Blood Loss (34 page)

‘Really?’ said Cliff. ‘Did that ring true to you? We found nothing like that.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Ren. ‘No. Cliff, why was Taber Grace fired?’

‘I don’t know why he was fired, just that he was,’ said Cliff. ‘And I was sad to see him go. Afterwards, I know that his wife tried to kill herself, and that it was really hard on him. Taber Grace’s life took a sad turn. It was like it just drifted away from him. One thing I do know, married or not, he would do absolutely anything for Melissa and Taber Jr.’

‘Like lie in a big way?’ said Ren.

‘If they were in any danger, Ren, you bet your ass. I’d do the same myself, and I wouldn’t lose one night’s sleep over it.’

Ren’s phone rang. It was Glenn Buddy.

‘Meet me at Fuller Park by Humboldt Street and 29th,’ he said. ‘We’ve had a report of an attempted rape.’

‘Shit,’ said Ren. ‘Bad news is I’m forty-five minutes away.’

‘Could you swing by anyway – we’ll probably still be there, we need to talk to as many people there as we can.’

‘Sure,’ said Ren.

Thirty minutes later, Ren pulled in behind Glenn Buddy’s car. She could see him in the driver’s seat. She knocked on the passenger window and he told her to hop in.

‘Turns out,’ said Glenn, ‘that the park is practically empty, because of the last rape. There was barely anyone there to ask questions to.’

‘And what about the victim?’ said Ren.

‘We took her down to the station to try to work with the forensic artist,’ said Glenn.

‘So, my work here is done,’ said Ren.

‘Yup, sorry I didn’t text you, but I figured you were only a few minutes away at that stage.’

‘That’s OK,’ said Ren. ‘Depending on what the victim says, if he fits the bill, we’ll at least have a fourth location – enough to get a decent geographical profile.’

Glenn nodded.

‘You know who to call at the FBI for that,’ said Ren.

‘Yup, thanks,’ said Glenn.

Ren got back in her car and pulled out. She took a right onto 29th Avenue. She started to drive back to the office. Then she thought of Bradley Temple, MD. Then she thought of Gary’s words.

Back off. Until we have proof, back off.

Bradley Temple could have proof.

Casinos. Losing money.

What would I do if I wanted a man with a gambling problem in my pocket? Bring him to Vegas, shower him with money and strippers, then ask for one teeny-tiny favor. Then repeat. For two decades.

Ren drove toward the left-hand turn-off for Steele Street. Gary’s words were there, solid, at the forefront of her mind: ‘I don’t understand. I don’t understand you at all.’

Me neither.

She took the left.

Dr Bradley Temple had a medical practice attached to his home on Steele Street. Ren rang the doorbell – there was no answer. She looked at the sign with the opening hours. It was 5 p.m. She was half an hour too early for his evening clinic.

It’s a sign. Go back to the office. Do not incur the wrath of Gary Dettling.

She was turning to leave when a teenage boy walked up the path toward her, shrugging off his backpack.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Are you looking for the doctor?’

‘Yes,’ said Ren. ‘I see I’m a little early.’

‘You can wait if you like,’ he said.

‘And can I ask who you are?’ said Ren.

‘Cameron, I’m Dr Temple’s son.’

Cameron, the Vegas tearaway, all growed up.

‘I’m Ren.’

‘Let me open the waiting room door,’ he said. He started to unlock the front door. ‘I have to open it from inside the house,’ he said.

It started to snow. Ren pulled up her hood.

‘You can come inside for a minute,’ he said.

‘I can wait here,’ said Ren. ‘It’s fine. Or, I can go to my car. I’m not sure your father would want me in his waiting room if he’s not here.’

‘It’s cool,’ said Cameron. ‘I’ve done it before. You need a security code to get into his office, so …’ He shrugged.

‘OK, thanks,’ said Ren. She walked into the house.

‘I’ll be right back,’ said Cameron.

Ren took out her BlackBerry and checked her email. One had come in from Glenn Buddy with an attachment. She was about to open it, but she was distracted by a door further down the hallway, banging softly. She walked toward it. Her phone started ringing. Glenn.

‘Hey,’ said Ren.

‘Did you get a look at the geo-profile?’ said Glenn.

‘The email just came in,’ said Ren.

‘You’re not going to believe this,’ said Glenn. ‘That Rigg Raskin kid just called me. He found out about the lightning strikes. What happened was this kid in school, in art class, signed all his paintings that way, like a graffiti artist has a tag. So the day of the party, the guy organizing it thought it would be cool to rip off this guy’s tag for the route to the asylum. It really pissed this kid off, he went crazy. So, I don’t know, maybe this artist guy showed up to—’

The door swung back on its hinges beside Ren.

‘What was that noise?’ said Glenn.

‘A door banging. Let me go get it.’ She went to close the door. It was a bedroom, with the curtains drawn and the scent of teenage boy.

‘Anyway, the Raskin kid gave me the name of the artist,’ said Glenn, ‘and it’s right there, smack bang in the jeopardy zone. We’re on our way now.’

Ren was transfixed by the walls of the bedroom.

Glenn was still talking. ‘The kid’s name is—’

Cameron Temple.

‘Cameron Temple,’ said Glenn.

‘Jesus, Glenn—’

‘What the fuck are you doing in my bedroom?’ roared Cameron.

Ren spun around. He pushed her hard on the chest. She landed on the floor, her back slamming off the side of the bed. Her phone bounced across the floor and disappeared under his desk. Her head was spinning, and as she looked up, all she could see were lightning strikes jumping out at her from his paintings.

‘What the fuck is that?’ he said. He pointed at her. ‘Is that a gun?’ Her pants leg had slid up over her ankle holster. Cameron jumped down on the floor beside her and grabbed her ankle, trying to get the gun free.

Do not fuck with me.

Ren reached down, gripped his head on the pressure point, and buried her thumb behind his ear, pushing up hard to get him to drop his hold.

‘You fucking bitch,’ he said. Ren punched the side of the neck and he collapsed onto the floor. He rolled behind the foot of the bed. Ren stood up and pulled the gun from her ankle holster.

‘Don’t move,’ she said. ‘Don’t move a fucking inch.’

But Cameron had reached under the bed and before she realized it, he had pulled out a baseball bat. He slammed it against her knee, and she dropped. The pain was excruciating. The gun was gone. Cameron picked it up, and laid it on the desk behind him.

Ren’s eyes were streaming. He started to walk toward her, his eyes dead. Ren’s heart started to pound.

You are a psychopath.

Ren froze.

No, no, no.

He was on top of her, now, straddling her. He pulled open her jacket, and ripped the gun from her shoulder holster. His knees were digging into her ribs. She could barely breathe. He threw the gun behind him, and it slid under the desk by her phone. He pulled off his belt and pushed her onto her stomach. He smashed his hand against her knee again. Ren cried out. He wound his belt tight around her wrists, and pulled her onto her back again, with her hands underneath her and her pelvis tilted up.

No, no, no.

Cameron stared down at her, almost in a trance. She could smell what she had read about, see what all the victims had described, how gone he looked – to a place where no words of reason would reach. She could see his hands moving toward her.

‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Don’t do this. I’m an FBI—’

‘I don’t care,’ shouted Cameron. ‘I don’t care who you are.’ He slapped her hard across her face, and split open her lip. He grabbed her breasts, then slid his hands down and pushed them up under her top, pushing her bra up out of the way.

Ren gagged. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Please don’t do this to me.’ Tears started to flow down her face. ‘Please.’ It was like she wasn’t speaking. He was hearing nothing, was now completely shut off from reality. He was smiling. He reached down and started opening the button of her pants.

No. No. No. This is not happening. No.

With all her strength, she reached up and slammed her head against the side of his nose. She heard a crack. He fell off her. Blood poured down his face. He rolled onto his back. Ren was about to run past him to grab her guns.

Channel the dark side. Use it. It will work. Use your anger. He will not be able to beat you.

Cameron Temple slammed Ren to the ground one last time. He grabbed her ankles and yanked her toward him. He knelt down and pressed his hands around her neck and started to squeeze.

Ren’s body went limp underneath him. She closed her eyes.

No. No. No. No. No.

The sound of footsteps came toward her, and suddenly the weight of Cameron Temple was off her, and she was being pulled up, and taken in someone’s arms and passed into someone else’s and she was standing in the hallway with two Denver PD detectives as Glenn Buddy and two more were handcuffing Cameron Temple in front of her.

Ren ran for the bathroom and threw up. There was nothing in her stomach except a bright green energy drink with a sugary stench that made her throw up again. Her head exploded in stars.

And everything went black.

Ren woke up in her pink frilly bed in the arms of Ben Rader. It was five a.m. He had arrived at eight the evening before, as soon as she was back from her doctor. Janine was not far behind him.

Ren had talked to them about her memories of Annie’s house, how she and her brothers used to play here, all the little hiding places in the house, and all of Annie’s old dolls, and trinkets, and Janine and Ben had let her talk until her eyes closed and Ben had nodded across to Janine, and Janine had given him a sad smile, and he had led Ren into her bedroom, where he helped her into her pajamas.

She crumpled into a ball on the bed. Ben held her close until she cried herself to sleep. He didn’t speak, but every now and then, he kissed her head or wiped teary strands of hair from her face. She knew by his eyes when he came out of the bathroom earlier that he had shed some tears too. She could hear him breathing beside her, and she wanted to cry she liked him so much. He was a good man to the core. She rolled over and buried her head into his chest, and he stirred awake and kissed her.

‘Are you OK?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Ren.
Because you’re here.

They got up for breakfast at ten. Ben took a package out of his bag.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘This came for you this morning.’

He handed it to her.

‘What do you mean it came for me?’ said Ren. ‘To where?’

‘To my apartment.’

‘But … it’s a rental apartment. And … how would anyone know? I mean, no-one knows about us yet.’

Her heart started to pound. She opened the package and pulled out a letter with a note on the front that said: ‘Early Christmas present. It was good to meet you. Keep fighting the good fight.’

There was a separate package addressed to Taber Grace and postmarked Breckenridge. It was mailed on Monday, November 16.

‘Oh my God, Ben,’ said Ren. ‘I’ve just been sent a package that was mailed by Mark Whaley on the day he went missing.’

Ren opened her letter first:

Dear Ren,

Yes – you were correct. Mark Whaley was about to blow the whistle on MeesterBrandt, but he started to worry that they were on to him. He hired me to find that out. I did. The night he went to Breckenridge, he was supposed to be meeting me. He must have gotten cold feet or decided it could wait until after the weekend. That same night I heard that Shep Collier was about to offer his resignation because of a scandal – it hadn’t been announced yet what that was. But I knew right away that this was not good. Especially after what I had discovered about MeesterBrandt. Mark had a second cell phone for us to communicate on, I tried to get a hold of him on that, but I couldn’t. You know the rest.

The people hired by Nolan Carr to destroy Shep Collier and Mark Whaley (and probably more) are, effectively, private investigators whose specialty is smear campaigns. Tina Bowers identified one of them from a photograph. And it’s not just rummaging around your garbage that these people do. It is the total destruction of everything – their target’s family life, career, everything. And they will stop at nothing. They employ ex-law enforcement, ex-military, ex-disgruntled anyone, mercenaries to carry out their dirty work. And they will only take on jobs if they have the license to do whatever they want. If they can’t find anything on their target, unlikely as that is, they will go after spouses, siblings, children. And that is the hornet’s nest that Mark Whaley took a stick to. They did some of their finest work on Mark Whaley. And some poor little Breckenridge babysitter got caught up in it all.

Here’s what I got – do your worst.

TG.

Ren opened the package that Mark Whaley had sent to Taber Grace.

Holy shit.

She spent the next hour reading through all the evidence that Mark Whaley had gathered that would bring down MeesterBrandt and Nolan Carr.

There were memos from the late 1990s on Lang Pharmaceuticals headed notepaper, signed by Nolan Carr, detailing Lang’s marketing campaigns, with directives to pay physicians for prescribing Cerxus to children, and for a range of conditions it wasn’t approved for. There were emails to the lab directing them to re-word or bury negative findings. There were reports about suicides in the children who took Cerxus, and it was clear that Nolan Carr had known all along. There were emails between Nolan Carr and one of his lobbyists in Washington about the rumors that Shep Collier was talking to the action group trying to introduce tighter regulation of the pharmaceutical industry.

There was one final set of documents.

‘Jesus,’ said Ren, spreading out more papers. ‘Taber Grace hacked Bradley Temple’s patient files.’