Fortitude Smashed

by Taylor Brooke

  Copyright © 2017 Taylor Brooke

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN 13: 978-1-945053-36-8 (trade)

  ISBN 13: 978-1-945053-42-9 (ebook)

  Published by Interlude Press

  http://interludepress.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and places are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All trademarks and registered trademarks are the property of their respective owners.

  Book and Cover Design by CB Messer

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For the wild ones

  “Sometimes our fate resembles a fruit tree in winter. Who would think that those branches would turn green again and blossom, but we hope it, we know it.”

  —Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

  Contents

  Author's Note

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  Acknowledgments

  ABout the Author

  Author's Note

  Due to some sensitive subject matter in Fortitude Smashed, I’ve decided to include a list of warnings for readers who may need them. Chapter numbers are given below.

  Discussion of Mental Health—portrayals of depression, panic attacks, disassociation, anxiety

  Instances of general anxiety, minor panic and depression-induced habits appear throughout the novel.

  Dissociative episode

  Chapter 33, Chapter 39, Chapter 40

  Discussion of off-page sexual assault

  Chapter 18, Chapter 35

  Discussion of on-page physical assault

  Chapter 18, Chapter 34, Chapter 35

  1

  A routine traffic accident at a gas station turned out to be a drug bust. Naturally, the patrol officer phoned Shannon, who looked at his half-eaten plate of curry and gave an unsatisfied sigh. The station was quieter than usual: an undertone of hushed conversations, rushed fingers tapping on keyboards, and file cabinets opening and closing. Simple brown desks littered the square room, and offices lined the back wall next to a holding cell. It wasn’t a big station, one of the smallest in Orange County. Shannon didn’t let its size deter him, though, and had spent many sleepless nights buried in his studies to get there. He set the takeout box on a stack of manila folders and adjusted the bronze placard next to his laptop.

  Detective Shannon Wurther—Laguna Beach, California

  How long had it been? A year, almost, since he’d passed the entry exam and was promoted from officer to detective. It’d taken too long, he thought. After three years as an officer, another spent studying, finally he’d done it. He was twenty-five years old, the youngest detective in Southern California and the first to pass the exam in one attempt in more than five years. Shannon ran at things full speed. What he’d done in three years, most officers hadn’t done in six, and still, he was sure it’d taken too long.

  “Cruz, we’ve got a call.” Shannon peered around the edge of his computer. Karman de la Cruz sat across from him at their conjoined desk, separated by two laptops and a mess of files. Her long unruly curls were bundled into a braid. She wore rich brown lipstick, three shades darker than her skin, and her thick eyebrows were penciled in, perfectly arched. She was also eating curry—green opposed to Shannon’s red—and frowned around a forkful of rice.

  “Who called it in?” she mumbled, searching out the straw in her iced tea with her tongue. “It was Barrow, wasn’t it?”

  “Of course it was.” Shannon snorted a laugh. He closed the container of his mediocre dinner, stood, and slung a messenger bag over his shoulder. “It’s the gas station off Main. Do you have to pick up Fae?”

  Karman shook her head as she shoved another forkful of rice into her mouth. “She’s staying at a friend’s house tonight. They’re working on one of those solar system diagrams together. I thought they were a little young for planetary assignments but…” She finished with a shrug. “Drinks after we wrap up?”

  “Sounds good to me. Is your car still in the shop?” He dug in his bag for his keys, and then patted his waist to make sure his badge was snug on his belt and his gun was holstered alongside it.

  Even after five years of police work, he still wasn’t used to the weight of a sleek black gun on his hip. He’d grown up accustomed to hunting rifles, the smell of horses, fresh cream, and peach trees. Sometimes the West Coast still overwhelmed him with its mysteries and majesties laid out for all to see. Sometimes Shannon prayed he’d never have to use his gun.

  Karman groaned, keeping pace as they walked out the back door. “Yeah, I guess there’s something wrong with the transmission now. I need a new car, man.”

  “I’ve been telling you that for two years, Cruz.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Well, when you have to pay for private school and violin lessons, we’ll talk all right? Cars are expensive; six-year-olds are even worse.”

  The Jeep Cherokee’s doors squeaked, and the engine thrummed to life. A twinge of pity squirmed in his gut as he glanced at Karman’s hands folded casually in her lap. She worked hard for her daughter and herself. No one waited for Karman at home; there was no help to be had, or breaks to be given. Her index finger rubbed back and forth over the top of her right thumbnail. It was a nervous habit, one she’d had since he met her. The translucent tint beneath her fingernail was an eerie reminder of her Rose Road and how she’d lost it.

  On his own hand, wrapped tight around the steering wheel, glowing numbers counted backward, second by second, a flicker beneath his thumbnail. Tonight, mere hours from now, Shannon’s Camellia Clock was going to time-out, and he would face his Rose Road. He’d waited his whole life for fate to make up its mind, and sometime tonight he’d find out what it decided. The numbers marched: 3:28, 3:27, 3:26.

  Karman cleared her throat. “Green light, Wurther.”

  He tucked his thumb behind the steering wheel. The inevitable wasn’t worth worrying about.

  A four-lane road snaked through the middle of the city and merged into the Pacific Coast Highway on the north and south ends. Dark roads spun away to wind through quiet coastal neighborhoods where beaches stretched between apartment buildings, high-end resorts, and reservation-only restaurants. Laguna Canyon cut a path inland, home to the summertime art show Sawdust Festival, and Pageant of the Masters’ outdoor theater, surrounded by the Laguna Coast Wilderness Park’s sprawling rural hills. It was an easy place to live, safe and manageable, with a median income of a hundred grand, a downtown full of good food, and enough artistic charisma to woo Monet. But even “safe and manageable” had its crime, and crime was something Shannon was good at. Dealing with people, uprooting their secrets, getting th
e truth: those were all things he did too well for comfort. They were in his blood.

  They pulled into the gas station on the outskirts of the canyon road just before eight o’clock. Karman stepped from the car first and flashed her badge to Deputy Barrow. The deputy clasped a meaty hand over her shoulder and grinned. Shannon stole another glance at his thumb. The white numbers 3:05 sent a chill down his back. His heartbeat thundered. Don’t panic. He dug in his messenger bag for a pair of black gloves and tugged them on. It’ll be fine. It’ll be exactly what it should be.

  “Evening, Barrow, what’s going on?” Shannon folded the sleeves of his white dress shirt up on his forearms. Karman examined the notes and handed them to Shannon. As he read the charges, Barrow said them aloud.

  “Three counts felony possession of prescription drugs with no prescription. Full bottles, too.” Deputy Barrow was a round man with a bald head and a dark goatee. He looked more threatening than he was, with cheeks that always stayed red and eyes that always looked glassy. He was a good police officer, though. Shannon considered him a friend.

  “And the vehicle?” Shannon prompted.

  Barrow heaved a deep sigh. “Vehicle is registered to the driver’s stepmother, and the driver claims the drugs aren’t hers.”

  “Of course,” Karman muttered.

  Shannon shook his head and smirked. “We’re in Orange County.” He glanced at Barrow, who shrugged. “The drugs very well might not be hers. Did she mention anything about the prescriptions?”

  “Just that her stepmother is a ‘crazy bitch addicted to pills,” he quoted, curling his fingers, “and that she borrowed the car so she could study for finals at the coffee shop on the south side, what’s it called, The Klatch?”

  Shannon nodded and rubbed his gloved hand over his chin. “She’s nineteen?” His eyebrows slanted down, and he waved dismissively to Karman. “That’s all you. You’re good with these young ones.”

  It wasn’t that Shannon wasn’t good with cases like this one—he liked to think he was—but there was no denying the motherly nature of Karman de la Cruz. She soothed her way to the truth, whereas Shannon dug for it. When there was a teenager with stepmom’s car and three bottles of pills in the glove box, he was sure Karman would be better suited to figuring out the details. While Karman crouched beside the open back door of Barrow’s patrol car, her hand on the teenager’s knee, smiling gently and nodding, Shannon paced.

  He chatted with Barrow about what was going on in his life, how his kids and his wife were doing, and adamantly directed the conversation away from his own internal dilemma. He wanted to ask, what happens when the Camellia Clock stops? What happens to his heart, his head—his life?

  Waves of uncertainty flooded his stomach, swirling the curry. Barrow said something about his oldest girl making the volleyball team, so Shannon smiled. He talked about his anniversary, and Shannon said, “That’s great, man.” But inside his head, like a swarm of hornets, the buzzing, ticking, humming Clock beneath his thumbnail drove him mad.

  The streetlight illuminating the sidewalk outside of Laguna Beach Canvas & Sculpt flickered, casting eerie shadows around the decorative bushes that lined the walkway.

  Vague suspicion told Aiden he should turn around and go home. Tonight wasn’t a good night; tonight the streets were telling him it wasn’t worth it. Superstition, he thought, what a way to bow out. Anyway, he hadn’t walked under any ladders lately. No black cats had crossed his path.

  His lips wrapped around the end of a cigarette. Gray smoke leaked from the corners of his mouth. Then again, maybe he was the black cat.

  Downtown wasn’t crowded at night, not in the middle of the week. The only witnesses he might expect were homeless kids, and he could bribe them with alcohol, or weed, or food. He’d learned his way around street kids and travelers during his extended trips up north, when he’d played in Seattle, dabbled in Los Angeles, made enemies in San Francisco. It was no surprise he’d overstayed his welcome in the latter. He probably wouldn’t see that foggy city again for years.

  As he lifted the cigarette to his lips, Aiden caught the glow of white numbers beneath his thumbnail.

  1:32

  “Well, look at that,” he said to himself, as though he hadn’t been aware of those numbers for twenty-two years. “Looks like my soul mate is right around the corner.”

  Aiden believed that when his Camellia Clock timed out he would be alone. No one out there waited for him; no one was set aside to be his Rose Road. He’d believed that since he was sixteen, sitting in the front pews of an unfamiliar church with his brother’s arm over his shoulders and the smell of hydrangeas and carnations tickling his nose. The realization that fate wouldn’t come for him had been sudden, like a spider bite. One minute Aiden Maar was sure he was on fate’s good side, and a second later he was convinced otherwise.

  Aiden flicked the cigarette butt into the middle of the street. The worn sole of his boot was propped against the back wall of an ice cream parlor; his shoulders were growing cold against the scratch of old paint. He adjusted his black beanie, mentally checking the list of had-to’s and would-be’s that made up the before and after of a burglary. He’d left his bike in the parking structure off Fifth—a few blocks away, but easy to get to if he took back alleys and cut through the market.

  The painting he was after was small—hardly noticeable in a gallery full of tall canvases. He was in it for all the wrong reasons this time. There was no buyer lined up; he didn’t have a listing on the dark web for a one-of-a-kind canvas stained with pressed flower petals and colored pollen. The conceptual piece of artwork he’d seen weeks ago, a miniscule thing called Fortitude Smashed, still hung on the wall opposite the staircase, and he wanted it for himself.

  The streetlight went out, bathing the front of the gallery in darkness. Aiden took that as his cue, glanced left, right, took long strides across the street, and disappeared around the back of the building.

  “All right—yeah, I’ll meet you guys there.” Shannon waved to Deputy Barrow and Karman as they loaded into the patrol car and took the handcuffed, still-crying girl to the station. Their shift was over, which meant the team there would process her, and Barrow, Karman, and Shannon would be free to enjoy the rest of their night. He was looking forward to not having to worry about anything except a cold beer, conversations between friends, and going to sleep before two a.m.

  He climbed into his car. The buzz in his mind was long gone, replaced by Karman’s rambled overview of the case.

  Fast cars, too-rich bachelors, and women with nothing to lose but themselves made up the lackluster circle of criminals who actually committed any crime in Orange County. There was a horrific number of traffic accidents, sometimes gang-related incidents that trickled down from Los Angeles, and an occasional murder. As few and far between as the murders were, Shannon didn’t aim for the homicide department. He didn’t have the constitution for it, no—that was his father’s thing.

  Detective Wurther was a seeker. Breaking up drug rings on college campuses, handling informants, busting street racers, that was what Shannon did, and he was good at it.

  He took the route through the shops downtown to get to the Whitehouse, Karman’s favorite watering hole. Leaning his elbow on the lip of his window with his chin resting on his thumb, he watched ocean mist settle over the streets. It dampened his windshield and confirmed that the seasons really were changing. It also broke up the light that danced off the glass front of the gallery to his right, where he could have sworn he caught a flicker of movement. He clicked his headlights off. The car rolled to a stop. It had to be the owner, but… no; it was too late for anyone to be inside without the lights on. It was probably nothing. Shannon sighed and shook his head. He turned the headlights on and stepped on the gas.

  No, he had seen it.

  He slammed on his brakes and swore as his seat belt cut into his shoulder.

 
He saw a flash of pale something. Light glinted off a pair of eyes. Someone ducked behind the staircase.

  After turning into one of the curbside parking spaces, Shannon trotted around the building. The alley was bathed in shadow. A soft glow from the streetlights on the other side of the block broke up the darkness. The back door was ajar, barely, but noticeably. Whoever was inside had expected to be in and out quickly enough that no one would notice.

  Shannon’s first instinct was to call for backup. It’s what he should’ve done.

  Instead, he slid his hand around the door and pulled it open; his other hand rested on his holstered gun.

  The scent of oil paint and clay wafted strong in the stillness. The room was too open, a wide space with nowhere to hide. Shannon took a step, another, and glanced at the desk, where abstract patterns swirled on the screen of a hibernating computer next to a dimmed, decorative lamp.

  Movement. Footsteps, heel to toe, slow and quiet, behind him.

  Shannon swung around. Someone—the thief—gasped. He grabbed the fabric of a shirt and shoved whoever was wearing it against the wall.

  “You’re under arrest,” he growled. The body, a man, squirmed and cursed. The one time he didn’t play it safe and call for backup was the time he might need it. Shannon forced the thief’s hands against the wall. “Spread your fingers.”

  The thief complied. “Of fucking course.” Shannon heard him rolling his eyes.

  “Breaking and entering is a crime, you understand that? So is taking things that aren’t yours.”

  “I didn’t take anything. I didn’t get the chance to.” Whoever he was, he was unapologetically bored with the situation. Shannon spotted a bold tattoo on his side where his shirt was bunched up from their abrupt collision. The man sighed. “Can I have my hands back now?”

  “No, you can’t, because—”

  Shannon’s entire being screeched to a stop. His spine straightened; his knees locked. He couldn’t breathe. Beneath his glove, warmth spread from his right thumb into his wrist. The Camellia Clock vibrated, gentle but convincing, a purr that alerted him to the 00:00 that now read in glowing numbers under his thumbnail. Saliva pooled in his mouth. Heat coursed through him. Blood rushed—high speed traffic in his veins. His heartbeat, steady and then not, pounded in his ears.