by Jasmine Walt
“Bishop,” he said, stunned. “I was just joking, I didn’t mean—”
“What was in that folder he gave you?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
Bishop shifted and crossed her arms, her eyes resolute. “Well, your jokes aren’t funny, and I don’t want to talk about it, so we might as well work the case. What did he find out?”
Brennan looked at her for a moment, his own eyes hard. A few years his senior, Noel was a tough nut to crack. She was resilient, but some wounds took more time to heal, and adultery was one hell of a wound. Nothing he could say right then would sway her, and he knew that particular conversation was over. For now.
He took the manila folder from the seat and opened it on the table so Bishop could read. Her eyes scanned each page as she cycled through them, picking out relevant details.
“You had him look into Zachariah’s financial history? Why? We know what he makes, he’s just a part-time pharmacist.”
“Right,” Brennan said. “But did you look at where he was living? He had some things even I couldn’t afford.”
Bishop raised an eyebrow. “We don’t make much.”
“True enough. This kid is fresh out of college, though. He should be worrying about student loans and making enough money just to keep the heat on.”
“The neighborhood was pretty bad. Maybe he took a cheap home in exchange for having his luxuries inside?”
“That could—”
Their food arrived, and Brennan pushed the folder toward the window so the plates could be set down. Sausage links, hash browns, two buttermilk biscuits, a Belgian waffle, and a glass of O.J. for Brennan. Coffee and a plate of “short stack” pancakes were placed before Bishop. Brennan thought of making a height joke, but wisely reconsidered.
“That could be true,” he continued, cutting into his food. “What does it say about relatives?”
“Relatives?”
“He could be a trust fund baby,” he said, shoving a piece of sausage into his mouth.
“Your parents secretly run a trust fund, don’t they?” Bishop asked jokingly. She took a bite of her pancakes as she reached for the folder.
“Did everything come out all right here?” asked the waitress, suddenly reappearing. Brennan gave her what he meant to be an appreciative nod. “Great! I’ll check back with you in a bit.”
Papers rustled in Bishop’s hands as she looked past Zachariah’s financials and into his family history. “Says here that his parents are both living in Michigan, some small town in the middle of nowhere. They haven’t had contact in years, so it’s doubtful they’re the ones supporting him.”
Brennan grunted. It was puzzling, but it was also a dead end. “Let’s put that aside for now,” he said. “The motive: what was it? Cut a man up like that, that’s personal. Bad blood between Nettle and our killer, that’s for sure.”
“He didn’t even have time to stand,” Bishop added. “The killer planned this out.”
They both sat chewing their food noiselessly, thinking of the implications. It could have been a relationship gone wrong, like Bishop and McCarthy’s, with the girlfriend turning into some sort of femme fatale. Another possibility was that Zachariah had somehow gotten himself into trouble, maybe borrowed money from the wrong people to pay off his loans and couldn’t repay those debts. He did live in a rough neighborhood, after all. Or maybe they were completely off-base and it was a robbery gone wrong. The fact that Nettle had been caught off guard could just be a coincidence. The kinds of toys Zachariah had kept in that apartment were worth a small fortune. But none of it had gone missing, so—
“Might I interest either of you in some coffee?” asked a sweet voice. The waitress had returned.
Without raising an eye or turning her head, Bishop casually reached up and adjusted the strap of her shoulder holster. The butt of her gun just barely showed through the unzipped opening in her jacket. There was nothing overtly threatening in the gesture, but the waitress visibly gulped and took a step back.
“The bill is ready whenever you need it,” she said hesitantly. She backed away quickly. “Thanks for coming in.”
“Don’t you think that was a little cruel?” Brennan asked.
“No harm done,” Bishop murmured into her coffee. She looked toward the retreating waitress and smiled. It looked more like she was baring her teeth.
“You’re insane,” he told her, chuckling.
“We all have our flaws. So I’ve been thinking—and don’t you dare say ‘That’s a nice change’ or I will brain you,” she threatened as Brennan opened his mouth. “I’ve been thinking that maybe someone knew who would want to hurt Nettle. His parents are estranged, but somebody who worked with him at the pharmacy could know something.”
Brennan nodded. “Good thinking. Need me to come along?”
“No, I can handle it.” She looked up at Brennan, taking in his lined face and sunken eyes. “Maybe you should head back home, get a few hours of sleep,” she suggested. “You look like death.”
“Death wished it looked this good.” Brennan grinned, standing from the table.
“Oh, shut up. Go get the bill from our waitress.” She smiled fiercely. “I think I’ve frightened her.”
6
Jeremy regretted not bringing a hat.
The storm clouds were a distant memory, and the sun beat down mercilessly upon his head. The blond atop his head reflected some of the light, and he was certainly better off than Ellie would have been with her curtains of raven-black hair, but his cheeks felt hot and his mouth had dried up entirely.
He had forgotten to change into pants before setting out for the Tower. While he was thankful for the breeze that blew against his bare legs, each step through the switchgrass left long, thin scratches on the exposed skin. Now, in addition to the accumulating cuts, Jeremy had to contend with impending dehydration.
The walk was longer than he realized, and he arrived at the Tower later than he would have liked. He jumped into and out of the moat with relative ease, his shoes breaking through the crust of dried mud at the bottom. He was grateful for the cool shelter provided by the shadowy interior of the largest building the fort had to offer. His heart pounded in his ears as he looked around the Tower from the inside for the first time.
The doorway opened into a large, circular chamber. As his eyes adjusted, Jeremy noticed that light actually filtered down into the room through the broken ceiling above. Dominating the center of the room was a massive stone table, square and imposing. It was a solid slab that merged seamlessly with the ground, as if it and the Tower had been hewn from the rock of the mountain itself.
Along one edge of the room was a short series of steps, also solid stone, which seemed to end abruptly as they met the wall. Jeremy walked closer and felt against the wall, looking for a pressure plate or hidden mechanism that might open a secret door, but his fingers only met cold, smooth stone. He flattened his palms against the wall and leaned his whole body into it, but the wall was unyielding. If there was a door, he couldn’t open it.
He turned away, dejected, and noticed a strange series of deep, rectangular furrows that ascended a narrow strip of the wall. It took him a moment to recognize that the width and spacing formed a ladder leading up to the next floor. He crossed the room to it. His fingers fit easily in the smooth, regular openings made for a man’s hands, and he climbed up and onto the most curious platform he had ever seen.
The light below had not, as he had thought, been filtering through breaks in the floor. The openings looked as regularly spaced and carved as the ladder had been and, taken altogether, the floor resembled a bicycle wheel, with a solid circular center. The ladder emerged between two of the wheel’s spokes.
At the end of each spoke was a tall, curved window, five in total, though he didn’t remember seeing the windows from outside. Each window had an embedded shape of stained glass, each one a unique image pulled from nature. Otherwise, the room was empty.
A light
tremor passed through the stone, almost undetectable. Jeremy briefly considered leaving, worried that the building might come down around him as the other had, but the shaking stopped almost as soon as he felt it.
Jeremy tiptoed along his spoke until he had reached the center, and there he crouched, one knee resting against the stone. The building was old, older than old, and he couldn’t be sure that this floor was as secure as it seemed. His shins were caked with dust as he kneeled.
Patiently, he waited, and minutes crept by with nothing happening. The stone didn’t shift or crumble beneath him; nothing extraordinary unfolded. He sighed out a breath of relief. And disappointment.
What was I expecting?
“I should have climbed back down the ladder,” he said to no one, shaking his head. “Stupid.”
He stood again, feeling slightly foolish, and started walking back to the stone-etched ladder when a glimmer of light flashed in the corner of his eye. He glanced around, caught it again in his other eye, and turned to squarely face one of the windows—its stained-glass imprint looked like a puddle surrounded by sticks. Through the clear glass around it, light shimmered off something in the distance, and as he approached he could make out a ring of trees around a shimmering lake that looked almost black from so far away.
Something pulled at the edge of his awareness, grabbing for his attention, but he waved it off. It was almost mid-afternoon, and he could still make it home before sundown if he left now. Still, he could look out the other windows, just once, before he started the long walk home. He returned to the center and chose the next spoke to the right. Clockwise, he went to each window, and he saw in turn an orchard of fuzzy peach trees, a huge collection of flowers, and the familiar wild, open fields of the valley.
He walked confidently along the final spoke and looked out into a veritable blizzard of white flower petals. The ground was completely covered in them, and a flurry of the petals danced in the wind, obscuring much of the view.
No, he thought, that’s…snow. There was snow, right here before his eyes.
He took a step back. This was summer; there was no snow in the valley.
Another step and, unaware of his surroundings, Jeremy’s foot slipped over the edge of the spoke and robbed him of his balance. He had enough time to realize that his orchards had pears, not peaches, before slamming his head against a neighboring spoke and plummeting to the stone floor below.
7
Brennan’s apartment was furnished for comfort and function, rather than fashion.
The living room served as an entry point, housing a single couch, a reclining chair, and an unimpressive television set. On either side of the television stood bookshelves crammed with an assortment of well-thumbed titles that spent as much time on the shelf as in his hands. On the opposite wall was the door to his bedroom and adjoining bath.
He knew he should retire to the bedroom and at least try to sleep, just as he knew it was a useless endeavor. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t rest until the case was solved. Truth be told, he ached in his bones and would have given anything for twenty-four hours straight of safe, solid sleep. But he knew better.
The fact was that he hadn’t slept more than a couple spare hours on any given night in years. It had aged him before his time, wearied lines worn heavily into his once young face. Sleep was a luxury that he could no longer afford.
No, sleep wasn’t an option, so he threw himself into the habit he’d followed for years: calm, calculated detective work. He would take the frustration he carried with him and throw it into his work, chasing murderers as if they were the ones who personally robbed him of his rest. It wasn’t an easy job, but it was safer than sleep.
He spent the day reviewing Sam’s files. They knew the pharmacist, Zachariah Nettle, had been living beyond his means, though there was no explanation yet of how. The murder weapon, a knife, was easily concealable. There were no signs of forced entry, which indicated that Zachariah knew whoever had killed him. He didn’t really buy the idea that this was a random attack. Why sneak in through the window, murder Nettle, and then leave all the valuables? The luxurious lifestyle and the violently personal nature of the murder were linked somehow.
So he looked over the pages again and again, not certain of what he was searching for yet certain that there was something. He pored over Sam’s financial history on Zachariah Nettle, but there was no record of supplemental income from either the parents or any second job.
He rubbed his hand over his eyes, willing himself to stay awake, but his eyes were heavy and he was losing focus. When his phone rang, he jolted in his seat. “Yeah?”
“Um, Uncle Arty?” It took Brennan a moment to recognize the voice on the other end.
“Greg? What’s up? Is everything all right with your mother?”
“That’s why I’m calling,” he said.
His nephew sounded on edge, and Brennan sat up a little straighter. “What’s wrong?”
“She’s having one of her fits, it’s really bad. I don’t know if I can handle her this time. Can you help me? I think she might need to see a doctor.”
A weight dropped in Brennan’s gut. He knew what they would be told if she was taken to the hospital in her condition.
“Do you think you can come over?” his nephew asked plaintively.
“Yeah, Greg, just keep her calm until I get there.” He grabbed his jacket and was halfway through the door. “I’ll be over in ten minutes.”
8
The first sensation he had was of pain.
It felt as if someone were going to work on the inside of his skull with a sledgehammer. His shoulders were stiff, and small flares of pain burned along the left side of his body as he struggled against the heavy sheets that were wrapped around him. Scrapes and bruises called out their existence to him as he slowly regained consciousness.
He hadn’t yet opened his eyes, but his other senses compensated. He felt a dry heat against his face and heard the crackling of a well-fed fire, and he knew he was back in his bedroom at the ranch house. Only one ear seemed to be hearing properly, though. His lips were cracked and his throat yearned for water. He heard a low growl and realized it had come from his stomach.
Jeremy opened his eyes and tried to rise in bed, but the simple sheets proved too much for his feeble strength. The fire continued to crackle as he lay there, though he couldn’t manage to fall back asleep. He was too painfully aware of the aches in his body.
“You’re back with us,” remarked an unfamiliar female voice.
Someone shifted by the door, and footsteps rapidly approached the bed. “Jeremy?” That was undoubtedly his mother’s voice.
He hadn’t realized there were other people in the room until just then. Jeremy struggled to rise, and this time succeeded in gaining a more upright sitting position, his back leaning against several pillows. In addition to an unfamiliar Asian woman and his mother, Jeremy noted with surprise that his father, Nathaniel Scott, stood by the fire, his face half lit by the flickering orange light. His arms were lightly wrapped in bandages and he held them crossed against his chest.
“Dad,” he said uncertainly.
The strange woman gently placed a hand on Jeremy’s head. “Don’t overexert yourself.” She felt for his temperature and evidently found it acceptable. “My name is Dr. Kai,” she said, taking a stethoscope from around her neck. She placed it over his heart as she asked, “Can you tell me where you are?”
Jeremy’s mind was too fragged to come up with a clever response. “I’m at home,” he told her directly.
Dr. Kai nodded. She replaced the stethoscope and took out a short, thin flashlight, no wider than a pencil. “I want you to follow the light with only your eyes.” He followed the light as she moved it in straight lines, this way and that. “Do you remember what happened?”
“I was—” Jeremy faltered for a moment. The memory came to him, but it seemed an absurd fabrication now. Of course there was no snow. “I fell,” he said simply.
“You remember,” she said, her voice pleased. “That’s good. I don’t see any signs of concussion, which is fortunate.” Her dark eyes met Jeremy’s for a moment before she looked away. If there was something significant in that glance, he didn’t know what it was.
He raised an uneasy hand and felt a long strip of gauze wrapped around his head over a thick bandage. “I’m not in a hospital,” he said numbly.
“Dr. Kai works with me,” his father said, speaking for the first time. His gray eyes turned from the fire to look at Jeremy, and then the Asian woman. “You can go,” he told her.
Dr. Kai nodded. “If anything else happens, or his condition worsens, you will need to take him to a hospital,” she warned him.
Nathaniel nodded. “I understand, thank you.” He opened the door for Dr. Kai, who gathered her supplies and left quickly and silently. A prolonged, awkward silence reigned. There was only the crackling of the fire to fill the room with sound until they heard the engine of the doctor’s car come to life and fade as she drove away.
“Anna,” his father said quietly.
“He just woke up.” Annabelle spoke firmly, dismissively, then turned to face her son.
Jeremy took note of the wearied look in her eyes. The skin of her face was anchored less tightly to her high cheekbones than it might have been a few years ago, and her chestnut hair had lost its luster, but the loving smile she gave him had remained unchanged throughout his life. It was a comfort, even in the darkest of times.
“Jay,” she said softly. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine,” Jeremy said, swallowing hard. Honestly, his throat was parched, and he cringed to think of what he would see if he looked in the full-length standing mirror across the room.
“Do you need me to bring you anything?” his mother asked. “Some more blankets?”