Wearing Death

Chapter 1Brendan Wheeler knew pain. He had known it long before this inky night, long before each step carved fresh avenues of agony through his body, long before all but one of his instincts had fled, leaving only survival to guide his course. He knew how to block it out and focus on his task. He knew how to turn it into something useful when the ache became too great to ignore. Pain and Brendan were long old friends. But this…this was not his friend. This was the enemy determined to take him down. Brendan had no choice but to fight back with everything he had. Even if that wasn’t very much at the moment. Brendan ran. Through darkness, through trees, through anything in his path. Brambles scratched at his bare ankles, aggravating the burn marks left by the manacles he’d left behind. More than once, he stumbled. He fell to his knees, or onto his hands, or once, flat on his hip which rolled new waves of fire across his back, but always, always, he righted himself again to resume his course. Stopping was unacceptable. Stopping would mean death, of that, he was sure. The unforgiving sky masked the line of the horizon from his view. He lacked direction other than away, but that particular shortage did nothing to hinder his progress. He would run until he couldn’t run anymore, and when his legs gave out, he would crawl. He wouldn’t go back. He wouldn’t get caught. Youth and experience had stolen Brendan’s sense of limitations until now. Now he understood what it would take to break him. Or how close he had actually come to it. He’d been pushed to the brink, bound and gagged, and been forced to see what lay at the bottom if his captor decided to push him over. Perhaps that was how he found the strength to finally get free. That was definitely how he discovered the fortitude to keep running. His heel hit an unseen hole in the ground. His leg stopped while his upper body kept on going, and the opposing forces pitched him sideways. He landed with a squelch in a patch of mud, but while the cooler temperature eased some of the sting in his skin, his ankle flared in new protests. Brendan grabbed it to yank his foot free, gritting his teeth against the pain. Mud clung to his eyelashes. He blinked once, twice, to try and clear it. When that failed, he pushed off from the ground uncaring of the splotches in his vision, and ran even harder. His lungs joined in with his body’s screams. Each labored breath pounded in his ears, echoing against the drums to drown out the crack of twigs or the slide of rocks. If someone followed him, he couldn’t hear it. He’d likely react too late if someone reached out and grabbed him. So he ran faster. He didn’t recognize the landscape. All he could make out were the murky shapes of trees, the crest of a hill. Sweat dripped from his forehead to sting his eyes, but when he tried to wipe it away, all he did was smear it. Another mudslide loomed in front of him. He veered to the left to avoid it. He veered again when a thick branch broken off a looming oak tree barred his path. His steps slowed, began to falter. The occasional land of his heel brought with it a gasp for air, and he shook from the desire to stop. How far had he come? Far enough? What would happen if he stopped? He’d be found. Considering he was in the middle of nowhere, the only person who could find him was the last person he needed to. Only shreds of hope remained when he saw the dark shape in the distance. It could’ve been anything. A cluster of trees. An abandoned barn. An illusion. He aimed for it anyway. He had no other choice. There was always the possibility that he had gone full circle and now ran pell-mell for his once-jail, but he had to pray that he had kept straight, or at least as straight as could be expected. The shape took form. Became solid. It gained a roof, a fence, the tall stack of a chimney. Relief refueled his adrenaline, and he fell against the closed gate, fumbling with the lock with fingers that refused to cooperate. When it opened, he collapsed onto his knees, abrading them anew. Once down, though, standing became too hard. Brendan half-crawled, half-lurched for the front door. He dragged himself up the wooden steps, heedless of the splinters catching in his broken skin. Time dragged even slower than his body. The door looked miles away, no matter how many times he pulled himself closer. He crumbled before he reached it. Darkness finally won. * * * * Jeremy carefully measured a single shot of whiskey and poured it into his black coffee. He never allowed himself more than that, even on nights when his neck and shoulders ached from tension, and his jaw felt tight. Due to his self-imposed limit, he made sure he didn’t lose a single drop. His tongue darted out to catch the liquid that had caught on a fingertip. The heady aroma from the rich blend of coffee filled his sinuses, and he tasted the bitter coffee on the back of his tongue long before he brought the mug to his lips. A sudden thump outside his door startled him, sending hot liquid down his chest. f**k. He set the coffee aside and stripped the shirt, peeling it away from his skin before the burn took hold. It briefly occurred to him to pour a fresh cup and relax like he had planned, but the sound outside his door couldn’t be ignored. He had heard it before, and it always meant somebody who didn’t have the means or the attention span for a pet was trying to do the right thing by dropping it at his door. Jeremy yanked open the door and peered into the darkness. “Hello?” He expected to find a dog or a cat. Maybe a snake—it wouldn’t be the first time. Jeremy did not expect to find a man. “Sir? Sir?” He dropped into a crouch, immediately seeking out the stranger’s pulse. Throbbing against his fingertips, it raced at an unhealthy tempo. Straightening, Jeremy reached inside the door and turned on the porch light. He gasped with horror at the sight greeting him, but as the shadows shifted across the man’s strong body, he realized it wasn’t blood coating his skin. Not completely. The scratches on his ribs and shoulders still bled, but the huge, scarlet mark on his back wasn’t an open wound. It was a tattoo. Jeremy didn’t have time to puzzle out the details of the gruesome tattoo. He needed to get the man off the splintery porch. Hooking his arms beneath the stranger’s, he realized he couldn’t flip him over—the tattoo looked fresh, and an infection over that large a surface area could have dire consequences. Jeremy had the feeling the unconscious man had enough problems without adding a horrific infection to the list. Moving very carefully, he half-pulled, half-dragged the stranger into the house, moving through the kitchen for the small guest bedroom behind it. His back strained with the effort, turning into a burn that weakened his pace, but he didn’t stop moving. The stranger probably only weighed around one-sixty, but when it was dead weight, it might as well have been three hundred. Mud trailed across the carpet where Jeremy brought him in. It would have been cleaner to lift him onto the small bed, but that required strength he just didn’t have right then. Better to clean the man off and catch his breath before making the next move. He left him sprawled in the middle of the room as he went back to the kitchen for a bowl of water and some dish towels. His surprise guest hadn’t moved when he returned. Kneeling next to him, Jeremy rearranged his arms so they were relaxed at his sides, with less strain across the muscled shoulders. The skin on his wrists had been rubbed raw, though nothing looked as irritated as the tattoo mapping his back. Carefully, Jeremy began washing away the worst of the grime, using as light a touch as he could manage. The tattoo was fresh, the colors bold in spite of the swelling. As more of it was revealed, Jeremy’s strokes grew shorter, his stomach churning at the picture it portrayed. The man didn’t stir while Jeremy washed him off. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. He didn’t want to know what kind of man would want this sort of grotesquerie imprinted permanently on his skin. At its center was a woman. Though she was naked, long black hair twined around her upper body, covering her face and breasts but not her s*x. Her legs were caught in a wild flail, and her outstretched arms dripped scarlet blood into a pool on the checkered floor below her. Her wrists were slashed, long, vicious cuts that ran the length of her inner arms, but that wasn’t the extent of her torture. A noose wound around her throat. The unnatural angle of her head meant it had snapped her neck. There were no other identifying marks, no pockets to contain identification. But after he shone the lamp onto the man’s face, he realized he didn’t need a driver’s license to get the man’s name. He recognized most people in town by sight, but he knew Detective Brendan Wheeler professionally. Wheeler had never struck him as the sort of man who would permanently scar his body with a horrific death, but then, Jeremy had only talked to him two or three times. “Mr. Wheeler? Brendan?” Jeremy brushed the dirt off Brendan’s brow. Other than a scrape across his cheek, his face was unmarred. Whatever had happened to him, it hadn’t been something as simple as a fistfight. Brendan didn’t move. Jeremy took a glance at his filthy water and rose to change it. There was still no sign of Brendan waking when he returned, but the detective’s pulse had slowed to a more natural rhythm. That was good. One less thing for him to worry about. Cleaning him was tedious work. Dirt covered him everywhere. One whole flank looked like he’d taken a dip in a mud bath. Jeremy had to swap out his water half a dozen times before Brendan started looking more normal, though the tattoo emblazoned across his back was anything but. He was washing some of the grit out of a wrist when Brendan finally made a noise. The arm in Jeremy’s grasp tensed, then stiffened. Brendan tried to yank it away, but for all his muscles, the power to do so escaped him. “Let go.” His voice rasped, like it hadn’t been used very much lately, or maybe because it had been used too much. Jeremy didn’t argue as he released him. There was no reason to upset the other man. “Detective Wheeler? It’s okay. I’m just trying to get you clean.” Long lashes blinked open, though dried mud had caked along their dark lengths. The brown eyes that peered up at him were slow to focus, and several seconds passed as Brendan stared at him. “Doc?” The word came out as a croak, and Brendan ran his tongue over his dry lower lip. “Where am I?” “My house. My guest bedroom, to be specific. Do you know how you got here?” “Ran.” “What were you running from?” Silence. Brendan licked his lips again. It didn’t look like it made a difference. “Can I have some water, please?” “Yes. Do you want to get off the floor first? I think you might be more comfortable on the bed.” His dark gaze flickered in front of him. His brows lifted, as if in surprise at seeing where he was. Without asking for help, he bent his arms and braced his hands on the floor, every tendon standing out in his neck as he pushed himself up. Jeremy slipped his arm beneath Brendan’s stomach to make it easier, and together, they managed to get him upright. Brendan swayed as soon as he was on his own two feet. “Thanks,” he muttered when Jeremy caught him. He didn’t speak again until he’d collapsed onto the narrow bed, uncaring of the blankets still flat beneath his stomach. “I need a phone, too.” “No problem. Just…wait here.” Jeremy felt stupid as soon as the words left his mouth. Where else would the detective wait? Casting one more look over his shoulder, he slipped out of the room and into the kitchen. Before he fetched the water, he went to the backdoor to survey the darkness. The golden glow from his porch light didn’t stretch far, which meant endless miles of blackness smothered the house. He had chosen to live away from town precisely because he couldn’t tolerate being surrounded by people all day, every day. But now he had a sick, heavy feeling right in the pit of his stomach, and for the first time in years, he wished he lived right in the middle of civilization. Who was out there? Or what? What could possibly be large enough, frightening enough, to chase a decorated police detective through the woods? Did he even want to know? Deciding that he didn’t, he quietly shut the backdoor and locked it. Though Brendan’s eyes were closed when he returned, they opened as soon as Jeremy sat on the edge of the bed. They smiled where his mouth couldn’t. “You’re still here. For a sec, I thought I’d hallucinated it all again.” “I’m still here,” Jeremy assured him, holding the glass to Brendan’s lips and watching as he took the first, tentative drink. “You’ve been hallucinating?” For as awful as the man must be feeling, he had enough of his senses to know not to gulp at the water. “Considering my other option, the hallucinations were more than welcome.” Jeremy wanted to inquire about what happened. If Brendan had brought a dog to Jeremy’s home in this condition, he wouldn’t hesitate to ask. But Brendan wasn’t a dog, and Jeremy wasn’t his doctor. “I think it might be best to take you to the hospital.” Brendan shook his head. “Need to call the chief first. He might…it might not be too late.” “Of course.” Jeremy took the phone from his belt and pressed it into his palm. Now that Brendan was on the bed and the light shone directly on his back, Jeremy couldn’t help but stare at the woman branded into his skin. He didn’t recognize her face. Was there any reason to? Was this some sort of fantasy victim? Was she a victim of anybody at all? The closer inspection also revealed little doubt that the tattoo was fresh. Brendan’s flesh was red and puffy, the colors shiny. “Hey, Chief.” An exhausted sigh escaped Brendan’s lips, and he seemed to sink into the pillow. Something had been lifted from his shoulders. “I’m out at Doc Reed’s. No, not the office. His house.” He glanced at Jeremy while the chief spoke on the other end. “I can’t. I barely made it here. You need to come see me.” When more words muffled through, he shook his head and held the phone out. “Tell him why, and tell him to be fast.” Jeremy took the phone, suddenly wishing he had that shot of whiskey. “Mike? Hey. I’m not sure what happened to your detective, but I think you need to come out here. And probably bring a few guys for back up.” “What’s Wheeler doing there anyway? He’s been missing for five days.” Jeremy’s stomach churned. “I don’t know. I found him at my backdoor. It looks like it’s a good thing he found my porch, because I don’t think he could have gone another step.” He absently removed a small leaf that had clung stubbornly to Brendan’s hair. “Five days?” “He didn’t show up for a shift. We’ve been keeping it out of the news because it was obvious there was foul play. His apartment was wrecked. ‘Course, some of that might be because that dog of his got left there all on its own.” Jeremy winced slightly. “Is he okay? Maybe you should bring him out here, too, so I can check him out.” “Oh, he’s fine. I’ve been keeping him here until we found Wheeler. Tell him I’ll be right out, and I’ll bring Mazursky and Stowe along. I’m betting he wants to give a statement about what happened.” Jeremy bet that he didn’t. “I don’t think it’s a matter of want, Chief. And bring the dog, anyway.” Giving the dog a check-up would at least make him feel less out of his league. “Fine, fine, I’ll bring the dog. You’re as bad as Wheeler.” “Thanks.” Jeremy snapped the phone closed and put it back on his belt. “He said he’s going to be right out. With Mazursky and Stowe. And your dog. I guess that means I should find you some pants.” “Thanks.” With his requests satisfied, Brendan’s eyelids began to droop again. “I think I’m just going to take a little nap until he gets here, if that’s okay. I’m just so…tired.” Brendan was asleep before Jeremy had the chance to respond. He had a pair of shorts that would fit Brendan’s trim hips, but getting those on him would have probably awakened the exhausted man. Instead, he pulled a new blanket from the closet and spread it across Brendan’s lower back and legs. Maybe he would indulge in that whiskey before Mike arrived. And if Brendan woke up again, maybe he would share the bottle. He thought the poor guy might need more than one drink.