Nurture
Page 17
A memory of his latest dream shuddered through him as his fingers curled around the door handle to Tag’s office. He was already in a cold sweat when he stepped inside and pulled the door closed behind him. It was impossible to meet his captain’s eye with the irrational thoughts of blame, completely unearned, grinding through him.
“Wiki?”
Barry’s head popped up from where he’d been studying a dried splash of coffee on the linoleum.
“You okay? You look like—”
“Fine. What’d you want?”
Tag frowned.
“Sir.”
A heavy sigh filled the room and settled around them.
Tag finally retrieved a folder from his desk. “New case.” He handed it to Barry. “Dead guy, missing girl.”
Barry took the folder, flipped it open, glad for the new focus. “Do we like her for it?”
“Doubt it. Little thing like that?” Tag shook his head.
Barry understood the comment when he saw the pictures of the victim.
“Beaten to a bloody pulp,” Tag confirmed, as if the visual wasn’t enough. “Garrotted. Missing woman’s about five foot two, ninety pounds on a rainy day. She didn’t do that.”
“Who did?”
Tag’s eyebrows went up. “That would be the case, wouldn’t it?”
“And no idea where she is now?”
“If I had to guess? Run. Whoever did this had to be one scary son of a bitch.”
Barry nodded, gaze still skimming the file. “I know this guy.”
Tag nodded. “Reporter. Calvin Landry, wrote for some local rumour rag.” He poked at another, much thicker file still sitting on his desk, flipped the folder open, and picked up a picture, which he handed to Barry. “He was following this case. Pain in the ass, but not a bad guy. This was the last murder he ran a story on. That girl there”—he tapped the picture of a gagged and bound woman lying lifeless on a cold, cement floor in what looked to be a garage—“looks an awful lot like Calvin’s girlfriend. Now he’s dead, his girlfriend is fuck knows where, and I don’t like where this is going one bit. If Calvin pissed this guy off, and this kind of girl is his type…”
Barry stared at the photo of the dead girl. She was young, had been pretty. He handed it back to Tag.
“She was raped—”
“Strangled,” Barry whispered.
“That was COD, yeah…”
Tag’s voice faded out behind the whirlwind of violent memory. Barry shook. Papers drifted down around him. “You were there.”
Tag shuffled forward, his bum foot slapping awkwardly on the linoleum.
Barry started and looked up.
“I went to the scene, yes.” Tag paused. “Barry?”
Barry stared at him, a bit of shellshock still ricocheting around in his head, making it hard to focus, impossible to speak.
“You had a dream,” Tag said.
Barry didn’t have to answer.
“I’m giving this to Cornwall and Riggs. Go home. Get some sleep.”
“Fuck you.” Barry dropped to one knee and scooped the papers back into their folder. “You have to let me do this.”
“You can barely focus. You’re too close. Those dreams—”
“Make me the perfect candidate to find her.”
Tag was shaking his head already, though. “I know what those dreams do to you, Barry.”
“No, you don’t.” Barry leaned in to his face, tapped him on the chest with the corner of the folder. “You left.”
Tag backed off and sank onto the edge of his desk. At least he didn’t argue that point.
“I don’t know where they come from, or why I have them, Tag, but you have to let me use them,” Barry insisted.
“What they do to you, though…”
“They do whether I use them or ignore them. If something good can come…”
Captain Taggart nodded. “But if I think you’re in trouble, I’m pulling you.”
Barry scooped the fat file off his boss’s desk and turned to the door. “I’ll find her, Tag.”
* * * *
Black shadows flitted around Barry. Every time they stopped there was pain, but they never slowed enough for him to strike back or even defend himself. Every time they connected, they left a part of him broken and bleeding until he was a quivering heap of helplessness on the cold floor. The screaming and begging in the background was endless.
Then came the garrotte. Knowing it was a dream didn’t make it any better…
He clawed his way up from the abyss, gasping for enough air to scream.
The clock’s red glow spread almost to the edge of his pillowcase. 2:27. Not quite an hour since he’d fallen, exhausted, onto his pillow. He turned away, kicked the tangled sheets off the end of the bed, and rolled onto his side. His hand contacted skin, and he sat up.
“Shit.”
Bleary blue eyes blinked at him. “Hey.”
Barry shifted warily, putting space between himself and the man in his bed.
“You okay?” The man reached a long-fingered hand towards him.
“Uh…” He stared at the fine fingers, striving for some memory of the feel of them roving over his skin.
The hand dropped. “That was some dream.”
“Yeah.” He studied the mussed blond spikes of the guy’s hair and tried to remember his name.
“So…” The guy glanced around the bed, snagged his briefs from where they’d caught between the mattress and the wall, and shimmied down after the sheets. “I guess…” He slipped into his underwear and glanced back at Barry. “I gotta go. You know?”
“Yeah.”
Jeans, shirt, sweater. Barry watched him, saw the clock tick over the minute.
“So. See you ‘round.”
“Sure.”
Jacket and boots. He disappeared out the bedroom door. A minute later, the apartment door clicked open and thumped shut again.
Barry flopped back. The clock winked at him through the warm amber hue of the rum sitting on the bedside table. He caressed the bottle, wrapped his fingers around it, and the feel of the smooth glass—cool and solid under his touch—grounded him in the familiar, safe realm of his life. But he didn’t pick it up. Drink made the dreams hazy. Sex sometimes left him with enough endorphins to make it to morning. Not this time. He rolled to face the wall, and at some point drifted back into the shadows.
The shadows moved so fast. He ducked as they came at him and held his hands up to ward off the blow. It only sliced through his bonds. Something soft floated down over his head. Silk hid him from view as he cringed from the footsteps rushing past, retreating. The only sounds left were soft, squelching thuds, and the snap of bone under the eerie silence of the swirling shadows.
He wondered if he’d imagined the face—dark, blank, framed in a wild spray of black fronds… Just more shadows flying about in a deadly mêlée he didn’t want to see clearly.
Then it stopped. Only a low gurgling noise, a mask of death, and fingers clawing, blood oozing, and that dark, blank face staring at him.
He ran.
The memory of the receding footsteps led him out into the black night. Wet pavement froze his feet, doorways shielded him, but every shadow sent him fleeing. Nowhere was safe. One turn too many brought him headlong into a broad chest, and a hard grip closed over his arms. He didn’t fall, only because the grip closed painfully and held him up. He’d run too far, too long—he couldn’t breathe and couldn’t bear to look up and see that empty face staring back at him this time…
When he finally dragged himself upright, he realised the grating sound wasn’t his own breathing, but the harsh blare of his alarm.
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About the Author
Jaime Samms
Jaime writes, romance, fantasy, urban fantasy, shifter stories about men, about life, about love. Her work is populated with mostly men, most of whom are into each other, and yes, we do mean into each other. You can find plenty of free reading o
n her website.
She also reviews for Dark Diva Reviews, mostly the same types of stories, and will happily spout her opinion on the books she reads to her kids, who she home schools. Finally, she’s occasionally gainfully employed. She writes for the love it, and hopes to pass on that love to her readers, her kids, and anyone else who comes along.
Email: jaime.samms@gmail.com
Sarah Masters
Sarah Masters is a multi-published author in three pen names writing several genres. She lives with her husband, youngest daughter, and a cat in England. She writes at weekends and is a cover artist/head of art in her day job. In another life she was an editor. Her other pen names are Natalie Dae and Geraldine O’Hara.
Sarah also co-authors with Jaime Samms, and as Natalie Dae she co-authors with Lily Harlem under the name Harlem Dae.
Email: emmyellis@live.co.uk
Sarah and Jamie love to hear from readers. You can find their contact information, websites and author biographies at http://www.pride-publishing.com.
Also by Jaime Samms and Sarah Masters
The Dreaming: Tools of Justice
The Dreaming: Tools of Change
Also by Jaime Samms
Lace
Tales from Rainbow Alley: Hotwired Heart
Tales from Rainbow Alley: Finders Keepers
Tales from Rainbow Alley: Fix This, Sir
Tales from Rainbow Alley: Face to Face
Tales from Rainbow Alley: Neat Trick
Saddle Up ‘N Ride: Sing For Your Supper
Also by Sarah Masters
Always
Cabin Fever
Beautiful Sunset
The Man He Needs
Trust
Empathy for a Killer
Blinded: Part One
Blinded: Part Two
Blinded: Part Three
Blinded: Part Four
Blinded: Part Five
Voices: Needing
Voices: Wanting
Voices: Keeping
Voices: Aching
Voices: Faking
Voices: Hiding
Voices: Taking
Vincent: Part One
Vincent: Part Two
Vincent: Part Three
Vincent: Part Four
Vincent: Part Five
I Need a Hero: Flying with the Stars
What’s his Passion?: Outcast Cowboys
Aim High: Live for the Day