Last Light (10 page)

Backing out of the room, taking care not to step in any of the many puddles of blood, he turned to the other room across the hall. Alan Martin’s. He’d be, what? Six?

He hesitated, his hand hovering above the doorknob. If they didn’t spare the baby, no way in hell would they have spared the boy. Grimacing, bracing for what lay inside, he opened the door.

The room was decorated with racecars. No body that he could see, but there was blood—a trail of it leading from the bed as if someone had been dragged out from underneath it. A small palm print against the bed rail, the blood bright against the white pine. Twin smears across the floor. A larger puddle on the floor near the closet surrounded by crimson sprays. Someone had been there, bleeding. He could about make out a boy-sized void.

But no body. He peered under the bed. A stuffed rabbit and some dirty shoes. No boy. Which left only the closet.

He stood, yanked the door open before he could have second thoughts.

A small body rolled out, limp. Aw hell. Drew crouched, touching the boy’s arm. Unlike his mother, his flesh was still warm.

He was shirtless, the skin on his chest and back hung in strips, flayed as if someone had tried to peel it off him. There were defensive wounds on both hands and forearms. His face was intact, his blue eyes staring at Drew.

Drew knew better than to touch the body more than he had to, but he just couldn’t let this poor boy lie there, his lifeless eyes staring at his own murder scene. He holstered his weapon and reached his hand to close them one final time.

They blinked.

Drew scuttled backward, hand grabbing at his gun.

They blinked again. The boy’s mouth opened, a low moan emerging along with frothy bubbles of blood.

“Prescott.” Drew had to try twice to create any sound higher than a mouse squeak, his throat choked tight. “We’ve got a live one!”

“SO,” TK SAID
after Lucy left and she and David had locked up their makeshift office and were enjoying beer and the final bites of their steaks, “is it weird knowing that you must have been conceived right before the night your father was accused of murder?”

He laughed. It was a relief that it was normal, so unlike his speech. But she kind of liked that he said what he meant without wasting time on verbal misdirection. “According to my mother, their only time together was that night. They’d planned on waiting but she was sixteen, he was seventeen, and nature took its course.”

“Wow. How sad is that? I mean, she spent the rest of her life—”

“Chasing after the one man she could never have. I know. When I was in high school, I once told her she should just join a convent, at least then she’d have guaranteed room and board. I was trying to make her angry—typical, stupid teenager. But you know what she said?”

“What?”

“She said she couldn’t lie to God, that Michael would always have her heart. I mean seriously, there’s something wrong with both of them. Her for believing in him for all these years and him—”

“Because he sacrificed everything to save his brother?”

“If you’d asked me last week, I would have said him because he’s a stone-cold killer.” His pause had weight to it, as if it was anchored to the past. “But now…” He shook his head. “Now, I honestly don’t know what the truth is.”

She glanced up at that. “But...all those holes in the case that you found. And we’ve barely even begun.”

“My mother’s dying. Her last wish is for Michael Manning to go free. To do that, we need to tear apart the original case. But overturning a conviction is a matter of law, not the truth.”

“You mean, even if we find enough to set him free, you still think he might be guilty?”

“My first job was working the crime beat in Baltimore. It was then I realized that every case has holes in it—it’s the nature of the universe. Nothing is ever for certain.”

“Then it’s just as likely to put innocent men behind bars as it is to have guilty ones walking free. What kind of justice is that?”

“Justice doesn’t exist. It’s a delusion—one that my mother has been chasing her entire life.”

“You’re fine with the fact that we might be working to set a guilty man free?”

“No. Of course not. I wish he was innocent, this man my mother has put all her faith in. I mean, he’s not my father, not really. Innocent or guilty, he never will be.”

It was strange, his voice was totally devoid of emotion, yet a dozen of them collided on his face. Everything from frustration to rage to despair to hope.

“As a reporter, it’s my job to be objective, look at all the facts. And unless we find new evidence, the facts say Michael Manning is guilty. Hell, that’s what he said himself in his own confession. But it’s my mother’s dying wish. How the hell was I supposed to say no to her?” He glanced up at TK. “Wouldn’t you do anything if it was your family?”

That stopped her in her tracks. Because she had done worse, much, much worse, for the sake of family.

“What if he is innocent? And we don’t find enough evidence to set him free?”

His lips tightened as if both denying the idea and steeling himself for it. A man of contradictions, this David Ruiz. Intriguing.

“Then I have to face my mother with the truth. But at least I’ll have tried my best.”

TK couldn’t resist the urge to press the issue. “But what about you? To know that the man you’ve been so angry at all these years, that you blamed for so many crimes—not just murder, but what he did to your family—that he wasn’t guilty?”

“He confessed. He chose to go to prison. Even if he’s innocent of murder, he’s still guilty of the rest. Including abandoning my mother and ruining her life.”

Without the force of his anger behind them, his words sounded hollow, and she wondered if he really, truly believed them or if so many years of blaming his father had become so ingrained that he couldn’t kick the habit.

He touched her arm. “Sorry,” he said, his expression contrite. “I don’t know what came over me. I never talk this much, not about myself. Believe it or not, I used to be good at small talk. How about we get two more beers and maybe play some pool? Less talking, more drinking. Good for the soul, I always say. Or,” she liked the unexpected twinkle that sparked in his eyes, “karaoke. Funny thing about this kind of head injury—it messes with talking but not singing. Up for a duet?”

Now it was her turn to laugh. “Only if you want to start a stampede. Sorry, no singing, not for me. But pool sounds good. I’ll play you for the tab.”

The one more beer turned into three, but TK didn’t mind, as she wasn’t the one drinking them. When she’d first returned stateside, she used alcohol as a sleep aid, but she’d weaned herself off of it, substituting various forms of aerobic exercise and, when the voices of her memory grew too loud, her language tapes.

“Where’d you serve?” he asked after missing a shot and handing the rotation back to her.

“What makes you think I served anywhere?” She chalked her cue and considered her options. He leaned against the table, facing away from the felt, nursing his last beer. She could tell he wasn’t sloppy-drunk, liked that he’d turned away the waitress’s offer of another drink.

“I know the look. Was over there the better part of four years—not on base, out with the guys. Bedding down at COPs and observation posts that didn’t even have official names.”

COPs, combat outposts. Usually named after soldiers who’d died defending them, like the smaller, more remote forward observation posts. Names that often didn’t make it onto the military’s maps and certainly would never be remembered by the locals.

“I was there,” she finally acknowledged. “Two tours Fallujah, four Afghanistan.”

“MOS?” Military operational specialty.

She leaned forward and took her shot. A smooth bank sending her target exactly where she wanted into the side pocket. When she glanced up, she noticed a trio of burly men gathered around one of the tables near the bar, two empty pitchers of beer on the table before them along with assorted shot glasses. All eying her. Laughing and elbowing the youngest of the bunch, a kid who couldn’t even be drinking age.

“I had several,” she finally answered Ruiz’s question after the men were distracted with the arrival of a fresh pitcher brought to them not by the waitress, but an older man in his forties who stayed to talk with the trio. Their attitude shifted immediately to one of respect, all three nodding to something the older man said. She relaxed a smidge now that their attention was off her and David.

He squinted at her. “There was an O’Connor. Marine. Worked as an enabler for a SEAL team I did a story on. That wouldn’t be you, would it?”

Enabler
.
She hated the term, the military’s way of weaseling out of the fact that they needed women on the front lines but legally were forbidden from ordering them there. Which meant she and her teammates took the same risks, did much of the same job, but weren’t given the same training as her male counterparts in special operations.

She shrugged away his question and lined up her next shot. He stayed where he was, his posture relaxed, not looking at her, as if they were discussing someone else’s life. In a way they were.

“That O’Connor, she won a Bronze Star. Was roping out of a helo with the SEALs when they came under fire. One of the men took a round, fell near where she was providing cover. A string of daisy-chained IEDs blew, separating her and the downed SEAL from the rest of the team. She KIA’d three insurgents and secured their flank until the SEALs were able to regroup.”

She missed her shot, not because she couldn’t make it but because she wanted him to shut up and focus on something else. “Your turn.”

“They said that O’Connor was one of the finest Marines they ever had the pleasure of serving with,” he finished, turning to look at her. “Coming from Navy SEALs, that’s probably the greatest compliment a soldier could earn.”

“Sure they were real SEALs and not just wannabes? Sounds like they don’t know how to keep their mouths shut—unlike us Marines. Take your shot.”

“Didn’t just hear it from the SEALs. I did a profile on the helicopter pilots who flew those missions. Fun stuff—even got my hands on the stick a few times. Two of them were on station that night. Saw everything.”

She shot him a glare that even a reporter who couldn’t understand verbal nuances would not mistake. “I said, take your shot.”

He considered her for a long moment before turning his attention to the balls on the table. While he set up his shot, she looked past him to the table with the three cowboys who’d been eying them earlier. The two older ones were pushing the third toward the pool table. She touched his elbow before he could take his shot. “Maybe we should call it a night.”

“Why?”

She nodded to the trio approaching them. Both older men held beer mugs in their hands. Heavy glass. Which meant two armed and drunk; only the youngest being steered by the two older ones wasn’t a threat.

“I see what you mean.” Ruiz balanced his pool cue against the table.

TK assessed the crowd behind them. Gone were the families; the restaurant was now filled with a more rowdy clientele, the men outnumbering the women by three to one.

The first man stepped sideways, blocking their path. His two companions circled around the other side of the table, outflanking TK and Ruiz. Leaving them trapped with their backs to the narrow end of the table.

Ruiz played the gallant, stepping forward, hands raised in surrender. “We don’t want any trouble.”

The drunk cowboy frowned at his robotic tone. “Hear that?” he called to his companions coming up on TK’s strong side. “Hear the disrespect in his voice?” He sneered at Ruiz. “Where you from, boy?”

She reached for her pool cue in a casual movement, pretending to be focused on chalking it. A heavy pool ball would be a better weapon if she actually wanted to hurt anyone, but she was hoping to simply clear a path to the exit.

Adrenaline hummed through her veins, a familiar friend. The noise of the crowd dimmed to a hushed hum, allowing her to focus on the three threats. She watched their hands, not their faces. Hands told you so much more about a man’s true intentions.

“No disrespect intended,” Ruiz said, still trying to salvage the situation.

The young cowboy grinned drunkenly, stumbling near to TK. “Ma’am,” he said, the syllables smushed together and carried on a wave of alcohol, “we were—I was—wondering if you’d like to dance?”

As he finished his request, his friend shoved him into TK. She almost felt bad for the kid—until he used the encounter to squeeze her breast. His breath was hot against her face; there was no escape from it. Something sparked, an old memory, old fear she couldn’t evade took over her body and she felt as if she watched from a distance.

In a blaze of movement TK kneed him in the groin. When he bent over in pain, she grabbed his wrist, spinning him back into Friend One, sloshing beer over them both.

“Hey, we paid for that beer. You owe us!” Friend Two said, stepping forward, beer mug raised high, ready to strike. Until TK flicked her pool cue up as if it were a bo, hitting him in the crotch, then swinging it to sweep his leg out from under him. He landed with a thump on the floor. Ruiz stepped forward, between TK and the men, but by then it was all over.

The noise and movement attracted the attention of the rest of the clientele—probably all locals and probably all friends of the trio. TK shifted into a fighting stance, gripping her cue stick. The sounds around her were muffled as if coming from a distance; all she heard clearly was her breathing and the pulse pounding through her skull.

David touched her arm. She shook him off, searching for danger, for new enemy combatants. But he persisted, sliding the stick from her hands. His lips moved but she didn’t register his words.

“Can’t a man eat his steak in peace?” a voice filled with command authority cut through the noise in TK’s head.

The onlookers who’d scraped back their chairs and risen to their feet, ready to defend their buddies, suddenly sat back down, engrossed in their beers.