Sentinel Rising: The Reardon Files #1

by Andrea Drew

  Ryan took a small step closer and lowered his voice. "What's the go?"

  "I'm not sure yet, but I think I've found the link between two cases. A link that explains why Joe Reeves did this."

  Ryan stared at him. "You going to tell me?"

  "I haven't put it all together yet, no proof. When I have, you'll know before anyone else."

  Ryan frowned. "Keep safe, mate."

  "I always do." Connor allowed himself a wry smile.

  Gypsy made her way down the stairs and appeared at the doorway to his office. She rested her hands on either side of the doorway.

  "What are you still doing here? I thought you were going to the hospital?" Mouth open, she looked from Connor to Ryan, and then back to Connor.

  "Come here," Connor said, his voice low, extending his hand out toward her.

  "I'll head off," Ryan said. "I'll give you a call later."

  Gypsy walked toward Connor, murmuring a goodbye to Ryan as he squeezed past her. He closed the front door behind him.

  She stood across from Connor, beside the office chair where he now had managed to get up to, even if he did prop himself up with fingers splayed across the desk top. "I'm worried about you," Gypsy said. "You probably have a concussion. The blood’s gone now but seriously, honey, please go and get checked out. That was scary as hell."

  Connor took her hand in his. "I'm sorry I was grumpy with you earlier. I had no idea when he would gain consciousness, and I'm sure when he does wake up, he'll want to kill me. He'll have to join the queue."

  "It's okay," she said, locking her gaze on him. "The idea of losing you scares the crap out of me."

  He wanted to say, now you understand how I felt every time you took on one of your vengeance cases, your quests for justice, but decided it would be better left unsaid. Besides, he still grappled with what he had almost done to Joe Reeves.

  Instead, he looked at Gypsy, really looked at her. Her face had collapsed and sunken into itself

  "I shouldn't have asked it of you. To push down your abilities, not use them It wasn't fair and I don’t want it to get in the way," Connor said, taking her hand.

  "You were under pressure, and I'm almost getting used to your grumpiness. Besides, I should have just got the damn cable ties. You were right, if the guy woke up he, would have killed you."

  "I'm not talking about that," he said, staring right at her, hoping she could sense his intention, what he wanted to tell her. Instead, right now, he would just damn well say it. "I mean turning off your abilities, your gift. It's selfish, and I wonder now if it's come between us. It's been years. I'm so sorry."

  Her eyes filled. "Oh, god, Connor."

  Her chin wobbled, and she reached for him. He held her, and although her back didn't shake and the sobs weren't obvious, her body vibrated in tiny almost unnoticeable shockwaves. He couldn't decide if her ability to suppress her grief, if that’s what it was, saddened him more than the knowledge of how much pain he'd caused.

  She pulled away from him and wiped wetness from under her eyes. The back of his throat ached.

  "I couldn't turn it off, the visions, visits from the dead, messages from spirits. I just didn't tell you. There's so much between us that I don't say, I can't say. It's killing us." The look of agony in her bright eyes burned him, a hot poker searing through his chest. "I want our marriage to be like it was, back when we supported each other, loved each other. We're bogged down. I don't want to be in a rut anymore."

  He brushed the hair out of her eyes, tucking a lock behind her ear. "I've been so focused on getting money in, paying the bills, getting through each day that I couldn't see anything else, including you. I'm so sorry."

  Tears spilled out of her eyes, dripping down her cheeks, and she wiped them away quickly.

  "The thing is," Gypsy said, "I know you think you're protecting me, by flicking the switch, but it doesn't protect either one of us. Neither one of us used our abilities for the last couple of years, but it didn't stop that bastard from nearly killing you."

  Score one for his wife, although she didn't say it to score points. Not acting on their abilities didn't protect them; it left them in the same position, or made them even more vulnerable.

  "Life is hard enough as it is, " Gypsy said. The tears had paused. "What we can do is an advantage, a gift. We should use it to help others. It doesn't hurt, despite what happened in the past. No one needs to know what we do but us."

  He struggled to find the words to respond.

  "Besides," she continued, "I had a vision last night, about your missing woman, I think."

  "You did? Where is she?" He took a step toward her, putting his hand on her forearm.

  "She's dead, buried in a shallow grave."

  #

  Chapter 5

  Connor leaned away from Gypsy, propping himself up by placing one hand on the wall. Lauren Whitehouse murdered. If he thought telling loved ones about cheating spouses was rough, reporting a murder was worse. He'd done it too many times before, and certainly didn't want to do it again as a private investigator.

  His stomach dropped, and the skin on the back of his arms prickled up. "What did you see? The killer?"

  "From the back. I didn't see his car or registration either, but considering it was pitch black, I thought I did well. All I saw was him digging the grave and dragging her body into the hole. He took a quick look at everything after he was done, and then drove off."

  "Where?"

  "That's the problem. I don't recognise the location. I reckon it’s somewhere out west, thought. There was a lot of open land, and he buried her in a side road, a dirt track with a few trees around it. There were lights from businesses, but way off in the distance. Other than that, I'm sorry, no idea."

  "Shit. I wish she'd run off and disappeared. At least she'd be alive." Connor combed his hair with his fingers and landed back in the office chair.

  "Me, too."

  "What did the killer look like? I know it was dark in your vision, but did you see the car or killer? "

  She dragged a chair closer to Connor and sat down with a sigh. "I wish. I wish I could draw, I could show you the picture. The killer had business clothes on, a royal blue and white striped shirt, a black belt, and dress pants. Dark hair. He looked about five ten. The car, well, it's a sedan, silver coloured. Other than that, no idea. I don't think he's done this before, though."

  "Why do you say that?" Connor leaned forward in the chair.

  The office had darkened but neither of them moved to turn lights on.

  "He was horrified, terrified. It wasn't a thrill kill or done in anger, I think. I reckon spur of the moment or accident."

  "Do you know for sure the body is Lauren Whitehouse?"

  "No. But why else would I be dreaming about a woman killed? The body he took out of the car looked shortish, though, and not big. He wrapped her up in a pink sheet so I didn't see her face. I'll never forget the finger though, one of her fingertips poking up through the earth. That's how shallow the grave is." She shivered.

  "I can check on Lauren's size with her sister. In the meantime, I want to see this picture or vision of yours. Tomorrow morning, I'll get back on investigating. We still have no evidence, and we need it fast.” He didn't tell Gypsy that her vision, combined with his recent deduction regarding Whitehouse and the photos in the Reeves case meant so far, findings pointed to her husband as the killer.

  "Yeah, I'm tired too. Exhausted actually. We'll talk tomorrow. Today was hell." She rose from the chair and stood in front of him. "C'mon. Let's go."

  She looked at him, a twisted smile in place.

  "Okay," Connor said, but he didn't move. His bones ached and the headache had subsided to a dull throb.

  "Here's a wild idea. Come to bed, and I'll show you the vision."

  Connor looked up at her and pushed himself up, stretching out his back with his hands on his spine. "It's been a while since we did that."

  "Yeah, more than three years. The last time it happen
ed was with Isabella. But it could be fun trying." Her tired smile widened.

  He took her hand and followed her the short distance from the office to their bedroom. After visiting the bathroom, he took off his clothes and fell into bed, groaning as he did so. She was right; it had been an exhausting day. He wanted to wipe out his internal hard drive and start again, forget the day had happened.

  He gazed across at Gypsy taking her clothes off in the lamplight. After years together, he still enjoyed watching her undress. She had no idea how sexy she was, although he'd told her enough times. She tucked in her elbows and turned away from him as usual. At some point, she'd be willing to disrobe in front of him without consideration. She slipped a grey night shirt over her head and slid into bed.

  "Ah," she said as she hit the mattress. "I love my bed. I really should turn in earlier each day but..."

  He shuffled his body around toward her, lying on his left side. "So, will you show me this vision? Besides the vision that is you, that is."

  "Sleazebag," she said but he heard the smile in her voice.

  She shuffled across the bed to kiss him, her lips warm and soft. Close up, her eyes magnetized him, her sweet breath tantalising. He moved closer.

  "Take my hand," Gypsy murmured.

  She pulled her right hand from beneath the pillow and offered it to him. He took the small soft cradle of her delicate hand and nestled it into his palm, the bird-like bones of her fingers linked with his.

  "Let's go," she whispered.

  His mind’s eye activated with pictures of nothing other than swirling mist. The mist cleared, giving way to a screen of thick impenetrable darkness. Then he saw it, the lights of a car, dimmed to parkers. Life signs of homes or businesses twinkled on the horizon below. The car, a sedan, pulled up to the deserted spot, an unsealed road and dry dirt and mud crackled as the car pulled to a stop. To the right of the car stood several mature trees, overhanging the road. A man stepped out, his shoes shuffling across the dirt road. Connor focused his attention on him, but his face was black, not discernible at all.

  Shit

  He could make out the murky figures height, around five foot nine inches, and his shirt which appeared to be white and dark stripes. He wore black pants. His dark hair although it matched the cover of dark, shone in the moonlight.

  The faceless man lifted the back door of the car. Inside, an uneven rectangle took up most of the space, with one end at a strange angle, wrapped in sheets in the car’s trunk. More than likely a dead body.

  He was a murderer.

  Connor pushed down the surging frustration, which he knew from experience wouldn't help keep it down permanently, only long enough to stay out of trouble. The murderer dragged the body out of the car, grunting and heaving. It hit the dirt with a sickening thud. He struggled to drag it a few metres, until he reached a tree next to a dilapidated fence. He stood with hands on hips, gasping until his breath returned to normal.

  After about thirty seconds, he walked back to the car and reached inside to retrieve a shovel. The shovel scraped along the dirt as the murderer walked back to a spot just beside the wrapped body and began digging.

  Waves of terror, horror, and desperation rolled off the faceless murderer, a tangled web of heightened emotions. Maybe he suffered remorse, but none of it reduced Connor's rising fury.

  As the murderer dug the hole, Connor surveyed the horizon, hoping to latch onto a landmark, maybe a business or a large building. In the pitch dark, he thought he saw a three storey concrete building, on the far left of the horizon.

  The murderer’s tousled hair blew in the light breeze. He dropped the shovel, bent over the lifeless form, and began dragging it less than a metre until it fell into the shallow grave. His heavy breathing began again as he gripped the shovel and started filling in the hole. His movements were hurried, panicky.

  It took him only a minute or two. He wiped one hand on the other, stood back for to look at his work, and then headed to his car. He threw in the shovel, and then slammed the boot of the car closed. A few large fragments of earth dangled from the roots of a tree, threatening to drop to the ocean below.

  He got into the drivers' side of the car, started it up, and was gone.

  Connor estimated from start to finish the burial of the body took less than half an hour.

  The picture faded to black. Gypsy turned onto her side to look at him. Nausea churned in his stomach.

  "That was the body of Lauren Whitehouse?" he said.

  "Unfortunately, yes, I think so," Gypsy said, her voice hushed.

  "God. We need to locate the body and let Ryan know once we find it. I can't tell my client her sister is dead until there's evidence. It might pay to look for landmarks like the square block of a building nearby, maybe somewhere out west"

  "How do we do that? It could take forever."

  "I know but we need to start somewhere.” Connor sat up in bed “Tomorrow, I'm going back to my list of events as they happened. There's a link between the two cases, Whitehouse and Reeves, and I wonder if that's the key."

  Gypsy closed her eyes for second before opening them and staring at him, her eyebrows drawing together. "You saw the finger?"

  "What finger?" A prickling sensation crawled up the back of his arms.

  "When the bastard buried the body in the shallow grave, he left a finger sticking up above the ground. In his hurry to get out of there, he must not have seen it, but I did."

  Connor swallowed hard and fell back onto the mattress. "Bastard. Someone will find the body soon. A dog or a jogger. We need to trace that car somehow. We'll see if we can track the location ourselves, otherwise we'll have to wait for the media to tell us."

  "Do we call Ryan?"

  "Not unless we have some scrap of info to give he can act on. He can't tell me anything about cases or police business. He'll put his job in danger if he does, but I can feed info to him. I might call him in the next day or so when I have more hard stuff, but right now, it’s circumstantial and theories. He'll need more than that to get a warrant or question anyone."

  Gypsy sighed. "It's horrible to think about, that mother being murdered, but I do like working with you on a case. Reminds me of the good old days."

  She smiled faintly.

  He reached forward and caressed her cheek, and then glided his hand upwards to stroke her hair. "The good old days. Yeah. I like being friends."

  She leaned closer and kissed him softly. He grabbed her by the waist, guiding her to him. These were the moments he remembered, the ones that pushed the black shit, the clanging memories to the back of his mind where they faded into oblivion.

  That was exactly what he planned on doing tonight. Enjoying Gypsy in the here and now and forgetting about the darkness, even just for one night.

  #

  Chapter 6

  Something niggled at the back of Connor's mind. He knew the being from somewhere but her name escaped him. Electricity raced up his back and neck. The floating sensation hid behind his desire to understand what was happening and who stood in front of him in what looked to be a black cavernous nothingness. The pitch dark behind her swirled and seethed. Her blonde hair hug oily, stringy, unwashed. She stared at him unflinching, rubbing at her stomach lovingly, gazing down at it.

  Was this Lauren Whitehouse speaking from the grave?

  He wondered if she would talk to him and continue staring at him indefinitely. He turned and scanned his surroundings to get an idea of where he was, but strangely he couldn't make out a single object, no tree, leaf, or building.

  As she extended her hand to him, reaching out to take his, reaKatrination struck him. The woman before him was Lauren Whitehouse. She wanted to get in touch, and this dream, if it was a dream, was how she intended to do it.

  "Who killed you? Why?" he said.

  Surely she would tell him. Lauren Whitehouse, however, simply frowned and shook her head.

  Why wouldn't she speak? Maybe she couldn't speak; maybe she wanted to tell him but
couldn't. Did that mean she was dead? If that was the case, common sense dictated she'd give him the information he desperately needed, closure for the family, a clue to the killer’s identity and for Lauren herself. Something.

  "Who did this? Did someone hurt you?" he continued. She couldn’t ignore him forever.

  However, she simply smiled and shook her head, this time placing one hand on her heart.

  What was the significance of the gesture? Love? Something else? Was she trying to tell him that her husband did this?

  He opened his eyes and she was gone. He lifted his hand to his neck, which felt stiff and sore. His skin was warm to the touch.

  Pushing back the covers, he headed for the shower. Maybe it had been simply a dream, his subconscious playing tricks on him. After years of not using his abilities, not receiving messages from the living, was Lauren Whitehouse determined enough to break through the mass of spiritual buffer to deaden the signals, had she broke through?

  Maybe it was a coincidence, after all, he had recently gained Lauren as a client. He wondered why he kept doubting himself, frustrating himself now. Maybe if he went with it, he would get more clients, and solve more crimes, and yeah, maybe clients saw it as a plus point. Or maybe she was trying to tell him it wasn’t his fault.

  Oh, God.

  A claw tugged inside his stomach, pulling its edges into a ball. Gypsy would surely berate him for indulging in self-invalidation but he still had not completely accepted his abilities. The doubt, at times, seemed agonizing ad it should be. He might have cost this woman her life. He'd almost prefer the physical pain of the day before than this anguish, the constant wavering. Was it or wasn't it a bona fide vision?

  He still had the headache from the attack, although it had almost lifted, replaced instead with a mild throb. His heart pounded as he thought about the investigation at hand. He hoped there'd be no more unexpected disasters like yesterday to screw up his plans.