Save Your Breath

by Leigh, Melinda

  The doctor checked Gianna’s vital signs. “Unfortunately, this is not uncommon.” He patted Gianna’s foot. “Are you OK?”

  Gianna nodded.

  “Do you have any questions?” he asked.

  “No.” She shook her head.

  He checked her chart. “Your fever is down a few degrees. Did the acetaminophen also help the pain or do you need something stronger?”

  She’d been in pain? She hadn’t said a word.

  Gianna shook her head vigorously. “I don’t want anything stronger.”

  The doctor’s brows rose.

  “I was a heroin addict,” Gianna said without blinking. “I’ve been clean for over two years. I won’t take any risks. I’m on the transplant list. I won’t do anything to hurt my chances of getting a new kidney.”

  “Good to know.” The doctor opened a laptop on a wall-mounted shelf and typed. “I’ll make a note. But if you are in pain, there are other options. You don’t have to suffer.”

  Gianna nodded. “I’m OK for now.”

  He closed the laptop. “Then you hang tight until they find you a bed. No food or water. The surgeon wants to get that graft out tonight.”

  The doctor left. A few minutes later, a nurse came in and shooed everyone out of the room. “Give us ten minutes.”

  Morgan, Lance, and Mac withdrew to the waiting room.

  “Where is she on the transplant list?” Mac asked.

  “It’s hard to say.” Over the past year, Morgan had helped Gianna with her transplant application process and had become a minor expert in all things related to kidney failure. “Gianna has been on dialysis for a little over two years. The average wait for a kidney from a deceased donor is three to five years, at minimum.”

  “Shit,” Mac said.

  “Exactly.” Morgan turned to Lance. “Are you going back to get Sharp?”

  “I should. After the car is recovered, there’s only so long he’ll wait for Stella before he goes off on his own,” Lance said. “I don’t trust him to be careful. But the kids are a handful for your grandfather.”

  “I’ll take care of the kids,” Mac offered. “Stella won’t be home anyway. She’ll be working all night. The kids will be great company.”

  “Thank you, Mac.” Morgan kissed him on the cheek.

  “Hey, family is family,” he said. “Tell Gianna I’ll see her tomorrow. I’ll grab a pizza for the kids.”

  Morgan thanked Mac again, and he walked away.

  “Are you staying here?” Lance wrapped his arms around Morgan.

  Morgan nodded, slipped her hands around his waist, and pressed the side of her face against his chest. “I’ll stay with Gianna until she’s out of surgery.”

  “Do you want me to get you anything from home?” Lance kissed the top of her head.

  “No.” She leaned back and patted her tote bag. “I have a toothbrush and change for the vending machine. That’s all I need.”

  Sleeping in her clothes was going to start feeling normal.

  His blue eyes were concerned. “I don’t like splitting up, but there are only two of us.”

  “Thank goodness for Mac and Stella.” Morgan pulled her hands free, then settled them on his broad chest. “I’ll be fine here.”

  Lance held on, hooking his hands together behind her back. “What about Peyton and Ian? Could either one of them help out?”

  Morgan’s older brother was NYPD SWAT. Her younger sister was a forensic psychiatrist in California. “I’ll give them both a call, but they have careers. They can’t just drop everything to watch my kids. Besides, they both requested their vacation days to come for the wedding.” Morgan paused. “Speaking of the wedding, maybe we should think about postponing it.”

  Disappointment flashed in Lance’s eyes for just a second.

  It had taken her a long time to put the grief over losing her first husband behind her and make room for Lance in her heart. He’d waited patiently for her to be ready. She’d been excited about the upcoming wedding. Everything had been going so well for them.

  “It’s not that I want to,” she said. “I just . . .” She couldn’t verbalize her emotions. “I don’t want to go forward with our wedding if Gianna is in the hospital and Olivia is still missing or . . . worse.”

  “I know.” He looked away. “And you’re right.”

  “I don’t want our anniversary to carry the weight of . . .” Morgan trailed off. She didn’t want to say Olivia’s death.

  Lance nodded. “I know there’s more at stake here than our wedding. Finding Olivia and getting Gianna healthy are more important. But I really want to marry you. Living together is great, but it’s not enough for me.”

  She rose onto her toes and kissed him. “Maybe you’ll find Olivia today, and Gianna will be fine. Then we won’t have to cancel.”

  The look in his eyes was not a hopeful one. But he kissed her. “I love you. Wedding or no wedding.”

  “I love you too.” She pressed her lips hard against his and hugged him, grateful to have him in her life. “It feels really selfish in light of everything else that’s happening, but I’m disappointed. I was really looking forward to our wedding.”

  “Me too.” He smiled sadly and cupped her jaw with one hand. “Call me if you need anything.”

  “I will.” What Morgan needed was three clones of herself.

  Lance’s phone buzzed, and he read the screen. “Sharp wants to go talk to Joe Franklin. Stella just got called back to the station for a press conference.”

  “Be safe. Take care of Sharp—and yourself.”

  Chapter Thirty

  “I’m not so sure this is a good idea,” Lance said.

  Sharp ignored him and got out of the Prius.

  Lance followed, tugging his jacket over the butt of the Glock on his hip. The sun had set, and trees bowed over the narrow dirt lane, blocking the moon and casting them deeper in shadow. Cold wind shifted through the branches and rustled leaves overhead.

  “He doesn’t answer the gate intercom or his phone, and we need to talk to him.” Sharp walked around the front of the Jeep and stared at the metal-and-wood gate that barred access to Joseph Franklin’s property.

  “This guy is serious about his privacy.” Lance surveyed the dark woods. Joseph Franklin owned fifty heavily wooded acres.

  “Yep.” Sharp squeezed through a gap between the gate and fence post.

  With a sigh, Lance followed him.

  “We’re just going to knock on the door.” Sharp started up the driveway without hesitation. He was getting more desperate—and more reckless.

  “It doesn’t feel like a knock on the door type of place.”

  The driveway narrowed beyond the gate. Branches met over their heads and formed a tunnel of foliage. It also feels like a trap.

  “Your mom said Joe Franklin is a game developer,” Sharp said. “He’s a nerd, not a member of any militia.”

  They rounded the curve and stopped.

  “Not what I expected.” Sharp stared ahead.

  “Me neither.”

  Landscape lights brightened the property. Instead of a fortified cabin, the house was a three-story stone structure built to mimic an English manor. It looked like a drawing in one of the girls’ fairy-tale books. In front of the stone steps, the driveway circled around an empty fountain.

  Sharp nodded toward the house. “State-of-the-art satellite dish.”

  Lance saw brand-new surveillance cameras mounted under the crumbling eaves. “Cameras too.”

  “He’ll know we were here.” Sharp plowed forward. He jogged up the steps and pressed the doorbell. Nothing happened. Sharp rapped on the heavy door with a fist.

  Nothing.

  He knocked again, louder.

  No answer.

  “Too bad. He doesn’t seem to be home.” Lance stepped away from the door. “We’ll have to try again.”

  But Sharp had other ideas. He pivoted and walked around the side of the house.

  Lance broke into a
jog and caught up with him. “Where are you going?”

  Sharp didn’t break pace. “Joe is hard of hearing. Maybe he’s working out back and didn’t hear us.”

  “Sharp!” Lance called out but was ignored. He grabbed for Sharp’s arm.

  Sharp spun. “I know we’re trespassing. I don’t care. If there’s any chance in hell that Olivia is here, I’m going to find her.”

  Torn, Lance shook his head. “You’re going to get yourself shot, and then who will find her?”

  “What would you do if Morgan were missing?”

  Lance would break every law in the world without regret. It must have showed on his face.

  “I thought so.” Sharp whirled around.

  Behind the house, a wire enclosure surrounded a chicken coop. From inside, chickens clucked. Standing on the ramp that led into the coop, a big red rooster gave them the stink eye. A few goats grazed on the lawn. As they walked across the grass, the goats trotted a few feet away and settled down to graze again.

  Lance felt eyes on him. Either they were being watched or he was imagining it. He moved a few feet away, so they presented separate targets. There was no cover as they crossed the open space between the rear of the house and the outbuildings.

  He was torn between calling out for the homeowner and sneaking around. Clearly, Sharp preferred not to issue any warnings. Sharp paused at the entrance to a barn. The door stood open and Lance followed Sharp inside and shone his flashlight around. Inside a large pen, four cows raised their heads. Hay hung from their mouths. A second pen held a few pigs. One squealed, the high-pitched sound raising the hairs on the back of Lance’s neck. The barn smelled better than he would have expected. The pens appeared clean, and the doors suggested the animals had access to outdoor areas as well.

  “Well, he’s not in here.” Sharp headed for the door.

  Lance followed him outside. The temperature had dropped, and the air was a chilly forty-five degrees for September. There were two more outbuildings. They walked to the second: a metal-roofed structure. The wooden door was closed, but Lance detected a familiar metallic smell.

  Blood.

  Sharp sniffed and nodded. “I smell it too.”

  It was the smell of death. But no decomp spoiled the air.

  A fresh kill.

  Sharp drew his weapon. Lance did the same, then stood beside the door so as not to form a target in the center of the doorway. His heartbeat accelerated, and his stomach soured.

  But from the odor, what he expected to find wasn’t danger—but death.

  Sharp knocked. “Mr. Franklin, are you in there?”

  Silence greeted them.

  Sharp used his shirtsleeve to open the door. They went through the opening like a well-drilled team, sweeping their weapons across the room from corner to corner. The corners were empty.

  It was colder inside. In the center of the space, a shrouded figure dangled from a wooden stand. It was tightly wrapped in white cloth, as if a spider had wrapped its prey in silk.

  A workbench lined one wall. Lance took a step closer to the body, onto the plastic sheeting that covered the concrete floor. Blood congealed in spots and small puddles.

  Sharp was breathing hard. Lance could hear his lungs heaving from several feet away. The color drained from his face, leaving him the gray-white of the concrete under their feet.

  “No. It can’t be.” His voice was half plea, half groan.

  Lance approached the body. Several metal buckets were arranged around it. Two were filled with ice. Cold air wafted from them. The third metal bucket sat to one side. He glanced into it, and his belly flip-flopped.

  Blood.

  Lance said, “It looks too big to be Olivia.”

  But it could be Joe Franklin.

  Sharp made a noise that could have been agreement, or retching. Then he leaned over, rested his hands on his thighs, and wheezed. “Please.”

  He needed to know.

  Lance moved toward the body. Something about the shape was eerily wrong. He reached out and worked the white cloth from around the top of the body. Then he lifted its edge.

  “It’s a hoof.” Lance quickly moved to the bottom of the body and unwrapped it.

  A pig’s head stared back at him.

  Relief nearly toppled him. Lance staggered backward. “Shit. A dead pig.”

  “Pig?” Sharp raised his eyes and stared at the pig’s head for a full minute, the truth slowly sinking in. The color began to return to his face. He exhaled, the stress leaving his body with his breath.

  Lance replaced the cloth around the pig’s head. He knew little about slaughtering animals but had seen hunters hang deer.

  “You going to be all right?” He was tempted to take Sharp’s pulse.

  Sharp nodded. “Fine. I just aged a few years in the past minute, that’s all.”

  “Let’s get out of here.” Lance led the way out of the shed. A light from the back of the house blinded him. The sound of breathing lifted the hairs on his neck. He held up a hand to block the light and saw the shadow of an enormous creature.

  Sharp whipped his flashlight around. “Holy shit. Is that a dog or a bear?” Sharp asked in a whisper.

  “A dog, I think.” All the moisture in Lance’s mouth and throat instantly evaporated.

  The animal was tan with a black muzzle. It had a thick body and square head and was roughly the size of a Volkswagen.

  “Back away slowly,” Sharp whispered.

  “I think we should cut and run.” Lance had been chased by a dog in the past. He’d barely escaped with all his body parts.

  “Nope.” Sharp eased backward. “You’ll trigger his prey instinct.”

  Yep. That’s exactly what Lance felt like. Prey.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Lance stared at the dog, sweat dripping down his back.

  “Hey!” a voice called out.

  Lance looked for the voice. A man walked toward them, an ax balanced on one shoulder. He was a lean six three, and he moved like an athlete. If this was Joe Franklin, he did not look like a nerdy game developer.

  He lifted a hand to his mouth. A shrill whistle split the air, and the dog abruptly pivoted and trotted back to its master. The man gave it a command, and the dog planted its ass on the ground next to him.

  “That’s a good girl,” the man said in a high-pitched voice as he scratched the dog behind her ears.

  The dog wagged the whole back half of her giant body.

  The man let the ax fall into his hands. If the guy rushed him, could Lance draw his gun and shoot before the blade hit him?

  “You must be Joe Franklin.” Lance lifted both hands in front of his ribs, palms facing out. The seemingly defensive position put his hand closer to the weapon at his hip.

  “Don’t move!” the man ordered. “Didn’t you see the No Trespassing signs?”

  “We must have missed them.” Lance pointed one finger toward the house. “We knocked on your door, then thought maybe you were in the barn.”

  “I don’t give a fuck if you knocked on the door.” The man’s face flushed angry red. “How did you get around my gate?”

  “We walked.” Lance could not see his face. “Are you Joe Franklin?”

  “Get the hell off my property. Are you reporters? Because I hate reporters.” Joe started toward them. “Still calling me, still showing up at my house, years later. I can’t go anywhere without someone snapping my picture. Last month, I caught some news guy parked on the road. He was flying a drone over my house.”

  Olivia was a reporter. Had she come here? Had she made him angry?

  Lance faced Joe. “We’re not with the press.”

  Joe’s gaze darted back and forth between Lance and Sharp. He stepped closer, his eyes fixed on Lance’s face. “Can you repeat that?”

  Lance remembered Joe’s hearing impairment and raised his voice, trying to speak more clearly. “We’re not with the press.”

  Joe lowered the ax to the ground. He turned to his dog. “
Stay.” Then he walked toward Lance. “Then who are you?”

  Lance pulled out a business card and held it out. The beam of the flashlight blinded him. “You’re Joe?”

  “Yes.” Joe shined the light on the card, then back at Lance. “What do you want?”

  “Just to ask you a few questions,” Lance said. “It’s about a missing woman.”

  “I don’t know anything about a missing woman.” Joe backed up a step. “I hardly leave my farm.”

  “Please. Her name is Olivia Cruz.” Sharp moved forward. “She’s a true crime writer, and she’s my girlfriend. Can we just have ten minutes of your time? She’s been missing for days,” he pleaded.

  “All right.” Joe turned and strode away without another word. With a snap of his fingers, he summoned his dog. The big animal trotted obediently at his side.

  Sharp fell into step beside Lance, and they followed the man and his dog to the house. Joe led the way inside, down a corridor, and into a large kitchen. Like the outside of the house, the kitchen had an old manor feel. The floor was brick-colored tile. Copper pots hung from a rack over a butcher-block island.

  In the close quarters of the kitchen, the dog turned, shoved her huge muzzle in Lance’s crotch, and wagged.

  “She’s friendly?” he asked, not liking her giant teeth so close to his important parts.

  “Yes.” Joe sighed. “Please don’t tell anybody. She’s scared the crap out of more than one reporter, but she’s actually not much of a guard dog. She likes everybody.”

  Lance rubbed her head, carefully moving the dog’s nose from his groin. Encouraged by the attention, she pressed closer, forcing Lance backward a step.

  “Place,” Joe commanded, gesturing to a dog bed the size of a twin mattress in the corner. The dog walked to her bed and lay down. Joe walked around the island, opened a drawer, and took out two hearing aids. He put them in his ears and faced them over the island. “Now, what do you want?”

  Sharp began, “Did Olivia Cruz contact you?”

  “She did. Several times. By phone and by email.” Joe crossed his arms. “I emailed her back and told her I don’t grant interviews.”