barrel unnervingly sinister.
Ford took deep breaths, trying to calm his rapidly beating heart, his palms slick with sweat. He rubbed them on his jeans and sat still, crushing the urge to squirm. There would be a moment—there had to be—when Ford could run. Maybe he’d get shot, but if he stayed with Greene, his chances of getting shot were exponentially higher.
Greene pulled out of the parking lot, turned onto the street and drove through traffic. No one saw the gun, held below the frame of the window, pointed at Ford’s chest. No one heard Greene, his voice cold and hostile.
“You couldn’t keep your fucking nose in your own business, could you?” Greene spat as they turned left onto the street that would take them over the bridge. “I knew you were going to be trouble from the first moment I met you, strutting around that hospital with that smug fucking look on your face. I should have had you taken out long ago. But I have you now, and I’m going to have some fun with you. You’re not my usual type, but I’m willing to make an exception.”
Ford shuddered as Greene caressed the side of his face with the tip of the gun, sliding it along his cheek. Traffic was thick. Ford scanned the other drivers, praying someone would look over, hoping someone would notice how close to dying he was, but everyone had their eyes focused on the road, zoned out or not paying attention. It was like he was invisible.
“I don’t understand…. Why are you doing this?” Ford asked, trying to get a handle on the situation.
“Bullshit you don’t. I don’t know how you figured out it was me, but do you seriously think I am going to let you rat me out? I don’t think so, Joseph.”
“You killed Joel?”
Greene snorted. “Piece of cake. It was gory as fuck but easier than I thought it would be. That little shit should never have gotten away, but it wasn’t difficult to tie up that loose end. He almost pissed himself when I showed up in his room.”
Ford was going to puke. He wondered if that would make Greene more or less inclined to murder him. His mind ran in circles over and over, desperately grappling for a way out of this.
Greene pulled off Marine onto one of the residential side streets, then up the sharp angle of a steep driveway belonging to a large house at the end of the dead-end street. The house was massive, all hard angles and large windows with decks on all three levels. The outside was clad in pink stucco and looked like it would have been quite the high-end home sometime around 1992.
Greene stopped under one of the overhanging decks, the parking space hidden from sight by large cedar trees.
Ford was going to die. He was going to die in this horrible pink monstrosity, and no one would ever find his body. Or maybe they would and he’d be another naked body, carved up and dumped in an alley. Ford didn’t know which was worse.
“We’re here. You make any noise at all and I’ll shoot you in the fucking face. Now don’t move.”
Greene got out of the car and rounded the front. His gun never lowered as he pulled open Ford’s door and grabbed his arm.
“Get out of the fucking car.”
Greene tugged hard, harder than Ford thought him capable, and Ford stumbled out of the car to standing. The gun was pressed between his shoulder blades as Greene propelled him forward.
The sound of a car pulling into the driveway had Greene spinning them around, gun pointed squarely at Ford’s head. He saw the dark SUV with the tinted windows approaching. For a moment Ford thought it wasn’t going to stop, that it was going to ram into them, and he’d be dead either way. Would that hurt more than a bullet in the brain? That was pretty much a definite yes.
Ford braced himself for impact, his muscles clenched hard, but the vehicle stopped suddenly, and Jack jumped out, his own weapon trained on them. Walter climbed out a moment later, a little slower, gun aimed unerringly at Greene.
“Drop the gun, Greene,” Jack demanded. “I don’t want to have to shoot you.”
He didn’t sound all that convincing. In fact, judging by the look of carefully contained rage on Jack’s face, he’d like very much to shoot Greene, probably between the eyes. Ford trembled, fear racking his body. If Jack shot Greene, would Greene’s gun go off? That’s the way it happened in the movies.
Fuck, this was not a good situation, and Ford was not one of those badass victims that got all tough. He was more likely to piss his pants or pass out. He hoped to God he didn’t do either.
�
�Greene, I’m not going to say it again. Drop the fucking gun.”
“I’m not going to jail,” Greene shouted.
“It’s going to be a hell of a lot worse for you if you kill him, Greene. You know that. We can work something out.”
Ford didn’t believe that for a minute. He knew Jack didn’t either. He only hoped Greene bought it.
Greene laughed. It was a wild, maniacal sound, and that was scarier than the two guns currently pointed at him. How had he never noticed what a psychopath Greene was? Maybe it was like those killers you hear about in the news. No one ever suspected how twisted and depraved they were. It’s always the guys you least expect who end up with the closet full of skeletons, and in Greene’s case, it seemed they were skeletons of the literal sort.
“There are units on the way, and in about five minutes, this place is going to be crawling with uniforms. If you don’t cooperate, I can guarantee this is not going to end well for you.”
Jack was getting angrier by the moment. It was audible in his voice and visible in the way his shoulders hunched forward, his eyes narrowed, and his mouth tightened. Ford had seen Jack angry before, but he’d never seem him look like this. It was his calmness that was the most terrifying. He was still, focused, and Ford didn’t doubt for a second that given the chance, Jack would take the shot.
It felt like an eternity had passed, although it couldn’t have been more than a couple of minutes. Ford could hear the sirens in the distance. Greene flinched, his head snapping toward the sound.
There was a crack in the air, the sound echoing off the walls of the houses in the neighborhood. Ford’s heart stopped.
Everything happened so quickly, it took a moment for Ford to put the pieces together. Greene was down on the ground, dark red soaking through the pale material of his suit pants. He was screaming and holding his thigh, blood covering his hands.
Ford’s vision snapped into focus, and he spotted the gun on the ground next to him. He moved faster than he thought possible, diving for it. He grabbed it, careful to keep his fingers far from the trigger, and darted away. One strong arm wrapped tightly around him, and he looked up to see Jack holding him.
Jack reached down and took the gun, lifting it away from Ford’s grasp before handing it to Walter. Ford sagged against him, his face buried in Jack’s chest, his legs like jelly. Jack stood stock-still, his gun trained on Greene, who was writhing and screaming about police brutality.
Two cop cars, lights flashing, pulled into the driveway then, and two of the officers ran forward and cuffed Greene facedown on the pavement. Jack lowered his gun and holstered it, bringing his other arm around Ford.
“Are you all right?” he asked. Gone was the hard hostility from moments ago, in its place a gentle concern that made it nearly impossible to keep from crying. Jack hugged him, and then he did cry, tears spilling hot over his cheeks.
“Hey, you’re okay,” Jack soothed.
Ford had known him for years, and he’d never thought Jack capable of actual compassion. It was shocking and appreciated all at once.
“Do you need us to get your head checked out for concussion or anything? Should we call the paramedics?” Jack asked a moment later.
“Just Nash. Please,” Ford replied, the words muffled by Jack’s shirt.
Chapter Twenty-Six
NASH’S PHONE had been ringing all day. All he wanted to do was get some goddamn sleep. Sam and Adam were both trying to get a hold of him, and there were calls from random numbers as well, telling him they knew he was screening and were trying to talk to him anyway.
It wasn’t going to happen.
Eventually he’d shut his phone off and tossed it onto the chair in the corner of the room, then pulled his blankets over his head and closed his eyes. He was so fucking tired he could barely stand it, but as soon as his eyes were shut, scenes from the last twenty-four hours replayed themselves in his mind.
He must have dozed off at some point, although he didn’t remember actually falling asleep, because the pounding on his door jolted him awake. He ignored it, but the knocking was insistent. He was grumpy and tired, and as he climbed out of bed to answer it, his irritability grew with each step he took.
He started yelling before he’d even gotten it open. “Look, can you please fuck off—”
He’d expected to see Sam, Adam, or maybe even Caleb standing there. He hadn’t expected a surprised-looking police officer.
“Sorry, I thought you were someone else.”
“Are you Ridley Nash?” the officer asked.
“Yeah, that’s me. What can I do for you?”
“There was an incident this afternoon involving Joseph Ford.”
Nash’s heart sped up until he thought it would burst at the possibility that Ford was hurt. The cop continued before Nash could interject with questions.
“He was taken from Saint Joseph’s and held at gunpoint.”
This time he didn’t wait for an opening to ask. “Jesus Christ, is he okay? He’s not hurt, is he? Who the fuck took him?”
Nash carded his fingers through his hair, not knowing what to do first. He was standing there in his doorway, wearing nothing but boxer shorts and waiting what felt like an eternity for Officer Dipshit to tell him if Ford was okay.
Finally, the officer spoke. “He’s fine. We’ve been trying to call you. He’s down at the police station, but he’s asking for you.”
“Jesus Christ,” Nash repeated. “You could have fucking led with that.”
He darted into his apartment and pulled on the first pair of pants and T-shirt he could find. He grabbed his jacket, his keys, and his shoes, then stepped out into the hall and locked the door behind him.
“You gonna put those on?” the cop asked, gesturing toward the shoes Nash held in his hands.
“In the elevator. It’s called multitasking. Let’s go,” he said urgently, hurrying the cop down the hallway.
THE POLICE station was busy, but the cop who showed up at his door, who Nash learned was named Officer Fleck, escorted him through the entranceway, past the main desk, through a maze of desks and cubicles, and toward the back of the precinct.
They stepped into an office Nash could only assume was Jack’s, and sitting on the sofa facing the desk was Ford. He looked small and scared, and he was wrapped in a soft gray blanket that was definitely not police issue.
Nash rushed over and pulled Ford from his seat, right into his arms. The blanket dropped, and then the only thing wrapped around him was Nash. Ford trembled against him, and Nash held him tighter, pressing his lips to Ford’s temple. They were going to have to pry him off with the Jaws of Life, because he was never letting go again. Ever.
“What happened? Are you all right? Are you hurt? Do you need to go to the hospital? Did they ask?”
“I’m fine,” Ford assured him, settling his head against Nash’s chest. “Greene murdered Joel, and he thought I knew it was him. He held me at gunpoint and forced me into his car. Jack got there before he could hurt me.”
Nash slid his fingers through Ford’s hair, stroking and petting and just holding him, making sure for himself he was okay. After Ford started talking, he’d barely heard the words over the sound of his blood pounding in his ears. The thought of something happening to him… it was too horrible to think about.
“You’re sure you’re fine….”
“I am. Really.” Ford paused, his voice going quiet. “Thank you for coming. I… I’m sorry… about before.”
Nash slid his hands along Ford’s face, cupping it and lifting as he leaned forward, pressing their lips together. Of all their kisses, this one was by far the sweetest, standing in a busy police station, with what felt like a hundred people watching them through the window of the office.
Jack cleared his throat, and Nash reluctantly pulled away. They turned toward the desk, but Nash never loosened his hold on Ford.
“Ford answered all my questions while we were waiting for you to get here, but I imagine you have
questions for me,” Jack said, addressing them both.
Ford took a deep breath and slid his hand into Nash’s. Nash curled his fingers around Ford’s. “How did you know where to find me?”
“The GPS on your phone. As soon as I finished talking to Sam, I got your message, but the call also recorded Greene hitting you.”
“He took my phone.”
“He obviously doesn’t watch many cop shows, because he tossed it in his car rather than leaving it on the ground. I’m guessing your abduction was not well thought out. He was backed into a corner, thinking you knew what he’d done.”
“I didn’t, though. I thought it was Peter….”
“He didn’t know that. All he heard was that you knew who’d killed Joel.”
“He’s going to jail?”
“He most definitely is. He’s lawyered up. We’re waiting on the attorney to arrive now, and then I’ll lead the interrogation,” Jack said, the confidence rolling off him. His assuredness made Nash feel calmer.
“Is Ford in any danger?” Nash asked. If Greene had a partner, and that psycho thought Ford knew anything that could implicate him….
“To be honest, we’re not completely sure, but we’ll have an officer posted outside Ford’s apartment until we’re certain.”
Ford cocked one eyebrow. “Because that worked out so well the last time.”
Jack had the decency to look embarrassed. Nash looked at Ford, one eyebrow raised, and when Ford gave him a small smile, Nash turned back to Jack.
“He’s coming home with me.”
“That’s fine,” Jack assured them. “We will do everything humanly possible to keep Ford safe. There will be round-the-clock surveillance, and I am a phone call away if you even get an inkling that something might be wrong.”
“Greene killed all the others too?” Nash asked.
“It’s likely. We’re gathering evidence against him now. We have officers searching his home and his office, looking for anything we can use to link him to the boys or to anyone else who might have been involved.” A tense silence passed through the office. “If you don’t have any more questions, you’re free to go home. I’ll have Officer Fleck take you.”
