by Layla Reyne
Carter escorted the chancellor out, as far as the stairwell, then made a lap around the floor. A single hallway looped the rectangular space. Labs and offices made up the perimeter, clean rooms and dark rooms the interior. The other labs and rooms were mostly bare, just benches and built-in office furnishings awaiting their occupants. The only sign of life up here would be Lincoln tooling around in his makeshift crime lab.
Carter was pleasantly surprised at how fast this had all come together. Ryan had made a miracle happen, and that miracle would go a long way to preserving their cover, expediting their work, and making Lincoln feel more comfortable with this assignment. Sleeves rolled up, the professor was already situated on a stool at the end of the bench next to the sequencer, arranging a syringe, tube, and vial on a mat in front of him.
“You’re staring,” Lincoln said, as he continued his prep work.
“Everything check out?”
Rather than answer, Lincoln picked up the syringe and tapped the needle twice. He turned over his left forearm, the same hand fisted, and effortlessly slid the needle into a distended vein.
Carter rushed forward. “Jesus, L, what are you doing?”
Lincoln released his fist, used his nose to nudge up his sleeve, and with his teeth, released the tourniquet above his elbow that Carter hadn’t noticed. Blood flowed through the tube into the vial. “Control test.”
“I’ll take that as a yes, then,” Carter said.
No answer again, Lincoln in his own world. Speaking of, Carter needed to get moving or else he was going to be late for the meeting that would cement his part of their cover. He grabbed his coat and shrugged back into it.
“You headed to the police station?” Lincoln asked, as he tied off the blood draw and capped the vial. “Do I need to go with you?”
Carter shook his head. “I’m going as Mr. Polk.”
Eyes wide, Lincoln spun toward him. “Local law enforcement isn’t in on this? It’s been a while since I went through Academy but I’m pretty sure that’s not protocol. Does Beverley know we’re keeping APD in the dark?”
“My call,” Carter said. “If a serial killer has come and gone here, unnoticed, for twenty years...”
“He might have had protection.”
“Until I learn more, I’m not taking that chance.”
“So only Chancellor McCullough knows?”
“And that’s one person too many in a town this size.”
Lincoln rotated back to the bench, slowly, and placed the blood sample in the sequencer. He closed the lid, keyed in commands on the control panel, and as the machine whirred to life, folded his hands in his lap, fingers laced. “We’re out here, all alone,” he said, voice heavy with the equally heavy realization.
Carter closed the distance between them. “We’re not alone, L. We’ve got each other.” He began rolling down Lincoln’s sleeve, giving Lincoln time to compose himself but also providing tactile reinforcement. “I’ve got your back, you’ve got mine, and we’re on the clock. Hopefully, we won’t be here for long.” He slid Lincoln’s cufflink, a cut-crystal rainbow, through the buttonhole, his hand lingering.
Lincoln’s fingers closed around his and a rush of warm breath ruffled Carter’s curls. When Carter glanced up, there was a hint of a blush on the professor’s cheeks, and there was also a hint of a smile on his lips. Mission accomplished.
Lincoln twisted the opposite direction and slid off his stool. “I need to get to the library. Dig into the archives and follow up on the leads you identified.” He checked the settings on the sequencer once more. “This will take time to run. I’ll come back and check on it later.” He slid his arms into the coat Carter held open for him, grabbed his bag, and they headed out, locking the lab behind them.
“I already did some organizational work there,” Carter said, as they descended the stairs. “Should get you started.”
Lincoln cocked a brow. “Organized how?”
“You should know. You taught me.”
The brow lowered, but the look of caution didn’t totally fade.
“You can tell me everything I did wrong when I get back from the police station.”
They were both laughing as they emerged onto the ground floor, and Carter would have missed the imminent danger if not for Lincoln’s cufflink reflecting off the sun streaming through the window at the far end of the hallway. The same window bearing the reflection of a security guard about to round the corner. They were going to be seen.
Better to be seen for the wrong-wrong reason than the right-wrong reason. And he needed to buy a few seconds to compute a cover. He grasped Lincoln by the biceps and spun him, so his back hit the wall, Carter barely catching the falling computer bag.
“What are you—”
Carter covered Lincoln’s mouth with his fingertips, lowered his bag to the floor with the other hand, and crowded close, nuzzling his cheek and whispering in his ear, “Bogey, coming around the far corner.”
“Hey!” the guard called. “What are you two doing in here?”
Lincoln’s heart raced, pounding hard enough for Carter to feel against his chest. Other parts of Lincoln’s body reacted too, his cock hardening against Carter’s thigh, which was thrust between Lincoln’s legs. And oh how Carter wished that guard would somehow miraculously disappear. Wished they were alone so he could reach a hand down and palm Lincoln through his slacks. Or better yet, drop to his knees, unzip his pants, and get a—
“Hey!” the guard called again, voice louder, closer.
Carter rotated his face toward the guard, hiding Lincoln from view, just in case. “Work,” he said, his own voice strangled, much like his erection, hardening more every second he remained pressed against Lincoln. “Doing some consulting work for the chancellor on the labs upstairs.”
“This don’t look like consulting work,” the guard said, only a few feet from them.
Lincoln’s chin landed on his shoulder. “We’re newlyweds. Thought we were the only ones in here.”
Jesus Christ. Lincoln really was going to kill him.
The guard had a few choice curses for them too, including “Because students fucking like rabbits isn’t bad enough.”
Carter reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a paper bag. “How about some biscuits for your trouble?”
“Are those—”
“Barry’s, from Flour Power.” He tossed the greasy bag to the guard, wished him “Good eatin’,” then, snatching up Lincoln’s messenger bag with one hand, grabbed Lincoln’s hand with the other and hauled them out the exit door before the guard could question them further.
Outside, the lingering pink on Lincoln’s cheeks made Carter want to crowd him up against another wall. But Lincoln wrenched his hand loose and snatched away his bag before Carter got the chance. “You better run back by the café on your way home from the station.”
Did he even realize what he was saying? Or how domestic that sounded? How much it made Carter’s chest warm and ache at the same time? He covered the burning desire with a smirk, and returned a, “Yes, dear.”
That got him a middle finger, then Lincoln’s backside as the professor strutted off toward the library. The laughter, and warmth, stayed with Carter all the way back to the car.
* * *
Carter parked next to a giant black F-350 and peered through his windshield at the Apex police station. It stood at the center of the modest government complex, post office to its left, town hall to its right. All the buildings were trimmed for winter—frosted windows, silver tinsel, and the same Welcome, Winter and Welcome Back, Students banners that were all over town and campus. But where winter looked cold on the gray gothic campus, it looked warm and inviting here. Each of the single-story brick buildings had wraparound porches with old-fashioned rocking chairs, and smoke was puffing out of the chimney of the police station. The only visible connection bet
ween the government complex and the university were the decorations and the Apex-blue gutters and downspouts that trimmed each building, together with a front door to match.
The one on the police station swung open, and a de-floured Barry, dressed in jeans and an ugly knit sweater, emerged onto the porch, waving a hand at Carter. Carter checked the calendar app on his phone. His meeting was with the current Apex police chief, Lawrence Petticoat, not the former one. He and the chief were supposed to be nailing down the particulars of the survival course Carter was scheduled to teach. Secondarily, and more importantly, Carter needed to assess the police force that might help or hinder their case. Resources, manpower, likely reaction, should their cover be blown, voluntarily or involuntarily. With Barry here to grill him some more, Carter mentally prepared himself to shield against the latter. He really didn’t want to go another round with the ex-chief yet. They’d handled him well enough this morning, and Carter anticipated another grilling when he dropped by Flour Power later for more biscuits, but here, now, this was an unscheduled interrogation he wasn’t looking forward to.
Climbing out of the car, Carter plastered on a smile and spoke first, aiming to direct this conversation where he wanted it to go—to a swift end. “Just the man I needed to see. What do I have to do for another to-go bag of biscuits? My husband’s a fan.”
The big man on the porch laughed, hearty and full. “Talk to my brother, Barry. He got all the cooking genes.”
“Wait? You’re not Barry?”
“Nope, I’m Larry.” He extended his hand once Carter reached the top of the steps. “Lawrence Petticoat. And sounds like you already met my brother Barry, short for Bartholomew.”
“Carter Polk.” He returned the handshake. “I thought Barry’s last name was Cousins. That’s what the back of the menu said. ‘Proprietors: Barry and Trudy Cousins.’”
“Took his wife’s last name.”
“My bad for assuming, and my apologies for the confusion.” He jutted a thumb over his shoulder. “You looked so similar from back there.” Up close, standing level with the other man, Carter could detect the slight differences. Larry’s eyes were more green than blue, his stomach not quite as round as Barry’s, his gray beard trimmed, and he had a couple more inches of height.
“Strong genes,” Larry said. “And close in age, all three of us. My oldest brother, Harold—everyone called him Harry—he was first. Nine months later, Barry. Another nine months later, me”
“And you decided to follow in your middle brother’s footsteps?” He eyed their surroundings as Larry led him into the station. “Not your oldest brother’s? My husband’s taking over for him at the library.”
Larry paused at the end of the reception desk, moved aside a snow globe and tinsel, and lifted a portion of the counter, like a bar flip, the hinge creaking, in need of a shot of WD-40. They passed through, and Larry lowered the flip and his voice, as if to tell a secret, no matter that it appeared he and Carter were the only two people in the station. “Don’t mean to speak ill of my late brother’s profession, but if we’re being honest, libraries freak me the heck out. All that quiet, all those dusty old books, and they’re always so cold. Can’t have a nice fire like here.” He laid a hand on the wooden hearth above the stone fireplace that took up most of one bullpen wall. “I only want to go in that place if a crime’s been committed.”
“They were never for me either,” Carter said truthfully. He much preferred to be outdoors, and a library was the antithesis of outdoors. But there was one good thing to be found in the library... “Until I met Lincoln.”
“That’s your husband?” Larry said. “The one taking over for Harry?”
“That’s right. His research is on migrating Blue Ridge populations. The archives at Apex U were a major draw.”
“APD’s good fortune then, since it also brings you to town. Been meaning to do survival training for the team here.”
“How many we talkin’?”
“Well, there’s me.” Larry pointed at the largest of the three private offices at the other end of the bullpen, the one in the center with a blue-ribboned wreath on the door, then at the smaller office to its right decorated with a snowman. “Deputy Sheriff Franklin Petticoat. Cousin, my dad’s brother’s grandkid. He’s technically off duty until the end of the month—paternity leave—but he’ll come in for the training.” Then at the reindeer-graced office to the left. “Detective Josephine Lang.” And finally to the cluster of desks in the center of the bullpen area, each with a snow globe like the ones that dotted the reception desks. “Plus, three duty officers. Training for the other support staff would be optional.”
“Why do you think your department needs survival training?” Carter asked. “Any particular areas of concern, other than the remoteness factor?”
“Getting stranded out in the woods is a concern,” Larry said, as he ushered Carter into his office. “Granted, most of us are local, but it’s easy to get turned around in these hills.”
“Anything else?”
Larry claimed the well-worn leather chair behind the desk and gestured for Carter to take the guest chair across from him. “Those hills are also full of cook houses. Meth mostly. Lots of places to hide. Abandoned moonshine stills and the like. With only six of us, I want my team prepared in case one of those meth heads ever takes one hostage.”
Put like that, Carter actually wanted to teach a survival course to Larry and his team. The chief cared enough about his people to reach out, to go the extra mile to protect and train them. “Fair enough,” Carter said. “Y’all get much other action around here?”
“Mostly Apex U adjacent stuff. Bar fights, game-day vandalism, and the like, though the rate of those incidents has gone down since Ryan became chancellor. He runs a tight ship.”
“But you get enough action to warrant a detective?” Carter nodded to Detective Lang’s office on the other side of them.
“The meth heads, I mentioned. Plus Jo deserved a promotion. Aside from that, our call-outs are mostly vehicular incidents, especially in the winter. Gets slick on the interstate.”
Did that have something to do with how Dr. Fear identified his victims? Car accident, the driver or a passenger winds up in the county hospital, but then is gone before anyone in the area really notices them, except the serial killer hiding among them. The timing fit with respect to Zia and Anthony.
“That’s the bulk of ’em,” Larry carried on. “But the worst one we ever had was middle of the summer, clear blue sky that afternoon, thirty-odd years ago.”
Carter’s breath hitched, caught in his chest. He released it slowly, concentrating on Larry’s words, picking them apart for clues he’d spent a lifetime searching for, the case that had led him to Apex. Not the one he was supposed to be working now, but the one that always hovered at the back of his mind.
“I’d just gotten my badge,” Larry said. “Was working the desk when the call came in. Dad was the chief then, my uncle the coroner. Barry went out with them too. None of them spoke much for days after. Tore ’em up good. Car was run off the road and into the ravine. Exploded. The family inside it gone, just like that.” He snapped his fingers, and Carter forced himself not to jump. “Wiped out by a hit and run.”
All but one, if this was the accident he’d been searching for... “They never caught the other driver?”
Larry shook his head. “And none of the bodies nor the car could be identified. Too badly burned, according to the state police who took over the case. Speaking of town history...” He rose from his chair and waved for Carter to follow.
It took Carter a moment to get his legs back under him, but he caught up with Larry halfway down the picture-lined hall that led off from the bullpen. There were various shots of Apex PD, from welcome parties to retirement ones, ribbon cuttings and other town events, spanning at least four decades judging by the different yet so-similar-they-had-to-be-rela
ted men wearing the chief’s badge. Petticoats, multiple generations in charge, and each with another younger Petticoat at their side, the next to be in charge. And all of them gray, early it seemed.
“Don’t need to keep family albums,” Larry said with a smile, noticing Carter’s distraction. “All right here.”
“It’s an impressive family history.”
“It’s what we do. Or rather most of us.” He stopped near the end of the hall in front of a door with a numbered keypad. “Harry used to access police records from time to time for the archives. His grad student was in here just last week. If the other Mr. Polk needs in here, the door code is 1-2-3-6, assuming we ain’t lost power and you can enter it. Breaker box needs replacing but that’ll have to wait ’til spring.”
Larry opened the door and Carter poked his head inside, quickly surveying the rows of file boxes stacked on shelves in the windowless room. He also spied a microfiche reader and ancient desktop computer, meaning some portion of what was in those boxes was digitized.
“This will be helpful for Lincoln, thank you.” And for their case. “There a checkout process we should be aware of?”
Larry flitted a hand in the air. “We’re not that formal around here. Just make sure you put things back where you found ’em. Come on, now. Let me get you set up at a desk in the bullpen.”
As he drew back, Carter made a final visual sweep, both excited and terrified about what he might find in those files, about Dr. Fear and about that accident thirty-odd years ago. He’d venture a guess the latter was thirty-two, to be exact. The very accident that might have been responsible for the Carter Warren standing here today.
* * *
“Hello, anyone home?”
The heavy library doors slammed shut behind Lincoln, and he shivered as a gust of wintery air swirled around him. Yet the banging doors and his chattering teeth weren’t enough to bring anyone to the reception desk.