Tripp

by Irish Winters

  God, he hoped she’d open those snarky eyes soon.

  Tucking her pajama pant legs into the booties, he pressed the Velcro straps in place. Her wardrobe now consisted of clothing designed to snap-on or wrap-around, anything to make dressing easy. This morning, Gracie had dressed Trish in loose-fitting, black silk pajamas with red piping on the edges. Trish’s garish black hair-dye was growing out, as was the length. It actually shone from Gracie’s careful attention now, and her natural curls were back in full force. Tripp couldn’t remember the last time his sister had looked so much like herself.

  Since he’d previously exercised her feet to keep them from curling, which was more like a massage than what he considered a workout, Tripp moved alongside the bed for her next sets. Taking hold of her right arm, he put one hand on her wrist, the other at her elbow, and stretched the limb slowly and gently into a wide quarter arc.

  “Let’s give all those fans of yours a great big parade wave.” Tripp always put excitement into his voice. Somewhere inside that hard, banged-up head of Trish’s, he hoped she was listening. “There you go. Not too high. Not too low. Jusssst riiiight.”

  Lowering her arm to her side, he repeated the rotation. “Good job, Pooh Bear. Ten more of these. Slow and easy. When we’re through, I’ll read something out of ‘Winnie the Pooh.’” A very long time ago, in Idaho, Trish had adored the little, yellow, stuffed bear. Hence her nickname. Brothers loved to tease.

  “Great! Now let’s play ball.” He raised her arm high enough to execute a full one hundred eighty degree stretch. “Volleyball, today. Remember when we used to set up the net across the backyard in Idaho? Man, I hated that Russian Olive tree hanging over our fence from Ruskin’s pasture. The thing had ten-inch thorns, I swear. How many balls did we lose to that ball-eating monster. Ten? Twenty?”

  She grunted. She’d made a noise!

  Very carefully, Tripp relaxed her arm and leaned over her, their hands linked together under her chin. “I heard you. You’re trying to talk to me, I know you are,” he told her, his tears shimmering, making her a beautiful, blurry angel. The gold roots showing through the black, formed a halo at the crown of her head. “Do it again, Pooh Bear. Please. Say something to me, anything.”

  She didn’t respond. Didn’t open her eyes. Nothing. Which wasn’t a surprise. Because of the damage to her throat, her thoracic specialist Doctor Pitt had performed a tracheostomy. She now had a hole, aka a stoma, in an already damaged throat that allowed her to breathe. Once she regained full consciousness and strength, she’d have to learn how to eat through her mouth instead of the tube that ran through her nose into her stomach. Because of the way her throat had been cut, Doctor Pitt also planned a surgical procedure called a microlaryngoscopy, to repair the nerve damage to her vocal cords. If Trish put her mind to it, she’d be able to communicate vocally someday. Tripp still couldn’t believe she’d survived.

  “Aw, come on, Pooh Bear. Please. It’s just me, your dumbass brother. Do it again. I don’t care if you tell me to fuck off or go to hell. Honest.”

  She moaned. Out loud! At least she’d made something in her throat vibrate. She had heard him.

  He loved it! “You’re alive!”

  Well, of course, she was alive. Tripp knew that. But now she was really alive!

  Opening her eyes, she blinked. Three drowsy blinks, but by hell. She’d done that intentionally. He could’ve kissed her! So he did. Lifting her limp torso up from her pillow, just enough to ease his hands beneath her, he hugged the sister he’d been missing for a long, damned time. Gently, he kissed her cheek. While she lay there breathing in his ear, Tripp cried like a damned baby. “You’re alive, and you’re going to be okay, and—”

  She managed a weak slap to his shoulder. Tripp eased her carefully back down. His heart had lodged up high in his throat. He was so damned happy. “I’m calling Mom.” He had his cell phone to his ear by then. He couldn’t wait to tell— “Mom! Trish is awake.”

  “She is!” Andy shrieked. “When?”

  “Just now. Hurry. Get dressed. I’m coming to get you.”

  Ashley peeked into the room. “Oh, my gosh, is she awake? How wonderful!” She’d dressed in yoga pants and a plain white t-shirt this morning. She’d been excited, bouncing on her toes when Zack swung by her apartment and gave her a ride to TEAM HQ.

  “Congrats,” Zack said. Wearing a black hoodie and running pants, he took up the entire doorway behind her.

  “It’s a miracle,” Tripp replied, so damned happy and relieved for his pain-in-the-ass sister. He couldn’t get his eyeballs to man up and quit leaking, damn it!

  Suddenly, Ashley had both arms around his neck and his forehead rested on her shoulder, while he quietly fell apart. Until then, Tripp hadn’t realized how worried he’d been that he’d lose Trish. Or how much he loved her. Trish always had the knack of making him angry. But yeah. He loved his twin more than he’d ever tell the brat.

  “How will Andy get over here?” Ashley asked.

  “I’ll go get her,” Zack volunteered. “Sit tight, folks. I’ll be right back.”

  Tripp glanced sideways at his twin. Trish was fingering the bandage on her neck. “I don’t want to tell her what happened,” he whispered after Zack left.

  Ashley snuggled into him, her fingertips on his collarbone. “Why not? It’s a miracle. She’s lucky to be alive.”

  “But I don’t want to scare her.”

  “Well, my goodness. Look at you!” Gracie exclaimed from the open doorway “Hi, Trish! My name’s Gracie Armstrong. I’m your rehab therapist, nurse, and mentor. Basically, I’m here to help you get back on your feet. I brought you a get-well-quick present.” She placed an electronic tablet on the nightstand near Trish’s hand. “It’ll help you communicate until you learn how to talk again. You can even play games on it or listen to music.”

  Gracie was one of those forever optimists, the kind of caregiver a patient wanted in their corner when they faced an uphill battle. She’d already proven to be a rock of positivity with Tripp, Andy, and Ashley. Watching her interact with Trish did Tripp’s nervous heart good.

  Trish patted her bandaged throat, her eyes wide and her lips moving, but no sound coming out.

  “That’s where your doctor performed a tracheotomy to help you breathe. You were assaulted, sweetheart,” Gracie explained as she sat on the edge of the bed. “Some awful man tried to kill you. Do you remember anything?”

  Trish shook her head.

  “But Tripp and his guys shot that guy,” Ashley explained quietly. “He’s dead now, Trish. That jerk can’t ever hurt you again. You’re a survivor like me.”

  When Trish squeezed her eyes shut and her lips pinched, Tripp knew she was struggling with her new reality. He tugged Ashley into his side and let Gracie take over. She knew best how to help his twin understand what had happened to her. Trish had survived one hell of an attack, but this was her second chance—if she was smart enough to take it.

  “Hey, listen. Why don’t you and Gracie get better acquainted, while we grab a bite of lunch,” Tripp told his twin. “Mom’s on her way. We’ll be right back.”

  But Trish wasn’t having that. Shaking her head, she waved frantically for him to stay. Her eyes were bright and panicked.

  Tripp never thought he’d see the day she would admit she needed him. He was at her side in a heartbeat. The moment he drew close, Trish latched onto his hand and pulled him down to her face. Like a drowning woman, she wrapped one arm around his neck, her chest heaving as she buried her face in his shirt.

  Gracie moved out of his way and let Tripp settle beside his sister. He gathered her under his chin. “Hey, kiddo,” he breathed. “You’re alive, and you’re going to be okay. Yeah, some idiot thought he could take you down, but you showed him. You’re one helluva fighter. I’m proud of you.”

  She made a desperate sound deep in her throat, and her heart was pounding like a hummingbird was caught in her chest.


  “Will she really be able to talk again?” he asked Gracie.

  She crossed her arms over her chest, smiling, and her eyes on Trish. “It’ll be hard, girlfriend, but I know a couple really good speech therapists, and with enough practice… Yeah. I’ve seen people overcome damaged vocal cords before. Plus, Doctor Pitt is one of the best thoracic specialists on the East Coast. If he says you’ll recover, then trust me. It’s a done deal.”

  Tripp patted his twin’s back, something he hadn’t done in years. “And I’ll be here every day until you’re back on your feet. Mom and Ashley, too. Oh, yeah.” He motioned Ashley to join him on the edge of the bed. “Almost forgot. This is my girlfriend, Ashley Cox.”

  Blinking furiously up at her brother, Trish stabbed her finger at her stoma.

  “I know. That rat bastard cut your throat, kiddo. He meant to kill you, and by all accounts, you should be dead. But instead, he’s kicking up daisies, Pooh Bear. Not you. Look at you, still ready to kick the world’s ass.”

  There was no sparkle of hope in her eyes. She didn’t believe him.

  “It’s okay to be scared, Trish,” Ashley offered extra-quietly. “That same guy tried to kill me two years ago. I was scared for a long time. So scared, I kinda forgot how to live. But if a scaredy-cat like me can learn to fight back, I know Tripp’s badass sister can, too. One of his friends is teaching me how to box and about self-defense. Maybe we could spar together sometime.”

  Still cowering under Tripp’s chin, Trish shook her head the slightest bit. This was a side of her he’d never seen.

  “Oh, yes, you most definitely are badass, girlfriend,” Ashley teased. “Tripp’s been telling me stories about you guys growing up in Idaho. How you glued his coffee cup to the kitchen table one morning before school, and how he nearly jerked his throwing arm out of its socket trying to pick it up. How you put a plastic skull in the microwave one morning, so he’d find it when he fixed his oatmeal, and how he screamed like a girl.”

  The corners of Trish’s lips curled.

  “You’ve always been a pain in my ass. Don’t stop now,” Tripp added gently.

  Another ragged cough escaped her.

  He hugged his sister carefully. “We’re just going down the block to a pub for lunch. Want me to bring you anything? Clam chowder? Waffle fries? Ice cream?” She’d adored strawberry ice cream when she was a kid.

  Leaning back onto her pillow, she made a heart sign with her index fingers and thumbs.

  “You want a Valentine?” Where the hell was he going to find something like that this time of year?

  She shook her head and made the sign again.

  “I think she’s trying to tell you she loves you,” Ashley said.

  Trish nodded, those tired eyes washing over him. She pointed at her chest, then him, then made the sign one more time.

  Tripp could have cried, but Gracie interrupted his meltdown by handing Trish a couple tissues. “She’s tired, guys. Let’s let her rest.”

  Tripp took a chance and told Trish, “I never stopped loving you, Pooh Bear.”

  She’d never liked his nickname for her. Predictably, she flipped him her middle finger. But for the first time in her life, Trish did it with a smile

  Epilogue

  There were good days. There were bad days. A good day was Trish impatiently wanting out of bed the minute Tripp arrived, then standing on her own two feet and walking a few steps to prove she could. A good day was Andy crying because her baby girl had just signed that she loved her mom and could Andy ever forgive her? Or the morning Trish shot Tripp two hands full of flying fingers, which Gracie translated into, “It’s damned time you learn American Sign Language, so I can talk to you again, Trippster!”

  Tripp had once hated her nickname for him almost as much as she’d hated being called Pooh Bear. Yeah. Good times.

  A bad day was Tucker Chase calling to inform Tripp of everything he and his team had found in Doug Driscoll’s basement apartment in nearby Arlington. Another body bag and another woman’s lifeless, tortured body. A bloody stainless-steel table. Two damp drains in the concrete floor, both ripe with plenty of forensic evidence. Pulleys bolted to two-by-twelve-foot ceiling joists. A heavy chain attached to those pulleys. Meat hooks dangling at the end of that chain.

  Tucker had already reported everything his team had found hidden in Driscoll’s trench coat, the weapons he’d planned to use on Ashley. The sharp knives and rolls of fishing line. The wire, pliers, fishhooks, and duct tape. But the small ballpeen hammer and all those loose six-inch nails were the worst. The creepy bastard was one crazy motherfucker.

  Jameson’s profile had been accurate as hell. Not only did Driscoll reside close by and travel Interstate 395 on a daily basis, but he’d suffered a catastrophic injury as a small child, that resulted in him being medically castrated. Compound that glaring shortcoming—no pun intended—with his mother’s bizarre compulsion to tell the world about his lack of manhood, and Driscoll hated women and pretty much all men. But he only vented his insane obsession on women because real men scared him. He was the ultimate voyeur, a photographer whose career field offered graphic stimulation, as well as vivid real-life scenarios to fuel his twisted need to prove he was still powerful…albeit in a pitiful, impotent way.

  The altar where Driscoll commemorated his work yielded photos of eleven missing women. Tucker’s team had already identified the four from Pennsylvania and the three from Massachusetts. Identification of the rest pended DNA results from the body bag found at the last crime scene. Counting the two that got away, Ashley and Trish, and the three murders from two years earlier, that made a grand total of sixteen women Driscoll had violated, intended to violate, or murdered. Not a day went by that Tripp didn’t wish he could kill the son of a bitch again.

  “Are you ready?” he called out from where he was sitting in Ashley’s living room. Since his apartment had been an uglier crime scene than hers, he’d moved in with Ashley after Director Chase gave them the green light. Tripp had cleaned the mess in his place, then moved most of his stuff to storage. He’d only brought his clothes and his shaving kit with him to Ashley’s.

  October and November had been all about Trish’s recovery. She was home now, and Andy was happier than Tripp had seen her in years. Christmas had come and gone. After an unseasonably warm December, January brought ice and snow flurries to the Eastern Seaboard. Despite the wintry weather, movers had packed TEAM HQ while all of the agents were on two-weeks holiday leave. Things were looking up.

  And there she was, wearing a clingy sweater dress the same color as her eyes. Ashley no longer wore man-shirts or pants, but this was the prettiest he’d seen her. The dress hugged her curves and accentuated her plump cleavage in all the best ways. The fabric flowed like sapphire blue water over her figure, dipping at her waist, making his heart pump like crazy. The lace of a white camisole peeked above her breasts, framing them like two plump gifts he wanted to put his mouth and hands on.

  She’d rigged part of her hair into a bun crisscrossed with golden wires and dotted with sapphire gems. The rest hung down her back in an ebony sheet of silky softness that rippled when she moved. But those matching blue, fuck-me heels… Not only did they make her legs longer, but the thought of them on his shoulders later today made Tripp hard as hell. He jumped to his feet, his throat dry, and reached for her hand.

  “Let me look at you,” he said, his voice full of gravel and grit.

  “Are you ready?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Baby, I am so ready. Oh, you mean to get going?”

  She lifted her face to the ceiling and laughed. Seeing the tender expanse of sweet-smelling skin between her chin and chest was invitation enough. Tripp tugged her against his body and buried his face in the crook of her neck, breathing in the luscious scent of her hair. This shy, timid creature had become his reason for living. Ashley had changed his life and all of his toughest-dog-in-the-fight reference points. Tripp no longer lived for
the hunt or worked nights for Lady Justice. He lived for Ashley, his mom, and his sister now. His TEAM and his life, not Ikram’s. He’d done all he could while he’d served, and he’d come to realize it was time to let Abdul go. Now was Tripp’s time to live.

  “We’re going to be late,” she whispered, even as her hand curled around his neck and her fingers delved into his hair.

  “Shall we?” he asked, going for gallant, but, no doubt, looking like the kid from Idaho that he’d always be.

  “Yes. Let’s.” The excitement in Ashley’s voice was a quivering livewire of need that jolted straight to his groin. If she even hinted at stepping out of that dress, he knew damned well they’d be late.

  But now was not the time. They had some place to be, and they couldn’t miss it. Not today. People expected them, especially them, to be on time.

  Fighting a primal need to undress Ashley, Tripp held her winter coat while she slipped her arms into it. While she buttoned up, he shrugged into his leather jacket. His pistols stayed home today. He couldn’t wear his two-pack holster under the get-up he’d soon change into. The small pocket pistol tucked in his inside jacket pocket would have to suffice. Tripp flipped his jacket collar up, because, today… baby, it was cold outside.

  It took a half-hour to get to the chapel on Prince Street, Alexandria. After he parked his truck in the rear lot, Ashley went her way, carrying a garment bag with all her essentials. The next time they met, they’d be different people. They’d be—

  “Hey!” Jameson called from the open back door Ashley had just disappeared into. “Been waiting for you. Hurry your ass up, McClane!”

  “Coming,” he replied, on the run now.

  Hurriedly, Jameson showed him where to change, then helped him dress. Adeptly, he straightened the front of Tripp’s pin-tucked dress shirt while Tripp stuffed its long tails into his pleated, black, dress slacks. Jameson tied Tripp’s bow tie as he slipped into the shiniest damned dress shoes in the world.

  “What’d you do, spit polish these shitkickers?”