Bridge Over Troubled Water

Chapter 1“Go home, Lindstrom.” Detective Brady Lindstrom stared at the taped-off room, an immovable wall all the techs were forced to skirt around. Though the bodies were long gone, the imprint of what he’d found when he came upon the scene was still burned onto his retinas. Scandinavian-inspired furniture splintered into so many pieces, they might as well have been matchsticks. Blood smeared across the beige walls like a twisted hazing graffiti inspired by the Manson family. Worst of all, a dozen frat boys battered, broken, and abandoned where whoever had attacked had decided to drop their corpses. Every single one of the victims had his throat ripped out. All but one was missing his heart. Through the windows, the headlights from the news trucks nearly eclipsed the shine from all the cameras. The curtains glowed as if it was already dawn, but the sun wouldn’t show its face until nearly seven. Brady had been on the job for over thirty hours. “You heard me, Lindstrom.” His partner, Monty Webster, scowled at him from his post at the doorway. He was as big a man as Brady, though too many hours doing the desk were settling his bulk around his midsection. “It’ll be hours before this is all processed.” Brady shook his head. “Something might come up.” “So I’ll take care of it when it does.” “You need me.” “And you need to get some sleep.” With a roll of his eyes, Brady finally tore his attention away from the crime scene. Not that that made much of a difference. Give him pen and paper, and he’d be able to recreate it, all the way down to the bloody beer bottles piled up in the far corner. He’d overheard one of the techs suggesting the killers had used them with the neck snapped off to gouge out the victims’ hearts. He was both sickened by the idea and relieved so many bottles had been left behind. That many murder weapons meant that many more chances for the killers to screw up. One latent print was all he needed to go after them. “Gee, I didn’t know you cared,” Brady said. “I don’t. You f**k up because you’re not thinking straight, and it’ll be my ass on the line too.” Webster was only half-kidding, but he had a point. If Brady was tired, he ran the risk of missing an angle or a detail that could prove crucial to the case. And he wouldn’t go to sleep right away when he got home anyway, so he’d have a few hours to work out, then surf around online to see what might be lurking in the ether. “Fine.” Casting one last glance at the room behind him, Brady pulled his gloves out of his pockets and slipped them on. San Francisco was brisk in January, but gloves were as much of a concession as he was willing to make. “You’ll call if something comes up?” Webster sighed. “You know I will. You think I want a repeat of what happened at the festival last year?” Brady gave his partner a brusque nod and exited the frat house. Webster would call. When a stakeout the previous summer had gone south, Webster had tried to handle the f**k-up on his own by going after their guys. He’d ended up in the hospital for a week with a dislocated jaw and bruised kidneys. Brady’s lectures about procedure had fallen on deaf ears, so he’d had no choice but to go to the brass and make sure Webster was unofficially reprimanded. Brady hated being left out of the loop, especially unnecessarily, but he hated even more that he might’ve been able to save Webster from some of the pain if he’d been there. Ever since, Webster had been ultra-careful not to keep him in the dark about anything. He kept his head down, his hands stuffed in his pockets, as he half-jogged past the reporters. The slaughter would be all over the morning news. Coffee and chaos, the breakfast of the big city. The fact that most of the kids who’d been murdered were sons of wealthy families meant there’d be sound bites from every imaginable corner, angry parents demanding justice, litigators debating whether or not SFPD would be able to find the culprits responsible. Brady had a lot of long nights ahead of him, not that that was any different than normal. He worked graveyard for a reason. Sleep had ditched him long ago. One tenacious blonde broke away from the pack and chased him to his car, but Brady’s legs were longer, his resolve greater. He smirked when she came up short, tempted to flip her off as he shifted into reverse. Only the reminder that he was still on the job, that anyone with a phone could splash it across every social media platform out there, kept him from doing it. The force had a tough enough time with its public image. He wouldn’t add to the negative press. The streets of San Francisco were deserted, the hour too early for commuters to clog its narrow arteries. Beyond the circus of the crime scene, people were shuttered inside their homes, unaware of the dangers that lurked outside their walls. Or maybe they actually knew, and chose to lock themselves in their voluntary prisons because of it. Either way, nobody stole Brady’s attention as he maneuvered toward the highway. He slipped onto 80 and headed south, with only the cacophony of imagined screams for company. His apartment in San Bruno was tucked off the main roads, a tiny complex whose best attribute was its privacy. Brady didn’t need a view or fancy workout rooms or community centers. As long as it was safe and clean, he could do the rest. He moved every other year, always a new town in the Bay Area, always with excellent references. If he didn’t hate the hassle of getting mail redirected and setting up utilities so much, he would make the change annually. They joked at the station that he had to move so often to escape the hordes of women he left behind. It was a misconception Brady had no problem fostering. He didn’t date. Even if he ever chose to, it wouldn’t be with a woman. The scent of eucalyptus infused the air as he locked the car and walked the short distance to his front door. Shadows danced across the pavement, a gentle breeze rustling the leaves overhead in front of the security lights. Brady didn’t even blink. That bothered him. By all rights, he should be tenser, jumping at any sound. He wasn’t. He reached his apartment with his keys dangling half useless in his hand. More telling, he only glanced over his shoulder once before letting himself inside. In spite of Webster’s orders, he wouldn’t sleep right away. Too many ghosts clamored for his attention, and the only way to slam the door on them was to push himself to the brink of exhaustion. If he didn’t, they’d populate his dreams with their bloody claws and hungry mouths, and he’d be worse off by the time he returned to work. Brady stripped as he walked through the apartment, leaving a trail of clothes behind him that would be forgotten until he needed them again. Nobody would follow these breadcrumbs. If someone did, he’d just get rid of them like he got rid of everybody else. A treadmill occupied the corner of his bedroom, the one piece of large equipment he owned. He bought a new one every time he moved. They were f*****g heavy and easy to push on Craigslist since he always sold at a deep loss. It wasn’t the most financially sound choice, but the rest of his budget spending was practically nonexistent. He didn’t take vacations. He didn’t go out. He had little to spend his money on, except for the one piece of equipment he could count on to help keep him in shape. He ran ten miles a day on it, sometimes more, never less. Three times a week, he hit a gym around the corner of the station to do weight training for muscle tone. He tried to work in a rest day to give his body time to recover, but more often than not, he caved to the urge to run again. It was difficult to sleep without being physically spent, and the fear of going soft terrified him. He hadn’t joined the force to push papers like Webster seemed content to do. The people he’d sworn to protect needed him to be in peak condition. For his own sanity, he needed it too. After changing into shorts and a T-shirt, Brady picked up the remote control to start the movie he’d been watching the day before. Vin Diesel’s gravelly voice filled the room as he hit the settings on the treadmill, and within a minute, his feet pounded against the belt. Run. Run. Run. Don’t think. “‘Richard B. Riddick. Escaped convict. Murderer.’” Murderer. Or more than one. Tore their hearts out. Monsters in the street. Shouldn’t have invited them in. “‘Battlefield doctors decide who lives and dies. It’s called triage.’” “‘They kept calling it murder when I did it.’” Maybe it’s not the same. Maybe it’s just some sick f**k with a blood fetish. But not even Vin Diesel blowing the s**t out of aliens was enough to convince him that particular theory was anywhere near the truth. Webster would lie to himself about what had really happened, and he’d convince everybody who’d listen that his lies were real—mostly because he wouldn’t know any better—but Brady would be the one to see through it all. Brady would be the one who’d have to keep his mouth shut when they locked up the wrong bad guys and the real murderers walked free. Because evil came in many shapes and sizes, and you couldn’t always catch it to put it behind bars. Screams came from the television speakers. I really should’ve picked a different movie to watch. Sweat dripped down the back of his neck and into his eyes. His hair was soaked. So were his clothes. A smart man would stop before he fell over, but if Brady had ever fallen into that category, his life would have turned out a hell of a lot differently. He ran because it was all he could do, the only way he knew to guarantee being so tired that he might actually sleep for a few hours. It didn’t matter that he never really went anywhere. Better to keep moving in place than be dead, after all. He didn’t stop until the credits finished rolling, and even then, he ran until the screen was black. The treadmill slowed to a walking pace, then to a halt. Stepping off, he grabbed the towel and wiped away the worst of the sweat from his face. The clock said six-forty. s**t. It wasn’t even dawn yet. After dropping the towel in the hamper, Brady headed out to the kitchen to get a fresh bottle of water from the fridge. The sun wouldn’t rise for another half hour, at least. He had time to kill before hopping in the shower, but the idea of logging more miles on the treadmill made his back ache. Lack of sleep was beginning to wear on his routine. He needed to sleep the entire day to fully recoup his strength. He hated that Webster could be right about that. He was tossing the empty bottle into the recycling bin when the knock came at his door. Brady’s gaze shot to the clock on the microwave, then to the window. Still dark outside. Another knock. This one fainter. Brady stood stock-still and listened. Something scraped on his front step. Every nerve was on alert as Brady got his gun. Nobody would come calling on him right now. Anybody from work would have rung first. Someone from the complex would have waited until working hours. He didn’t have friends. That left someone unfriendly. Or an i***t who thought it was a good idea to annoy a sleep deprived cop who just wanted to be alone. Brady crept toward the front door. His steps were silent. Or nearly so. The floorboards outside the kitchen entrance always creaked. His gun was solid against his palm. Welcome. As much a part of him as the slow, steady thud of his heart. A third knock echoed as he leaned in to look out the peephole. Someone else might have flinched. Orange light filled the fishbowl on the other side of the door, a weird circle of illumination from the security lamps he’d re-angled to shine on his front step the night he’d moved in. Nobody filled it. “Brady…” The hair stood up on his arms. He must be more tired than he thought. Now he was hearing things. He stepped back, staring at the closed door. Had it finally happened? Had all his moving around ultimately failed him? No, he couldn’t accept that. Not yet. He just needed to hit the sack, but the energy it took to reach for the doorknob and confirm nobody was really there escaped him. A soft rustling from outside tightened his hold on the gun. If he wasn’t hallucinating, the weapon would be useless. Using it would make him feel a whole lot better, though. “Brady…” The repeat of his name was a little bit louder, the knock that came with it more of a tapping than a full rap. “I know you’re there. I can hear you breathing.” He clenched his jaw. His imagination wasn’t nearly so idiotic that it would deliberately piss him off by pointing out such a detail. But the truth it left behind colored a bad situation worse. Worse than worse. If this wasn’t a delusion, everything he’d done to hide had been a total waste of time. “Go away,” he said, his voice low, his body iron-hard. “Can’t. I don’t have anywhere else to go.” “Find a grave to crawl back into.” “Sometimes I really wish I could.” Wet coughing choked further words. Brady knew that sound. Dead or alive, lungs filled with blood always sounded the same. “I don’t want you here,” Brady tried. Why wasn’t he backing away from the door? Nothing good could possibly come from standing here and listening to what his nocturnal visitor had to say. “I know. I know.” A sigh. “If I thought I had any other choice, believe me, Brady, I would’ve taken it.” A shadow flickered at the corner of the window next to the door. “Can you at least open up so we don’t have this conversation where your neighbors can hear it? I know how much you value your privacy.” Oh, he knew, all right. He knew far more than made Brady comfortable. But Brady reached forward anyway, and he turned the knob with his free hand, and he swung the door open to reveal his guest leaning one shoulder against the wall. Just as he was sure Cole Singer had counted on. His black hair was longer than Brady remembered, straight and skimming his shoulders like a silken curtain that wanted to hide the etched sculpture of his face. Eyes like coal regarded him through thick lashes, but those looked different too, older, more jaded. World weary, Brady would have thought if this was one of his suspects. An effect of the ten years since they’d last seen each other. The rich coppery tone of Cole’s skin was paler, like somebody had added too much cream, but there was an explanation for that, as well. Brady stared at him. Not because of the physical differences, though those were stark enough. Blood saturated the front of Cole’s shirt. His jeans hung from his slim hips, but somebody had torn the hell out of them, revealing deep gouges through the ripped denim. Somebody had torn the hell out of Cole, for that matter, and Brady took a half step forward before he checked the instinct. Brady wasn’t the only one doing an inspection. He shivered as Cole’s gaze swept over him, lingering on parts of his body that shouldn’t have woken up under the scrutiny. f**k you, he wanted to say. You don’t get to do that, not anymore. He didn’t. He wanted to slam the door on his face too, but he didn’t do that, either. A sudden cough startled both of them, and Brady watched in sick fascination as blood spittled on Cole’s wide mouth. “Someone did a number on you.” Cole’s wracking subsided. When he wiped the back of his hand across his lips, scarlet smeared the fine tendons. Brady froze at the first glimpse of a white fang. “That’s why I’m here. I need a place to stay while I heal up.” Heal up. Because it really was as simple as that. At least, if the vampire myths were to be believed. He might’ve been running from the idea of vampires for the past decade, but Brady had never been close enough before to test the theory. Then what Cole was asking hit him. “You can’t be serious!” “Why?” Brady blinked. “Because I haven’t seen you in ten years. And you’re a mess. And, oh yeah, let’s not forget that you’re a f*****g vampire. Do I really look that stupid to you?” “No.” Cole’s voice was soft, his appraising gaze even more so. “You look great.” He froze. “Don’t do that.” “Do what?” “You know what.” “It’s the truth. Well, except for the fact that you look exhausted. But other than that—” “Go away, Cole.” Control finally started to seep back, and Brady tightened his hand on the door to slam it shut. “Don’t come back.” “Wait. Please.” Like a good puppy, Brady stopped. And hated that he reacted so automatically to a man who’d been dead to him for a decade. “One night,” Cole said. “That’s all I ask for. The guys that did this…they’re not that far behind me. They catch up, and they’ll finish the job.” “You ever think that maybe the fact people are hunting you down is a good sign you’re a monster that should’ve been destroyed years ago?” Cole shook his head. “They’re not people. They’re other vamps.” Brady’s eyes immediately went over Cole’s shoulder, but the shadows looked exactly the same. “The sun’ll be up soon,” Cole continued. “There’s no place else I can get to in time.” “That’s not my fault.” “You don’t really want to have me die twice, do you?” Bile rose in the back of Brady’s throat. It was a low blow, and there was no way Cole didn’t realize that. “I invite you in, and you’ll tear my throat out,” Brady said. “So no thanks. I’m not in the mood to be your all-night buffet.” “I won’t.” Hair slipped over Cole’s cheek. “I promise.” “You’re a vampire. Your word means shit.” “It never used to.” “That was before.” Cole blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. Nothing else moved, not a rise of his chest, not a flutter of his shirt. “I’m sorry. I thought…” He shook his head. “Never mind. Forget I said anything. Forget I was even here.” “Don’t worry, I will.” He thumbed the hammer on the gun, ready though he knew it would be pointless in the long run. Cole pushed off from where he leaned against the wall, but as he turned, his shirt collar fell open and revealed a vicious, circular gouge in the left-center of his chest. Like someone had tried cutting out his heart. “Wait.” Without dwelling on the consequences, Brady reached across the sanctuary of the threshold and grabbed Cole’s shoulder. Blood seeped through his fingers, and he had to set down the gun to hold Cole still and undo two more buttons to expose the injury. Cole let him. Brady stared at the bleeding wound, the ragged edges where the pale skin had been sliced open. He flashed back on the crime scene, questions abounding. Had he been blind? Had Cole been one of the bodies they’d found at the frat house? He didn’t have a pulse. He could have fooled the cops who checked. In spite of the possibility, though, Brady knew he hadn’t been there. It wasn’t just that he could draw the scene from memory. He’d lived with Cole’s specter haunting his dreams for a decade. He would never miss it if it was right in front of him. Brady looked up to find Cole regarding him. “One night. And you’re going to tell me everything. How you got this, who did it to you, where I can find them.” Something akin to hope fluttered in Cole’s dark eyes. “Are you sure?” Hardly, but he wouldn’t give Cole the satisfaction. “I’m not repeating the offer.” Under Brady’s grip, Cole sagged like a puppet cut from its strings. “Thanks—” “Don’t thank me.” He let him go, abruptly stepping back into the apartment. “Just don’t kill me.” Cole nodded, but after several seconds, he still hadn’t moved. “You have to invite me in,” he said, almost apologetically. Brady’s skin turned to ice, so cold it burned. The words he uttered were the last he’d ever thought he’d say. “Come on in, Cole.”