A Deeper Darkness

by J. T. Ellison

  Fletcher asked, “So what’s in the folder?”

  “Let’s see. He said I was the insurance policy, so it must be something inflammatory.” Sam flipped open the folder, pushed the overhead light above her right shoulder. The pages inside were blank, but something thin fell out into her lap. A CD in a clear sleeve.

  “There’s a disc in here.” She flipped it to and fro. “No writing on it. We need to get to a computer and take a look, see what this is.”

  “Hart’s laptop is in the trunk. Just hang on a second while I pull over.”

  Fletcher steered the car to the curb, and Hart hopped out before the car had come to a complete stop.

  Fletcher turned to Sam. “So whaddaya say we—”

  Sam heard the strangest noise. A dull thunk. The car moved slightly.

  “Did you hear that?” she said, just as Fletcher’s head swiveled and he screamed, “Get down!” His door flew open and he dived sideways from the car. She saw him land on the sidewalk, roll and start firing behind them, his weapon discharging again and again. She could hear him shouting, calling for Hart, and she huddled in the backseat, her heart beating a mile a minute, praying. There was a sudden burst of fire behind them, what sounded like an automatic weapon, and the car shook from the volley. She couldn’t be safe in here. And they couldn’t be safe out there.

  Sam started to move, to where she didn’t know, and heard Fletcher shouting, “Radio, radio—Sam, get on the radio. We need backup!”

  She slithered over the front seat and, lying flat against the leather, grabbed for the radio mounted on the dash.

  “We need help!” she yelled. She didn’t know the codes, all the cop speak, so she went for logic instead. “Detectives Fletcher and Hart and Dr. Samantha Owens. We are on K Street, three blocks south of Lafayette Park, under fire— I repeat, we are taking fire. Someone is shooting at us, and the detectives are returning fire. Please send someone.”

  Sam unkeyed the mike, heard a torrent of words and static. A woman’s voice said, “Repeat, repeat,” and Sam shouted all the information again, looking over her shoulder. The shooting had stopped, but that didn’t mean the danger was over. She saw Fletcher run to the passenger’s side of the car. He came to the passenger window and yelled, “Ambulance,” through the glass. He had blood on his shirt, she didn’t know from whom, him or Hart. Oh, my God. One of them had been shot.

  Sadly, that call was one she knew how to make. She keyed the mike again. “Officer down. We need an ambulance sent to the shooting on K Street. I repeat, officer down.”

  She dropped the radio and flew out of the car. Fletcher was at the back bumper, kneeling over Hart, who wasn’t moving.

  The fear left her immediately. Finally, something she could do to help. Sam pushed Fletcher away from Hart’s body. “Let me see him. Where’s he hit?”

  “I don’t know,” Fletcher yelled. “He has on a vest, so the blood’s coming from somewhere else.”

  She dropped to her knees, pulled Fletcher away from his partner. Hart was canted to the side facing her, like he’d taken the shot upright, then slid down the car. There was blood everywhere.

  “Fletch, take a breath. Get me your Maglite.” She started running her hands over Hart’s body, feeling for an entrance wound.

  Fletcher grabbed his Mag from the front seat, then scrambled back around the car and shone the beam on his partner, waving it frantically up and down his body.

  Sam pointed at Hart’s head, and spoke as calmly as she could. “Fletch. Slow. Start here, at the top.”

  The wound was in the base of Hart’s throat, an inch above the notch where the bulletproof vest cradled his collarbones and an inch to the right. Sirens sounded, drawing closer. But there was so much blood… She didn’t think there was time. He wasn’t breathing, and his pulse faded out under her fingertips. His airway was constricted from the bullet’s explosion. She didn’t think it had severed his windpipe, just that the trauma was causing swelling and blood was filling the field.

  Regardless, they had to get him started again.

  Sam laid Hart down, tilted his head back and gave him three quick breaths, happy to see his chest rise from her blows. She started chest compressions. “Do you have a defibrillator in the car?”

  “Yeah.” Fletcher was white as a ghost. He didn’t have to be asked twice, he ran to the trunk and grabbed the portable unit. Fletcher had calmed, his training taking over, and as Sam lifted her hands off his partner’s chest, he unstrapped Hart’s vest. It only took a moment, then they both ripped at his shirt. Fletcher handed Sam the unit and she got it going, attaching the leads while it charged. She bent and gave him three more quick breaths, then two long ones.

  “It’s ready. Clear,” Fletcher said, and hit the button.

  A shock wave of electricity coursed through Hart’s body, making his heart jump in time. Sam put her fingers on his carotid. There was a single pulse, then it stopped.

  “Again,” she said, hitting the button herself this time. The unit whined as it charged and Sam felt the moments slipping away. Jesus, this was why she didn’t work on live people, she was afraid to lose them… . Breathe, you dummy, breathe.

  “Ready. Clear.”

  Fletcher hit the button and Hart’s body rose, his back arched. When it settled, Sam sat with her eyes closed, willing his heart to start. It did. She felt the pulse skip under her fingers, and then the paramedics were there. She stepped back and let them work. They slapped a mask on him and hyperventilated his lungs. When they stopped Hart’s chest rose of its own accord.

  She stepped back and directly into Fletcher, who clutched on to her. “It worked?” he whispered.

  “Yes. For now,” she answered.

  “Thank you.”

  She turned away from Hart, looked up at Fletcher. “What the hell?”

  Fletcher shook his head, pointed at the car. They’d been hit at least six times, with Hart taking a shot, as well.

  “If we hadn’t stopped…”

  “They were behind us. He, I think, I only saw one. If we hadn’t stopped, they might have hit all of us, driven right up beside us and shot… Fuck.”

  Fletcher weaved for a second, then sat down abruptly in the street crossed-legged.

  Sam kneeled next to him. “Are you hit?”

  “Yeah, I think so. No. I don’t know.”

  “Where does it hurt?”

  He pointed to his left arm. Sam thought that blood was Hart’s. She lifted Fletcher’s left hand gently, saw the tear in the fabric just above his elbow. He was wearing a white button-down—it was soaked nearly black in this spot.

  “Hang tight, I’ve got to cut your sleeve off.”

  He nodded and she went to the paramedics, who were sitting back on their heels over Hart, looking quite satisfied with themselves.

  “He gonna be okay?” she asked.

  A skinny guy with a flattop turned to her and nodded. “Yeah. You did good, getting him back in sinus. Where’d you learn that?”

  “Georgetown Med. His partner’s hit, too. Can I borrow you?”

  “Sure, Doc. Lead the way.”

  She took him back to Fletcher. He was talking blankly to a large African-American man with a holster on his hip. As she drew closer she realized he was listening, not talking.

  “The fuck you doing, Fletch? Why the hell didn’t you tell me you were gonna get shot tonight?”

  “I’m shot?”

  “He’s in shock,” Sam said to the man, rather unnecessarily. The paramedic excused himself and barreled in between the two of them, dropping to his knees and tearing Fletcher’s sleeve open. The wound was raw, but didn’t look life-threatening.

  Sam turned to the newest addition to the scene. “And you are?”

  He looked at
her in surprise. “Captain Fred Roosevelt. Who are you?”

  “Dr. Samantha Owens. You’re Fletcher’s boss?”

  “Yes, ma’am. What in the hell is going on here? He tried to tell me, but you interrupted. Good thing you did, idiot didn’t say he’d been hit.”

  Roosevelt looked both worried and like he wanted to boot Fletcher in the ass. It was menacingly sweet.

  “It’s a through-and-through. He’s gonna be fine. Other guy’s gonna be okay, too. Good thing they had a doctor in the car with them,” the paramedic chimed in.

  Roosevelt’s eyes closed briefly, then opened and focused intensely on Sam’s. “Good. Now talk.”

  Sam took a deep breath. “It’s a long story. We are investigating a lead from the Edward Donovan murder case.”

  “We.” Roosevelt’s tone cooled immeasurably. “We being you, Fletcher and Hart?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And why, pray tell, is a civilian working a murder investigation in my town? Not only that, but without my authorization?”

  “I’m not entirely a civilian. I’m a chief medical examiner, from Nashville. I’ve been around—”

  “Cap, I asked her to help,” Fletcher groaned from somewhere behind Roosevelt’s meaty calves.

  Roosevelt tore his laser gaze from Sam and directed it on Fletcher. “You asked her to help. Did you think you might want to clue me in that you’ve got some fucking chick riding along with you on a case? Or did that slip your mind?”

  Roosevelt proceeded to dress down Fletcher, using some of the more colorful language Sam hadn’t heard in years. She might have enjoyed the show had she not been covered in the blood of two men—men she was becoming rather fond of—one of which was being loaded into an ambulance, the other who was sitting on the hard pavement with a bloody bandage wrapped around his arm, his pants and shirt soaked in his own and his partner’s gore.

  Sam got right up close to Roosevelt and held her bloody, sticky hands in front of his face.

  “Excuse me, Captain Roosevelt? Do you mind if I wash my hands? It’s been a long night.”

  He took a step back and stopped yelling. Her point was made.

  Fletcher tossed her a look of gratitude, and she smiled at him. He had saved her life tonight. They’d forged a bond that would be hard to tear asunder.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  McLean, Virginia

  Susan Donovan

  Susan vaguely heard the house phone ringing. She opened her eyes, realized she’d fallen asleep with her head on Eddie’s desk. She struggled upright and went to the kitchen to answer. Eddie had been planning to add the house line onto his office phone. Instead, she’d have to get that business line disconnected, put the office phone back on the regular phone number.

  She didn’t recognize the caller ID, but that wasn’t unusual this week.

  “Hello?” she answered.

  “Susan? It’s Karen. Karen Fisher. I’m so glad I caught you.”

  “Hey, Karen.” Susan couldn’t hide the exhaustion from her voice anymore.

  “Oh, you sound beat. Honey, I’m so sorry I couldn’t make the funeral. I’m… Listen, are you at home? Can I come over?”

  Susan glanced at her watch. It was getting late. She really should be heading back to Eleanor’s. And the last thing she wanted right now was a trip down Karen’s memory lane. When she’d lost King, she hadn’t handled things well. She’d want to commiserate, and it would become all about Karen.

  “Why don’t we do this tomorrow, Karen. I need to head to my mother-in-law’s and get the girls.”

  “I’m afraid tomorrow might be too late. It’s important, Susan. Really important. Life or death.”

  Life or death. What the hell was Susan supposed to say to that?

  Fine. Just…fine.

  “Are you close by? Maybe I could just meet you—”

  “I’m at the 7-Eleven behind your neighborhood. Oh, my God, Susan, thank you. I’ll be there in just a second.”

  She hung up. Susan rubbed sleep from her eyes, grabbed a Diet Coke from the refrigerator. She went back to the office to close the doors, snapping on the hall light as she went. There was enough illumination to spill into Eddie’s room, and Susan noticed the picture of the boys, the one the cops were so interested in, was crooked. She shook her head; she’d just straightened it the other day. She was one of those people who were driven crazy by a misaligned picture. She had that innate ability to see if something was crooked. Eddie had teased her about it all the time, sometimes going so far as to knock pictures a little off center just to watch her blood boil when she entered the room.

  Her heart skipped a beat.

  Eddie.

  If only that were the case. Susan didn’t believe in ghosts. She believed in heaven, and hell, and purgatory for those who did bad things but could eventually be redeemed. But she didn’t think the dead lingered behind, haunting their loved ones.

  Seeing that picture crooked was enough to make her doubt everything she’d believed in for her entire life. But that was wishful thinking. She told herself that, even though her flesh was crawling.

  She turned on the overhead light and walked to the wall. Straightened the picture. As she turned to leave she noticed it swung back down to the right, crooked again.

  That was strange.

  She straightened it again. As she watched, the frame slowly slid to the right.

  Goose bumps paraded up and down her arms. Then she thought of that movie, the one with Demi Moore and Patrick Swayze, and shook her head. This wasn’t a penny sliding up the wall. Eddie wasn’t invisible in the room, using all his ghostly energy to push the picture off its center. There was a totally rational explanation for why the picture wouldn’t align properly.

  She took the photo off the wall and flipped it over. The backing was bulging, that’s why it was listing. See, she told the universe. She pushed on the hard cardboard to try to pop it back in place, but it wouldn’t budge. Something was making it protrude from its regular spot. The back was stuck, too. She tried and tried to get it to pull out, with no luck. Just as she decided she needed to grab a pair of pliers, it suddenly gave way. The backing came off with a rapid slide, and several pieces of paper fluttered to the ground.

  She knelt and picked them up. Felt the breath leave her body.

  The pages were from Eddie’s journal.

  The doorbell rang.

  Shit. Karen was here.

  Susan folded the pages in half and shoved them in her back pocket, and slid the backing into the frame. She put the picture back on the wall, saw that it now hung straight and went to the front door.

  Karen Fisher looked like hell. The rain had just begun to fall, but it was picking up in earnest. Karen’s dark hair was wet already, and her voice shook from the chilly air.

  “Oh, my God, Karen, what’s wrong? Come in, before the rain gets worse.”

  Susan hustled Karen into the foyer and shut the door behind them.

  “Thank God you were home. I didn’t know where else to go.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Karen looked exhausted. Black circles paraded under her eyes, and she smelled the tiniest bit like alcohol. And cigarettes. When had she started smoking?

  “I just… Susan, can we sit down?”

  Susan felt the alarm coming off Karen. Something really was wrong.

  “Of course. Of course. Come on into the kitchen. Can I make you some coffee? Tea?”

  Karen followed her into the kitchen. Out of habit, Susan turned to the stove and started to fill the kettle.

  “No,” Karen said. Her voice wasn’t shaking anymore. “But you can tell me why you never shared the truth with me. Why you didn’t come straight to me when you found out Eddie
killed my husband?”

  Susan set the full kettle down on the stove with a thump. “What in the hell are you talking about, Karen? Eddie didn’t kill Perry. He loved Perry.”

  “Don’t take another step, Susan. I’m warning you.”

  Susan heard the menace in Karen’s voice. She stilled in her tracks, then turned slowly toward the woman.

  Karen had a Glock pointed at Susan’s chest.

  Without thinking, Susan gasped and started to back away. Holy Mary, mother of God, what in the hell was Karen doing with a gun?

  “Stop!”

  Susan stopped.

  “Eddie did kill Perry,” she said. “And I have the files to prove it.”

  Susan held her breath. Karen was mumbling to herself, the gun wavering in her hand. Susan’s thoughts raced. Could this be true? Could this be what got Eddie killed? Is this what was on his papers? Susan tossed all of that away and went into survival mode. She’d taken self-defense classes, and spent the past thirteen years married to a Ranger. If she could just distract Karen, maybe she could get the gun out of her hands. Or better yet, persuade her to set the damn thing down. Susan had her own weapon, stashed on top of the breakfront…but that was two rooms away, and with Karen in her path, she’d have to fight by hand.

  “Karen, put the gun down. We can’t talk like this. I’ve never heard anything—”

  “Shut up! Just shut up. I’ve seen the proof. Eddie is the reason Perry died.”

  Against every instinct, Susan took a step closer to Karen.

  “I’ve never heard anything about this, Karen. You have to believe me. Eddie never said anything about it. And you know how they were. Confession was the only thing that kept them sane, both he and Perry. Whether they did it with God or with us, late at night, they told us everything that mattered. And Eddie never told me this.”

  “Ha. You think he was so perfect. He wasn’t. He was just as bad as the rest of them. Just as bad as you.”