Allison Brennan - Playing Dead

He still had respect for Meg. Hell, Mitch liked her a lot. They’d met at Quantico, become good friends because of common interests, and ended up in Kosovo together four years later, digging through mass graves as part of a national evidence response team. When they returned to America six weeks later, they both felt out of touch with everyday concerns. The weight of Kosovo tormented them, and they turned to each other for solace. They were two busy people with the same career and they thought that marriage was the answer to loneliness.

They were wrong. The marriage officially ended three years later.

Mitch pulled himself out of the water and sat on a rock at the edge of the river, looking for the most likely point of entry. The killer would want an easy place to push the car into the river. Mitch looked up. This was a curve, but the river meandered in at this point, not out. If the Explorer went in at this spot, it was coming from Isleton. Had Maddox come down here to meet with someone?

According to the locals, there was good fishing in this part of the river. A small restaurant and tackle shop was nestled on the road next to the bridge. Potential witnesses might have seen the car go under. But Mitch sensed that this killer wasn’t stupid. No, the car went in at night. Cloudy or moonless or stormy. Minimal traffic. No witnesses.

There was no perfect murder. If they couldn’t find physical evidence here or in the vehicle, they would officially identify the victim and go from there. Retrace his final days. But Mitch didn’t intend to wait for identification. He’d start his investigation presupposing it was Maddox.

He motioned to Special Agent Duncan who was not so discreetly staring at him from across the inlet. What did he expect? He’d probably had more face-to-face time with the Office of Professional Responsibility than any active agent. And since the last visit was only three months ago when he returned from Montana after tracking down two fugitives, he was lucky to still have a job.

But what was he supposed to do, sit on his hands? Even though he’d been given a direct order not to cross state lines to follow the fugitives, he’d done it anyway. Under the same circumstances, he’d do it again. He was good at his job, he had to act. Sitting around playing bureaucratic games and shuffling paper from one desk to another wasn’t in his job description.

Mitch understood his primary flaw: He had a hard time following orders he disagreed with. He’d had the same problem in the military. His issues with authority stemmed from his conflicts with his dad, a bigwig prosecutor who had seemed all-powerful and righteous while Mitch was growing up. Only when it was too late for Mitch to change his path did he learn the cold truth about his father.

When Duncan was within hearing distance, Mitch said, “Go over this area again. The turnout, the dock. The guy’s been under for a while, look for any sign of new growth-it might indicate the spot he entered the water. Talk to the owners of the tackle shop and restaurant. Find out how often this dock is used, and specifically about any regulars-people who come out and fish at least once a week. I’m sure there’re a few. There may be a witness who doesn’t even realize it.”

Mitch didn’t think so. Probably nobody but his killer had seen what happened the night Oliver Maddox went into the river. But Mitch had to cover all the bases.

He went back under, letting water wrap around him, as he slowly swam back to the Explorer’s resting place.

What were you doing that got you killed, Oliver?

“Tom?” Her voice sounded far away. “We’re here, Tom.”

He hadn’t been sleeping, but he’d been trapped so far in the past Tom hadn’t realized they had already arrived back at the motel.

“Sorry.”

“Let’s go in.” Nelia’s voice was quiet and lyrical. It calmed him, grounded him, like nothing else could.

My angel.

She’d saved him, physically and emotionally. He didn’t deserve her, but he wasn’t about to give her up. He drank in her trust, her support, her faith in him as if she were wine to the dying man.

It was quiet and they walked to the room together. Nelia had checked in two days ago, paying up front for a week. He’d hidden in the truck, sneaking into the room when it was clear. Acting like the fugitive he was; hating every minute of it. Without Nelia, her truck, her money, her faith, he wouldn’t have survived this long. Coming back to Sacramento to prove his innocence would have been suicide. But Nelia was his eyes and ears. While it still wasn’t easy, with her it was definitely safer than if he’d traveled alone. She bought the food, she reserved the motel, she drove.

His angel.

They walked in and Tom went immediately to the bathroom. He wasn’t being fair to Nelia, but he needed to run his head under cold water and think.

The earthquake seemed so long ago. He’d run because-no use lying to himself-he ran because he was a dead man. At the end of January, he’d had five months before his date with the executioner. His appeals had been denied, over and over. Oliver Maddox had given him cautious optimism, then disappeared. Tom’s thin thread of hope had been severed.

When the quake struck, others ran as well. Cold-blooded killers. Tom had to do something to stop them.

So he had pursued them. He was one of them, after all. They trusted him as much as they trusted anyone. And he ended up capturing seven of the bastards before catching up with Doherty and Chapman in Idaho. He’d been cocky. Cocky because he’d done a damn good job and saved lives. He felt like a cop again. He felt like he was doing something positive after fifteen years behind bars.

It had been three and a half months since that bastard Aaron Doherty had shot him in the stomach and left him for dead in the middle of a snowbank in Idaho. Tom had played that situation wrong-he’d thought he needed to watch Chapman more closely, that he was the more dangerous of the two. Misjudging that psycho had almost killed Tom.

He would have died if Nelia hadn’t found him in the snowbank along the frontage road.

It had been touch and go for a while. For over three months, Nelia nursed him back to health. He rubbed the gnarled scar on his stomach. It was still touch and go; the bullet remained in his body. For the past two weeks, he’d been having periodic sharp pains. But it wasn’t like he could go to the doctor.

Nelia hadn’t asked questions, at least not at first. She wasn’t scared of his blood or his story; she was simply a sad and beautiful woman. And last week when he said he was leaving to find his daughter and prove his innocence, she had simply said, “I’m coming with you.”

Tom O’Brien couldn’t die knowing Claire believed he’d killed her mother. He would find a way to convince her of the truth she’d been too young and emotional to accept when she was fourteen.

Having Nelia, a stranger, believe him gave him the strength to make a stand. He knew he might die in pursuit of the truth. He’d accepted that fate when his last appeal had been denied. He was already a dead man. He had nothing else to lose.

He left the bathroom and his eyes rested on Nelia. Seated at the small Formica table in the corner, she was drinking coffee. When she saw Tom, she poured him a cup from the thermos she had earlier filled at a nearby coffee shop. She pulled muffins from the bag. “You didn’t want to eat before, but you need your strength,” she told him.

Sitting across from her, he took her hand. She stared at him, brown eyes sad and worried. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he said, voice cracking. He cleared his throat and sipped warm coffee to swallow the emotion.