Warrior Son

by Rita Herron

  He blinked back emotions, but the pain was just as raw as it had been then. Only Megan had stood by him, offering soft soothing words and her comforting arms.

  And he’d taken advantage. He’d needed her so damn much that even as he ordered himself to walk away, he hadn’t had the strength.

  Hell, why was he thinking about her now? Especially in that way...

  She was helping him with a case—that’s all there could be between them.

  Deciding to fill her in on his conversations with Bennett and Gates, he drove by her house, hoping she was home. But her van wasn’t in the drive.

  She had to be at the morgue.

  He spun the car around and headed toward the hospital. Maybe Megan had discovered something concrete that would tie Bennett or Gates to Edith Burns’s murder.

  * * *

  MEGAN FOUGHT PANIC. She was trapped in a body bag inside one of the drawers in the cold room.

  But she was alive.

  At least for now.

  She tried to slow her breathing to preserve oxygen. How long could she survive in here? The temperature was meant to keep the bodies from decomposing further before she could complete the autopsy. Even after she finished, the bodies were tagged and preserved before transporting to the funeral home or cremation center.

  At this temperature, she might develop hypothermia, but she could recover from that if someone found her in time.

  In the morning, Howard would show up for work. Or Dr. Cumberland might stop by.

  In spite of her logic and rationale, tears filled her eyes. What if one of them didn’t come in? If they didn’t have a new case, Howard might just go straight to the lab. There he would discover the results of her findings on Edith for him to process.

  Unless he had questions for her, he’d likely spend the morning analyzing the samples and data she’d collected.

  God...she could be here all night, and by morning she’d be too weak to cry out for help.

  Cold terror engulfed her, making her tremble. A sob rose in her throat, her pulse clamoring. She was claustrophobic.

  Always had been.

  She didn’t like elevators or small spaces. Even as a child, she’d had a panic attack on the submarine ride at the water park.

  She struggled to move her hands and arms and managed to feel in her pocket. If she had a scalpel or sharp pen inside, she could rip the bag. But...her pocket was empty. She’d left all her tools on the tray when she’d finished.

  In spite of the cold, sweat pooled on her body, soaking her clothes and lab coat. A sob escaped her, and even as she reminded herself to breathe slowly, she struggled for air. Short panting breaths ripped from her lungs and nausea clogged her throat.

  She gagged, fighting the urge to throw up. That would only make her situation worse.

  Desperate to escape, she used her fingernails to tear at the bag, but her short nails didn’t break the surface. Still, she tried to rip the material. When that failed, she pinched together a portion of it and tried to tear it with both hands.

  Her hands shook, frustration clawing at her. It was no use. The material was too thick and strong...

  Tears mingled with the sweat now, running down her face, into her mouth and down her neck.

  She thought she heard a noise from somewhere in the building. Maybe Howard had come back for some reason. Or maybe Dr. Cumberland.

  She held her breath and listened, but the sound was an ambulance...

  Frantic, she raised her fists and beat against the top of the drawer, then used her feet to pound the bottom.

  * * *

  ROAN PHONED MEGAN AGAIN, but once again received her voice mail.

  Worry kicked in.

  Something was wrong. She would have answered or returned his calls by now.

  The last time they’d talked, she was headed to the hospital to perform the autopsy on Edith Burns. She might still be there.

  Unless something had happened to her.

  Vehicles slowed because of the rain, and he veered around them. A truck raced toward him, lights nearly blinding him, and he flashed his lights to warn the driver to watch it.

  Rain spewed from the road onto his windshield as the truck flew past. He cursed, flipped his wipers to full speed and turned onto the side street leading to the hospital. He drove through the doctors’ parking lot and found Megan’s van.

  Lights from an ambulance blinked and twirled by the entrance to the ER and a car screeched to a stop behind it. A young couple jumped out just as the medics unloaded an elderly man from the back. They raced in, obviously upset.

  He understood the panic. If anything had happened to Megan, he didn’t know what he’d do. He should have insisted she give him the results then stay out of the investigation.

  He threw his car into Park in one of the visitor spaces, then jogged through the rain to the hospital entrance. He shook off the rainwater as he stepped inside, then hurried to the elevator.

  He jumped inside, hoping he was panicking for nothing. That Megan had just gotten caught up in work or silenced her phone.

  The doors dinged open. The basement lighting was dim, the halls virtually empty. His footsteps echoed on the floor as he rushed toward the morgue.

  The empty dark halls echoed with the dead, the scents of chemicals and antiseptics permeating the walls in an attempt to cover the fact that this place was where the deceased went as a midway stop to their final resting place.

  He tried the door but it was locked and the lights were off. Dammit, Megan’s car was outside. If she wasn’t here, where was she?

  Maybe she met up with someone. Maybe she had a date.

  The thought irritated him, although he had no idea why. Besides, Megan was in the middle of an autopsy tonight. He couldn’t imagine her leaving Edith’s body and the questions about her murder to go out for a frivolous evening.

  Then again, he could be projecting himself onto her. But...Megan had depth. She was here. He felt it in his gut.

  He banged on the door, then peered through the glass partition, but it was hard to see through the blinds, especially with the lights off.

  “Megan!” He knocked again, then tapped on the glass. The sound of the glass rattling and his own voice reverberated off the walls. He paused, listening for signs of anyone inside, but heard nothing.

  “Megan,” he tried again. “If you’re here, let me in. We need to talk.”

  Another hesitation. Seconds ticked by. His heart began to race. His shoulders tightened.

  She was in there. He felt it. She needed help.

  He sensed it just as he’d sensed when his mother was dying and needed him to come to her side that night.

  Fear wrapped his heart in a choke hold. No, this was nothing like that.

  Except he couldn’t leave until he was certain Megan was safe. What if she was hurt? Injured? Too helpless to call out?

  Adrenaline surged through him and he picked the door lock. The door squeaked open and he stepped inside, senses alert for the sound of a voice or breathing. Anything to indicate that someone was there.

  The strong scent of formaldehyde assaulted him as he strode through the office and into the autopsy room. The metal trays and pans appeared clean, the gurneys empty, the table and floor hosed down.

  Megan had finished the autopsy on Edith Burns and would have then returned her to the cold room. Pulse hammering, he walked through the room and checked the door to the hallway.

  The furnace rumbled. Air whistled through the vents, and the fluorescent lights buzzed as he flipped on the light switch. Bright light illuminated the hall, accentuating the walls stained with dirt and the scent of death. No matter how hard they tried, it couldn’t be eliminated or erased.

  Fear gripped him as he stepped toward the cold room. Edith’s body was stored in there, along with whomever else the morgue had received. It was dark. Locked. No sounds from inside.

  Again, though, icy fear traipsed up his spine as if the dead had whispered his name, begging for
help.

  Ridiculous. He did not believe in hocus-pocus, although he had been raised to trust the shaman on the res.

  “Megan!” he shouted. “If you’re in here, somewhere, show me a damn sign.”

  He gripped the door handle, heart hammering, breath trapped in his chest. Silence. The rattling of the building. Rain outside.

  Then another sound. Something soft. Muffled. Then a bang.

  Was it from inside?

  It couldn’t be. But...he pressed his ear to the door and listened again. Another muffled sound. Another bang.

  Panic shot through him, and he gripped the door and tried to yank it open. It didn’t budge. He cursed, quickly picked the lock on that door. He shoved it open with a growl, then flipped on a light and noted the bank of body drawers.

  Dear God, was she inside one of those?

  * * *

  MEGAN FOUGHT TEARS and blind panic as she kicked at the drawer and screamed. Her cries came out low and throaty, her voice weak from repeatedly yelling for help. Her lungs ached for air and sweat poured down her face and body, yet she shivered with cold fear.

  Had she heard someone outside? A footstep? A voice?

  “Help!” she cried. “Please help me.” She sucked in a breath, pulled her legs back as far as she could in the small space, then used every ounce of her energy to slam both feet against the bottom of the drawer. At the same time, she pounded the top of the box, but the body bag muffled the sound so much she wasn’t sure anyone could hear it from the outside.

  Tears trickled down her cheeks as she called out for help again and again. If she escaped, she’d make certain the medical examiner’s office installed latches to open the drawers from the inside in case someone were to get trapped again.

  Another kick. Another cry. Another pounding of her fist.

  Her arms were growing weak. Her voice cracking. Low. Hardly discernible to her own ears. Her feet barely connected with the last kick.

  Exhausted, she sagged inside the bag, the heavy plastic clinging to her damp skin, her body weak. She couldn’t hold out much longer.

  Despair filled her. She was going to die in here and no one would find her until it was too late...

  Chapter Nine

  Roan stared at the rows of drawers, his stomach knotting. One thing he’d learned on the res was to respect the dead.

  But if Megan was in there, he had to look.

  He rolled his hands into fists, listening again. Had he heard a noise or was it simply the sound of the rain beating against the building?

  A low sound then...barely discernible. A...cry?

  Pulse hammering, he crossed the room. Praying he didn’t find Megan dead, he jerked open the first drawer, but it was empty. The second one held Edith Burns’s body.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said in a low voice as he closed her back up.

  Suddenly a noise broke through the quiet. Another bang.

  He stiffened and hurried to the last drawer where the sound had come from. Hand shaking, he pulled the drawer open. A body bag held someone...there was movement...

  “Megan?”

  A cry rent the air.

  “Megan!” Dear God.

  He yanked at the zipper, but it was stuck, so he jerked on it again. Finally the tab gave way and he shoved down the zipper. Megan lay inside, pale and gasping for a breath.

  “I’m here, baby.” He pulled the drawer the rest of the way open and grabbed her beneath the shoulders. She was fighting, pushing at the body bag, trembling.

  “I’ve got you,” he said against her neck as he shoved at the bag and dragged her from the drawer. She struggled to get out of the suffocating vinyl and he yanked it away, then she sagged into his arms. He carried her from the cold room through the autopsy room to her office, his emotions pinging all over the place.

  She was crying, her body shaking as she clung to him. He sank onto the small love seat in her office and held her in his lap, pressing her face into his chest and rocking her back and forth.

  “You’re okay, Megan, I’ve got you.”

  He cradled her against him, soothing her and stroking her until she finally calmed and her tears subsided. Slowly her breathing steadied, and he felt her relaxing, felt the panic seep from her.

  Dammit, how long had she been in that drawer? And who the hell had put her there?

  * * *

  MEGAN HATED ANY WEAKNESS, but she couldn’t stop herself from trembling. It was a natural reaction to the cold and trauma, the scientist in her reminded herself.

  But it was more than that and she knew it. She’d been terrified of dying inside one of the very drawers where she stored the corpses she autopsied.

  “Megan?”

  Roan’s husky voice drifted through the fog of fear enveloping her.

  “Do you need me to call a medic?”

  She shook her head against his chest, still struggling to gather her composure.

  He gently brushed her tear-soaked hair from her cheek. “Are you sure? If you need a doctor, just say so.”

  “I’m...okay,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

  His chest rose and fell with his breath, a comforting feeling as she soaked up his strength and the body heat emanating from him. She didn’t know if she’d ever get warm again.

  He cradled her closer, then lifted her chin with his thumb and forced her to look at him. “You’d tell me if you’re hurt?”

  Her teeth chattered, but she gave a slight nod. “I’m just s-so cold.”

  A muscle ticked in his jaw. His eyes were dark with anger. “How long were you in there?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “It seemed like forever.”

  His mouth softened slightly. “What happened?”

  A shudder coursed through her, and she closed her eyes and buried her head against him. “Someone attacked me.”

  His body tensed, but he continued soothing her with a gentle stroke of his hand along her arm. “Did you see who it was?”

  She shook her head again. “He came up behind me...and he shoved the bag over my face... I tried to fight, but he hit me in the back of my head.”

  Roan lifted her slightly and angled her head to examine her. “Dammit, you are hurt. You have a knot the size of a golf ball.”

  “I tried not to pass out,” she said in a pained voice. “Then he shoved me in that body bag. I tried to fight him, but...he hit me again, and I blacked out.”

  “Bastard.” He stroked her arms to warm her. “You need to be examined. You might have a concussion.”

  “I don’t want a doctor,” Megan said, another chill washing over her. “I just want to go home and take a shower.”

  “We have to get a team here to see if he left prints.”

  “He didn’t,” Megan said. “I tried to scratch him, but he was wearing gloves.”

  “Still, maybe you snagged a button or something.”

  “Maybe.” She doubted it, but he was right. If there was a chance her attacker had left any piece of evidence behind, it might help catch him.

  And she wanted the son of a bitch caught.

  Roan captured her face between his hands and looked into her eyes. Worry furrowed his brows, but he looked so handsome and strong that she lost herself in his dark eyes.

  “Hang in there, Megan, I’ll call a crime team.”

  She agreed, although when Roan helped her into the chair and stood to make the call, she missed his warm arms around her.

  * * *

  ROAN PHONED LIEUTENANT HOBERMAN and explained the circumstances. “Thanks. We’ll wait here.”

  When he ended the call, Megan stood on wobbly legs and smoothed her hair back into her bun with her fingers. He wanted to tell her to leave it down, that even shaken and upset she looked beautiful. But he realized she needed to regain control, and part of that was putting herself back together.

  “I’m going to the ladies’ room.”

  “Megan, wait. Maybe you shouldn’t wash your hands yet, just in case you got some
forensics under your nails.”

  She hesitated, eyes flickering with unease, then acceptance. “You’re right.” She folded her arms across her chest and straightened her spine. “I wasn’t thinking.”

  Compassion for her filled him, and he stroked her cheek with his thumb. “It’s all right. You just went through a terrible ordeal.”

  Her lower lip quivered, but she clamped her teeth over it as if to calm herself. “I can’t believe this.” She gestured around her office. “Odd, but I always felt safe here. Now...”

  “Your job means you encounter death, Megan. That’s not pretty. And you have had three murder victims on your table this week.”

  “That’s true.” She paced across the room. “Roan, the man who attacked me told me to leave Joe McCullen’s death alone.”

  Roan’s heart jumped. “He said that?”

  She nodded, her face paling again. “He said if I didn’t leave it alone, I’d end up in that body bag permanently.”

  Roan cursed. The bastard had threatened Megan’s life. He knotted his hands into fists. If he got ahold of him, he’d kill him.

  His phone buzzed with a text. Hoberman and his team had arrived.

  The next hour the crime team investigators combed the morgue, Megan’s office and the cold room searching for anything Megan’s assailant might have left behind. They bagged the body bag to take to the lab and scraped beneath Megan’s nails.

  She resorted to professional mode, answering questions as if the attack had happened to a stranger.

  “We found a hair,” one of the techs said. “Short, dark.”

  “It’s not mine,” Megan said, stating the obvious.

  “Could it belong to one of the bodies you have here?” Lieutenant Hoberman asked.

  She chewed the inside of her cheek. “I don’t think so. But I’ll collect a sample from each one for comparison.”

  Roan admired her strength, and realized taking action was a coping mechanism. He also watched to make sure she hadn’t dismissed the blow to her head too quickly, that she hadn’t sustained a concussion.

  One reason he intended to stay the night with her.

  The other...he needed to know that she was alive, and that the man who’d attacked her didn’t return to her house to make good on that threat.