by C. J. Lyons
He pushed off from the wall, his decision made. I reached for his arm. “Devon, no. You’re better than this. Call Ryder. He can help. See if Littleton is telling the truth.”
“I will. I promise. Once it’s over. I can’t take the chance they’ll walk free.” He pulled away from me. “Go home, Angela. Or wait here with Gena and her client. They aren’t going anywhere until I check things out for myself.”
“I’ll go with you then.” Maybe I could keep him from doing something he’d regret.
He shook his head. “No. You don’t want no part of this. Call Ryder if you want. But think what these guys did to Jacob, what they could still do to him and others if we don’t put an end to them. Now.”
I reached for my phone, pulled up Ryder’s number. My finger hovered over it, but God help me, I couldn’t press it. My vision blurred, and all I could see was the alley, the men beating Jacob, his sobs of pain, his blood mixing with the dirt and grime…
I put my phone away. Devon didn’t smile or meet my eyes. He wasn’t triumphant, more like resigned. “We all do what we need to do.”
Chapter 32
RYDER FOCUSED FIRST on Littleton’s past. He started as far back as possible. Found not only a sealed juvie record but also numerous earlier adjudications removing Littleton from his biological parents. Five times before Littleton was eleven and he was permanently placed in a group home.
The family court cases were sealed as well, but there were several social worker summaries available. They didn’t make for pretty reading. Both parents were meth users and alcoholics. Mom supplemented the family income by turning tricks. A younger sibling had died under suspicious circumstances when the house burned down in a methamphetamine-related explosion. Hints of further abuse of every kind. All this before the kid was eleven.
Given his background, the fact that as an adult Littleton held a steady job and had never been convicted of anything more serious than criminal trespass should have been a testament to the success of the juvenile system—if Ryder hadn’t met the rat-faced bastard in person, seen the way he enjoyed wreaking havoc with his mind games. Littleton might look like an upstanding citizen on paper, but Ryder knew the truth.
He might not have killed Tymara or the people at the school, but he was a sadistic son of a bitch just the same.
Ryder was surprised that when he searched Sylvie Wysycki’s name on his computer, the first results were visits she’d made to the Advocacy Center, all for physical assaults from a partner. She’d spoken with the center’s social workers but had declined to name her abuser or make an official police report.
The ninety percent of the iceberg that was domestic violence, usually invisible to law enforcement.
In Wysycki’s case, she received treatment for her injuries—several times from Rossi, he noted—as well as counseling, including a referral to a safe house. After four more ER visits over ten months, she finally went. A follow-up note from the social worker said that she’d left her abuser, severing all ties.
It was dated two weeks ago. Long enough for her abuser’s sadistic anger to simmer and boil over at the school tonight.
Maybe all that anger at Tymara’s murder scene this morning hadn’t been directed at Tymara, but rather at Wysycki? If Littleton’s partner had killed Tymara in a warped tit-for-tat, it made sense he would do to his proxy victim, Tymara, everything he wished for his real-life target, Wysycki.
Talk about your co-dependent relationships. Littleton and his so-called brother were more than friends, trusted each other more than most family, the roots of their violence twisted together. Which meant time to grow and nurture that relationship. A lot of time.
He switched to the law enforcement databases. Wysycki’s only offense was the prescription-drug thefts from last spring. Felony charges, but a first offense, so instead of jail time, she’d received shock probation. Then he saw the attorneys involved: Gena Kravitz for the defense; Manny Cruz for the prosecution. Figured. Talk about your friends with benefits.
Good thing he had friends in high places as well. As if just the thought of Rossi conjured her, his phone rang. “Great timing, I was just going to call you. Everything okay?”
“I’m home, safe and sound. Everything’s fine,” she answered, sounding rushed, as if she’d just walked in the door. Strange, because she and Price should have made it back to her apartment an hour ago. Maybe Price had been able to get her to eat something. He was good with Rossi, persuading her to take care of herself even when she didn’t feel like it. “Why were you going to call me? Is Jacob—”
“Still in surgery as far as I know. Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. Can I ask a question about an Advocacy Center case you worked on? The patient is dead, if that makes a difference.”
He could almost hear her frown. “Is this to help Jacob?”
“In a way, yes. The patient was Sylvie Wysycki. She’s the woman the school massacre centered on. Do you remember treating her?” He gave her the dates.
After a pause, she answered. “Yes. I think so. What do you need to know?” She sounded hesitant. Worried about patient-confidentiality rules, no doubt.
“Can you tell me anything about her abuser? I’m guessing he might be Littleton’s partner.”
“She never gave us a name.”
“Okay, it was a long shot—”
“Wait. She did say one thing.” Again with the hesitation that was so unlike her. “What makes you think her abuser is working with Littleton?”
He explained his theory about Littleton and his partner trading off violent attacks. “As if it’s a game or something. Anyway, just like Littleton raping Tymara started all this, I thought Wysycki leaving her abuser two weeks ago could have triggered the school attack. It would have taken that long to plan, coordinate with Littleton’s trial. But I’ll bet Littleton and our other actor knew each other going back a long, long time. So when I saw you’d treated Wysycki, I hoped—”
“She said her partner was an attorney,” she interrupted. “Said that’s why she couldn’t press charges or get a restraining order.”
“A lawyer?” He would have guessed another blue-collar worker like Littleton.
“Was Manny Cruz ever involved with Littleton? I mean, have you seen any suspicion that Manny could be involved?”
“Involved in these cases?” Now he was truly surprised. “Cruz? Why would you think that?”
“Littleton said he was one of his partners. Said he helped rape Tymara.”
“Was Manny one of the men who attacked Jacob tonight?” His tone was brusque, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“No. They wore masks, but, no, I don’t think so. But Littleton said there was a group of them, all rich, well connected. Said Manny was the only one he could identify.”
“When the hell did you see Littleton?”
“Devon was the one who convinced Gena to take his case. He called her, and she arranged a meeting.”
He bit down on his anger. Price was supposed to take her home, keep her safe. Not start playing vigilante. “Tell me everything.”
“That’s it. Really. Except, Devon’s on his way to Manny’s now. And after seeing what they did to Jacob, he’s not exactly in a talking mood.”
“Shit, Rossi, why didn’t you call me?”
“I did, I am.”
“I mean before you went to meet with a rapist,” he snapped.
“I’m sorry. I should have. I almost did. But—”
“But you trust Price to get the job done more than you trust me.”
“It’s not you I don’t trust. But if Manny is involved, there’s a good chance others in a position of power are as well, and you already almost lost your job after what happened last month.”
“This isn’t about protecting my job, and you damn well know it.”
“It’s crazy, right? Manny couldn’t be involved with a man like Littleton. Doing that to Tymara—or Jacob.”
“Or the people at the school. Christ, Rossi, if you’d see
n them…” He trailed off as he remembered the way Manny had interrupted just as Littleton had been ready to talk to Ryder. And the way he caved in to Gena’s demands earlier today.
“You think it could be him,” Rossi said.
“I think I’d better get over to Manny’s before Devon Price screws up any chance of our finding out for certain.” He grabbed his coat and shut down the computer. “Are you sure you’re okay there?”
“Just walked in my front door, safe and sound. Seriously, don’t worry about me. But Ryder—”
He winced, knowing what she was going to say before she said it. Something about taking it easy on Price, no doubt. That his heart was in the right place even if his methods crossed the line. He’d never understand how she and Price got to be so close. There was some invisible bond between the two that defied reason.
“What?” he snapped.
“Please be careful.” She hung up before he could say anything more.
He slammed out the door, his anger directed as much at himself as Price and Littleton and everyone else involved in this fucked-up bloodbath of a night. How many more innocent people had to die?
<<<>>>
I HUNG UP from Ryder and glanced at the kitchen clock. Eleven twenty-seven. I’d ended the day almost exactly where I’d begun it: exhausted, wide awake, and staring at Tahiti sunsets. I felt hollowed out, empty. Somewhere along the way, during this miserable, harrowing, blood-drenched day, I’d lost something.
Mechanically, lacking any appetite, I prepared a protein shake, the whir of the blender the only noise in the apartment. With the bar closed, the building was empty except for me. It was the first time I’d been alone—truly and utterly alone—in weeks.
I missed Ozzie’s snoring. More than that, I missed Ryder.
I called the hospital and checked in with the OR charge nurse. Jacob was still in surgery. They’d found some additional internal bleeding, were removing his spleen. She hoped he’d be in the ICU in a few hours.
Tahiti’s turquoise temptation caught my eye as I downed the shake straight from the glass container. Finished drinking, I grabbed the topmost picture and ripped it free, then crumpled it in my fist. I threw it against the window. It bounced off and landed on the dining-room table in the middle of the mounds of pills and capsules.
Tears blurred my vision. To hell with Tahiti. To hell with fighting. What good was it if the people I cared about got hurt because of me? Jacob’s hands, those lovely hands that could coax beauty and passion from bow and strings and, once upon a time, my body. Who would the Brotherhood target next? Evie and my mom? Ryder? Hell, given the massacre at the school, maybe Good Sam’s pediatric ward.
I couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it except give them what they wanted. Whatever the hell that was. Because I had nothing left to give.
I rinsed out the blender container and left it soaking with soapy water in the sink. I wrung out the sponge, leaving what was left of my energy dribbling down the drain. Tired. I had never felt so tired.
Staring at the colorful assortment of pills Devon had so carefully organized into piles on my table, I slumped against the kitchen counter. Released from their well-ordered compartments, they appeared wild and untamed, filled with possibilities.
I dug the bottle of PXA from my pocket, tossed it onto the table with the others. I should have been furious at Devon for even suggesting that I drug Littleton in order to force the answers he held from his mind. It violated every oath I’d ever taken as a physician, was a betrayal of everything I’d worked for my entire life.
Yet, I wasn’t angry.
Instead, I’d been tempted. Had actually considered the unthinkable a viable option.
I ran my fingers over the small mountains of pharmaceuticals, each containing a promise. My stomach clenched—that weird feeling, half-scared, half-excited, that you get when you stand too close to the edge of a cliff. Instead of thinking of reasons why you shouldn’t jump or what would come after, you lean forward, tethered by curiosity and wondering if maybe you should jump to see how it would feel to be flying free. Wouldn’t it be glorious?
A siren song, calling to me. I wasn’t ready to die, nowhere near ready. And yet…a traitorous whisper slithered through my brain as I stared at the rainbow assortment of pills spread out like candy, calculating exactly which combo would do the job properly. When the time came.
It would be so easy. No more wondering, no more worrying, no more waiting.
Might even save lives. Protect my family and Ryder and everyone else I cared about from the Brotherhood. It wouldn’t be a bad death, as deaths went. Like drifting off to sleep…Sleep…What a beautiful word. The idea was like heaven.
My entire body trembled as I reached for the pills. I couldn’t blame it on the fatal insomnia. Except, well, I guess everything could be blamed on it. My entire life, from my dad’s death to where I stood right now, contemplating an act I’d always felt was the ultimate coward’s way out. How could I do this to my family? To Ryder? Leave them to clean up my mess of a life.
All my life, I’d been the one taking care of messes, whether shouldering the burden of guilt after Dad’s death or wading into the chaos that was a multi-casualty trauma in the ER. Was I really about to abandon that now?
My fiddle beckoned to me from its stand beside the window. I turned away from the pills. Picked up my fiddle, tucked it under my chin, raised my bow and almost dropped it from my shaking hands. I remembered my failed attempt to play this morning, anguish bending me double. My music, the one thing left of my dad that no one could ever take from me. Except my traitorous Swiss-cheesed brain.
I set my fiddle back down. If I felt like this now, in the early stages of fatal insomnia, how in hell would I be able to function after the disease ravaged my brain and turned me into a shambling zombie, unable to care for myself or communicate with the outside world?
I’d be trapped alone inside my mind. Well, not alone. Trapped with a lifetime’s worth of memories from a murdered nun, a tortured teenage girl, and a sadistic serial killer.
I closed my eyes, pressing my forehead against the icy glass of the darkened window, trying to imagine a future, any future. I wanted desperately to see a vision of Ryder. Ryder and me together. My wish I may, wish I might fantasy, the one I never dared admit to myself.
All I saw was black. All I felt was fear.
I turned to stare at the PXA, my genie locked inside a bottle. Could I unleash it? Should I?
A knock on my door broke my reverie. I jerked my head up, stared at the door as if I’d never laid eyes on it before. The knock repeated, an impatient tapping. Jimmy had come to drag me to the hospital where he could keep an eye on me, no doubt. Maybe if I didn’t answer, he’d go away, leave me alone.
Still, old habits forged like chains dragged me to the door. I opened it. Not Jimmy. Eugene Littleton. Before I could react, he lashed out with a punch to my face that snapped my head back and sent me reeling.
Stunned, I barely registered the sound of the door slamming shut. And then he was on me.
Chapter 33
IT WAS EXACTLY Manny Cruz’s style to live in a mansion on Millionaire’s Row, Ryder thought as he approached the address across the street from Kingston Park. You had to look like a winner to play a winner, he could almost hear Manny saying. He passed through the gate in the wrought-iron fence surrounding the three-story, colonial-style brick building, dialing Manny’s number one more time. No answer.
Of course, the ADA couldn’t afford a mansion. Ryder doubted he could afford the ground-floor condo, one of six that the former home of a steel baron had been converted into. No, the only actual millionaire still living on Cambria City’s Millionaire’s Row was Daniel Kingston. If you could call lying in a permanent vegetative state living.
Ryder surveyed Manny’s building. The eight-foot-tall wrought-iron fence was more for looks than actual security. Not to mention the equally tall evergreens that stood just inside it. Clearly the landscaper had no knowledge
of how to properly secure a perimeter. To make things worse, there was another row of evergreen shrubs directly in front of the house. A privacy hedge the landscaper would have called it, ready to provide concealment for any thief who happened by.
No lights on at this late hour except for Manny’s front room, which glowed stark white through the gaps in the bay window’s blinds. A man’s form was silhouetted against them. From this distance, Ryder couldn’t tell who it was.
He eased through the gate. Instead of following the sidewalk to the front door, he crossed the lawn to peer inside the window, concealing himself in the second row of evergreens. The blinds were open just enough for him to see Manny, face flushed, arms gesturing. Talking to whom? He sidled around to the opposite side of the wide bay window, weaving between hemlock boughs, until he found a better angle.
Devon Price. Damn it. Manny stepped forward, and for the first time, Ryder could see his right hand. Holding a semiautomatic. Price’s hands were empty, held in the universal posture of surrender.
Ryder called for backup as he headed for the front door. It was designed to be accessed by a tenant’s private code on a keypad. He leaned on all the buttons except Manny’s until someone finally clicked the door open. He pushed into the foyer and turned right to the door leading to Manny’s condo. It was ajar.
Usually, he would have waited for backup. But he knew both men inside. Honestly, it wasn’t Price he was worried about, despite the fact that Ryder was certain he was carrying—the man defined cool under pressure. It was hothead Manny who was most likely to escalate the situation.
Ryder drew his weapon. The door swung open silently. He didn’t go through it. Instead, he angled his body to see into the room and take aim. “Manny, it’s Ryder. I’ve got backup on the way. Put the gun down and let me handle Price.”