by Reinke, Sara
Oh, God…! Brandon thought as he stumbled backwards, eyes wide in horrified disbelief. He felt his stomach give a clumsy lurch, and he whirled, clapping his hand to his mouth. Doubling over, he vomited, his belly wrenching in tight, pained knots, twisting over and over until there was nothing left to come up, and he could only stagger weakly, leaning against Aaron’s gurney for support.
Oh, my God, he thought, trying vainly to spit the bitter taste of bile from his mouth. Oh, my God, his arm…! Did Julianne do that to him?
Shivering, he looked over at the grisly ruin of Aaron’s flayed arm, but jerked his gaze away as again, his stomach roiled in nauseated protest. I don’t think he’s breathing, he thought, because he hadn’t been able to discern any tell-tale, rhythmic rising or falling of Aaron’s chest. Oh, God, I think Julianne killed him—he’s dead!
Aaron’s hand clamped fiercely against Brandon’s, and had the boy been able, he would have screamed out loud in bright, startled terror. Aaron’s eyes flew open, along with his mouth, and Brandon didn’t need to hear to know he suddenly sucked in a large, gulping mouthful of air, as if breaking the surface after too long a time underwater, his lungs desperate for breath. His entire body tensed, his back arching off the gurney, the tendons and muscles in his neck suddenly standing out in taut, strained relief beneath his skin.
Holy shit—! Brandon tried to backpedal in wild, frightened start, but Aaron held him fast, his hand crushing Brandon’s, his fingers ice-cold and strong. He clung to the boy like a drowning man might a line tossed from shore, and when he turned his head in Brandon’s direction, locking gazes with him, his eyes were bright blue and dazed.
“Please,” he gasped, the word echoing in Brandon’s mind as he repeated it telepathically, his mental voice weak but urgent. Please…
Jerking his hand free from the man’s desperate grasp, Brandon staggered clumsily backwards. He staggered into a nearby table and nearly fell onto his ass, knocking over a tray of medical tools as he tried to reclaim his balance.
Aaron craned his wrist against the cuff buckled tightly to bind him. His eyes were round, glassy with pain and delirium. Please… he begged again.
I…I’ll get help, Brandon hiccupped, still stumbling backwards for the door.
No, Aaron pleaded, his fingers splayed wide as if he wanted to reach out to Brandon. No, please…don’t…!
I’ll get help, Brandon promised him. I’ll get my dad. I…I’ll be right back…!
He ran back down the passageway in a wild sort of daze, not stopping to consider the risk of running into Julianne or the man in the tuxedo. He ran all of the way to the elevator, then rode it up to the library. Panting for breath, he raced through the corridors of the Davenant great house until somehow making his way back to the ground floor, and the ballroom where all of the party-goers had gathered. Pushing and shoving his way against a seemingly endless tide of tuxedo- and gown-clad adults, he at last staggered headlong into Sebastian and Vanessa.
Dad! he’d gasped, as Sebastian had caught him by the shoulders, his eyes widening first in surprise, then in bewildered concern.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
Dad, there’s a man behind the wall, Brandon exclaimed, clutching at Sebastian’s hands. I saw him. His arm’s all torn up. Grandmother Julianne was there—she cut up his arm. Please, he’s hurt.
“What are you talking about?” Sebastian said.
Come with me, Brandon pleaded. I’ll show you. He’s hurt, Dad. He needs help!
Vanessa had noticed Brandon’s arrival, and her face had grown pale, her eyes round. She caught Sebastian by the sleeve, and he shrugged her off, nodding sharply as if to say, Yes, yes, I know. To Brandon, he offered a clumsy semblance of a smile, taking the boy’s shoulders again and trying to steer him toward the door. Brandon, you shouldn’t be here. Come on, let’s take you back to—
Dad, no! Brandon tried vainly to duck away from his grasp. Please, you’re not listening to me!
Sebastian opened his mouth as if to argue with his son, his brows narrowing sternly. Before he could say a word, however, something drew his attention, and he averted his gaze. All of the grown-ups around them had looked in that same direction, and Brandon had turned to look, too, just in time to see Lamar Davenant making his grand entrance.
Brandon knew this with certainty, even though he’d never seen the old man before, not even in photographs—because there were no others among the Brethren who could have been, much less looked, that old. He arrived by wheelchair with the man in the tuxedo pushing him from behind down a ramp while Davenant sons flanked them on the adjacent stairs. The man delivered Lamar to a landing on the stairway that overlooked the ballroom. Here, with the man in the tuxedo on one side and another man—his son, Allistair—on the other, Lamar clasped his gnarled hands against the balustrade and hoisted himself to his feet.
“My apologies for my late arrival,” he rasped into a microphone that had been positioned on the railing, awaiting him. “Any rumors that might have been spreading about my untimely demise have, I’m afraid, been greatly exaggerated.”
Laughter had rippled through the crowd at this, a polite, somewhat terse sort, as if everyone had indeed been saying as much, and suddenly wondered whether or not Lamar had somehow read their minds.
Brandon felt a tremulous mix of both terror and awe. It was like realizing he’d just seen Abraham Lincoln—or perhaps more appropriately, the Bogeyman, someone whose very existence seemed more legend than possible truth.
You have to go, Sebastian told Brandon in his mind, just as Vanessa seized hold of him by the wrist and began marching with him through the crowd toward the exit.
But, Dad…! Brandon had pleaded, staring frantically over his shoulder at his father, but Sebastian had been firm.
You have to go now, Brandon.
CHAPTER FOUR
“That guy, Simms, is right,” Elías admitted with a heavy sigh, as he and Lina stood in the main hospital lobby. He shoved his phone back into his inside jacket pocket, having just finished speaking with their commanding officer, Lieutenant Fairfax, for the better part of the last fifteen minutes. “Fairfax called the federales in the minute Téo confirmed Tejano’s involvement with his attack. He sounded surprised it had taken them so long to get here from Miami.”
“So that’s it?” Lina asked. In all of her previous law enforcement experience, she’d never had to deal with federal agencies before. This was all new—and infuriating—to her. “We just hand over our case files to that slick son of a bitch—everything we’ve pulled together up to this point, all of our evidence, everything we’ve been busting our asses for—and wash our hands of the whole mess?”
“Pretty much,” Elías said, though he didn’t look any happier about the situation than she felt. “He’s got jurisdiction. We don’t have shit.”
“It isn’t fair,” Lina insisted, and she hated how she sounded like a toddler whining about not getting her way. But goddamn it, it wasn’t right, it wasn’t fair; she felt like she and Elías had been victimized, their work snatched out from underneath them. She started to say more, but noticed his gaze had traveled beyond her shoulder toward the front doors of the hospital and his eyes had widened. She heard the soft, sharp intake of his breath, and watched his hardened expression abruptly soften, growing nearly pained. In that moment, he looked for all the world like someone had just place-kicked him in the balls, and she didn’t have to turn around to know the reason why, to realize who had just walked into the lobby.
“Pilar,” Elías breathed, and then he brushed past Lina as if completely unaware of her existence. She pivoted, feeling her entire body tense as she caught sight of the younger woman dressed in a midriff-baring black T-shirt, cut-off denim shorts and cowboy boots, crossing the glossy tiled floor behind her. Her long tumble of black curls had been tied back in a loose ponytail with a scrap of ribbon. She looked effortlessly beautiful, and Lina hated her—and hated herself for hoping that Brandon was with her, t
hat at any moment, he’d come breezing in through the doors behind Pilar.
Pilar saw Elías approaching and froze, skittering to an uncertain halt. For a moment, she hesitated, glancing over her shoulder as if considering the possibility of escape, and then, with a soft cry, she darted toward him instead.
“Elías!” she gasped, leaping into his arms, locking him in a fierce, throttling embrace. He held her there, her feet off the ground, easily in his arms and crushed against his chest, his face buried in his hair.
The sight of them together—of the love that was still so apparent and poignant between them—was enough to break Lina’s heart. And when Elías set Pilar gently down on her toes, then cradled her face between his hands and kissed her, Lina felt tears well in her eyes.
All of this…God, it’s so unfair, she thought in dismay, and she turned, hurrying away from them, heading for the nearest avenue of exit: the cafeteria. It was still too early for lunch, but late enough in the morning for her to steer clear of the remaining breakfast fare still wrapped in paper and languishing beneath heat lamps. Lina bee-lined for the coffee machines, but stopped short as she reached for a paper cup.
She thought of the little pink-and-blue boxes she’d seen on display in the ruined pharmacy only an hour or so earlier. Not that she wanted to, but there they were, spinning around inside her head like a goddamn little mental mobile. With a scowl, she reached for the decaffeinated decanter, but told herself as she poured that it didn’t mean anything.
“Unleaded? I would have pegged you more for the regular brew,” Special Agent Marcus Simms remarked, startling her as he leaned past her, lifting the decanter of caffeinated joe in hand.
“I can’t see how you’d be able to peg me for anything, Agent Simms,” she replied drily, watching as he poured himself a generous, steaming cupful. “Considering you’ve known me…what? A grand total of five minutes, maybe less?”
“True,” he conceded, as he took a pair of sugar packets in one hand and gave them a slight snap. Tearing them together, he then stirred them carefully into his coffee. Cutting her a glance, he said, “I think we got off to the wrong start. I’m not here to step on any toes.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” Lina muttered, slapping a lid on her cup and turning to walk away.
“I’m just doing my job, Detective,” he said, bringing her to a halt.
“No, what you’re doing is interfering in an investigation that was going perfectly fine until you came along,” she snapped, wheeling around to glare at him. “Detective Velasco and I had this situation under control before—”
“Under control?” Marcus arched his brow. “Begging your pardon, Detective, but you’ve had three murders in as many weeks linked to Cervantes and his gang. That hardly seems like a situation ‘under control’ to me.”
She felt her cheeks burn with sudden, furious, humiliated color. He had her there. The asshole.
“Excuse me, Agent…” Shooting him a glower, she turned on her heel, coffee in hand, and marched away. “But I’ll leave you to your case now.”
She meant that to be the end of it. If the son of a bitch wanted the case, fine—he could have it. But she’d be damned if she’d stand around with him, making small talk, like he hadn’t just waltzed in and stolen it right out from underneath her and Elías. Thus when she stopped at the cashier, reaching for her wallet, and Marcus dropped a five-spot down to pay, she jumped in surprise—then scowled again.
“I can get my own.” Lina shoved the bill at him.
“Come on.” He pushed it back, nodding once at the cashier to take it. “My treat. I feel like I owe you.”
“You do,” she assured him. “But it’d take more than a cup of lousy coffee to make up for it.”
Leaving the cashier to dole out his change, Lina snatched her cup again and stomped toward the exit. She heard the rapid patter of his shoe soles behind him as he hurried to catch up, and winced. With a heavy sigh, she turned and frowned. “Was there something else you needed, Agent Simms? Because if not, I have other cases I need to get working on. Seeing as how you have the Cervantes one under control and all that.”
“I probably deserve that.” He reached into the side pocket of his jacket and pulled out a business card. “I’d like to sit down with you and go through your files on the investigation if you have the time.”
She blinked, incredulous. “Seriously?” With a laugh, she shook her head. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, you know that?”
“Detective Jones, I’m not trying to alienate you or your department by any means. I know you and Velasco put a lot of man-hours into your investigation. I’d really value and appreciate your insight…and your cooperation.”
“I’m sure you would,” Lina said drily. “But as it stands, I no longer have any to offer. Because it’s not my case anymore, is it?” She dropped him a smart-ass wink. “It’s yours.”
* * *
When Lina left the cafeteria, she found no sign of Elías or Pilar in the lobby. She glanced out the lobby windows and caught sight of him in the parking lot near his car. Curiously, he was on his cell phone, with his free hand raised to plug his ear so that he could hear better. Even more curious, there was no sign of Pilar. Elías paced back and forth alongside his Charger, but with his sunglasses on, she couldn’t tell from his facial expression if he was upset or not.
Carrying her coffee in hand, Lina walked outside. “I can’t believe that asshole,” she said to Elías as she approached. He’d just finished his call apparently, and glanced her way as he tucked his phone back inside his jacket.
“Hey,” he called back. “Hola. What asshole?”
“Special Agent Marcus Simms.” Lina said this with a sneer. “You know, he had the nerve to follow me down to the cafeteria and ask for my help going through the case files.”
His eyes widened. “Seriously?”
“My reaction exactly.”
“Damn.” Elías forked his fingers through the thick crown of his dark hair. “And I thought I had cajones. What’d you tell him?”
“What do you think? I wished him good luck with his case.” Lina cut a sweeping glance around the parking lot. “Where’s Pilar?”
“She went up to the ICU,” Elías replied, opening the driver’s side door. “She couldn’t talk long.”
As he settled himself behind the wheel, Lina got in on the passenger’s side. Reaching for her seatbelt, she studied him. He wouldn’t look in her direction; at least, if he did, she couldn’t tell because of his shades. His mouth was a straight, unaffected line, offering no hints as to what he was thinking or feeling.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
“Yeah.” Plugging the key into the ignition switch, he fired up the Charger’s V-6 engine. “Everything’s cool.”
He draped his hand against the headrest of her seat while he pivoted to look through the rear window, backing the car out of its parking place. His expression remained smooth and stoic, his motions nearly robotic as he then shifted gears and drove toward the exit of the parking lot.
“You sure?” Lina asked. She’d come to know Elías well enough to understand he wasn’t much for sharing his feelings. She didn’t know if it had something to do with the whole machismo thing Hispanic men embraced by culture, or if he was just a stubborn, introverted guy by nature, but in any case, trying to figure out what was going on in Elías’s head and heart sometimes was like trying to crack open a vault. In Fort Knox.
“Yeah.” He paused for a minute, the car idling at the parking lot exit, his fingers drumming idly against the steering wheel. Then he reached for the gear shift and put the Charger in park. “I mean no.” Pulling off his sunglasses, he cut her a glance. “I’ve decided to head out to Miami.”
“What?” Surprised and caught off-guard, Lina blinked at him.
“I haven’t seen my son in awhile,” he continued. “Too long really. And with everything that’s happened…first with Pepe Cervantes, and now Tejano…” He sighed heavily, raking his
fingers through his hair. “I think I just need to get away from it all.”
“But the case…” she said. “Téo’s dead. That brings the murder charges up to—”
“It’s not our case anymore,” Elías said. “The FBI’s taking over, remember?”
Lina pivoted in her seat, trying to better face him. “What happened with Pilar?” she demanded.
He shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re—”
“Bullshit,” she cut in. “This has something to do with her, doesn’t it? She said something to you in the lobby.”
“No,” Elías insisted. “This has been on my mind for awhile, Lina—wanting to see Manuel. I just got off the phone with Lieutenant Fairfax. I’ve got paid time off out the ass, and he’d been pushing me to take some of it anyway. Simms gave me an out, that’s all.”
She stared at him, incredulous, waiting for him to bust out laughing and tell her he was only joking. Instead, he dropped the car in gear again and began to drive once more.
“How long are you going to be gone?” she asked at length.
He shrugged. “I’m just going to play it by ear.”
“Elías.” Lina caught him by the elbow, drawing his gaze momentarily. “This isn’t you.”
“What are you talking about? Yeah, it’s me, Lina.”
“No, I mean this…this idea about going to Miami. Pilar did something to you, used her telepathy on you, planted it in your head.”
It was the only explanation that made any sense to her. There was no way she could believe that Elías would just walk away from an open case—and that one in particular. He’d practically made the pursuit of Tejano Cervantes the focus of his career, both in Bayshore and before that, in Miami. Besides, abandoning a case, not to mention his partner—and Pilar--wasn’t in his nature.