by G. K. Parks
“Charlotte?”
“Luc’s assistant. Her office is the next one over. You can’t miss it. She’s at your beck and call.”
“I’m sure she’ll love that.”
He looked at his watch, rushing around the desk and rummaging through the filing cabinet. “It’s her job.” He looked up for a moment. “You can always bug Jeffrey if you prefer.” He went to the door. “Try to get some sleep. You’ve had a rough night.”
“So did you.”
He made a noncommittal sound and continued down the hallway, letting the door shut behind him.
I stared at the opaque glass wall that separated his office from the hallway. He’d shifted the clear glass to solid white to hide his psychotic girlfriend from the rest of the world, or so I thought. Truthfully, I was happy for the peace and solitude.
Taking a seat on the couch, I gave the pillow an odd look. It wasn’t normal to have a bed pillow on the couch, and briefly, I wondered if Martin had asked Charlotte or some other assistant to ready his office for my arrival. But then I noticed the rack of suits against the far wall. Either Tom Ford had one hell of a sale and specially delivered Martin’s new purchases, or Martin hadn’t been home in the last week. Moving into the lavatory, I spotted his travel case and a few essentials. The building had showers in the executive washroom. The trash was emptied nightly, but a few delivery receipts littered the edge of his desk.
“Looks like I’m not the only one keeping secrets.” He hadn’t been home, which was why he didn’t know I hadn’t been home. It also explained why he’d been acting so guilty and showing up at my apartment. After last night, I regretted returning to his place or telling him that I would. “Damn, aren’t we dysfunctional?” I asked the empty room.
While dialing Jablonsky, I mentally prepared for what I was about to say. Just breathe, Parker, I reminded myself, feeling an uneasiness settle in the pit of my stomach. Mark would know what to do. He always did.
“Parker,” he said, having read the caller ID before I could say a word, “we haven’t made much progress yet, but the techs have shifted their focus to a different set of DOT cams. Since we have solid evidence that you were in that alleyway, you must have been on that street. They believe they’ll be able to locate you, but it’ll take time. We should have something promising in the next few days, maybe sooner.”
“Mark,” I swallowed, “I remembered something.”
“That’s great.”
“No, it isn’t.” I took a deep breath. “I think I killed someone.”
“What?” A door slammed in the background. “What the hell did you remember? Is this about that plastic-wrapped corpse? We haven’t found a body. There was no evidence to support any of that. The only blood and DNA on your body belonged to you.”
“What about GSR?” I asked, fearing the answer.
“They didn’t test for it. There were no indications of a gunshot.”
“But you haven’t recovered my piece.”
“Parker, listen to me, whatever you’re about to say. Don’t say it. This is a matter that should be discussed in person. I will come to you. In fact, I will meet you at Marty’s when I finish up here. Is that understood?”
“I’m at the MT building now.”
“What the hell are you doing there?”
“Martin was afraid to leave me alone.”
“Holy shit,” Mark swore, “just keep a lid on this until further notice. Make sure Martin does the same. I don’t need to worry about damage control. Right now, the less I know, the better. I’ll see you soon.”
He hung up before I could say anything else. I dropped the phone to the table. Shit. Shit. Shit. There was nothing I could do. I had no idea who the victim was. My memory was vague. The image of the man was brief. I could hear his panicked whimper clearly, but his face was a blur. The only real clarity was my weapon firing. Was that why I was running? Where did I ditch the gun? And what about his body? It was in the trunk of a car, but my car was at the OIO. Someone else was there and knew exactly what happened. Maybe I had an accomplice, or I was an accomplice. Did I witness a cop kill his CI? My head spun, and I pressed my palm against my pounding temple, desperately needing to lie down. Easing onto the couch, I let the myriad of questions and the ache in my head swirl around until it was replaced by nothingness.
The sound of agitated voices woke me. At first, I couldn’t understand the words, and it took longer than it should have before I realized they weren’t being spoken in English. Luc and Martin were having an argument, and from the sounds of it, Luc had reverted to his native tongue. As far as I could tell, Martin was holding his own. Pressing deeper into the couch, I hoped to disappear. I had a splitting headache, and it was getting worse by the minute. Eventually, an accord was reached, and Luc walked out. The silence made the ringing in my ears seem that much more pronounced, and I buried my head deeper into the pillow when the sound of rapid typing replaced the ringing.
When I woke again, I took a deep breath, enjoying the scent of Martin surrounding me. He must be close, I thought, opening my eyes to the sight of his office. He had placed his suit jacket over me like a blanket and was standing near the windows, drinking a scotch. He must have heard the shift of the leather because he turned around, offering a weak smile.
“Hey, beautiful.”
“What time is it?” I asked.
“It’s almost six. I didn’t want to wake you.” He moved across the room, taking a seat on the coffee table in front of me. “How are you holding up?”
“My head hurts. My sanity is questionable, and Mark is probably waiting for us at your house.”
“They said it was likely you sustained a concussion,” Martin said matter-of-factly. He leaned closer to brush the hair out of my face. “What the hell are we going to do with you?”
For a brief moment, I was hit by the scent of alcohol on his breath and thought I’d be sick. “I love you, but lose the scotch.”
He gave me an odd look. “That’s new.” The pained expression on my face was enough to stop his questions and get him to move the glass to the other side of the table. Then he went into the bathroom, brushed his teeth, and came back with a breath mint. “Is that better?”
“Yeah, sorry.”
“Apologize to the eighteen year old single malt that I won’t get to finish.” He winked. “Obviously, I must think pretty highly of you.”
“You’ve been sleeping in the office.”
“And you’ve been sleeping at your apartment. I don’t think either of those points is relevant at the moment.” He narrowed his eyes. The green orbs looked concerned. “Alexis, what happened last night? This morning, you said it wasn’t a dream, and I’ve seen what your nightmares can do. That has never happened before. What’s going on?”
“Do we have to talk about this here?” I asked, glancing around the completely empty room.
“Yes, because we are not going anywhere until I know what’s wrong with my girlfriend. You scared me last night.”
“I know. I saw the look on your face. You were just as convinced as I was that I could hurt you.”
“Bullshit. I was terrified for you. Why the hell were you afraid of me?”
“I wasn’t.”
“You wouldn’t let me get near you. It took over two hours before you were calm enough for me to approach. I would never hurt you, sweetheart.” He reached for me, testing to see if I would cringe. “But someone did. I know it. I’ve seen the way you’ve reacted afterward.” He swallowed, not needing to elaborate further. “You said this morning that it wasn’t a dream. I didn’t comprehend what you meant because I was wrapped up in my own shit, but I haven’t been able to get your words out of my head all day. Luc’s pissed that I’ve been zoning out during our meetings. You can’t keep me in the dark. What did you remember?”
With that tiny amount of prodding, I unloaded everything onto him. My deepest fears, my speculations, and the terrifying memories and dreams. “I told Mark,” I said, collecti
ng myself. “That’s why he wants to meet at your place. He must agree with the conclusion I reached, and he probably wants to get as much of the story as possible before taking official action against me.”
“Alex, you didn’t murder anyone,” Martin said with a level of certainty that I didn’t possess. “Of that fact, I’m sure.” He pressed his lips together, staring at my cast. “Would you have even been able to shoot someone in your condition?”
“It could have happened before this did,” I speculated. “Regardless, I’m a decent shot with my left.”
“Well, if you did fire on someone, it would have been in self-defense.”
“A bound man isn’t much of a threat.”
“Then you didn’t shoot him.” Martin moved onto the couch, and I hugged him tightly, even though it hurt. “Do you trust Mark and your team at the OIO to straighten this out?”
“I guess.”
“Should I hire some people to investigate quietly? I have the resources, and if it means we’ll end up having a peaceful night’s sleep one day sooner, I’m game.”
“Not yet, let’s see what Mark has to say first.”
My boss would not be pleased that I had spilled the beans to Martin. He’d be even less pleased that Martin would intervene on my behalf if he thought it was in my best interest. So much for mending their relationship. However, at the moment, their sensitive egos were far less important than my mental health.
Thirteen
“Run through it one more time,” Mark insisted. “I’m not seeing the connection that you keep making. Why do you think someone’s dead?”
“I’ve seen the body. I heard his scream.” Taking a deep breath and lowering my voice, I said, “I know he was shot. It was my gun.”
“You don’t know anything, Parker.” Rolling his eyes, he pushed away from the table. “You said it yourself; this could be nothing more than your fucking ridiculous imagination getting the best of you.”
“It isn’t.”
“What’s your proof? We don’t have a body. We don’t have your gun. We don’t have a crime. The only thing we have is one nut job agent who woke up in the middle of nowhere. Do you want to know what the evidence actually suggests? Do you?” he bellowed.
“What?”
“That you ditched work with enough foresight to know that you wouldn’t be in any condition to drive, and you went out on a bender. The tox report supports that conclusion, and your injuries could be the result of dangerous, drunken behavior.”
“It’s not true.”
“Maybe it should be.” Jablonsky’s eyes conveyed a look that I’d only seen a few times before. It was the ‘leave it alone, you’re better off not knowing’ look. “However, it’ll be important to keep the investigation open until we’re positive that you were not targeted. I take threats against my people very seriously.”
“You know me. You know my instincts are spot on. If I say something happened, it did.” I blinked back the irrational tears that threatened to fall. “I can’t keep doing this. Last night,” I gulped down some air, “it was bad, Mark. I can’t go through that again.”
“Parker,” he grasped my hand, “I never said I didn’t believe you. I’m telling you that you don’t know what you’re talking about, and until there is proof, you shouldn’t speculate. Do you understand my meaning?”
“Yeah,” I pulled my hand free and sat back, “but it’s counterproductive. I need to work toward the truth, not toward the spin that we might have to put on it. I don’t have the energy to do both.”
Jablonsky steepled his fingers and stared off into the distance. “You wouldn’t shoot a defenseless man. Even if someone threatened you, you wouldn’t do it.” His eyes narrowed on my cast. “You don’t remember pulling the trigger. From what you said, you tried to stop the shooter. When you woke up and saw the blood, that’s when you assumed that you shot Marty. You need to backtrack to actual memories, not pseudo-memories or whatever. What did the room look like?”
“Everything had a red glow. It originated in the upper corner of the room. There was a drain in the floor. The floor was tile. Everything seemed red, but it might have been white or some light color. Probably white. There were a lot of shiny surfaces, metallic, maybe.” Squinting, I tried to recall the room, but all I remembered clearly was the desperation, the shots being fired, and blood moving toward the drain.
“Hey, eyes over here.” Jablonsky leaned forward, forcing me to focus on him. “Think hard for a second. The man you saw get shot and the corpse in the trunk, are they one and the same?”
Concentrating hard, I couldn’t be sure. “You think two people were murdered?”
“I’m not sure anyone was murdered.” The leave it alone look resurfaced. “Let’s get back to what we know that isn’t a potential memory or nightmare. You told Marty that you were meeting with a confidential informant. I don’t know any cop worth his salt that wouldn’t have been at that same meeting. With any luck, the reason for your missing weapon and credentials is because you stowed them somewhere before the meet to keep from spooking the CI.”
“That would make sense.”
“Hell, you might have ordered a drink or two while questioning the CI just to hide the federal agent stink. It’s possible time got away from you.” Mark stood, giving the whiteboards I’d filled another glance. “Honestly, it’s very possible nothing heinous went down. It’s also possible things went sideways, and you stumbled into something you shouldn’t have seen. We will get to the bottom of it, but being a self-proclaimed killer isn’t the way to go.”
“I wasn’t planning on waltzing into some precinct and turning myself in,” I retorted, annoyed.
“Yeah, well, you did waltz into a precinct and stirred the water to see what would surface.” He gave me a look. “Don’t do that again.”
“Why?”
“Just don’t.” He narrowed his eyes at the cast again before heading for the door. “You’re gonna say no, so I’m ordering you to talk to one of the shrinks at work. They’ve dealt with trauma victims and PTSD patients. They might be able to help.”
“I thought you wanted me to keep a lid on this.”
“Doctor-patient confidentiality,” Jablonsky said, pausing in the doorway. “You said you wanted the truth. There it is.”
“Jack Nicholson said it better.”
“You can’t handle it. Night, Parker,” Mark called, exiting the room. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the office.”
After he left, I stared at the boards. He hadn’t helped the way I thought he would. Instead, he made me afraid of uncovering what really happened. He knew something, but he wasn’t sharing.
I made a few calls, first to Agent Davenport and then to Lucca. Davenport said they were working on routing the new set of DOT footage through the facial rec software in order to pinpoint my location, but it wasn’t done yet. And Lucca had no news to report. I considered phoning Det. O’Connell but didn’t want to stoke the fires after Jablonsky’s warning. Plus, Nick would call if he had something.
Focusing on my cast, I wondered what Jablonsky had been pondering. Rereading the notes on the whiteboard and what I recalled from my medical records, I had a thought. Going into the kitchen, I searched the drawers for something to saw through the plaster. At home, I had box cutters and screwdrivers in my kitchen drawers. Unfortunately, Martin only had practical items like silverware in his.
Locating a pizza slicer, I spun the sharp wheel with my pointer finger, shrugged, and went to the table. At first, I applied pressure at the end of the cast, near my elbow, and attempted to saw through it, but that quickly proved useless. Maybe I could crack it open. Lifting the pizza cutter in my left, I made sure it was lined up, afraid that I’d miss and cut my arm open. In one swift stroke, I brought it down lightly, not making a significant impact. With the practice swing out of the way, I intended to try again with more force, but Martin grabbed my wrist before I started on the downswing.
“Whoa,” he pried the kitchen utens
il out of my hand, “what are you doing?”
“I want it off.” I held out my casted arm. “Get it off.”
“Alex,” he sighed, probably convinced that he was dealing with someone mentally disturbed, “you’re going to slice through your arm doing this.” He put the cutter in the sink and shook his head. “I have tools downstairs. I can get it off, but it is on for a reason.”
“I don’t care. This is more important. Trust me.”
He stared into my eyes. “I do.” Returning with what looked like a chisel, he sat across from me at the table. “This might hurt. Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” I nodded, “I need to see my hand, and I can’t exactly do that with these bandages and this stupid cast. It’s a sprained wrist. I’ll put a brace on it and call it a day. It’s no big deal.”
After cracking the plaster, Martin sawed off the rest of the cast with enough skill to make me think he’d done it before. My freed arm immediately throbbed upon release, but I ignored it, pulling off the bandages. Even though it’d been several days, the bruising on my hand between my thumb and pointer finger was substantial. I stared at it, realizing for the first time what caused it.
“And they say those aren’t defensive wounds,” Martin scoffed. “Unbelievable.” Gingerly, he lifted my hand, concentrating too hard on my torn nails, deep scabs, and black bruise to notice my wince. “You were clawing at something.”
“A wood chair or table,” I said, piecing together the facts with my broken recollection. Turning my hand over, I stared at my palm, knowing the web between my thumb and finger had been pinched on both sides. “In order to prevent a loaded weapon from discharging, you can shove your hand between the hammer and pin to keep it from firing. The military teaches that with disarming techniques. Quantico taught us that too.”
“You weren’t the shooter,” Martin said, realizing what he was observing. “You were trying to disarm him.”