Speaking Evil

by Jason Parent

  “Yeah, well, I’m helping out.” Link’s voice oozed sarcasm. He grunted. “Doctor’s orders.”

  “What are you looking for? And why would it be under my bed?”

  “Look, kid,” Link said, the floorboards groaning and his voice straining as he picked himself off the floor. “You want to shut up? I’m just trying to do my job here, all right?”

  Tessa squeezed her fingernails into her palms. What are you doing? Stop provoking him.

  Jimmy sneered. “Well, I don’t know what you’re looking for, but it ain’t here.”

  Link snorted and plodded closer. His breath, warm and stale, seemed to permeate through the door. “You know, you may be here a while, so you might want to learn how to watch that mouth of yours.”

  “It’s attached to my face, so pretty hard to see without—”

  Tessa registered the groan a split second before the door hit her in the head. She yelped, her eyes exploding open with panic when she realized what she’d done.

  “What was that?” Link asked.

  “I didn’t say anything,” Jimmy answered, his words hissing through clenched teeth.

  “Yeah? That’s what I thought.” Link’s plodding footsteps headed out into the hall where they paused. “You squeal like a bitch. Lights out, asshole.”

  Jimmy slammed the door. His face was redder than his hair as he paced, arms swinging. “That guy—”

  “Might hear you,” Tessa whispered more forcefully than she might have liked.

  “I’m...” He ran his hand through his hair, then pressed two fingers into each temple, making small circles. “I’m sorry. I just have this strong hatred—”

  “Strong hatred for bullies. I know. You mentioned that.” She put a hand on his forearm. “But you have to keep your cool. We don’t know what we’re dealing with here. Antagonizing Link like that makes me... well, it makes me afraid they might come for you next.”

  Jimmy smirked. “I can take care of myself.”

  “You promised to take care of me, too, remember?” Tessa sighed then smiled. She liked his temper—so much raw passion, so much fight. Michael never had a harsh word, never raised a fist to defend her. He was always treating her like she was delicate, a flower that would die without just the right amount of sunlight, water, nurturing, and love. She’d killed a man, stabbed him more than a dozen times. She wouldn’t be abused again. She would not be a victim. And she wouldn’t be treated as if she were one either. Because she knew if she were pushed far enough, she’d push back fast and hard.

  She didn’t need Jimmy’s protection. She needed a friend, but if he wanted to play at white knight, well, that was sort of nice too. “Thanks.” She smiled then blew a strand of hair out of her face.

  “For what?” Jimmy frowned, perhaps thinking her insincere.

  “For letting me in here. For hiding me from Link. For keeping your promise.” She crossed her arms. “I don’t know.” She bumped him with her shoulder. “For being the only friend I’ve got in here.”

  Jimmy smiled back. He shrugged. “Never had a girl back to my room before.”

  “You jerk!” They both giggled, covering their mouths to keep their laughter quiet.

  Then, they waited.

  They turned off the light and sat side by side on the floor, backs leaning against his bed, listening as the hall traffic died down, then sitting in silence long after. At some point, Jimmy fell asleep beside her, his head lolling back and his mouth hanging open, wind whistling through his nostrils each time he blew out air.

  She had no idea what time it was but figured the hospital would be waking soon. The daytime staff would be arriving. She could rest around her medication and treatment schedules, so sleep wouldn’t be an issue, but she had no idea how she could keep dodging the people snatchers who came at night. They would be on to her, and Tessa had gotten lucky with that door trick Jimmy pulled. She doubted she would be so lucky again.

  She needed a more permanent solution. She needed to escape.

  And what about Jimmy? He didn’t stir as she kissed his cheek and rose to leave. She would have to be back in her room before the day staff found her and pray that Francine, Link, and this doctor they’d referred to were all she had to avoid. If they were up to something shady, and she was convinced they were, maybe they couldn’t be up to it when the rest of the staff was around.

  Maybe she could tell the daytime staff. Her eyes watered. Yeah, and who will they believe? Three of their coworkers or the teenage girl sent to the loony bin for killing her stepfather?

  She was on her own. Looking at Jimmy, Mr. Hot Temper, Mr. Gonna-Get-Himself-Killed, she needed to remember that. She slipped out of his room without saying goodbye.

  As she took the left into her hallway, a hand closed over her face, blocking her airways. Its owner spun around her as lithe as a dancer, keeping his calloused hand in place while the other secured her around her shoulders. But she’d gotten a good look at her attacker before he could get behind her, before the purple spots formed in front of her eyes—the Bandage Man, glowering at her through his mask of gauze, perpetual cruel scowl on his lips.

  Darkness took her as she gasped for air. So much for boys and their promises. So much for their lies.

  CHAPTER 10

  Sam had dropped her collar in a holding cell and had him booked for attempted murder. The whole time he’d raved and cried and professed his innocence, even to her and Frank, as if they hadn’t been there when he’d pointed a gun at them and fired. Either she’d knocked the man into a state of amnesia, or her assailant was stuck in one of the strongest cases of denial she’d ever seen. Or he acts better than Meryl Streep. He didn’t seem to know where he’d been, not just earlier that day, but for the last several months. Disorientation manifested in his darting eyes, overactive sweat glands, and frantic thrashing, all of which made it easy for her to order a tox screen. None of it, however, made him ripe for questioning.

  At least the man had a name, or one he’d given them anyway—Harlan Bowes. With no identification on him and no fingerprints in the system, Sam had only his word to go on. So she let him spend the night in a holding cell, assigning Officers Pettigrew and Mollicone to background checking, figuring her perp would still be there in the morning.

  She needed a chance to sleep on the man’s apparent madness. Everyone feigned innocence in the face of charges. Harlan Bowes just did it so well that he shook the sanity of one who had him dead to rights. Perhaps a psych assessment is in order.

  She chuckled as she left the precinct for the night, figuring her thought could have applied to Bowes or herself. After picking up a pizza for her and Michael to split, she ate dinner with him mostly in silence. Asking Michael about his day had resulted in a non-committal grunt—maybe something about Herman Melville—in return. And when he disappeared into his room after, it was fine by her. She was struggling for the words to tell him she’d been attacked again, not wanting to worry him. After all, they had caught the mask-wearing turd, hopefully bringing an end to their constant looking over their shoulders. She would know more in the morning and could fill Michael in then.

  She kicked back on her sofa with a cold beer and her feet up on the coffee table to watch a few cooking shows. She liked them despite never cooking. At one moment, it occurred to her that she’d been shot at that day. She shrugged, finished her beer, and went to bed.

  Sleep came easy, but it didn’t keep. Her dreams played out scenarios around Harlan Bowes that her mind had been too tired to consider in her waking hours. He hadn’t been one of her past collars, had never even been arrested as far as she could tell. Maybe he had something to do with one of Frank’s cases. That familiar mask he’d been wearing suggested otherwise.

  Who are you, Harlan Bowes? Sam twisted herself up in her sheets. She envisioned herself dolled up like General Custer, mustache and all, as a Lakota, Cheyenne, and Arapaho army swarmed around her, and she recalled Bowes’s words. Ten little Indians standing in a line. One toddled home a
nd then there were nine. The tribesmen circled her on their horses, drawing closer and kicking up dust until all she could see were dark shadows in a suffocating cloud.

  She awoke with a start, her alarm blaring on her nightstand. Bowes’s chant was probably just the ravings of a mad man. She rolled to the right and swatted the alarm off, then propped herself up on her elbows. Or maybe he just really likes Agatha Christie.

  Her bed head flopped over her face, a matt of frizzy brown kinks. Her lips cracked as she yawned, and she picked white crud from their corners as she scanned her nightstand for a water bottle. Not finding one, she threw her legs out of bed, stood, then grabbed a pair of jeans she’d left on the floor for... three? No, four days? Sniffing them, she concluded they passed inspection. She stepped into each leg and hopped to tug them over her hips.

  An old scar on her belly itched as if it were still healing, and she ran a finger over it. The narrow line of raised and rugged flesh from a slash to her bicep, compliments of Tessa’s stepfather, still tingled when she thought about it. The bruising to her head from her fight with Rex Billings, a violent drug lord with a heavyweight boxer’s build, had vanished, but her jaw and forehead still throbbed and cracked with the freshness of waking up. She’d been shot only a fraction of the time she’d been shot at, which was becoming far too many. It had been a crazy last two years.

  After throwing on a T-shirt from the pile on the floor, she opened her door and stumbled out of her room. Michael sidestepped her with a muffled grunt, toothbrush jutting from his mouth, hair wet and wearing nothing but the towel around his waist.

  “Good to see you up already.” Her voice croaked as she shuffled along the wall, still not fully awake. She squinted and threw a hand up to block the sun pouring in through the blinds.

  Michael grunted again and disappeared into his room. Anxious to go to school? Her eyes opened a little wider. Maybe it’s a girl? A twinge of guilt hit her in the gut as she thought of Tessa. Sam liked the girl just fine—well, maybe not just fine—but thought that, given her history, maybe Michael would be better off staying away from her. The verdict was still out on how messed up she might be. The twinge grew into a pang when she reminded herself that Tessa had been a victim of her stepfather, someone for whom she should sympathize, not distrust.

  She was acting like a mother. It was her job to look out for Michael. As she listened to him slamming shut dresser drawers and closet doors, hastily getting ready for school, she laughed. I only want what’s best for my boy. She nodded. That much was true.

  After a cup of coffee, she headed for the bathroom, the ache in her joints fading with each step. A nice hot shower cleared her head and got her moving, though she stayed in too long again to let the water pressure massage her muscles. By the time she got dressed, Michael was gone. She looked at the clock and figured she’d better get a move on too. Finally feeling like a whole person, she locked up and headed out.

  FRANK WAS WAITING FOR her outside of the precinct. “Are you going to question him now?” he asked, dispensing with all the usual pleasantries and idle chitchat, which Sam appreciated.

  “Yeah.” She put her hands on her hips, her long gray coat billowing in the wind. “You want to sit in?”

  Frank nodded. Clean-shaven and wearing a dark suit, he reeked of bitter coffee and cheap aftershave. His prominent chin with its small divot was a focal point to his face. That and his height made him hard to look in the eye without refocusing. “He wasn’t just shooting at you, you know.”

  “What’s your take on this guy?”

  “I don’t have one. He’s... not what I was expecting.”

  “What were you expecting?”

  “I’m not sure.” He stroked his chin. “Maybe someone more menacing or more—”

  “Cult-oriented?” Sam fixed him with a cold stare. “Maybe it’s time you told me everything, huh? This is twice now that someone—hopefully the same someone—wearing some kind of hokey Native American stereotype mask has attacked me. And it all started right after we took down the Suarez gang.”

  Frank grunted. Under his breath, he muttered, “Hector Suarez certainly seemed their type.”

  “See? That’s what I’m talking about. You came down for more than just the Suarez gang. And I hear you when you say you think Hector Suarez was part of some dark criminal enterprise. Fine, and maybe so, but what links him to the guy in the mask, and more importantly, what links all of them to Carter Wainwright?”

  Frank set his jaw but could no longer meet her gaze. “Sam, I wish I could tell you more. Suffice to say, I have strong intel that suggests Carter Wainwright is operating out of this—”

  “What intel?” Sam huffed. “Who’s your source?”

  “You know I can’t reveal the name of my CI. Please don’t ask me to. I wouldn’t ask it of you.”

  Sam studied his face. He looked pained, his eyebrows crinkling up his forehead, wrinkles showing their dialogue running through his mind. There was so much he wasn’t telling her, so much he wanted to but couldn’t. “Frank, you and I have been through a lot together. Sure we had a shaky start when you first showed up, but I thought we’d come a long way since then. Now you’re here, and it’s like we’re right back where we started—me giving you full access while you keep your dirty little secrets.”

  “It’s not like that. It’s just—”

  “I’m on your side. You know that, right?”

  He nodded but still couldn’t look her in the eye. “I know.”

  Annoyed, Sam concluded she would have to seek her answers elsewhere, starting with the mysterious shooter, Harlan Bowes. Sam extended her arm toward the entrance. “Shall we?”

  Frank nodded.

  “I hope you take my willingness to cooperate as a sign that maybe you should do the same.”

  He didn’t reply, just opened the precinct door for her, and Sam walked in without a thank you.

  Officer Peyton Reynolds sat at his usual desk outside the holding cells. The officer appeared to have lost a few pounds over the summer in an apparent effort to shed the merciless office nickname. His hair neatly combed and beard trimmed, he looked a positive contrast to his usual disheveled, droopy-eyed, and sullen self. Still, he was quite heavy, his belly resting atop his desktop as he perused a magazine propped up by his stomach.

  Sam could only imagine what the man had been through in Texas. She’d tried to learn about his traumatic ordeal to find out more about how Bruce had died, which had led to her helping him land a job at the precinct. Sam didn’t want to think about telling him what Frank believed—that Wainwright might be in their backyard—and what that might do to him and the progress he seemed to be making, his slow climb back from hell.

  “Hi, Officer Reynolds,” Sam greeted, slowing her pace and taking the time to smile genuinely. “How’s everything?”

  “You know, started a new diet.” He smiled sheepishly, a bit of rouge coming into his cheeks. “I met someone.” He dropped the magazine and sat up straight, the smile vanishing. “Things are good. You?”

  “Good, good. We’re here—”

  “We?” Reynolds threw an arm over the back of his aluminum chair and shifted to look behind her.

  Frank hovered a few feet back.

  “Agent Spinney!” he said, a bit too exuberantly, before a wave of darkness washed over his face. He cleared his throat and pasted back on his smile. “Always good to see you—far from Texas, that is. Back again so soon?”

  “Yeah. It’s good to see you too,” Frank said softly. “Just visiting the detective here. Keeping her out of trouble.”

  Reynolds snorted and his belly shook. “Good luck with that.”

  Sam narrowed her eyes on Frank, noticing how close to the vest he was keeping his business there from Officer Reynolds, even more so than he’d been doing with her. An awkward silence started to settle between them.

  Sam faked a cough. “We’re here to see Harlan Bowes.”

  “That lunatic? Guy was raving all night, screamin
g to be let out. He says he’s got some kind of medical condition. The officers you had look into him didn’t come up with nothin’ suggesting any medical conditions, but—” He pulled open his desk drawer and removed a manila folder. “—they did leave this for you.” He dropped it on the desk.

  Sam leaned over the desk, resting her palm on the folder. “Great, thanks. How’s he behaving now?”

  “Sedated. We called the hospital to check whether he was treated there. A doctor came by to evaluate him and gave him something to help him sleep. She tried to have him released into her custody, but we told her she’d have to talk to you about that.” Reynolds shrugged. “That woman did us a huge favor, shutting him up.” He glanced at his watch. “That was hours ago, though. He’ll probably be ranting and raving again soon, I’m sure, but at least I’ll be off duty.”

  “Did you get the doctor’s name?” Frank asked, jumping at the break in conversation. He leaned into the desk, flicking his fingertips against his thumb the way he did when he was anxious.

  What’s got you so nervous now, Frank? Sam studied his expression, in effect sending the question telepathically to the FBI agent. Frank stiffened, then noticeably relaxed, likely a trained response, his shoulders drooping and his easy smile returning to make him appear worry-free.

  Reynolds tapped his meaty forefinger on the folder. “All her info should be inside here.”

  Sam picked it up. “Thanks. Can you have Bowes transferred to Interview Room A?”

  “Royo’s in A, but B’s available.”

  “That’ll work. Thanks.” She tucked the folder under her arm and led Frank into the room adjacent to Interview Room B. The room was dark and empty, save for a desk, a couple of chairs, and a camera that faced a one-way mirror.

  “What was that with Reynolds?” Sam asked as soon as she was sure they were out of the officer’s earshot. “Keeping quiet about why you’re here?”

  Frank shuffled his feet. “I didn’t want to scare him is all. The man’s been—”