Splintered (15 page)

T
HE
THROBBING
in his hand from the fifteen stitches across his palm had Noah considering the bottle of pain pills sitting on the table in front of him, yet he didn’t reach for them. He was already fucked up enough in the head.

“What the hell came over me?”

It had been years since he’d allowed the memories of his nightmarish youth to surface. Why? Why the hell did they have to come out now? Why in front of Special Agent Hutchinson? Noah leaned his forehead against his good hand and closed his eyes, the throbbing in his temples beginning to hurt worse than his injuries. He was beyond exhausted, in pain, stressed to the max—it was the only explanation he could come up with for his behavior earlier. The worst part, though, was that Hutch and Granite had to know he was a complete fucking fruit loop now.

If he could get some sleep, he was sure he’d have a better chance of dealing with the weight of everything crashing down on him, and yet, he dared not. The minute he closed his eyes and tried to doze, his sister’s accusing face would visit him. He couldn’t chance it, didn’t want to. Too afraid.

So tired, he pushed himself to his feet, shuffled into the kitchen, pulled out a can of coffee, and set a pot to brew. He doubted it would be much help—he was beyond the point where any amount of caffeine would fill his depleted tank—but it couldn’t hurt either.

A rap at his front door had Noah glancing up at the clock, instantly alarmed. Who the hell would be showing up at his place at three in the morning? Warily, he made his way across the room, trying to be as silent as possible as he strained to hear any sounds from beyond his door. The only sound in the room was the humming of the refrigerator and the percolating of the coffeepot. Without a peek hole to view the hall, Noah pressed his ear against the door. Still he heard nothing but the sounds of his apartment.

“Who is it?” he called out, but there was no response.

He carefully slid the chain into place before slowly unlocking the deadbolt. Noah planted his foot near the door to prevent anyone from forcing it back and eased the door open just enough to peer out into the hall. No one was there, nor did he hear anyone walking or making any other noise.

Christ, not only was he batshit crazy, he was hearing things too. He slammed the door shut and reengaged the lock.

“At least my psychosis woke me up a bit.”

He got a mug from the cupboard and started to pour a cup of coffee when he jumped at the sound of his phone going off and then yelped in pain as the hot brew splashed on his exposed stomach.

“Ow!” He swiped at his burning belly and then cried out again from the pain in his injured hand. The phone continued to ring. “Hold your fucking horses,” he cursed and set the pot back on the burner, grabbed a towel, this time with his good hand, then ran it over his skin.

Noah stomped over to his desk, grumbling the entire way, snatched up his phone, and hit the accept button without paying attention to the display. “What?” he snapped.

No response.

“Hello?”

Still no one spoke. Noah knew the call was connected because he could hear what sounded like traffic in the background. He checked his phone, but the display read “Blocked call.” His irritation surged. “Look, asshole, I’m in no mood to play games. Either speak up or hang up.”

Noah heard a distinctive click, and the line went dead.

For the love of god, could his day get any fucking worse? Angrily, he stomped into the kitchen, stabbed the off button on the coffeepot, and grabbed a beer from the fridge. His phone rang again, but he ignored it. He was done playing games, and he was done with the royally shitty day. He turned on the stereo as he made his way to the bathroom to drown out the sounds of his stupid phone and any more raps on his door from the prankster. Living near a college campus in an apartment building full of college kids definitely had its disadvantages. Hopefully a hot soak and a cold beer would allow him to put the day behind him on a positive note.

N
OAH
JERKED
upright and shuddered violently. Disoriented, he blinked rapidly as he tried to focus on his surroundings. It took him a moment to realize where he was. Obviously he’d drifted off to sleep. He ran a hand across the back of his neck, trying to soothe the kink that had settled there, and then shuddered again as cold water ran down his spine.

Well, he was half-frozen, but at least he’d managed a little bit of sleep uninterrupted by the living or the dead. Things were looking up already. He pulled the plug on the tub and then stepped out, grabbing a towel and wrapping it tightly around his shivering body.

Leaving a trail of wet footprints, he made his way to the kitchen and stopped dead in his tracks as the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and a feeling of dread surged through him, causing his heart to race and his breath to catch. Clutching his towel, he scanned his small apartment for the source of his unease, but everything seemed to be as he’d left it. The music still played on the stereo, and the mess of papers and books was still scattered around. The coffeepot was where he’d left it as well as his mug. He glanced at the clock—6:00 a.m. He’d slept a full three hours in the tub? Jesus, no wonder his neck was screaming at him and his skin was like an ice cube. Shrugging off his unease to his arctic state, he went to counter and grabbed the coffeepot, poured the wasted brew down the sink, and started a new pot.

As he waited, he continued to take in his surroundings, the unease still surging through him even as his body began to heat up. Something wasn’t right, was out of place, but he couldn’t put his finger on just what was bothering him.

“You’re losing it, man,” he chastised himself.

He pulled out a pair of old sweatpants, slipped them on and then a T-shirt and hoodie. He sat on the couch and pulled on a pair of warm socks, then picked up his cell phone. The display showed he had ten missed calls. He clicked the button and went through the list; all ten had been from the same blocked number. Who the hell would be calling him and not wanting him to know who they were? It couldn’t be telemarketers; while they were annoying as hell and probably broke the rules, he doubted they would break the “no call past nine” law. The unknown caller only heightened Noah’s unease.

On his way back to the kitchen, the smell of freshly brewed caffeine calling to him, he shut off the stereo, sending the room into a heavy silence. The sun was rising, illuminating the small apartment, and yet it still felt dark and foreboding. Grabbing the largest cup he could find, Noah poured himself a cup of coffee, blew on the steam rolling from it, and took a tentative sip as he continued to look around.

There was something there or missing or… something, he just hadn’t figured it out yet. Given the jerk from slumber only to awake with hypothermia, it didn’t surprise him that his brain was a little sluggish and not yet firing on all cylinders.

He took another sip of his coffee and then another. It burned his lips and tongue but actually felt good and helped clear the cobwebs from his sleep-addled brain. His backpack was where he’d left it, the broken shards of glass on the top of the trash can where he’d left them, the dirty mug and strewn clothes and shoes still in their places.

Something… but what?

He finished his first cup, then poured a second and took it to the main room where he sat at his desk chair. He couldn’t find anything amiss, yet the strange feeling of doom wouldn’t let go of him.

He lifted his mug to his lips and froze, as this time his heart and breath stopped dead. The chain on his door was hanging loose, deadbolt disengaged, and his door was open a crack.

“Not possible,” he muttered in utter shock.

He carefully set the mug aside with a shaking hand and gaped at the evidence of invasion. Someone had entered his apartment while he slept.
Oh fuck! What if they are still here?
His stopped heart instantly kick-started and went into overdrive as fear and adrenaline surged through him. He wildly scanned the area as he eased up out of his chair. There was nowhere in this room that an invader could hide, no closet, no heavy curtains or furniture to hide behind. But…
the bedroom
.
Under the bed. In the closet
.

Noah stood in the center of the room, staring toward his bedroom, too afraid to move, too intrigued to run for the door. He briefly thought that perhaps he’d forgotten to lock the door after he’d checked the hallway earlier, but as soon as the idea popped into his head, he dismissed it, knowing it not to be true. Hell, he’d even engaged the chain first before opening the door. Hadn’t he?

“Shit!” he cried, heart leaping out of his chest when the shrill ring of his cell phone echoed off the walls. “Goddammit!” He blew out a heavy breath.

This time before he clicked Accept, he checked the display—it showed an unfamiliar number. “Hello,” he said warily as he brought the phone to his ear.

“Noah Walker?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

“Drew McCormick, head of LaGarda Security Service. Mr. Walker, we’ve had some complaints of vandalism and break-ins last night. I’m checking with all the residents to see if they have any information or spotted anyone suspicious in the building last night.”

Noah tipped his head back and sighed in relief, the mystery solved. “No, but I think they tried to break into my place. They must have been startled because nothing is out of place or missing, but I found my front door open when I woke up.”

“Please don’t touch anything, especially the door. We’ll need to dust for prints. Either I or one of my officers will come up and take a full report as soon as possible.”

“Great,” Noah responded, relieved. “Thank you.”

Noah ended the call and then slumped back down into his chair and began laughing. Man, he was a major scaredy-cat. Pussy even. The idea made him laugh even harder. He had a boo-boo on his hand, a burned belly, and a massive headache, but he was starting the rest of his morning with a good laugh. It was a hell of an improvement from when he went to bed.

Shitty day over.
Thank fuck!

Chapter 15

A
S
SUSPECTED
,
the outside of the box had no fingerprints, fibers, or DNA. The contents, however, had a shitload of DNA. Hutch had had to call in a few favors—major ones actually—to personally drive the sample to the lab and stand over them as they tested it, but he was able to get a rush on it, requesting a PCR (Polymerase Chain Reaction) test. It wasn’t as specific or sensitive as the standard method, but the rapid turnaround time had the results in his hand in thirty-six hours. Unfortunately, all the DNA was from Mike Disson, the poor bastard who had been mutilated and propped up behind Happy Endings Boutique, and none from the man who had put him there. Hutch had to admit, in all the years he’d been with the bureau, this was a first time—the first time he’d heard it ever happening to anyone else either—that he’d been sent a penis.

Granite leaned back in his chair, hands folded behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling. “How is it this guy was able to enter a hotel lobby, walk the halls, leave a package, and sneak out without one person catching a glimpse of him?”

“Ghost?” Byte suggested.

“Hardy har har. Aren’t you just a fucking comedian,” Granite bristled. “Hutch, I think I like him better when he’s sulking.”

Byte’s response was to fly the bird without even looking up from his computer screen.

Byte was no longer pissed off at Hutch. He’d had to do a little ass kissing, a lot of apologizing and promises to never do it again—which they both knew was bullshit given Hutch’s sunny disposition when stressed—but they were cool, with no hard feelings between them. Hutch was making a conscious effort to ask Byte to tag along, but it was difficult since he felt Byte served them better tapping away at his computer than standing in a field watching Hutch talk to his demons.

Hutch set the report aside and rolled his neck. “I think I’m going to have to agree with Byte on this one. How else can it be explained?”

“Ha!”

“Don’t get too excited, Byte. He’s still kissing your ass,” Granite informed him.

“Jealous?” Byte retorted, getting the same response he’d thrown at Granite just moments ago.

“Okay you two, knock it off. What did Struk have to say?”

“He don’t know shit,” Granite replied, pushing himself up out of his chair and pacing back and forth in the tight spot between the two full-sized beds. The small quarters were beginning to get to them, and at this rate they’d be adding new carpet to their expense report with the way they were wearing it out with their pacing. “He personally talked to everyone who was on duty that night, studied the surveillance tapes, and bugged the shit out of upper management, but he’s in the same boat we are.”

“The type without paddles,” Hutch clarified.

“Yup. So what now, boss?”

“I don’t have a clue, but I’m open to suggestions,” Hutch offered tiredly. He pulled his crumpled pack of smokes from his pocket and slipped one between his teeth. He stepped out on the balcony and lit up. What he really needed was a day off, but he knew the impossibility for what it was. Not going to happen.