Coop walked on his left, attentive but distant. That was smart of her.
His mind shied away from that place. The burning, fiery place of Livvie’s slack face staring up at him. Of a scream that escaped from his own mouth without him giving permission. Of a black hole that had opened up in his heart.
The cavalry had arrived soon afterward. Cop cars, ambulances, people swarming about in every direction he had turned. There had been no escaping that circus.
And when they’d gone back to find Salazar, he was gone. Maybe he’d been the mole after all. That was possible, Joshua supposed. There was no way of knowing.
His girl was dead.
The hole opened back up inside of him, and he stumbled, thrusting out his hand for support. Coop grabbed him, keeping him upright, in spite of her own injury that he had noticed back in Centralia.
He pulled his arm back from her grip. The touch of her hand burned him from within, the dullness turning to fire in an instant.
That rage, if he ever let it loose, could consume the world.
He was holding onto his sanity by the thinnest of threads. One false move and that gossamer filament would snap. And he didn’t know what would happen then.
His hotel room. He pulled out the key card and inserted it in the slot. Red.
He tried again. Red.
The futility and black comedy of the moment struck him, and he let out a burst of laughter that turned into a sob somewhere in the middle. He held out the card to Coop.
She took the card and placed it in the opening. Green.
Pushing the door open, Joshua flipped on the light. He stumbled into the room and then came to an abrupt stop, Agent Cooper letting out a horrified gasp at his side. Bella whimpered, the whine filling up the space between Joshua and the bloody corpse slumped over the table in front of him.
It was Salazar.
The wall behind the agent was covered in blood and brain and bone, and as Joshua stumbled forward, he could see that half of the agent’s face was missing.
Salazar’s pale hand, rigid in death, was clenched around his elaborate pistol and hung down by his side. This was meant to look like a suicide.
But Joshua knew what had happened.
It was a long moment of stillness before Cooper spoke. And when she did, it was in the smallest whisper.
“He really was the mole.”
Joshua shook his head. Salazar had never been the mole. It had been Livvie all along. Livvie that planted the bombs. Livvie that killed their friends and coworkers. Livvie that stood before him and shattered his heart into a million glittering fragments.
And one man who had been behind it all.
Joshua moved toward the minibar, yanking the door open. Bella sat on her haunches and watched. Even she realized the time for sobriety was past. He reached inside and pulled out a tiny bottle at random, twisting off the lid with the ease of practice.
The liquid slid down his throat with the familiar burn that he knew would end in the solace of numbness. He welcomed it, embraced it as an old friend. How had he ever given it up?
He gestured with one hand toward the body slumped at the table. “This… Humpty did this.” Reaching back into the fridge, Joshua pulled out another bottle. His ankle monitor let out an insistent squeal, alerting everyone in earshot that he had taken the plunge back into the darkness.
Coop moved this time, pulled out of her apparent stupor. She grabbed the arm that held the tiny bottle of liquor.
Joshua locked gazes with her, the anger raging through the connection, daring her to keep him from his drink. She let go, her arm slowly lowering. Whatever she could see in his face kept her from interfering.
He lifted the drink to his mouth and felt the heat sear him all the way down.
There was no going back.
EENNIE, MEANIE, MOE – The bridge short story to Jack and Jill
CHAPTER 1
Reggie flew back, her head striking the pavement. Man, that hurt.
Scrambling up, she took off once more, pumping her arms as fast as she could, hoping that it would force her legs to keep up. She could not let this guy get away.
Could. Not.
Especially not after he just body-checked her into the pavement. That was just not cool. Not cool at all.
But damned if the big guy wasn’t fast, as well as nimble. Unfair. At some point, shouldn’t size determine some sort of limit on top speed? But this unsub didn’t seem to understand the laws of physics, or whatever the hell subject it should be. Thermodynamics? Reggie hadn’t paid much attention during the sciences.
Now history? History was her bitch.
But history wasn’t really on her side when it came to most physical competition amongst the sexes. She could cry sexism all she wanted, but there was a reason men and women had different categories at the Olympics. There were moments that Reggie wanted to punch the universe in the face.
Of course, no man could get out of a speeding ticket like she could, but somehow that didn’t seem to make up for the disparity here. Just once, she’d like to take a criminal down without having the guy think he could take her in a footrace.
The sounds of the unsub swearing up ahead refocused her attention on the task at hand. Looked like he had gotten himself boxed in for a second. Reggie was almost caught up to him when he managed to squeeze through the chained gate in the fence that stretched across the alleyway.
Dammit. That was going to be a tight squeeze. She was clearly smaller than the guy she was chasing, but he didn’t have boobs. And when it came to those two appendages, they could be game changers. In so many different ways, it seemed. Sometimes it sucked being a woman.
For a moment she considered letting Had or Coop try to get this guy from the other end. They had circled around and were attempting to cut him off. That plan would probably work, too, unless he zigged when they were expecting him to zag.
But she couldn’t take that risk.
Besides, this unsub had pissed her off royally.
She pushed herself up against the cold aluminum pole of the fence, squeezing every last bit of air out of her lungs that she could. Even with that, it felt like some kind of violent version of a mammogram as she forced her way through the narrow space.
It wasn’t even like this guy was all that important. He was just someone that had been pointed out as a possible source of information for the case they were working.
Her lungs burned with the fires of hell. Was this guy a marathoner? It seemed like they had been running for a long time.
Three murders, all in the space of one week. Seemingly random in terms of the victims, but consistent as far as MO.
And the MO was horrific. Strangled with a cord, eyes gouged out, tongue ripped out at the root and the ears removed. That was bad enough. But the eye gougings, tongue rippings and ear takings all happened pre-mortem.
The Behavioral Analysis Unit, or BAU, had been called in because the local PD didn’t have a clue about where to start. And Tanner had assigned their team because… well, because they needed to get their shit together.
By they, what Reggie really meant was Joshua.
She jumped over a pile of garbage bags that had been piled up at the side of the alleyway, hoping to lessen the lead the unsub had on her. It might have worked, too, if she hadn’t caught the sole of her shoe on the top bag. The miracle was that she didn’t fall. But any gain that might have been made with the maneuver was lost.
Dammit.
Things had not been good since Centralia. Joshua had gone down hard after Agent Cooper had taken out his daughter. It was the only choice she could have made, and it was clear now that Coop was back to her old self.
But at what cost?
Coop had managed to get Joshua’s never-silent alcohol monitor removed, and at least for the moment most of the BAU that knew anything about their team thought it was due to a malfunctioning bracelet. But Tanner knew the truth.
He had been willing to cut the former agent some slack, but right now it d
idn’t appear that his forbearance was doing any good. Joshua had been drunk pretty much from the time he’d left his hotel room in Pottsville until now.
The man ahead of her was starting to slow. Reggie put on a burst of speed, her heart trying to leap out of her chest with each new heartbeat. This was a catch she wanted to make. Bad.
The CSI team had all but confirmed Joshua’s suspicion that Agent Salazar’s seeming suicide might have been staged, but there didn’t appear to be any way to prove it conclusively. As far as the former agent was concerned, it was a no-brainer.
Which, as coincidence would have it, was a pretty good descriptor for drunk Joshua. It was hard to see someone she respected so much take such a dive.
The unsub in front of her stumbled as he ran around a huge garbage bin and tried to glance back to see where Reggie was. Rookie move. Never look back. Always keep your eye on the prize.
One final effort, and Reggie leapt at the unsub, hitting him in the back of the knees. It was a move she’d learned from her older brothers, playing tackle football out in the backyard. It wasn’t a move most women her size would even think of performing, and she felt a warm glow of pride as the man hit the pavement. At least as hard as she had earlier. The large form beneath her groaned.
Sweet, sweet victory.
“Maybe… next time… you won’t run,” she panted as she pulled out her handcuffs. Had and Coop had just rounded the corner and were running toward her.
And it stirred up a feeling of pride when Reggie realized that, at least this once, she hadn’t needed their help. She had taken care of this guy herself.
* * *
Interrogation rooms all looked alike. Didn’t matter where in the US you were, they were all pretty much the same. This one in Kansas City, Missouri looked an awful lot like some back at Quantico.
All had the same non-descript paint on the walls, some variation of puke-neutral. Sometimes they leaned to the cream side, sometimes to the slightly blue, on rare occasions there might be a bit of rose running through. But all of them were based off the same parameters. What paint was cheapest at the Home Depot that day?
Sariah took in a deep breath and immediately regretted it. They all smelled the same, too. A combination of homeless stink, urine, stale cigarettes and desperate sweat.
Not pleasant.
Staring into the hazy eyes of the unsub, a Mitchell Roberts, Sariah saw an all-too-familiar lack of presence there. The lights were on, but no one was home.
The man was a mirror image to Joshua right now.
She had left the former agent back at the hotel, with strict orders to stay in his room. After a strong chat with housekeeping, Sariah had cleaned out the minibar… and the bathroom… making sure there wasn’t a drop of alcohol, whether in tiny bottles, or in the form of mouthwash. This was where being the child of an alcoholic came in handy.
Problem was, Sariah didn’t think for a second that Joshua would stay put. She’d taken his wallet, searched through his luggage for spare cash, gone through his belongings with a fine-toothed comb. But alcoholics were resourceful. Just because she didn’t have any idea how Joshua could get his next drink didn’t mean he couldn’t figure something out.
Her finger twitched, urging her to pull her cell phone out of her pocket to give the former agent a call. But who was she kidding? Joshua often wouldn’t pick up at the best of times. Now that he was drinking again? She’d been lucky that he hadn’t tried to punch her out every time she’d knocked on his door. Of course, he might not be physically capable of punching her, or anyone else, right now.
Instead of grabbing for her phone, she slapped her open palm against the table in front of Mitchell. There was a loud smack, and the man jumped about a foot off his chair.
Sariah got a small glow of satisfaction from that. There had been a response, at least. That was more than she could say for her latest interactions with Joshua.
“Why did you run?” she asked Mitchell. “We just wanted to talk to you.”
Some expression that seemed distantly related to thought crossed over the man’s face. This was not a clever criminal in front of her. This was a half-baked man-child.
“I thought… I thought…” His brow furrowed in heavy concentration. “I thought you were after me for my parking tickets.”
Sariah almost laughed. Would have if the man’s disturbing lack of a cohesive thought process didn’t remind her so much of Joshua Wright. Didn’t remind her so much of her father.
Pulling out crime photos, Sariah slapped them down one by one in front of the man. One, two, three. Three opportunities to slam the table. Three opportunities to scare the big man who was seated across from her.
“Any of these look familiar to you?”
It took a minute, but comprehension seemed to dawn on Mitchell that they were all pictures of dead people. Watching the man react was like observing the last bit of cold molasses drip out of a jar. Slow and pointless.
“These guys are…” Mitchell Roberts gasped in slow motion.
“Dead. Yes. Killed, actually. That’s why we wanted to talk to you.”
The delayed reaction on his face was comedic gold. His face went through shock, dismay and fear in an exaggerated dance that Sariah could almost choreograph, it was such a familiar sight. The fact that the progression was extended over what seemed like a minute and a half just made it all the more ridiculous.
“I didn’t do this,” he gasped out finally.
That was now more than clear to anyone who had witnessed this exchange. How had this man managed to evade them for so long? It was a testament to the power of adrenaline to cut through even the thickest of mental and physical fogs.
This one clearly drug-induced.
“Look, Mitchell,” Sariah said, trying to get his attention back. “We don’t care about any tickets. We don’t care about the pot and the ‘ludes you were carrying. We just want to know if you recognize any of these people.”
He swiveled his gaze back to the photos. “Yeah. I recognize that guy. He manages my apartment complex.” His thought process registered on his face as he made a realization. “Whoa. I mean, I guess he worked at my apartment complex.”
“Fine, fine. Anyone else?” Sariah prompted, trying to keep her irritation out of her voice. They had already known that he was connected to the janitor, an elderly black man who up until a year ago had been homeless. What was important was the young Caucasian woman in one of the other two pictures. That was why he was here.
“No,” he said after a long stare at the photos in front of him. “Don’t know ‘em.”
“You don’t recognize this girl?” Sariah prompted. “You have a class with her at the community college.” Both Mitchell Roberts and Julia Tyson, the female victim, were listed as taking the remedial math course at the school.
“Whoa. Dude. I haven’t gone to class since the semester started. You can ask anyone.”
And that, unfortunately, was something that Sariah had no problem believing. Their only possible link between the suspects, found at a cost of way too many hours of digging, gone. Just like that.
She waved for the young man in front of her to stand up. “Get out of here. I can’t promise the lead detective on the case won’t arrest you for possession on the way out, but I wish you good luck.”
Again, the slow reaction time on the man’s face was almost comical. She just wished the rest of the case was as easy to read as Mitchell.
Back to square one.
CHAPTER 2
“I just don’t think that could be the only link between the victims,” Detective Jackson drawled. Had watched as Agent Cooper cringed. These two hadn’t hit it off all that well right from the start.
As far as he was concerned, Had was just waiting for the big blow-up. It seemed inevitable that it would come at some point, and from the way things were developing, it seemed destined to be a pretty spectacular one.
Much as Had avoided conflict, he did love to see racist, sexist guys get
their comeuppance. Maybe it was the result of growing up with a southern mother who couldn’t countenance any kind of disrespect toward members of another race. And if someone were to show disdain toward a woman? Heaven help that poor man if Mama got within arm’s length of him.
One of the oddities about Missouri he’d discovered was that the show-me state was really two states divided by the Ozarks. Up north, here in Kansas City, most everyone sounded and acted like they were from the Midwest. Once you got into the mountains, it was like you’d stepped straight into the South.
Even during The War between the States, the area had been a point of controversy, sending delegates to both the Union and to the Confederate States. They’d been claimed by both the North and the South, and which side they’d been on depended largely on who you were talking to in the moment.
Detective Jackson was from the Ozarks. Had wouldn’t be shocked to find out that he had a Confederate flag proudly on display in some part of his home. The detective had made his distaste for a black female agent clear from the outset of the case, and while he hadn’t said anything overt, it was clear that any idea out of Coop’s mouth was going to fall on deaf ears as far as he was concerned.
After a long moment in which Agent Cooper seemed to be doing everything she could to keep her patience, she lifted her head from her files. Attempting to make eye contact with the detective, she spoke in a tone that said she was working hard not to leap across the conference room table and throttle the man.
“I’m not saying they aren’t connected. I am saying that we haven’t found anything concrete. They appear to be completely random.”
“And what I’m saying is that getting the BAU involved hasn’t done jack-shit for us,” Jackson shot back.
“Jackson. Come on.” It was his partner, Detective Mason, a younger and kinder version of what Missouri could produce. Where Jackson embodied the southern half of the state, Mason seemed to be his Midwestern counterpart.
From what Had could tell, Mason was doing what he could to maintain good relations between the department and the BAU team. He’d been nothing but pleasant to work with from the time they’d gotten here.
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