Repressed Page 28

  He tried Janice’s mom’s name. Nothing. Her dad—

  Theodore Lynwood. He stared at the property listing, called up a map. The house was right in Ash Park. She could walk to it from the rehab center. And mortgages weren’t kept up by dead men.

  Morrison tore up the stairs to throw on a pair of boots and grab his gun.

  He left his badge on the dresser.

  The sunset had stained the road with shapes like the splatter left behind by a gunshot wound. Perhaps there would have been a chance for recovery had the slightest hint of blue still streaked the sky, but as it was, the tree branches blackened all but the pattern of angry red gore.

  The metal against his hip was a comfort. What would he do once he arrived?

  He wasn’t sure. Didn’t know. But it felt right.

  She wanted him alone. She wanted him to suffer. She wanted him to watch.

  But she didn’t know he was coming.

  The house crawled by on his left, dark shutters of gray or green, a green door, a sparse garden in the front where haphazard tulips strained through overgrown grass. No vehicle in the driveway, but a one-car garage. The ripened sun turned the windows into blazing orange eyes.

  His chest heaved as he lost sight of the house—like he was abandoning his family again. He parked around the corner, well out of sight of the place, just in case they looked from behind the smoldering windows to peer down the road. The pavement was still bloodied by the setting sun.

  I’m coming, Shanny.

  He switched the safety off his gun, climbed out of the car, and started around the block so he could go in the back way.

  Tonight, he wasn’t a fucking cop.

  He was a monster forged of rage and desperation and steel. A monster they had woken.

  And Janice would pay.

  42

  Petrosky sat on his bed, his stomach aching, his ass still half-numb from the rock-hard, torture device of a chair he’d been in all day. And while he’d sat in the common room, Adam, the agitated boy-man, had watched. When he’d left the table to take a shit, the perp was waiting outside. For every meal Petrosky ate, that asshole was there with his shiny, bulging forehead.

  That was his job. Not the sweeping that he probably got paid some paltry amount for. His real job was to make sure Petrosky was stuck in here with critical information he was helpless to transmit—impotent to assist Morrison. Or Shannon. Or Evie.

  He didn’t want to think about the drug either. But he did. Jesus, he did. It was the happiest he’d been in he couldn't recall how long. And he had little to lose, if anything, once Shannon and Evie were safe.

  He had been refused phone calls twice thus far. Against the rules, they said—fearful he’d be contacting some dealer to hook him up when he got out. Inpatient rehab was meant to disconnect you from every aspect of your outside life. Old lives were ready triggers, old friends were eager enablers. They’d told him that in group therapy this morning, some sour-faced man with a cross around his neck wearing goddamn purple argyle. Argyle. Checkers were bad enough but he didn’t trust a man in fabrics with more depth than your average perp.

  Petrosky shot to standing at a knock at the bedroom door—it’d be the therapist, or maybe the nurse. “Obstinate” and “uncooperative” they’d called him, respectively. Not that cooperation had been a prerequisite for this part he was meant to play; whoever had Shannon didn’t give a flying fuck if he was actually recovering. They’d probably be happier if he wasn't. They wanted him to hurt. They wanted to bring him down.

  Karen … and Adam. But that couldn't be his real name, it was too easy. From the moment the name passed his lips, “Adam” seemed a little too confident, like he figured once Petrosky got out of rehab he’d seek him only by name.

  They’ll never find me! They think my name is Adam!

  Fucking idiot. Though who knew, this might be part of his game. This fucker seemed to get off on giving away his hand, exposing critical information and then … watching.

  For now, Petrosky needed a better plan. The phones were locked in the nurses’ station and in the main offices, but a few more hours and the majority of the staff would go home. Ghost staff overnight. He had a filed toothbrush that he could use as a pick, very prison-esque, but everything here was prison-esque. Not like he could throw a fit, pull his badge, and sign himself out—not if he wanted Shannon and Evie to live.

  The doorknob turned, and Petrosky reached for the twentieth time for his holster but touched only cloth. Bullshit jailhouse pajamas. Scratchy and considerably less comforting than the cool heaviness of his Glock.

  An orderly, skinny and irritatingly young—though still older than Adam—peeped his head into the room, then swung the door wider and took a few steps forward, holding a black plastic sack. Probably here to tell him it’s therapy time, it’s game night, or something equally asinine.

  “Hope you’re not here to get me for something stupid. I don’t have time for that bullshit. But if you can get me a phone—”

  “I have to take you out. Discharge.”

  Petrosky froze, not comprehending. “I’m in recovery here.”

  The orderly shrugged. “You’ve got to see the nurse.” He handed Petrosky the bag. “I’ll wait outside.”

  Petrosky opened the sack. His clothes. He was leaving. Was he supposed to be leaving? He had a sudden urge to take a shit.

  But this had to be good news, right? Morrison had found them. Morrison was here to get him and maybe Shannon and Evie were with him or they were going to go together to the hospital. The girls would take some time to heal, but dammit, he’d be there to help them. They were okay.

  Dressed in minutes in the sour duds he’d come in with, Petrosky followed the orderly to the nurses’ station. Her smile was tight as she handed him prescriptions through the window.

  “Why am I being discharged?”

  Her smile went from tight to nonexistent. “I’m … you can speak to the gentleman outside.”

  The gentleman. Not “your friend.”

  “Listen, I’m not trying to be difficult here.”

  She pushed one last script through the slot. “Go talk to him. He can answer your questions.”

  But her eyes were narrowed—she was worried. They were trying to keep him calm. It wasn’t his partner out there, ready to take him home, friendly and excited. Why would you try to keep someone from rehab calm? It wasn’t like they’d be discharging him into the care of their psychopathic janitor. “I don’t understand why—”

  “It’s not up to us.” She sent a form through the slot. “Sign this, please.”

  Only so many things could upend recovery. The only time they released like this was … if someone was under arrest. If they thought the patient was dangerous. If it was an emergency. But who would be here? Decantor? And if it was Decantor … Shannon and Evie were probably dead. Morrison too.

  He signed the sheet and shoved it back through the hole, heart hammering in his temples. It had to be good news. Please let it be good news. But when was the news ever good for him? It was over. If he was out, it was over one way or another.

  He followed the orderly out of the common room and through the main hallway toward the exit. The orderly took forever fiddling with his keys, his badge, to get them the fuck out of there. The door finally swung open and Petrosky bolted to the kid’s agitated: “Hey wait, he said you’re under arrest!”

  The orderly’s cry fell on deaf ears. Petrosky froze just outside the door, staring at the man who’d come to claim him.

  Roger cocked his head. “What’s up, Detective?”

  Definitely not good.

  “Your partner isn’t home,” Roger said as he slid into the car and slammed the door.

  Petrosky closed his own door, feeling like more of a prisoner than when he’d been trapped in his room filing toothbrushes into lock picks.

  “He running?”

  “Running?” What in the ever-loving hell? If Roger wasn’t here to get him because it was over
—“Wait, do they still have Shannon?”

  Roger shrugged.

  “What the fuck does that mean? Are you trying to get her fucking killed?” Petrosky’s fist clenched, wanting desperately to drive it into Roger’s already crooked nose. How long did they have before Adam found out and called his partner at the house?

  Roger was appraising him—apparently he didn’t trust that Petrosky was actually dumbfounded. “Morrison and I had a deal,” he said sharply. “He was taking care of something for me. Supposed to turn himself in this morning for arson.”

  Arson? “Taking care of what?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  Morrison had taken care of … incriminating evidence against Roger? But why would he do that when the assholes who had Shannon wanted Roger locked up? Arson. What the hell was going on?

  “I went over there,” Roger said. “Your boy’s gone. Figured you’d know where.” He narrowed his eyes. “And if you fuck with me, I’ll make sure—”

  “Shut the fuck up, Roger.” Petrosky buckled his seat belt.

  Roger froze, keys raised halfway to the ignition.

  Petrosky punched the dash. “Drive, motherfucker. We don’t have all day.”

  “We going to get Morrison?”

  “We’re going to get Shannon before they kill her.”

  Roger opened his mouth to say something else, but Petrosky put up a hand.

  “We find her, we’ll find Morrison too.” He reached over and took the keys and shoved them into the ignition. “Let’s go.”

  The desire to cut and run was strong, not because he had any intention of abandoning Morrison, but because Petrosky was certain Roger was a fucking twat. You don’t go into battle with someone who doesn’t know what the hell they’re doing—you leave their sorry ass at home. But Roger refused to be left, even after a cruise through the first neighborhood seemed fruitless.

  “I don’t know how you can rule so many out,” Roger grumbled.

  “No flags.”

  “So what? You can’t be sure that he even told you the truth.”

  But Petrosky felt it. The hairs on the back of his neck hadn’t risen when that dickhead was telling him about the cats, bitching about the screen and his neighbor’s patriotism. And Adam hadn’t flinched once. Dangling the truth in front of Petrosky, taunting him with it—that had been part of the game. Part of the excitement. Adam probably was his real fucking name. “He told me the truth.”

  “I can do all the shit you guys do and better. I’d have found her three days ago.”

  “Then why didn’t you?”

  “If she wanted someone to get the job done, she’d have stayed with me.”

  But the edge in his voice betrayed his concern. God forbid someone got rid of her before she could fall into Roger’s arms and tell him that he was clearly the superior model, that she’d made a huge mistake in leaving him. Petrosky appraised him. His furrowed brows. His knuckles, white against the steering wheel.

  Roger wasn’t a prosecutor today. His interests might be selfish, but at least they were aligned with Petrosky’s. With Morrison’s.

  And with Shannon’s.

  “There’s that jackass’s car,” Roger said, and went to pull beside it.

  Petrosky shook his head. “For fuck’s sake, Roger, drive around the block.”

  “But if he’s here—”

  “He didn’t park in front of the house and go in rampaging. He’s not an idiot.” Unlike you. “But the place has to be close.”

  Roger’s mouth tightened, and Petrosky gestured through the windshield at the road. “One block, two at the most.” Morrison would have been in a hurry. “Drive around the right side first.”

  Roger ran a stop sign and hooked a right into the blinding sunset.

  43

  Morrison’s breath was hot and fast, every sense acute, magnified by the thrumming of his anxiety. He could almost feel the sun being siphoned from the sky in measured increments, like water sucked down a drain. The chirping of the crickets was deafening.

  But still, he could hear.

  The window was closed, and all he could see was a black curtain, yet muffled sounds came from within—more a feeling of movement than an actual noise. He brought his face closer to the window. The curtain was stiff, plastered against the glass. No one looking from the street would notice a difference, but there was no way the window covering was free and loose on the inside. Pressed to the window with cinderblocks? Spray insulation? Surely they had insulated the windows and the exterior walls. Unless … that was why they’d sewn Shannon’s mouth closed.

  The cold. It burned.

  But he heard her. No, it wasn’t Shannon, not the right timbre, just the tickle of a female voice, no discernible words.

  Then the wail. A baby. His baby. Evie was surely screeching, but if he hadn’t had his ear so close to the window he wouldn't have heard her at all.

  I’m coming, baby girl.

  Every muscle ached with the desire to crash through the window and snatch Evie to him before he blew Karen—Janice—away. But he couldn’t be sure of what was on the other side. Was it booby trapped? What if he knocked something over and hurt Evie instead? And if there was insulating foam, it might take him all day to saw through it and actually get inside, depending on how they’d secured it. Just the foam, cool. Bricks? Bad news.

  He was still squinting at the corner of the window when he registered the sound of feet swishing through the grass, somewhere near the front of the property. The house was small, maybe thirteen hundred square feet. Was it Janice’s sadistic partner? He pressed himself under the window, hoping they wouldn’t come around. A dozen steps and they’d be on top of him.

  Then the clack of shoes on the porch. So close.

  Knocking echoed through the air, and he could feel the vibration in the house itself. The front door. Who was out there? Was Janice’s accomplice insecure enough, afraid enough of Janice, that he’d knock every time he showed up?

  In the room, the voice went silent. Evie continued to cry, but it was faint enough that it might have been his imagination. A door slammed, closer to him this time, but muffled, thick. Then no more cries.

  The knocking came again, hard and fast, carrying through the air around the house, the shoes on the porch eerily silent. And a squeal of hinges, again from the front of the house, far more distinct than anything he could hear through this window.

  “Hey, there.” Roger? Morrison bolted upright, almost smashing his forehead on the exterior windowsill. Shit. Janice would know he lied about getting rid of him.

  “I hope you don’t mind me coming by, but I’ve been thinking about you lately. I’ve missed you.”

  Even from here, Morrison could hear the anxiety in her voice, though not her words, just a rapid stuttering of sounds. Had Roger spoken loudly on purpose? Did he know Morrison was there? Did Janice?

  Morrison held his breath, the only sound a haunting moan of wind through the trees, as if even the air could feel the gravity of that moment and was distressed by it. Roger could not let her go back inside. Could not let her get to Evie, to Shannon. Janice would hurt them.

  Janice would die first.

  He slid Petrosky’s pocketknife from his back pocket—the one left on the passenger seat the day Morrison had driven him to the rehab center. From the front of the house came Roger’s muffled voice, and hers too, not quite arguing with Roger, but raised higher than it had been moments ago. He took off for the back door. It was less likely they’d be watching that as closely as the rooms where they held captives. This door they’d need for escape.

  It took mere seconds to reach his destination, and only seconds more to wedge the knife beside the jamb. A ray of orange sun clawed at his hands as he jimmied the back door, turned the knob and pushed.

  But … resistance. Not a deadbolt. A padlock? He couldn’t crack a padlock from the outside and if he broke the door down he might not be fast enough to get to Shannon—he didn’t even know where Shan
non was, or if she was in a different room from Evie.

  And then the yelling. Somewhere nearby, a thunk—sharp but muted. Not the front door closing shut, but maybe the door on Roger’s shoe, or against his shoulder if he was attempting to bully his way inside. Was he trying to be a hero? And if so … oh shit if he was, and Janice’s partner was in there with his family—

  He raced back to the window. He’d have only moments, but it had to be enough.

  Had to be.

  Janice was still talking, arguing now, louder than before. If there was someone else in the house, wouldn’t he have come to her aid? Morrison heard no other sounds from within the home, and no other male voices save Roger’s on the porch—though a man terrified of rejection might be cowering in the bedroom instead of assisting. There was no way to tell for certain. And Morrison was out of time.

  The noise from the front was enough to cover Morrison breaking the back window with an elbow wrapped in his jacket. Sound suppression goes both ways and while they might have heard it from the front if they’d been quiet, Roger’s voice kept booming over the splintering of glass and the tearing of Morrison’s knife across the curtain and into whatever was behind it. Foam insulation. No bricks.

  He sawed through it, the Styrofoam-like material squalling like nails on a chalkboard though the argument out front did not stop—so the noise couldn’t have been as deafening as it was to him. The foam peeled from the window frame and he tossed the pieces behind him into the grass until he had an opening he could shove his hand through. There was pink fiberglass insulation behind the foam, but no resistance beyond that and he sliced cleanly through the material, ripping chunks of foam and fiberglass from the window opening, each piece like a bit of hope he was stealing back.

  Roger yelled something that sounded like “goddammit,” and Morrison pulled himself halfway into the window, trying to see through the hole he’d made. Tight, but doable, and nothing below that he could see in the dim light, no child to be injured if he lost his balance and tumbled into the darkness.