by Jordan Dane
Apparently, this rule was subject to interpretation by Vinnie Buck. The man stood at the entryway to the dining room staring expectantly at him, waiting for a gesture for him to enter. Glaring at his number two man, he continued with his meal, disregarding the rude intrusion.
Quietly, Logan chewed every morsel, ignoring the bastard. Only the sound of utensils scraping the plate filled the small room, punctuated by Logan's contentment at his full stomach. He sighed and wiped the corners of his mouth with a linen napkin. Still, Vinnie waited.
"This better be important, Vin." His tone was soft and even, yet clearly filled with contempt. "You've disturbed my meal."
"I'm sorry, Logan," he muttered, stepping into the room with his head lowered. "It's just that I thought you'd want to know."
Silence. The idiot expected his prompting.
"Know what, Vinnie?" His voice seethed. Fear showed in Vin's eyes, making them bug out of his head like a macabre carnival doll.
"I accompanied a team to follow both cops, like you ordered." The man squirmed, making Logan suspect he'd fucked something up. Such a simple assignment. Leave it to this asshole to mess it up.
The man's lower lip trembled as he continued, "The team I was on got the job done. We followed the Mexican cop home after the press conference. We know where he lives. But team two waited for Detective Mackenzie outside the police station for over an hour. They must've missed her."
"It was your assignment, Vinnie. There is no such thing as 'they missed her.' The failure is clearly yours." Logan stood and tossed the napkin to the table, keeping his eyes on Buck. Without looking down, his left hand found the serrated steak knife. By the look in Vin's eyes, he saw the move, too. "Say it. You lost her, right, Vinnie?"
He inched closer and clutched the knife. Before the man stammered his excuses, Logan quickly closed the gap between them. He launched a powerful backhand across the face of the repulsive sycophant. He dropped the man to the floor and knelt on his chest, stifling his breath. Shifting his weight, he dug his knee into fleshy ribs and yanked at the man's hair. Vin yelped.
"You know how I feel about failure, Vinnie. It's simply not an option."
The blade became an extension of his threat. He slid the blade tip through the skin of Buck's cheek, leaving a white line. Blanched skin soon filled with blood.
"Now, how are we going to rectify the situation?"
"Please, Logan. It won't happen again," he blubbered, his face turning purple. "I'll find her. I swear!" He gulped air. A tear rolled down his cheek.
"You failed me. And even after I gave you that hooker." Logan stood and turned his back, leaving Vin to pick himself off the floor. "I could've made you wait in line like the rest of my men. Rank has its privileges, Vin. It must. But only if you deserve it. You've taken advantage of my generosity."
On his knees, Buck wallowed in guilt as he lowered his head, avoiding his glare. His subservience pleased Logan immensely.
"I won't fail again," he mumbled, thin strands of blood racing down his cheek. "By tomorrow, you'll know where to find Raven Mackenzie."
Walking back toward his man, Logan towered over the kneeling Vinnie. Laying his hand on Vinnie's head, he glanced down, enjoying the feeling of superiority. "Tomorrow, then. Redeem yourself in my eyes and make me proud."
Vin dared to look up, his eyes paying tribute. "Yes, sir."
A flash of yellow teeth told Logan that all had been forgotten. His lieutenant would not falter.
After Vinnie left the dining room, Logan returned to his bedroom with a bottle of whiskey and the wife of his latest recruit, Krueger, in tow. The newcomer had made the gesture of offering his woman, hoping to secure favor. And without a doubt, the man had failed to inform her of his generous overture. She now stood in the far corner of his bedroom, trembling in the most delectable fashion. Krueger earned brownie points with every snivel.
Although the woman's hair and eyes were dark, that's where the similarities with Raven Mackenzie ended. The pathetic little mouse would never be the caliber of female he deserved. Krueger's woman would soon learn how he handled disappointment.
"Don't complain to me, woman. I'm not the one passing you around like a party favor." He sighed. "You should be grateful. I rarely lower my standards to this degree."
Perhaps he'd consider the woman an appetizer to the main course. His mouth watered for the stimulation of Raven Mackenzie. Taking a long pull from the bottle, he downed a slug of liquor, imagining the good detective on her knees before him.
Picturing it brought back his consuming rage for vengeance, despite the fact that the detective wasn't technically responsible. In his mind, there was a certain harmony to the idea that she would pay for the sin against him. A whimper drew him back.
"Come here, darlin'," he cajoled, not knowing her name. "Show Daddy how much you appreciate him giving you and your man a home."
She inched closer, her face pallid and frail. Strands of hair draped over her eyes as her chin lowered. When she'd gone as far as she dared, he closed the distance, insinuating himself next to her.
"Drink," he ordered, handing her the bottle. Purposefully, he kept his expression unreadable, although her eyes searched for indications of his humanity. Finding nothing, she tipped the bottle to her lips out of sub-missiveness, wincing as the liquor burned her throat. He chuckled as she gagged and offered him the bottle in return—when he wanted so much more.
He raised her chin, waiting for her to look up. A shy smile slowly gained momentum on her face. Alcohol raised her hopes. Logan brushed back her hair and stroked a cheek. When he saw the faint essence of adoration brimming in her eyes, he leaned closer.
"To your knees, woman. After tonight, you'll know exactly how to please me." She gasped, choking on her fear. He kissed her cheek, then whispered in her ear. "And I expect you to be an energetic pupil."
Large tufts of wet snow drifted aimlessly, measured only by the cadence of a clock that gave rhythm to it. Christian sat mesmerized by the constant descent, his low spirits magnified by the abundance of white in Mother Nature's assault. The steady barrage accumulated quickly and now started to stick to the windows of his cottage, encasing his world in a silent tomb.
The sight provoked his imagination. Cemeteries and crypts were silent, but death screamed its passage, forever seared on the intellect even beyond rational explanation. He'd learned that firsthand. Like a man diseased, he fought back the symptoms of his affliction, struggling to bury the grief so he might function.
In the library, a flickering glow from the fireplace bathed the room as he sat at his desk. His mind was only faintly aware of the sedate crackle of the flame, fighting its losing battle against the chill. He favored the dimly lit study with its deep cherrywood paneling and heady smell of books, its furnishings of black leather. It fit his sullen mood, a stark contrast to the cozy wintry scene beyond the draped windows.
Ice cubes shifted, falling against the glass as he drained the last of the liquor. A subtle burn of vintage Macallan scotch branded the back of his throat. The heat warmed his chest, but sapped his strength. It'd been one agonizing day. The weight of it played on his mind.
Absentmindedly, he held up his glass, staring through cubes of ice and cut crystal. The blaze refracted through rainbow prisms, distorting his gaze into the hearth.
Beep. His computer summoned his attention as it booted. The bright screens launched a kaleidoscope of color onto his face and sweater, barely capturing his fading concentration.
His world had been rocked today. Despite that, Raven Mackenzie had insinuated herself into his brain from the moment she'd held him at gunpoint. With all the turmoil plaguing him, he didn't need the added complication. Women always wanted more than he had to give.
Eventually, even no-strings lovers deluded themselves into thinking he should feel something in return. They'd all been wrong. He recognized it long ago. Being emotionally crippled, he accepted his lot in life. But a woman like Raven would never understand. She'd want
more, and would deserve it. Yet beyond every other impossible rationalization, Raven Mackenzie was a cop. He couldn't allow himself to forget that.
"Get a grip, Delacorte," he scolded. "Keep focused."
His fingers moved across the keyboard, pulling up the county tax assessor's database off the Internet. Retrieving the only lead he'd taken from Blair's place, he pulled out the ragged-edged paper from his jeans pocket.
Before Detective Mackenzie discovered him in the study, Christian had spotted a spiral notepad by the faint glow of a small flashlight. Flipping the notebook cover, he'd run his fingers over the top page, noticing faint indentations. With a pencil from the desk, he'd gently rubbed the lead across the lined page. A numbered street address gradually leapt from the page, lifted in reverse like a photographic negative. Not having a crack at Mickey's computer, he had to be satisfied with the only clue to follow.
Maybe it meant nothing.
"3533 South Giles Avenue," he whispered, as he entered the address into the query page of the property database. His only familiarity with the area was that the Dan Ryan Expressway ran through it, in the general vicinity of Chinatown. Without delay, he'd gotten a hit on his query.
A second screen detailed the property description, map location, and ownership data. The name on the deed left him staring at the screen in disbelief.
"What the hell?" he muttered aloud. "Why would you have an interest in this place, Mick?"
Fiona's words played back in his memory—I didn't have him killed, at least not in the way you might imagine. From her note, he thought she had fled the country from the police, but maybe she had run from him? Had she been afraid of what he might find?
Slumping deeper into his chair, he rocked with his eyes closed. His mind played tug-of-war with his emotions. He loved Fiona like a mother, but if she had ordered Blair killed, would he cover up her crime? Could he walk away from the truth?
Too tired to dwell on Fiona's sins, he pushed his doubts aside. He'd have to obtain more information on the property before taking the next step. A visit was in order, but he needed more intel before he barged into a facility unannounced. More from instinct, his eyes fell to the weapon lying on his desk, lodged in its holster. He'd be armed in case he ran into trouble.
Hitting the print icon, he downloaded and printed the map. Glancing at a wall clock, his eyes blurred in fatigue. Already after midnight. Given his drive into the city at dawn, another long day loomed ahead. The police would be at Dunhill Tower by eight. But after they left, he would visit the Giles Avenue location. With any luck, he'd be ahead of Raven Mackenzie and her partner in his own investigation. It might be all the advantage he'd need to protect Fiona's secret.
CHAPTER 5
A terrifying blast jarred him from a dead sleep, echoing over and over. The deafening crack of wood shook the walls, threatening to collapse the room around him. Disoriented, he covered his face, unsure where he was until a loud rumble overloaded his senses. The menacing sound escalated, careening straight for him.
Like a haunting deja vu, he'd been forced to witness the chronicle being played out.
"Chicago Police," a man shouted. "Come out with your hands up!"
Sitting bolt upright in bed, he clutched the layers of blankets to his chest. His eyes searched the darkness, finding nothing to give him comfort.
"What's happening?" he wanted to shriek, but words wouldn't come. He opened his mouth to cry out. Nothing. His heart cleaved to the effort, strangling his will to make any sound at all.
At the base of his bedroom door, eerie lights ebbed and flowed, amidst the screams and the ear-splitting eruption of macabre fireworks like the Fourth of July. Yet despite the utter chaos outside the room, he stayed rooted where he sat, unable to move. He fought his body, wanting to react to the threat. But he felt bound to a course of action as if he followed a script.
Then the voices came—the beginning of the end. His gut twisted with the sound.
"No, please. We're unarmed! Stop!" He'd never heard the man's voice so filled with fear. A loud crash made his heart leap. Something heavy hit the floor.
"Not my little girl!" A woman screamed. "Oh, my God—no!" This voice was familiar, too, but his brain resisted the recollection, in complete denial. Another thunderous pop and her wailing ended.
Outside his door, heavy footsteps stumbled toward him.
"Now I lay me down—" The steady mantra spewed from his lips, sounding foreign to his ear.
Like a marionette acting upon the commands of a puppeteer, he repeated lines he'd heard before. He stared into the murky void, not recognizing the voice of a child in prayer. The words resonating in his head should've been comforting. Instead, they triggered a deep-rooted warning—they were coming for him.
In desperation to discover more, he garnered all his strength. Then, as weightless as a feather, much to his surprise, he lifted himself to look down upon a small boy. Although the child was faintly recognizable, his face distorted in terror and challenged his recollection. ". . . pray the Lord . . . keep my soul," the boy muttered.
The words tumbled from the kid's mouth, the meaning distorting in his brain. Over and over the child repeated fragments of the prayer. "Now I pray . . . soul to keep."
A dark motion to his right caught his eye. The kid saw it, too. A shadow eclipsed a glimmer of light—someone was outside the room. To protect the boy, he once again infused himself into the small body without thinking, hoping to give the child a fighting chance to survive. Instead, the boy's horror assaulted him, strangling rational thought with sheer hysteria.
"If I should die—" The words came faster. His throat clenched with fear, cutting off his air. "Please, God!" he pleaded.
The small body rocked back and forth, his voice raspy-tears spilled from his eyes. Still, he couldn't make the child move.
Another explosion ripped a hole through the door, jolting him from his stupor. A low, agonizing moan filled the darkness, sounding like a man who stood near the foot of the bed. It took his panicked brain a moment to realize he was still alone with the child until—
Someone leaned heavily on the door, scratching faintly to get in, rattling the doorknob. The child screamed.
Suddenly, the bedroom door flew open. A tall hulk of a man stood, then staggered toward the boy, the massive silhouette backlit by erratic flashes of light.
"The old man's got a gun," someone yelled from far away. "Where's the kid? We came for the boy. Find him."
Strangers' voices droned in the background, mixing with the shrill sound of a distant police siren. But like the child's, his complete attention had been drawn to the faceless shadow standing before him. A distinct smell swept into the room; a strange, sweet odor dominated his nostrils. The boy gasped, sucking in the metallic tang. Enveloped by the peculiar aroma, he felt his body and mind slow down, as if someone stalled the pace of a movie reel, clacking frame by frame. Shadow man seized the kid's arm in a viselike grip, grappling for him under the blankets. He fought his attacker armed only with the cooperation of the child—blindly flailing thin arms and kicking gangly legs.
"Noooo! Let me go!" he cried, his tone throaty and lethargic, every syllable distinct and drawn out. "Now I lay me down—"
The man spoke. He strained to understand the words. But like the boy, his mind felt numb with urgency. Only a garbled sound trickled through his awareness, drowned out by the prayer.
"Pray my soul to keep—" His body rocked violently, struggling for freedom, his chest on fire. Trapped in the defenseless body, he fought for freedom, if for no other reason than to defend the boy.
Helpless. Locked in frailty, he was paralyzed. He could only watch the tragedy occur over and over again—sinking in the quagmire of slow motion.
"If I should die before I wake—" Dizziness threatened to betray him. Bile rose hot from his belly. Tangled in his blankets, he shut his eyes and shrieked. His voice blended with that of the child, "God, help us. Please!"
"God help me!" he shouted.
"Please!"
He no longer heard the boy. Only his voice remained. As the nightmare faded, the scene morphed into indistinct shapes.
Drenched in sweat, Christian threw a pillow across the room, knocking over a lamp. The crash only punctuated the terror he'd relived, embellishing the memory of a ten-year-old boy. His lungs burned with the exertion. Amidst dank sheets, he sat trembling in the dark— an adrenaline rush surging through his veins.
God hadn't heard him then, just as he'd turned a deaf ear to the adult Christian had become. "Oh, God," he whispered. "Make it stop." Still, the blind eye of God left his call for help unanswered.
With the pain so fresh, it wasn't much consolation that he lived on the Dunhill Estate now. His mind mercifully fast-forwarded to the present. The small house he'd lived in as a child had been demolished long ago, obliterating the last vestige of the heinous police action. So his memory, hazy at best, was all that remained.
Staring through the gloom, Christian found everything as it should be, except for one overturned light fixture. A single night light burned, a ritual from childhood. It'd been years since he'd been tortured by that nightmare. Having his past churned up had been the catalyst. Christian glanced over his shoulder to the clock on the nightstand. He'd been in bed only a few hours. He knew attempting sleep now would be futile.
In complete exhaustion, he fell back onto a pillow, wiping a hand across his damp brow. His bare skin prickled with the chill of realization. The remnants of the nightmare clutched at him as his lungs fought for air. Unyielding, the hellish images flashed like a strobe light through his mind. Dead eyes of familiar faces stared back, demanding answers that might never come. Their cries for justice penetrated the black body bags, seeking him out even now. He stared blindly at the ceiling. The lingering details of the dream faded despite his best effort to recall them.