Brendan started dragging himself towards the side of the house. The truck completed its turn and was aiming back towards him, but it had stopped. Brendan continued to yell as he pulled himself along. His words were garbled and made little sense. “Help me. Stop him. The killer.”
There was a flash of light coming from the new headlights. A wave of nauseating terror swept through Brendan as he thought: accomplice. It wasn’t the first time he had considered that maybe more than one person was responsible for Rebecca’s death. Now here was someone else firing at him. He heard the shot a split second after the flash of light. Nothing had impacted anywhere near him. There were more flashes, more pop pop of gunfire in the night. The newcomer was shooting at the truck; Brendan heard the distinct sound of bullets biting into steel. Not an accomplice after all – help had arrived.
The pick-up truck was facing the wrong way to return fire. Its passenger side was facing this new vehicle. The truck started to back up. It gained speed and then swung around in reverse to face the other direction.
The flashfire gunfight continued, a barrage of bullets coming from the new vehicle. Now the pick-up was in position to return fire.
There was the menacing noise of a submachine gun. The weapon had a suppressor on it, so that it seemed to drum the air – Bududududud. The recently arrived vehicle was raked with the shots.
Brendan, in the meantime, had reached the house. He pressed himself against the exterior. He smelled onion grass growing along the foundation. He tasted blood in his mouth and wondered distantly if he’d bitten his tongue when he’d jumped from the tractor. He realized he was going to go into shock, if he wasn’t there already. A second later, he passed out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT / MONDAY, 2:33 AM
Brendan awoke from nightmares in which he relived the terrible ordeal at the Bloomingdale farm again and again. Only in his dreams, it wasn’t an indistinct killer at the wheel of the truck. Instead, his wife and daughter were in the cab, and he rammed the tractor into them over and over again.
As he came to and got his bearings, he was aware of how dry his mouth was. Next, he realized he was hooked up to some tubes. An IV. His vision came into focus and he looked around. He was in a hospital bed. Machines whirred and beeped nearby. A curtain cordoned off his area.
He lifted his head in order to look down at himself and take inventory. He tried to lift his legs beneath the covering blankets. Something was restricting his movement; a brace of some kind around his thigh and hip. After only a short time, he dropped his head back to the pillow, exhausted. The attempts to move about aroused a dull pain that began to spread up from his hip. He gritted his teeth and moaned as it reached a startling climax. He was afraid he was going to pass out again. What had happened to him down there?
He tried to recall everything as best as he could. The blood red pick-up truck swam into his mind’s eye. The killer silhouetted by the dazzling headlights. He searched his memory for what had happened next. The arrival of someone else, possibly one of the deputies supposed to be keeping surveillance on the farm. He remembered crawling away, dragging himself to the side of the house. And now he had formed a complete picture of the recent events.
He closed his eyes as the pain in his hip slowly abated. As it waned, sleep overtook him again.
* * *
An hour later, and he was awakened by the Sheriff. For a moment, Brendan thought he was back in his rented house, sleeping on the couch. He wondered how the Sheriff had gotten in. Usually, Brendan locked his doors. He tried to ask Taber this, but found his mouth was dryer than ever.
“Water,” he croaked.
Taber looked around, and then disappeared out of the curtained area.
A minute later he returned with a cup full of ice.
“The nurse said you can have these ice chips. No water right now.” He passed Brendan the cup and looked him over. “I’m sorry,” he said. Brendan didn’t think the Sheriff was just apologizing for the lack of water.
Brendan greedily dumped as many ice chips as possible into his mouth. He felt some of them fall onto his neck and chest. He sucked on the jagged bunch of them. Nothing had ever been as satisfying. When they had melted to thin slivers, he crunched away the remaining bits and then tipped the cup back for more. In the second round, he emptied the cup.
Taber waited patiently. Brendan’s eyelids fluttered as he experienced the momentary bliss of the ice chips. He swallowed and looked at Taber.
The Sheriff affected a lopsided grin. “Given an ability to forecast these recent events, I wonder if you would have still taken the job up here.”
“Sure,” said Brendan.
“I . . . How are you feeling?”
“Okay. Pain in my hip. Ankle.”
Taber nodded. “They’ve got you on a little morphine. But I’ll go easy on you and won’t take this out of your vacation days.”
Brendan smiled feebly. Taber ran a hand through his hair. He seemed uncomfortable. Maybe it was being in the hospital. Brendan didn’t particularly like them much, either.
He tried to sit up a little. “Did you get the guy?”
Taber shook his head, no.
“I have a description of the vehicle. Couldn’t get a plate number. The lights, it . . .”
Taber patted the air with his hands. Calm down. “It’s okay. Deputy Bostrom got a good look at the vehicle just before it hightailed out of there. Red pick-up. We’re thinking a Ford, Heavy Duty, maybe a recent model. It’s on the wire.”
“Bostrom didn’t give chase?”
“He called it in the second he could. By then it had already left the scene. Bostrom checked you out instead.”
“God dammit.” Brendan tried to get comfortable. Everything hurt.
“Look, he did the right thing. A high speed chase in the middle of the night wouldn’t have helped anyone. Not you, nobody. You’re lucky Bostrom acted fast. You were bleeding pretty badly.”
Brendan considered this new information. He remembered tasting blood in his mouth. That was nothing though, just a split lip or a bitten tongue. Then he thought about the pain in his hip. Maybe it wasn’t a break or fracture, but a laceration?
“Bleeding from where?”
Taber looked at Brendan’s body, hidden under the covers. “They said you had internal damage. Didn’t say from what. They’ll talk to you about it.”
“I can’t be on morphine,” Brendan said. Taber either didn’t hear him or didn’t understand, and cocked his head quizzically, leaning forward.
“I’m a recovering addict,” said Brendan. “Painkillers are no good.”
Taber leaned back, frowning. “Well, from what they tell me, Healy, you need the meds.” He blinked. “You’ll be alright.” Clearly he was someone who didn’t understand addiction. Brendan was used to that.
He wondered if he had any choice anyway. He had no idea what the full extent of the damage was, or the pain, if it was already being ameliorated by drugs.
He sighed, and looked up at the ceiling. “This is a total fucking mess,” he said.
Taber looked tired. “Did you get a look at the guy at all?”
“About six feet, Caucasian. 180 pounds. Black, greying hair.” Brendan shrugged. “That’s it.”
“That’s okay, Healy. That’s something.”
“It was him. I had him, and I let him go.”
“We don’t know who that was.”
“Who else would it be?”
“What were you doing there, anyway?”
“I found more messages.”
“More messages?”
“Things, phrases, written on the backs of the photos. The dining room.” Brendan’s mind was wooly. It was a challenge just to form coherent sentences.
Taber was nodding, but his expression was dubious. “You think they’re linked to the porn videos?” He lowered his voice on the last two words.
“All linked. The whole thing is right there. Right in front of us.”
“Then who is this new
guy?” Taber raised his eyebrows. It was a challenge. So far during the investigation, Taber had seemed right there with Brendan. He could feel it. Maybe it had to do with being vetted by Argon; Brendan didn’t know. When Delaney was around the Sheriff had often acted skeptical and deferred to the senior investigator, but one-on-one Brenan felt like Taber really listened. It felt like Brendan was at last beginning to lose the man’s faith in him.
Brendan shook his head. “That’s the last piece. I don’t know. But he’s a hired man.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Sub-machine gun, Sheriff. I know there are rednecks around these parts – there are rednecks everywhere. But typically disgruntled ex-boyfriends or ex-husbands who got religion don’t go out and get a machine gun to seek revenge. This guy, last night, he works for someone. An organization.”
“Our killer used a knife, Healy.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Brendan licked his lips. He wanted more ice chips. “I talked to Stemp last night, too. He told me. Something.”
“What? You talked to Stemp?”
“He said Rebecca started out as an escort. I think that’s why she left school, to work for a service in Albany. Government types with fetishes.”
Taber looked nervous. “And you believe Stemp? I thought he was just a religious nut.”
“That’s maybe what Delaney told you. But Stemp is an educated man. Used to work in some capacity. For the . . . brass. I don’t know politics. I was a goddam science major . . .”
Brendan’s mind started to drift. He could feel sleep pulling at him. He saw a vision of his wife. They had met in school. She was standing in her cap and gown. She looked worried.
“So Rebecca drops out of school to be a high-class pro? Why? She had all the money she could need.”
“Maybe. Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t. Maybe that’s why her father is so keen on controlling this case. Influencing it, whatever. Maybe he doesn’t want it to come out.”
“What to come out?”
“That he cut her off. Who knows? Feels responsible for what she did. What she became.”
His mind was playing nasty tricks on Brendan. Now he saw Rebecca in one of her porn videos. She was grinding away, but she was looking at him, looking at him the way her lifeless eyes had stared back from the bureau mirror in the bedroom. And then his wife was there too in this phantom video. His wife became Rebecca.
“Dammit,” he muttered. “Stop.”
Taber looked around. His tired face was expressing more concern by the second. “Let me go get you a nurse. That’s enough for now. We can finish debriefing when you’re better.”
“Where’s Delaney?”
“At the scene.”
“Tell him to go fuck himself.”
The Sheriff offered a surprised laugh. Then he started to leave.
“Wait.”
Taber stopped as he parted the curtain and turned.
“Did you know about Olivia?”
The Sheriff took a step closer. He wrinkled his eyes in question.
“That she was Rebecca’s therapist. Did you know?”
“I had no idea.”
“Did Delaney?”
“I can’t say. But if he did, he would have introduced it.”
“Is there any reason he wouldn’t have? Any reason he would keep it to himself?”
“I don’t think so. I hope not. Why?”
Brendan said nothing else. His eyes were glazing over. The last thing he saw was the Sheriff stepping away, and he heard him calling for a nurse. By the time one arrived, Brendan had slipped into unconsciousness again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE / MONDAY, 8:52 AM
“Well hello there,” said a voice.
Brendan opened his eyes and saw the doctor.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a truck.”
The doctor smiled. “Sounds about right. Well, you have a hip fracture. A hairline crack in the upper quarter of your femur. How is your pain?”
“My groin hurts.”
“That’s common. You’ve asked to be taken off the morphine.”
“Yes.”
The doctor frowned. He was perhaps forty, and prematurely balding. He wore glasses. “I really don’t recommend it. Your injuries are bound to create . . . a lot of discomfort.”
Brendan opened his mouth to say something, and then thought better of it. He changed what he was going to say. “What about the bleeding?”
The frown deepened into an almost paternal look of concern. “Are you aware of your peptic ulcers?”
“Ulcers?”
“You have a tear in the mucosa of your esophagus, and in the antrum, located in your stomach. Do you take aspirin or Motrin?”
“No.”
“Good. I have to ask you – do you have a history of stress, or drug and alcohol addiction?”
Brendan was silent.
“Mr. Healy?”
“I’m a recovering alcoholic. Stress comes with the job. I’m a detective.”
“I understand. Do you get frequent stomach aches or pains?” The doctor folded his hands in front him and looked down for a moment.
“Yeah, I get pains. Ulcers – that’s why I had blood in my mouth?”
The doctor looked up. “I believe so. You suffered quite an ordeal, from what I’ve been told. The shock to your system has really exacerbated your ulcers. It’s important that you keep your stress levels way down while you recover.”
“How long is it going to take? For my hip?”
“That depends on you.”
Brendan fought the urge to roll his eyes. He shifted his position in the bed, and felt the pain flare up around his thigh and groin. He tried not to let the doctor see, but it was futile.
“Just ballpark it, Doc.”
“I’m going to recommend that you’re on leave from your job for at least two months. Maybe longer. And that’s just for your hip. Ulcers take a long time to repair. The mucosa is sensitive in the lining of your esophageal tract and in the antrum. You don’t want it to spread to your duodenum.”
Brendan sighed. He noticed that the curtain had been pushed back. There was another bed in the room, empty. He could see through the doorway out into the hallway.
“Have I had any other visitors, besides the Sheriff?”
“No. Not that I’m aware of.”
“Okay.” Brendan lay back. He looked up at the ceiling. “Keep the morphine coming,” he said. “I don’t care.”
* * *
He was taken home two days later by Deputy Lawless. Lawless passed on information from the Sheriff that the IACP investigation had been suspended pending Brendan’s full recovery. Taber didn’t want to add stress to Brendan’s life of any kind.
Brendan laughed.
The deputy took the wheelchair and set it up in Brendan’s driveway and helped Brendan into it.
“Anything happening with the Heilshorn case?”
“I don’t know.”
“Or you’re not supposed to say.”
Lawless was silent. Then, “How are your injuries?”
“I have what they said was an intertrochanteric fracture.”
“Ouch.”
“Actually, it’s better than what they first thought. The X-Ray sort of got it wrong, but the MRI was more definitive. The type of fracture I got is in a place with good blood supply. I’ll be playing basketball again in no time.”
“You play?”
“It was a joke.”
“Oh.”
Brendan gave Lawless the key and the deputy opened the front door and then pushed Brendan inside.
Once in the house, Lawless seemed awkward. “Anything else I can do for you, Detective?”
“Actually, there is.”
Brendan rolled himself into the bedroom, having some difficulty fitting in through the narrow doors in the little house. He was able to reach under the bed and get the cash box he kept. He gave Lawless some money and a short list of things to get at th
e store.
Lawless considered the list, and for a moment Brendan though the deputy would refuse the request. But he didn’t. He was back half an hour later with the booze.
CHAPTER THIRTY / MONDAY, 7:33 PM
Night seemed to be coming quicker these days. Halfway through September, and it was already dark outside by seven o’clock. It seemed earlier than in years past. Brendan wondered if something was happening with daylight saving time that no one had told him about. Or with the earth, the cosmos; time was speeding up. He poured himself another drink of vodka and thought about it.
He booted up his laptop. He had already watched Danice’s videos several times each. They at once repulsed and aroused him. There was a whole glut of revolting videos on the Red Light website. He spent time, too much time, trying to get his mind around it. The pro videos he could more or less understand. The women involved still might be damaged in some way, but for the most part, they seemed in control. They were making bank. They oohed and aahed demonstratively and threw their hair back.
The amateur videos were a mixture of voyeurism and sheer perversion. Sometimes there was a video of a couple, having some fun with exhibitionism. In other cases, the women were clearly not enjoying themselves.
These were, in a word, horrific. What brought these women here? Were they under duress? Was it a desperate cry for attention? An urgent need for money? Or were they coerced?
One of the Danice videos was an “interview.” Brendan watched the beginning, the bit before the sex, a dozen times or more. She came into an office and sat on a couch. There were two cameras, one stationary and one handheld. Her hair was long and flowing, and she wore glasses in this video, as if she were applying for a secretarial position.
The interviewer asks her what her qualifications are. She’s great at collating, she says, and making copies. He asks her if she’s good at giving head. Yes, she says, she’s good at that too. Then he asks her about her physical qualifications. Would she please give a visual demonstration of what she would bring to the company. And she stands and begins to take off her clothes. The interviewer moves in with the handheld camera. He begins getting extreme close-ups of her attributes. This part Brendan only watched twice. When the interviewer comes around the desk and is visible in the stationary shot, his head and face are blotted out with a masking effect.
HABIT: a gripping detective thriller full of suspense Page 23