Allison Brennan - Playing Dead

“She hurt you, didn’t she?” Mitch said. He felt uncomfortable in this role. Hans had always been the one to talk to the psychopaths, working through their past and getting them to surrender or make a misstep. What if Mitch screwed this up? What if he said the wrong thing and Claire ended up dead because of him?

“You’re not part of this. Go away.”

“No,” Mitch said. “I know about Bridget. She raped her male students and went to prison. You were one of her victims.”

“Victim? Fuck you, Fed. I’m not a victim. I was never a victim! I loved her. I wanted her.”

“Is that what you told the judge when you testified against her?”

“I never did that! I’d never hurt her. My father-he humiliated me. He did it, not me. He had shrinks come in and interpret what I said and change everything around.”

“Shrinks. I can’t stand them either. Come down, Bruce,” Mitch said, trying to turn the conversation more personal. “Come down and we can talk about the damn shrinks.” Even as he said it, Mitch knew Langstrom wasn’t going to bite.

“You’re transparent, Fed. You’re going to back off, right now. Back off. Go back to your car. Drive away. Then I’ll let Claire live.”

She wasn’t dead. At least, if Mitch could believe this killer, Claire wasn’t yet dead. Mitch held on to the hope.

“You know I can’t do that, Bruce. You’re a cop. You wouldn’t walk away either.”

“Cop.” He laughed. “I’m a hired gun, by both the government and the criminals who run it.” He laughed, then it shut off abruptly. “Get away from me!” He released some of the dirt and Claire’s scream from deep in the grave pierced the night, over the sound of the backhoe.

She was alive.

Mitch took a step backward. “Okay, Bruce. Okay. Look. I’m backing off.”

Meg was in position.

“I’m backing off,” Mitch repeated.

“It’s better like this,” Langstrom said.

In the rapidly fading light, Mitch saw movement in the backhoe. Was that a gun?

He hit the ground and rolled as a bullet whizzed past his head. Mitch had his gun out and aimed, but more gunfire rang through the air and Langstrom fell out of the backhoe.

The dirt in the scoop above Claire cascaded down.

“No!” Mitch jumped up and ran. “Claire!”

Damn motor, he couldn’t hear her.

He ran to the edge of the hole. “Claire!”

He couldn’t see her. Oh God, no, all that talking while she was dying. . then he saw Claire’s limp hand sticking out of the dirt.

He jumped down and began digging around her hand. Her arm. Her head.

“Claire!”

He pulled her head free of the dirt. She wasn’t conscious. He felt for her pulse. Strong, but rapid. Blood coated her hands. Had she been shot? Where was the blood coming from? He checked for a head wound and found none.

“Hans! Meg! I need help.”

The motor shut off.

“Mitch! Where are you? Mitch!”

“Down here! Call for an ambulance!”

Mitch dug away more dirt from Claire’s body. She was naked. Her body was so cold. There were cuts, now filthy from the dirt, all over her arms and chest.

“I need help getting her out.”

Meg jumped into the half-filled grave and rapidly scooped dirt away from Claire’s body until Mitch could pull her free. He lifted her up and handed her to Hans, who was kneeling at the edge of the hole.

“Her leg’s bleeding,” Mitch said. It also appeared bandaged. What had that bastard done to her? Mitch wanted to kill Langstrom all over again. His eyes burned as Hans laid Claire down on the ground. Mitch pulled himself out of the hole, then helped Meg out. Both he and Hans removed their jackets and wrapped them around Claire.

Four more agents ran to the site. Meg gave the orders. “You two, secure the property. You, get the first-aid kit and blankets, stat. You, get the status of the ambulance.”

Mitch smoothed Claire’s hair away from her face. “Claire. Claire, come on, wake up. Please, Claire.”

“She’s lost a lot of blood,” Hans said. He focused on removing the bandage. “The bleeding has mostly stopped, but we need to get the wound washed out and antibiotics administered ASAP.”

“Claire, honey, please.” Mitch swallowed thickly. He couldn’t lose her. Dammit, he could not lose her like this. He would rather have her throw him out of her house in a rage than have her die in his arms. “Dammit, Claire. Yell at me. Hit me. Blame me. Just don’t die on me. Don’t do it.” He pulled her into his arms, cradling her, taking comfort that her heart still beat, that her lungs still breathed.

He kissed her forehead, her cheek, her lips. “Claire,” he whispered, “I need you. I need you back. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me like this. I love you.”

Sirens pierced the night. Thank God. “Claire, we’re getting you help. You’re going to be okay.”

Mitch looked up. He’d forgotten that Hans and Meg were kneeling with him. He turned away from their inquisitive expressions. He didn’t want to explain, but he said, “I love her. Go ahead, fire me.”

Meg said, “I already figured that out.” She took a deep breath. “I must have been a real bitch these last couple years if you think I’d fire you for falling in love.”

Mitch stared at her. “What-”

“As far as I’m concerned, what you do on your own time is your business.” She reached out, touched him. “You’re a great agent, Mitch, flaws and all. I’m glad you’re on my team.”

Mitch nodded and stroked Claire’s hair.

“She’s going to be okay,” Meg said. “She’s a strong woman. I like her a lot.”

Mitch stood to the side of the property with Meg and Hans. It was Sunday morning, dawn, and the evidence response team was getting to work on a grisly project. It reminded the three of their shared past. Only, this was somehow worse.

They had already identified seventeen possible grave sites. They excavated the most recent: The girl, sixteen or so, had been dead only a couple days. She had dark hair and fair skin.

Like Claire.

“It’s come full circle, hasn’t it?” Meg whispered. “Our first case together.”

“Kosovo,” Hans and Mitch said simultaneously. Thirteen years had passed since their horrifying weeks in Kosovo unearthing mass graves to identify human remains after the brutal civil war tore apart Yugoslavia. It still haunted all three of them.

“What do I say to her?” Mitch asked quietly. They had been upstairs and had put together what Bruce Langstrom had done. The young girl’s room where evidence of a struggle told them Claire had been inside. The worn bear, her name on the door, the photo of a young Claire and her friend on the wall-it didn’t take a rocket scientist to surmise the room was a replica of Claire’s childhood room.

The blood in the hallway where he’d shot her in the leg to prevent her from escaping. Her cut clothes in the bathroom, which matched up with the marks on her body when Mitch found her.

But it was the disk playing in a loop in the bedroom that had Mitch and even the seasoned, unflappable Hans Vigo speechless.

That bastard had been watching her for years. Filming her in the privacy of her own bedroom. Mitch wanted to kill him again-with his bare hands-for putting Claire through hell. For forcing her to watch her most intimate and private moments. Why? Some sick mind game? To demoralize her?

“Tell her you love her,” Hans said.

“It’s not going to be that easy.”

“Nothing worth having is easy.”

“How is she going to live knowing that he-”

“She will because she’s a fighter,” Hans said.

“And,” Meg added, “she has you.”

Mitch watched their evidence response team bring up another body and lay it on a bright yellow tarp. How do they stop monsters like Langstrom? So many victims. Innocent. Maybe he was supposed to be a cop. But the rules that favored killers like Langstrom would always be stacked against them. He didn’t want to go back to a desk, more concerned with paperwork than criminals.