Try Dying (Episode Six: The Nightshade Cases)

  (FADE IN:)

  EXT. – EMPTY LOT – NIGHT

  It was impossible to scream with the filthy rag stuck in his mouth. He tried anyway, choking on the dustiness of the dirty cloth, jaw working in an attempt to spit it from lips as dry as the desert.

  The car came to a sudden halt, throwing him forward to the front of the trunk. His shoulder ground against the tire iron on the floor hard enough to make lights dance before his eyes, driving him to the brink of unconsciousness from the pain.

  If only it would be enough to knock him out so he could avoid the next few minutes. But luck abandoned him long ago, well before he left New York. Ages before he fled Las Vegas for Silver City. Luck, it seemed, hated him.

  The feeling was mutual.

  Doors slammed, rocking the car, the dark and heat of the trunk suffocating. He prayed the lid would never open, that he would simply lie there in the stifling, dead air and suffocate. The click of the lock, the sound of muttering voices, and light shone in around the edges of his blindfold.

  Hands grasped him, pulled him free of the small space, dumping him on the ground. Someone’s foot impacted his ribs, all the air whooshing from his lungs from the unexpected blow. But, it was a half-hearted kick, without much intent behind it. They had far more serious injuries to inflict.

  He shook his head, the blindfold loose from the roughness of his journey, trying to dislodge it. To at least see where they’d taken him as he was dragged by his armpits, one foreign hand on either side of his body, through dust that filled his nose and made it impossible to breathe.

  Suddenly, death by suffocation didn’t sound like the best option. Anything but that.

  He collapsed for a second time, snorting out the dirt blocking his breathing, feeling the vibration in the ground as someone approached from in front of him. Rough hands jerked loose the blindfold. A brilliant light from overhead made him wince as he flinched, blinking into the cold, white of a single flashlight aimed in his face.

  His eyes adjusted slowly after the dazzling beam dropped away. Hands frisked him, someone muttered over his wallet.

  “You brought the wrong one.” An Irish accent, another kick, this one fierce. “Boss’ll be pissed.” He felt his ribs crunch under the silver-capped toe of his assailant’s cowboy boot, lifting him half off the ground and flipping him at the same time. He landed with a grunt on his back, gazing up into the grim, furious face of the man he knew would come looking for him someday.

  And down the barrel of a gun.

  Being shot was the worst, the absolute worst, especially if they left him to bleed out. It could take hours. His eyes begged the man with the weapon to make it clean, but it was far too late to ask for mercy.

  Twice the thick finger on the trigger squeezed. His body jumped with the first bullet, the lights going out as it entered his brain, a perfect, round hole in the center of his forehead. He didn’t feel the second, slightly up and to the right, following its partner.

  His body lay, quiet and empty. The men retreated, two separate cars driving off, leaving him there to rot in the California night.

  ***

  He groaned as light returned, turning his head. Two metal circles, the compressed remains of bullets, dropped from his forehead as the holes sealed. He gagged out the filthy cloth at last, coughing into the dirt, wiping absently at the blood trails, still fresh enough to trickle over his brow and into his eye.

  It took about a minute to get his breath, to gain enough energy to heave himself to his knees. He slapped at the grime ground into his clothes.

  “Shit,” he said to the night. “I loved these pants.”

  A quick look around, head aching from the healing still going on inside his skull, he made it to his feet and staggered toward the edge of the empty lot. It was quiet here, a down-on-its-luck part of the city. He laughed a little, patting his coat pocket for his flask, groaning when he realized it had gone missing in the time he’d been captured, dragged here—wherever here was—and killed.

  He was so wrapped up in the loss of his fix, he didn’t notice the bus coming toward him as he stepped into the street. Only when the horn blared, the tires screeching in response to his stupid move, did he look up with a resigned sigh.

  “Well, fuck,” he said.

  And died all over again.

  ***

  Episode Six: Try Dying

  (Smashwords Edition)

  Copyright 2014 by Patti Larsen

  Purely Paranormal Press

  www.purelyparanormalpress.com

  Find out more about Patti Larsen at http://www.pattilarsen.com/

  Sign up for new releases http://bit.ly/pattilarsenemail

  ***

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Director Annetta Ribken www.wordwebbing.com

  Production Designer Valerie Bellamy www.dog-earbookdesign.com

  Editor Jessica Bufkin

  Producer Anne Chaconas www.badassmktg.com

  Series Created and Written by Patti Larsen

  ***

  EXT. – WICKLOW STREET – NIGHT

  Gerri stepped out of her Charger, already frowning at the scene before her. It was damned late, or really freaking early, whichever she could call on at 3:30 in the morning. She suppressed a yawn and the annoyance that came from being dragged out of bed so early before crossing the street to the bus pulled over to the side of the road.

  CSI Tommy Binks waved to her from where he took what looked like blood samples from the grill of the huge public transport vehicle, streetlights reflecting from his wire-rim glasses. Gerri joined him, gaze travelling over the other techs combing the scene for evidence, to the sight of a familiar brunette in a “MEDICAL EXAMINER” jacket crouched over a body on the sidewalk. A rather crumpled and damaged body from what the detective could tell from here. The scent of blood reached her, woke her hunger, and she caught herself wondering if Belle’s Diner was open this early and if they had their steak breakfast on special.

  “Morning, Detective.” Binks never seemed to change, whether at this ungodly time of the day or halfway through the afternoon, his voice as level and cheerful as ever. The soft lisp actually sounded soothing this morning for some reason, his rabbit-like nose twitch rather endearing. What the hell was wrong with her?

  “Binksy.” She looked away, knowing he’d be frowning at her for the nickname, but unable to help herself or the oddly jovial good humor taking her over. At a crime scene? And yet, this one seemed cut and dried, an accident, not murder. So why did the captain call her out to deal with this then?

  “Not your typical case,” the CSI said, going back to work. Gerri watched with fascination she’d never admit to him as he painstakingly scraped blood and bits of flesh from the front of the bus. She had no idea how anyone had the patience to do his job. She was an action kind of girl, herself. Speaking of which, she missed her run last night and really needed to get out and stretch her legs.

  “Who the hell called us in on this?” Gerri didn’t turn around at the acid tone of her partner who slouched his way to her side, his three inch advantage on her reduced from his irritated posture.

  “That would be Captain Dominic King,” Gerri said, all sweetness and light, reaching for her cell phone. “But, I’m happy
to call him and let him know you’re whining again. I’m sure that will make his morning.” Detective Jackson Pierce just glared at her and turned away, handsome face pale and eyes rather bloodshot. “Hung over, Pierce?” Gerri spoke a little louder, right in his ear. Jackson flinched from her, scowl deeper, though he winced as though the act of scrunching up his forehead hurt.

  Good. She hoped he suffered, the jackass.

  Grinning, she offered Binks a jaunty wave before crossing the distance from where the bus was parked to the space Dr. Rachel Hunter occupied. Gerri glanced back at the twenty or so feet and whistled softly to herself. Ray looked up just as the redhead stopped at her side with a wry smile of her own.

  “Our poor vic made a rather impressive projectile,” she said in her British accent. “Though, I doubt either our man here or the bus driver who struck him appreciated his graceful flight at the time.”

  Gerri crouched next to the body, noting the blood pool—much smaller than she would have expected for the extent of his injuries—and the compound fractures in his arms and legs. His empty face was turned away, but from his profile he seemed young, maybe early thirties, in fairly good physical shape.

  “Ray,” Gerri said, keeping her voice down so Jackson wouldn’t hear her repeat his question, “why did the captain call me in on this one? It’s an accident, right?”

  The brunette shook her head, gloved hands gently turning the dead man’s head. The sound of crackling bone made Gerri’s sudden surge of hunger intensify. Ray pointed to two round indentations in his forehead. The looked like bullet hole scars. Gerri frowned, peering closer. No way could anyone have survived a double tap to the brain and lived long enough for the tissue to scar.

  Could they?

  “So, a weird one.” Gerri exhaled, pissed off as much as she was intrigued. “Captain King is purposely sending me on the weird ones now?”

  Ray shrugged, releasing the man’s head. “Could be,” she said.

  “Detective.” Gerri stood, turned, to find CSI Cat Chase striding toward her. The pale, young CSI waved a plastic bag in her direction, Binks abandoning his own evidence collection to join them. Gerri looked down at the remains of two bloody slugs in a plastic vial, and a pair of matching casings in a separate bag. “Found these in the empty lot.” Chase gestured back over her shoulder. “Played a hunch. But, unless the doc finds bullet holes in our vic, it’s possible we have another crime on our hands.”

  Gerri’s stomach churned. “Good catch, Chase,” she said, turning away from the CSIs to glare at the dead body with a horrible feeling in growing in her gut. A feeling that told her those bullets belonged in the brain of her dead guy.

  What the hell?

  Binks tapped her on the shoulder. “I have his prints processed,” he said. “Want to run his sheet?”

  Gerri led the CSI team leader to her car, Binks sliding in the passenger’s side as she booted up her computer. The pair of them read together in silence, Gerri skimming as she scanned the life of the man crumpled on the sidewalk.

  Jordan Michaels, age 31. Originally from New York City, rap sheet started when he was twelve, sealed juvie record, but lots to follow after he turned eighteen. Though, she had to admit, most of it was petty crime, or he was slick enough to escape notice on the bigger stuff. His arrest record shifted to Las Angeles six years prior then Las Vegas a year ago. More minor infractions, not enough to get him solid jail time, but enough petty theft and larceny to put anyone on her radar. This guy had to be into bigger crap. He was just lucky enough to keep on the other side of getting caught.

  Now, Silver City. And death finally caught up with him.

  “Thanks, Binks.” Gerri made notes before climbing out of the car again. She’d run a more in-depth check once she was back at the station, but this would do her for now.

  “Driver’s waiting to talk to you.” The CSI gestured at the ambulance parked down the block, lights flashing. “Most of the passengers are fine, a few cuts and bruises. The driver got the worst of it.”

  Gerri waved her thanks as she strode toward the ambulance, noting Jackson had beat her there. No matter what he dug up, she’d do her own questioning, thank you.

  The bus driver looked rattled, though relatively unharmed, a cut over one eyebrow taped already, his right arm in a sling. The paramedic who draped a blanket around his shoulders rolled her eyes at Gerri before tipping an eyebrow at Jackson. So, he’d been hitting on coworkers again. Class act. Gerri shrugged with a fake snarl and the woman laughed silently in response.

  One of these days, Jackson Pierce would hit on the wrong woman. Well, he already had. The memory of the satisfying crunch of his pretty nose under her fist brought Gerri endless pleasure. But, she’d only been able to justify one punch.

  He’d run out of luck eventually.

  “Detective Geraldine Meyers.” She shook the driver’s good hand, an awkward move with his right arm tied up. He winced slightly, dark face round and coated in a faint sheen of sweat. Silver corkscrew curls wound through his thick, black hair, but that was the only real sign of age. He shifted slightly on the bumper of the ambulance and nodded to her.

  “Detective,” he said in a soft voice, black eyes full of hurt, not all of it physical. “He just came out of nowhere.” It sounded like something he’d been repeating since the accident.

  “Mr. Carl Tymore here,” Jackson’s drawl pissed her off to no end, “claims our vic stepped out into the street right in front of him and made no move to get out of the way.”

  Tymore shook his head, shock apparent. “He just walked into the street,” his dazed tone whispered to Gerri’s gut. Innocent. She knew that already. “I’ve never seen anything like it. And he just looked at me.” Tears welled in the man’s eyes, trickled down his chocolate cheeks. “Just looked at me and the bus hit him and he flew…” Tymore choked on his grief, good hand covering his face.

  Gerri gently touched his shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “Can you remember anything else? Did you see anyone around him?”

  Tymore pulled himself together, another head shake negative. “Nothing,” he said. “It was the end of the route, long haul in from San Diego. I was tired. Maybe I didn’t react in time?” He needed her to tell him otherwise, to absolve him. And Gerri had no problem with that.

  “You did everything you could,” she said. “If things happened as you said, it’s not your fault. It was just an accident.” Maybe she shouldn’t have, but she was feeling rather soft hearted at the moment. And, from what she could tell, it was the truth.

  Mind you, she’d look into his background, see if there was any connection between him and the vic. To uncover if this had been some kind of screwed up setup to bump off—no pun intended—Jordan Michaels.

  No matter her instincts told her she’d find nothing. She was a cop. It was her job.

  Gerri turned from Tymore to find Jackson glaring, his favorite expression.

  “This isn’t a fucking homicide,” he snarled as she walked away, keeping pace with her. “What are we doing here wasting our time when we have real murders to solve?”

  Gerri ignored him, heading for her car. Time to find out from the source who gave her this case in the first place. If the captain would talk to her. Knowing she was taking the lion by the tail, Gerri headed for home—the 9th Precinct.

  ***

  INT. – SILVER CITY MORGUE – MORNING

  Kinsey slipped into the morgue, peeking inside first to make sure Ray was alone. It wasn’t hard to fake her way past the two security guards at the front desk. They knew her by sight, and obviously hadn’t been updated on her status. The fact she could no longer work with Gerri and Ray on cases thanks to her association with Simone Paris and Julian Black still irritated her. She wanted to have her cake and, well. Devour it with a passion that would startle anyone who knew her.

  Ray looked up from the body on her slab and waved the blonde inside. Kinsey let the swinging doors slip shut behind her, crossing to her friend, careful to keep
her eyes off the metal table and on the brunette in the safety goggles and lab coat.

  “This one might interest you,” Ray said, too cheerful for a woman who was occupied with rearranging the broken limbs of a dead man. Kinsey made the mistake of looking down at his face, seeing his handsome features, his youth. The way his broken bones jutted from a few spots on his naked skin. She shuddered and returned her focus to Ray, certain no matter how many times she saw a dead body it would always bother her.

  Always.

  “Found two bullets in a vacant lot, fresh blood on them.” Ray’s hands twisted the bone in his leg, the grinding sound making Kinsey’s stomach roll. The shining white protuberance returned to its regular state, the skin closing over the space it left behind. “Sorry, have to hurry to do this before rigor sets in.” Another expert twist, another crunch. “Anyhoo,” Ray went on while Kinsey fought her nausea, “the blood type matches his, running a DNA analysis to see if he was shot.”

  Kinsey gulped. “As well as being pulverized?”

  “There’s the kicker.” Ray winked behind the glasses. “He doesn’t have any bullet wounds. At least, no fresh ones. Just these two.” She jabbed at his forehead with one gloved finger. “Right. Here.”

  Kinsey peeked despite herself and, in that instant, fascination took over. She leaned closer, frowning at the pair of scars on his flesh. “Bullet holes?”

  “Mostly healed ones.” Ray shrugged her narrow shoulders. “Though, how anyone survived two to the brain, I have no idea.” She straightened the last of his damaged bones, his right arm now neatly tucked at his side. “Whatever happened, after being shot twice in the head and surviving long enough to heal the wounds, our victim here staggered out into the street and was hit by a bus doing 50mph.” Ray’s grin was out of place, but Kinsey couldn’t help her own giggle of mildly hysterical humor. “Blamo.”