Allison Brennan - Sudden Death

“The victim’s hands were very clean,” Megan remembered. “Compared to what I would expect from a homeless man.”

“Actually,” Ward said, “now that you mention it, the body was relatively clean. I see a lot of the homeless in here, and few take regular, or even weekly, baths. His clothing, however, was quite ripe.”

“Abrahamson,” Matt said, snapping his fingers.

“Who?” Megan asked.

“Detective Greg Abrahamson. He was undercover on the streets last year while investigating a series of murders. Found the killers and I have the trial coming up next month, so I’ve been working with him. I wonder if he knew the victim.”

“It’s worth a shot,” Simone said. “I’ll talk to Black about it.”

“You’re trying the case yourself?” Megan asked.

“It’s very complex. I just won the motion to try the two juveniles as adults, but the battle wasn’t pretty. Our office is going to be under scrutiny.” He didn’t have to explain why-California’s entire criminal justice system had taken a huge public slap last year for sending an innocent man to death row.

Megan knew exactly what kind of pressure Matt was under. When his knee got shot out in Desert Storm-the same war that killed their father-he turned to a law degree, became a prosecutor, then a state senator, and eventually the district attorney. Putting criminals behind bars meant more to Matt than playing politics. The events of last year had put Matt back in the political spotlight, and he hadn’t liked it.

“I’ll call Black about Abrahamson,” Simone said.

“And let me know when the security tapes come in,” Megan said. “Maybe we can put a face on the killer.”

“Killers,” Simone corrected her.

Naked, Ethan stood in the middle of the forest.

The darkness was complete, the earth and his mind. Black. Bottomless. He breathed, but he was not alive. He spoke, but he did not think. Sucked dry by the needles that controlled his nerves, an empty shell of a man told him what to feel and when. The pain, the pleasure, the pain, the nothing.

Nothing.

He’d wanted to die. Death meant nothing. He wasn’t really alive, was he?

He raised his bare arms toward the towering canopy of trees, a sliver of early light fighting its way in among the leaves. Arms outstretched, legs spread, he begged for lightning to strike him from above.

The phantom smell of charred flesh rushed through his nose, on his tongue. He snorted and moaned. The pain of electricity surging through his body, now a memory.

He looked down at his limp penis, but instead of the dank earth below he saw himself suspended by ropes, his feet barely touching the packed dirt floor. Rubbing his hands together, he felt the scars on his wrists, faint now, there for him to see and feel but no one else knew.

His body jerked as if he were on a string. He watched the needles that had pierced him years ago sink into his flesh. Wires this time, wires connected to a battery- what he thought was a battery. He looked straight ahead, the tree limbs holding the device, the wires crawling out for him.

You are mine you are mine you are mine.

Wires slithering as snakes, boa constrictors, wrapping around his ankles, knees, thighs, penis, down his throat …

Kill me God damn you kill me damn you KILL FUCK NO NO NO NO.

The pain tore all pleas from his mind, his throat, his scream suspended in midair. His body jerked violently from the electric jolt, a brief jolt that kept him bobbing long after they were done.

The room had been dark. The room had been bright. Hell. Heaven. Laughter. Laughter bubbled out of his scream-scarred throat. There was only Hell, Hell on earth, and all he wanted was nothing. Nothing. Empty, painless, nothing …

Dropping to the ground, he buried his face in the dirt, burrowing in the leaves. He would escape, run, hide.

They would find him.

She would find him.

He was being watched.

The cold hit him first. He shook uncontrollably. Raw earth assaulted him. He breathed in and coughed up dirt. His mouth was coated with the damp, moldy soil. He rose, resting on all fours, barely able to breathe.

“Ethan.”

Salty tears mingled with dirt on his tongue.

“Wa-water.” He could hardly speak. Where was he?

“Shh.”

It was his angel of death, the one who’d saved him. Over and over. She didn’t leave, didn’t desert him, leave him to the enemy, leave him to be tortured. She raised him from the dirt, draped a blanket over him. He was naked. It was so cold, where were his clothes? How did he get here?

“Walk with me.”

He went with her, her arm around him. He remembered tearing his shirt. His chest stung. He’d scratched himself. How bad? It hurt. She would take care of him.

“Kill me,” he begged, his throat raw.

She didn’t respond. He wanted to cry.

“I hurt myself,” he whispered, his throat raw.

“I’ll fix everything.”

She would. His angel would fix everything.

“Kill them.”

“Of course.”

“I will kill them. I will kill them. I promise you I will kill them.”

And she murmured in his ear, “Yes, sweetheart, we will.”

Jack had been in San Diego for two hours, and in Patrick’s hospital room for the last thirty minutes, and now he wanted to leave. Hospitals and anything medical made Jack antsy. He’d spent enough time in triage to cringe at the sights and smells and sounds of the sanitary building.

Unfortunately, Patrick saw that in him. The kid had an uncanny sixth sense, like Dillon. Jack didn’t like to be psychoanalyzed by either his kid brother or his twin.

“You don’t want to be here,” Patrick said.

“I wanted to see you, make sure Dillon wasn’t jerking my chain when he said you woke up as if nothing happened.”

“Slight exaggeration. My muscles are weak and I remember everything. Up until the explosion,” he added quietly.

Two years ago, their eighteen-year-old sister Lucy had been kidnapped and Patrick, a cybercrimes cop with San Diego P.D., had gone with a team of FBI agents to an island off Baja California where they believed she was being held captive. The trap had left Patrick barely alive; life-saving brain surgery put him in a coma. The only life support he required was a feeding tube, his body went through all the rituals of breathing and blood pumping on its own. Twenty-two months later he woke up without fanfare. Jack didn’t believe in miracles, but Patrick’s recovery was the closest thing to one he’d ever seen.

Patrick reached for a five-pound weight on the table next to the hospital bed. Jack resisted the urge to help him when he saw the strain cross his brother’s face. Patrick did three curls then put the weight down, winded.

“Dillon came by earlier. You just missed him.”

Jack hadn’t missed his twin. He’d avoided him. He had plans to meet up later with Dillon and the rest of the Kincaid clan, but for now he wanted to focus on Patrick and adjust to being home.

“Thanks for coming,” Patrick added.

Jack nodded. “I’m glad you made it.”

“Nearly two years.” Patrick frowned and stared at the foot of his bed. “Looks like they’ll let me go in a few days. I’ll have P.T. daily, but at least I won’t be in here anymore.”

“Good.”

Jack didn’t know what else to say. He stood. “I’ll let you rest.”

“I don’t want to rest,” Patrick said. “Did you come to San Diego to spend five minutes with me, only to go back to Texas or Mexico or wherever it is you live?”

“Pretty much.”

Patrick picked up the weight again, this time in his left hand. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by that, it’s just … two years and nothing has changed.”