Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 124341 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124341 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
“Of course.”
Mark removed a card from his wallet and handed it to her. “If you think of anything else, please give me a call.”
She glanced at it and nodded. “I will, Agent.”
A deputy escorted her back through the crime scene where techs still worked collecting evidence from the pavement, and the lead detective turned back toward Mark. “My boss told me the FBI wasn’t going to arrive for a couple days. Some holdup or another. Can I ask why you came alone, Agent? And all the way from Montana?”
Mark looked at the detective. There was a holdup in the FBI getting there? That was concerning. And familiar. And made him all the more certain that his instincts were correct regarding this event. He cleared his throat. “I’m here because this might be connected to a larger case.”
The detective considered him for a moment. “What makes you think that?”
“Some similarities.” Mark couldn’t say much more than that, not on that point anyway. He might be wildly off base anyway. But his gut told him he wasn’t. Especially in light of the second man who’d been there, the one who’d tried to stop the gunman and then disappeared. The shooter was dead and could no longer provide answers, but the white-haired man was not. And that man hadn’t fled the scene for no reason. Mark did not believe he’d been there randomly. “Are you collecting camera footage from the surrounding area?”
“Yup. There’s a business district that way,” the detective said, pointing in front of Mark. “So there’s a lot. Unfortunately, there aren’t any good views of the back of the school, but we’re scouring the surrounding streets. It will be a lot of tape to go through, but at least we have the timing to narrow things down. And in the meantime, we’ve got an APB out for the man with the white hair. It’s just too bad we don’t have more than that one descriptor to go on. Hopefully the sketch provided by that teacher helps.”
Mark nodded. “Detective…I need to ask you not to release a sketch to the public just yet.”
The detective looked momentarily taken aback. “Someone might be able to identify him. It might not be a lot to go on, but a head of white hair on a young man is quite a descriptor.”
“I think it’s important that we identify him first. Let’s go back to your office, and I can explain more.” Not everything, but some.
The detective considered him for a moment, stroking his mustache before giving a nod. “I can give you a lift.”
Mark followed the detective from the schoolyard, glancing at the spot where the man with the white hair’s blood had soaked into the concrete after he’d taken a slew of bullets and then evidently walked away. Or been helped.
The man with the white hair.
Was he one of the lost?
And if he wasn’t, who the hell was he?
Chapter Eighteen
Sam was back in the hospital, about to go under the knife. Again. His soul wailed, body flailing as the pain enveloped him. Hot. Scalding. Crushing. The pain not only made his nerve endings sizzle torturously, but it also made him feel so lonely. Forgotten. He bellowed, the sound of a trapped animal. Misery.
Shh, my moonlight boy. You’re okay. Stop moving, and you won’t keep ripping out your stitches.
A tiny prick in his arm, small and painless. He calmed, the silkiness of her voice wrapping him like a cocoon. Safety. Beauty. So many times, he’d recited her words in his mind, but he’d never been able to conjure the sound of her voice. Maybe he’d finally lost his mind. It was a relief. How often he’d prayed to find relief in the void of insanity, but his prayers had never been answered. Now they finally had been. God did see him. He’d gifted Sam madness, and even sweeter, she still remained. He hadn’t been asked to leave her behind. Mercy. He finally knew what it felt like.
He heard a man’s voice briefly, and he didn’t like it, but then he was gone, and it was only her.
“What can I do?” she asked.
“Whisper in my ear,” he begged. He wanted her to touch him, but he couldn’t bear the feel of human hands, so he asked for her voice, the touch of her breath.
“What would you have me whisper?”
“Tell me that I’m human.” Tell me that I haven’t been drained of the last bit of it. He wanted to hear it from her, even if it wasn’t true.
A pause. Had she left him already as he plunged lower into the depths of insanity? “You’re very human,” she said. “Do you know how I know?”
No, he didn’t know, and he suddenly couldn’t remember how to speak. He felt a very light weight on his chest, the warmth of flesh. She’d placed her hand on his heart. He felt a gust of breath at his ear.