Nothing Sacred (FBI Agent Dan Hammer Series Book 1) (16 page)

It smells different from what Reverend Jason used.

This Holy water makes my throat feel tight. And icy. Like the ice I fell through when we were visiting Grandma’s house in New Jersey. Remember? I was little then and wearing the new ice skates Santa brought me for Christmas.

A tinge of panic.

Like then, when the crack began to split and the freezing water began seeping up through the jagged edges.

When the earth opened up and swallowed me…

Icy cold.

Why should I be scared? Everything is fine. Relax. Rest.

She tried reaching out for something. Anything. She needed to feel reality. A hard surface to hold onto, to center her. A few times after she drank Jack Daniels with Daryl, and she got drunk dizzy, she would grip onto her bedside table. It helped. But everything seemed different now. Her hands were heavy. Dense. It was getting difficult for her to breathe.

Mommy?

“And having been a little chastised, they shall be greatly rewarded: For God proved them, and found them worthy for himself.”

God?

Why can’t I breathe?

Why do I smell fumes? Like gasoline.

Whose hand is that?

Mommy?

Daddy?

Is that your hand, Mom?

Mom?

MOM!

She tried screaming, but her voice was lost at sea…

* * *

“Richard?”

Richard stood behind her, in front of the medicine cabinet, logging narcotics, a change of shift function he didn’t mind doing.

“Yes?” He answered.

Rebecca just loved the way he talked. Richard could say “yeah” or “uh-huh,” but when Richard said “yes,” so correctly, so perfectly, so succinctly, you could even hear the “s” trail off at the end.

“Do you smell smoke or is that just me?” She scrunched up her nose and sniffed at the air. She sat straight up in her swivel back chair, laboriously transcribing what seemed like a thousand doctor’s orders into patient’s charts.

“I told that guy he couldn’t smoke on the floor. Fool.”

“What guy?” She asked, looking at her nice new French manicure, adjusting her wedding ring so the two carat diamond stood straight up at attention like a big old hard-on.

“Angie’s father. Mr. Kessler. Room 401. He could barely wait to light up that damn cigarette.”

“Richard, can I tell you something?”

“Sure.”

She swiveled her chair around in his direction. “I just
love
your accent.” And she did, too. Rebecca playfully circled back around. She also thought Richard had a hot ass. His butt hugged those pressed white pants like spandex. All tight and toned from all those hours lifting weights. Squats. She tried not to pay any attention, but it did get her thoughts ticking. Rebecca went about her business. She realized Richard was probably gay anyway. The elevator doors opened with that familiar ding. Rebecca watched Angie’s parents edge their way out into the corridor. “Speak of the devil,” she said, standing up from her chair, ready to receive them. She noticed Richard turn around as well. In fact, Rebecca gave her most professional smile as Mr. and Mrs. Kessler walked down the short hallway, past the Waiting Room and opened the glass doors to the Unit.

It was only when Mrs. Kessler -- Rebecca thought her name was Sarah -- turned in the direction of Angie’s room that she realized what her eyes had taken in, just two seconds earlier.

In the doorway of Room 401 was Angie’s bed, completely engulfed in flames. A fireball of sparks and smoke. A raging fire flared up to the ceiling, licking at the hospital curtains hanging from the window.

Rebecca didn’t know if they all stood there perplexed by the sight or frozen in pure shock, but they all just stared for a second in disbelief, gawking at that bed, watching a curly wave of gray smoke roll out toward them. And then, the most blood-curdling cry Rebecca had ever heard in her entire life as Mrs. Kessler screamed, what sounded like “Angieeeeee,” and ran right into that inferno and threw herself head first onto that bed and into that fire.

Friday

4:07 PM

20

“Yeah?”

Afternoon light bled through closed bedroom blinds. Dan rolled over and answered the call. It was an instinctive gesture, almost as natural as…sleeping. In the process, he turned the alarm clock out of view, avoiding the automatic response to calculate how little zzz’s he’d actually gotten.

Chief Abram’s voice was about as welcome as an earthquake. “Get your ass to MUSC. I’ll meet you there.”

“What?”
Dan’s
voice wasn’t much better. He cleared his throat with a swig of leftover, flat Pepsi sitting on the floor by his bed. “What happened?”

“Just get your ass up, Hammer, and stop asking so many damn questions.”

“But, that’s my job, boss. That’s why you pay me the big bucks!”

The Chief was not amused. He didn’t respond.

Dan’s cell phone went dead.

Bastard!

Dan secured his hands behind his head and stared at the dingy, off-white ceiling. A large crack dominated a huge section, to the extent it resembled the entire coastline of Florida. Years ago, when he first noticed the plaster breaking, back in its infancy, back when he cared about what the ceiling looked like, it reminded him of Italy, that boot like projection with the pointy end. Greece, maybe. Now, in its current stage of maturity, Florida seemed more appropriate. Even though Dan’s preference was still and always would be… Italy. When he started thinking, which happened a lot lately, he wished he had a hobby. An interest. Something.

He turned the clock back around. The time read precisely 4:21 PM. That would mean he got exactly… he counted on his fingers… two hours and fourteen minutes of sleep. Thanks, Chief!

Dan had always admired and respected him. He held a soft spot. The Chief had been a mentor to Dan in many ways. He could be rude, cruel and oftentimes difficult to handle, but he’d always been honest. Fair. From the old school. The old South. The quiet, calm and sleepy South. Hell, the most exciting thing they ever witnessed down here was domestic squabbles and Hurricane Hugo. But this? This was way out of the ordinary. Out of everybody’s league, out of their comfort zone. A blood bath involving two teenage girls was not the norm in Charleston, let alone the possibility of a freaking serial killer. Hell, that was reserved for things like the
Movie of the Week
, or
HBO
. This was major shit that just blew in, and Dan would bet a pretty penny that Police Chief Abrams was feeling the Mayor’s heat tight around the collar right about now. Particularly with the
Post and Courier
hitting the stands this morning.

Dan pulled himself to the side of the bed and sat up. He barely missed upsetting a can of flat Pepsi. A slight, humid breeze blew in through the open window. The dusty Venetian blinds rattled. It practically hypnotized him. He fought the urge to lie back down and decided instead to jump up. Like a lunatic. To get the blood circulating. Left in a heap on the floor were the clothes he wore earlier. Guess he wouldn’t be wearing that suit. He stepped over the mound of shoes and week-old dirty laundry before heading to the bathroom through a tiny adjoining hallway. In the living room, sun was pouring in through the open window. He felt guilty. He could barely see the outside, the glass was so dirty. It was on his list of things to do, if he ever got around to doing it. If he could even find the freakin’ list. He chuckled and shook his head.

He was a mess.

He passed by Alexandra’s picture hanging on the wall in the hallway. Gina had it taken by an expensive professional photographer up in Columbia for Alexandra’s fourth birthday. Cost him an arm and a leg, but it was worth it. Alexandra wore her favorite pink dress for the session, the one Dan had picked out. And Gina, against his better judgment, had put one of those stupid elastic, lacy bands around her head. It didn’t matter. Alexandra looked adorable.

He kissed his finger and put it to the glass holding her tiny face captive. “Love you, baby girl.” He whispered as he entered the bathroom. His stomach made a hearty growl as he relieved himself. Looking into the frothy toilet reminded him of his earlier drive to the Isle of Palms. The emptiness he felt in his gut driving back to Charleston.

Love you, baby girl…

He checked himself out in the mirror. “Hello, you handsome devil.” Then, he realized he was staring at himself. “You look like pure shit, Hammer.” He began the hot water and opened the medicine cabinet for his razor. If there was one thing he must do, was shave. Shaving always made him feel like a new man.

Well, he could dream, couldn’t he?

Forty five minutes later, showered and shaved, he locked the front door to his beautiful, spacious North Charleston apartment. He glanced across the busy intersection toward the Naval Regional Medical Center. A giant concrete aircraft carrier marooned on a still tarmac sea. The sun was a fiery orange peg, perched like a huge egg on the flat roof of the Hospital.

He secured his .38 pistol into his leather holster, buttoned up his two week old, navy blue suit, and walked down the two flights of stairs to his car. At the bottom, by the carport were kids, barefoot with runny noses, playing jump rope.

“‘Yo mista,” one of them called out. “‘Ya gotta quarta?”

Dan reached into the bottom of his pocket and felt the jingle of a few leftover coins. Probably from the last time he wore the jacket. He pulled out the change, picked out two quarters and handed it to the wiry black kid with the bent glasses. The boy held onto the metal handrail, one foot propped on top of the other and swayed back and forth.

“Here ya go.” Dan placed the quarters in his small, dirty hands.

“Thanks, bro.” The kid cried out, jumped from off the lattice and raced back to the safety of his brothers and sisters.

Dan was happy.

Clean.

He’d taken a shower. Shaved. A quick pit stop at Mickey D’s drive through for a Quarter Pounder with Cheese to arrest his growling stomach and, hell, he’d be good as new!

Friday

4:15 PM

21

Dr. Garrison’s apartment was located about ten minutes from downtown Charleston in a small seaside community known as Folly Beach.

Following Louis’s lead and, with the help of an acquaintance-friend Janice had met through Donny (who just so happened to work at MUSC), she decided to take a quick jaunt to the historic island and see if Dr. Garrison wouldn’t mind having a little heart to heart, girlfriend to girlfriend bonding session. It wasn’t everyday a girl received a story of a lifetime. Right?

The Water’s Edge was the deluxe rental community Dr. Garrison lived at, and from the way it appeared, it had all the sweeping amenities of luxury living. And, whoever designed the grounds didn’t call it The Water’s Edge for nothing. The Folly Beach Pier was conveniently located a few minutes away, within walking distance from the property. Once there, you could stroll the boardwalk, populated with snack bars, restaurants and trendy tourist shops. A sightseeing bonanza. And, if the pier or the beach didn’t do it for you, the complex itself provided a plethora of extravagant elegant accommodations. Enough to satisfy any overworked physician.

An enormous, hourglass swimming pool shimmered in the center of a beautifully coiffed garden. On the lacquered wooden decks were lawn chairs, yellow and white striped cabanas, matching umbrellas and a larger than life Jacuzzi. Palm trees and lush tropical foliage added to the beauty of the grounds and the pool. All this should keep any tenant lavishly content, at least until the first of the month rolled around and the rent was due. In the middle of this sprawling, coastal property was a full service clubhouse, equipped with billiards, ping pong tables and tennis courts.

Shangri-La.

Janice was in the wrong profession. She should have been a real estate broker.

Needing to use the restroom, Janice chose to investigate the clubhouse first. Inside, she noticed how meticulously clean everything was. A housekeeping attendant was actually cleaning the front window as she entered. She politely opened the door for Janice and offered a shy exchange before going about her business. Janice strolled over polished terracotta floors to the Ladies Room. She passed through a lounge, decorated with earth colored divans and wicker chairs. Reminding her more of a changing room than a relief station, it came equipped with showers, a sauna (real redwood) and a steam room. Each amenity worked flawlessly on its own automatic timer. She entered into her private stall. As she sat, she looked around for graffiti, loose cigarette ashes… anything unkempt, but everything was clean and polished to a high patina. She washed her hands at the marble sink and noticed a beautiful supply of bathroom accessories. Neatly displayed on the vanity were fluffy hand towels, individually folded. Wow!

Outside the restroom was a coed game room stocked with every imaginable gadget you could possibly think of. Several computerized dartboards lined the walls. Decks of cards, chess sets and ornate wood engraved backgammon boards rested on top of imported mosaic tabletops. Tucked away in a back corner was a pool table. Janice noticed the colorful balls already positioned in their triangular cue. How could she resist? She grabbed at one of the several pool sticks from off the wall, chalked it up and implemented one of her famous powerhouse breaks. To her surprise and chagrin, the only ball that sunk into the side pocket was the white one. Scratch! She dropped the stick on the table and continued her weary tour of how the other half lived. The rich half, that is.

Where’s Robin Leach when you need him?

A separate room was crammed with an assortment of coin-operated vending machines. She took a dollar bill from her pocket, smoothed out the dog-eared edges, fed it through the money slot and pressed the large rectangular button for Coke. It spit and burped and banged out a cold can into the bin located at the bottom.

She moseyed back through the adult playroom and entered the outside world. She pulled on her sunglasses and observed, in the distance behind a high wire fence, several couples dressed in white outfits swinging at tennis balls across a double court.

Large, two story brick structures fanned out over rolling lawns. The grounds were meticulously landscaped with exotic shrubs and flowers. How would one sign up? And, did they allow dogs? Jake would have a field day! Janice walked to the front of one of the apartment complex. Displayed in large black lettering on the brick facade: 201 – 229. She glanced at her wadded up piece of paper. 427. She passed by the Jacuzzi, void of people, wishing she’d remembered to bring her bathing suit. A few tenants lounged by the pool tanning themselves. Couples. The smell of suntan oil wafted in the air. Janice longed for a daiquiri. A margarita. Anything except this nonalcoholic Coca Cola! She casually waved to two woman playing tennis (they didn’t wave back). She crossed over another grassy knoll to the next apartment structure. In the parking lot across the street, a young girl practiced riding her bicycle. She spun around in dizzy circles with the aid of training wheels. Tassels, in an assortment of pastel, sparkly colors flowed freely from the handlebars like fireworks. Janice sensed somebody was watching. Within minutes, Janice turned to see the girl’s mother, or babysitter, or guardian run from an adjacent complex, gather the girl up in her arms and efficiently escort her and her bicycle up the winding sidewalk to the safety of the garage.

Safety.

Janice couldn’t blame her. She could only imagine the terror seeping into the community since the morning paper hit the stands. “The Mutilator.” And, Janice couldn’t believe she was the lucky reporter responsible for it. She continued walking, a woman on a mission.

400 – 429.

Bingo!

She approached the building with obvious apprehension. Upstairs, the second story apartments began numbering at 415. Holding onto the steel black handrail, she climbed the steps. What should she say? How would she initiate a conversation with Dr. Garrison? How would the Doctor feel about a snoopy reporter finding out her home address and driving to Folly Beach to interrogate her? Especially after the Hammerhead had assaulted her. Questions tumbled like Bingo balls as she advanced down the hall to apartment 427. The actual door appeared insignificant. Not as snazzy as one would expect considering the elegance of the clubhouse downstairs. But clean. The hallways were orderly. Positioned in the center of the plain green door was a brass knocker. It covered a tiny peephole. On the right side was an illuminated orange doorbell. Janice stood there, silently, contemplating on how to proceed. She opted for the doorbell. More professional.

“Can I help you with something?”

Wait one second. She hadn’t even buzzed yet.

Janice turned in the direction of the voice.

“Who are you looking for?” the woman asked, putting down a paper bag filled with groceries. She rummaged in her purse for keys. “Well?”

“You need any help with that?” Janice responded with kindness, feeling more like a girl scout than a reporter.

“No, no, I’m fine. Thanks.” She paused for a second and then looked up at Janice with an unwavering focus. “Well?”

Janice stood for what seemed like an hour taking in this exquisite specimen of a woman. She was smitten. In love. Unequivocally.
Sorry, Lisette
. Clearing her throat, Janice proceeded. “I’m looking for a Dr. Garrison. I have her listed as living here.” She showed her the crumbled-up piece of scrap paper she took from MUSC Admitting. “Right here, it says Apartment 427, Water’s Edge, Folly Beach. I must have missed her. She doesn’t seem to be at home.”

Finding her keys, the woman collected her bag of groceries and unlocked the door to 427. Janice moved out of her way.

“I’m Dr. Garrison. What can I do for you?”

“
You’re
Dr. Garrison?” Janice was stunned. Amazed was more like it. Some women have all the luck. Beauty and brains. She immediately hated her.

“Who are you?”

“Janice Porter, from the
Post and Courier.
”

“A Reporter?” Now she sounded intrigued. Or disgusted. The two not easily distinguishable. The door opened with a pop. She entered into her apartment, turned and held the door firmly with her hand. Janice glanced around her tall frame, briefly, absorbing the details of her apartment. Neat and clean. But dark. The window shades in the living room were drawn, the curtains closed. A cool draft emanated from the narrow slit in the doorway. Air conditioning. Central, Janice bet. “I have nothing further to say. Really. How did you find out where I live? Admitting?”

“It really wasn’t that difficult. I wonder if you might be able to give me…” Dr. Garrison slammed the door in Janice’s face. She took stock of her options. And started knocking. She neglected using the brass fixture. Chains rattled.

The door opened again, but this time only a sliver. Linked across the slit was a metal chain. “I’ve already told the police everything I know about that girl. Now, please, leave me alone. Just go away. It’s my only day off.”

“I understand that, and I do apologize for bothering you on your day off. I can only imagine the amount of hours you put in at that hospital, but this case is very important and very significant. And Angie Kessler
is
your patient, isn’t she?”

“I admitted her. I was the admitting physician.”

“Well, if we could just sit down for a second…”

“I don’t think so.”

“You might have some information that could shed new light on this case or possible some new evidence. Or, at least clear up some of the missing pieces of the puzzle. You do realize there’s a killer on the loose.”

“I’ve already told you, I don’t have any additional information.” She started to close the door.

Janice’s cell phone went off. It gave both of them a much needed reprieve. A moment to pause and regroup while Janice checked the number. Louis. The newsroom, alerting Janice of an emergency. She noticed the bars on her cell were low. Her signal bad. Janice looked through the narrow crack. “Listen, I know you want me to leave, but, do you think I might be able to use your landline? There seems to be no service here and my work is calling. An emergency. I’m sure you understand.”

“The complex must have a pay phone somewhere.” She pointed toward the clubhouse.

“If you don’t mind…”

Annoyed, the Doctor reluctantly unlocked the latch, opened the door and allowed Janice entry. “In the kitchen. Please make it quick.”

Janice brushed past an antique dining room table. Four matching chairs were pushed up underneath. She entered into the small, compact kitchen. Generic white would best describe it. White tiles, white cabinets, and a white dishwasher. All newly remodeled. Pristinely clean. No food was sitting out, except for some fruit arranged picturesquely in an artsy-fartsy ceramic bowl on, of course, a white Formica countertop. The telephone hung on the wall. It too, was white. What else? Everything appeared sanitary. Sterile. Like at the hospital. Janice dialed Louis’s number. It rang four or five times before somebody answered.

“Louis, please.”

“Who’s calling?”

“Mouth, now get Louis on the phone.” Dr. Garrison moved into her living room. She sat on the edge of her sofa and sifted through a few magazines layered on the glass coffee table. Her black
leather
sofa. Janice rolled her eyes, hoping the Doctor noticed, realizing she was bothering the hell out of her. Although not intentionally. Janice turned back to the brightness of the kitchen.

“Mouth…” Louis’s voice was excited and nervous. Exhausted. “Get to the fucking hospital! That Kessler girl…”

“What?” Janice interrupted him.

Louis started yelling at other people in the background. Janice hated that. Telephones were going off. Whistles and beeps were incessantly ringing. The newsroom was in complete pandemonium! Janice didn’t care.