Collateral Damage Page 3

  Now that he was here, Caden could see why.

  It didn’t take Deveraux long to duck under the tape, sign the crime scene log, and walk over to them. “Thanks for calling and letting us in on this,” he said.

  “No problem,” Caden said. “Mickey wants every available resource on this, and I don’t blame him. Several coroners and medical examiners got here about an hour ago.”

  Deveraux’s gaze roamed the open expanse of land. Caden did the same, seeing the scene through the newcomer’s eyes. Twelve possible graves. Maybe more, maybe less. It was hard to tell at the moment.

  “A hiker found this?” Deveraux asked.

  “Not the entire thing, but yeah. His dog started digging and found the first body. Our hiker is an MD and realized what his dog had discovered pretty quickly and called it in. We brought in cadaver dogs to see if it was the only one.”

  “Obviously it wasn’t. How many?”

  “He alerted to twelve possible. Most of them are shallow, just deep enough to cover a body. Others are deeper and undisturbed.” Caden blew out a breath. “The first was definitely an infant. And we know that because the hiker is a pediatrician and knows what a kid’s bone looks like. Said it was a femur belonging to an infant around six to seven months old.”

  Deveraux winced. “Any signs as to cause of death for the ones you can see?”

  “No, not yet,” Caden said. “We’ve got another ME on the way and a forensic anthropologist coming from the hospital. One of the bodies is in advanced decomp, one was just a skeleton, suggesting they were buried at different times. It’s going to take a while to get them all dug up and transported.”

  “At first, I wanted to say it was a serial killer,” Mickey said, his voice flat, jaw tight. “But now I’m backing off of that idea.”

  “Why’s that?” Zane asked.

  “Just talked to that ME. He said the victims vary in age.”

  “Okay,” Caden said, “that does kind of change things, doesn’t it? Serial killers usually go after similar victims. A variety of ages would suggest something else.”

  Mickey rubbed his chin. “So, could this be some kind of illness that swept through a family or something? Some kind of cult thing?”

  “We’ll have to examine both possibilities to rule out—or confirm.” Caden scanned the scene once more. “Whatever the case, some of the graves look like they’ve been here for a while. Others look fairly recent—which matches with the different stages of decomp in the victims I saw.”

  “I know it’s all speculation,” Deveraux said, “but still . . . right now it looks like whoever killed these people has been killing for a while and we’ve just now discovered it.”

  “Which means we need to stop this killer before he—or she—claims the next victim,” Caden said.

  Because there would be another.

  Brooke dropped the newspaper onto her kitchen table and tried to blink away the picture—and her sense of betrayal—just like she’d done every day for the past five days. “How could you, Kat?”

  The photos brought it all back. The explosions, the flames, the fear, the pain. Isaiah dying in her arms.

  If only she’d left the café when Isaiah had wanted to talk to her. Instead, because she’d been in a snit and letting her emotions control her, he’d died.

  Her fault. The ever-present sobs rose, and it took everything in her to push them back down to focus on the photos.

  Kat had taken them that day at the café right after the second explosion. Snapped milliseconds apart, they were a progression of Brooke’s last few moments with the man as she knelt at his side, smoke and flames billowing behind her, around her. But there had been the small pocket of air near the floor and she’d found it as Isaiah whispered his last words and breathed his final breath.

  “Not a traitor. Don’t let them say I am.”

  His words echoed. Blood flowed freely from the left side of his face. Smoke choked her. She covered her face with her hands, but the flames grew hotter, the screams echoed louder.

  Brooke jumped up from the table and covered her ears. Then punched the air. “Stop. It’s not real. It’s just a memory. Brooke, stop now!” Jab, jab, duck, jab.

  At the sound of her voice and the physical movement, the worst faded. Except the pictures on the table. Calling herself a glutton for punishment, she looked at them once again. One by one. In the first, Brooke had just dropped to her knees beside him. The second showed Isaiah gripping her hand with the bracelet dangling from his fingers. The third showed her weeping even as she absently shoved the bracelet in her pocket. Kat had caught the moment just as a tear dropped from her chin, to be held in midair for all eternity, along with Brooke’s agony.

  And the last one. The picture that cut a swath of grief through her heart. Isaiah’s blank eyes stared upward while Brooke’s face was buried against his chest. In spite of the smoky haze, Kat had managed to capture each moment in clear detail before someone had yanked her out of the building. That was all Brooke remembered before waking in the hospital in Germany, where she learned that Asher James had carried her out and Gavin Black had scooped up Isaiah.

  Kat had shown her the last photo two months ago, just before Brooke had been released from the burn unit in Atlanta, Georgia. “You made a difference, Brooke, don’t ever think you didn’t. You were there and he didn’t die alone because of that.”

  Brooke swiped tears and waved a hand. “Get it away from me. I never want to see it again.”

  Kat hesitated. “My editor wants to run it. The whole series. He thinks this could be Pulitzer material.”

  “No.” Brooke stared at her friend, horrified. “No!”

  Kat swallowed and nodded. “Okay. I understand. It’s too soon, too raw.”

  And she’d promised not to use any of them. And yet there they were. Front-page news. So why did Brooke keep torturing herself by looking at them every morning? It was like the proverbial train wreck. She simply couldn’t look away. She fingered the bracelet in her pocket. Isaiah had entrusted it to her that day and she’d been lax in carrying through with a dead man’s last wish. Why? Because she was a coward. Facing Isaiah’s wife was almost more than she could bear. Avoidance. Excuses. Maybe even a little denial had kept her from going to see Miranda Michaels. And then there was that deep-seated need to have that piece of jewelry with her wherever she went.

  It had been four months since that day in Kabul. Months that had brought healing and change—and nightmares she doubted she’d ever be rid of. And guilt. Oh, the guilt.

  “Suck it up, Brooke Baby,” she muttered, mimicking her father. “Life goes on. Wallowing in self-pity never changed the course of life. Do what you’ve got to do and do it well. No complaining, no whining, no crying.” She pulled out the bracelet and looked at it before stuffing it back into her coat pocket. “Do what you’re supposed to do,” she whispered. She swiped the tears from her cheeks. As much as she hated the whole stiff-upper-lip mentality, she had to admit it was getting her through the days—and allowing her to survive the nights.

  For now.

  But Kat . . . how could she?

  Brooke’s phone rang, and just like she’d done every time Kat had called for the past five days, she pressed the little red End button. Her punching bag in the basement called, but it was time to go to work. Asher James was coming to see her today. He’d actually called and made an appointment.

  The thought of seeing him almost had her calling in sick. She’d taken a counseling position, joining a friend in private practice. One that didn’t see veterans so she didn’t have to talk about war and dying. She glanced at his name again. Still there. How was it she’d managed to avoid just about anything that would remind her of Afghanistan for the past four months—other than her healing injuries—and in one week, all of her progress had come to a screeching halt?

  All because of a few photos and Asher James. He shouldn’t be on her appointment book. But he was.

  She stood. “Fine. I’ll talk to
you, Asher, then you can be on your way so I can get back to forgetting.” She grabbed her purse, laptop case, and other work essentials and walked to the door. She comforted herself with the fact that her name hadn’t been mentioned in the article and no one would recognize the polished professional as the same bloody, smoky, agonized woman in the picture.

  Her phone rang again.

  She stopped and snagged it from her blazer pocket. Kat. Again. She needed to set up a ringtone for Kat so she didn’t have to waste her time looking at the screen.

  Once more disconnecting the call, she continued out the door, down the porch steps, and climbed into her ten-year-old Jeep Wrangler.

  A helicopter whirled above her and she ducked before remembering she didn’t have to do that anymore.

  Sweat broke across her forehead and she sucked in a quick breath. “Stop.” Twisting the key in the ignition, Brooke started the Jeep and backed out of her drive.

  And once again the phone rang. “Oh, for the love of . . .” She braked at the stop sign and grabbed the phone, barely catching herself in time before hanging up. She pressed the green button and the phone connected to her car’s Bluetooth system. “Hi, Heather.”

  “Hey, Kat said you won’t speak to her.”

  “I’m fine, thanks, how are you?”

  “Sorry, I’m running ragged already this morning. I’m heading to surgery and just wanted to call and say talk to Kat. She wants to apologize for those pictures, and she’s been trying to get you since they came out.”

  “I don’t care.” The words left her lips, but in truth, she did care. Very much. “I can’t believe she did that.”

  “She didn’t know about it.”

  She snorted. “Right.”

  Silence. “This isn’t like you, Brooke. You always listen to the other person, weigh the facts, and make your decisions logically. You’re letting your emotions rule you.”

  Like they did the day Isaiah died. “Says the surgeon who cries over every lost patient.”

  More silence.

  “Sorry,” Brooke muttered, ashamed of herself, “that was low, but come on, Heather, do you blame me?”

  “Yes, because this is Kat.”

  Brooke fought another sudden surge of tears. Man, she was a mess. “I . . . know. I’m sorry. I’m just—”

  “This is not Kat’s doing. Her editor went behind her back and published them. She was livid. She said she left you several voice messages explaining what happened but figured you were too mad to listen to them.”

  “Oh man,” Brooke breathed. “She’s right.” She drove on autopilot, thinking how it was a blessing and a curse to have friends who knew her so well. She would not let her anger win and separate her from someone who meant so much to her. Not again. “She really didn’t know?”

  “She really didn’t. Talk to her.”

  “Okay.”

  A pause. “At least he didn’t print your name.”

  “At least.”

  “Gotta go,” Heather said. “Talk to her, my friend.”

  “I will, I will.” And she would. After she met with her first client of the day.

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  Asher found a parking spot outside the medical building and shut off the engine. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the headrest, doing his best to resist the temptation to flee.

  But he needed help, and after seeing the picture in the newspaper of Brooke Adams hovering over the body of his buddy, Isaiah Michaels, he figured she was the one psychiatrist who might actually understand what he was going through.

  Maybe.

  Before he could change his mind, he climbed out of the vehicle and slammed the door with a little more force than necessary. Get it together, James.

  The parking lot was almost full even this early in the morning, and he dodged several people as he made his way inside. As he’d been instructed when he called to make the appointment yesterday, he took the first elevator he came to and punched the button for the fifth floor.

  When the doors opened, he stepped into a hallway and turned right, following the signs that said HEALING PATHWAYS, INC. to a wooden door. He pressed the handle and entered the lobby.

  For a moment he stood still, taking in the details. Comfortable, but not luxurious by any stretch. Magazines sat on the coffee table in front of the tan leather couch. Three more cozy-looking chairs on the other side of the coffee table invited conversation and relaxation—something he doubted happened very often, but the illusion was nice. A water cooler and a Keurig in the corner beckoned. As did the candy bars in a small basket. Interesting. He helped himself to one and munched on it while he waited. Maybe the receptionist was running late. Sharon? Shelly? He couldn’t remember.

  He’d been so stressed during the conversation when she said, “You’re in luck. We’ve had a cancellation and can get you in tomorrow,” that he hadn’t caught her name. He thought he’d have more time to prepare himself for the appointment.

  Not sure he’d call that luck.

  But he was here, so . . .

  He glanced at his phone. 8:02. They opened at 8:00. And the door had been unlocked when he entered five minutes ago. Which meant someone had been here early.

  Frowning, he approached the desk. The nameplate read SHARON HARDY. Okay, then, Sharon it was. “So, where are you, Sharon?” he murmured.

  Asher stepped behind the desk to note a brown purse tucked into the foot space next to the chair. Steam rose from the coffee mug on the coaster beside the keyboard.

  So, she was here somewhere and she hadn’t been gone too long from the desk. Bathroom? Getting paperwork ready for him to fill out? No, she’d have that at the desk. His appointment was at 8:30, but he’d always been a stickler for being early. This morning, nerves had just about gotten the best of him, so he’d bolted from his home and driven straight to the office.

  So he’d wait. And pace.

  Four steps into his trek across the width of the lobby, his phone rang. He grabbed it, grateful for the distraction. “Hello?”

  “Hi, son.”

  “Hey, Mum.”

  “I’m just calling to check on you. When you left yesterday, you seemed . . . well . . . out of sorts.”

  “Because Nicholas was being a brat?”

  She sighed. “Yes, he was, wasn’t he?”

  Asher stopped his pacing, his sudden halt almost sending him off balance. “What?” She always took Nicholas’s side. He was the son who could do no wrong.

  “I heard what he said when you two were in the kitchen and he didn’t think anyone was listening.”

  “I saw you there but didn’t realize you’d heard what he said. So . . . what? You were spying on us?” He was almost amused at the thought of his prim, proper, upper-crust British, never-do-anything-wrong mother standing outside the kitchen door eavesdropping.

  “Asher. Really? Spying? I should think not.”

  “Of course not. Sorry.”

  “I simply heard the tension in your voices and stopped because I didn’t want to interrupt. And I heard him say that you were an embarrassment to the family.”

  “I see.” He closed his eyes. His parents’ wealth and status in their community had been a sore spot for him, and he’d always felt like an outsider. Mostly thanks to Nicholas and his constant pestering.

  It was one of the reasons he’d stayed away and didn’t taint their gated neighborhood or dinner parties with his presence, but his sister, Lyric, had begged. And she was his weakness. So, in honor of her twenty-first birthday, he’d dressed in his best khakis, long-sleeved white-collared shirt, and blue blazer and shown up.

  He’d gotten a few looks—probably thanks to the tattoo on his neck that he couldn’t completely hide even with the starchiest shirt in his closet—but for the most part, the guests had been cordial. Lyric had been thrilled to see him. Her flirtatious friends even more so. He grimaced. They were sweet, but he wasn’t the least bit interested in getting to know them, other than as his sis
ter’s buddies.

  “Asher? Are you there?”

  “Yes, Mum, sorry.”

  Another heavy sigh. “I just want you to know I set him straight. We may not understand why you chose the path you did, but you are not an embarrassment to the family.”

  “Thanks. I’m glad to know that.”

  “Asher . . .” She paused. “Are you getting help for your PTSD?”

  “What PTSD?”

  Another long pause. “I see.”

  He figured she probably did.

  One of the guests had popped the cork on a bottle of champagne and he’d had one of his moments. It had made things uncomfortable for those around him—including his snotty, stuck-up older brother, who’d been standing beside him and witnessed the episode.

  “Get some help, you freak,” Nicholas had hissed after cornering Asher in the kitchen. “You have the whole world available to you, thanks to Dad and his position in the community. And you choose to behave like a miscreant. Who cares about those people thousands of miles away? You’re an American. Why don’t you start acting like it? And while you’re at it, get some control. Freaking out over a stupid popped cork? Honestly, you’re such an embarrassment.”

  Asher looked into his brother’s eyes. “You have no idea how much control I’m exerting right now.” When he turned to leave before doing something he’d regret, his sister and mother were standing in the doorway.

  “Shut up, Nicholas, and quit being such a jerk,” Lyric said, her tone mild, but it was the sadness in her eyes that had finally driven him to actually consider that he might need help.

  The pictures of Brooke had made him think she could give it. And so here he was.

  “I’ve got to go, Mum. I’ll talk to you later.” Where was the receptionist?

  “Do you believe that I meant what I said?” she pressed. “That we don’t consider you an embarrassment?”

  Did he? “I’m not sure, to be honest, but thank you for saying so. Seriously, I need to go.”