Some Gave All (2 page)

Then it looked down.

Tears slid from the corners of her eyes and she bit her lower lip to keep herself from whimpering. It wouldn’t be able to see her. Unless it could see in the dark. Maybe it was there because she was so bad. She broke things. She made noise. She was such a hassle.

The window rattled.

I don’t mean to be bad. I try to be a good girl.

She bit down hard to keep herself from crying. Blood beaded on her lower lip.

Rattle, rattle, rattle.

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ll never steal cheese slices again.

She should call out for her aunt.

Call. I can call on my phone. They are always telling me press 911 for help if I need it.

Her phone was on her nightstand. That would be better. She wouldn’t bother Aunt Indira. Except that some things were
private
and if you told there was hell to pay. But this was different. Even she knew that, and she was so stupid she didn’t even know how to count to one hundred by tens.

To get the phone, first she had to uncross her fingers and thumbs. Then she had to snake her hand up toward the nightstand.

She couldn’t make herself do it. She lay still fighting for air.

Silence.

Then beside the window, the picture of her dead mommy slid to the floor and crashed as the glass shattered. She jerked, then squeezed her fingers together to make the crosses tighter. She couldn’t manage one little whimper.

Rattle.

Rattle.

Rattle.

Silence.

She would do something. She would grab the phone or bolt out of bed or scream. But to do any of those things, she would have to stop being invisible and that might be her worst idea and Lord knew she didn’t have a lick of common sense. So she would count to one hundred before she decided.

If she could remember all the tens’ places. First was ten and then was twenty…

She got to thirty before the window exploded.

T
HE
B
RONX

C
at killed the engine and put her keys in her pocket. By then, Vincent was already out of the squad car, waiting for her in the snow. Stunning in his black suit and navy blue tie, his black wool calf-length coat hung open as it stretched across his broad shoulders. Like her, he wore a muffler around his neck and his short brown hair was covered with a black knitted cap. Her own cap was teal blue with a crocheted beaded flower; not really to her taste, but it had been the first thing she’d grabbed because they’d been bordering on late. Heather had persuaded her to buy it during a Saturday morning of sisterly bonding over coffees and vintage shopping. She planned to take it off before they met Maurice Riley. It was too frivolous for this solemn occasion.

They’d both awakened with smiles on their faces, then laughed at Heather’s flurries of fabrics and feathers as Cat made the coffee and Vincent cooked breakfast. Heather was attending Silverado Academy of Design as a fashion design major. She was also working part-time as an events coordinator again. Each of her activities came with lots of stuff that she left out in the living room and/or her bedroom because she was “in process.” Creating was interesting. Cleaning up afterwards? Not so much.

The chaos of Cat’s apartment matched the chaos in their lives: A new kind of monster was terrorizing New York City. There had been six fatal maulings in as many weeks; savage, brutal, inhuman. Beast. It had to be. And yet Vincent had been at a loss to track it down, much less describe what new kind of atrocity had been created… and by whom. He had visited each crime scene and engaged his tracking senses, waiting for sensory details to emerge, meld together, and form a crystal-clear image of the event. In each of the six cases, that image had not come. Neither Cat nor Vincent knew what to make of that, and it was beyond troubling. The implications were too terrible to imagine: It was either a different kind of beast that he was unable to detect, or maybe Vincent’s beast abilities were changing—leaving him defenseless against the new threat. True, they had grappled with faceless enemies before. But this was like Muirfield on steroids.

J.T.’s tests had come back negative for biological alterations in Vincent’s own system. The biochemist assured them that Vincent was still Vincent. But what if J.T. simply couldn’t measure a new mutation in Vincent’s physical makeup?

Meanwhile, the island of Manhattan was up in arms, complaining about the lack of results from the NYPD. There were protests and demonstrations every day, people gathering in Central Park and in front of the 125th precinct with signs that read
SAVE OUR CITY
and
TERRORISTS AMONG
us? There was talk of vigilante justice and how
someone
had to do something because the cops were useless. It was scary talk.

A call came in from Tess.

“Good morning, boss,” Cat said into the phone as she got out of the squad car. Her own boots crunched on dirty snow. New York in January was days of brown and gray slush alleviated by powdery snowfalls as white as sugar. She hoped it snowed again soon.

“We’ve got another one. Lucky number seven.”

Cat looked at Vincent. His face went from somber to grim. She knew he could hear Tess as clearly as if the new captain of NYPD’s 125th precinct were standing beside him. Courtesy of the “enhancements” Cat’s biological father had equipped Vincent with, he could direct his blood to any of the five senses he wanted to boost. Right now it was his hearing. The process was second nature to him—he was a true apex predator. Or had been, until the six mysterious homicides caused him to question his status.

“Same as the others?” Cat asked.

“Worse. Much, much worse. That new ME’s assistant threw up all over a key piece of evidence. I’ve got pictures on my phone that sent
me
to the ladies’ room. We gotta catch this thing
fast.
”

Cat frowned. “Do we have an ID for the vic?”

“Not yet, but this one’s in our jurisdiction
finally.
I’m going over there now. Thought I’d check in and ask you if you think Mr. Riley can shed some light on this. Have you talked to him about his letter yet?”

“We just arrived. I’ll touch base as soon as we interview him.”

“Keep me posted.” Tess hung up. She was a good captain, just what the traumatized 125th needed, but Cat knew her best friend was feeling the pressure of her promotion at the worst time in the recent history of New York crime prevention. Tess didn’t need a serial-killer beast case on her plate right now.

Or ever.

Joining Vincent at the curb, Cat put her phone in her pocket and saw the anguish in his eyes. His gloved hands held a cherry-wood box with the desperation of a drowning man clasping the only piece of driftwood in a frozen sea.

“I don’t know why I can’t track whatever is doing this.” Guilt and a misplaced sense of responsibility wafted in the air with the vapor from his breath.

She placed her hand over his. “It’s okay, Vincent.”

But it wasn’t. She, he, J.T., and Tess all knew that the situation would only worsen if NYPD had to rely on traditional methods of solving crimes to stop this thing. How many years had the four of them suppressed evidence to keep the world from knowing about the existence of beasts? They were on a collision course with not only the 125th but every law enforcement agency in New York, the FBI included. And FBI meant her biological father, Bob Reynolds, a major player in Muirfield, the code name for the beast-creation program. He had justified his criminal activities—killing beasts and innocent humans alike—as a necessary part of his plan to wipe all beasts from the face of the earth. Although he had sworn he would never go public because he wanted to protect Cat, there was always a possibility that in his sick logic, he would decide she would be safer if he revealed everything he knew. Then Vincent could kiss any semblance of a normal life goodbye forever.

“J.T.’s barely slept in a week trying to figure out what’s going on.” Vincent sighed as if that were his fault.

Anything beast-related, Vincent took on as if he, and not the government, was responsible. He carried a massive amount of guilt for agreeing to become part of Muirfield by serving as a test subject.

“And I’m sure he’ll break the case,” she said, projecting a confidence she wasn’t currently feeling. For a cop, each new crime in a connected chain of previous crimes felt like a defeat.

Together they faced a one-story house that, like them, had seen better days. Grubby white paint was peeling off the exterior walls and the porch had sunken in like a deflated soccer ball. A flag-shaped sign on the front door read T
HE
R
ILEYS
G
OD
B
LESS
A
MERICA
!
in bleached red, white, and blue letters. The mailbox was flag-themed, too. Cat glanced at the box in Vincent’s grip.

“Tess is going to the crime scene,” she said. “She can monitor the situation. We’ve finally got one in our jurisdiction, so she’s the captain in charge.”

The New York Chief of Police had organized a task force comprised of special-crimes squads from the larger precincts, but most of the precinct captains seemed more interested in protecting their turf than in working together to solve the murders. Tess, as the newest captain, was fighting to hold her own. It frustrated her that she couldn’t reveal everything she knew—that this was undoubtedly beast-related—a situation made all the more irritating because no one seemed to give credence to the few details she
was
able to share. She was new and she was a woman. Ergo, she must not know what she was doing.

He nodded. “That’s good. With Tess we’ll have direct access.” His face masked emotions he wasn’t sharing. She knew him so well, knew that he was keeping something back, and wished he would unburden himself. They had seen each other in their darkest hours… or so she had thought. But right then Vincent was in a bleak place he hadn’t told her about, and she wanted to join him there. Not because she needed more tragedy and pain, but because she knew that if he let her in, she would bring him light. Maybe just one small candle flame’s worth, but enough to remind him that he was loved. And that he was not alone.

“Look.” He began walking down the gravel path through a rickety wooden arch. On either side, snow coated skeletal bushes and a sturdy oak tree, an outstretched limb sporting two long pieces of frayed rope and a splintered wooden board—a homemade tree swing. Neglected, forgotten, unused.

But that wasn’t what Vincent was looking at. On the right side of the path, frosted with silvery white, a single red rose graced an otherwise barren rose bush. It was a lush velvety crimson, and as radiant as a jewel. Spring in the heart of winter.

Even in the darkest place, there is hope
, the rose seemed to whisper. And as Cat admired it, she turned to Vincent, took off her glove, and cupped his icy cheek.

“I had a dream,” she said.

He smiled very faintly. “I did too. I dream it every day.”

“Mountains? And just a
small
dog.” When he nodded slightly, her heart overflowed and she murmured in a rush, “Vincent, I love you.”

He swallowed hard before replying, “I love you too.”

“Whatever this thing is, we can deal with it together,” she said. “We
are
dealing with it together.”

His lips parted. Then he inclined his head and kissed her, wrapped her hand with his, and placed them both in his pocket.

“It’s so cold today,” he murmured. “Your hand’s like ice.”

“You know what they say: ‘Cold hands, warm heart.’”

He gave her fingers a squeeze and she leaned against him for a moment. Then she put her glove back on. They were on police business, and it was a somber occasion. Still, it was so wonderful to wake up beside Vincent without double-checking for the whirr of helicopters that life was truly like a waking dream, even with all that was going on.

Together they walked up the path and Cat gingerly stepped onto the porch. A frayed American-flag welcome mat contributed to the pervasive patriotic theme. She held up her badge as she pressed the corroded doorbell. She heard no sound, and was about to knock on the door when it opened.

From yesterday’s phone conversation, Cat knew that Maurice Riley was sick. Terminally ill, in fact. He had six months at most, he had told her. But she was still shocked by the cavernous hollows in his cheeks and the eggplant-purple circles under his eyes. He was wearing a white collared shirt, a pair of charcoal-gray trousers, and polished loafers. He had dressed for the occasion as well. In his left hand he held the letter he had told her about—the primary reason they were here. It had been Vincent’s idea to make a special presentation to Maurice Riley in addition to the interview.

“Mr. Riley,” she began. “I’m Detective Chandler. And this is—”

“I’d know you anywhere, Dr. Keller,” Riley cut in. He tried to smile, but his lower lip quivered. “Roxie sent me pictures.” He held out his hand, then glimpsed the object Vincent was holding. His eyes welled and he took a step back. “Please, come in.”

“I should have come before,” Vincent said as they entered his home.

Cat took in a worn sofa in a cabbage rose pattern, two chairs upholstered in frayed brown corduroy, and a fireplace containing ashes. Over the mantel, a large golden frame surrounded a studio portrait of a young woman in army dress uniform, with light brown skin and chestnut eyes shining with pride. It was Roxanne Lafferty, from Delta Company, one of Vincent’s comrades in arms in Afghanistan.

And a fellow Muirfield victim.

A gold plaque mounted to the bottom section of the frame read
ALL GAVE SOME BUT SOME GAVE ALL
.

“How could you come any sooner, son? I saw you on TV. You talked about your… amnesia.” Mr. Riley hesitated on the last word.

“I should have found a way,” Vincent said, hinting that the amnesia story was a lie. He gestured with his head to the box he was holding. “For her, I should have done it.”

“Well, you’re here now.” Mr. Riley’s voice wobbled a little. To Cat, he added, “You’ll want to see the letter.”