A cool sensation grazed her jaw and startled her out of her reverie. She glanced around, expecting someone to have entered the lab, but the room was silent. Uneasy, she started to flip the cover over Carmichael’s face, but something halted her movement. Hesitating, she shook her head and tucked the sheet around his shoulders instead.
“I’ve definitely been here too long. Now the corpses are sending me messages.” She slid the steel drawer shut, ignoring the inner voice that insisted she leave it open. “I should book some time away, now that this case is done. A vacation sounds heavenly.”
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d taken time off work. Between getting her degree and shipping any extra money she earned back home to her mom and young brother, there wasn’t a lot left for extraneous activities. Not that it mattered. Gil was always giving her a hard time for being a work-junkie as he so eloquently called it. The reality was much more banal; she didn’t have anything else to do.
The dating scene just wasn’t her thing. The couple of relationships she’d had since moving to the windy city had ended amicably enough, and she remained friends with both men. She just wasn’t one for passions of the heart. Much better to logically pick her dates based on common interests and mutual attraction. More than one of her friends had been in so-called love, only to have it crash and burn because they had one without the other. She wasn’t going to make that mistake.
Tracy opened the bottom drawer in her desk and removed her one extravagance, a gorgeous Burberry satchel, and dug to the bottom for her keys. Time to go home and soak her aching feet. She opened the door and cast a last pensive glance around the room before shutting off the lights. Her heels clicking on the tile seemed overloud in the hushed silence of the building. Heart rate matching her speed, she hurried to reach the elevator. Her finger stabbed the down button and the doors opened as though waiting to gobble her up.
She hesitated, then stepped into the slightly cool interior, lips quirking at her crazy imagination. Back against the mirrored wall she waited for her stomach to drop with the fall to the underground parking garage.
All too soon the elevator glided to a halt and released her into the clutches of the concrete jungle outside its doors. At least the parking garage was well lit and had a security code access, so she felt relatively safe walking the length of the row to her car.
Tracy sighed, relieved when her little Honda Civic came into view. She hated to admit it but the threats had bothered her more than she let on. She clicked her key-fob, reassured by the flash of the headlamps.
Then she noticed the bloody mound laying in front of the car.
Tracy screamed.
Chapter 3
Scott Anderson wished he were dead.
His head hurt like a bitch. He had two cracked ribs and his right arm was broken, but he’d take double that pain if only it would bring his sister and his friend back.
Natalya and Lucas—gone.
The agony ripped through him like a tornado, destroying everything in its path. They’d been compadres since grade school and took care of each other—always. But he’d dropped the ball, and now they were dead.
He gazed around the private room, large and airy with potted plants meant to break up the sterility, and leather furniture as plush as you’d find in any high-end hotel. Only the steady beep of the monitor beside his bed and the IV stuck in his hand betrayed the fact this was a hospital. That and the two-hour checks on his condition, as though he were a child in need of supervision.
He had to get out of this place.
“I don’t need you poking and prodding me every time I close my eyes.” He’d glared at the woman, who bore a striking resemblance to Broom Hilda. “You’ve already shown me the panic button at least ten times. I’ll call if I’m in distress or need someone to hold my dick while I piss, otherwise leave me the hell alone.”
She’d ignored him while she took his pulse, checked his eyes, and plumped his pillows. Then she wrapped the cuff around his good arm and pumped up the pressure until he thought his skin would split open.
“There’s no need to be rude, Mr. Anderson.” Whoosh, the air released and he sighed his relief. “We’re trying to do our job and you’re not making it any easier.” She took note of the numbers, wrote them on the chart, then unwrapped the stethoscope from around her neck and placed the cup near his heart.
He sucked in a quick breath at the coolness of the metal and raised his eyebrow. She shrugged and smirked. The witch.
“Deep breath, please.” She listened for a moment, then moved the instrument to his side and slid carefully beneath the bandages. “Again, please.” Finished, she checked his fingers under the cast for swelling, then covered him with the blanket and lowered the glare of the light above the bed. “Try to get some rest. I know this must be a difficult time…”
Scott turned away, blinking hard against the rising tide of anger and despair. She patted his shoulder and moved away to the door. He watched her in the reflection off the windows until she left the room, then threw back the sheets and clambered awkwardly out of bed.
Shit, that hurt.
Immediate guilt flooded his chest. How dare he whine about a little bit of pain when his family lay in steel boxes. And it was all his fault. Lucas didn’t even want to go to that stupid after-party. The whole thing had been his idea. Get out; be seen.
He’d spent so many years building up their public relations image; he didn’t know when to quit. They’d both been hungry for success, anxious to blow away the stink of where they came from. And now, just when they’d achieved victory, it had all been taken away.
In a fit of rage he yanked the needle out of his hand, barely noticing the tug of the tape on his skin. Anxious to find some clothes and escape, he stepped forward and almost did a face-plant. His legs wobbled like a newborn foal’s; he had to fight to remain upright. His ribs screamed at the enforced pressure and his arm in the cast felt like a gazillion pounds.
He swore, pissed at his weakness. For a second he hung his head and just breathed. Lucas wouldn’t have let a few bruises slow him down. Scott almost smiled; remembering the many scraps the two of them had back home. They’d been the scrawny trailer trash kids, never mind that the rest of the boys on the block came from the same sort of background. The only good thing that place did for them was put a fire in their bellies, a determination to succeed so they’d never have to go back.
Now it was just him.
Scott straightened, at least as much as he could, and using his casted arm to brace his side, he shuffle-stepped to the closet by the bathroom. Score; his freshly washed clothes were neatly hung on the hangers. Now the trick would be to put them on without passing out.
* * *
Hunger gnawed like a ravenous beast at Lucas’ insides. He hadn’t had anything to eat since the morning of the party and it was starting to catch up to him. He wasn’t exactly sure how long he’d been… you know, but going by the low growl in his belly it had to have been a while.
“Hey,” he called to the figure floating—yeah, like that wasn’t weird or anything—a few feet ahead of him. “Where does a guy go to get some food around here?”
It all looked the same, a sea of foaming white in every direction. Already, he missed the bright lights and city noise, the fresh Santa Ana breeze blowing against his face, a warm woman’s body in his arms.
But most of all, he missed Scott.
His friend would blame himself. Scott had been the mother hen of the three, the peacekeeper. Friends as far back as Lucas could remember, they’d been warriors in kid’s shorts, fighting imaginary dragons and real life demons.
He didn’t care so much about himself, but he needed to make sure Scott would pull through okay. There had to be a way. Maybe he could become a guardian angel, or something. Him, an angel. As if that wasn’t the biggest oxymoron of the century.
And speaking of angels; he better hurry up or he was going to get left behind. He’d yet to see the face of the r
obed figure in front of him. The guy wasn’t exactly a chatty Cathy either. He’d tried a couple of times on their seemingly never-ending pilgrimage to get him to say something, but so far, nada. Hopefully they weren’t all like that up here, or he was going to go stir-crazy.
“So, you got a name?” he asked, damn near jogging to keep up. Maybe he should ask for wings instead of food.
“You have to earn them.” There it was again; the voice that wasn’t a voice.
“Quit doing that, man. You’re spooking me out, here.” As though everything else he’d been through in the last while wasn’t enough to raise the old goosebump-o-meter.
“What are the chances that this is just a supremely shitty dream and I’m going to wake up in the morning with the king of all hangovers?”
Nothing.
“Yeah, I thought not.”
Just then they topped about their fifth rise and lo and behold, a small wooden building appeared near what almost looked like a Thomas Kinkade lake scene. The closer they got, the better it smelled. Someone was pan-frying fish over a campfire. Lucas’ mouth salivated.
The scent took him straight back to happier times, just after he and Scott had left home and were making their way to Hollywood, land of the rich and famous. They had no real cash so they’d chosen to camp out rather than waste their money on hotel rooms.
One night the two of them camped by a lake the color of the finest of emeralds. The fishing was great, and they’d feasted on trout and grayling with a bread chaser.
Manna from heaven, Scott had said, laughing. He’d been right.
Lucas’ stride lengthened, his pulse clamoring to know who was doing the cooking. They rounded the corner of the cabin and there, in front of the dancing flames, sat a wizened old man with a flowing white beard and shoulder length hair. Lucas stumbled to a halt.
“Move, don’t make Him wait,” the omnipresent voice whispered through his mind.
“It’s okay,” the old guy said, his gaze on the fish sizzling in the cast iron frying pan. “It is rather a lot to take in. Give the boy a little time.”
Lucas felt like a kid. He wanted nothing more than to run forward crying, throw himself on the ground, and beg His forgiveness. The kindness and gentleness emanating from the man reached out and embraced him in a warm hug, giving him the strength to greet his Lord.
He dropped to his knees and bowed his head in shame. He had no right to be here, in His presence.
“You’re right, you don’t,” his cheering squad of one muttered in his ear.
“Enough,” the Maker sighed. “You two need to learn to get along. You’re going to be working together.”
“What?” Lucas and the monk voiced their dismay as one.
The Lord smiled. “Better, you’re already thinking alike.” He waved to the overturned logs on the other side of the fire. “Have a seat gentlemen, it’s time we got down to business.”
He waited for them to take their seats. “Lucas, what you did was wrong.”
Lucas snorted, no kidding.
“Don’t get smart.” Monk man again.
“Too late, at least I can come up with words that contain more than one syllable.”
“Stop now.” The Lord glanced up, his eyes a cloudy sky blue. “There’s no time for your bickering. People you both care about are in danger. Your assignment is to keep them alive. Help them find peace. Agreed?”
A vision appeared. Scott and that woman doc from the morgue were running through a dark forest. Shots were fired. Scott was limping. The woman tried to help him, her arm around his waist, but then she went down. The look of anguish on his buddy’s face drove Lucas to his feet.
The image evaporated and he was left staring into the fire.
Shit.
He looked up and met his new partner’s gaze. They took each other’s measure, and then the monk nodded.
“Agreed.”
The Lord just smiled, as though he’d known the outcome all along.
“Fish anyone?”
Chapter 4
It was dark by the time Scott managed to get dressed and make his way out of the hospital, careful to keep the hat he’d borrowed from another patient pulled low over his eyes. His hand had already risen to wave down a cab before he remembered he’d need cash. He patted down his pockets, relieved when he felt the welcome bulk of his wallet. It must have been returned to him after the accident.
“Where to?” The driver glanced his way and then focused on the clipboard in his hand.
“West Harrison,” Scott panted, breathing through the pain of bending to slide into the car.
The gray head turned and concerned eyes met his. “You okay?” The cabbie nodded toward the hospital. “Maybe you better head on back and let them check you out.”
One glimpse of the crowd of reporters milling around the entrance and Scott turned away. “I’m fine, just get me outta here.”
The man hesitated, then shrugged and started the meter. “Whatever you say, boss.”
As they pulled from the curb a guy wearing a dark shirt and pants moved away from the group, a cell phone plastered to his ear. Scott’s gaze passed over him, then returned. There was something…
“Car accident?”
He jumped, his gaze snapping to the cabbie’s curious scrutiny in the rear view mirror. “Why do you say that?” he demanded. His pulse throbbed at his temple. Then he realized the man was referring to his cast and bruises. He sighed. “Yeah.”
He leaned his aching head against the back of the seat and closed his eyes. Immediately visions of a white van hurtling toward them filled his mind. Lucas grimly trying to avoid the collision; Natalya screaming as he pushed her head into his shoulder. As though hiding her was going to delay the inevitable. He remembered thinking it was going to be all right. Lucas would fix this, he always did. Then the crash came and the world went black.
When he awoke, their agent, Ray Farrell, was there to inform him he was lucky to be alive. Three others hadn’t survived. And Scott somehow knew his sister and best friend were gone.
The car slowed to a halt.
“We’re here, A.”
Scott’s eyelids flipped open, his heart stuttered, and he sat up too fast, grunting at the ache in his side. “What did you just call me?” he demanded.
A weirdly familiar set of eyes again met his in the mirror. Then the cabbie pointed out the front window at the imposing cement structure of the Medical Examiner’s office.
“I just said we’re here, man. This the place you wanted?” He leaned forward to stop the meter and Scott’s gaze landed on the cross gently swaying from a silk tassel below the mirror. A warm sensation flowed into his belly and washed all his anxieties aside. He must have heard the man wrong.
“This is it. What do I owe ya?” Scott lifted his hip and extracted the wallet from his back pocket, careful not to jar the cast or his ribs.
“Twenty will do. Are you sure you got the right place? This is the morgue, ya know.”
Scott winced. His mouth straightened into a hard line. “I’m well aware of where we are, yes.” He passed the cash over the seat and opened his door. “I’ll be about an hour. Can you come back and pick me up? There’s an extra fifty in it, if you do.”
He climbed out of the car without waiting for a reply and slammed the door. Frustration was eating a hole at his insides. He hated when something was there, skirting the edges of his mind, but not allowing him to figure it out. Lucas had given him a hard time more than once for his lack of patience. He’d always been mercurial though; that’s why the two of them had meshed so well. Lucas was the calming brook, while he’d been more like the raging rapids in their relationship. The whole carefree persona he carefully portrayed for the benefit of the public was just that, a guise.
He watched the taxi until its taillights disappeared around the corner, then reluctantly limped toward the double glass doors lit by a yellowish glow from recessed lighting. The breeze ruffled his hair and snuck past the collar of his ja
cket to send a chill down his spine. He grimaced and yanked the loose side of the coat closer around his body. He’d been lucky that the t-shirt he’d been wearing at the time of the accident was loose enough to slide his arm through with the cast, but there was no way his coat would fit unless he sliced it, and he’d refused to do that. The Blue Jays jacket came from one of the last baseball games the two friends had attended together. They’d shared a love of the sport and had a friendly rivalry going every year on who would make the finals. Lucas was a White Sox fan all the way, so he’d gone out in left field and chosen the Jays as a sure way to rile his buddy. The game they’d attended; Sox won seven-six, and Lucas had crowed about it all the way home. The asshole.
He swallowed the lump in his throat and tugged on the door, but it didn’t budge. He rattled it a couple more times before he noticed the hours of operation on the side window; eight-thirty to four-thirty, Monday to Friday. Well, that figured. It was—he checked his watch—ten p.m. and Friday night to boot.
He sighed, relieved and frustrated in equal measure. Now he had two more days to wait before he could say a final farewell to his buddy, at least in private. The funeral was sure to bring a crowd, Lucas was—had been—a star. And Natalya… a shudder shook his frame. His little sister… gone. He couldn’t imagine never seeing her sparkling blue eyes as she teased the hell out of him again. He and Lucas had always protected her, kept her safe. They’d never wanted her to go through the same pain they had.
Head suddenly too heavy for his shoulders, he turned away from the darkened building and wandered down the sidewalk. Guess he had some time to kill before the cab came back. At least it was quiet here, away from the downtown core and prying eyes. The tension slowly eased as the meds kicked in and dulled the pain so he could finally breathe without it feeling as though his lungs were getting squashed. He’d had bruised ribs before, but the ache from these two cracked ones made that seem like a holiday. At least he could feel the pain; his buddy was beyond that now.
The Guardian (Mended Souls Book 1) Page 2