Edge of Darkness

  Warmth flooded his chest, intense and overwhelming, and he wondered how any human heart contained emotion this powerful because his was pounding to beat all hell.

  She loves me. Me. It was too much. Almost. “I’ll be back,” he whispered. “I promise.”

  “You’d better.” She was crying in earnest now. “Dammit, Adam.”

  “Hey.” He huffed, trying to distract her so she’d stop crying because it was ripping him apart. “You thought you knew just two days ago? Four months after I knew for sure?”

  “What can I say?” Her swallow was audible, but her sobs no longer were. “I’m a late bloomer.” Her attempt at levity was so forced that it hurt to hear. She was trying so hard to make this bearable and that made him love her even more. “Besides,” she added tartly, “I hadn’t read the script so I didn’t know that you’d already fallen.”

  “Fair enough,” he said. “I gotta go. I’ll tell you the right way when I see you.”

  “You’d better,” she said, her voice breaking. “Be careful.”

  “I will.” He ended the call and the bubble they’d hidden within popped, letting reality rush back in. Somebody is trying to kill me. Somebody who knew I’d be here today.

  Somebody who may be a cop.

  Unbidden, the memory of his conversation with Quincy rose to the surface. He’d known about his sobriety. Somehow he’d known. I make it a point to know who I’m working with. Their skills and their weaknesses.

  No, he thought. Not Quincy. Not Nash, either. And Wyatt isn’t even a question. Hell no. They’d been through too much together over the years. It had to be someone random.

  Someone who knows about Paula, who knew we were in that van en route to the station. Someone who knew Meredith and Mallory were at the restaurant on Saturday and again at the hospital last night. Someone who knew I’d be here this morning.

  A random person couldn’t know all that. It was an awful truth.

  Someone is trying to kill me. It was too surreal to process.

  Someone I know is trying to kill me. Adam wished for the numbness of denial, but the body next to him made that impossible.

  I need to call Deacon. Prepare him for the whole twelve-step thing. It’s only fair.

  And that confessing his sins to Deacon was suddenly the preferable task just showed how completely and utterly fucked this entire thing was.

  Cincinnati, Ohio

  Monday, December 21, 7:05 a.m.

  For a moment he could only stare in disbelief. John was dead. Not Adam Kimble.

  Goddamn asshole. Throwing himself into a fucking bullet. Who did that? Heroes and fools, that’s who. John was definitely among the latter.

  Fuck. Fuck John and his last-minute change of heart. Fuck Mike for making me kill him, because I didn’t sleep at all last night. Fuck Adam Kimble for making me kill Butch.

  Fuck it all. He wanted to scream it, but he couldn’t. He had to get away. The police would be coming and he had to get away. He had a rifle to discard. A cop to set up.

  A hooker-on-the-run to reel in like a fish on a hook.

  Mallory Martin couldn’t ID him. If she could have, she would have by now. He was going to have to let her go. For now. Let things die down. Let her regain her confidence about coming out into public. Then he’d end her.

  And Kimble? He’d be more careful than ever now. And he’d wonder who’d known he’d be at the AA meeting. Kimble had most of the pieces of the puzzle, even if he didn’t know it yet. The hero would bring in his traitorous cop. Not the right one, of course, but it would be enough for now. And later? If Kimble kept pushing? Investigating? Trying to find the cop who’d raped little Mallory? He’d have to shut the man up. Permanently.

  Cincinnati, Ohio

  Monday, December 21, 7:15 a.m.

  “Call Deacon cell,” Adam said, hearing defeat in his own voice. He’d put off this call too long. And with his sponsor’s dead body lying next to him, it had suddenly become important that his cousin know the truth. It could have been me lying there, and I never would have gotten to apologize and make amends.

  Deacon’s line rang four times. “Yeah?” Deacon answered, his voice thick.

  God. Deacon either had a cold or he was crying. Adam couldn’t deal with any tears right now, not after hearing Meredith’s sobs. “You okay, D?”

  “No.”

  Yep, Deacon was crying. Shit. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I should have told you.”

  “Told me what?” Deacon demanded.

  “Did Isenberg call you?”

  “Yes. Told me to head to St. Agnes’s. That there’d been a shooting.”

  Isenberg hadn’t told Deacon anything. And the significance of that was not lost on Adam. His boss had trusted that he really would call his cousin. That he’d really come clean. So man up, Kimble. Do the right thing.

  But his words still hadn’t gotten there yet. “Then why are you upset?” Adam asked.

  “You mean why am I crying like a fucking baby?” Deacon snarled.

  “Yes,” Adam said slowly. Warily.

  “Hell, Adam. I’ve been a fucking mess since I watched that video. Faith practically had to scoop me off the floor. Damn you. I didn’t know that’s what happened. That that’s what’s been eating at you for the past year. Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you carry that around inside for a year? Alone? Why didn’t you let me help you? Goddammit, Adam. I thought you trusted me more than that.”

  “Oh,” Adam breathed. He hadn’t truly considered the full impact on the people to whom he’d sent the video of Paula’s murder. He’d known they’d be shaken. What human being with a soul could watch that happen and not be shaken?

  But not driven to tears. Those tears are for me. Because I saw it and it messed with my head. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t want to think about it. It made it not be real if I didn’t talk about it. And I should have. But that’s not why I’m sorry.”

  Deacon grew quiet. “There’s more?”

  Oh yeah. “You might need to pull over for a minute or two.”

  “Hold on.” Deacon muttered obscenities at traffic and the universe in general before huffing out a sigh. “All right. I’m pulled over. Hit me.”

  Just get it out. But his brain still wasn’t listening, taking the roundabout way instead. “You’re coming to St. Agnes’s for a shooting. I was the target. My . . . friend died instead.”

  Careful silence. Because Deacon was no fool. “Why are you at St. Agnes’s at seven in the morning? Do they even have mass that early?”

  “No.” Adam sucked in air until he couldn’t take in any more. Do this. Just do it. He closed his eyes tight and gritted his teeth. Because telling Deacon was somehow harder than telling Meredith. “I was at an AA meeting,” he said on a rush. “I’m an alcoholic.”

  Silence. Complete and total silence.

  “You still there, D?”

  “Yes.” The clipped reply emanated waves of anger. “All this time?”

  “Yes.” And then the words came, all tangled and tripping over one another. “I was ashamed. I wanted one year sober before I told anybody, but then all this happened and I needed to tell you sooner. And I was going to, as soon as we got a second to breathe on this case. But then this happened and my sponsor’s dead. Just like Andy Gold and Bruiser.”

  “You were the target?” Deacon asked flatly.

  “Yes. John—that’s my sponsor—I mean, he was my sponsor—he pushed me out of the way.” He glanced over at John’s body, then ripped his gaze away. “Bullet hit him instead.”

  “You’re unhurt?”

  “Yes. I wanted you to know before you walked on the scene and got surprised. I . . . I’ve fucked everything up. I’ve been so damn jealous of what you and Faith have built together. It was hard to watch. And . . . I didn’t want you to hate me. But I especiall
y didn’t want you to pity me. John thought it would be better not to tell you until I had a year of sobriety under my belt, that it would be easier for me to hold my head up.”

  More silence.

  “D?”

  “I’m thinking,” Deacon snapped. “Give me a minute. I have to enter traffic.” More muttered obscenities, then a giant sigh. “I can see St. Agnes’s steeple from where I am, so I’m close. I’ve got extra tactical gear in the back of my SUV. I’ll bring it to you and we’ll secure the scene. Did you give Isenberg all the particulars? Victim’s name, et cetera?”

  “Yes, she knows.” Somehow this wasn’t how Adam had expected his cousin to react. He hadn’t expected the anger. Not like this. But Deacon had a right to his feelings and Adam knew that Deacon loved him. So he’d give him time and space.

  “Then I’ll hang up now,” Deacon said. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  Sure enough, two minutes later Deacon’s black SUV slowly drove by. Deacon rolled his window down when he saw Adam on the ground, flinching at the sight of John’s body beside him. “I’m going to back up and lift the hatch, so that you can get to the gear without coming out into the open.” He did this, the SUV’s hatch slowly rising.

  Adam duckwalked to the open cargo area, taking care to avoid his own vomit. Yay me. Wasn’t he the strong one?

  He found a helmet and a flak jacket. He put them on, then grabbed a second set and handed them to Deacon through the window.

  “Get in the backseat,” Deacon ordered and when Adam had complied, he drove them to the overhang, where parishioners were dropped off in inclement weather.

  Or in the event of a sniper attack.

  Deacon turned off the engine and got out of the car. “Come on,” he barked.

  Adam followed him into the church, preparing himself for anything from a cold shoulder to being cursed out.

  “Ugh.” It was all he had opportunity to utter before Deacon tackled him in a bear hug so tight Adam feared for his ribs.

  “You fucker,” Deacon snarled brokenly, hanging on so tightly a crowbar couldn’t have separated them. “I am so fucking mad at you.”

  Adam’s arms rose uncertainly to hug him back. Deacon tightened his hold convulsively and Adam patted his back. “I know. You should be.” He hooked his hands over Deacon’s massive shoulders and . . . clung to the man who’d been his closest, most supportive family for most of his life. “I fucked up. I’m sorry. I’m so damn sorry, D.”

  “Part of me wants to kick your ass.”

  “I know. But you can’t reach it like this.”

  Deacon’s laugh was choked and gruff. “I think if this had happened yesterday I wouldn’t have understood. Not as much. It was the girl, right? Watching her die?”

  “Yes. I saw her in my mind all the time. Except when I was completely drunk. It was the only way I could get any sleep at all.”

  “I get it. I do. And your dad didn’t help. The man’s a functional drunk. Always has been. Hell of an example to set for your kid.”

  Adam didn’t know what to say, so he just hung on. How long had it been since he’d hugged anyone in his family like this? “I was wrong. I shut you out and I’m sorry.”

  “I wish you’d told me. I would’ve helped. Somehow. I would have.”

  “I know. John said—” Adam stopped with a frown.

  Deacon stepped back far enough that they could see each other’s faces. Deacon’s bicolored eyes were rimmed in red. “John?”

  “My sponsor. The guy, you know, out there. He said it would be easier to be proud of myself if I got to a year first.”

  “He thought it was a good idea for you to isolate yourself? From your family?”

  “Yeah. I guess.”

  “No.” Deacon shook his head. “No. That’s not how it’s supposed to work. I’ve not been to AA, but even I know you need support.”

  Adam knew it, too. Now. He’d kind of known it months ago, but John had seemed so sure. And John had been sober. He’d mastered his demons.

  John, who drove a black SUV. John, who’d been ready to confess . . . something. He needed to sort through all of that. Figure it out. But this, this talk with Deacon, came first.

  “I didn’t want to need it,” he said honestly. And maybe that had made John’s advice easier to accept, even if down deep he’d known it was wrong.

  “Which is why I wanna kick your ass.” Deacon gripped Adam’s face in two big hands, met his eyes squarely. “I can still love you and support you and want to kick your fucking ass. You understand this, right?”

  Adam’s lips twitched. “Yes. I understand.”

  “Good, because we’re not done with this. But we have a scene to clean up and a body to process. Isenberg and I will take care of notifying his next of kin.”

  Adam’s heart sank. “Noreen. John’s wife. She’s a good person.”

  “Most of the people we tell are.” Deacon let him go, giving him a small shove. “You don’t keep shit from me anymore. You got that?”

  Adam nodded. “Yes. I got that.”

  “And you keep your ass alive.”

  “I will.”

  “Good. As long as we’re clear. Let’s go.”

  Feeling lighter than he had in years, Adam followed.

  Cincinnati, Ohio

  Monday, December 21, 7:20 a.m.

  “Merry, stop,” Diesel barked. “Please. Your pacing is making me fucking nuts.”

  Meredith abruptly halted mid-pace, turning to look at Diesel, who’d returned to visit her grandfather shortly before Adam’s call. She’d cried a little more after they’d hung up, then, fueled by a surge of energy that burned her nerve endings, she’d started to pace.

  Diesel truly appeared ready to come out of his own skin. The big man was pale and jumpy, just as he’d been the night before when he’d spent several hours with Clarke in the ER. Just as he’d been every time she’d seen him in a hospital.

  “Are you okay?” she asked him.

  “He’s obviously not,” Clarke snapped. “And neither are you. If they’d just let me go the hell home this poor guy wouldn’t have to feel obligated to sit in this goddamn hospital with me. And you wouldn’t be stuck here with me either, pacing like a caged panther.”

  “I’m not obligated!” Diesel objected. He looked annoyed and maybe hurt.

  “You don’t wanna be here,” Clarke insisted. “Do you?”

  “Hell no,” Diesel said with a shudder. “I hate hospitals.”

  Meredith had noticed that in the past. Hell, everyone with eyes had noticed that in the past. Any time one of them was hospitalized, Diesel would come and visit and be a friend. But every time he looked like he was about to throw up.

  Which was exactly how Meredith felt. The thought of Adam, vulnerable to a bullet that could come from anywhere . . . She’d taken an antianxiety pill, but her anxiety levels were still off the charts. You need to refocus. Think about someone else’s misery for a little while.

  Plus, she found herself genuinely curious. “Then why do you stay?” Meredith asked.

  Diesel rubbed the back of his neck. “I figure the more I do this, the easier it’ll be. Like do-it-yourself exposure therapy.”

  Meredith smiled at him. “Somebody’s been reading.” Why he’d want to conquer this particular phobia wasn’t hard to parse. Dani worked in a clinic. Diesel wanted Dani.

  His blush was visible, even in the dim light. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “Stupid fear.”

  “So you’re really just using me,” Clarke said teasingly.

  Diesel’s slow grin returned. “Yep. I figure getting used to all the white”—he gestured to the white walls, white bedding—“while babysitting an old guy is the least threatening way.” He ducked the tissue box that came sailing at his head. “Hey. You’re not supposed to make any sudden movements. That’s what ma
kes you nonthreatening.”

  Clarke grimaced in pain. “You’re right. That wasn’t smart. Damn fucking asshole shooter. What’d he hit me with anyway?”

  “Probably the butt of his gun,” Diesel said. “Or a rock.”

  And at the mention of guns, Meredith’s anxiety returned. She drew a deep breath, trying to control the rapid beating of her heart. “Not sure anything else would make a dent in that head of yours, Papa,” she said, but it sounded forced.

  She took two paces forward, then stopped herself, fists clenched at her sides. Because all she could see was Adam, hurt. Bleeding. Stop it!

  “Merry,” Clarke said gently. “Worrying about Adam isn’t helping any of us. What else can you do?”

  “I can show you how to knit,” Diesel offered, holding up his knitting bag.

  Meredith snorted. The bag said, You got two eyes, I got two needles. Do NOT fuck with me. “Where did you get that?”

  Diesel grinned. “From Decker. He had them made special. He got one for Kate and one for me.” He checked his wristwatch, a big clunky thing that looked like it had been through a war. Maybe it had. “Decker’s on his flight now. He didn’t sound so good when I talked to him this morning.”

  “He’ll feel better when he sees Kate,” Meredith said. “She’s feeling better, but not happy about not being allowed to knit. Eyestrain hurts her head.” She turned to Clarke. “I don’t have anything to do. I’ve colored every picture in the book that Mrs. Zimmerman gave me”—with bold, angry strokes that were not her best work—“and I can’t run.” Because her own head was still tender. “I’m ready to find a waiting room and do some yoga.”

  “Then go do that,” Clarke said. “Because you’re driving both of us crazy.”

  “That bus’s already pulled into Crazytown Station,” Meredith muttered.

  “Well,” Diesel drawled, “good morning to you, too, Dr. Insensitive.”

  “She’d be yelling at us if we used the term ‘crazytown,’” Clarke agreed.