by Jeremy Pack
Chris could finally take no more. "You heartless bastard. These people were my family."
"Please." Callahan's voice was thick with venom. He leaned back in his chair. His lips curled in disgust. "Spare me the histrionics. I've seen this routine before from better actors than you."
"Watch it," George cautioned. "You've already established that you don't have enough evidence to prove my client is guilty. This treatment is bordering on harassment. I won't hesitate to file a formal complaint."
The cigar returned to its former place between the livery lips and the detective purpled in rage. He leaned further into his chair and squinted his eyes several times, obviously trying to work up a smart retort. He finally said, "The decision has been made. Case closed. Effective immediately. Now get the hell out of my sight and pray to God I never lay eyes on you again."
Chris was incoherent as they fled the office. George MacQuery was not the kind of person one casually dismissed, and he could feel the man's resentment pouring off of him in a black wave as he trailed dumbly behind.
As they reached the lobby, Chris stumbled. The realization of what had just happened overcame him, and the shock was like a physical blow.
It was over.
There would be no more staring at the phone for hours, hoping the police would call with some news.
Brianna and Michael were dead---or if not, they were surely lost to him forever.
He'd just been officially orphaned by the justice system and, like so many other orphans, his withering hope had finally died.
Where did that leave him?
"Chris, are you okay?"
The only thing keeping him on his feet was George's strong grip.
He tried to speak but could not form words. The room was spinning. He held his breath in an attempt to keep from vomiting.
"Could someone call an ambulance?"
Activity in the lobby came to a screeching halt, and all eyes turned on them. The weight of the curious stares was too much. Chris's universe narrowed to a pinprick of light and winked out as he lost consciousness.
JASON KINGSLEY flashed perfect white teeth at the young female desk sergeant and winked. He'd had plenty of practice putting his sexy smile and mysterious hazel eyes to good use over the years. They never failed him. This time was proving to be no exception. She looked away, trying to affect disinterest, though the pink that rose in her cheeks gave her away completely.
"The last thing I want to do is get you into trouble, but I think this guy would be happy to get his keys back. I tried to flag him down, but he didn't see me. Just a name. That's all I need. I'll look it up in the phone book."
"It's nice of you to want to return the keys, Mr. Kingsley, but I'm really not---"
Their attention was drawn to a flurry of activity to the right. George MacQuery, a prominent attorney and an old acquaintance, was kneeling on the floor next to the inert form of a younger man. Jason vaguely recalled seeing them enter the precinct shortly after he had arrived, although he hadn't had a good look at George's companion. His unconscious awareness of his surroundings, his ability to remember little details was a carry-over from the good old days in the FBI. It was a habit he'd never quite been able to break. On the upside, it did serve him well in his present occupation.
The female desk sergeant stood and craned to see past the crowd that had gathered.
Jason followed her gaze. "Looks like you've got some action today, huh?"
"Poor guy. Such a shame."
"What's his story?" His interest was piqued.
"It's Chris James," she said, as if he should know. He shrugged in response. "Don't you watch TV?"
He grimaced. "Never touch the stuff---kills brain cells."
"The murders were big news, what with the two of them being so famous. He writes a column for that lifestyle magazine, The Sounder, and his partner, the one who was killed, was some big shot attorney."
Jason cocked his head to the side, trying to recall if he'd heard anything about it. "What was his name?"
"Chris James."
"No, the attorney."
"Michael... something or other. I can't remember."
"Not Michael Blake?"
"Yeah, that was his name."
Jason's jaw clenched. How had he not heard about this?
Michael Blake. Jesus.
He watched in rapt attention as a team of paramedics arrived on the scene and loaded Chris onto a stretcher.
"You said Blake was murdered?"
"As far as anyone knows. They never found the bodies."
"Bodies? Who was the other one?"
"His daughter." There was a stricken look on the young woman's face. "God, she was just a baby."
"Blake had a daughter?"
She sighed. "Don't you even read the paper? It was his daughter," she explained, pointing toward Chris.
A niggling memory insinuated itself into his brain---a disconnected piece of a puzzle that he'd never been able to find a place for. Even though that particular case had been solved long ago, the mystery remained.
He turned and focused intent eyes upon the young woman. "You said they never found the bodies?"
"Just a lot of blood."
"Any suspects?"
"Chris James was under suspicion for a while. They couldn't ever come up with enough evidence to pursue it, though." She rolled her eyes.
"Idiots. All you need to do is look at him to see there's no way he could have done it. Some things you can't fake, you know. His grief is real."
"Any idea of a motive?"
"None. As far as anyone could tell, the attorney was squeaky clean. No enemies."
Jason snorted. "Okay. If you say so."
"You knew him?"
"Not really, no." His brow furrowed. "I have to go."
"What about your license plate trace?"
He glanced at the set of keys dangling from his finger. He'd found them in the back of his desk drawer. They were probably an old set to Bradley's apartment. He was suddenly a lot less interested in the cheating spouse gig he was currently working. Infidelity paid the bills, true, but there was no challenge or joy to be found in the investigation of it. This new development made it seem like a petty triviality.
"Jackson Murray," she said with a shy, hopeful smile.
"Huh?" he asked, peering through the window at the paramedics loading the young man into the ambulance.
"Your guy," she said, pointing to the keys. "Jackson Murray." The blush returned to her cheeks as she anticipated what kind of reward she might expect for the risk she had just taken on his behalf.
He glanced absently at the keys, then tossed them on the desk.
"Here you go. Why don't you give him a call and tell him that his girlfriend's husband isn't too happy about that zipper problem of his."
He didn't have time to see the bewildered look on her face change to fury at having been taken. He was out the door before she had time to figure it out.
Chapter 2
CHRIS hated hospitals. The smell alone was enough to make you sick if you weren't already.
He had regained consciousness halfway into the trip, and by the time they reached the towering medical center, the paramedics had decided he was out of immediate danger. Nevertheless, they informed him, procedure dictated that patients arriving in an ambulance had to see a doctor before being discharged.
So there he sat.
George had followed in his own car and, upon seeing that Chris was coherent, departed promptly for his office with a promise to stop by later to check on him.
As luck would have it, the emergency room was jam-packed. As he waited endlessly for his five minutes with the attending physician, he passed the time watching the infirm multitudes come and go through the sliding glass doors. His eye lingered on a tattered copy of Golfer's World magazine sitting on the tabletop in front of him. It wasn't the periodical's content that was of interest to him; the magazine just seemed... lonely. It reminded him of all the times he got p
icked last for the dodgeball team.
Sure, the athletic kids were harder to hit, but he wanted to play too.
Just as he resolved to pick it up, the chronic cougher sitting next to him dove in and snatched it from the table. With a snort, he flipped through the ragged pages as if they contained the secrets of the universe.
Chris was almost amused. It was hard to believe the lung-challenged man had any interest in the sport of golf. With those bronchial issues, a walk across the room was probably an ordeal, to say nothing of chasing a little white ball across acres of pristine turf. He was coming to realize that the caste system of the emergency room lobby clearly defined status by the quality of the publication one was able to obtain---and a crappy magazine certainly put you higher in the pecking order than no magazine at all.
Finally, his name was called, and he followed a petite nurse down a short corridor, through a pair of swinging doors, and into a closet-sized examination room. With all the fury of a tropical depression, the nurse plugged a thermometer into his mouth, hustled him onto a scale, and inflated a blood pressure cuff around his arm, dutifully recording her findings on a chart that she miraculously held onto for the duration. The speed of this perfunctory examination was in stark contrast to the geologic pace with which patients were rotated into and out of the lobby.
Her duties complete, she excused herself and indicated that the doctor would be with him shortly.
As he waited, he perused the magazine rack on the wall. Here in the inner sanctum, there was no competition for prime reading material, and he was glad for the distraction. The silence, the aloneness, was almost unbearable. True, he'd become accustomed to solitude over the past year, but it was much less tolerable in this cold, antiseptic environment. At least at home, as long as he forced down memories of the blood on the front porch and in the foyer, familiarity kept despair at arm's length.
There was a rap on the door that preceded the physician's entry. Dr. Resnick was a handsome, energetic young man with dark hair and olive skin. He had a wide, bright smile that put Chris somewhat at ease, despite the fact that he'd developed a distrust of doctors over the years.
"Lost consciousness at the police station," he remarked as he read through the chart. "Vitals are... okay, although I'm a little concerned about your weight. You could stand to gain a few pounds."
"You guys always tell me that," Chris replied.
"I get it from my Jewish mother. Like her, I have a solemn duty to point out everything that's wrong with you, ask you a bunch of deeply personal questions, and cluck my tongue when I don't like what I hear. When I'm sure you feel really, really worthless, I'll tell you I only have your best interests at heart."
Chris managed a small smile. "I'll try to remember that when we get to the 'deeply personal' part."
"Any idea why you would have lost consciousness?"
"Stress, maybe?" Chris offered.
"Good guess. You've got some dark circles under your eyes. I'd bet you're having some sleep troubles as well."
"The odds on that one are better than the lottery."
"Blood pressure's a bit high for someone your age---also a nasty side effect of stress."
"Next you're going to ask if I'm seeing a psychologist." There was challenge in his tone.
Resnick pointed with his pen. "I couldn't help but notice the scars on your wrists."
Chris looked away and didn't respond immediately. After a somewhat lengthy and uncomfortable silence, he said, "That was a long time ago."
"So are you seeing someone?"
"No," he said firmly.
"Any reason why not?"
"I spent a year in an institution after the... after this." Chris gestured toward the scar on his left wrist. "I've seen enough shrinks to figure out they can't tell me anything I don't already know."
"You're sure about that? All of these symptoms are indicators of clinical depression."
"I don't have a chemical imbalance."
Resnick smiled and leaned against the counter. "Interesting assessment, Dr. James. Want to tell me what your diagnosis is?"
"Shitty luck?"
"Cute," Resnick replied. He sighed deeply, set his chart on the counter, and crossed his arms. His face softened, and he put on a sincere expression. "I'm a doctor. It isn't just my job to make people feel better, it's the reason I live... my purpose." There was a depth of feeling in Resnick's words, a look of kindness on his face that struck a chord in Chris. "There. I've revealed something intensely personal. Now you."
"Trust me, there's nothing you can do."
"I'm not going to pass judgment. I'm trying to help."
"It's not like that. I don't have anything to hide," Chris said. "I just know you can't help. And it's not easy to talk about."
"Give me a chance. You might be surprised."
He sure was persistent, Chris thought. Obviously there would be no escaping Resnick until he talked, so he resigned himself to just get it over with. "About a year ago, I lost my daughter and my partner. They were probably murdered, although I don't think anybody's really sure about that---they never found the bodies." He paused, looking at his lap, the wall, the magazine he'd been reading, anywhere but Resnick. "They even tried to pin it on me for a while," he said. He glanced quickly at the impassive face of the doctor. "Today, the police cold-cased the file. Any hope I had for justice, for finding out the truth, is locked up in some filing cabinet downtown, and now I have to spend the rest of my life dealing with it."
Resnick's eyes reflected genuine sympathy. Chris's story may have shocked him, outraged him, intrigued him, but his expression displayed only concern. "In all that time, following the murders, during the investigation, you haven't seen a psychologist? You haven't joined a support group?"
Chris shook his head. "Had a lot of advice, a lot of offers, but I'm not much of a team player. I'm better at dealing with things on my own."
Resnick nodded slowly, thinking. "Let me be frank. You're obviously not better at dealing with things on your own. You're not sleeping well, you're undernourished, you're edgy, adversarial---you're putting your body through the wringer, and it's paying the price. The human machine is a miraculous and highly resilient piece of bioengineering, but it can only take so much before it starts to break down. You got a taste of that today, and it's not going to get better unless you deal with the root cause."
"I know I have issues, but I don't agree that a support group or a psychologist can help me. Remember, I've been there. I know what it's like."
"I respectfully disagree." He leaned forward and focused imploring eyes on Chris's face. "I don't know what led you to your suicide attempt. Presumably the variables here are different. You've suffered a terrible, painful trauma---one I can scarcely imagine going through myself. You need grief guidance. You need the support of others to help mitigate the toll it's taking on you. Don't you have any family?"
Chris stood abruptly. There was a limit to the amount of probing he would tolerate. "I appreciate the advice. I really do."
Resnick frowned, realizing he had been defeated. "But you're not going to take it." There was no attempt to mask the obvious disappointment on the earnest doctor's face.
Chris struggled into his sweater. "Am I going to die?"
"I guarantee it. But it's probably not imminent."
"Then may I leave?"
Doctor Resnick scratched out a prescription and handed it to him.
"Here's something to help you sleep. Do your body a favor and at least try to get a good night's rest."
Chris took the sheet of paper. "Thank you for your time," he said and turned to leave.
"Those pills aren't going to solve your problem. They're a temporary fix at best."
He did not look back. As he passed into the hallway, he tossed the prescription into the trash. "No worries," he said. "I wasn't going to take them anyway."
CHRIS was oblivious to the beauty of the late-afternoon sun that splashed like burnished gold upon the hardwood floo
rs. He sat perfectly still on his leather sofa, staring over the mug of long-cold tea and the bottle of sleeping pills he'd placed beside it.
The barbiturates were poised directly in his field of view so that he could contemplate carefully what he was about to do.
The prescription had been Michael's. After Chris had brought Brianna home from the hospital, his all-nighters in service to the needs of an infant had kept Michael awake. Michael had gotten the pills to help him sleep so he would always be sharp in the courtroom.
Chris's visit to Dr. Resnick had given him the idea, if not the means. His conscience wouldn't allow him to burden an innocent bystander with the responsibility he would doubtless feel if, by some odd circumstance, he learned of Chris's death. He really did care. His admission in the examination room hadn't been a canned speech designed to coax Chris out of his shell. He'd honestly wanted to help.
Well, at least tossing the prescription into the trash would absolve Dr. Resnick of any false sense of culpability for what was to come.
Chris clenched his jaw and stood. He was going to do it. It was almost time. He just needed to take one last walk through his house--- partly to ensure that it was in order, but also because he wanted to immerse himself in happier times. Before the murders, this had been his sanctuary---a happy place, filled with Brianna's laughter and the security of hearth and home. However flawed his relationship with Michael had been, they had once been a family. He needed to remind himself that the damaged goods he was about to throw away had not always been so.
At least this time, he wouldn't be so afraid. He'd touched that other world once before and had been terrified. It hadn't been as bad as he'd expected, though. The body had mechanisms for easing the transition.
Once death was inevitable, the will to live quickly subsided. In the end, greeting death was not so different from slowly drifting off into a deep, relaxing sleep.
Some people who had come back from the brink claimed to see a bright light or a long tunnel. They were surrounded by loved ones and a deep sense of peace and happiness. He had experienced none of those things. Just a slow, consuming drowsiness, and then... nothing. There hadn't even been a sense of time having passed when he'd awakened in the hospital two days later.