A Mended Man (The Men of Halfway House Book 4)

by Jaime Reese

  Ty smiled. "Give him your skeleton key, then let him open that door and see just how fucking awesome my big brother is."

  Aidan pulled up to the crime scene and found a spot on the side road to park. He hated this shit. He looked out his front windshield. A standard issue, plain one-story house in a residential area that seemed to have been constructed sometime in the early 1970s. "I really wish Reyes would have taken this one," he grumbled.

  His partner released her seat belt. "Me too. But if he were here, the others from his department would think he's poaching. We're only here to confirm it ties to the Miller serial case."

  Aidan sighed and turned off the engine.

  The team had a general plan when it came to new case reviews. If the case potentially linked to a file on the task force list of assignments, the team went out to the crime scene to assess the possible connection. To avoid overstepping within their own departments, Aidan and Sunny couldn't touch the initial site visit of a homicide, Travis couldn't evaluate an organized crime case, and Reyes couldn't assess special victims. So they'd mix up the assessments to determine if the case merited a transfer over to the task force.

  Which meant, Sunny, with her issues, and Aidan, with his potpourri of emotional baggage, were stuck reviewing this special victim crime scene. At least, with homicide cases, they had found a way to desensitize themselves to the human suffering side of things by focusing on a body and evidence to formulate their own theories at a controlled pace rather than rely on the rush of vivid, mental, heartbreaking images from the personal retelling of a traumatized victim.

  "Let's split up so we can cover more ground and get the hell out of here," Sunny said, pulling the badge from her inside pocket.

  "Sounds like a plan," he said.

  They exited the vehicle and walked toward the old house, clipping their badges on their waist and slipping under the police tape blocking off the scene. They each grabbed a pair of gloves and split up. Sunny assessed the exterior and he inspected the interior. No one asked why two detectives from homicide were present at a non-homicide scene, further justifying the swap of the initial assessment.

  He entered the living room and a sense of dread immediately suffocated him. The deep red and black painted walls added to the overall sinister darkness of the house, and the worn, rusted fixtures appeared as if they hadn't been used in years. The low ceiling height, which he could easily reach with the tip of his finger if he stood on his tiptoes, made the older construction even more obvious. The room, although small in size, appeared larger with the absence of furniture. He stepped over the extension cord of the large light perched on a tripod, most likely placed there by detectives to illuminate the otherwise dark space. He walked through the neighboring room and entered the cramped kitchen and what appeared to be a connected dining room. He momentarily brought up his wrist to his nose, hoping to block some of the musty smell in the air. Obvious mold resided somewhere, either in the dark and dingy carpet or the water seeping through parts of the ceiling and leaking on several spots in the flooring.

  The only pieces of furniture in this area were an old piece of wood—probably the dining room table—and a single matching chair. Deep grooves sliced into the stained dark red oak wooden legs of the furniture enough to reveal the lighter, raw wood beneath the scratched surface. He looked over to the side, toward the kitchen. A stack of dirty dishes filled the sink and spilled over onto the countertop, pooling with remnant, rotting food and fluids.

  He took a shallow breath and slowly exhaled, trying to ease the sudden tension coursing through his body.

  Something tugged at his consciousness, alerting him of danger.

  Dr. Engel's voice echoed in his mind. Ground yourself to the present. He never ignored his instincts. He withdrew the earbuds from his pocket and fished them up under his collar to make them less visible before pushing them into his ears and switching on the classical music. Beethoven, Mozart they all worked equally well. The steady, somber sound of a piano seemed to be the strongest tether to reality for him.

  He slowly took each step along the perimeter of the wall then down the short hallway, observing the techs and detectives as they worked in each room, reveling in the absence of the sound stimuli from the quiet chatter that would linger at a scene. He'd occasionally nod or give a chin-up gesture in greeting when his focus landed on a questioning gaze. He looked around, observing the placement of objects and the spattering of blood against the wall as he walked.

  He passed a pair of detectives in the hallway on his way to the room with the most foot traffic and the forensics camera flashing. He entered the room and again sensed that odd tug of his consciousness, alerting him to a memory trying to take center stage. He closed his eyes for a moment and channeled his focus on the haunting vocals accompanying Schubert's "Ellens dritter Gesang" whispering in his ear. The music not only grounded him to the present but also brought a new and very welcomed visual to the forefront of his mind—Jessie cuddled up in his arms on the couch with his never-ending smile.

  He took a centering breath and walked along the edge of the rectangular room, slowly scanning the crime scene in sync with the somber vocals. The painted wall shared the same black and red color scheme as the rest of the house, and the dark, dingy, disgusting stained carpet covered the floors in what looked like—based on the other rooms in the house—possibly the master bedroom. Another portable, police-issued light fixture in the corner provided enough light to illuminate the central focus on the crime scene. He didn't need to have stellar detective skills or be psychic to sense the evil in the room. It screamed torture chamber from every square inch of the space.

  A piece of old, weather-worn plywood, nailed from the inside, covered the one small window. A series of steel eye bolts in various sizes were screwed into the wall, equally spaced as if intended to follow the stud pattern of the wall's interior for greater support. He inhaled sharply when he spotted the thick, sturdy rope threaded through the last bolt in the corner, hanging loosely as if a natural wall accessory to the room.

  Aidan retreated to the corner, away from the investigators processing the scene. He glanced at the only piece of furniture in the room—a single, long, narrow old table with a series of objects neatly organized on the surface of the distressed wood. He visually inspected each item from a distance, cataloguing them in his mind and comparing their relevance to the team's existing cases. Off the edge of the rough wood hung a small slip of black fabric that suddenly seemed larger than the room itself.

  A blindfold.

  Time suddenly warped, throwing him back into a period he had hoped to block out. He screwed his eyes shut as the images flashed before him.

  The blindfold, tied tightly around his eyes, depriving him of the sunlight. Except for those rare moments when they'd rip the strip of material away and the sun would shoot a bolt of bright fire to his brain.

  He forced himself to open his eyes as Beethoven struck angry piano keys in his ear, mirroring his temper and frustration at not being able to control the flashback's effect on him. Each angry strike of the ivory key cemented his connection to the here and now.

  The sound. Focus on the sound. This is not real. This is not happening now. Listen to the music. Focus on a visual. Something real. Something important.

  He took a deep breath, screw the musty smell in the air. He closed his eyes and a sudden peace seemed to flow through his body with the welcomed thoughts of Jessie filling his mind—his smile, the soft strands of dark hair brushing against his lips as he held him at night. The vision coated his muscles with renewed strength and determination to continue. He opened his eyes and exhaled slowly.

  The semi-flashback lingered, mixing reality with the memory, yet didn't seem to take full control of his being. He focused on the narrow wooden table and the objects in this room. Superimposed and slightly blurred over the table was a ghost of a room with a similar worn piece of furniture and a different set of items scattered on its surface. His gaze trailed up the
wall, and the faint image of a primitive pulley system in a stone ceiling, of ropes and braided fabrics running through a makeshift hook, flickered like a weakened television signal coming in and out of focus.

  This is not real. This house is not made of stone and mud.

  He took a deep breath to steady himself. He could do this. He could filter out the visual noise he was all too familiar with, knowing exactly which elements were there to taunt him.

  Focus. You can fucking do this.

  The image flickered again then dissolved, leaving him only with a piano sonata playing in his ear and the now sharp, high-definition scene before him. He took a few more calming breaths and slowly approached the narrow wooden table for a closer inspection.

  He zeroed in on the objects—knives in various shapes and sizes. He took a step closer as if pulled to the table by an invisible rope and saw the kukri blade and the blood-smeared tanto knife. His attention sharply focused on the last, oddly shaped man-made weapon. "Fuck," he whispered on an exhale as the mental pieces connected, linking this case to another.

  The flash of the forensics camera momentarily blinded him, weakening his guard against the flashback tugging at his consciousness. His lungs froze with a sharp inhale. Another flash. A large shadow cast against the wall of the detective holding the blindfold up in the air hurled him into another memory.

  The blindfold was yanked from around his eyes. He quickly turned to look over his shoulder, and through the blindness of the bright sun, an outlined silhouette of a man haloed by the light, hovered over him like an angel of death holding a braided object, raised in the air ready to strike. The figure yelled a single word, before the object crashed down on his back.

  The man's yell faded behind the piano sonata in his ear.

  He swallowed heavily, fisting his hands and steeling himself. This isn't real.

  The haloed figure from the flickering image vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

  Focus.

  He took a deep breath and straightened. Sunny entered the room from the side door and visually circled the scene before walking over to him. He casually pulled the earbuds out and returned them to the inside pocket of his sport coat.

  She crossed her arms and rubbed her biceps. "There's a weird vibe in here. It's creepy as hell."

  Aidan couldn't have agreed more.

  "This isn't like the Miller case," she whispered.

  "No, it's not. But look at the table. What do you see?" He glanced around the room, trying to keep their conversation from prying ears. Sunny hated it when he spoon-fed her information she could deduce on her own.

  "What am I supposed to see?"

  He waited. Sunny's detective skills were spot on. Her focus was intense and he could imagine her processing each item with careful detail. C'mon. It's right there.

  He had always had an uncanny ability to disconnect from the traditional frame of thinking and connect pieces of a puzzle together. He never suffered from that out-of-place sense of disconnect people experienced from seeing the checkout person from the local grocery store in a different state and out of uniform, where it was easy to recognize the face, but placing the where was sometimes a little tricky. Aidan had a gift of remembering details and fluidly making connections from different places and times. It was seamless, effortless. He had an infinite stream of details, faces, places, and events. He had a memory bank of pieces he could easily assemble into coherent elements of a single puzzle. It was the only way he could explain how quickly he read between the lines or saw things others missed. And it was that same damn mental gift that caused his flashbacks to be so exhaustingly vivid at times.

  "I don't see it." Sunny scowled and crossed her arms, not shifting her focus from the table.

  "Look at the knives. And stop trying to frame your conclusions based on the Miller case."

  Her scowl deepened as if she could focus her thoughts more intensely with her eyes. Moments later, the scowl slid off her face and her gaze snapped back to him.

  "What do you see?" he asked.

  "The last blade. It has the same odd curve shape of the Butterfly Killer's victims."

  "Yes." He hated that fucking nickname and cursed the day he spotted the small inked insect as the case link.

  A slow, wicked grin spread across Sunny's face. "Reyes is going to be super pissed he wasn't here."

  "Yes," he said, fighting the smile that tugged at his lips.

  Sunny's eyes rounded. "You know what this means."

  Aidan nodded. "It means we finally have a lead if she's got that butterfly tattoo. We need to secure her at the hospital before the son of a bitch figures out she's escaped from this hell."

  She pulled her cell phone from her pocket and started pressing keys. "I'm texting Wall to meet us there. Now, let's get the hell out of this place. It's totally creeping me out."

  His sentiments exactly.

  * * * *

  Aidan walked through the doorway and locked the door behind him, quieting the buzz of the alarm system. He closed his eyes and inhaled the delicious scent of dinner wafting in the air.

  "Hey there!" Jessie called out from the kitchen.

  He needed this, needed Jessie and this bubble of safety that surrounded them here. He wanted to surrender, to rewind time and forget everything that happened in the last few hours, to give in and take Jessie in his arms, carry him away and make love to him the entire night. Hell, the entire weekend. Maybe the whole fucking week if he could manage to wipe his mind of all the damn memories that stopped him. But he couldn't. His heart and body wanted one thing, but his mind stopped him every time.

  And today, his mind had taken extra effort to remind him exactly why he couldn't take that next step.

  He set the alarm system and dropped his keys and wallet on the table. He screwed his eyes shut and roughly rubbed his forehead, finally raking his fingers through his hair. He needed to wrap the day up with some semblance of his sanity still intact. He needed a shower. And sleep. No, maybe not sleep. He didn't want to risk crashing so hard a nightmare would sneak up on him. Not today. He couldn't handle it after the day from hell. The crime scene had hinted at what to expect, but nothing could have prepared him for the interview with the victim that nearly broke him. It had taken every ounce of energy in his now zapped body to stand steady and strong with his fellow task force members in the room. Maybe the weekend off would give him enough time to rebuild his armor before starting over on Monday.

  "I made…" Jessie trailed off once he walked out of the kitchen and into the living room, barefoot and shirtless, wearing his dark blue jeans. He immediately walked over to Aidan and reached out, placing his hand against Aidan's cheek.

  Aidan released a shaky breath with the contact. Jessie's magical touch always settled the storm brewing within. He leaned into the caress, letting Jessie stroke his cheek, needing the tether of strength he always offered.

  Jessie waited, a never-ending fountain of patience with him. "Dinner should be ready in a few minutes," he softly said, still stroking Aidan's cheek. "You have time for a quick shower." He reached up on his tiptoes and brushed his lips against Aidan's.

  Aidan nodded and reluctantly pulled away from the touch. He willed his boots to move, one step, then the other. He managed to remove his jacket along the way and shed the rest of his clothes. How? He had no clue. He robotically switched on the water in the shower and stepped in when the steam began to rise. He closed his eyes and turned his face up toward the hot spray and let the water sluice down his body, hoping the remnants of the day would wash away and escape down the drain.

  Snippets of the victim's interview from the hospital circled his mind. Her retelling of how he'd used the knives and everything he had done to her.

  How he'd beat her.

  Like me.

  How he'd tied her up and blindfolded her.

  Like me.

  How he'd tied her to the hooks in the wall as he'd beat her, cut her, and found other ways to torture her.

&nbs
p; Like me.

  The memories, too vivid and her retelling much too similar for him to mentally block. Seeing her on the bed, bandaged, bruised, and swollen.

  A reminder of Jessie after the attack.

  A reminder of himself after another torture session.

  All his effort and strength had gone to steeling himself, to ensure he appeared unaffected to his team. He had stood like a stone figure in the corner of the room without moving a single inch during the two-hour interview, performing an award-winning impersonation of Wall. He couldn't risk crumbling in front of his team.

  No way would he show any form of weakness.

  The interview had awakened far too many visions and taken too much strength to sustain his guard. He had barely escaped the hospital room before he began to crumble, unable to fight the demons in his head who sought vengeance, lashing out at him with repeated memories in quick succession. The yelling loud and the pictures vivid. He grabbed the lemon soap and lathered up the washcloth. He shoved his nose into the now lemon-scented material, hoping to replace the lingering smell of copper from a memory filling his senses. He rested his forearm against the shower tile wall, scarcely able to keep himself upright. The yelling voices echoed in his mind, all six of his captors screaming in unison. He barely had a chance to catch his breath when a phantom strike made contact with his back, throwing off his balance, forcing him to plant his palms against the tile to avoid falling to the floor. One strike, then another, and another. He gnashed his teeth, holding back the pain, his mind warring with the present and the past. The memory vivid, the smell in the air dank as if he were in that same room from years ago and the pain as sharp and as piercing now as it had been back then.

  Is this real?

  His body arched with another memory. This one more haunting than the others. He screwed his eyes shut and clawed at the tile wall, fighting the soreness of the rare, but most memorable torture they dispensed in the end when he tried to escape. He held back a growl of protest, tensing at the unbearable agony and searing burn of the phantom plunge of the truncheon-like object into his unprepared body. He shook his head vehemently as each breath sawed in and out of his lungs, trying and failing to fight the fire inside his body.