Blood, Ash, and Bone

CHAPTER Forty-five

The next hour passed in a blur of official activity. The EMTs did a load and roll on Jasper, transporting him immediately to Memorial where a police team waited at the ER. The rest of us weathered the storm in Train’s empty tattoo shop—the remaining EMTs, plus police, plus all the lawyers Marisa could drag out of bed at one a.m. on a Saturday night.

She’d arrived not long after the cops, still in her ball gown. She’d carried Trey’s medical files under her arm, the thick documentation of all his now-normal abnormalities. Eventually she joined me in a relatively quiet corner of the shop, next to the stained glass window. Out back, we could see crime scene techs working under a white tent. Across the room, Trey sat on one of the leather stools, hidden from our view by a cluster of uniforms.

“He insists he doesn’t need the ER,” I said.

“I know.”

“He wants to finish his interview with the detectives. He says he’s fine, that he knows a non-displaced rib fracture when he feels one, and that all he needs is some pain medication and an incentive spirometer, whatever the hell that is.”

“I don’t care, he’s going. As soon as the police get finished with him, that is. And they’re taking their own sweet time.”

“He’s their best evidence now that the crime scene’s a lake.”

“I don’t care about that either. We need to establish self-defense, which means we need to get him to the hospital ASAP and get his injuries documented.”

“He’s got a different priority for the time being.”

Marisa blew out a breath of frustration and checked her phone. Back in Atlanta, she had Phoenix’s tech support guy accessing Trey’s phone records and doing a forensic reconstruction of the surveillance audio from the hotel room. She’d also contacted the company monitoring the surveillance cameras in the alleyway and had the footage being sent over by courier. She’d probably get her copy before the police did.

I’d told her what the video would show. She’d nodded in approval, then told the responding officers all about it. She’d used the phrase “former law enforcement officer” seven times, the words “highly decorated” three.

She shook her head in his direction. “He can’t resist being a part of the investigation, can he?”

“He absolutely cannot. The men who did this to him are racist, murdering rogue cops. He’s not going anywhere until he’s shared every pertinent detail.”

“But they have them all in custody! They caught two on the river, and there’s one in the ER with Jasper, the one your uncle shot.”

“Doesn’t matter. In Trey’s mind, it’s the worst kind of betrayal, and he’s going to help until he can’t help anymore.”

“God, I wish he’d stop thinking like a cop.” She checked her phone again, texted a quick response, a frown on her face. “Speaking of, I heard Detective Garrity is on the way.”

“He is.”

“Good. Maybe he can talk some sense into him.”

For the first time, I glimpsed the woman underneath the make-up, which was splotchy, and the perfect hair, which was falling in straggling wisps about her forehead. Her real face showed through the crumbling layers—plain, hard, weary. But she was a fighter, pragmatic, as unsentimental as gunmetal. And she was on Trey’s side.

“Thank you,” I said.

She didn’t look up from her phone. “No problem.”

The crime scene techs had already put him through the official gauntlet, right down to testing his hands for powder residue. I’d gotten the same treatment.

Marisa put the phone away. “I need to get ready for the press. You keep an eye on him, okay?”

I managed a small smile. “Like anybody could stop me.”

***

Thirty minutes later, Garrity blew into the shop, looking more official than I’d ever seen him. His hair was a wet red mess, but the rest of him was suit-and-tie. He had a similarly dressed companion, a wholesome-looking young man, brisk and bureaucratic. Garrity flashed his badge at the officer manning the perimeter, and the two came over.

I looked up at him. “I can explain.”

“Shut up.” He took me by the chin and examined my bruises. “Are you okay?”

I pulled away. “I’m fine, but I swear to God, Garrity, if you yell at me—”

“I’m not going to yell at you.”

“—I will start bawling and fall to pieces in this floor, and I can’t do that. Not yet.” I squinted at him. “How did you get here so fast? Atlanta’s four hours away.”

“I was in the neighborhood.”

“What neighborhood?”

“Brunswick. Now hush and let me look at you.”

He examined me critically, cataloging every bruise and scrape. Behind him, the newcomer pulled out a fancy phone. He had the wide-eyed earnestness of a puppy, tempered by the service piece on his hip.

“Agent Garrity?” he said.

Garrity jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Check in with the officer in charge. I’ll be there in a second.”

The young man did as he was told. Garrity turned back to me. The shield clipped to his belt said Atlanta PD, but the spanking new suit told a different story. As did his being in Brunswick, headquarters of the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center.

I widened my eyes. “Agent Garrity?”

“A courtesy title.”

“So you’re a feeb now?”

“No, a liaison to the feebs. That’s Bryan, my new partner. He’s a little eager-beaver, but smart as a firecracker. Plus he does whatever I tell him.”

“Does this mean—”

“I’ll explain later. Where’s Trey?”

I pointed, and saw Garrity stiffen. “Sweet Jesus.”

“Broken rib, cuts and bruises. He took several hits with a stun gun. The EMTs pronounced him concussion-free, however.”

“What happened?”

I gave him the quick and dirty. Marisa’s legal assistant moved in circles around Trey, who let her snap photos without complaint, his gashes and contusions lurid in the bright camera flashes.

“Marisa says Phoenix needs to document his injuries,” I explained.

“She’s right. He needs all the protection she can give him right now.”

My temper flared. “Are you serious? Trey could get in trouble for this?”

“He’s already in trouble.”

“But—”

“He’s not a cop, Tai, he’s a civilian, so yes, he’s in trouble. Which is why we’re going to let Marisa get him out of it. She’s covering her ass, which means Trey’s ass gets covered too. And I may not like the woman, but she’s fierce, smart, and thorough.”

The camera flashed. Trey winced. When the assistant pulled his head around, he blew out an abrupt exhale of pain. I bit my lip to stop the tears.

“There’s security footage. It will prove he’s telling the truth.”

“Good. But I wish we had another eyewitness.”

“There’s only Hope, and she’s long gone. And good thing too, or I’d kill her myself. And I don’t think even Marisa’s team could acquit me.”

Across the room, an EMT wrapped a bandage around Trey’s forearm while the second held a stethoscope to his chest. Trey ignored them; he was explaining something to a uniformed officer, who was taking copious notes. Trey eventually took the clipboard from him and sketched a quick precise diagram, emphasizing some pertinent detail by tapping the pen against the paper.

“How is he otherwise?” Garrity said.

“I don’t know. He seems calm now, but I swear, Garrity, I’ve never seen such…”

“What?”

“Fury. Kicking things, cussing, screaming at me. He said the ‘f*ck’ word.”

“He knows worse words.”

“It’s not that.”

“What is it then?”

I shook my head against the memory. The anger burning out and cooling into efficient ruthless purpose. Trey’s utter lack of hesitation, three bullets like a trip hammer, bam-bam-bam. Then the cracking open, the collapse.

“He shot Jasper three times—once in the knee, once in the shoulder, once in the wrist.”

Garrity considered. “That could be either bad aim or expert accuracy.”

“He had a lethal shot, the…what do you call it?” I rubbed my finger between my eyes. “The T-zone. Jasper was looking right at him. He could have gone for the heart too, clear shot at center mass. But he didn’t.”

“Not exactly a SWAT response.”

“Not a vigilante one either.”

We looked at Trey, exhausted but surprisingly alert. He was shirtless, his hair sticking up, a plastic ice pack pressed against the swollen rawness of his eye. He looked our way and cocked his head.

I turned to Garrity. “He asked for you, you know.”

“He did?”

“Yes. When it was over. He said to call you. He said ‘please.’”

Garrity froze. I saw the diamond flash of tears in his eyes, but he blinked it away fast. He started moving in Trey’s direction.

“Come on,” he said. “It’s time for you to see him.”

“But they won’t—”

“They will for this badge.”

I followed him across the room. It wasn’t until he stood in front of Trey that his composure crumbled.

“Damn, my friend, you look like you stepped into a meat grinder.” Garrity shook his head, his eyes bright again. “Heard you got one of them with a golf club.”

“The seven iron, yes. Good concentrated force, excellent reach.”

“Tai told me you had a sword.”

“A very dull flimsy one that stuck in the scabbard. Utterly useless.” He looked my way. “Is Boone okay?”

“That old fox?” I managed a laugh. “When he saw that one of Jasper’s guys had a broken arm, he figured out what had happened and locked himself in the safe room with Jefferson.” I shook my head. “I didn’t even know he had a safe room.”

Trey nodded in approval. “That’s how safe rooms are supposed to work.”

“He bolted it tight, then called Kendrick. I think it’s the first time in his life he ever voluntarily called a cop.” I stepped closer to Trey. “Are you okay? For real?”

I watched him do a quick evaluation. Blood pressure, pulse, respiration—check. Vision and hearing—check. All bloodthirsty impulses smoothed and tamed—check.

“I’m fine,” he said.

But I remembered watching him step on Jasper’s wrist, the fine bones shattering beneath his heel. I remembered him on the boat—brutal, efficient, powerful. He’d never been more dangerous, or more virile. My response was pure chemistry, the ruthless surge of hormones, all tangled up in flight and fight and…other f-words. I knew it worked that way for him too, that the twin currents of violence and arousal ran parallel, so close they opened into each other at the slightest rendering, flowing in a single artery.

But now? Now he was calm. He’d sublimated it again, like a trick of the light. I moved closer to him and took his hands. He turned mine palm-up and examined the damage, my fingertips pocked with splinters, bandages covering the nail gouges.

I reached for him, and he stiffened, the muscles hardening against my touch. I wrapped my arms around him anyway. Maybe his dangerous part was more dangerous than most people’s. I didn’t care.

“I’d have done anything to get you back,” I whispered against his neck. “Anything.”

I held him even tighter then. I knew it had to hurt, but he let me anyway. And we stayed that way until Marisa tapped me on the arm. She’d changed back into her black power suit, white-bloused, hair and make-up once again impeccable.

“You have a visitor,” she said. “Two actually.”

I looked behind her to see Kendrick standing in the doorway in beat-up jeans and a t-shirt, his badge pinned to his waistband. He held Hope tightly by the elbow. She was wet and dirty and handcuffed, and she looked both resigned and combative, like a polecat in a cage.

“Found somebody trying to steal your uncle’s boat,” Kendrick said. “ID says Tai Randolph. I’m thinking it’s fake.”