Race the Darkness (14 page)

“How's she doing today?” Isleen asked.

The nurse closed her book and moved out of the chair. “She's more spunky today. Aren't you, Mrs. Stone?”

At the name
Mrs. Stone
, Gran's gaze shifted from the window to the nurse, then back to the window. Gran had always been Mrs. Walker to Isleen. Hearing her called Mrs. Stone was foreign but elicited a response, and that was an improvement.

“She's asked for Alex a number of times. He had to take an important phone call and then said he would work from here.” She gestured toward the laptop sitting on the dresser.

“Would you mind if I sat with her for a while?” Isleen asked.

“Go ahead. I'll take a quick bathroom break, then be just outside the door. You call if you need me.”

Isleen waited until the nurse left the room, then scooted the chair over—blocking Gran's line of sight to the outside with her own body—and sat down. “Gran?” She smoothed a stray strand of hair off Gran's forehead. “It's me. Isleen. I'm here. I'm here with you.” Isleen watched the miracle of recognition light Gran's eyes. Elation took wing inside Isleen's chest. She clasped Gran's hand between both of hers in a gesture that reminded her of how Kent had held on to her—an offer of sanctuary from the storm.

“Isleen.” Gran started to smile, but it faltered and fell off her lips before it could even be fully born.

“Yes, Gran. I'm here. You're here.” Her voice hid behind emotions she wouldn't let herself feel, so she whispered the words, “We survived.”

Gran shook her head back and forth, over and over, her nearly bare scalp rustling against the pillowcase in a way that scratched the insides of Isleen's ears.

“I remember.” Gran's eyes locked with Isleen's and held on and on and on for an immeasurable moment as if she were trying to convey a message so powerful words wouldn't suffice. Gran broke their eye contact and turned her face away. “I remember, and I can't live with it.”

“Oh, Gran…” These were the worst times. When Gran remembered every bad, awful, and terrifying thing they'd been through. “We're safe—”

“I can't live with what I've done.” Gran's voice lowered to a rasp of sand over gravel, and she stared off into negative space.

“You're safe now. We're staying with Alex…your husband.” Saying
your husband
felt weird on her tongue. “He's been taking such good care of you.”

“I hurt him.” Gran's chapped lips quivered. “I destroyed us by trying to save us. And I did this to you.” The word
I
came out on an airy sob. A tear slipped down Gran's crepe-paper cheek. “It's all my fault. I'd take it all back. But, there's no take-backs in life.”

“‘Focus forward.' Your motto. Everything will be all right as long as we both focus forward.” Isleen shifted her chair so Gran could see outside again. “Look out the window.” She waited for Gran's head to turn. “See all the trees. Do you remember our little house? Remember how we used to walk down our lonely road to the woods and follow that old lane through the trees? You always used to say it reminded you of your favorite place.” Gran's attention was back on the scenery outside the window. “I know what it reminded you of. It reminded you of here. And now you're here again. This will be your future again.”

Tears rained down Gran's cheeks, but her gaze never left the window. Isleen stayed with Gran until the old woman's breathing eased and her eyes drifted shut. Isleen kissed her on the cheek, then left the room.

Gran had the right idea. Isleen climbed the stairs to her room, then buried herself under a mound of blankets and a heap of denial.

Xander parked his new truck on the same mud-crusted hunk of earth where he had a few days earlier. Police tape ringed the torture trailer like a too-tight belt. More of it crisscrossed in an awkward X-marks-the-spot over the sagging front door. The back end—the room where Isleen and her grandmother had spent years being tormented—was obliterated. Gone. The only indication it had been there was the debris strewn around the overgrown yard. The horrors that had occurred in that small space were beyond imagination.

His stomach squeezed with guilt for not listening to Isleen sooner. He'd carry that shame for the rest of his life.

He turned off the truck's ignition, got out—and made damned sure to put his keys in his pocket. Even though the crazy bitch was dead, no one could claim he didn't learn from his mistakes.

The corn leaves whispered among themselves, the abrasion of them rubbing against each other a low hum. Far off in the distance a hawk cried out, but Xander didn't see it in the sky. Summer sun beat down on his head. Hot and purifying. He hoped its rays had burned off the pain that once lived here.

He wasn't certain why he'd stopped here on his way to interrogate the Prairie Murderer. The superintendent had nearly laid a load in his shorts when Xander
called
him and volunteered to interview the killer and William Goodspeed. Xander had a motive the superintendent didn't know about—figuring out how Isleen was connected to these two men. And if she wasn't… Well, that meant he was about to go down a road with his father that he'd never intended to travel.

Maybe he was here to make sure things had happened the way he remembered—since what he remembered seemed as impossible as Isleen surviving. Or maybe to see if this place held any answers.

Wooden stakes protruded from the ground with police tape strung between them to mark off the hole where his truck exploded. He went up to the roped-off edge. No fucking kidding—it really was a crater. Looked nearly four feet deep and almost as long as his truck had been.

Memories flooded his mind, so visceral, so real, he could smell burned corn and feel the heat of the engine on his face. Feel the resignation that death was about to grab him and Isleen.

And then his truck and the crazy bitch driving it had blown up.

The BCI could find no reason for the vehicle to explode. It wasn't like he'd been hauling around a load of C-4. And there sure as shit wasn't any explanation for how he'd stood this close to the blast and neither he nor Isleen had been touched.

Beyond the yard, the cornfield was a mangled mess with wide swatches of flattened corn from his truck chasing him and Isleen through the field. The weeds and tall grass of the yard had been flattened and smashed in places from all the crime techs and officers searching for the smallest bit of evidence.

An odd furrow through the grass snagged his attention. It looked like someone had ridden a motorcycle through the yard and around to the back of the trailer. He was pretty damned positive the investigators drove cars. He listened. The noise from all the corn leaves rustling made it hard to pick up the sound, but he heard it none the less. A heartbeat. Breathing. Someone was behind the trailer. A sightseer or someone connected to the crazy bitch?

He followed the path, stopped at the corner of the trailer, and peered around it.

There was the motorcycle. A damned fine-looking piece of machinery. Flat black paint, skull on the tank. The kind of bike he'd love to spend some time admiring, then give it a test drive.

Beyond the bike was a giant of a man. He looked like he had a couple of inches and a dozen pounds on Xander. He wore jeans, a gray T-shirt, and boots. Same thing every other guy wore, but this guy's hair—whoa. That stuff on the top of his head flamed in the sun. It was the darkest shade of red hair Xander had ever seen. Wasn't there some fancy girly name for hair that color?

The guy faced out toward the field. Eyes closed, sucking in great breaths of air, holding them almost like he savored the flavor of oxygen before he exhaled slowly out his mouth.

Who the hell? And why the fuck did the guy act like he'd found a prime meditation spot—unless torture and pain were triggers for relaxation? Only a sadist would get off on the bad vibes this place emitted.

Xander moved around the trailer so the man could see him. “What are you doing?” His booming demand carried the weight of his attitude.

The guy didn't flinch, didn't startle, didn't react at all to Xander's voice breaking the silence among the fields.
He must be in one hell of a Zen state.

“What are you doing here?” Xander headed toward the guy. A breeze blew from behind him, ruffling his hair.

The guy's eyes popped open, and he lurched around, fists clenched in a ready-for-anything stance. And Xander saw the other side of his face. A tattoo—a glossy, black feather spanning from the corner of his mouth up and over the apple of his cheek. As if that wasn't bad enough the feather had been broken and wept fat drops of red down the man's cheek and neck.

A tattoo like that made a statement.

Recognition hit Xander. This was the guy who'd been looking at the bear totem the night he drove to this decrepit patch of earth and found Isleen. With the bear carving so close to Xander's home and three hours from where they currently stood, no way was this encounter a big, happy coincidence.

“Who the fuck are you?” Pain slammed into the side of Xander's head. Goddamn. He blinked with every pounding pulse and pressed his palm to his temple until his body calibrated to the thudding.

Silence sliced the air for a few moments too long before Xander heard the guy's thoughts.

No one was supposed to be here. I was guaranteed privacy.
“You need to leave. This is a crime scene, an ongoing investigation.”

There was something odd about the way the guy spoke. It wasn't his words or his volume or anything Xander could easily label. It was almost as if he had a slight accent, but even that wasn't quite right.

“Yeah, I know. I'm a consultant with the Bureau of Criminal Investigation.” Not an out-and-out lie. “You're trespassing.”

The guy stared at him. Like take-a-picture-it-will-last-longer stared. Must be the scars. Though with that big-ass tattoo on his face, the guy shouldn't judge.

It was almost like there was a time delay on the guy's thoughts. Xander finally heard them.

He's not lying. This guy is a consultant. Then why the fuck did they call me in? Overkill. I could be home weeding instead of dealing with this shit.
The guy nodded once. “I'm a consultant with the FBI.”

Xander listened. Listened for the little hitch that would happen if the guy lied. Listened for his heart rate to increase. Listened for thoughts that varied from the words. Nothing. He was telling the truth. And seemed uber-serious about his weeding. “You're the big guns they called in?”

The guy shrugged.
Yeah. I don't look it. But neither do you.
“You're not what I had in mind for a consultant.”

“Neither are you. I guess they like to hire the ugly ones.”

Truth. Gospel fucking truth.
A smile almost tipped the man's lips, but he didn't say anything.

“I'm Xander Stone, by the way.” He held out his hand to shake.

The guy held up a gloved hand in a warding-off gesture.
Don't fucking touch me.

It wasn't like Xander planned to molest the dude. “You got a name?”

The guy did that weird staring thing again, but didn't think the answer to Xander's question. A question like that and the brain couldn't help answering, and yet this guy—

Lathaniel Montgomery.

Guess this guy was just on a delayed reaction. Maybe Lathaniel here was a bit slow in the brain game.

“Lathan,” the guy finally said. Omitting his last name.

Xander nodded and looked around the overgrown yard, then back to Lathan. “This one's personal.”

Lathan watched him like every word coming out of his mouth was gold-plated and diamond studded.
Did he say it was personal? Was that what he said?

“I'm the one who found the women.” Even as he said the words, Xander pictured the moment he'd opened the door to that room and discovered Isleen lying there. A nightmare he'd probably have for the rest of his life.

More staring, then Lathan said, “No shit.”

“No shit. You think the outside looks bad. Try going inside.”

“Hell no. The stench is about gagging me out here. No way can I set foot inside.”
There are limits to what I can do, and that's a hard fucking limit.

Xander sniffed the air. Didn't smell a thing. “You find anything?”

“Not a damned thing everyone doesn't already know. There's a reason I don't work current cases or make house calls. But this one was so close to home the powers-that-fucking-be suggested I try it. I tried it. Sucked at it. Fuck the powers-that-be.” He gave a middle-finger salute.

Xander couldn't help it. He kinda liked the guy. “Right on, brother.” Xander imitated the salute. Since they were buds now, it was time to bring up what he
really
wanted to know. “I live near the bear totem. Drove by the other night and saw you there. What were you doing?”

Isn't that the fucking question I keep asking myself?
“You own it?”

Xander was half tempted to say yes, just to see Lathan's reaction. “No.”

“Then I expect it's none of your business.” Lathan's tone wasn't unfriendly; it just lacked the camaraderie they'd shared a moment ago.

Xander's phone vibrated. He yanked it out and glanced at the screen.

Kent:
Where the fuck are you? Everyone is waiting.

Shit.

He shoved his phone back in his pocket. All the guy's attention was on him, wariness on his face, like he half expected Xander to attack.

“I'm late for an interrogation. You find anything, keep me in the loop. Contact Kent Knight at the BCI field office. Like I said, this one is personal.”

The guy dipped his head in agreement, but didn't say—or think—anything as Xander turned and headed away.

Note to self: Ask Kent just exactly what kind of consulting Lathan does.

* * *

The fluorescent light over Xander's head winked dim and then bright, the buzz of the dying bulb as annoying as a mosquito let loose inside his brain. Elbows on the table, he fisted his hands over his ears to drown the noise. Screw trying to look all invincible to the Prospectus County coppers observing on the other side of the interrogation room's two-way mirror. Remaining sane and not letting the Bastard in His Brain make a guest appearance took top billing over looking mucho macho.

A splashing dark stain on the ceiling tiles indicated a leaky roof, and the gunk caked in the floor corners proved the janitor—if there was one—wasn't being paid to care. The sheriff's office seemed to be a victim of underfunding and understaffing. With Isleen and Gale's case and the murder in Prospectus Prairie Park, you'd think the place would be overflowing with officers, but all staff on deck meant only a half dozen officers, making the place blissfully quiet. Except for that goddamned light droning on and on and on.

The moment he'd seen Kent pacing in the corridor, waiting for him outside this room, Xander had blasted off with questions about Lathan Montgomery. Kent knew less than he did, only that the FBI had called in a local consultant. That was it. Nothing else. And wasn't that weird? That there was a local FBI consultant that no one knew anything about.

Xander waited three full revolutions of the minute hand on the clock across from him, then spoke without even facing the two-way mirror. “You want me to get answers? Get him in here. Now. I don't have all day to sit on my fucking thumb.” He still needed to drive back across the state to interview William Goodspeed.

The scraping squeal of the door being opened practically lacerated his eardrums. He clamped his hands tighter over his ears. The frequency connection opened, the pain of it a fist to the temple. Without meaning to, Xander flinched and held his breath until the thudding in his head became a part of his body's rhythm. He removed his hands from his ears and sat up straighter while the officer cuffed the suspect to the metal table.

Asshole acts like a spoiled brat just 'cause he's a special consultant to the BCI. With a face like that, he probably hasn't been laid in a decade.
The officer's thoughts were in line with how every other officer looked at him.

“Try six hours ago,” Xander said to the officer, then locked his attention on the Prairie Murderer.

How'd he—

“There's a reason I'm the special skills consultant. Lock him down and leave.” Xander examined the blond beast dressed in jailhouse tangerine. Yep.
Blond beast
was the best description. A thick scruff of matted beard shadowed the guy's face, and his hair fell in thick wheat-colored hanks over his forehead and into his eyes, obscuring the details of his features. But there was no hiding the indifference to sin shining bright in the guy's eyes. Simon Smith, a.k.a. the Prairie Murderer, looked more rabid animal than
Homo sapiens
.

After the officer left the room, Xander inhaled a lungful of pungent air tainted with body odor and the moist, greasy scent of unwashed hair. This was going to be one of those breathe-through-the-mouth situations.

Simon Smith's apathetic gaze roamed over Xander's scars.
He got what he deserved. Marked for life. Punished for life. Everyone will know about him. He's no threat.
His body betrayed nothing of his thoughts. He didn't move a muscle, didn't even blink.

“Who you talking about?” Xander asked.

You've been marked. You are no threat.