Deadly Messengers (36 page)

He rushed toward his desk. Where was the file? He couldn’t remember what he’d done with it after he’d finished. Maybe Trip had taken it?

He looked over his desktop then shuffled through his overflowing tray, lifting yesterday’s newspaper. No, not there. He pulled out the hanging file drawer beneath and flicked through the files. It wasn’t there either.

Without the file, he couldn’t confirm his thoughts.

What
was
he thinking?

That this old man with his long-dead son had accessed this seratolamine, masterminding these mass killings like an evil comic book anti-hero? Was he really thinking this, based on a word he
thought
was in a report?

He couldn’t find the file. He smashed his hand against the desk.
Damn.
Trip must have it
.
He needed to try Trip again. He checked his watch. Ten forty-nine.

It hit him then.

Trip was with Kendall Jennings. And they were with Doug McKinley.

KENDALL HEARD THE VOICE INSIDE her head. Deliciously warm, reminding her of her father’s voice when she was a child. She trusted the voice, the sound of comfort and safety and love. It swelled in her head like an incoming tide washing over her, until it was only the voice and her and the words. All that mattered was the voice.

“Sorry,” the voice said.

She wanted to reply, assure them it was okay. The voice needed to make no apologies.

“Straight and true,” it said.

Those familiar words resonated with her.

Straight and true.

She’d give her life for those words.

A face swam into her vision. A sweet old man. She knew him, his name, though, remained elusive as though the connections to the memory had fallen away like unstable Wi-Fi.

What mattered wasn’t his name. What mattered were his words swirling inside her head. Words like a drug, bringing contentment.

Something heavy was in her hand. Kendall looked down. Her movements felt slow like her body was moving through water.

A gun. Smooth, beautiful, and filled with promise. What promise, she didn’t know, didn’t care.

Normally a gun would terrify her, after her mother, the violence that stole her away. Now she felt kinship with this gun; it was a good and precious thing. The gun would save her. Bring back her mother. Bring back the life she enjoyed before that night.

The voice grew insistent, talking to her of the gun and a plan and her role in the
greater
destiny. She nodded, so the man and the voice would understand. Yes, she would follow. Remain straight and true.

“If you do this thing, you will enjoy your reward.”

She knew the reward would be her mother, back again, alive and loving.

Her first task lay outside.
He
stood in her way.
He
would prevent her from helping her mother.

“You must stop him, before he stops you. Be quick, straight and true.”

Yes,
she said, inside her head, her mouth moving, miming the answer. She couldn’t find her voice.

“You must be close.
”

I must be close.

Kendall walked to the front door. As though in a dream, her hand reached out and turned the knob. The metal felt like cool stone to her warm touch. A good feeling.

Straight and true, remember.

The voice swam into the very depths of her being.

The door swung inward, and suddenly everything changed. The sunlight streamed into her, each ray a sharp needle piercing her eyes. It burned with a pain that tore into her mind. She wanted to stop, cover her face, go back to the cool of the house.

She couldn’t stop.

Her feet moved forward, outside her control.

Under her breath, she mouthed:
Yes, I will. Yes, I will. Yes, I will.

Kendall saw
him
as soon as she’d stepped down the stoop. He was bald and tall, leaning casually against the side of a car parked in the driveway. At first, he didn’t notice her, preoccupied with his phone. The sound of the door closing alerted him. He looked up. A smile flew toward her.

“Ready to go?” he said. “Tell me what happened once we get going.”

She knew him, but his name wouldn’t form in her mind. His name didn’t matter; he was simply the man who would stop her. She clutched the gun tightly, behind her back.

Close. She needed to be close.

A few more yards.

Nearly there.

With each step, strength infused her body with steel. The thoughts and her next actions spun in her mind, sounding like a hundred airplane propellers whirring at once.

His phone rang, the sound cutting through the whine in her mind. He held out his mobile, checking the number, then swiped his finger across the screen.

He smiled at her as he answered as though he wanted this to happen. She tried to smile back so he wouldn’t be alarmed, wouldn’t understand until it was too late, but her face felt stiff and awkward.

“Hold on a sec,” he said into the phone. He looked up at her, his eyes wide and concerned. “Everything okay, Kendall?”

Finally, she’d found the facial muscles. A smile appeared on her face.

Walk up and smile.

Follow the voice exactly. To save her mother.

A few more yards, she’d be close enough. One foot after the other. No hesitation.

The mission beat in her head, her love for her mother, in her heart. The gun, a golden throbbing pulse in her palm.

The man returned to his call, his gaze still on her face.

“Let me call you back, O’Grady. Something’s up.”

She saw his thumb disconnect the call.

“Kendall, are you okay? You look sick … something wrong? What did he say?”

She was inches from him, so close, she felt his breath upon her forehead. She looked into his eyes, her gaze meeting his. Confusion met her stare.

“Kendall, I don’t under—”

The gun was there between them, the beautiful, cool gun. She tilted it upward, felt the pulse shoot through the finger resting gently against the trigger.

He saw the gun a split-second before her finger twitched. His eyes suddenly widened.

“No,” hung on his lips and was then expelled into the air between them. She heard the word as a distant sound, echoing from another place. Then, a ringing in her ears, and the world became a silent movie.

His face exploded in a brilliant flash. Blood and bone fragments and speckles of gray erupted as though his head were a melon smashed with a hammer. The moist droplets felt warm on her skin. Everything so silent within the empty vacuum, made it seem like a slow motion film. He fell with a graceful movement captured in glorious Technicolor.

The man who would stop her, now lay at her feet, a bloody mess where his head had once been. Kendall felt at peace, even as blood pooled around his head. Thin red rivulets meandered their way down the gentle incline of the concrete drive, as though seeking an escape to the road.

She stared at the body, blinking away blood spatters in her eyes. The needle pain in her head returned. A blinding torment erupted inside, swallowing her mind.

Kendall elongated her neck, stretching at the hurt. It helped a little, encouraging the sharp tendrils of ache to dull down to tolerable. Uncommanded, a hand reached up to wipe away a strand of hair, fallen across her face. When she looked down, thick, warm blood clung to the fingers. As her hand slid across her shirt, a smeared arc of red appeared.

The gun grew heavy. She wanted to put it down, but something told her she mustn’t, couldn’t. Not yet. She held up the gun to stare at it, trying to remember what came next.

Then the voice came and she remembered.

The garage farther up the drive. There, an old man, beckoning her. A running car, gray puffs of smoke fuming from its exhaust. She hoped he’d seen what she’d done. Hoped he was pleased.

He smiled at her. “Remember what I told you?”

Yes
, she mouthed.
Straight and true.

“You’re a good girl.”

Inside her, a child’s delight.

As the old man pulled a coat about her, she smiled at his touch.

“There, you’ve gotten some blood on your clothes. Let’s cover it up.”

He dabbed at her face with a cloth he pulled from his pocket.

Was there blood on her face, too?
She appreciated his kindness.

“Ah, that’s better, you look like you again, my dear. All ready to go? Soon, my good girl, all will be made right with your help. Soon.”

O ’GRADY CALLED TRIP REPEATEDLY AS he drove toward Doug McKinley’s address. He’d also sent several texts, concern growing, an expanding knot in his stomach. Trip had picked up, but then he’d cut O’Grady off. Before the line went dead, he’d heard Trip say: “Kendall, are you okay?”

What had happened? Trip’s tone sounded off. Something was wrong. His foot was heavy on the accelerator as he dodged around cars and ran red lights. Instinct warned against using his siren. If there was somebody dangerous at McKinley’s, such as Hoody, he didn’t want to warn them.

O’Grady’s phone rang. He slowed, relieved, thinking it must be Trip. He hit the Bluetooth button on his steering wheel.

“Trip, where’ve you been?”

It wasn’t Trip. It was his sergeant, McCarthy.

“O’Grady, where are you?”

“Heading to meet with Trip.”

“Would that be at the same address you left with the desk clerk? Park Way Road, Belmont?”

“Yeah. Trip headed there earlier, finalizing a few loose ends on these massacres. Why?”

Suddenly a thousand tiny needles pierced his gut. Something felt wrong.

“Shots fired in that street, number thirty-five. You’ll be first responder to the scene.”

“At thirty-five? That’s where he is, and … Kendall Jennings.”

“Who’s Kendall Jenn—”

O’Grady hit the end button. Please let it be Trip doing the shooting.

Seconds later, he turned into the street. Thirty-five was four houses along. He saw the body in the driveway immediately.

“Shit. Trip!”

His heart beat in his chest like it meant to hurt him. All the oxygen evacuated instantly from his lungs.

Thirty yards away, he slammed his foot to the accelerator because he knew.

He knew
.

At the house, he threw the wheel a hard left, the car’s tires screeching as he bounced over the curb to reach a standstill on the front lawn. O’Grady wanted to leap from the car, race the remaining few yards to Trip, but his training and experience kicked in. He couldn’t help Trip or anyone if he got himself shot. From where he sat, that’s what it looked had happened. Trip had been shot.

He grabbed the radio mic from the dash and called dispatch. They needed backup. More than that, medical assistance. Minutes might count. Seconds. As he spoke, he scanned the neatly kept garden, looking carefully for any telltale movement of the gunman. He checked the windows of the house for signs of a figure or the barrel of a gun poking through the dark drapes.

Nothing.

O’Grady drew his gun, holding it to his chest, as he climbed over to the passenger side, continuing to search the surroundings. Uppermost in his mind was that Trip and Kendall might have found themselves in the center of another mass killing. He needed to get to Trip without being added to a body count.

Carefully, he eased open the passenger door, holding it like a shield against the open expanse of the lawn. Several of McKinley’s neighbors stood at their windows staring out. He motioned them to move away, to take cover. Curiosity not only killed cats.

O’Grady allowed another half minute to pass. Still no movement. He couldn’t wait any longer. He would need to risk leaving the car or risk being too late to help Trip or the Jennings woman, wherever she might be.

Climbing out, O’Grady stayed low, moving along the side of the car, his gun held at shoulder height. Raising his head above the car’s hood, he looked over toward Trip. He was only ten feet away. So much blood there. Too much blood. If he wasn’t dead, he would be soon if O’Grady didn’t hurry.

Sweat ran down his face. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, and drew a long, deep breath. He could hear his heart thumping loudly inside his ears. One more long breath, and he launched around the car and ran toward Trip, his legs pumping like pistons.