Fatal Mercy by Dan Padavona (hot novels to read .txt) 📕

trees.

Still no one coming.

Cecilia exhaled and placed a hand over her speeding heart. The dead leaves crunched behind her a second before the hand covered her mouth. A hammer crashed down on her head, blinding her. Cecilia’s eyes rolled back as she pitched forward and slammed against the earth.

Her last sensation was someone dragging her across the forest floor.

CHAPTER TEN

“Do you dream about the shooting?”

Thomas glances up from his lap. Dr. Mandal sits behind the coffee table with a cup of herbal tea beside her legs. The spicy scents reach his nose and draw his attention. He struggles not to stare at the tea, lest she think he’s looking at her legs.

“No.”

“Never?”

He lifts a shoulder.

“Rarely.”

“How often is rarely?”

“Once, maybe twice a month.”

Mandal makes a note on her pad.

“Are the dreams an accurate recreation of the shooting?”

“Usually.”

“What’s different?”

“I’m not sure.”

She claps her hands over her knee.

“Have you ever died in the dream?”

The question sends a shockwave through his nerves. He wonders if she saw him flinch.

“No, but others have.”

“The DEA agents and LAPD officers?”

“Yes.”

“Why did they die in your dream?”

His hands wring together and squeeze until his knuckles crack.

“Because I failed to react.”

“So the car pulls to the curb, and the gang members fire at the task force before you can warn them.”

“Yes.”

“How many die?”

“Everybody. There’s so much blood.”

“So it’s just you left alive. Then what happens?”

“Then I wake up.”

She pauses, then writes another note.

“In your dream, do you blame yourself for their deaths?”

“They’re my responsibility.”

“You led the task force?”

Thomas shifts his back. He can’t get comfortable today.

“No.”

After Mandal writes a longer note, she says, “We’ll return to your dream. Right now, I’d like to discuss how you react to stressful situations in the field. When you secure a location, do you still worry someone will pull to the curb and fire at you from behind?”

“The gang issue isn’t as bad in Nightshade County.”

“So you never glance over your shoulder, searching for a shooter that isn’t there.”

He drops his head and scratches behind his neck. The clock ticks on the wall, each second punctuated by the mechanical heartbeat.

He doesn’t answer.

“I’d like to increase the frequency of our sessions.”

“I can’t commit to additional time. Shift work dominates my week.”

“You stand to benefit from increased therapy. Your insurance will cover the cost—”

“I said I don’t have the time.” He winces at his outburst and softens his eyes. “My apologies.”

“You need not apologize. We’ll pick this up at your next appointment. One week, Thomas?”

“If that’s what you want.”

 

 

Tuesday, July 14th

7:05 p.m.

 

Thomas dropped into the chair beside his desk and rubbed his eyes. It had been a long, frustrating day, and he was into his third hour of overtime. Early Tuesday afternoon, residents in an upscale Wolf Lake neighborhood spotted a man in a hooded sweatshirt climbing through a window with a computer monitor tucked under his arm. A security camera caught the intruder, and Deputy Aguilar identified the man as Chuck Meyer, a thirty-one-year-old local with a prior conviction for car theft. Thomas and Aguilar found the man in a city park on the southern border of the village. When Meyer spotted the deputies crossing the baseball field, he leaped onto the playground equipment, swung from the monkey bars, and executed a flawless back flip. Aguilar cuffed Meyer, who didn’t flee.

“Why were you doing back flips off the monkey bars?” Aguilar had asked him inside the cruiser.

Meyer shrugged.

“I thought it would make me appear less guilty.”

Thomas completed the paperwork and tossed the pen inside his desk drawer.

Lincoln Ramsey’s family had scheduled his calling hours and burial for next week. The daughter still insisted someone murdered her father. Thirty minutes ago, Ambrose Jorgensen phoned Sheriff Gray, furious with the department for not conducting a thorough investigation. Now Gray called Thomas into his office and told him to close the door.

The last decade had been difficult for Stewart Gray. At sixty, the sheriff appeared ten years older than his age. The position had become political, and too many Nightshade County residents called for Gray to step down and make way for a younger sheriff. Four years ago, he lost his wife, Lana, to a fatal accident on icy roads. Gray believed Father Josiah Fowler, who witnesses claimed to see driving erratically, had crossed the centerline and run Lana off the road. Fowler was no stranger to DUI arrests. But the department couldn’t prove Fowler caused the accident.

Gray’s puffy white mustache hid his lips as he placed his hat on the desk. He slumped in his chair and watched Thomas with battle-weary eyes.

“Ambrose Jorgensen reminds me of Tessa Windrow,” he said, grumbling as he stared at his hands. “I’d label her a kook, but I remember how the Erika Windrow case turned out. Did you see anything that indicated foul play at the Ramsey home?”

“I did not. No footprints outside the property, no broken windows, no fingerprints. Lambert was meticulous.”

“I’d like you to take another look, if only to shut this Jorgensen woman up and set Kay Ramsey’s mind at ease. The last thing that woman needs is her daughter scaring her and making her believe someone killed Lincoln. It doesn’t have to be tomorrow. But I’d like it done by the weekend.”

“Every day we wait, Kay Ramsey compromises the scene.”

“You won’t find evidence inside the house. Check with the neighbors. Find out if anyone has a security camera. I can’t put the case to bed until I prove nobody approached that house the night Lincoln Ramsey died.”

Thomas rubbed his chin.

“So we’re ruling out murder, not gathering evidence.”

“Don’t look at it that way. You’re putting a grieving widow’s mind at ease. I don’t want Kay Ramsey dialing 9-1-1 every time she hears a strange noise outside.”

“And you want Ambrose Jorgensen out of your hair.”

“That would be nice.” Gray pushed the stapler to the corner of his desk. “How’s your father, Thomas?”

“The cancer is progressing. He’s still managing his business.”

Three months ago, Mason Shepherd threatened to pull his donations to the sheriff’s department if Gray