Repressed Page 22

  “What the fuck happened?”

  How to buy the time he needed? Even if he could locate Karen, or whatever her name was, how could he find her in a day? Morrison swallowed hard, tried to ready himself to answer, but Petrosky was already hurrying around the car and sliding into the passenger side.

  “Tell me, right the fuck now.”

  Morrison handed him the phone, open to Shannon’s picture.

  Petrosky froze. “They make more demands, or was this in response to Roger still being free?” His jaw was tight, every knuckle white and hard.

  “Both.” Morrison put the car in gear, certain that the hands gripping the wheel belonged to some other being put there to drive them away. There was no high road to take. This was life and death. Shannon’s life. Evie’s life. “We need to talk.”

  Morrison drove them to the edge of the river, where no one could approach without being seen. Few buildings to spy from, and before them just the endless expanse of water until it butted up against the opposite shore in a haze of gray fog. He parked on the bank.

  “So what’s—”

  Morrison pulled his phone from his pocket and tossed it into the console, then exited the car and headed for the water’s edge.

  “Morrison?”

  No Surfer Boy. No California.

  California was dead.

  “I—” He’d rehearsed it all the way here. “I need you to check into Breckenridge.”

  No expression on Petrosky’s face.

  “Listen, I know you don't like the idea of—”

  “I’m clean. Have been since the wedding. You see some fucking sign on my head that says user?”

  The air thickened around them until Petrosky’s face softened with understanding. “She didn’t like that I was at the rehab center, huh? Not that I found anything—no sex offenders, no violent offenses just a few burglary charges. No one that matches our descriptions.”

  What the hell was Petrosky babbling about? “Boss, they want you out of the way. They want you strung out. I figured maybe if you act the part, we can make it work. I’m just not sure what to do about the drug tests.”

  Karen probably still had access to the online medical records, so if they started switching up passwords, she’d know something was up. He could try social engineering … calling up there, tricking someone into coughing up their password, but either way, Karen had someone on the inside—someone who’d told her that Petrosky was there asking questions. “If I hacked their system I could enter a positive drug screen,” Morrison said. “But it’s a newer system. One wrong move and the whole thing will shut down.”

  And Karen would know.

  Then what next? They were already fondling Shannon, tearing at her clothes, sewing her fucking body parts together and doing god only knew what to Evie. Had they raped her? Sewn her lips shut like they did to Shannon? He was panting through his nose, and Petrosky’s hand on his arm brought him back.

  The cold. Find the cold.

  “Fucking technology.” Petrosky’s voice held not a trace of irony, only sad acceptance. “If she has someone on the inside instead of just online access to the medical files, I could sniff them out.”

  He’d thought the same. But he couldn’t figure out a way around the screening tests. “Right, I know you’ll find them. But you can’t get in for a same-day admission if you’re sober.”

  “Guess I better get un-sober. Liquor store around the corner, right?”

  Morrison searched his face, trying to figure out a way around it, but he came up empty—there was no other choice that he could see and he only had until tomorrow night. I’m sorry, Boss. “She … wants you doing more than that.” Morrison gestured to the car and Petrosky followed his gaze. “Glovebox,” he said quietly, hoping that the package she’d mentioned wouldn’t be there.

  But it was. Petrosky returned with an unfamiliar envelope, a jagged construction paper #1 taped to the cover. It looked like someone had carved it out with a kitchen knife instead of scissors. Jagged cuts hurt more.

  “I’m number one, eh? Romantic.” Petrosky opened it. Powder. A spoon. A syringe. A rubber band, not that the band would do much to assist with isolating a vein. Had she never used herself? And if that was the case … did they really know each other? The spaces in his memory were usually drug-induced voids: places where few, or any, sober people were hidden.

  I don’t need rumors, I saw you.

  You see me but you don’t.

  Petrosky opened the bag and poured half of the powder onto the spoon.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Checking. Don’t need it all to get stoned. But if it’s dirty I’d rather know now.” He handed Morrison the syringe and it seemed to vibrate in his hand.

  Checking. Not using it. Checking. He fought the urge to throw it into the river.

  Petrosky pocketed the rest of the powder and pulled out his lighter, and they both watched as the mixture liquefied. Morrison’s veins sang with electricity, as if the drug were speaking to his cells directly, calling them to it.

  “You know we can’t get a warrant,” Petrosky was saying. “And those fuckers at the center won’t give up what we need without it. I might do better figuring this out on the inside anyway.”

  “Yeah right.” The vibration in Morrison’s palm danced through his wrist, up his arm, spreading through his body. Warm. Enticing. Euphoric. Just one little prick, that’s all it’d take and he’d remember. I don’t need rumors, I saw you. “State-dependent memory” McCallum had called it. He needed to be in the right state of mind to remember Karen. Then he’d be able to find his family.

  Petrosky took the syringe from Morrison’s hand. “Roger going to help?”

  “If he won’t, I’ll force his hand. We both know he’s dirty. There has to be a way to at least get him hauled in for questioning which should buy us time.” But Morrison didn’t have enough evidence for that. There had even been an investigation last year and Roger had come out ahead, all accusations deemed erroneous. But Morrison had to do better—frame him maybe. But that would take time Shannon and Evie didn’t have.

  “You’ll find a way.”

  He didn’t like the way Petrosky put it. Just me? I’ll find a way? Morrison shook. This was all on him. His balled fists left tingling imprints on his thighs. They had her. Shannon. Shannon’s lips. They were torturing her. Torturing his baby. He couldn’t breathe.

  Petrosky positioned the needle, drew half the liquid into the syringe, and held it up to the light, flicking it with his index finger: clear liquid tinged with brown. “This was your thing, California?”

  Yes. “Not anymore, Boss.”

  “They know you. Knew you then.”

  “I assume she thought I’d go back, that I’d use again.” She knew his weakness—there was a reason she'd chosen smack.

  “You’d think she’d realize you wouldn’t force this on anyone.”

  She had to know, if she knew anything about him at all. But the more he played her words over in his mind the more they branded themselves there along with the certainty that she had not been speaking in generalities. She knew something about him. Something he couldn’t recall. Be the same asshole you’ve always been.

  Morrison forced an inhale through his nose, noticing a slight vinegary tang. The scar at the crook of his thigh pulsed and shuddered. “Either they think I’m a … monster who will do whatever they want,” he began slowly, “or they think I won’t, and they want a reason to hurt Evie and Shannon … and me by default. To punish me.” He ran his hand through his hair, and a few strands clung to his fingers as he pulled his hand away.

  “What’d you do, California?”

  Everything was hot, tight. “I hurt someone. At least I think I did. But I can’t … I’m not sure who this woman is.” He needed to remember. He had to find a way to remember, but the hurricane raging in his chest prevented any rational thought, as if his abdomen were a vortex where the heat and the pain and the fear had collided with enough f
orce to make his chest cave in.

  My turn. No, me! And Danny’s head, bloody and gaping to the bone, and the ants, everywhere, on his pants, crawling up his leg—

  Cold. Feel the cold. He imagined the breeze off the water singing into his veins, flowing through him and calming the electric peal of panic, the desire for the drug. “If I can figure out where she is—”

  “You don’t need me to find her.”

  “I do.” He couldn’t do this. He didn’t even know who she really was. But if he did everything she asked of him, maybe he wouldn’t have to find her. You’ll remember me. And once you do, you’ll know exactly how to find me.

  “You’ll figure it out, Cali. And from the inside, I can help more than I can out here.”

  “That’s not—”

  “Decantor’s a smart guy, Morrison. And he’s on your side. You’ve got Valentine too, if you need him. You know he’d do anything for you and Shannon.” Morrison. The name sounded strange coming from Petrosky’s lips, as did the compliments he was paying the other officers. And Morrison knew both Decantor and Valentine would be on the phone with the Feds the moment they found out Shannon and Evie had been kidnapped. Was he trying to tell him they should go to the Feds? He didn’t need the Feds or Decantor or Valentine. He had a partner. Just not his family.

  He gazed out at the water. “There has to be something else we can—”

  Petrosky brought the needle up, stabbed it into his thigh and emptied the syringe.

  No.

  The needle and the spoon with the remaining drug dropped to the earth.

  “Petrosky!”

  “You and Decantor will be fine. If the kidnappers want me in rehab, there’s something there that I missed. I’ll find it. And we’ll find her. Now get me back to the car, Surfer Boy.” He took a step and stumbled, one arm shooting out to steady himself, as if his legs were turning to jelly, though it might have been a muscle spasm after the needle stick. Still better than the vein—shooting into the muscle tissue gave a more mellow buzz, less chance of overdosing. Had Petrosky known that when he’d shoved the needle into his thigh? He shook off the thought that Petrosky’s addictions might be deeper and more varied than he’d realized. His boss was an addict, but there was nothing like heroin. Nothing. And Petrosky had many demons to silence.

  Please let him make it. Morrison put his hand on Petrosky’s arm, leading him, hoping he wouldn’t have to carry him. Hoping Petrosky’s heart wouldn’t give out. Hoping—

  “Aw, fuck.” Petrosky reached the car and slumped against the door. “Get me to Breckenridge.”

  The receptionist’s eyes widened in surprise when Morrison walked into the rehab center supporting Petrosky under the arm. Twenty minutes in and Petrosky was fully under heroin’s spell, head lolling as if he’d been reduced to a sack of skin, his essence sucked from his marrow. A shadow of himself.

  Another woman came out to take their basic information. Petrosky leaned heavily on the counter and gawked at her and the receptionist, who tapped diligently on her keyboard while Petrosky muttered half coherent responses.

  The computer. Was the receptionist in on this? Was she the one who’d called Karen the moment they’d headed back with the HR director? Her squinty eyes danced over her screen. The boil on her lip was no longer as innocuous as it had been earlier—it stared at him like a third and horribly misshapen eyeball.

  Petrosky listed Morrison as his emergency contact. Though Morrison had been the one to put him here in the first place.

  Then there were no more questions. Orderlies, slim but strong, emerged through the door and took Petrosky’s fleshy arms, one on either side. Neither looked suspicious with their sympathetic smiles, but smiles hid a great deal. He knew that all too well.

  The younger, blonder one nodded to Morrison. “We’ll take good care of him, sir,” he said as he hooked his palm under Petrosky’s elbow.

  Petrosky tried to shrug them off, but as they started for the metal doors he stumbled, and then the three men were heading back whether Petrosky was ready or not.

  At the double doors Petrosky turned and looked at Morrison one last time, eyes unfocused but wet. “Get ’em, Cali.”

  He had no choice. There was no time. Morrison walked away convinced he’d just left his best friend in the care of a murderer.

  31

  The drive back to the precinct was unnaturally silent but blessedly short. Morrison headed through the bullpen and found Decantor at his desk, nose in a file, cell by his palm on the desktop. He looked up and grinned as Morrison approached.

  “Hey, man! Glad you found Shannon! Women, huh?” He shook his head.

  Morrison opened his mouth in shock. Right. They’d told Decantor that Alex had picked Shannon up—that she was safe. “Yeah. That was something else.” He tried not to envision her in the collar, mouth sewn up like Frankenstein’s monster. He rubbed at his temple hard enough to chafe the skin as he tried to push the images from his brain.

  “Where’s Petrosky? He finally take a Saturday off?”

  It’s Saturday? Morrison cleared his throat. “No. Just out looking into a few things.”

  Decantor cocked an eyebrow like he knew Morrison was lying. But there was no logical reason for the man to believe his suspicion was true, and as expected, Decantor’s face softened. “Want to brainstorm in a few, then? Or should we wait for Petrosky to get back?”

  No time. They’d taken his family. They’d taken his partner. Decantor didn’t have what he needed anyway—it was locked in his head, hidden by sobriety. You’ll find a way. And when Morrison found these fuckers … he wasn’t going to bring them in. He’d get his family back, and Karen and her fucked-up partners would die. “We’ll wait for Petrosky,” he said.

  Again with the eyebrow, but Decantor recovered faster this time. “Sure. Just let me know when he gets here.” He stood. “I need to grab a few sheets off the press.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll be at my desk looking over your notes.” As Decantor walked away, Morrison slid Decantor’s phone off the desk, clicked it to vibrate, and dropped it into his pocket.

  There was little new information in Decantor’s case files, and the notes Petrosky had taken at the rehab center earlier didn’t give Morrison anything he could use to jog his memory.

  Once you remember, you’ll know where to find me.

  But he couldn’t remember. He’d never remember if McCallum was right about the state-dependent memory. If he knew her when he was high, the memory was gone—while he was sober.

  The woman who’d kidnapped Shannon had known Danny personally, maybe intimately. And though Morrison hadn’t known everyone Danny had been with, she’d been insistent that he should remember her. They’d met. He’d thought hers might have been one of the disembodied voices he heard when he slept, keening to him from the night Danny died—Me. No me!—but with the rubber band he wasn’t sure she’d ever been a druggie waiting for her turn. Maybe she’d been there in some other capacity the night Danny died. Maybe not. None of it helped him unless he got stoned and his partner was already high enough for the both of them. Morrison couldn’t afford to fuck it up. He couldn’t take a chance on the needle.

  I can’t afford not to.

  Something the kidnapper had said was irritating his brain. Something about … women like Shannon weakening fast. And the original Karen Palmer had killed herself—had she been driven to suicide? Or had she been murdered?

  Who are you?

  He’d start with the name she’d taken.

  Karen Palmer, the real Karen Palmer, had been born to Hillary and Sherman Palmer. Her mother was easy to locate: address in upstate New York, listed phone number. According to her Facebook page, she headed an anti-bullying organization and was involved in another group dedicated to suicide prevention. On their own, either organization might not have struck him as profound—but together they invoked the image of a harassed child, driven to escape the cruelty of the world by her own hand.

  He put Decant
or’s phone to his ear.

  “Hello, you’ve reached Hillary.” Her voice was high, lilting, not weighed down by grief as he’d expected it to be. Not like Petrosky’s. Maybe Petrosky had always sounded like that. “I can’t come to the phone right now …”

  He waited for the greeting to finish and left his name and credentials along with Decantor’s number, and re-pocketed the phone.

  Karen or whatever her real name was—she’d had a long time to plan. To disappear. She was calculating, too, like the psychopathic stab-fanatic who had brought a murder weapon to the Acosta scene and stalked and butchered Natalie Bell. But the pedophile who had raped Acosta and Reynolds was sloppier, leaving his DNA all over the place—and it was a lonely world for pedophiles. Decantor was chasing down leads on Bell. Petrosky was on the lookout at the rehab center. Acosta. Find the boy’s rapist, he’d find his wife.

  Morrison logged into the chat rooms one more time, scouring for clown-obsessed pedos, pedos discussing how to incapacitate their “lovers”—victims—particularly references to T-shirts or the woods or the #1. Though Reynolds had not received that brand, Acosta and Bell and Petrosky’s drugs all had. Nothing. He dug deeper. Some websites were encrypted, and others needed passwords, but Morrison was better than that. Ten minutes to hack into one. Four to hack into another, twenty minutes the third. And as he read through each the dread in his belly grew.

  “The kid loves me, I know it …”

  “I took him to a ball game …”

  “Her parents seem upset, but we’re in love. They of all people should understand that.”

  Morrison’s breathing echoed long and loud in his ears, yogic breathing, the only way he was able to keep his shit together. He tried to tell himself that these sick bastards were not the ones holding his family prisoner, but it didn’t help, not enough. The vein in his thigh throbbed once and Morrison flashed to Petrosky on the shore, stabbing the needle into his leg and he didn’t feel guilt, didn’t feel angry, just the searing burn of jealousy. His thigh. The one place no one ever thought to look. And they wouldn’t start looking now.