Fade the Heat

by Colleen Thompson

  “Frank?” she called again, edging nearer to him. “C’m’ere. It’s all right, boy. We’ll give Miss Peaches a talking to for leaving you out—ahh!”

  She jerked her hand away from the big dog, turning it over to look at the wetness she had felt. At that moment, Jack must have flipped the circuit breaker, for light came streaming from the back window of the kitchen.

  Light that highlighted the thick, red substance on her palm.

  The dog’s white coat, she saw, was splattered with it, and she heard Jack behind her, sucking in his breath.

  “That’s blood,” he said while she knelt down to check her pet for cuts.

  “I realize that,” Reagan told him as her hands glided over head and body, legs and tail. She looked up at Jack from over the greyhound’s trembling back. “The question is, whose is it? Because it’s certainly not Frank’s.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  His heart pumping like a piston, Jack’s gaze slid along the back of the house, from the kitchen window to two others, all of which were now lit up. Remembering the layout of the small house from his earlier visit, he thought that one window belonged to the bathroom, while if he looked through the other, he would see the guest bedroom where he’d slept. But with all the windows set well above the sloping yard, there was no way to peek in through any of them.

  Reagan let herself out of the fence and started around the side of the house opposite the garage and kitchen door. When he followed her into the narrow gap between her house and her nearest neighbor’s vine-covered fence, Jack could see that these windows, too, were glowing—and one of them was open.

  Beneath it, someone had set a wooden crate upside down. Several of the slats were bent, as if someone heavy had stood on them. Or pushed off the box to slide through the open window.

  Careful not to break the crate, Jack stepped onto its edges. Still, it creaked in protest as he peered into the house.

  Climbing down, he whispered, “There’s no one in the living room, at least. And both the TV and the stereo are still there.”

  But instead of looking at him, Reagan was frowning at her hand. “This isn’t blood at all,” she said. “Here, smell it.”

  “What?” But before the word was fairly out, he caught the oily odor. “Is that—?”

  “It’s paint. But how could—? I had a couple of cans stored in the garage in this old crate. I was going to try an accent wall in the…but never mind the Martha Stewart stuff. How could Frank Lee get in it?”

  “I don’t like this,” Jack said and reached for his pocket. “One of the police detectives gave me his card. He said I should call him if—”

  “For what?” she asked. “Because of an electrical malfunction and a dog that got into a can of paint? For all we know, some delinquent’s been snooping around, getting his jollies.”

  “It doesn’t feel right.”

  She shrugged. “I’ll admit it’s kind of weird, but we’ve been through a lot the last few days. We’re probably extra jumpy.

  “I see so much of that at work,” she continued. “People with problems freaking out over a squirrel running in the attic or tree limbs tapping windows in a storm. I can’t tell you how many calls we get after every summer thunderstorm, when the clouds part and the sun hits all that moisture. People see steam rising from the streets and rooftops, and they dial 911 reporting smoke. I’m not making one of those calls. I won’t have the cops smirking over us, or worse yet, bringing in those task-force guys and making us explain what we’ve been up to.”

  Jack couldn’t care less who laughed at them, but she had a point about the task force. If he was questioned about his sister, what the hell would he say?

  “If it makes you feel any better,” Reagan added, “we’ll peek in a few more windows before we go inside.”

  Nodding his agreement, Jack carried the box to the next window and started to climb up on it. This time, nails squealed as they pulled loose.

  Reagan grabbed his elbow. “Here, let me, before the box breaks. I’m lighter.”

  He backed off, allowing her to take his place. But no sooner had she stepped up and looked through the window than Reagan cried out and jumped back down.

  “Oh, God,” she cried, her hand flying to her mouth and her body shaking spasmodically. “I…I saw…I saw—”

  “What is it?” he demanded. “Did you see someone in there? Or has someone robbed your place?”

  Her head jerked from side to side, and her legs buckled so suddenly, he had to grab her to prevent her from collapsing.

  “It’s not…it’s not thieves,” Reagan blurted, struggling not only to stand, but to drag him toward the open back door. “And it’s not teenagers either. It’s…it’s Luz Maria, Jack. Luz Maria’s here.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Reagan staggered after Jack as he pounded toward the back door.

  “Wait,” she called after him, thinking about the possibility that someone else remained inside the house. Someone who had come into her bedroom, who had left Luz Maria.

  But it was no use. Jack was already up the steps and flying through the kitchen. And even if he heard her, Reagan knew he wouldn’t care.

  Breathing hard, she followed, though she was already tearing her cell phone from her pocket and dialing 911.

  “I need an ambulance.” She stopped running to shout at the dispatcher. “I need an ambulance right now—and cops. There’s been a stabbing—and I think the guy’s still here.”

  Reagan had no idea if what she said was true, or if the mess she’d seen through the window had been more paint instead of blood. She only knew that her words would bring a swift and sure response—which was exactly what they needed…

  Even if the woman inside was dead already.

  “Reagan. Reag, get in here. I need you,” Jack called.

  Something in his voice sent panic sparking along her spinal column, prompting her to hang up on the dispatcher’s questions as soon as she gave the address.

  Bracing herself for what she’d glimpsed from outside, Reagan rushed inside her bedroom. And into a scene so terrifying that it took every fiber of her training and experience to keep herself under control.

  Damp crimson dripped from every surface: words whose every brush stroke looked like a slashed and bloody wound. Everything on her walls and dressers had been smashed to pieces. Broken glass from framed pictures, lamps, and a mirror’s bright shards sparkled beneath the overhead light and the slowly turning, scarlet-spattered fan blades.

  And in the middle of it all lay Luz Maria, arranged carefully atop the now-speckled, white bedspread, where she looked absurdly peaceful in her funereal pose, with her slender hands clasped on her chest and her loose hair arranged in a smooth coil that crossed her neck. A light, multicolored throw had been placed over her and tucked beneath her folded arms, as if whoever left her here had wished to keep her warm. Or had wanted to hide whatever outrage lay beneath the cloth.

  Yet the covering did nothing to disguise the fumes of paint and gasoline.

  “Luz Maria, wake up. Luz Maria, can you hear me?” Jack was bent over his sister’s face as he spoke, his trembling hand pressed to her throat. Feeling for her carotid pulse, Reagan realized.

  Even before he nodded, she saw the shallow rise and fall of Luz Maria’s chest. Still, she made no response to Jack’s voice. Definitely unconscious.

  “She’s breathing, but it looks quick and shallow,” Reagan told him. “We have paramedics en route.”

  As Jack peeled back one of Luz Maria’s eyelids, Reagan saw the dark bruising across her swollen brow. Moving closer, she saw, too, the abrasions on her otherwise-pale face: abrasions that Reagan recognized from her years of working accidents.

  But why would Luz Maria have an air-bag injury? Though the fine white powder clinging to her skin seemed to confirm it, Reagan had to put her question on hold for now.

  “Pulse is weak and rapid; skin cool and clammy to the touch,” Jack said. “But the pupils are equal and reactiv
e.”

  Reagan carefully lifted Luz Maria’s hands—noting what felt like a fractured forearm as she did so—then peeled back the cover to check her chest for any injury that might impede her breathing. The clinging, pale apricot T-shirt showed neither blood nor a deformity.

  With the stench burning in her nostrils, Reagan glanced at Jack, saw him pushing aside his sister’s hair to observe her neck before running his hands along it. As he proceeded, Reagan pushed the throw aside, exposing the whole of Luz Maria’s body.

  Including the bloodstain between her legs.

  “We’ve got some bleeding,” Reagan coughed out. “Heavy spotting anyway, soaking through the jeans.”

  “Neck looks and feels all right. But where the hell’s that ambulance?” Jack reached for Luz Maria’s left hand.

  “Try the other one,” said Reagan. “I think she’s got a broken forearm on that side.”

  Jack did as she suggested, pressing down on the base of his sister’s thumbnail to watch for capillary refill. Reagan looked on as the nail bed slowly returned from white to pink.

  Shocky, yes, but not advanced shock. At least not yet.

  And still Luz Maria made no response whatsoever as Jack repeated her name.

  When Reagan could no longer stand the fumes, she stepped over the contents of several emptied drawers and threw open both windows. To her immense relief, she heard sirens approaching from the street.

  “I’ll go let them in,” she said.

  As she turned to leave the room, her gaze landed on the wall beside the door, on the still-dripping words that screamed: AMERICA FOR AMERICANS—BORDERS FREE 4 DEATH.

  Dear God.

  Dragging her gaze from the blood-red slogans, Reagan bolted for the door, her mind overloading with her own shock, worry over the injured woman, and a swarm of unvoiced questions.

  Who could have done this? How and why? Despite the inflammatory message, had Sergio somehow been responsible—the same Sergio they had chased and cornered? The same Sergio who had held a gun pressed to her throat as he swore he knew nothing about Luz Maria?

  Reagan wracked her brain, struggling to remember whether he had smelled of paint fumes, as this room did; whether he’d been wearing blood-red smears. He’d been dirty, yes, and bleeding from his fall on the motorcycle, but aside from that his black clothing showed no—

  Flashing red lights distracted her. Stepping out the front door, she flagged down an advanced life support squad unit—the type sent to the most serious emergencies. They pulled in front of her house and flipped off their sirens, but she heard more wailing drawing near.

  Both the police and a transport ambulance would soon be here, but for right now, she was happiest to see the first paramedic that climbed out of the emergency-equipped Suburban. As usual, half of Vickie Carson’s frizzy chocolate curls had escaped her hair clip to swirl around her round face like Medusa’s hissing locks. Although she looked a few pounds heavier, Vickie moved with the same brisk confidence and purpose Reagan remembered from the days the two of them had ridden together.

  Reagan felt better knowing she was here, for Vickie was an expert in assessing and stabilizing patients on the fly. And unlike Jack, she didn’t have to deal with the emotional fallout of treating a family member.

  Vickie, her fellow paramedic, and their EMT/driver began pulling their equipment out of one of the ambulance’s compartment doors.

  “What’s up, Hurley?” Vickie asked her. “Dispatch says the assailant may be on site. Do we need to wait for the cops to clear the scene?”

  “The scene’s safe—and they won’t need to send a pumper crew for manpower, so you can have them turn around,” Reagan answered.

  “The patient’s a Hispanic female,” she continued, “early twenties. Breathing but unconscious. Looks like a trauma case, possible MVA. Here, let me grab that stretcher for you.”

  “But it came in as a stabbing,” the EMT said, his narrow face a study in confusion.

  Which was understandable, considering that car-accident victims weren’t often found indoors.

  Vickie’s fellow paramedic, a light-skinned black man in his mid-thirties, slammed shut a compartment door and frowned at Reagan, his expression just as puzzled.

  “At first glance, it looked like it could be a stabbing, but it’s definitely not that,” Reagan said, shaking her head. “Her brother’s a physician. He’s in with her now. We did a head-to-toe and found no sign of penetrating trauma. There’s some facial bruising and abrasions, what looks like vaginal bleeding and apparent fractures of the distal radius and ulna. And this is definitely a crime scene. You’ll see when you get in there.”

  “A motor-vehicle accident? At a crime scene?” the EMT asked, the creases in his forehead digging deeper.

  “Injuries seem consistent. Besides the facial abrasions, she has some kind of white powder all over her,” Reagan answered. Ignoring the curious stares of a couple of neighbors who had come outside in bathrobes, she pushed the wheeled stretcher toward the front door.

  Vickie asked, “This your house?” as she and her partner followed Reagan up the walkway.

  Reagan nodded. “We found her like this when we got here, maybe seven or eight minutes ago. We were running all over, looking everywhere for her, and she ended up back here.”

  Vickie cut her a sharp and curious look, but she asked no personal questions, not even when Reagan led them to her bedroom, and the second paramedic muttered, “Holy shit.”

  Jack looked up from Luz Maria. “Oxygen,” he told them. “We’ll need to get her on O2 right away.”

  “I understand you’re a physician, sir,” Vickie responded. “Is this your patient?”

  “She’s my sister, damn it. Just get a mask on her. And we’ll need a C-collar, in case there’s—”

  Vickie didn’t move. “Are you taking responsibility for the patient and the scene?”

  Reagan placed a restraining hand on Jack’s arm. “Let them do their job, Jack. They know what they’re doing.”

  “She’s my little sister,” he repeated, while the EMT stepped outside to radio a cancellation on the pumper call.

  “Then help her by explaining what we know already. And back off. Back off so we can get her to the ER fast.”

  He stared at Reagan, pain welling in his eyes like blood from a fresh wound. For several beats, she didn’t move, didn’t even blink, as she waited for Jack’s common sense and training to overcome emotion. He must know as well as she did that his interference would only slow the process, and that his attachment to his sister could overwhelm his judgment.

  His shoulders sagging, Jack nodded and took a step back. As the paramedics and the EMT worked, he gave them the details, as calmly and thoroughly as if he were discussing a total stranger…and not the sister he’d helped raise.

  The sister some sick bastard must have left here after running her car off the road.

  Things changed when the first cops showed up. The two of them took one look at the slurs splashed across the bedroom walls, looked at each other, and said, “Roll call.”

  “This is the address the lieutenant mentioned, right?”

  “I’ll radio it in, Mike,” said the older of the two, a thickly built specimen with an ill-fitting uniform and an accent that sounded more like Philly than East Texas. “The feds from that task force’ll be all over this.”

  Apprehension coiled in Jack’s gut, distracting him from the paramedics as they taped Luz Maria securely to the backboard. The sight of her, with a C-collar underscoring her facial injuries, sent fresh anxiety spiking through him.

  Would the investigators try to take him away from her, to question him again for hours at the FBI field office?

  “I’m riding with them in the ambulance.” His voice was firm and his gaze unyielding as he zeroed in on the remaining officer. “We’ll be at Ben Taub’s ER.”

  The younger cop was young indeed, a skinny white kid with an Adam’s apple that jerked like a fishing bobber in a stocked pond. �
��I—uh—I don’t know if I can let you go to the hospital. We’ll need to question you, sir.”

  “Then you know where to find me.”

  The female paramedic said, “On three,” then counted off until the crew moved his sister to the stretcher.

  “Are you the homeowner?” the officer asked him.

  Reagan had been lifting the paramedics’ jump kit and monitor to return them to the ambulance, but she looked up at the question. “That would be me. I’m the one who called this in.”

  The Adam’s apple twitched, but the young officer held his ground. “We’ll need to interview you.”

  “But I was going with the—”

  “Someone has to explain to us what happened.”

  She glanced down at Luz Maria, then nodded to Jack. “You go on with her then. I’ll talk to these guys and meet you at the ER when I can.”

  “You don’t have to come—” Jack began.

  She silenced him by pursing her lips in obvious annoyance. “I’ll be there,” she repeated, her gesture sweeping the trashed room. “I have a stake in this, Jack—and I have a heart.”

  So far, his attention had been fixed solely on his sister. But now, he saw that all around the room, angry red slashes formed letters. His gaze lit on the set that read, NO MORE GRAVY TRAIN—FUCK THE WETBACKS!

  The words rocked him like a body blow, sending his breath hissing through his teeth and jerking his attention back to Luz Maria. And riveting his thoughts to the splotch of bright red blood that he had seen between her legs.

  Rage roared through him, shuddering along his limbs and drawing both his hands into painfully tight fists. A rage so all-consuming that he knew that if he found those responsible, nothing would prevent him from killing whoever had laid hands on his sister.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Reagan counted herself lucky that the young officer allowed her out of his sight long enough to help the squad’s crew pack up their equipment. Not that she had any intention of taking off, but she wanted a last word with Jack before he left.