Cause to Save
Page 1
C A U S E T O S A V E
(AN AVERY BLACK MYSTERY—BOOK 5)
B L A K E P I E R C E
Blake Pierce
Blake Pierce is author of the bestselling RILEY PAGE mystery series, which includes ten books (and counting). Blake Pierce is also the author of the MACKENZIE WHITE mystery series, comprising six books (and counting); of the AVERY BLACK mystery series, comprising six books; and of the new KERI LOCKE mystery series, comprising four books (and counting).
ONCE GONE (a Riley Paige Mystery--Book #1), BEFORE HE KILLS (A Mackenzie White Mystery—Book 1), CAUSE TO KILL (An Avery Black Mystery—Book 1), and A TRACE OF DEATH (A Keri Locke Mystery—Book 1) are each available as a free download on Kobo!
An avid reader and lifelong fan of the mystery and thriller genres, Blake loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.blakepierceauthor.com to learn more and stay in touch.
Copyright © 2017 by Blake Pierce. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Jacket image Copyright Adam Machovsky, used under license from shutterstock.com.
BOOKS BY BLAKE PIERCE
RILEY PAIGE MYSTERY SERIES
ONCE GONE (Book #1)
ONCE TAKEN (Book #2)
ONCE CRAVED (Book #3)
ONCE LURED (Book #4)
ONCE HUNTED (Book #5)
ONCE PINED (Book #6)
ONCE FORSAKEN (Book #7)
ONCE COLD (Book #8)
ONCE STALKED (Book #9)
ONCE LOST (Book #10)
ONCE BURIED (Book #11)
ONCE BOUND (Book #12)
MACKENZIE WHITE MYSTERY SERIES
BEFORE HE KILLS (Book #1)
BEFORE HE SEES (Book #2)
BEFORE HE COVETS (Book #3)
BEFORE HE TAKES (Book #4)
BEFORE HE NEEDS (Book #5)
BEFORE HE FEELS (Book #6)
BEFORE HE SINS (Book #7)
BEFORE HE HUNTS (Book #8)
AVERY BLACK MYSTERY SERIES
CAUSE TO KILL (Book #1)
CAUSE TO RUN (Book #2)
CAUSE TO HIDE (Book #3)
CAUSE TO FEAR (Book #4)
CAUSE TO SAVE (Book #5)
CAUSE TO DREAD (Book #6)
KERI LOCKE MYSTERY SERIES
A TRACE OF DEATH (Book #1)
A TRACE OF MUDER (Book #2)
A TRACE OF VICE (Book #3)
A TRACE OF CRIME (Book #4)
A TRACE OF HOPE (Book #5)
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE
PROLOGUE
Kirsten braced herself against the Boston cold, adjusted her scarf around her neck, and readied herself for the four-block walk ahead of her, into the black night. She passed all the closed bars, realized it was too late to be walking, and had a pang of sudden fear. She glanced back to the door of the apartment complex she had just stepped out of, and thought of changing her mind. Maybe she should have stayed over at her friend’s place.
Amy had insisted that she stay—that it was too late and miserably cold outside. And while both of those things were true, Amy had said them with her face nuzzled into the neck of a guy she’d met at the bar. And while her face had been there, the guy’s hands had been elsewhere. And honestly, Kirsten did not want to sleep on Amy’s couch while listening to her best friend and some random (but cute) guy going at it in a drunken stupor all night.
Honestly, she also didn’t want be there in the morning, working with Amy to come up with a clever reason to get the guy out, either.
Besides, it was only four blocks. And compared to the blistering cold that had ravaged Boston about a month ago, tonight would seem like a brisk little jaunt in a spring breeze.
It was nearing three in the morning. She and Amy had gone out intending to get hammered, to drink the night away and do whatever their drunken primate brains suggested. After all, here, in their senior year of college, their dreams had come true. Somehow, against all odds, they had both been selected out of their photojournalism class—two of eight candidates—to go on assignment in Spain in the summer. They’d be working for an up-and-coming nature magazine that catered specifically to educational markets…and would be getting paid more for that one assignment than Kirsten’s mother had made all of last year.
And that would shut her up, Kirsten thought. She loved her mother dearly but got really tired of hearing her gripe about how pursuing a career in photography was a pipe dream—a waste of time.
She came to the end of the first block, checked the crosswalk and found it dead, and then headed on. The cold was beginning to nip at her. She could feel it on her nose like an actual presence, starting to pinch.
She idly wondered if Amy and her random dude were naked yet. She wondered if the guy was any good or if he’d be hindered by the copious amounts of liquor they’d had.
Well, not that she had enjoyed much. She’d eaten a small dinner at the very bar they had holed up in for the night. She wasn’t sure if it had been the nachos they’d shared as a table or if it had been something in the pizza, but her stomach had not been happy. After four beers, she knew her night was over—that she’d be doing nothing more than keeping Amy company as she annihilated herself shot by shot.
She figured she’d get all the lurid details tomorrow. And thinking of those lurid details as well as how much they’d enjoy their summer in Spain, Kirsten at first barely even noticed the sound she heard behind her. Footsteps.
The hair stood on the back of her neck, but she dared not look back.
She increased her pace. Two blocks behind her, two blocks to go. And now the cold really was nipping at her.
Suddenly, the steps were right behind her, and a man came stumbling up right next to her. He appeared to be drunk and when Kirsten jumped back in fright, he snickered to himself, clearly amused.
“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to sc
are you. I was just…well, can you help me? Drinking with some friends and…supposed to meet them somewhere after the bar but I don’t remember where. I’m from New York…never been to Boston before. No idea where I am.”
Kirsten couldn’t bring herself to look at him as she shook her head. It was more than being uncomfortable around a strange drunk man this late at night. It was knowing that she was this close to being home and just wanted the night to be over.
“No, I’m sorry,” she said.
“Seriously?!” the man said.
All of a sudden, he didn’t seem so drunk. Funny enough, he sounded amused that someone would be so defensive over something as innocent as helping a lost guy in a city he wasn’t familiar with. That struck her as odd as she started to turn away, intending to quicken her pace.
But then the slightest motion caught her eye and made her hesitate.
The man was holding his stomach, as if he might puke. It had been there the whole time but Kirsten was fairly certain this was not the case. He reached into his jacket and that’s when she saw that he was suddenly holding something.
A gun, her panicked mind thought. And while it did look like a gun, that wasn’t quite right.
Her muscles demanded that she run. She looked to his face for the first time and saw that something was off. He had been pretending. This wasn’t a lost drunk man at all. He looked too sober in the eyes—sober and, now that she was starting to panic, a little demented, too.
The thing that looked sort of like a gun came up quickly. She opened her mouth to yell for help as she also turned away to run.
But then she felt something strike her from behind. It hit her in the side of the head, just below the ear—sharp and immediate. She stumbled and then fell. She tasted blood in her mouth and then felt hands on her. There was another of those sharp sensations in her head, small but somehow thunderous at the same time.
The pain was immense but she was not able to experience the full extent of it before the night seemed to swell around her. The street faded, as did the man’s face, and then everything went black.
Her final thought was that this life of hers had turned out to be quite short—and that the trip that was set to change it all was never going to happen.
CHAPTER ONE
Avery felt like she had been in some strange isolation chamber for the last two weeks. She had stepped into it of her own accord because, quite frankly, there was no place else that appealed to her—only the sterile walls of the hospital room in which Ramirez still barely clung to the edge of life.
From time to time, her phone would buzz as a call or text came through—but she rarely checked them. Her solitude was only ever broken by nurses, doctors, and Rose. Avery knew that she was probably scaring her daughter. Truth be told, she was starting to scare herself, too. She’d been depressed before—during her teenage years and after her divorce—but this was something new. This went beyond depression and into a realm of wondering if the life she was living was really even hers anymore.
Two weeks ago—thirteen days, to be exact—was when it had happened. It was when Ramirez had taken a turn for the worst after a surgery to repair damage done from a bullet wound that had come less than half an inch from piercing his heart. That turn for the worst had never corrected its course. The doctors said he’d gone into heart failure. He was touch and go; he could come to and fully recuperate at any time or he could slip away just as easily. There was just no way to tell for sure. He’d lost a lot of blood in the shooting—he’d technically died for forty-two seconds following the heart failure—and things just weren’t looking good.
All of that had been compacted by the other terrible news she’d received just twenty minutes after speaking to the doctor.
News that Howard Randall had somehow escaped from prison. And now, two weeks later, he had still not been caught. And if she needed a reminder of that terrible fact (which she really didn’t), she could see it on the television whenever she deigned to turn it on. She’d sit there like a zombie in Ramirez’s room, watching the news. Even when Howard’s escape wasn’t the headline story, it was still there in the scrolling ticker at the bottom of the screen.
Howard Randall still MIA. Authorities have no answers.
The entire town of Boston was nervous. It was like being on the verge of war with some other nameless country and just waiting for the bombs to start dropping. Finley had tried calling her several times and O’Malley had even poked his head into the room on two occasions. Even Connelly seemed to be concerned about her well-being, expressing it in a simple text that she still looked at in a muted sort of appreciation.
Take your time. Call if you need anything.
They were leaving her to grieve. She knew that and it felt a little silly, seeing as how Ramirez wasn’t dead yet. But it was also to allow her to process the trauma of what had happened to her on the last case. She still felt cold thinking about it, recalling the feeling of nearly freezing to death on two separate occasions—inside of an industrial freezer and by falling into frigid waters.
But under all of it was the fact that Howard Randall was on the loose. He had escaped somehow, furthering his already enigmatic image. She’d seen on the news where less than reputable folks on social media were praising Howard for his Houdini-like skills in escaping from prison and leaving no trace behind.
Avery thought about all of this while sitting in one of the recliners that a kind nurse had moved in for her last week, realizing that she was not going anywhere anytime soon. Her thoughts were interrupted by a ding from her phone. It was the only sound she was allowing these days, a sign that Rose was reaching out.
Avery checked her phone and saw that her daughter had left a text message. Just me checking on you, it read. You still planted in the hospital? Stop it. Come out and have a drink with your daughter.
Out of duty more than anything else, Avery responded back. You aren’t 21.
The reply came right away, reading: Oh mom, that’s cute. There’s a lot you don’t know about me. And you could learn some of these secrets if you’d come out with me. Just one night. He’ll be okay without you there…
Avery set her phone aside. She knew Rose was right, although she could not help but be haunted by the possibility that Ramirez might decide to finally come to while she was away. And no one would be there to welcome him, to take his hand and let him know what had happened.
She got out of the recliner and walked over to him. She had gotten over the fact that he looked weak, hooked to machines and with a thin tube snaking down his throat. When she remembered why he was here—that he had taken a shot that could easily have been intended for her—then he looked stronger than ever. She ran her hands through his hair and kissed his forehead.
She then took his hand in hers and sat on the edge of the bed. While she would never tell anyone, she had spoken to him several times, hoping he could hear her. She did it now, feeling a little dumb about it at first, like usual, but falling into the habit naturally.
“So here’s the thing,” she told him. “I haven’t left the hospital in nearly three days. I need a shower. I’d like a decent meal and a proper cup of coffee. I’m going to step out for a bit, okay?”
She squeezed his hand, her heart breaking a little when she realized that she was naively waiting for him to squeeze back. She gave him a pleading look, sighed, and then picked up her phone. Before she stepped out of the room, she glanced up at the TV. She grabbed the remote to turn it off and was greeted with a face that she had tried so hard to put out of her mind for the last two weeks.
Howard Randall stared down at her, his mug shot featured on half of the screen while a serious-looking news anchor read something from a teleprompter. Avery clicked the television off in disgust and made her way out of the room quickly, as if Howard’s image on the screen had been a ghost, now reaching for her.
***
Knowing that Ramirez had been set to move in with her (and, according to the ring that had been d
iscovered in his pocket after he’d been shot, ask her to marry him) made returning to her apartment a morose experience. When she walked into the place, she looked around absently. The place felt dead. It felt like no one had lived there in ages, a place that was waiting to be stripped, repainted, and rented out to someone else.
She thought about calling Rose. They could hang out and have a pizza. But she knew Rose would want to talk about what was going on and Avery was not ready for that yet. She usually processed things pretty quickly, but this was different. Ramirez being in such jeopardy and Howard Randall escaping…it was all too much.
Still…while the place really no longer felt like home, she yearned to stretch out on that sofa. And her bed was calling her name.
Of course this is still home, she thought. Just because Ramirez may not make it and end up here with you, it’s still your home. Don’t be so damned dramatic.
And there it was, as plain as day. She’d so far managed to guard her thoughts against that reality but now that it had been dumped into thought form, it was a bit more staggering than she’d assumed.
With slumped shoulders, she made her way into the bathroom. She stripped down, stepped in the tub and drew the curtain, and turned the water to hot. She stood there for several minutes before bothering with soap or shampoo, letting the water loosen her muscles. When she was done cleaning herself, she killed the shower, pushed the stopper down, and ran hot water into the tub. She sat down as it filled, allowing herself to relax.
When the water was at the brim, nearly slopping over the side of the tub, she turned the water off with her toe. She closed her eyes and soaked.
The only sound in the apartment was the slow and rhythmic drip drip of excess water from the faucet into the water, and her own breathing.
And shortly after, a third sound: Avery’s weeping.