The Sullivan Gray Series Box Set

by H. P. Bayne

  “Yeah, he’s here. But that’s the thing right there, Braddock. He says he won’t talk to anyone but you.”

  “What? Why?”

  “How the hell should I know? He wouldn’t talk to patrol and all he said to me, in terms I won’t repeat in full, was that you were the only one he’d speak with. So, now I’m wondering. First Lachlan Fields, now this guy, and neither will deal with anyone but you.”

  “So you’re asking yourself how to replicate my obvious charm so people will talk to you too?”

  Forbes’s eyes narrowed. “What I’m asking myself is what you’ve got to do with all of this. After all, you’re the one who found Fields. And now this guy, this Brennan Wakeman. Something smells here, Braddock, and I think you know more than you’re letting on.”

  What smelled to Dez was the way Forbes had enunciated the word “found.” “If you’re suggesting I had anything to do with the attack on Lachlan, you can go to hell. And as far as this other guy, this Brennan Wakeman ….” Dez trailed off, his oral repeat of the name triggering something inside him, recognition of a memory he couldn’t quite put a finger on. Not yet, anyway.

  “What?”

  Dez thought fast, putting out a hand as if to steady himself. “Dizzy.”

  To Forbes’s credit, he guided Dez back to the bed despite his muttering the word, “Bullshit,” while en route.

  Dez hunched over, lowering his face into a hand as he sat there, head spinning around that name, trying to slot it into the correct place in his brain. It had been somewhere in the files he’d read back in Lachlan’s storage container, he was sure of that.

  He asked the question as much for himself as Forbes, hoping the spoken repetition would snap the puzzle piece into the overall picture. “Who’s Brennan Wakeman?”

  “It’s the ID matching to the fingerprints patrol used when he wouldn’t provide a name,” Forbes said. “Interesting thing is, he doesn’t have much of a record for violence—certainly nothing to suggest he’d be capable of the assaults on Fields or you. One common assault as a youth, but otherwise what he’s got of a record is all drug and property offences and breaches of court orders. After that, he pretty much disappears, for a whole decade in fact. Does the name mean anything to you?”

  That was a really good question. “Not off the top of my head, no. Maybe if I talk to him.”

  “So you can have something else you can hold back,” Forbes said. “I don’t know what’s going on here, Braddock, but I do know you’re obstructing this investigation. And when I put this together—and you can bet your ass I will—you can count on it that I won’t rest until you get what’s coming.”

  If Dez could only piece this together himself so he could see Sully alive and safe, he would gladly accept whatever sanctions Forbes or anyone else thought he’d earned. If all he had to do to find and save his brother was obstruct a police investigation, that was small potatoes. After all, should the situation force his hand, there was far worse he was willing to do.

  Forbes grudgingly led the way through the halls in the expansive ER until they were in the section furthest from the one where Dez had been—the distance not unusual given the recent violent exchange between Dez and Brennan. A hard-done-by young patrol officer sat on guard at the drawn curtain, looking plenty bored as he leaned back in his chair and checked his smartphone. When he saw the two men approaching, he jammed the device inside a pocket, cheeks reddening just enough to tell Dez unnecessary use of personal phones while on duty was still frowned upon.

  “Constable,” Forbes said, the word coming out more warning than greeting. “How’s the patient?”

  “All quiet, Sergeant. A nurse was just in to check on him a few minutes ago. She told me she gave him something to help him rest. He was pretty worked up.”

  Great, Dez thought. So much for getting any immediate answers out of Brennan Wakeman.

  Of course, there was a chance whatever sedative he’d been given hadn’t yet taken full effect or that it might leave him partially aware.

  “Mind if I pop in and take a look?” Dez asked.

  The patrol officer looked to Forbes for the all-clear.

  “He’s fine, Constable. Used to be one of us. Go take a break. I’ll keep an eye on our suspect here.”

  As the constable took advantage of his good fortune, Dez tried to ignore the way Forbes had leaned on the words “used to be,” turning what should have been a simple explanation to the departing officer into a jibe. Dez bit his tongue as he pulled the curtain aside and entered the enclosure.

  He recognized the guy from the apartment as he stood over him, the man looking no more alert than he had in the moments that followed his run-in with Pax. A heavy bandage had been wrapped around his wounded arm, but a spot of blood showed through the white. A blood pressure cuff encased the opposite arm while an oxygen mask covered his face.

  Dez placed a hand on the man’s uninjured shoulder, giving it a tentative squeeze. There was no response, so Dez pressed a little harder and followed up with a light shake.

  The man’s eyes eased open and he looked to be struggling to fix Dez in his shaky gaze.

  “You wanted to talk to me?” Dez said.

  A sound midway between a moan and a mumble sounded from behind the mask and Dez risked moving it aside for a moment, hoping the guy wasn’t too far gone to make some sense.

  “Wanna repeat that for me, buddy?” Dez asked.

  “Desmond Braddock?” The words were whispered, the last name ending in an outtake of breath.

  “Yeah, that’s me.”

  “Sully’s brother?”

  Dez stared at the man as one of many scattered pieces clicked into place. He leaned forward, close enough to whisper, close enough his words wouldn’t be heard by anyone besides the two of them. “Where is he?”

  “Don’t … don’t want him haunting me.”

  The words sent a chill through Dez, the possibility that the worst had already occurred making it next to impossible to keep himself from adding murder to his lifetime’s list of transgressions.

  His words, choked as they were with a threatening rage, were almost enough to make him fear himself. “Did you hurt him, you son of a bitch? Is he dead?”

  “Not dead yet.”

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean? Where is he?”

  “Sorry.” The word was a hissed sigh, providing no real reply and yet enough of an answer to get Dez’s heart pounding.

  “Sorry about what?”

  “Graveyard. Burying you. And Sully. Sorry.”

  The truth and the possibilities it stirred up hit Dez as hard as the baseball bat Brennan had wielded not so long ago.

  “Jesus Christ, no. Did you fucking bury him?”

  There was a slight headshake in response, but it wasn’t enough to satisfy Dez, not with so much at stake. It was damn near impossible to keep talking in a whisper, and Dez had to check himself and his mounting terror as he repeated his question in the hopes of a clearer reply.

  “Did you bury him? Answer me, damn it.”

  “No. Wouldn’t do that. Not to him.”

  The wave of relief was almost enough to knock Dez on his ass, but he kept his feet and his senses. The danger, after all, was far from over.

  “But you took him somewhere. Against his will.”

  The man managed a slight nod, up and down. Dez resisted the urge to add more bruises to Brennan’s throat. And suddenly, the bruises and the puncture wound made sense. Atta boy, Sull. “Where did you take him?”

  “Dark … dark ….” Brennan’s eyes were slipping shut, his words weak and breathy, as if it was taking everything he had to stick around and provide this single meaningless word.

  “Give me an address, Brennan, a location. Where did you take him?”

  “D … dark ….”

  Brennan’s eyes closed and remained that way, the final word a long exhale. Dez shook the shoulder again, but this time received no response.

  Replacing the oxygen mask
, Dez followed the rubberized line from the cuff to what he only now noticed to be a blank monitor. Granted, he didn’t know much about the world of medicine, but he had spent enough time in hospitals to know machines like that one should be making some sort of noise, should be revealing something on the screen.

  His eyes snapped back to Brennan, from his still face to his equally still chest. Realization hit hard as Dez snapped into action, calling for Forbes as he checked for a pulse at Brennan’s neck.

  “Get help,” Dez shouted as, finding no pulse, he began chest compressions. “I think his heart stopped.”

  As Forbes ran off, yelling loud enough to bring the entire hospital running, Dez pushed out a solid, rib-cracking rhythm on the man’s chest, fighting to save a life that might well be responsible for ending Sully’s.

  He puffed out commands to Brennan as he did what he could to save him, urging him to live as death closed in. He was so focused on his task he didn’t notice the appearance of medical staff until he was being yanked aside by Forbes and a pair of nurses intent on replacing Dez with a crash cart.

  “What the hell did you do?” Forbes asked, his horrified tone suggesting he was fixing either Brennan or Dez in a wide-eyed stare. “What the hell did you do?”

  Dez said nothing, attention rooted to the still body on that bed, remaining focused there until the curtain was drawn shut, blocking Brennan and the medical team from view.

  Dez and Forbes were sitting side by side in the ER hallway when they received the news neither, for his own reasons, wanted to hear.

  Brennan was dead.

  Neither man spoke, creating one of those shocked silences that felt immeasurable, the kind that didn’t seem to fit the confines of time. It could have been seconds, minutes or hours they remained there, staring down the hall to where Brennan’s lifeless body lay behind a curtain on an ER bed.

  “I need to call this in,” Forbes said.

  Dez wasn’t sure the words were meant for him, but responded anyway. “Yeah. You do.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Dez watched as Forbes fumbled in his pocket for his phone. But though he managed to locate it, Forbes made no immediate effort to dial, the hand holding the device dropping like a leaden weight into his lap.

  “What did you do, Braddock?”

  The reason for Forbes’s shock, his reluctance to call this in, swam into focus, chasing away all other thoughts for the moment. Forbes had allowed Dez to speak to a suspect, and now that suspect was dead. Forbes’s career would be in the toilet if it turned out he’d allowed it to happen, if Dez had—

  “Fucking hell, Raynor, you can’t think …. I didn’t do anything to him, you moron!”

  “So you didn’t …?” Raynor didn’t finish the question. Didn’t have to.

  “No! What the hell, man? Come on.”

  It proved enough to break the spell, to convince Raynor of the truth, because he was up and on his phone immediately, calling in the troops to begin the sudden death investigation.

  And Dez knew how this would go, knew he’d be stuck in some interview room, likely for hours, then would spend days as a potential suspect until they determined a cause of death that would exonerate him. There would have to be an autopsy, which might not take place until two or three days had passed. And there would be tests to determine whether Brennan had any pre-existing illnesses or chemicals in his body that could have caused death by non-homicidal means.

  More than likely, Dez would be questioned and released pending the outcome of that investigation. But it was impossible to say how long he would be questioned. And right now, given what Brennan had supplied in the moments before he drew his last breath, Dez knew time was not something he and Sully had on their side.

  Brennan had tried to warn him, to right a wrong. Of that much Dez was certain. But it didn’t leave Dez a whole lot closer to finding Sully, not unless he could find a way to retrace Brennan’s steps, and fast.

  And he couldn't do that from an interview room in police headquarters. Nor could he find a way to explain that final conversation between him and Brennan without revealing more than he was prepared to share.

  “Where the hell are you going?” Forbes called out as Dez started off down the hallway.

  “Bathroom,” Dez said.

  He turned the corner. Passed the bathroom.

  And kept going.

  26

  Dez thought about heading home and picking up Pax from Miss Crichton, a stop that would have the added benefit of allowing him to question her further on whatever it was she was concealing.

  But Forbes—and quite possibly others—would be looking for him now, and home was the first place they’d check.

  Instead, he went hunting for answers to his other pressing question. His path took him once more past the drive to Lockwood as he sped along the north bank of the Kimotan to the storage compound holding Lachlan’s secret stash of information.

  Thanks to last night’s work, Dez knew exactly where to find the necessary files, and he pulled them both out as he searched for a reference to Brennan Wakeman.

  He flipped through the file on Sully first and found his hunch had been correct, a small thrill of excitement thrumming through his chest as he located a photocopy of the police report on the fatal fire at the Blakes’. Brennan Wakeman had been the second foster child and had, like Sully, been questioned about his possible role. Unlike Sully, suspicion hadn’t fallen away from Brennan quite so fast, and he’d remained a suspect until police had received a complete and verifiable confession from Margaret Parsons, a troubled fifteen-year-old girl who’d endured abuse at the Blakes’ hands not long before. Brennan—fourteen years old and therefore chargeable under the law—had stayed in custody in the meantime and endured a handful of increasingly tense interviews.

  Notes from various police officers had been appended to the file, including those tasked with watching him in cells. On two occasions, a child psychologist had been called in to talk to the boy amid concerns he was approaching a mental breakdown. He’d been found huddled in the corner, knees drawn to his chest as his wide, terrified eyes focused intently on a blank section of wall. And, as the psychologist took her leave on the second occasion, Brennan had begged her not to “leave me alone in here with him.” There had been no one else in the cell at the time, and all thoughts turned to the likelihood the boy was slipping into a state of psychosis. They’d brought in the big guns. Dr. Roman Gerhardt was called in to speak to Brennan and administer something to settle the boy’s hallucinations.

  But Dez knew something they didn’t, had memories of similar reactions from another boy who could see things others couldn’t. Though Sully’s sightings had supposedly stopped for a time—while at Lockwood and in those handful of days that followed his escape—Dez knew there was no medication, no treatment in existence to stop hallucinations that were anything but.

  Dez’s mind flipped back to Brennan’s words to him in those moments before he’d taken his final breath: Don’t want him haunting me. It made sense now, that statement, although it did nothing to quiet Dez’s anxieties. A haunting required death and, while Brennan had been clear Sully was not dead yet, it was the “yet” that worried Dez. That “yet” left him focused with nausea-inducing intensity on questions about time and location. Snowballed into how he would cope, could he not answer those questions before they all melded into the one conclusion Dez couldn’t bear. Not again. Not so soon after getting Sully back.

  He’d been so close. So close to finding his brother. Brennan would have talked; Dez knew he had intended to. But it was too late, the darkness of his final words closing in before Dez could glean the information he’d needed.

  He resisted the frustrated urge to fling the files across the room, and instead pounded them down against the arm of the chair on which Eva had been perched not so long ago. What he’d give right now for just one more minute with Brennan.

  Instead, what he had was the silence of a storage container and files contai
ning everything but the answers he required.

  He pinched at the bridge of his nose, stemming the rise of desperate tears as he guided his rational brain through the storm of emotion. Though functional, it took longer than he cared to admit to think his way to a next step. He would have to take a page out of Lachlan’s book, piece together what he could find of Brennan’s life, hoping there would be some clue in that history leading to Sully’s location. The question was where to start, given he didn’t know the first thing about the man and no longer, as a fired cop, had information at his fingertips.

  He opted for a social media search, and was tapping Brennan’s name into his internet browser’s search bar when his phone rang, obscuring the web search page with the call display showing Miss Crichton’s name.

  “Hi, Emily.”

  “I called in to check on you and was told you had been discharged. Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, more or less. Couple cracked ribs, but nothing awful, all things considered. Brennan’s dead, by the way.”

  “Brennan?”

  “Right, sorry. The guy who attacked me. His name was Brennan Wakeman.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Dez smiled into his phone. “You don’t sound sorry.”

  But Miss Crichton wasn’t in the mood, it seemed, for idle chat, an event Dez wasn’t sure he’d ever witnessed. “Desmond, I need to speak with you. Immediately.”

  It occurred to him the police might have got to Miss Crichton, might have directed her to call and arrange a meeting so they could be there and pull him in for questioning. If Dez had felt himself pressed earlier, he’d now come to a point in which extra time was non-existent.

  “I’d like to, but there’s something really important I’m in the middle of,” he said.

  “This is very important too. Please, I really must speak with you. It’s about Lucienne.”

  At this moment, with sand passing rapidly through the hourglass, only a handful of magic words could stop time.

  She’d just spoken one of them.