A Raging Dawn (25 page)

Tahiti’s turquoise temptation caught my eye as I downed the shake straight from the glass container. Finished drinking, I grabbed the topmost picture and ripped it free, then crumpled it in my fist. I threw it against the window. It bounced off and landed on the dining-room table in the middle of the mounds of pills and capsules.

Tears blurred my vision. To hell with Tahiti. To hell with fighting. What good was it if the people I cared about got hurt because of me? Jacob’s hands, those lovely hands that could coax beauty and passion from bow and strings and, once upon a time, my body. Who would the Brotherhood target next? Evie and my mom? Ryder? Hell, given the massacre at the school, maybe Good Sam’s pediatric ward.

I couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it except give them what they wanted. Whatever the hell that was. Because I had nothing left to give.

I rinsed out the blender container and left it soaking with soapy water in the sink. I wrung out the sponge, leaving what was left of my energy dribbling down the drain. Tired. I had never felt so tired.

Staring at the colorful assortment of pills Devon had so carefully organized into piles on my table, I slumped against the kitchen counter. Released from their well-ordered compartments, they appeared wild and untamed, filled with possibilities.

I dug the bottle of PXA from my pocket, tossed it onto the table with the others. I should have been furious at Devon for even suggesting that I drug Littleton in order to force the answers he held from his mind. It violated every oath I’d ever taken as a physician, was a betrayal of everything I’d worked for my entire life.

Yet, I wasn’t angry.

Instead, I’d been tempted. Had actually considered the unthinkable a viable option.

I ran my fingers over the small mountains of pharmaceuticals, each containing a promise. My stomach clenched—that weird feeling, half-scared, half-excited, that you get when you stand too close to the edge of a cliff. Instead of thinking of reasons why you shouldn’t jump or what would come after, you lean forward, tethered by curiosity and wondering if maybe you should jump to see how it would feel to be flying free. Wouldn’t it be glorious?

A siren song, calling to me. I wasn’t ready to die, nowhere near ready. And yet…a traitorous whisper slithered through my brain as I stared at the rainbow assortment of pills spread out like candy, calculating exactly which combo would do the job properly. When the time came.

It would be so easy. No more wondering, no more worrying, no more waiting.

Might even save lives. Protect my family and Ryder and everyone else I cared about from the Brotherhood. It wouldn’t be a bad death, as deaths went. Like drifting off to sleep…Sleep…What a beautiful word. The idea was like heaven.

My entire body trembled as I reached for the pills. I couldn’t blame it on the fatal insomnia. Except, well, I guess everything could be blamed on it. My entire life, from my dad’s death to where I stood right now, contemplating an act I’d always felt was the ultimate coward’s way out. How could I do this to my family? To Ryder? Leave them to clean up my mess of a life.

All my life, I’d been the one taking care of messes, whether shouldering the burden of guilt after Dad’s death or wading into the chaos that was a multi-casualty trauma in the ER. Was I really about to abandon that now?

My fiddle beckoned to me from its stand beside the window. I turned away from the pills. Picked up my fiddle, tucked it under my chin, raised my bow and almost dropped it from my shaking hands. I remembered my failed attempt to play this morning, anguish bending me double. My music, the one thing left of my dad that no one could ever take from me. Except my traitorous Swiss-cheesed brain.

I set my fiddle back down. If I felt like this now, in the early stages of fatal insomnia, how in hell would I be able to function after the disease ravaged my brain and turned me into a shambling zombie, unable to care for myself or communicate with the outside world?

I’d be trapped alone inside my mind. Well, not alone. Trapped with a lifetime’s worth of memories from a murdered nun, a tortured teenage girl, and a sadistic serial killer.

I closed my eyes, pressing my forehead against the icy glass of the darkened window, trying to imagine a future, any future. I wanted desperately to see a vision of Ryder. Ryder and me together. My
wish I may, wish I might
fantasy, the one I never dared admit to myself.

All I saw was black. All I felt was fear.

I turned to stare at the PXA, my genie locked inside a bottle. Could I unleash it? Should I?

A knock on my door broke my reverie. I jerked my head up, stared at the door as if I’d never laid eyes on it before. The knock repeated, an impatient tapping. Jimmy had come to drag me to the hospital where he could keep an eye on me, no doubt. Maybe if I didn’t answer, he’d go away, leave me alone.

Still, old habits forged like chains dragged me to the door. I opened it. Not Jimmy. Eugene Littleton. Before I could react, he lashed out with a punch to my face that snapped my head back and sent me reeling.

Stunned, I barely registered the sound of the door slamming shut. And then he was on me.

IT WAS EXACTLY
Manny Cruz’s style to live in a mansion on Millionaire’s Row, Ryder thought as he approached the address across the street from Kingston Park. You had to look like a winner to play a winner, he could almost hear Manny saying. He passed through the gate in the wrought-iron fence surrounding the three-story, colonial-style brick building, dialing Manny’s number one more time. No answer.

Of course, the ADA couldn’t afford a mansion. Ryder doubted he could afford the ground-floor condo, one of six that the former home of a steel baron had been converted into. No, the only actual millionaire still living on Cambria City’s Millionaire’s Row was Daniel Kingston. If you could call lying in a permanent vegetative state living.

Ryder surveyed Manny’s building. The eight-foot-tall wrought-iron fence was more for looks than actual security. Not to mention the equally tall evergreens that stood just inside it. Clearly the landscaper had no knowledge of how to properly secure a perimeter. To make things worse, there was another row of evergreen shrubs directly in front of the house. A privacy hedge the landscaper would have called it, ready to provide concealment for any thief who happened by.

No lights on at this late hour except for Manny’s front room, which glowed stark white through the gaps in the bay window’s blinds. A man’s form was silhouetted against them. From this distance, Ryder couldn’t tell who it was.

He eased through the gate. Instead of following the sidewalk to the front door, he crossed the lawn to peer inside the window, concealing himself in the second row of evergreens. The blinds were open just enough for him to see Manny, face flushed, arms gesturing. Talking to whom? He sidled around to the opposite side of the wide bay window, weaving between hemlock boughs, until he found a better angle.

Devon Price. Damn it. Manny stepped forward, and for the first time, Ryder could see his right hand. Holding a semiautomatic. Price’s hands were empty, held in the universal posture of surrender.

Ryder called for backup as he headed for the front door. It was designed to be accessed by a tenant’s private code on a keypad. He leaned on all the buttons except Manny’s until someone finally clicked the door open. He pushed into the foyer and turned right to the door leading to Manny’s condo. It was ajar.

Usually, he would have waited for backup. But he knew both men inside. Honestly, it wasn’t Price he was worried about, despite the fact that Ryder was certain he was carrying—the man defined cool under pressure. It was hothead Manny who was most likely to escalate the situation.

Ryder drew his weapon. The door swung open silently. He didn’t go through it. Instead, he angled his body to see into the room and take aim. “Manny, it’s Ryder. I’ve got backup on the way. Put the gun down and let me handle Price.”

“What the hell?” Manny shouted, his voice pitched higher than usual. “First, this thug comes knocking, accusing me of throwing a trial, and now I have police barging in? Why can’t you people just leave me the fuck alone?”

“Happy to oblige,” Price said. “I’ll just be leaving now. Sorry for the intrusion.” He was playing it smart, not inflaming the situation.

“Want me to arrest him, Manny?” Ryder asked, also trying to placate the distraught ADA. “Put down the gun, and I’ll come in. You tell me how you want him charged.”

Manny bounced on his heels, his aim jerking from Price to Ryder and back. “I’ve got a right to protect myself in my own home. You know that, Ryder.”

“Sure I do, Manny. But I can’t come in and arrest Price until you put down the gun. Help me out here, one professional to another.”

Ryder edged into the doorway, just enough to make eye contact with Manny.

“Right there on the table beside you would be fine, Manny. Put the gun down, and you can back up into the other room where you’ll be safe. I’ll take it from there, and then you can tell me what charges you want to press.”

Manny nodded, his chin jerking one way then the other, jaw tight with adrenaline. Courtroom drama was one thing, but there Manny was in control. Here, with loaded weapons involved, it was a whole different story. Ryder kept a tight leash on Manny’s gaze, nodding in time with him, his head gradually slowing. Manny mirrored him.

With his free hand, Ryder pantomimed placing the gun down. Manny followed suit. The semiautomatic clattered against the glass-topped table. Manny jumped back at the sound, ending up directly in front of the bay window.

Ryder shifted his attention to Price. “Join me out here. Slowly.”

Price complied, backing up at an angle that wouldn’t put him between Ryder and Manny, not crossing Ryder’s line of fire.

“You’re going away now, Price,” Manny shouted, his voice still jumping with adrenaline. “Big mistake, threatening me, you asshole!”

The last was punctuated by the sound of glass breaking, followed by two more loud pops. Not the crack of a rifle. More the bass boom of a large-caliber revolver. Ryder shifted his attention to the origin of the gunshots: the window. From the corner of his eye, he saw Price draw his own weapon.

Manny staggered, a confused frown crossing his face as he patted his chest. His hand came away bloody. He held it out to Ryder, seeming to search for an explanation, when one more shot sounded, and his right eyeball exploded in a fountain of pink mist.

In the slow motion rush that came with a firefight, Ryder was already pivoting, lunging to pull Manny down, out of the line of fire, as Price ran out the door behind them. Ryder rolled Manny’s body against the wall beneath the window—the closest cover—and cautiously edged his gaze over the windowsill, taking aim. No sign of the shooter.

The hemlocks rustled as if someone had pushed through them, but no one moved in the shadows of the front yard or beyond the fence. Price appeared, sprinting down the porch steps. Damn fool was a sitting duck. Ryder covered him as best he could without making himself a target.

From the distance came the sound of a car screeching away. Across the park. Shooter was smart and knew the area—you could use the park roads to gain access to half a dozen major streets.

Price reached the gate and turned to look up and then down the street, peered into the trees of the park on the other side of the street, then walked back, shrugging at Ryder as he holstered his pistol.

“Nothing,” Price said through the broken window. Ryder noticed that he stayed clear of the area where the shooter had stood. “They’re gone. Probably through the park.”

No shit, Sherlock. Which meant they could have gone anywhere. Sirens sounded down the block.

“Get back inside. You’ve got some explaining to do.”

Price glanced over his shoulder at the gate and freedom beyond.

“Don’t make me hunt you down, Price. You know I will.”

Price’s smile was as fake as Manny’s now-ruined knock-off designer suit. “No problem, detective. Happy to do my civic duty.”

PAIN SPIKED THROUGH
my cheek from where Littleton punched me. We landed on the floor in front of the couch.

“You bitch! You wanted to see what the Brotherhood can do?” Spittle sprayed on my face. “Now’s your chance.”

I’d taken plenty of self-defense classes at the Advocacy Center, had learned some dirty street-fighting tricks from guys I knew, but they weren’t what saved me at that moment. Instead, it was my experience growing up with my older, larger, bully-wannabe male cousins. I had one chance. If Littleton landed a few more punches like his first, I’d be finished.

As he reared over me, fists raised, I shot my hand into his groin, squeezed, and twisted as hard as I could. I felt soft tissue yield through the fabric of his pants and closed my fingers, digging in. He bellowed in pain, pushing off of me, reeling back, both hands shielding his crotch.

I scuttled away and got to my feet. He was between me and the door. No escape. I glanced at the open door to the bathroom; no, there was no window and no room to fight in there. Instead, I moved into the kitchen, placing the island between me and him.

“Get out!” I shouted.