by CJ Lyons
We went out to the family waiting room, which was thankfully empty. He fed quarters into the vending machine and brought me a can of apple juice as I sat on the couch by the window. The lights of the city held back the night, creating a blurry grayscape. As if Thomas Edison could conquer the dark. As if he knew a damned thing about true darkness, like what I’d seen with Allie.
A laugh escaped me, harsh and throaty and edged with enough insanity it made Devon flinch. “You sure you’re okay?”
No. Not at all. Not sure and not okay. Panic skittered along my nerves, tip-tapping over hot coals. What if Devon hadn’t pulled me out of my fugue? Would I have been trapped in there? Not dead but not alive… until my body failed?
I pushed the juice away, my stomach revolting. A sour taste filled my mouth.
Devon sat down beside me, wrapped his arm around my shoulders, and I realized I was shaking. Goose bumps lined my arms, even though I felt feverish. We sat in silence for a few minutes until my trembling slowed. Then he held the juice to my lips as if I were a child. “Drink. You’ll feel better.”
I took a sip and then another. The apple juice stung my parched lips and tongue but felt good. I took hold of the can with both hands and gulped the juice down.
“Thanks,” I said when I’d finished.
He took the can and threw it in the recycling bin. I liked him for that, for noticing and thinking twice about a little thing like that. When he turned back, his face was clouded by worry.
“She didn’t know anything about Esme,” I answered his unasked question.
His head swung up and down in a slow, heavy nod. “Did she say who did this to her?”
“Not his name. I couldn’t see his face. It was so hard, what she went through—” I looked away, unable to finish. Placed my hand flat against the windowpane, absorbing the cold like a tonic. “Her name was Allie. Alamea Syha.”
Her face replaced mine in the reflection in the window—the face of the girl playing the piano, shy but at peace. Not the face of the girl tortured by pain. I could only hope that there truly wasn’t anything after this life, that once she died, all traces of that pain vanished with her.
Who was I to know anything? All these years of playing God, practicing medicine—practicing, that was rich irony—and I knew nothing about anything. Anger spiked through me.
“I need to call Ryder.”
Devon’s cell phone rang. He listened, asked a few questions, then hung up again. “No need,” he said. “Ryder’s downstairs in the ER. Seems he went back into the tunnels. Your wonder cop triggered a bomb.”
<<<>>>
Two ER visits in one night—twice as many as Ryder’s entire life. And this time brought in an ambulance. Embarrassing. Especially since there was nothing wrong with him. Well, nothing except a pounding headache and the ringing in his ears and his back all scraped to hell from where he hit the corner… but it was a lot better than it could have been, thanks to Ozzie pushing him out of the way and the thick steel door that had blasted shut when the IED blew.
“I’m fine,” he growled at the nurse for the third time, sick of her hovering.
Despite the fact that she was half his size, she pinned him in his chair with a single strategically placed hand. “You will be. As soon as the doctor checks your CT scan. Makes sure you don’t have any bleeding in your brain.”
Another damn waste of time. He let the nurse finish cleaning the abrasions along his shoulder and back. They burned, and he’d lost a lot of skin, but none were deep enough to need stitches. Ozzie sat at his feet, looking up at him with sympathy. Ryder absently scratched the dog behind his ears.
The nurse finally finished and left him alone. He was in another curtained bed space—not the same one Sister Patrice had died in, thank goodness. As soon as the nurse left, he stood, braced himself against the bed rail when his vision went swampy, then tugged his way free of the patient gown.
“How is he?” A familiar voice carried through the curtain.
Rossi. He turned, still holding the gown, just as she entered. Felt the same electricity he’d felt the first time he’d seen her. Funny how that seemed so long ago. Years, instead of hours.
She looked like a lifetime had passed. Her face was drained of color, eyes dark and puffy, hair limp.
“Heard what happened,” she said, stopping short just inside the curtain. “Came to check on the dog.”
Ozzie lumbered over to her, his head fitting comfortably beneath her palm as he nuzzled her leg.
“Damn dog saved my life,” Ryder said, holding back a smile. He didn’t care how lousy she looked right now. He was glad to see her.
Instead of crossing over to her, shoving the dog out of the way, and taking her into his arms like he wanted, he forced his energy on wadding the patient gown into a tight ball and hurling it into the laundry bin. It wasn’t the right time or place, and he didn’t want to overwhelm her when she already looked like she was ready to collapse. He turned away, reaching for his shirt, the pain twisting through his body providing a good distraction from any feelings he had for Rossi.
He caught her gaze on him as he dressed, but it was a clinical appraisal. She was worried about him. Wasn’t that sweet?
As he finished buttoning his shirt, she finally stopped giving the dog loving and moved to sit on the exam bed. He tucked in his shirt and joined her, Ozzie immediately plunking down at their feet. All they needed was a fire and some apple pie.
“Her name was Allie,” she said softly. “Alamea Syha.”
How the hell did she know that? “Was?”
“She just died.”
“But she was talking? Told you her name? Anything else?” Too many questions—this whole damn case was too many questions.
She shook her head, tiny little jerks as if running away from something. Her lips so tight they formed a single, pale line.
“Then how do you know?”
“I can’t tell you.”
Again, he was expected to trust her and her mysterious information. Still, she’d been right about Esme. He suspected Devon Price was her source, not some patient she had to keep confidential as he’d initially assumed. Just how close were Rossi and Price? The question wasn’t strictly professional.
She raised her face and looked at him. Not asking anything, not expecting anything. Resigned.
Her bruised expression overruled his skepticism. Ryder reached for his phone, got the duty officer on the line. “I need anything on an Alamea Syha. No, I don’t know how you spell it. Start with missing-persons reports. Juvenile, maybe fifteen or sixteen, Asian, black hair, black eyes, five-three, hundred pounds.”
He listened, trying to ignore the weight of Rossi’s stare. Now that he’d taken the first step, believing her, he worried she’d start expecting miracles from him.
The officer gave him what info he had and sent Ryder a DMV photo. She beamed out at the camera as if it held all her hopes and dreams. She’d been lovely—hard to reconcile the girl in the photo with the ravaged victim they’d found in the tunnels. “It’s her. She was sixteen. Address in the Tower, but no missing-persons report. Just like the others.”
They sat there a few moments, his feet on the ground, hers swinging in the air, dog lying with his chin on his paws, staring up at them both.
He should head back over to the Tower—God, he was sick of that place—notify the parents. Rossi should’ve been home in bed. She looked wrecked. He probably did as well.
Instead, they sat in silence. It felt good. Comfortable. As if the rest of the world had vanished.
He shook his head. He wasn’t prone to such philosophical thoughts. Hell, he still hadn’t made good on his promise to buy her dinner.
Swallowing a regretful sigh, he slid to his feet. The dog shook himself and stood beside him.
She sat, looking like a kid, her feet still swinging. “Can I come?”
“I’m going to—”
“Notify Allie’s parents. I know. I’d like to come with you.”
She jumped down from the cot. “I’ve made notifications before, and I’d like to talk to them. She belongs to us.”
By “us” she meant the Advocacy Center and the Sex and Juvie Squad. He considered and nodded. Far better than her venturing into the Tower on her own. Which he wouldn’t have put past her.
One thing tonight had shown him: Rossi was good company. Better than most partners he’d worked with. He trusted her, even if she didn’t carry a weapon.
First time in a long time that he’d trusted anyone. Including himself.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I could have gone home. It was half past three, and chances were the bar would be quiet for a few hours until the family party resumed. Holidays with long weekends translated to marathon jam sessions, the music handing off from one player to the next, virtually never-ending. Jacob and my uncle would have persuaded me to perform with the band, and then after, I’d have been forced to mingle, make small talk as I invented new ways to avoid my mother—while watching her avoid me.
Not tonight. Family was just too hard. And what if I had a spell or something happened in front of them? I couldn’t let them know I was sick, not until I had answers.
Ryder had given me the perfect out, a way to avoid my family, avoid my lonely apartment above the bar with the music vibrating through the floors rattling its guilt into my very marrow if I didn’t join in, and avoid thinking about, well, too many things to count.
Hell, between Allie and the seven kids we’d rescued from the tunnels, I might be able to avoid my family for days.
I went to expedite Ryder’s discharge. He was in favor of ignoring the paperwork and leaving against medical advice, but since we were dealing with workers’ comp issues, and I knew he was already skating the edge with his superiors, I figured it was best to take a few minutes to follow the rules for once. And it gave me a chance to double-check that his head CT was really okay.
As usual, my timing sucked. I returned to find Jacob standing in Ryder’s alcove, his coat smelling of sweat, cigarettes, and beer, as he played his role of DA heavy. It doesn’t happen very often, but I hate when he gets that way, all, “There’s a reason the law works, and it’s not up to you to interpret it. Leave that to us lawyers.” Treating me and my staff like we’re grunts, jackknifing to his commands. Even worse, usually he’s right, and when we do things his way, we win our cases. Doesn’t always mean the victims win, though.
Another reason why we’re still divorced. He puts the law first; I put the victims first.
Then I got close enough to hear what he was saying. He wasn’t fired up about the law; this was about me.
“Want to explain to me how a civilian consultant, my wife, ended up down in those tunnels with you getting shot at? Or why I’m apparently one of the last to hear about it?” Jacob stood facing Ryder, his shirt sweat-stained and wrinkled. He’d come here straight from my uncle’s bar, no doubt. Our music, that’s what had kept Jacob and I together in the first place. Playing music, riffing off one another, finding hidden gems of chords and unexpected grace in the notes as they soared around us, that was always when we were at our best.
“If your ex-wife wanted you to know, I guess she would have called you herself,” Ryder said, his voice matching Jacob’s level, lethal tone.
It wasn’t often Jacob found someone immune to his snake-charmer mojo. If there hadn’t been two parents waiting for us to wake them from their sleep and tell them their daughter was dead, it might have been fun to watch.
“Ready to go,” I told Ryder.
Jacob didn’t spin around when he heard my voice. He wobbled. I realized the smell of beer wasn’t only from his clothing—one of the many hazards of attending my family’s gatherings—but that he was well on his way to being drunk. For a man who seldom finished a single beer, that wasn’t far to go.
“Angie.” He made my name sound like a weight, something that had to be pulled out of him. “Are you all right? Do you have any idea how many times I called you?”
Hell. I’d turned my phone off while working with the kids and hadn’t turned it back on.
He had no business being worried. It rankled me that he was so possessive, as if he still owned part of my heart, belonged in my life.
Of course he did. Just like my family did. Didn’t mean I had to like it. “I’ve been busy.”
His chin jerked at my tone. Outside the legal arena, he’s a pretty easygoing man, not easily wounded except by those he cares for. Even now, the expression that flashed across his face wasn’t anger or hurt, it was concern. Ignoring Ryder, he stepped into my space and gathered me into his arms.
“You look like hell. Sure you’re okay? When I got the call—”
God, I hated how good his arms felt around me. I almost succumbed to the temptation of melting into them and letting him carry me away from everything. Would have except I felt Ryder’s presence as strongly as Jacob’s. I was torn between loyalties, which was idiotic—I didn’t owe either man anything.
I pushed Jacob away. It was harder than I wanted it to be. “I’m fine. But our rapist has struck again. This time a sixteen-year-old. She didn’t make it.”
He frowned, sobering. “Sixteen? Younger than the others.”
Ryder settled down onto the physician’s chair, straddling it just like he had when we’d first met less than twelve hours earlier. My mind buzzed with everything that had happened since.
“Walk me through this case. Seeing as it’s now officially mine,” he said, all business now. “I read Harrison’s reports, but it’s always better to hear things firsthand.” Harrison was the detective who had died two weeks ago, the one Ryder was replacing.
Ozzie nuzzled my leg, coaxing me toward the exam table. I slumped onto its thin mattress. Not another fugue. I had no aura of unbidden music, just simple, sheer exhaustion. Ozzie sat on the floor, stretching his head to fit perfectly beneath my hand as I scratched behind his ears, giving him a silent thank-you.
Jacob paced, posture straight, a storyteller weaving his magic, just like he did in a courtroom. “Four women, that we know of,” he began. “All taken and held for days—the longest, a week. That was the first, Miranda Elsevier. Twenty-six, single mom, no official employment, but she used to work off the books cleaning restaurants after hours.”
“Lived in the Tower?” Ryder asked.
Jacob nodded. “Taken from there as well. Same with the others—”
“Same with this last girl. Well, lived there. We’re not sure where she was taken from. No missing-person report.”
“That tracks as well. Harrison traced the victims back to the Tower, but when he went to their apartments, they’d all been emptied. No one in the Tower even acknowledged these women existed, much less that they lived alongside them for years.”
“Tyree Willard’s doing. Easier to disappear someone than deal with the cops.”
“That’s what Harrison said. Before—” Jacob paused. “Before his accident.”
I hadn’t really liked Harrison. It was clear he hadn’t enjoyed working with our victims, but he’d been more than competent, and I had appreciated that.
“Anyway, the others fit the same profile as Miranda. Single, no documented employment, early to mid-twenties, no one reporting them missing.”
“Miranda Elsevier, Bekka Brown, Yvonne Taylor, Susannah DeWitt, and now Alamea Syha.” Ryder recited the victims’ names like a prayer. “All kept for days. Means the actor has a safe haven, someplace he’s certain no one can disturb him or find the victims. All taken from the Tower—”
“We think,” Jacob said. “Not sure about Alamea.”
“All living in the Tower, possibly all taken from there. He knows the Tower, can blend in—”
“Or he’s got pull with the residents there,” I interjected. “Someone in authority.”
“Tyree?” Ryder said in a tone of excitement. From the gleam in his eyes, he’d enjoy locking up the gang leader. “No. He doesn’t have to go to such extremes to ge
t access to women from the Tower. Not to mention everything pointing back at the Tower. Tyree isn’t sloppy or stupid. Way too much risk of it blowing up in his face with the girls being left alive.”
“Wouldn’t really call it alive,” I put in. “What he did to their brains is almost as bad as the torture their bodies suffered.”
“No chance of recovery?”
I shrugged. “Too early to say for sure, but it’s been months since the first, Miranda, and there’s been no improvement.”
His eyes narrowed as he stared at the chains suspending the curtain around the alcove. Then he nodded once, a small movement, and returned his attention to us. “Tell me about that, about this PXA drug.”
Jacob looked to me, handing over the baton. I was too exhausted to move, so I stayed where I was. “PXA is a synthetic compound, a variant of ketamine—which is in turn related to LSD—but with devastating properties. It provides the same dissociative state as ketamine, but instead of anesthesia, it activates pain receptors, causing feedback loops so the impact of any painful stimuli is multiplied.”
“So this actor,” the term the police used for unknown suspects, “isn’t just inflicting physical torture on his victims. He’s using this drug to amplify the effect of what he’s doing to them?” Ryder shook his head. “Is that why the first four ended up in the psych ward? He drove them crazy with pain?”
“There’s a bit more neurochemistry involved, but, yes, basically the high doses of PXA combined with the physical stress to overload their neuroreceptors. The problem is, when you jam up the system like that, you jam up everything.”
“So he fried their brains. Like a meth head or crack addict, only faster? Sounds like this guy must know his chemistry and maybe something about medicine. I mean, from the tox reports, it seems as if he’s trying different doses, shortening the time until he gets the end result he wants.” Despite the fact he wasn’t scheduled to officially start working the case until next week, it was clear Ryder had done his homework.