J. Ellison - The Immortals

“No, you certainly weren’t. Because if you’d been thinking clearly, you would have alerted this body to Charlotte Douglas’s illegal actions, and she would have been prosecuted. You would have been prosecuted right alongside her for allowing her to violate the honor and code of the Bureau. I don’t know what’s worse, Dr. Baldwin. Your lies to cover up Charlotte Douglas’s actions, or your lies to cover your own ass.”

Reever cleared his throat. “There’s no need for that, sir. Dr. Baldwin has been utterly honest and forthright here. He’s answered all of your questions as openly and thoroughly as possible. And if I may point out, it’s nearly midnight. Perhaps we should break for the day.”

“We won’t be breaking just yet. We’re all in agreement here. Dr. Baldwin’s actions were evidence of gross misconduct. There will be serious repercussions. We need to meet privately to discuss what exactly the punishment will be. You may wait outside while we deliberate.”

He and Reever had been sitting in somewhat companionable silence for nearly an hour when Baldwin’s cell rang. He jumped, startled. It was Garrett. This couldn’t be good. He shrugged his shoulders at Reever and answered.

“They’re still in there?”

“Yes. Have you heard anything? What did they decide?” Baldwin asked.

“I don’t know yet.”

“They’ve been at it an hour. Really, how much more do they want from me? I gave them the truth, just like they asked.”

“The whole truth?”

“As much as they needed.”

“Well, then. It’s going to be okay. You’ve already been punished enough for this. There’s nothing they can do to you that would be worse than the hell you put yourself through.”

That was the truth. Baldwin hadn’t handled his life very well in the months following Charlotte’s revelations, the death of Harold Arlen. And the demise of his team. Instead of facing the music, he’d split town. Taken a leave of absence, run home to Tennessee and spent the next six months practically comatose on his couch. Alcohol had been his friend then, a means to escape the daily torture of the guilt. It had taken a great deal of reassurance from Garrett, then meeting Taylor to drag him out of his depression.

The door to the hearing chamber opened. Reever stood and grabbed his arm.

“Garrett, they’re ready for me.”

“Okay. Hang in there.”

He stowed his phone, squared his shoulders and entered the chamber.

Nashville 11:40 p.m.

T aylor was only a mile from home, but the succor of the hearth fire wouldn’t be hers for a few hours yet. McKenzie yawned in the seat next to her, long and loud.

“Where are we headed?” he asked.

“I thought we could try Subversion, see if he went there. Do you have any other ideas about where he might go?”

“Does he know Juri Edvin’s in the hospital?”

“I don’t know.” She called Marcus. He answered on the first ring. She filled him in on the situation with Ariadne and Schuyler Merritt, then asked him to go over to Vanderbilt. Juri Edvin needed guarding, at the very least. If Schuyler decided to drop in on his friend, they’d be ready for him. He told her the BOLO was out on Schuyler Merritt’s car, a silver 2000 Hyundai Elantra. Good, all units were aware to be on the lookout for him, at least.

She was flying down Interstate 40. The only real traffic at this hour was long-haul eighteen-wheelers and a few drunks wheeling their way home from the bars. Cars and trucks alike scattered out of her path, leaving her the far left lane open. She drove fast, the speedometer topping ninety. Running away from Ariadne.

“Damn it, what was that woman thinking, going out there by herself?”

McKenzie shook his head. “She thought she could handle him.”

“Yeah, right. The kid’s already in the bag for seven murders, plus his parents, and God knows who else. Sure, she could handle him, a lone woman, in the dark, with no backup. I wish to God people wouldn’t be so stupid.”

“She thought he was one of her kind. She’s very powerful. I’m sure she thought he would bow to her authority. It was misguided, yes. But surely you can see, she was trying to help.”

“And nearly got herself killed in the process. She was raped, McKenzie. You know how that affects a woman. She’ll never sleep easy again.”

“She won’t, or you won’t?” He said it kindly, but her nerves flared.

“This isn’t my fault,” she said. They were passing the Hustler store on Church Street. Taylor went up to Broadway and turned left. She wanted to hit Lower Broad, the strip, look through the faces on the streets, see if she could spot her fledgling vampire among the masses.

“Of course it’s not. That doesn’t mean you aren’t blaming yourself. You couldn’t have stopped this.”

“I could have figured out who Schuyler Merritt was sooner. If I’d listened to Ariadne in the first place…” Her voice drifted off. Instinctively, she knew that wasn’t the case. My God, they were only forty-eight hours in and hot on the trail of the final suspect in the case. It was damn fine police work, a group effort, and she knew that. But she still felt like a failure. She was going to carry the image of blood on Ariadne’s thighs with her forever.

They drove around for two hours, stopping into Subversion, which only existed once a month, not nightly, as she’d imagined. No one in the building was a part of that particular venue tonight-a dead end. At 2:00 a.m., she turned around at Second and Lindsley, took one last pass up the street, scanning faces and cars. When they hit Hooters, she turned to McKenzie.

“I give up. He isn’t here.”

“Let’s call it a night. We need sleep. Every overnight patrol is on alert, looking for him.”

“Do you mind stopping at the hospital before I drop you off?”

“Of course not.”

She powered the Lumina up Church Street, turned right at Baptist and pulled into the emergency room entrance parking. They left the car out of the way and went inside.

She flashed her badge at the desk, said they were looking for the rape victim. Ariadne had become a statistic, was forever labeled. Taylor realized what she’d done after the words were out-damn, it was habit. This was why they were trained to distance themselves from the victims, this searing feeling of guilt. She’d never sleep, never eat, never rest if she didn’t. But Ariadne felt like a friend, and treating her as a number hurt.

The nurse behind the desk pointed them toward an exam room-at least she’d gotten some privacy, rather than being examined out in the curtains. Under the cacophony of beeping and shouting, Taylor heard the small noises of pain echoing throughout the E.R.-someone was vomiting, a despondent child cried quietly, a woman grunted in the pangs of early labor. Misery, on an epic scale, that’s what the emergency room felt like to her.

She knocked on the door to Ariadne’s room, entered without waiting for a response.

The witch was in the bed, a soft blue-and-white-checked gown tied at her throat. Her face was a mass of mottled bruises, the cut on her forehead sporting a few stitches, black against the swelling purple bruise. Her eyes were closed, but Taylor could hear the shallow breathing-she wasn’t asleep. She went to the bed, resisted the urge to reach out and grab the woman’s hand.

“I’m sorry,” she said, low and quiet.

Ariadne opened her eyes, the cerulean gaze infinitely sad. “So am I,” she managed. Her jaw was swollen and dark with suffused blood. There was an X-ray on the lit radiograph box that showed what looked like a hairline fracture in the lower left mandible.

“They’re going to wire me shut for a few weeks,” she slurred.