Fractured (9 page)

“No,” I said and turned away. I was afraid that if he pressed me, I'd admit that Agent Reston had arranged for it. Now I wondered how smart that was. But all my stuff was there. And the stump was shooting pains right up my spine into my eyeballs.

“Sure,” he said. “Whatever you want.” I thought I heard a bit of disappointment in his tone, but didn't press him. I didn't want to back out on him, but I was approaching the point where I'd be more of a liability than an asset.

“You should tell her the whole thing, Bobby. You can count on her. I'm the one that will fold, just when you need me to lean on.” I stopped and took in a long breath. “Look at me. I can barely stand myself.”

“I know I can count on Gabe. And I know she's tougher than both of us put together. But why put that on her?”

I shrugged and limped after him, each step more painful than the last.

◆

The church had a few sublevels, but the girls waited for us on the first one below, unsure where to go.

“There's a lot of floors, Bobby. Where to?” Gabe asked.

“I don't know.”

In front of me stood Brittany Byers, motioning with a finger.

“I think I can help with that,” I said.

Bobby looked at me and frowned slightly. I nodded my head toward her. I figured she presented herself differently to him. For me, she was clearly delineated, as delicate as the skin of an eyelid.

It was slow going. Brittany seemed to forget that we couldn't walk through walls, and my lack of speed wasn't helping.

Finally she led us to the last sub-basement—the dimly lit one that really gave away the church's age. The sub-basement floor was packed dirt, the walls rock. It was the bowels of the church and the nerd portion of my brain suddenly wanted to stop and Google its origins.

Brittany led us through the boiler room to a large broom closet. Bobby stood in front of the closet, his hands opening and closing. He kneeled onto the packed dirt, his palms to the ground.

“This was not where she died,” he said. Brittany nodded at me encouragingly.

Eyes still closed, Bobby's hands skimmed the floor surface. He scooped up a small handful of the dirt and cupped his other hand around it.

“She struggled. Got away.”

Bobby opened his eyes and leaned over so that his face was almost level with the floor. He picked up a short black thread from the floor.

“This belongs to her attacker.”

25

Bobby

Sunday: 12:27 AM

“A
nd it's a woman.”

“You're shitting me,” Jeremy said. “That makes no sense.”

“I'm just telling you what I see. The physical evidence doesn't lie.”

“Listen to him. Now he's Sherlock Holmes.”

“Fuck off, Glass.”

“I don't think Mr. Holmes had such a foul mouth,” I said.

“Sherlock Holmes is a fictional character. He didn't have a mouth.”

Marisa elbowed Jeremy. Sweat beaded his forehead. His skin was gray, his face lined with pain. Something was wrong with him. Even his girlfriend the medical student should have been able to see that.

I brushed off Jeremy's comments and the girls' looks of disbelief. I was onto something. I was beginning to understand why Agent Reston was so reluctant to let go of me.

My inner sense was never wrong. I knew this, like I knew the hand at the end of my wrist.

And there was something exciting about putting together the bits and pieces to form the big picture without the fear of going blind, being murdered, or losing my mind. I tried not to think about the possibility of failure and the return of the weird epilepsy syndrome that threatened my life. Better to focus on solving the crime.

It was crazy, but I was starting to like this.

“I don't see how the person who attacked me could have been a—” Marisa said, her voice edged with panic.

“Marisa,” Gabe said softly, “did you, uh, did you see anything? Because, you know, it could have been—not what you think it was. And, uh, well, you never went for an examination.”

Marisa looked at her as if she smelled rotten eggs. “I know what I saw. And I know what I
felt
.”

“Bobby,” Gabe said. “If you tried again, do you think you can learn more about Marisa's attacker?”

“I could,” I said, “but what I really want to know is how all this fits together. And where exactly Brittany was killed. Because she wasn't killed in this basement. She got away.”

“That girl had a one seriously bad night,” Jeremy said.

“The worst ever,” Gabe said, “and we owe it to her to find out who killed her. I think we need to pay Brendan Wavestone a visit to find out what his ring has to do with all of this.”

“Like that's going to happen,” Jeremy said.

“Well, for starters,” Gabe said, “we've got his ring to return. And secondly, I can use the Gabriella Sorensen card. They broke up years ago, but he and Mom are friends since they're on so many boards together.”

I was wavering on my feet. The use of my abilities had drained me to the point I could barely stand, but we were on a roll. And the clock was still running down.

“Look,” said Jeremy. “I'm wrecked. It makes sense that she was killed across the street in the park. That's where she first found me. If you go there, I'm sure you'll find more leads. I'm done for tonight. I'm going back to the apartment. Come if you want, Marisa.”

Marisa cut Jeremy a look. “It's okay. You go rest. I think I'll stay with Gabe and Bobby tonight.”

I groaned inwardly. Not only was it a bad sign for the two of them, but it killed my chances of getting alone time with Gabe. Which I knew, given what was going on, was a ridiculous thing to want. But I wasn't dead. Yet.

Jeremy met her gaze. His eyes looked bleary and tired, and he seemed to sway on his feet. “Suit yourself. We'll talk in the morning.”

“How far is the apartment?” Gabe asked. “We should walk you there.”

“Nah,” Jeremy said. “It's only a few blocks away. But I'll cab it.”

Jeremy and Marisa hugged chastely. Gabe and I enfolded him in a tight embrace.

It was odd how it felt like I'd known Jeremy Glass way longer than just over twenty-four hours.

26

Jeremy

Sunday: 12:41 AM

If my whole side hadn't been grinding with pain, I'd have taken the time to feel shitty about Marisa and me. Distance hadn't been kind to our relationship. When we were apart, I ached for her. But now that we were together, it seemed she'd set up roadblocks to keep me out. And it was way more than just the aftermath of the attack. Marisa had started building that wall before my visit—if anything, that had drawn us temporarily closer. But I had no doubt that Marisa had invited me up here to start the breakup dance. To give us one last spin around the dance floor to see if we were worth saving.

And I didn't think I'd made a very good case for myself.

◆

After we'd all said our goodbyes, I shuffled slowly up Claremont Avenue. With a twinge of regret, I realized that even Brittany's ghost had stayed behind. She was pinned to her turf, I knew, but it still felt like a bit of a slap. Dropped by a ghost girl. Nothing new about that, either.

The apartment was at 123rd Street and Frederick Douglass Boulevard, technically around the block. But for a guy with razor blades in his femur, it might as well have been New Zealand. I decided I'd cut over on LaSalle to Broadway, where I'd hopefully be able to get a cab.

But by the time I got to LaSalle, I was shredded. Occasionally, one of the dead would stroll by, but none of them paid me any mind. Even they had other business. I cursed myself for not listening to Chaz about the possibility of bone spurs. For still thinking I was Superman.

It was only a few more yards to Broadway, but it felt like miles. And still no sign of a cab. What I did see, tucked away on LaSalle, was an inviting little Italian bistro bustling with energy and live jazz. I needed a place to sit and think over a cup of espresso. I tried not to remind myself that I did carry a fake ID, just in case I wanted to toss a little something extra into that espresso.

I requested a small table as far away from the bar as possible. But none were available, so the hostess suggested I sit at the bar, and I obliged.

Voices, alarms, gongs, and warnings of all kinds sounded off in my head, but my pain, spiritual and physical, muffled them. There was nobody left to disappoint. Everyone besides Marisa expected the worst of me anyway. So who was I holding out for?

A middle-aged dead guy sat on the stool beside me, nursing his phantom drink. He didn't speak to me, but I knew the drink was what had killed him. At least he'd made it to middle age.

My lips burned with the longing to blot out the pain. It was an old habit, one I'd practiced and perfected from about age twelve. Tonight, the memories I'd walled off were breaking loose. The night I'd lost Susannah. The day I'd lost my leg. Marisa had helped me drown out the noise.

But tonight, I heard it all in Dolby sound.

Yeah, it was probably selfish of me. But Bobby Pendell could take care of himself. Plus, he had Gabe, so what did he need me for? I'd probably find a way to screw everything up.

Before I'd even realized what I'd said, I'd flashed my ID and ordered a shot. One would do the trick. I had enough self-restraint after years of hiding my problem to limit myself. At Duke, I'd actually managed to stay dry. I became the guy I'd pretended to be back in Riverton. Teetotaler Jeremy Glass, the track star with a perfect average. Minus one leg. But I'd done it all for Marisa.

Where was my motivation now?

27

Bobby

Sunday: 12:42 AM

I watched Jeremy limp slowly up Claremont Avenue. Marisa watched him too, her eyes moist. It occurred to me that we should have stopped him. Either insisted that we put him in the cab ourselves or walked him home. But none of us said a word. Instead, we turned our attention to the park across the street, where I could still see the faint outlines of Brittany Byers waiting for us on the steps to the Sakura Park.

The gates were locked, so we scaled them and entered the deserted park.

“This is where Jeremy found Wavestone's ring. It has to be where it happened,” Gabe said.

“Yeah,” I answered vaguely. My senses were vibrating with something, but I couldn't tell if it was the lack of any real evidence, or the medication that was muting them. It scared me to think of what would have happened to me if I'd wandered in here without the safeguard of Agent Reston's treatment.

“If he'd hadn't taken off, Jeremy could have shown us the grate where he found the ring,” Marisa said.

“He looked terrible,” Gabe said. “Does he get like that a lot? Do you think his prosthetic leg is a bad fit? I've heard of that happening.”

Marisa scowled, her voice edged with bitterness. “He's been running too much with that blade of his. The physical therapist warned him he'd blow out the stump. But since when does Jeremy Glass ever listen to anyone?”

“We should have gone with him,” I said.

“Bobby,” Gabe said, snapping her fingers near my face. “Focus. He'll be fine. We've got a job to do. Remember?”

I glanced at my watch. 12:42 AM. Sixty-four hours to get it done. I was exhausted, but I couldn't really afford to sleep.

I got down on my hands and knees, closed my eyes, nose close to the ground, and began to crawl on all fours like a dog.

It didn't take long to pick up the vibrations. Brittany and her killer had left a breadcrumb trail. Traces of the dirt caked in the killer's shoes and that clung to Brittany's clothes marked a clear path to a large raised gazebo that stood alone at the center of the park like a sentinel.

Once at the gazebo, I stood, closed my eyes, and listened. Violence rose up around me in choking waves. There were threads stuck in cement cracks. Dried blood, strands of hair. All of it would tell the story of how Brittany died.

And hopefully lead us to her murderer.

◆

On my knees, I skimmed over the rough cement surface of the gazebo floor. Gabe and Marisa waited on the grass, not wanting to interfere with the crime area.

In one of the cracks, something glinted. A golden hair clip.

And it didn't belong to Brittany Byers.

◆

The wave that crashed over me was sudden. I had to trust letting go. Had to trust that I'd be swept back to shore and not dragged out to sea.

I dropped to my knees as the images broke in a vivid torrent.

◆

She manages to kick the bastard in the chest, propelling him against the closet wall. Thinking quickly, she grabs a metal bucket and slams it hard against his head. He slumps, then slides to the floor. Brittany Byers doesn't look back to see if he is dead. Instead, she runs, and luck is with her. There is a staircase that leads straight up to the apse, the area behind the altar.

Barefoot, Brittany Byers runs out of the church and into the street. There has to be a police car somewhere in this stupid city. But it is late. There is no one. Nothing.

She runs crazily, lungs aching. Her feet burn, and her head pounds where she was slammed. Now her vision is streaked with darkness. She is about to black out.

But then, through her blurred vision, she sees her savior headed to her. A woman in a track suit with long strawberry-blonde hair pulled up in a top bun comes running toward her. A friendly face. Someone around her age. Brittany is too woozy to think about why any woman would be out running at 4AM.

She only wants to be rescued. She practically falls into the woman's arms before she blacks out.

The next thing she knows, she is staring up at a circular roof, cold hard concrete beneath her. The woman kneels over her, smiling.

“Everything is going to be fine,” she says. “Just close your eyes. I've called an ambulance.”