by Hank Edwards
"Yeah, yeah," Pearce said. "And just for the record, I wasn't going to waterboard the guy. I know about professional distance."
"Yeah?" Jake looked at him and raised his eyebrows. "Is that what you tell yourself when you get in bed each night with your witness from the Kings of Rebellion case?"
Pearce stared. His heart pounded, and a heated flush spread across his face as ice seemed to form around his heart. "What did you say?"
"I think you heard me," Jake replied. "And before you go all apeshit on me about it, the reason I said it was to give you something to think about. You're a good agent, Pearce, but you've also been walking a very thin line within the Bureau. You need to give some heavy-duty thinking to what your future as an agent looks like."
Pearce looked out his side window at the houses flowing past. He felt like he'd just been punched in the gut, and he'd actually been punched in the gut enough times to know just how that felt.
When he had his breath back and his temper relatively in check, he looked back at Jake and gave a single, curt nod. "Point taken. Thanks for the tip."
"Just trying to help."
"Yep. I appreciate it."
Pearce looked away again, thoughts of the victims, Mark, Robert Morgan, and the cases that made up his career all tumbling together. Was he putting the case in jeopardy? Or was he the only one who had a chance in hell of finding Robert Morgan and ending this once and for all?
10
Mark awoke with a scream lodged in his throat and his arms flailing. He sat up in bed and gulped in deep breaths as he looked around the room. The familiar blur of his and Pearce's bedroom comforted him, and he fell back on the bed, wincing at the damp touch of the sweat-soaked sheets. Just another low-key morning here in Washington, DC.
He grabbed his glasses from the case on the nightstand and looked at his phone. It was ten a.m. on Monday, October 25th. Pearce had left for Detroit almost a week ago. While it had been good for Mark to be on his own and reestablish a sense of independence, he really missed Pearce. The apartment felt too large and empty without Pearce filling it up with his physical presence and personality.
Well, nothing for Mark to do about that. He needed to keep working on himself. Pearce was involved in something much more important. Mark set his phone aside and stretched even as he scolded himself for sleeping in. He'd hoped to be up and already out the door by now, but apparently his subconscious had had other ideas. His sleep schedule had suffered since he'd been out of work.
With a groan, he forced himself to get out of bed and gathered the pillows that had fallen on the floor during his thrashing. He stripped the linens from the bed and pillows and dropped it all in the hamper. Leaving the mattress bare to allow it to air out, he crossed the hall to the bathroom and peed. Afterward, he stepped right into the shower and thought back over what he could recall of the dream as he washed away the stink of his fear.
He'd been back on the boat in Barbados, he could remember that much. But everything after that was a blur. A hazy image of him finding Pearce either wounded or dead came to back to him, and anxiety twisted into his gut. What would he do if something happened to Pearce in Detroit? How would he be able to move on if that happened? The guilt would be crushing, and it was entirely possible the very worst possible outcome could happen. Robert Morgan was deadly and ruthless. He and Pearce both knew that from experience.
After he dried off, Mark put on his glasses and looked at his reflection in the steam-shrouded mirror. Dark patches under his eyes seemed to be his normal look, no matter how many hours of sleep he managed to get.
"It's not the quantity, it's the quality," he said to himself, then straightened his spine, pulled his shoulders back, and held his chin higher. "You will leave the apartment today. You will interact with members of the public. You will handle it, and you will put what happened on Barbados behind you. Deal. With. It."
With his pep talk delivered, Mark got dressed and made himself a big breakfast. The very act of cooking helped him feel better. He left the television off and ate at the glass-topped dining table as he checked his Facebook account and email on his phone. When he finished eating, he washed dishes, grabbed his list and a jacket, and stepped out the door.
He was determined to engage with the public as much as possible that day. He imagined it as a kind of shock therapy, a wake-up call to his system to get himself used to being around people again. With that thought top of mind, he left his car in the parking lot and walked to the bus stop down the block. He and Pearce had used the bus and subway system before, so he was used to the routes and had it all mapped out in his head.
The bus ride was long but uneventful. It was well enough beyond rush hour that he was able to get a seat to himself, and he watched the city go by outside the window. When Mark disembarked, he was proud of himself for going through with his plan, even though his palms were damp with sweat and his pulse slightly elevated. With the sun out and a warm breeze rattling the leaves still hanging onto the trees, it really was a good day to be outside.
His intended destination was an organic grocery store he and Pearce had discovered during one of their weekends out in the city. He grabbed a hand basket in an attempt to limit his purchases and make it easier on his commute back to the apartment. Ambling up and down the aisles, he selected the items he needed and nodded to a couple of stock boys. Even though he tried hard to stick to his list, he ended up buying a little more than he'd intended, and asked the baggers to pack everything into just two bags.
"You're on foot?" asked the girl who was bagging his items.
"Yeah, I kept forgetting about that fact as I was shopping," Mark replied.
"Going to give you a good workout getting home," she said. "Build up your arms."
"I could totally use that," Mark said.
"What?" She looked him up and down. "You look great, who are you kidding?"
"Well, thank you," Mark said, feeling the heat of a blush.
"Totally mean it," the girl said and handed over his bags. "You're a complete hottie."
That surprised a laugh out of Mark. "I don't think I've ever been called a hottie before, thank you."
She smiled. "You're welcome. And it's totally true." She nodded down to the bags in his hand as she started bagging the next customer's items. "And I triple-bagged your stuff, just to make sure you make it home with everything intact."
Mark thanked her again and left the store with a smile on his face. Wait until he told Pearce about this experience. He had a feeling Pearce would be using the term "hottie" for many weeks.
The thought of Pearce should have buoyed his mood even more, but instead it dampened his spirits a bit. Here he was proud of the fact that he took the bus to go shopping, and Pearce was back in Detroit, dealing with a series of murders that were most likely committed by his homicidal ex-boyfriend. His mood dropped significantly, and his heart pounded as his breathing quickened. Mark stopped and leaned his butt against the brick wall of a store as he set the plastic bags at his feet. He took several deep breaths until he had his breathing back to normal and his pulse evened out. You're safe, you're well, and they cannot harm you.
His therapist had cautioned him he would go through abrupt mood swings as he got himself back into society. And Mark was glad he had an appointment with the man the next day. He was down to weekly visits now, and was hoping to push those out to biweekly soon.
When he felt ready, Mark picked up the bags and continued down the street. He tried to find the happy feeling he'd had before and managed to find his way back to it, somewhat. While it wasn't quite as lighthearted as before, his mood did elevate a bit, and he even caught himself humming as he waited at the bus stop.
After boarding the bus and finding a seat, Mark looked out the window and thought about Pearce. He wondered what Pearce was doing at that moment, and how he was getting along with SAC Jake Perrin. Mark had lived with him long enough—and even helped with a couple of cases—to know how Pearce liked to conduct his inves
tigations. And this case would undoubtedly make him even more surly and quick to temper because he felt guilty about the murders, as if he was to blame for the deaths of those men. Because he felt directly responsible, Pearce would want to quickly figure out where Morgan was and settle everything once and for all. Any delay or Bureau red tape he would need to wade through would make him irritable, and Mark hoped Jake Perrin was able to handle Pearce in that kind of mood.
Mark was so lost in thought about Pearce he missed his stop and had to wait and get off a few blocks past their apartments. As he trudged along the street, he was glad to be getting closer to home as the bags seemed to be even heavier now than when he'd first left the store.
"Come on, you hottie," he said to himself with a grin. "Don't wuss out now."
He let himself into the building and climbed the steps to the third floor, then set the bags down outside the apartment door. He caught his breath as he searched through his ring for the apartment key. His phone buzzed once in his pocket just as he unlocked the door, alerting him he had a text message. He carried the bags inside, locked the door behind him, and checked his phone. It was from Pearce, and it made him laugh.
How did you turn out so normal after growing up with these fucked up roads all your life?
Mark typed out a quick response:
They toughened me up and prepared me for meeting you. How are you? How's the case?
He put items away until his phone buzzed with Pearce's response.
Smartass. The case is the usual wading through sewage to find one decent turd of a clue. I'm in full-blown investigation mode. No one here likes me. I miss you. How are you handling being alone?
Mark stroked the screen with his finger, wishing he could be with Pearce—here or in Detroit, he didn't care which—and touch the man himself. He thought a moment, then wrote back.
I went shopping today. A girl called me a "hottie." If you get time later give me a call. I miss you, too. Be careful.
Less than a minute later, Pearce replied:
You've always been hot, and now I'm hard. Will try to get time to call later, but you know how it is. And it's me, I'm always careful.
Mark shook his head and set his phone aside. If it was one thing Pearce was not, it was careful. He finished putting away the groceries, stripped down to his underwear, and put in the exercise DVD. The workout loosened the tightness in his shoulders from carrying the groceries, and when the DVD ended, Mark was sweaty and slightly less out of breath than he'd been before. He considered that progress, and was feeling so good he practiced several of the self-defense moves he'd learned in the class he and Pearce had taken over the summer.
He took his second shower of the day, then put clean sheets on the bed and opened the bedroom windows to let in some fresh air. It was twelve thirty, and he decided to keep lunch light so he could have a bigger dinner. As he sat at the table to eat a garden salad, the rest of the day lay out before him like an endless stretch of time. He needed to do something, anything, other than sit inside the apartment and let his mind unravel.
The shopping trip, his texts with Pearce, and the workout all seemed to encourage him to do something different, and Mark started a list as he sat at the table. First, he would work on his resume. He hadn't updated it to include his time spent at Filibuster Catering. Then he would write out some recipes he'd been thinking of experimenting with, after which he might force himself to go for a walk around the block.
Mark added clothes shopping to his list. He knew it meant he would have to drive to the outlet shops, which were farther away than he'd been on his own since they'd returned, but he figured he was ready for that challenge.
"It's time to push those comfort zones out a bit," he said to himself, and nodded.
Today he'd clean up and organize the apartment, and tomorrow he'd venture out to the outlets.
11
Pearce awoke from a deep sleep to the sound of his phone. He picked it up and squinted at the display. It was Jake, and his stomach twisted as he accepted the call.
"Yeah?" Pearce's voice was ragged with sleep.
"We've got another body," Jake said.
"Fuck."
"Yeah. Want me to pick you up, or do you want to drive your rental and meet me there?"
"What fucking time is it?" Pearce asked as he swung his legs off the side of the bed. It was still dark outside the window of his ninth-floor room.
"Five in the morning."
"Fucking hell. I can't function on finding my way there this early. Pick me up in half an hour in front of the hotel."
"Half an hour? Takes you that long to look good?" Jake asked. "You must be getting old."
He disconnected before Pearce managed to tell him to fuck off.
"Dick," Pearce grumbled, and set the phone aside.
He was waiting on the curb when Jake pulled up in a Bureau car.
"How'd you hear about it?" Pearce asked when he got in.
"Local police called it in," Jake replied. "Beat cop was checking the area and found the body. Just another Tuesday."
Pearce grunted in response. It was Tuesday already? He'd been in Detroit a week and now they possibly had another body to add to the board. Where the fuck was Morgan hiding?
"Any details?" Pearce asked.
"Nothing yet."
They were silent as Jake drove. Pearce stared out his window and tried to keep from clenching his jaw. His stomach was in knots, and his hands wanted to curl into fists and pound anyone and anything. He flexed his fingers and set his hands, palms down, on his thighs to keep them from balling up into fists.
It seemed to take forever to reach the grouping of police cars on Woodward just north of McNichols Road. Jake pulled to the curb and tossed the FBI placard on the dash. He grabbed a couple of flashlights from the armrest console and followed Pearce as he approached the patrol officer standing at the yellow tape.
"FBI," Pearce said, flashing his badge.
The officer nodded and lifted the tape, saying, "Follow the markers to keep to the safe path," as they ducked under. Pearce shone the flashlight over a heavy carpet of fallen leaves as he followed small red flags that marked a path all members of the investigation team should utilize to limit the contamination of possible evidence. The sound of radios led him deeper into the trees.
"I didn't know Detroit had green spaces like this," Pearce said over his shoulder.
"Palmer Park," Jake replied. "Been part of the city since the late 1800s. Extends about 300 acres all around this area. There's a pond back in here called Lake Frances, a log cabin, a golf course, tennis courts, and hiking and biking trails."
"All of that still in good condition?" Pearce asked.
"Not the best, but people still use it," Jake replied.
"Apparently for dumping bodies."
"Apparently."
They came upon the crime scene, and both stopped outside another yellow tape barrier. Lights had been set up around the scene, and a woman crouched beside the body, her gloved hands hanging between her thighs as she slowly ran her gaze up and down the body. Pearce figured her for a detective, and he and Jake watched her in silence.
A few moments later, she stood up, sighed, and looked right at them.
"I take it you're the FBI?" she asked.
Jake stepped under the tape. "SAC Perrin." He tipped his head toward Pearce. "This is Special Agent Pearce."
She looked at Pearce with a grin. "No SAC title for you, huh? I guess that means you're not in charge?"
Pearce stared back. "I'm on loan from DC."
"He's consulting on the cases we're working," Jake explained.
"The strangulations," she said. "I worked a couple of those myself before we passed them off. Made any more progress than we did?"
"Not sure," Jake replied. "Why don't we look over the notes from your investigation and we can follow up, Detective…?" He left the word hanging there, prompting for her name.
She looked between them, sighed, dropped her gaze, a
nd then stripped off her gloves. "Detective Iris Little."
"Little like the size?" Jake asked.
She fixed him with a look. "Like the amount of my patience."
"Detective," Pearce said as he ducked beneath the tape. "We just want to look over the crime scene and the body, see if there are any similarities to the cases we're working."
"Feel free to look him over," Little said, and waved toward the body. "But you've wasted a trip. I worked two of your cases before they went to the Bureau, so I know what similarities you're looking for. And this man does not match your other cases."
"Well, let us take some time to look the victim over and we'll let you know," Jake said. "Just give us a few minutes."
Little folded her arms and lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. "Inspect him all you want. It's not going to change what's been done to him or what's been left with him."
Her last statement got Pearce's attention. "Was something left with him?"
Little leaned in closer and lowered her voice. "No. That was my point. Nothing was left with him. No note, nothing."
"But he was strangled?" Jake asked.
"Oh, he was strangled all right," Little replied. "See for yourself."
They stepped carefully around the tree blocking the top half of the body and stopped to stare. The man's face was pale blue and his swollen tongue protruded from his mouth. What appeared to be plastic zip-ties had been slipped around his neck and tightened until they’d cut into his flesh and made him bleed. There were no other signs of violence on the body, and Pearce turned to find Little just behind him, holding out a box of latex gloves.
"I thought you'd want to check his hands," she said. "Just to make sure I didn't miss anything."
Pearce nodded and pulled on gloves as he stepped around the body. He kept his gaze on the victim's face and pushed aside all emotions and cognitive thought to allow his investigative eye to focus on any information the killer had left behind. He crouched alongside the body and inspected the man's hands. No note was folded up in either of the victim's palms, and Pearce lifted each hand to look on the dense leaf cover beneath, finding nothing there as well. He looked at the man's bloated face and tried to see what he had looked like in life, but it was difficult.