Variable Onset

by Layla Reyne

  Carter drew his weapon out of the shoulder holster he had on under his suit coat. “Stop or I’ll shoot.”

  The attacker’s eyes grew wide. “Wait, are you a cop?”

  “Why?”

  Relief washed over the other man, the lines in his face easing as he dropped his shoulders and lowered his hands. “Please, can you help me?”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Thank you,” Carter said to the nurse, as she passed through the imaging control room where he waited.

  “You need me to check yours?” she asked with a nod to his hands.

  “I’m good. Paramedic did mine up last night, and I wasn’t as bad off.”

  Not like Clyde Weathers, who, in addition to the cuts and scrapes their fistfight had left, also had burns from the flare he’d been wielding. Not with any sort of skill, it seemed, which made a certain amount of sense given his plea for help and the story he’d told Carter on the way to the hospital. A story that might help their case but wouldn’t help Weathers out of custody anytime soon.

  “You change your mind,” the nurse said, “just let me know.”

  She smiled and exited the room, and Carter turned back to the darkened observation window. On the other side, in the unused imaging room, Weathers was arranging himself on the MRI table, his back to the dormant machine, long legs stretched out in front of him. The blond man couldn’t sit still, picking at his new bandages and swiveling his head this way and that, looking all around him. He’d been the same way the entire fifteen-minute drive over here.

  “Agent Warren,” someone said behind him.

  “What’ve you got?” Carter said, turning to Special Agent Mark O’Shea, a senior field agent out of the Richmond office who’d been assigned, with two other field agents, a cyber agent, and an Evidence Response Team to provide Carter and Lincoln backup. Beverley wasn’t dicking around.

  Carter was impressed at the operation command they’d set up in such a short time. Makeshift interrogation and observation rooms out of the imaging suite, operational command and conference capabilities in the X-ray reading room next door, and a smaller adjacent office had also been commandeered for closed-door meetings, as needed. O’Shea worked fast, and efficiently.

  As further evidenced by the phone he handed to Carter. “Replacement, fully restored.” Then the sheet of paper he held out. “The story he told you on the way over was true. He filed a missing persons report on his sister, Stacy Weathers, last week. She’s a meth head.”

  Carter quickly scanned the report and follow-up, which was thin at best. “Local PD’s follow-up was cursory.” Carter took a closer look at the officer of record. Josephine Lang. Jo, the detective Larry mentioned, along with the meth issue they were combatting. Or ignoring. “Did they just assume she was dead or passed out in a den somewhere?”

  “Or on the run.” O’Shea handed him another three sheets of paper. “The missing persons reports in this and surrounding counties are...staggering.”

  Staggering...and suspicious?

  Before Carter could follow that train of thought, a disturbance erupted in the hallway. Feet scuffling, a thump like a back hitting a wall, then one of the other agents said, “Sir, you can’t be in here. This area is closed.”

  “Where’s Agent Warren?”

  “And you are?”

  Carter didn’t understand how the agent, or anyone for that matter, could forget the sexy forensics professor from Academy.

  Lincoln apparently didn’t forget his students either. “Good to see you again too, Agent Drake.”

  “Wha—”

  “Lincoln Monroe, your forensics instructor from Quantico. Also Carter Warren’s partner.”

  Carter bit back the smile that threatened to split his face in two, Lincoln’s words sounding too good, too tempting on multiple levels. “Excuse me,” he said to O’Shea, then stepping around him, leaned his head out the door. Halfway down the hallway, Drake had Lincoln, now in a turtleneck under his sports coat, pressed against the wall. Lincoln looked ready to commit murder. Best save them all another crime scene. “Back here, L.”

  Both men’s gazes whipped to the side, Drake’s mortified, Lincoln’s victorious. And still mighty pissed. He shoved Drake back with two hands and marched down the hall.

  “Easy, Professor,” Carter coaxed. He didn’t need Lincoln blowing it with their new team. “They’re our ground team. We need them.”

  Lincoln stopped in front of him with a huff. “Hopefully his memory for case details is better than for faces.”

  “Can’t say I remember all my Quantico instructors either.”

  “But you somehow remembered me?”

  Carter stepped closer and lowered his voice. “First day I saw you, I knew I’d never forget you.”

  Anger left the building, and Carter thought maybe, just maybe, if they didn’t have an audience, he’d get that kiss he’d missed last night.

  “Drake,” O’Shea said from their other side. “Get back on that records search.” The younger agent fled for the safety of the command room and Carter stepped back as O’Shea offered a hand to Lincoln. “Agent Monroe, my apologies. Mark O’Shea, out of Richmond.”

  “O’Shea...” Lincoln said, returning the handshake. “You worked the Marigold Killer case?”

  O’Shea smiled. “You definitely have a better memory than my agents, and yes, that was me. I should thank you again for your assist on that.”

  “Thank you for preserving the scene so well. It’s nice to meet you in person.”

  “Likewise.”

  Carter breathed easier, the tension, of both sorts, defused. “Any trouble getting out of there?” he asked Lincoln, as they followed O’Shea into the imaging control room.

  “No, I just needed a lift back to the house to get the Wrangler and change out of my sweat-soaked shirt, so I had to wait for Susanne and company to talk to the whole damn town while also avoiding Larry.”

  “Petticoat?” O’Shea asked, and Carter nodded. “We’re going to need to bring him and the local PD in on this.”

  “Respectfully,” Carter said, “we have reason to believe Dr. Fear has been operating with Apex as a starting point for their cycles for twenty-five years. They’re someone who has been in this town for two-plus decades, maybe someone with long-term ties to the university or the town itself. Both of which the Petticoats have, not to mention being in law enforcement for all twenty-five years that a serial killer was under their nose.”

  “His police station was blown up.” O’Shea pointed at Weathers on the other side of the glass. “By that guy.”

  “He confessed?” Lincoln asked.

  O’Shea nodded. “And waived his Miranda rights at the scene. Federal prosecutor in Richmond is preparing charges—arson, reckless endangerment, assault on a federal officer—sealed to protect your cover but enough that will keep him in our custody, for now.”

  “For now?”

  “He’ll argue duress,” Carter said. “And he’s cooperating. He claims someone is holding his sister hostage.” Carter handed Lincoln the missing persons report. “He filed that last week. Claims he wasn’t after us last night but that he’d been blackmailed into torching the records room.”

  “By whom?”

  “Hasn’t said yet,” Carter replied. “I’m not sure he knows.”

  Lincoln withdrew his phone and glanced at the screen. “Two hours left for Ruby and Chase. Let’s see what he does know.”

  They entered the room and Weathers snapped to attention, swinging his legs around and off the side of the exam table. He moved to clutch the edge of it with his hands, as if to keep himself from fidgeting more, then cursed. “Fuck, that hurts,” he said, rubbing the backs of his hands.

  Technically, Carter should have re-cuffed him, but Weathers hadn’t made any indication of flight since Carter had cornered him at the church
. “Mr. Weathers, you’ve met Agent O’Shea already.” He gestured at the agent who positioned himself against the wall by the door, then to Lincoln, who claimed one of the chairs Carter rolled over. “This is my partner, Agent Monroe.”

  His dark eyes flitted to Lincoln, then back to Carter. “Did you find the missing persons report on my sister?”

  “We did.” Carter lowered himself into the chair beside Lincoln’s. “But let’s go back a bit first. When’s the last time you heard from Stacy?”

  “About three days before I filed that.” He jutted his chin at the report still in Lincoln’s hands. “Look, I know she’s a junkie. My first thoughts were OD’d or run away, but then she didn’t show for her weekly visit with Mom in the care facility, which she never misses, no matter how strung out she is, and then someone called and threatened to harm her if I didn’t do what he said.”

  “Why didn’t you report that to the police?” O’Shea asked.

  “He said he would kill her if I went to the police.”

  “He?” Lincoln said.

  Weathers nodded.

  “But you thought Agent Carter could help?” O’Shea asked.

  Carter worried that Lincoln would object to O’Shea’s rewind, but he remained quiet, noodling something if his drawn expression was anything to go by. Or just avoiding the interrogation, which Carter recalled was not his favorite part of this gig, though Lincoln wasn’t nearly as bad at it as he claimed. For his part, Carter was interested in both lines of questioning and in Weathers’s responses.

  The man bowed his head, hands clasped in his lap. “I was afraid I’d hurt...or worse, killed...someone in that fire. That’s why I went to church. To find out. I knew everyone would be there.” He lifted his gaze, locking on Carter. “What if what he asks me to do next is worse?”

  “Are you sure he has her?”

  “Do you still have my phone?”

  O’Shea leaned out the door and hollered for Drake to bring him the phone. Carter had divested Weathers of it at the scene, then handed it over to the team as soon as they’d arrived here. They would make a copy of its contents in case Weathers, or someone remotely, tried to erase it, and tag it for tracking, so they could also track Weathers, if released.

  Drake appeared with the phone in an evidence bag. “We’re good.”

  O’Shea dismissed Drake, then, after removing the phone from the bag, handed it to Weathers. A few taps at the screen and then Weathers handed it back to him. O’Shea’s wince was all the warning Carter needed to know it was bad. An agent of O’Shea’s experience didn’t visibly react otherwise. He passed the phone to Lincoln, and Lincoln’s gasp echoed the sound that wanted to escape from Carter’s own throat as he viewed the picture over his partner’s shoulder.

  The emaciated blonde appeared to be barely hanging on to life. Probably even before someone had stripped her naked, gagged and tied her to the bed, and beaten her. She was still alive—the color of her skin, the slack in her fingers, her eyes open and focused—but she wouldn’t stay that way much longer, injuries untreated and struggling to breathe.

  Despite his initial surprise, Lincoln recovered quickly, putting two fingers to the screen and zooming in. But not on Stacy. He shifted the picture instead and Carter immediately caught on to what he was doing.

  “Do you know where this is?” Carter asked Weathers.

  “No, it didn’t look familiar to me.”

  “Why would it?” Lincoln said. “It’s a generic motel room.” He moved the picture around, pointing out to Carter and O’Shea the hideous hotel bedspread that had been tossed on the floor, the channel guide next to the phone with a few extra buttons, and the plastic wrapped cups on the bedside table. “There’s a logo printed on the plastic wrap,” Lincoln said. “But I don’t have the resolution on here to read it.”

  “Let me see if we can clean it up.” O’Shea handed him the evidence bag before turning toward the door.

  “Check the channel guide too,” Lincoln called after him. “The station numbers can narrow the location.”

  “On it,” O’Shea said with a nod, then ducked out of the room.

  Lincoln was still examining the photo, so Carter resumed questioning their suspect. “Did you recognize the voice on the call?”

  “It was disguised, like with one of those voice modulators.”

  “Then how do you know it was a man?”

  Weathers’s face crumpled, his shoulders hitched, and he lifted his hands, covering his face and muffling his sobs. Beside Carter, Lincoln lowered the phone. He looked uncomfortable, to put it mildly, but also like he wanted to reach out and comfort Weathers. The parent in him, maybe, which if Carter’s math was right, he hadn’t had in his toolbox the last time he’d been in the field. Carter held the evidence bag open, Lincoln dropped the phone inside, and before he could object, Carter pushed Lincoln’s rolling chair closer to Weathers. There was a second of flailing—Carter would pay for this later, no doubt—but Lincoln recovered with barely a squeak and leaned forward, moving directly in front of Weathers.

  “We’re sorry for making you go through this again, Mr. Weathers, but if we’re going to find Stacy, we need all the details we can get. I can find a lot, that’s what I’m good at. Carter too. But there are some details, like that call, that only you know. Can you tell us about that? So we can try and bring Stacy home.”

  Much better at this than he gave himself credit for.

  Weathers lowered his hands and took a deep breath. “I can’t know for sure.” He swiped at the wetness under his eyes. “But even with the distortion, the voice sounded deep.”

  Carter slid closer. “And he told you to torch the station?”

  “The records room. He said if I did that, he’d let Stacy go. But that was yesterday morning, and I haven’t heard a thing since.”

  Not a good sign for Stacy, especially considering that picture could have been taken days ago, well before the call.

  Weathers knew it too, wringing his hands in his lap, despite the pain it must be causing him. “I did what he said, what he wanted, and now—”

  Lincoln laid a hand over his. “Back to the details, Mr. Weathers. That’s how we find her. Did he say anything else? Want anything else?”

  The other man calmed enough to sniffle out, “No. That was all.” He sucked in another breath. “Can you help me find her, please?”

  “Where’s your sister usually stay at?” Carter asked.

  Weathers recited an address that Carter punched into his phone. Mapping it, the app placed it a ways outside of town. Unincorporated Apex by the looks of it. “You been out there?” he asked Weathers.

  He nodded. “Torn apart, and her car was gone too.”

  Her car. The same car they were looking for?

  Lincoln was on the same wavelength. “What kind of car did she drive, Mr. Weathers? Make and model, if you know it? Color?”

  “Ninety-five Honda Accord.”

  Lincoln deflated, and Carter likewise felt the wind go out of his sails.

  But then Weathers kept talking. “I gave it to her a few years back. I thought for sure she’d flip it for drugs, but she cherished that old junker. Just had it painted. Custom. Dark blue with holographic flake.”

  Not so deflated anymore. “That’s the car,” Carter said. “He’s in her car.”

  “Who?” Weathers asked.

  Lincoln’s right leg was bouncing a club rhythm, but he kept his attention on Weathers. “Do you have a license plate number, Mr. Weathers?”

  “Yeah, I still pay the registration on it. Least I can do for her.” He rattled off the numbers and letters and that was the end of Lincoln’s patience. He shot out of the chair and bolted for the door.

  Weathers’s eyes tracked him the entire way. “Y’all know where she is?”

  “No, but this helps,” Carter said, rising as well. “Did
he say anything else? Anything at all?”

  “There was one thing... I argued with him at first, and he said something about being on the clock. His clock, and how I was going to make him late. But I don’t know who he is.”

  Carter bet he did, though. “All right, Mr. Weathers.” He squeezed the other man’s shoulder. “Just sit tight.” He followed the path his partner had taken, closing the door to the imaging room behind him.

  Phone in hand, Lincoln paced the short length of the control room while O’Shea stood in the door to the hallway. “You’re looking for a ninety-five Honda Accord, Virginia tag,” Lincoln told the person on the other end of the line. “I texted you the tag number and owner name. Stacy Weathers.”

  “That’s what we needed,” Kirk said, the call on speaker. “We’ll add this to the BOLO.”

  Carter raised a brow, requesting the update he’d missed.

  “They’d issued a BOLO for vehicles matching the custom paint color,” O’Shea said.

  “We’ve been chasing leads all night,” Kirk said. “Nothing, but with this, now we know exactly the car we’re looking for. This is real good, L.”

  “We’ll run Stacy’s cards on this end,” O’Shea said. “See if he used them.”

  “And it’s definitely a copycat,” Carter said. “On the call with Stacy’s brother, the kidnapper referenced ‘his clock.’ Guessing that’s Dr. Fear’s clock he was talking about, and that we were right about the timeline.”

  “Fuck,” Kirk said. “We gotta move, then.”

  “Keep us updated, Ollie,” Lincoln said. “We’ll be standing by.”

  The line went dead and a second of stunned silence followed. They’d gone from tenuous leads, to leads destroyed, to the lead that might rescue Ruby and Chase in the span of twelve hours.

  O’Shea was the first to kick back into motion, hustling toward the door. “I’m going to get the team on the cards and see if we can track down where this call came from, digitally and otherwise.”