The Nick Lawrence Series

by Brian Shea

  “I did. And I still do.”

  Anaya stirred again. This time her head lifted. Tears rolled down the soft curved line of her cheek as she surveyed the room. She eyed him warily, the terror percolating just beneath the surface. Nick received her silent plea for help.

  “Good to have you back with us,” Simmons said mockingly.

  Nick admired the fight in Anaya’s moist eyes as they narrowed in defiance of the armed woman standing above them.

  “You may be turning that mean old gaze on your boyfriend in a minute when I let you in on his little secret and tell you what he’s been up to.”

  Nick shrugged and shook his head, fending off the implication.

  “I hope that baby of yours is still okay,” Simmons said, smiling down at Anaya’s stomach.

  “What did you do?” Nick seethed.

  “There it is. That’s what I want. Do you feel that? That deep anger surging at the mention of your defenseless unborn child?” Simmons hissed.

  Nick said nothing. His breathing accelerated, and he could feel the tingle of adrenaline prickle along his skin.

  “I can see it in your eyes. You are beginning to understand my pain.”

  His ears thumped with the beat of his heart, nearly drowning out her words.

  “A child’s death carries a never-ending flow of pain. You gave me that gift and I’ve given a lot of thought on how best to repay your generosity,” Simmons said, contemptuously.

  Nick’s brow furrowed in thorough confusion at the madness.

  “I carried Simon Montrose in my womb for nine months. Nine months!” Simmons boomed through clenched teeth.

  “Oh shit,” Nick said.

  “Oh shit is right. Starting to make sense to you now isn’t it, Nick?”

  Anaya’s head swiveled back and forth between the two, her brow knotted in confusion.

  “Of course, I didn’t get to name him. The State took care of that for me. And, like me, he was born a product of the broken social service system. Even though he moved through the pipeline into a closed adoption, I managed to track him down. Like any loving mother, I kept an eye on him.” Simmons said with a contented smile. “I watched him grow. It’s funny what you learn about someone when they don’t know they’re being watched.”

  “He was sick,” Nick said.

  “You say sick. I saw a boy who had some of my tendencies, albeit he leaned toward younger females. Hunger is hunger and everybody needs to feed their appetite.”

  “You knew what he was? You knew he raped and sold young girls?”

  “Raped, sold, and sometimes, when the need took him, killed young girls. If we’re going to speak truths, Nick, then let’s put it all on the table and leave nothing unsaid.”

  Nick watched the woman leering above him. She was enjoying this. It was the happiest he’d ever seen her in the short time he’d known her.

  “That’s right. A sick bastard. A pariah. And apparently just like his mom!” Nick spat the words.

  “Easy, Nick. You’ve got the gist of where I’m going with this. I can finish explaining the details to Anaya without you around. So, watch your tone or you won’t be around for the final act,” Simmons said calmly.

  Nick understood the veiled threat and didn’t question its conviction. Her eyes told the tale and he knew he’d get no additional verbal shots without dire repercussions.

  “Dear, sweet Anaya, your little Nick isn’t the squeaky-clean G-man he’s led you to believe.” Simmons said. “He’s got a dark side and my little Simon wasn’t his first, but will probably be his last. Nick doesn’t like to let the justice system run its course. Sometimes he plays judge, jury, and executioner.”

  Nick refused to look at Anaya, fearful at what judgement lay waiting.

  “It’s the latter that brought us together, Nick,” Simmons teased.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Nick felt Anaya’s gaze, boring into him in search of some meaning to the madness. He ignored her, cocking his head and looking past Simmons at a blur of movement near the hallway.

  “Don’t worry I’ve been keeping track. Your secret’s sa—”

  Simmons stopped midsentence and her eyes widened. Her face contorted.

  A loud bang accompanied the bright flash from the muzzle. And then silence.

  30

  Nick lay flat, sprawled atop Spangler’s dead body. Blood filled his eyes, causing him to blink uncontrollably. The automatic reaction told him he was alive. The thick salty liquid trickled past his lips and down into his mouth.

  Nick spat, trying to vacate the foreign invasion before swallowing. He shoved hard against Simmons’s small frame, freeing himself from the dead-body sandwich. He wiped hard to clear his face and eyes as best he could, smearing the warm wetness into his gray sweatshirt.

  “Holy shit,” Nick said, clearing his vision enough to see the rotund belly of Kemper Jones hovering above him.

  “That’s about the biggest understatement I’ve ever heard,” Jones said, applying a thick layer of country twang.

  Nick scrambled out of the twisted web of lifeless limbs and clamored to Anaya. Kneeling in front of her, he rubbed her hands and looked deep into her eyes. She seemed not to see him as she cast a vacant stare. He tugged the duct tape free from her mouth. Anaya winced as the adhesive worked hard to maintain its purchase on her skin.

  “I’m so sorry, baby,” Nick said, pulling free the last bit of bonded tape.

  “Are you okay?” Anaya gasped.

  Nick didn’t answer because he wasn’t sure. It wouldn’t have been the first time he’d been too focused to notice a wound. He quickly patted himself down and gave her a nod of assurance.

  “Got a knife?” Nick called over his shoulder to Jones.

  “I’m a God-fearin’ Texan. I’d be going against all that’s good and holy if I didn’t,” Jones said, producing a folding knife from his front pants pocket and placing it into Nick’s outstretched blood-covered palm.

  Nick went to work releasing Anaya from each tight plastic restraint of the zip ties fastening her arms and legs to the chair. With the last one cut, Anaya fell forward. Nick reacted quickly, catching her gently in his arms. She sobbed quietly into his neck. The tears punctuated his failure to protect her as they trickled their path along his tainted skin. He failed to keep his promise to stay by her side at a time when she needed him most. That decision had left her alone and vulnerable to the reach of an incensed killer.

  “I’m so sorry,” Nick whispered.

  “I tried to fight back. I tried to stop her from hurting me—from hurting our baby—” Anaya said, interspersed through ragged breaths.

  “No. You shouldn’t’ve had to do any of that. It’s my fault.” Nick’s voice broke like a teenager hitting puberty. “I should’ve been there!”

  “The baby! Oh my God no!” Anaya said, grasping at her stomach.

  “What? Oh no—what did she do?” Nick pulled back to seek the answer in Anaya’s face.

  She said nothing. Nick tracked the gaze of Anaya’s dark eyes down to Spangler’s right hand and the willow branch he still held. Upon closer inspection, Nick realized that Spangler wasn’t actually holding it, rather, he was held to it. The wider end of the cut tree limb was pressed tightly to the gloved palm of his hand, bound by several layers of black electrical tape.

  “Have you got an ambulance coming?” Nick boomed the question at Jones.

  “I called it in when I notified dispatch of my arrival. They’re probably staged. I’ll call ’em up.”

  Jones radioed for medical. Nick hadn’t heard the sound until now. The wail of sirens punctuated Jones’s radio transmission, and he heard heavy footsteps on the lower floor and the all-too-familiar squawk of police radios.

  Nick pulled Anaya back into his tight embrace, trying desperately to calm her. The irregular jerking pattern of her body and rapidity of her breathing indicated that he was having little effect.

  A small band of uniformed patrol officers from the Cedar Park Police
Department filed quickly down the hallway toward the room. Nick looked on as Jones halted their movement at the doorway in an effort to hold the scene’s integrity. Emergency medical personal were the only ones allowed entry.

  For the second time in less than twenty-four hours he watched as Anaya was spirited away on a gurney with the life of his unborn child hanging in the balance. The thought of it caused his knees to buckle. Jones caught him by the arm, supporting his dead weight.

  “I’ll be right behind you!” Nick called out.

  Anaya turned her head back toward him but said nothing as the squeaky-wheeled gurney clicked and clanged out of the door and down the hallway. Nick bore witness to the panic in her eyes, the effect of which was worsened by the opaque plastic of the portable oxygen mask covering the lower half of her face.

  The short stocky Cedar Park detective initially assigned to the scene was more than happy to turn the investigation over to the combined investigative efforts of APD Homicide and the FBI.

  “Well that was a first for me,” Jones said, plopping heavily into a chair next to Nick.

  “Huh?” Nick said in a daze.

  “Turned over my gun. It feels weird. Like I did something wrong,” Jones said, looking down at the worn leather of his unbuttoned holster, most of which was hidden under his ample love handle.

  “You saved my life. And Anaya’s. You did nothing wrong,” Nick said, shifting his vacant stare from the tiled ground to his friend. The tangled bodies of Simmons and Spangler remained huddled in the center of the room, only twenty feet away.

  “I know. Just feels weird is all.”

  “I’d like to say I know what you’re feeling, but I’ve never—well not as a cop—pulled the trigger. Military—yes—but cop no,” Nick said.

  The two men sat in silence for several minutes.

  Jones chuckled softly to himself. Nick looked at him expectantly, waiting for the punch line.

  “I was just thinking,” Jones said, still snickering.

  “What could be so funny right now?” Nick asked.

  “After spending a little time with her on that stakeout, I thought maybe I’d get the nerve to ask her out,” Jones said.

  “Simmons?” Nick asked.

  “Yeah. I mean she was attractive and single. Best prospect I’ve had in quite some time,” Jones said.

  “You forgot the deranged serial killer part,” Nick said, cracking a slight smile at the thought.

  “Everybody’s got their faults.” Jones’s chuckle erupted into a hearty laugh. “I wish I had winged her. Then maybe I could’ve visited her in prison.”

  “There’s something seriously wrong with you my friend.” Nick gave Jones a slap on the back.

  “I wouldn’t be able to do this job if there wasn’t,” Jones said.

  Nick knew there was truth in that statement and nodded his agreement. Maybe I’m too far gone? Maybe I’m closer to Simmons than a guy like Jones? Nick thought, reflecting on Cheryl Simmons’s exposure of his other side.

  Anaya’s screams filled the room and Nick jumped up from his seat. A robotic voice followed, “What bends but does not break? What weeps but does not cry?” Then followed by the loud crack of a whip. Another scream from Anaya and then the soft murmurs of her voice, “Please no more. My baby.”

  It abruptly ended, leaving Nick in a tragic state of utter delirium. He looked at Jones searching his face. Hoping his friend heard it too. Hoping he wasn’t losing his mind.

  Cavanaugh boomed from the other side of the room, “Sorry, I found it in her pocket.”

  Pete Cavanaugh walked toward Nick and Jones holding a small black remote.

  “Looks like she had pre-recorded the events that took place in this room. It was set to play. So all she had to do was press this little button,” Cavanaugh said.

  “Jesus,” Nick said, still coming down from the massive adrenaline dump of hearing Anaya’s screams again.

  “How are you two boys holding up?” Cavanaugh asked.

  “Been better,” Jones said.

  “It was a clean shoot. Doesn’t get much cleaner than that. Listen, you’ll get a much-deserved two-week vacation while the paperwork gets sorted and then you’ll be right back at it,” Cavanaugh said.

  “How about you? I know that Spangler was a friend of yours,” Jones asked, looking up at the large Homicide detective.

  “I’ll deal. He was a good guy. A little odd, but a great guy. Did you know he collected PEZ dispensers? I guess that explained why he was still single,” Cavanaugh said, injecting his dark humor on the situation.

  “What else do you need from us?” Nick asked.

  “We’re about done with you guys for now. Luckily, I had some spare clothes in my trunk. Never know when I’m going to need a change out,” Cavanaugh said.

  Nick looked over at the brown paper evidence bags that held his blood-soaked clothing and then down at the oversized sweatshirt and jeans he was wearing. Over six feet tall with a muscular frame, Nick Lawrence would be considered big by most standards. But wearing Pete Cavanaugh’s attire, he looked like a little boy playing dress up in daddy’s clothes. The sight would have been almost comical if the setting wasn’t so dire.

  “I’ve got to go check on Anaya,” Nick said.

  “Get going. I’ll reach out if I need anything more from you,” Cavanaugh said, shaking Nick’s hand before returning to the center of the room with the other detectives.

  Nick paused, looking down at Jones who was absently rubbing his trigger finger. “I owe you my life.”

  Jones eyed his belly and chuckled. “You know how I’ll take payment.”

  “I don’t want to contribute to your early grave,” Nick said.

  “Well, then just find me a new girlfriend,” Jones said.

  Nick gave his friend a slap on his back and stepped to the threshold of the room. He stood next to the splintered frame of the door and glanced back at the two lifeless bodies, sprawled in the room’s center.

  Cheryl Simmons’s hair was now a matted mess from the .40 caliber hollow point round that ripped through her skull. The bright fiery tendrils now tainted a dark sanguine color, denoting her tragic end. He turned to leave and hoped that his secrets would remain behind and die in that room, never to catch up to him again.

  31

  The Emergency Room looked much like it did the night before. The world never seemed at a loss for tragedy. Each person’s grief unique but the same. He did not envy the work of these doctors and nurses.

  The receptionist, a kind-faced woman with wire rimmed glasses, kindly directed him to a seat in the waiting area. She’d told him that someone would be out to speak with him shortly. That was fifteen minutes ago and to Nick each passing second felt like hours.

  A short balding man of Indian descent wearing a white lab coat over blue scrubs waddled out from the secured area. He paused to survey the crowd. He looked down at the tablet in his hand.

  “Mr. Lawrence?”

  Nick gave a wave of his hand and crossed the distance to the man quickly, almost at a run.

  “Come with me,” the doctor said curtly.

  “How is she?” Nick asked desperately.

  “She’s in recovery.”

  “That’s not what I asked.” Nick made little effort to hide the intensity in his voice. His nerves were raw, and his anguish was exposed.

  “She’s going to be fine, Mr. Lawrence. No broken bones or long-term tissue damage,” the doctor said, reading the notes from the digital chart as he walked.

  “The baby?” Nick asked.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry? What do you mean sorry?” Nick reeled.

  “Mr. Lawrence, she lost the baby,” the doctor said.

  Nick stopped dead in his tracks. The hallway lights dimmed and brightened with each breath he took. He collapsed into the wall, sliding down into a heap on the glossy linoleum flooring. His stomach lurched, and he could barely suppress the urge to vomit.

  Nick curled his arms t
ightly around his bent knees and rocked rhythmically.

  The doctor’s hand shook his shoulder. The words slowly penetrated his grief barrier. “She needs you. Mr. Lawrence, Anaya is going to need you to be strong.”

  She needs me? She needed me, and I wasn’t there! She needed me, and I failed her! She needed me, and our baby is dead! Nick drowned himself in the despair of his thoughts.

  Nick’s mind screamed, but all that came out of his mouth was a mumbled, “You’re right.”

  As if in a hypnotic trance, Nick rose. His eyes focused past the doctor to the endless row of doors that aligned the hallway. His face, stoic and calm, was a total contradiction to its contorted expression moments before.

  “Lead the way,” Nick said.

  The doctor gave him a pitiful smile, turned and resumed his trek down the sterile confines of the hallway.

  She lay half asleep in a room not much different from the one she’d been in the night before. Anaya looked peaceful, almost happy, but Nick knew this was most likely the aftershock from a sedative the doctor had given her after delivering the devastating news.

  Their baby, never named, was now gone. The Ferryman’s final victim claimed.

  “Hey,” Nick said softly, gently alerting her to his presence.

  “Our baby’s gone,” Anaya whispered.

  A single tear ran the tender curvatures of her face.

  The knot in Nick’s stomach constricted. He leaned in, kissing her cheek. The saltiness of the teardrop did little to quell his pain. If anything it amplified it.

  A whimper gurgled up from his throat and he choked on the words. “I’m sorry.”

  Anaya said nothing. She turned her face away from his. Nick felt the icy dejection and understood. He failed her in a way that was unforgivable.

  He gave her space, taking a seat beside her bed. The cheaply made cushion sounded its noisy protest to the infliction of Nick’s weight.

  Anaya shifted her body away toward the drawn blinds of the window.