Permission: The Perversion Trilogy, Book Three

by Frazier, T. M.

  No amount of physical pain can compare to how I’m already hurting.

  She digs the scalpel into my leg, and I use the pain to focus on my plan, but what comes to me are three words on repetition. I recite them over and over again as she digs around and slices into my flesh.

  Rage.

  Revenge.

  Redemption.

  “There you are,” Chief David drawls, as he steps into the curtained off area and closes it behind him. “What the fuck is going on that has Marci, you, and Marco’s sister, all taking up valuable space in my hospital?”

  “You know I prefer house calls, but Gabby and Marci needed more, and well, I was already here. I didn’t think you wanted any more of my blood on your floors.”

  The Chief stands at the food of the stretcher. “How thoughtful of you, Grim. Appreciate you lookin’ out for the tribe.”

  The nurse stands up, examining her work, making sure the bandage is secure. She takes off her gloves and tosses them into a red biohazard bin. She acknowledges the Chief with a hand to her heart before turning back to me. “You’re all set. I’d offer you some pain killers, but…”

  “I’m good,” I say, waving her off. “Thank you.” I take out my wallet and shove several hundred-dollar bills into her hand.

  “No, you don’t need to,” she says, trying to hand it back.

  “Take it,” Chief David tells her. “And thank you.”

  She folds up the bills and shoves them into the pocket of her scrubs. “Keep it clean. Change the bandages every six hours. You might be a little light headed from the blood loss. Drink something sugary as soon as you can.” With a clipped nod to me and another hand over her heart to the Chief, she’s gone.

  I sit up, and grimace. The pain from my wound stings, but it’s manageable. The Chief hands me my shoes. I fill him in on everything that’s led me to being patched up in his hospital while I lace up.

  “I guess now is a bad time to tell you that Alby’s been spotted in town. Or maybe, it’s not a bad thing. How did your meeting with him go? You sort your shit out with the Irish?”

  I shake my head. “They never showed.”

  “A no-show with the Irish is as good as a bullet with your name on it,” the Chief says.

  I give him a hard stare. “I know that. If they didn’t show for the meeting and give me time to explain myself, it means they’ve already drawn their own conclusions.” I reach for my jacket on the side table. I stand and shrug it on. “There’s something else I have to tell you. Marco. I’m sure he thinks that Emma Jean is a member of the tribe. More specifically, your daughter.”

  “What the fuck?” The Chief blurts, taking a step back as if I shoved him.

  “Just think for a minute. Is there any way that Camilla had the baby? Even if it seems far-fetched, is there any possibility, at all?”

  The Chief thinks for a moment, closing his eyes. “She disappeared without a trace. I suppose it’s possible she had the baby and survived for a time, but there’s no way Fernando didn’t eventually catch up to her. She would’ve found a way to get word to me if she were still alive. I’m as sure of it as I am sure I’m standing here talking to you.”

  “Emma Jean could be yours, then. If Camilla had the baby and hid her away somewhere before Fernando got to her.”

  “It’s…I guess it’s possible,” the Chief says. “Are you saying you think Marco wanted her tribal benefits?”

  “And to have an in with the tribe so he can take over Bedlam’s business here. It would explain why he’s so adamant on his vendetta against us, besides his obsession with Tricks.”

  “Well, they’d have to be married,” He laughs, although he stops when he sees the angry expression on my face and my jaw, which is clenched so tight I might break my own damn teeth. His laughter is replaced with worry. “She didn’t marry—”

  I cut him off. “Not willingly, but Marco gathered witnesses. The ceremony was done. I don’t think her signature ever made it to the license, at least, not entirely, but I wouldn’t put it past Marco to forge it so he can get his hands on her tribal benefits.”

  “Fuck. Desperate, isn’t he? But she would contest it, surely, and say she didn’t enter the marriage freely. The tribe may consider marriage unbreakable, but only one that is true. This plan of his, it wouldn’t work.” He lowers his voice to a grumble.

  “It would if she wasn’t alive to contest it.” The words make me feel sick.

  “No, there’s another reason why that wouldn’t work, but that’s not important right now. Let’s just say it would work. If Marco wanted to collect Emma Jean’s benefits, he’d have to send in the marriage license with her blood test. If not, and he submitted separately, or at a later date, then he wouldn’t be eligible to receive her benefits at the time of her death.” The Chief scratches his jaw. “I’ll call the office and ask them to keep an eye on all recent submissions. If he’s sent it in, or when he sends it in, you’ll know your theory is correct, and more importantly, we’ll have her blood on file to test against mine, but you might want to give me something of hers just in case, so we don’t waste time and I can find out for sure if your girl is my blood.”

  “Like what?”

  “Hair. A nail file. Shit, even her toothbrush will work. The lab on the reservation is state of the art. Top of the line everything. The tribe has spent a lot of money on the lab to ensure that a lot more doesn’t end up in the greedy hands of outsiders. We gotta make sure those claims of heritage are real.”

  “Outsiders like me?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

  “Nah, I tested you a long time ago. Was kind of hoping you were of tribal blood. Half the time, I feel like you’re the bastard son I never wanted.”

  I laugh. “Is that a compliment?”

  He shrugs. “If you want it to be.”

  “Out of curiosity, how often do applicants ever test positive for being a tribe member?” I ask, adjusting my jeans. Thankfully, since the nurse sliced them open, the fabric doesn’t rub against my wound. I shove my feet into my bloody sneakers.

  “A lot less often than you’d think. Rollo was the last one and that was several months ago.”

  “Rollo?” I ask. “As in Rollo, one of my men?” I ask, wondering how I didn’t know this.

  “One in the same.” He says. “He put in the test, but never the application for benefits. I asked him why once, he just shrugged and walked away.”

  The situation with Rollo is odd at best. I wonder why he never told me about bring a member of the tribe. It’s definitely something I remind myself to ask him at a later time, but right now I’ve got other shit that needs to be handled.

  “Walk with me to the brothel. I’ll get you something of hers to test,” I say.

  “Then, what?” The Chief asks, walking beside me.

  “Then, I’ve gotta get with Lemming and see what I can do about getting Emma Jean free.”

  “What charge is he holding her on?”

  “Not sure, bullets started flying, so I couldn’t make out his words. Whatever it is doesn’t matter, I’ve got to get her out. If she goes to County, Marco can get to her in there. She won’t be safe.”

  The Chief’s forehead wrinkles. “Not so fast there, son. You’re juggling a lot of moving parts in those tattooed hands of yours. The task force will take you in the second you leave this reservation if Marco or Callum don’t take you down first. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but blood has been spilled all over Lacking in the past twenty-four hours. Margaret is ducking bullets seven ways ‘till Sunday. The war has begun, and you, my friend, are at the center of it all. You need a plan, and a good one before you head out into the wild west our streets have become.”

  I pause and think, rubbing my temples. “What I need is a good reason why no one will be looking for me, at least not for a while.”

  The Chief grins and claps me on the shoulder. His eyes brighten.

  “What?” I ask.

  “We have an old saying in the tribe.” He leads me
out the back door of the hospital and walks with me as I limp across the field toward the security buildings that house the Bedlam war room. He stops when we reach the building to face me, sparking an idea in my mind that leads to an all-out blaze.

  “The living don’t look for the dead.”

  Three

  Emma Jean

  Drip. Drop. Drip. Drip. Drop.

  The leaking bathroom faucet is the only sound in this otherwise silent room. I expected Lemming to bring me to the police station, but much to my surprise, I’ve been sequestered in the back bedroom of a house. The task force standing guard at both the door and outside the window.

  I pace the room as I worry about Grim and Gabby. When the pacing doesn’t help, I busy myself by exploring my surroundings.

  It’s a big room with its own bathroom. The master I suppose. It’s clean and compared to what I’m used to, downright luxurious. There’s a fully-stocked bookcase lining one of the long walls and a flat screen TV above the dresser. The bathroom has a large, soaking tub separate from the shower. Lining a shelf above the toilet are new travel-sized everything. Soaps, hair products. There’s even a clear makeup bag filled to the brim with never-used eyeshadows, mascaras, and items I don’t even know what they are for. There’s a blow dryer hanging from the wall, and below it, rows and rows of lotions of all sort. Perched on the corner of the tub is a stack of folded fluffy white towels. The massive bed is covered in more throw pillows than I’ve ever seen. The comforter is covered with girls’ clothes in various sizes with tags still attached. Sundresses, jeans, shorts, and even some vintage-looking band t-shirts. Next to the bed is a row of shoes. Three pairs of sneakers. Three pairs of sandals. Three pairs of flip-flops. Three pairs of boots. All the same, just different sizes.

  It’s been at least an hour. Still no Lemming. No explanation of why I’m here. I’m covered in dust and dirt, and my bones ache as exhaustion takes hold.

  I sit and then stand, then sit again. Growing more and more frustrated as the minutes tick on. I stand and head into the bathroom. I might as well take advantage of the room while I wait. I occupy my time by taking a long, steaming hot bath that soothes my aches. I shave. Wash my hair. After I dry off, I try a lotion that smells like cucumber, slathering it all over my legs and arms.

  I wrap my head and body in the fluffy towels and go back into the bedroom. I choose a pair of yoga pants and one of the vintage band t-shirts. I dress and lay down on the bed. I’m picturing strong, tattooed arms and black roses as exhaustion takes hold and I drift off to sleep.

  I’m not sure how long I’ve slept, but I wake to Agent Lemming pacing the room at the foot of the bed.

  “It’s about time you showed up,” I say groggily, sitting up against the pillows and rubbing my eyes. I’m just about to ask him about Grim and Gabby, but I don’t get the chance.

  Agent Lemming stops pacing. His eyes are wide, and his expression is that of shock. “He’s dead. They’re all fucking dead,” he whispers, like he can’t believe it himself.

  “Who?” I ask, dread climbing from my gut to my throat. I swallow it back down. I’m instantly awake. I jump to my feet. “Who is dead?”

  His eyes meet mine. “All of them. Grim, Sandy, Haze. They’re all fucking dead.”

  Four

  Emma Jean

  “Why are we here?” I ask Agent Lemming.

  “Protocol,” he says, looking up to a camera perched above the door next to a sign that simply reads MORGUE. “Someone has to identify the bodies. Marci is at the reservation hospital. She’s going to be okay, but she’s still unconscious.

  Marci. My own grief spreads to her.

  She’s lost everyone. Her husband. Her sons.

  “I think I’m going to be sick.” I grab my midsection where my gut feels like it’s swallowed my heart and is now rotting inside.

  “We’ll make this quick,” he assures me.

  “I don’t want to go in there,” I say, taking a step back. I shake my head. “This can’t be real.”

  He sighs. “We won’t know if it’s real until we go in.”

  Lemming pushes open the door and guides me inside with a hand on my back.

  Three bodies wrapped in black plastic body bags lay side-by-side on stainless steel beds. The bags lay unzipped just enough to reveal the frozen faces inside. The morgue smells not of death, but of whatever chemicals they use to disguise death. A combination of vinegar and disinfectant that singes my nostrils.

  Lemming looks to the ceiling again, scanning it briefly. He clears his throat and stands straight with his shoulders back. “Do you know these men?” He positions himself behind their heads and in front of a massive, body-sized filing cabinet.

  It’s a stupid question. He knows that I know them, but it must be part of his protocol.

  I stare at the three men and take a step back. Not because I don't know them. Of course, I do. But it's as if I've been tossed into a fire, and I’m burning up from the inside out.

  “It’s okay. They can’t hurt you. Not anymore,” Lemming says, not realizing that he's got it all wrong. But correcting him is the last thing on my mind. He motions with his hand for me to come closer.

  I steel myself and take one step and then another, propelled only by my need to get this hellish nightmare over with. Any second now, I’ll wake up. I’m sure of it.

  I approach the first table. My knees buckle. Agent Lemming rounds the bodies and holds me upright with his hand under my elbow. “Do you know these men?”

  “Yes. It’s...it's them,” I say, choking on my words.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m going to need you to say their names out loud for the record,” Agent Lemming says apologetically. He’s a prick, but at this moment, I really do believe he feels sorry for me.

  I look from frozen face to frozen face, willing them to wake up.

  “Names,” Lemming prompts.

  I raise one shaky finger and point to the first body. “That’s Sandy,” I whisper. My eyes would well up with tears if I had any left to cry. I move my hand over to the body on the other end. “I know him as Haze.” My heart pounds as I shake loose of Agent Lemming’s hold and find myself standing over the body in the middle. He looks peaceful, as if he’s sleeping. All the hard lines of anger and hurt typically marring his forehead and around his eyes are gone. His usually tanned skin is now a vampiric shade of harsh white. My stomach rolls.

  “And this one?” the agent asks, coming to stand beside me.

  My heart falls into my stomach, and again, he has to hold me upright. I can’t stop myself from reaching out to the body, smoothing back his light brown hair that looks almost orange under the harsh fluorescents. The zap of our connection is still there, even in death. I hold one hand over my mouth, afraid that if I release one sob the floodgates will open to a lifetime of despair I won’t be able to control.

  “How?” I manage to ask.

  “Not sure yet. The coroner hasn’t finished his report.” Lemming points to the last body, the one I’ve yet to identify. “And him?”

  My bare thighs press up against the cool metal of the table. It vibrates against me, but it’s not the table that's trembling. It's me. “That’s...I mean he’s...” I start. “This is Grim. Tristan Paine," I croak. I bend over and lower my lips to Grim’s cold ear. I press my palm to his unmoving throat. My voice is a mere whisper he can no longer hear. “My honor. My loyalty. My love. My life. For you. For us.” A tear falls from my chin and lands on his eyelid, spilling down his face as if he’s the one who’s crying. I wipe the tear with my thumb and press my lips to his. “For always.”

  Down the hall, someone is singing softly. The tune is all too familiar.

  I stand and listen closely to make sure I’m hearing right. I am.

  Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral

  Too-ra-loo-ra-li

  Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral

  Hush now, don't you cry

  Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral

  Too-ra-loo-ra-li

  Too-ra-loo-ra-l
oo-ral

  The song grows louder. Closer.

  An odd awareness crawls up the back of my legs like a hundred tiny spiders. My entire body is chilled, and not because I’m standing in a freezer meant for the dead.

  Both Agent Lemming and I turn toward the sound. The top of a man’s head appears through the high square window in the door.

  Agent Lemming doesn’t appear as alarmed as I do that there’s a mysterious man on the other side of the door. Then again, he isn’t hearing a life-long familiar tune outside of his own head for the very first time. The door swings open and in walks a man wearing a neatly pressed black suit with a white button-down shirt. No tie. He lifts the flat cap from his head and steps into the room. He’s wrinkled around his eyes and his jaw rough with stubble. His teeth are slightly crooked in the front, but it doesn’t stop him from grinning wide at Agent Lemming.

  All thoughts of the familiarity of the song fades. I don’t know this man, but Agent Lemming apparently does.

  “Cameras are disabled,” the man informs Lemming.

  “Good.” Agent Lemming wraps the man in a one-armed hug. “Alby, good to see ya. ‘Bout time you be gettin’ here. You get stuck in the jacks?” For some reason, Agent Lemming no longer sounds like a man from the South. He has a thick accent. One I haven’t heard him use up until now.

  “You got that fecking song in my head, again,” Alby groans with a broad smile and the same thick accent.

  “It’s always in mine, Alby. You might get used to it.”

  It hits me. The accent, it’s…Irish.

  Shit. I check for the nearest exit, but they are standing in front of the only door. I could make a run for it. It might be my only chance of escape.

  “Jaysis, this whole thing went arseways for Bedlam, didn’t it?” Alby muses with a whistle, taking in the corpses of Grim, Sandy, and Haze.

  “For them yes. For us? We got what we came for.” Lemming steps aside.

  Alby’s gaze lands on me. “Ye found her,” he whispers, unblinking.