Survivor Trilogy Box Set

by T. M. Smith

  “Haven’t you been listening, Rand? They probably threw a party when I left, but to answer your question, no, not that I know of.” Shannon sunk back into the chair, fighting valiantly not to cry.

  “Anyway.” Rory spoke before Rand could ask another question. “Go ahead, Shan. Finish your story.”

  Apprehension flooded his veins. Closing his eyes and concentrating on deep, even breaths, Shannon exhaled slowly. The moment of truth—would Rory still want to be with him after hearing just how worthless he truly was? “One day I disagreed with something he said, and he smacked me. Everything went downhill from there. It was all sunshine and roses for a while, then he’d beat the shit out of me, then he’d apologize and promise not to do it again. There were a handful of times he went too far and had to take me to the ER or a clinic. He told me to tell them he was my uncle because no one would understand our relationship and, fuck, I was so naïve I believed his empty promises and played along.” Shannon angrily brushed the tears away, sniffling, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his shirt.

  “Babe, maybe we should take a break. Let me freshen up your tea.”

  “No! Sorry, I…” He apologized, nuzzling Rory’s hand with his cheek when Rory brushed a stray tear away with his thumb. “…I need to finish, tell you everything. If I stop talking, I may never be able to start talking about him again.”

  Connie stood and leaned over the coffee table, gesturing for him and Rory to hand over their mugs. “You say what you need, mijo. I’ll take care of this.” She winked, her smile genuine.

  Wrapping an arm around Shannon and pulling him close, Rory whispered in his ear. “You sure you’re okay, Shan?” Was he? Probably not. But draining the poison from his soul was necessary. He just hoped the scars this time around wouldn’t be permanent. Nodding, he laid his head on Rory’s shoulder and breathed in his scent.

  Across from them, the good detective was scribbling something on his pad, the scratch of pen on paper unnerving in the otherwise quiet room. Connie strolled back with two steaming mugs in one hand and two chilled bottles of beer in the other. “You didn’t have to wait for me.”

  “I wasn’t, not really.” Taking the cup, he sipped and sighed. “Perfect, thanks. When I saw that file earlier today, I was drawn to it by the image sticking out of the top. The guy in the photo looked a lot like me. I was shocked at how many pictures were in the file, but it was a piece of paper that caused my heart to skip a beat, or rather, what was written on it.” A snapshot of that fucking list would be forever ingrained in his mind. Closing his eyes, he shuddered involuntarily, repeating the words he’d seen. “ ‘Most victims have scarring or broken bones, fractures, some healed, some new, obvious abuse.’

  “That freaked me the fuck out because that was, well, is me. Even more terrifying than that was the dream I had earlier. I remembered something Bruce said to me the first time I tried to leave. ‘I should let you go like the others.’ Those words never registered in my mind until today.”

  Crossing his arms, Rand sat back and soaked it all in, running his hand over his buzzed head of hair. Shannon could almost see the gears in his brain turning as Rand went over everything he’d told them. “Fuck, Shannon, I’m so sorry you ever had to go through that, and I think I want to kick the shit out of this Bruce, but we need to focus on any possible connection he has to the victims.” Reaching for his pad and pen, Rand flipped the page and glanced over at Connie, the two of them exchanging looks that worried Shannon before they focused on him again. “For now, let’s just run some background on this asshat. What is Bruce’s last name, where does—or rather, where did he live when you were there, and what type of work does he do?”

  Shannon snorted; try as he might he could never forget the tiniest of details about his ex. “Bruce Pearson, Attorney at Law, resides in the condo on the top floor of Watermark Tower in Seattle, Washington.”

  Connie muttered something in Spanish, and Rand quite possibly translated for her in the form of a four-letter word. “Fuck, he’s a lawyer. That doesn’t bode well. He’ll know the law inside out and, if he’s our unsub, will have connections that could alert him to an investigation.”

  Fear coursed through Shannon’s veins like ice water, leaving him chilled to the bone and instantly terrified. “Wait, you don’t think…that…will…” His body ached, just the memory of the abuse he’d suffered making him dizzy and lightheaded. “…Jesus, Rory, what if he finds out it’s me? What if he comes here?” His gut reaction was to run as fast and as far away as he could. Rationally, Shannon knew that his lover, the ornery detective, and the lethal woman now sitting on the coffee table in front of him holding his hand would do everything in their power to keep him safe. But this was Bruce they were talking about. Even worse, wherever Bruce was, Tuan was, and the thought made his heart skip a beat. He jerked the blanket off and tried to stand, but Rory pulled him down. Although, rationally, Shannon knew Rory was not Bruce, that his lover would never hurt him, the feel of Rory’s hands on him at that very moment made his skin crawl. “Don’t touch me!” It was instinct that made him shout and swat the hand away. Sitting back, he closed his eyes and tried to breathe; his chest felt tight and the love seat they sat in started to spin out of control.

  “Okay mijo, calm down and breathe.” All three Connies spoke in unison, and he wondered which one was real. Everything was fuzzy, his vision graying around the edges. Rand and Rory were shouting, whether at each other, him, or Connie, he didn’t know; he couldn’t focus on any one thing. And then, for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, he blacked out.

  Chapter Twelve

  Rand

  Exhausted, Rand ran his hands down his face, rubbing his dry, itchy eyes. He’d been staring at the computer screen so long he wouldn’t be surprised if he wiped away blood. Picking up his cell, he groaned, seeing no missed calls, no text message notifications. When he and Gonzales left Shannon’s apartment the previous night, he’d been hesitant to go, worried for the young man he was growing quite fond of. As much as it chapped his ass, Rand had to admit to himself that Shannon was in the capable hands of his boyfriend.

  Fucking hell, Davis. Why can’t you put those two out of your line of sight? They’re a couple, and they’re in love, and three is a crowd, you dipshit. It was hard to sit and just listen as Shannon recounted years of abuse. To see the look of sheer terror in his eyes at just the thought of Bruce Pearson finding out where he was. In a fleeting moment of insanity, he actually leaned forward on the couch, intent on standing and walking around the coffee table, pulling both men into his arms and promising them it would all be okay.

  Stop looking at them and seeing them as anything more than friends, dumbass, he thought and then let out a sigh. Easier said than done.

  Cracking his knuckles and rolling his shoulders, he concentrated on the task at hand: Bruce fucking Pearson. He and Gonzales had learned a lot about the abusive asshole between the Dallas PD and FBI databases as well as connections he still had within Naval Intelligence. Now in his early forties, the attorney had an uncanny ability to win difficult cases. There were news articles Rand found on different sites talking about witness tampering, money changing hands, and evidence promptly disappearing. There were other dirty, underhanded accusations hurled at Pearson, but there was never any solid proof of misconduct. Still, the Internet was a vast black hole of never-ending bad decisions. A photo snapped and posted on Instagram that would later be deleted remained in the dark crevices of the World Wide Web, and Connie Gonzales was a bloodhound with a keyboard and access to damn near every database in the country.

  While they were in Washington, she’d pulled up Shannon’s learner’s permit to obtain his address prior to running away and winding up at Bruce’s. She’d learned that Momma and Papa Dupree had sold the house and moved about a year after Shannon left. While Rand wanted to delve deeper into the Duprees’ complete and utter lack of concern for their child’s whereabouts, he knew it would hurt Shannon. Sating his curiosity wasn’t w
orth the pain opening that old wound would cause Shannon, so he’d let it go.

  Sitting at Rory’s desk, working side-by-side with the woman all night, brain stems igniting from copious amounts of thick, black coffee, he’d learned quite a bit about the usually close-mouthed agent. Out and proud, she dared anyone to say something negative about her sexual orientation. After all, she was a badass bitch with a big gun. Intelligent, articulate, fierce, and loyal, Gonzales walked through life with her head held high, confident and beautiful. Rand had to admit that were he straight, he’d be tripping over himself to make her his; she was that appealing to him. Her one vice was “cute little spinners,” as she called them—small, petite, sexy women. Her best friend was her partner, Rory Landers, and she too questioned the reasoning behind the decade-long assignment she, Landers, and Cummings had been tasked with. But that was a conversation best saved for a later date.

  “Davis.” Connie snapped her fingers, beckoning him. “Look here, a credit card application for Brian Doral, one of the unsolved murder victims Rory and I thought would link to Helms and Tullor back in 2014. Do you see who the cardholder is?”

  “Bruce Pearson, son of a bitch!” Rand shouted. Grinning, he bent and kissed Connie on the cheek—he was that damn happy to have found a crumb connecting the sadistic asshole directly to one of their victims. “We’ve got him linked to a body now, Connie. Let me add that to the board.” The large whiteboard taking up the length of an entire wall already had the bones of the Columbia River Killer laid out. The images of all the guys, in chronological order, according to when their case was initially reported, were affixed along the top, their personal and pertinent details written below each image. Eleven young men—twelve if their assumption was accurate—and the unsub was Bruce Pearson; Shannon was the lucky one that got away.

  “I’ve emailed the officer on record for each case and asked them to forward any and all notes and evidence on that case.” Connie looked at her watch. “Since it’s five in the morning and it’s Saturday, I don’t know that we’ll hear from anyone right away.”

  It occurred to Rand then; what if Shannon wasn’t the only one that got away? “Gonzales, we have five missing persons cases, including the judge’s grandson, right?” She nodded. “What if Shannon wasn’t the only one that got away? What if one of these kids,” he swept his arm over the length of the board, “managed to get out from under Bruce, or whoever it was? Fuck!” This was what he did; he talked out a problem, chewed it down to nothing before spitting it out and pulling the truth from its depths. “I know we haven’t definitively linked all these—fuck, I hate referring to them as kids because it makes this whole thing that much more depraved, though victim seems disrespectful in a way.”

  One eyebrow raised, she nodded. “I get you. I see what you’re saying, Davis, but at this point we need to think of them as victims at the very least. It’s the mystery that keeps us going, keeps us digging and poking until we uncover the truth of what happened to each and every one of the victims we’ve found thus far. Also, keep in mind that the very definition of ‘depraved’ is immoral, corrupt, and wicked. Whatever is going on here, asshat attorney or not, is fucking depraved. We need to find this depravity and bury it underneath the motherfucking jail so that no one else will have to endure what our boy Shannon went through.”

  “Got any coffee for me?” Rand spun around, surprised to see Shannon and Rory standing in the doorway. He and Connie both moved fast, going to the board and jerking pictures down as quickly as their hands would let them.

  “Stop.” They both froze. “I need to know what’s going on with all this,” Shannon begged, his voice so broken and full of pain that it tugged at Rand’s heart. Instinct had him wanting to walk over to him and pull Shannon into his arms, protect him, keep him safe. “Put it all back, please.”

  Uncertainty was not an emotion Rand experienced often, but right then, he was damn fucking confused. Gonzales nodded, jerking her head toward the board and the two of them put the pictures in their hands back up, in order. Turning, he opened his mouth, intent on apologizing and assuring Shannon that he did not in any way, shape, or form think of him as a kid, but his phone rang. Sighing, he snatched it off the desk. Oh yeah, now you fucking ring!

  “Davis.”

  “Big brother, where the hell are you?” Claire’s voice was loud so he checked the volume on his phone, turning it down a notch.

  “Work, why?” He knew he sounded brash and pissed but he didn’t care. God only knew why his sister was calling him at the ass crack of dawn on a Saturday.

  “Randall Davis, don’t you take that tone with me.” Her snort was indignant. “The breast cancer walk is today. Did you forget? I’m here at Starbucks waiting for your sorry ass.”

  “Fuck,” he groaned. “Sis, I’m so sorry, I completely forgot. We’ve been here all damn night working on a case, an important one. Is there someone else that can walk in my place?”

  “Where are you, Rand?”

  “Police Headquarters in Dallas, why?”

  “I’m on the way.”

  “Wait, no, Claire.” The line went dead. “Goddammit!” he shouted. “Oh, sorry.” Looking over his shoulder, Rand could see the tension in both Shannon and Rory’s postures. “Come in, sit—hang on a sec.” He sent Claire a text stating that if she was determined to barge in on him at work, the least she could do was bring coffee. Knowing what each person in the room would want, he typed out the list and hit send.

  His phone immediately beeped. Really, BB? You stand me up and now you want me to bring you and your buddies coffee?

  “Whatever.” Tossing the phone onto the desk, he turned and motioned Shannon and Rory closer. “We linked one of the murder victims to Pearson.” He pointed to the image of Brian Doral.

  Shannon’s sharp intake of breath pained him, but he did insist that they speak openly, freely. Turning, he approached Shannon warily. “Listen, Shan, you may be able to help us with this case, actually. If you can tell us everything you remember. What were Bruce’s favorite restaurants? Clubs he may have frequented? A name or a place he may have mentioned. You could very well have vital information in your head and not even realize it.”

  “Don’t call him Shan,” Rory growled, wrapping an arm around Shannon and pulling him close. Ah yes, Landers was staking his claim. It wouldn’t be surprising at all if he whipped his dick out and pissed in a circle around Shannon. If the situation they were in the middle of weren’t so dire and serious, he’d have pushed the agent’s buttons and watched him dance. But he didn’t have time for that shit right then. Ignoring the bait, Rand moved over behind the desk and pulled out a chair for Shannon. By the time Claire arrived with coffee that she’d conned one of the desk clerks into carrying up for her, Rand had already identified another possible victim connected to Pearson by comparing what Shannon shared with the evidence in that particular case.

  “So first, you stand me up. Then you don’t even ask me if I mind grabbing coffee—you just send me this list. I already paid eighty bucks for a walk we didn’t even participate in, big brother, and this haul of delicious java wasn’t cheap. By the way, what candy-ass do you work with that wants a venti caramel macchiato with almond milk and cinnamon?” Claire collapsed into Gonzales’s chair—the agent was currently in the restroom—propping her feet on the desk and sipping her cup of chai latte.

  “Claire, my darling sister, you remember Agent Landers, and this is his boyfriend, Shannon Dupree.” Rand hoped the slight twang in his tone when he said the word boyfriend was his imagination. The look Claire gave him when she took Shannon’s hand proved otherwise.

  “Goddamn, we work with some nasty motherfuckers. You wouldn’t believe—” Gonzales stopped midsentence and midstep when her eyes landed on Claire. “Oh, hello, and who might you be?”

  “Really, God? Really?” Rand sighed, eyes to the heavens. “Connie, this is my sister Claire. Claire, this is Special Agent Consuela Gonzales, on loan to us from the FBI.”

&nb
sp; “Claire, hi there. You seem to be sitting in my seat.” Connie teased, nothing but innuendo dripping from her words. “Is that my coffee? Please tell me you remembered the cinnamon.”

  His sister giggled, actually fucking giggled, as she handed the “candy-ass” cup of coffee to Connie. “Kill me…kill me now,” Rand whispered.

  “With pleasure.” Landers smiled up at him. “Yeah, you do realize that your sister is Connie’s wet dream come to life, right?” He glared at Rory, fighting back the urge to throttle him. Claire cackled, and he looked over to see his sister sitting on Connie’s desk, head thrown back, laughing hysterically. Holy shit. He could have gone the rest of his life without seeing Gonzales twirl one of Claire’s dark brown curls with her finger, pulling his sister down to whisper something in her ear.

  “That’s it.” He moved, intent on separating the two of them.

  Shannon grabbed his arm and he was momentarily taken aback, a zing of static electricity flowing through his veins. “Leave them be. They’re kinda cute, actually.” While he wanted so very much to drag his sister out into the hall and close the door, the soft smile that relaxed Shannon’s features as he watched the two women flirt unabashedly was worth Rand dealing with his annoyance.

  When Rory called out to Connie, asking her if she was going to help them with the case or molest Rand’s adorable little sister on top of the desk, he couldn’t decide if he wanted to thank him or strangle him. Shannon, Rory, and Claire stood quietly and listened while he and Connie brought them up to speed on what they’d found thus far. It wasn’t much, but they had a strong link and, when factoring in Shannon’s past, there was a cohesive thread that strung every picture on the board together.