Chapter 56 Evidence
Chapter 56 Evidence
Alex
✦
The road goes nowhere.
That's the problem with Arizona, with Nevada, with this whole fucking stretch of nothing that we've been driving through for three hours. It all looks the same. Red dirt. Scrub brush. Rocks. Heat shimmers rising off the asphalt until the horizon blurs into a watery mirage that doesn't exist.
Kyler is driving.
I'm supposed to be navigating, supposed to be tracking our position on the map, but my hands keep shaking and I can't focus on the lines, the coordinates, the logic of it. All I can think about is what Danny said back at the station. Phoenix was a diversion. Flagstaff is real. Bagly's ranch is outside Flagstaff. And somewhere between here and there, my girlfriend is being transported like cargo.
"You're quiet," Kyler says.
His voice fills the car, rough and controlled. He's been controlled this whole time, ever since we left the station. Controlled while I was falling apart. Controlled while he made the calls, organized the tactical team, set up the checkpoints. Controlled while I sat in the passenger seat and tried not to scream.
"Thinking," I say.
My voice sounds wrong. Hollow. Like someone scooped out my insides and left the shell.
"Don't," Kyler says. "Don't think. Not yet. Not until we have eyes on them."
I want to tell him that's impossible. That I can't stop thinking. That my brain is a hamster wheel spinning faster and faster, generating scenarios, each one worse than the last. But I don't. Because he's right. Because thinking leads to panic, and panic leads to mistakes, and I can't afford mistakes. Not with Chelsea.
The radio crackles.
Dispatch. Static. Voices talking about other cases, other emergencies, other people's tragedies. I tune it out. Focus on the road. The yellow lines. The way they stretch forever, converging at a point I'll never reach.
Then Kyler slows down.
I look up.
"What?"
He doesn't answer. Just lifts his chin, points through the windshield.
I see it.
Dust.
Not the dust of our own tires. Fresh dust. Rising from something ahead. Something that doesn't belong.
"Vehicle," Kyler says.
He reaches for the radio. "This is Detective Brennan, unit 447. We've got possible visual on abandoned vehicle, mile marker 214, Highway 89. Requesting backup."
The words are professional. Calm. But his hand is tight on the wheel. White-knuckled.
We get closer.
The dust settles.
And I see it.
A limousine.
Black.
Long.
Expensive.
Sitting at an angle on the shoulder, half on the road, half in the dirt. The driver's door is open. The back door too. Something dark on the ground beside it. Something that looks like—
"Is that—" I start.
Kyler stops the car.
Thirty yards back.
Standard procedure. Don't contaminate the scene. Don't approach until you know what you're dealing with.
But I'm already opening my door.
"Alex, wait—"
I don't wait.
My feet hit the dirt. It's hot through my shoes. The sun is brutal, midday merciless, beating down on everything. I walk toward the limousine. Slow at first. Then faster. Then running.
Kyler is behind me. I can hear him. His boots on the ground. His hand on his weapon. "Alex, slow down. We don't know—"
I see the body.
The old man.
Lying on his back in the dirt. Arms spread wide. Legs twisted. Suit jacket rumpled. White shirt stained. Red. So much red. His throat—
Jesus.
His throat is gone.
Open.
A gaping red smile beneath his chin.
Blood everywhere. Soaked into the dirt. Dark and thick and already attracting flies. They buzz around him, lazy in the heat, landing on his face, his glasses, the white beard that's matted with red.
I stop.
My stomach heaves.
I swallow it down.
"Fuck," Kyler breathes.
He's beside me now. Gun out. Scanning. Checking the perimeter. But there's no one here. Just the dead man. Just the limousine. Just the heat and the silence and the buzzing flies.
"Driver," Kyler says.
I look.
The front door is open. Someone slumped behind the wheel. Head back. Blood sprayed across the partition. A hole in the temple. Professional. Clean. Different from the old man's wound.
Two bodies.
Two deaths.
Different methods.
"Alex," Kyler says. "Don't touch anything."
But I'm already moving.
Toward the limousine.
Toward the back door that's hanging open.
Toward the interior that I can see from here.
Leather seats.
Dark.
Stained.
Something on the floor.
I reach the door.
Look inside.
The smell hits me—blood and sex and sweat and copper. Underneath, leather. Expensive leather. But the stains. Dark spots. Old and new. This isn't the first time this limousine has seen violence.
"Chelsea?" I call out.
Stupid.
Desperate.
She's not here. I can see that. The back is empty. Just the stains. Just the smell. Just the evidence of whatever horror happened here.
"Alex," Kyler says. He's at the old man's body. Kneeling. Checking for ID. "I've got a wallet. It's Bagly. Seventy-two. Address in Flagstaff. Matches the intel."
Bagly.
The name hits me like a physical blow.
The buyer.
The man who bought them.
Dead.
Someone killed him.
"Where are they?" I whisper.
I look around.
Desert.
Rocks.
Nothing.
If Bagly is dead, where is Chelsea? Where is Livia? Did they kill him? Did they escape? Did someone else—
I lean into the limousine.
My hand touches the door frame.
Something catches.
Sharp.
I pull back.
Look down.
A nail.
Red.
Long.
Acrylic.
Coffin-shaped.
I know this nail.
I know it because I paid for it. Because I told her to take my card, to do something nice with Livia, to get out of the house, to stop worrying about money for one afternoon. She came back buzzing with energy, showing me her hands, turning them this way and that in the light.
"Look," she'd said, grinning. "Coffin nails. Red. Classic. Do you like them?"
I'd kissed her fingertips.
Told her they were beautiful.
Told she was beautiful.
Now one of them is here.
In the door frame of a dead man's limousine.
In the middle of nowhere.
Broken off.
Like she was fighting.
Like she was trying to get out.
Like—
"Kyler," I say.
My voice is wrong.
Broken.
"Kyler."
He looks up from the body.
Sees my face.
"What?"
I hold up the nail.
Red.
Coffin-shaped.
"Chelsea," I say.
My throat closes.
I force it open.
"She was here. This is hers. I know it. I paid for them. She was excited. She showed me. She was here, Kyler. She was in this car. With him. With Bagly. And now he's dead and she's—"
I stop.
Can't finish.
Where is she?
The question screams in my head.
Where is she?
If Bagly is dead, who killed him?
If Chelsea's nail is here, where is the rest of her?
Did she escape?
Is she running through the desert right now?
Is she dead too, buried somewhere I can't see?
"Alex," Kyler says.
He's standing now.
Coming toward me.
Careful.
Like I'm a wild animal.
Like I might bolt.
Or attack.
"Alex, put the nail down. We need to preserve evidence. We need to—"
"Fuck evidence," I say.
I'm crying.
I don't realize it until the words come out wet.
Broken.
"Fuck procedure. Fuck standard investigation. My girlfriend was in this car. With that monster. And now he's dead. Someone killed him. Someone took her. Or she ran. Or she's—"
I can't say it.
Can't think it.
Kyler reaches me.
Puts a hand on my shoulder.
I shake it off.
"Don't," I say.
"Alex—"
"Don't touch me. Don't tell me to calm down. Don't tell me we'll find her. She's been gone for days. Days. And now we find this. This. A dead body. Her nail. Blood. And you want me to what? Wait for backup? Preserve the scene?"
I'm shouting now.
Screaming at the sky.
At the desert.
At the dead man who can't answer my questions.
"WHERE IS SHE?"
My voice echoes.
Bounces off rocks.
Dies in the heat.
No answer.
Kyler is talking into his radio.
Low.
Urgent.
Calling for backup.
Calling for the medical examiner.
Calling for crime scene techs.
Standard procedure.
For a missing persons case that just became a homicide investigation.
I look at the nail in my hand.
Red.
Coffin-shaped.
Hers.
I close my fingers around it.
Tight.
Until the edges dig into my palm.
Until I feel blood.
My own blood.
Mixing with whatever trace of her might still be on it.
"Who are you?" I whisper to the desert.
To the dead man.
To whoever killed him.
"Where did you take her?"
The wind blows.
Hot and dry and empty.
No answer.
Just the buzzing of flies.
Just the smell of death.
Just the endless road.
And my girlfriend's nail.
In my hand.
Proof that she was here.
That horror happened here.
That something went wrong here.
And no proof at all of where she is now.
I sink to my knees.
In the dirt.
In the heat.
Beside the limousine.
And I pray.
To God.
Let her be alive.
Let her be safe.
Let whoever killed this monster be her savior.
Not her next nightmare.
Please.
Please.
Please.
The sound of sirens rises in the distance.
Backup coming.
Too late.
Always too late.
I open my hand.
Look at the nail.
Red.
Coffin-shaped.
Beautiful.
Like her.
Gone.
Like her.
I close my eyes.
And wait for the world to end.