Blood Trade: A Sean Coleman Thriller (15 page)

Lumbergh seemed to be in good spirits, chuckling at the question while Diana wore
a broad, prideful smile.

“Oh, I’ll be back soon enough,” he spoke into the cluster of microphones that were
held out in front of him. “Right now, I’m just ready to get back home and relax some
more. The hospital food here at St. John’s is better than everyone says, but I miss
my wife’s chicken parmesan.”

Sporadic laughter belched out from some of the reporters. The man sitting naked on
the bed parodied it with his own unhinged-sounding snicker. He then leaned forward
and pressed the fast-
forward button, speeding through the scene until the picture
cut to another.

This time Lumbergh was standing in front of his house in Winston, again talking to
a group of reporters, though not as many as before. Seemingly enjoying the camera’s
attention, a wide grin lined the police chief ’s face.

“I have another surgery scheduled for next week,” said Lumbergh. “Afterwards the
doctors will have a better idea as to whether I’ll need more.”

A few more taps of the fast-forward button showed the smile suddenly disappear from
Lumbergh’s face in response to the question. The man rewound the tape a few seconds
to hear what was asked.

“Chief Lumbergh, there was news this morning through an anonymous source in the county
sheriff ’s office saying that there are, quote, ‘notable discrepancies’ between your
account of the shooting and the coroner’s autopsy report on Alvar Montoya. How do
you respond to that allegation?”

The sobriety in Lumbergh’s eyes looked just for a moment like a mix of fear and anger.

His face turned deadpan.

“This is the first I’ve heard of this allegation,” he replied. “I’m certainly willing
to discuss this topic with the county sheriff if there are any facts that need to
be ironed out.”

A slew of other questions erupted from the small reporter pool, but Lumbergh raised
his hand in departure, offered the cameras an uneasy smirk, and told them that he
was done answering questions for the day.

Just as the chief turned his back to the reporters, the man rewound the tape again
back to when the question was posed. He watched the expression on Lumbergh’s face
transform, and then did so over and over again at the touch of a button.

With each viewing, he felt the hostility further descend into his
soul. That deep
sense of betrayal tortured his body, as if he were strung to a wooden post and lashed
repeatedly with a bullwhip. His arms and head trembled, nostrils flaring with each
anguished breath.

He lunged forward and clenched his hands around the VCR, violently yanking it from
the television. Sparks flew out of the outlet as its cord was stripped from the wall.
The television screen turned back to snow. He hurled the VCR across the room. It
crashed into a small table lamp sitting in the corner. Shrapnel from its base exploded
in several directions.

“
Mentiroso
!” he screamed with all of his might, clenching his fists as air jetted
out through his nose.

The broad shadow cast on the wall from his quivering body looked as if it was on
fire.

His neck slowly twisted in the direction of the bed and his eyes transfixed on the
large, heavy backpack that lay there.

He repeated again, “It has to be done.”

Is it getting lighter? Still so dark in the room, but I think it’s getting lighter.
How long was I asleep this time? Could it be morning? I’m weaker, just like they
said I’d be . . . The drugs. I’m too weak to lift my head from the bed and look at
the clock. It’s better not to move anyway. When I hold totally still, it’s like the
rest of it’s not real; just a bad dream. It’s when I move that the nightmare comes
to life. The tubes tighten around my face and neck. My stomach turns sick. The pain
starts again.

I’ve forgotten how it used to be. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to feel warm. To
feel free.

The clicking of the clock seems louder than before . . . louder than I’ve ever heard
it. Is it telling me my time’s almost up?

Sometimes, I’ll open my eyes and find her standing over me. Her eyes are so sad,
but she makes herself smile. She does it for me. I love her smile. I’m going to miss
her smile.

Chapter 11

S
ean sat there for what seemed like hours, upright in his recliner and staring into
the dancing flames inside the opened cast iron stove across his living room. He didn’t
remember turning his television on, yet there it was, alive in the corner of the
room with its volume turned down all the way. He paid it little attention. Though
his body was idle, blood raced quickly through his veins and muddled thoughts bounced
off the inside of his head like numbered balls in a lottery machine.

He had stopped back at GSL on his way back to town, but Jessica had already left
for the night. He’d asked the receptionist for Jessica’s phone number, and then her
home address, but both were met with authoritative lectures about the company’s privacy
policy. All he could get was a last name, and that was only because the shift manager
let it slip when he walked over with his chest puffed out and asked Sean to leave.

Landry. Jessica Landry.

Sean had then gone to a gas station two blocks away from GSL. He asked politely to
use their phone book. Once he got it, he quickly thumbed through the white pages,
but found no listing in the area for anyone with the last name of Landry or close
spellings. He’d spent the next thirty minutes sitting in his car in front of a liquor
store with his hands clenched tightly to the steering wheel. His old instincts urged
him inside, but his body kept him glued to the driver’s seat.

Why would she lie to me?
he pondered as the devil at the center of the stove breathed
fire before him.

The question punished his soul. It made no sense. Jessica
had
to know Andrew Carson.
The tears Sean had watched streaming down her cheeks in the back room at the plasma
bank were real. He was certain of that.

He racked his mind, searching for an alternate explanation.
Could the two have been
romantically involved? She and Andrew Carson?
It was little more than a stray thought
at first, but as he further examined the notion, he realized that the premise could
explain some things. It would justify Jessica’s emotional reaction to Carson’s disappearance
and why she felt compelled to assist in the search. It would explain why Katelyn
didn’t know her. Maybe Andrew wanted to keep the relationship a secret, possibly
being uncomfortable with the idea of having a love interest that was much closer
in age to his daughter than to him.

But if that theory were true, why would she have lied to him about being Katelyn’s
cousin? What possible motivation would there have been to do so?

He leaned back in his chair, ignoring the recliner’s mechanical plea. He closed his
eyes and did his best to recall the details of his conversation with Jessica in the
parking lot earlier that day. It was
he
who had drawn the family connection between
Jessica and Carson—not she. However, she had absolutely corroborated it, and there
had to be an explanation for that.

“You know about my uncle?”
He remembered her exact words. She played up Sean’s assertion.
She didn’t refute it.

The phone rang, waking him up from the contemplative spell he’d trapped himself in.
When he picked up the receiver of the old rotary phone from his uncle’s desk, he
heard the voice of Diana. There was a sense of distress in her tone that quickly
commanded his full attention.

“Sean, Gary asked me not to call you, but I’m getting really worried.”

“What are you talking about?” he replied, eyes narrowing.

“There’s something wrong. Something that’s got him scared and he won’t talk to me
about it. He sent us out of town late last night. . .”

“Wait, wait, wait . . . You
and Mom aren’t in Winston?”

“No. We’re staying with. . .” Diana hesitated for a moment. “Well, I’m not supposed
to tell anyone.”

“Bullshit,” he said, wincing at the notion. “Where are you?”

She paused again, seemingly weighing the decision to answer, before explaining that
they were staying with an old high school friend of hers whose name was familiar
to him. She lived in Silverthorne, about twenty-five miles away.

“He seemed worried about our safety, Sean,” she continued. “I’ve never seen him like
this. Do you have any idea what’s going on?”

He shook his head. “No. I saw him this morning and thought he was dealing with a
break-in at the office. You’re right. He wasn’t himself. There must be more to it.”

A brisk knock suddenly echoed off the front door of his shop. His head spun toward
a window at the side of the house. When the phone’s intrusive spiral cord slapped
against his face, he held the receiver to his opposite ear.

Through a pulled blind he could see that an outside light had been triggered on by
a motion sensor he’d helped his uncle install a couple of years ago. Sean had unexpected
company.

“Diana, someone’s here. Can I call you back?”

She relayed the phone number of where she was staying. He wrote it down on the small
sheet of a notepad before saying goodbye and hanging up.

He glanced at a nearby wall clock. It was nearly ten thirty at night. Few people
ever came to visit Sean, and even fewer showed up unannounced, especially so late
at night. He made his way through the dark, narrow hallway until he stood at the
small entrance of the building.

“Who is it?” he asked through the windowless door in a loud, agitated voice.

Moments crawled by before he received an answer. “Sean? It’s Jessica from the plasma
bank. Can I speak to you?”

His chest tightened.
What in the hell is she doing there?

The night was pitch black, the temperature below freezing, and yet there she was,
waiting on an unfamiliar doorstep outside a remote town she had likely never before
passed through.

Had he not driven to Greeley that day and discovered what he had, butterflies likely
would have been fluttering through his stomach. He’d assuredly be experiencing a
desperate urge to quickly clean up his place and evaluate his personal appearance
before letting her in.

Things, however, had changed dramatically since that afternoon. What would have been
certain exuberance was replaced with suspicion—profound suspicion that stewed hostility
in his gut.

A grunt escaped his lips before he unlocked the door and pulled it open.

The porch light poured down across Jessica’s mane of scarlet hair in a way that immediately
made her presence look warm and unaffected by the frigid weather. Her hair was down,
freed from the restrictive ponytail that Sean had often seen it in. It flowed down
the sides of her face and was longer than he would have guessed.

When their eyes met, a broad smile formed on her red lips, causing his heart to skip
a beat. It was the first time he had ever seen her smile. Its brilliance lit her
entire face.

She looked different in other ways, too. Her lips were painted and moist. Her eyelids
dark. She was wearing makeup, and a burgundy-colored leather jacket and black denim
pants that tightly hugged her legs, ending in black mid-calf boots.

As attractive as she looked, the stark change in her appearance and demeanor sent
warning signals jolting up and down Sean’s spine. There was an eerie awkwardness
lingering in the cold night air—artificial in presence and cryptic in meaning. His
mind struggled to
predict what she was going to say, weary that whatever was about
to leave her mouth would likely be less than sincere.

“Can I come inside?” she said in response to his scowl. “It’s cold out here.”

He stood there for a moment, revealing little emotion. “Sure,” he finally said.

She stepped inside, and as she did, her sweet, alluring scent caught his notice.
He had never known her to wear perfume from their past meetings at the plasma bank.
It never before seemed to suit her, but clearly there was another side of Jessica
that he was about to meet.

He noticed her car parked out front before closing the door behind them and sealing
off the cold air that had spilled inside. He flipped on the inside light and watched
Jessica’s pretty face as her eyes wandered around the room that consisted of little
more than a tall wooden countertop with a barstool behind it and certification papers
adorning the walls.

“Do you live here . . .? Where you work?” she asked.

“Yeah. In the back.” He nudged her toward the living area with the jerk of his head.

She turned and strolled down the lit, tight hallway, glancing at the random collage
of framed pictures that hung along it. They were mostly family pictures, several
of Zed with his niece and nephew when they were younger and some from his early days
in the service. A black and white one, from a different era, which hung horizontally
featured Zed and Sean’s father when they were teenagers—slicked back hair, rolled-up
shirtsleeves, and baggy jeans.