Chapter Six

Damn, what wonderful drugs. Morrisey blinked hard. The EMT appeared normal one moment, with a shimmering aura the next. And when their skin touched, the EMTs glowed a soft blue. Not Blue Man Group blue, but blue all the same. The EMT fussed like a mother hen over Morrisey, taking vitals, offering solace with a gentle graze of his hand here, a crooned melody there.

Nothing but comfort came from him, and peace. Peace enough to drown in.

Morrisey rested on a soft surface, someplace where the air no longer reeked of the essence of dumpster. Someplace… moving. Or maybe… yeah… drugs.

His breath caught. The angel from the alley sat nearby, tight blond ringlets a halo around his head, stopping just above his ears. He had to be an angel. Delicate, with the lithe body of a dancer from a show someone once talked Morrisey into seeing. The plot eluded him, but the male dancers, with their tight musculature and tighter tights, had him on his feet during the standing ovation.

Good drugs. Still, Morrisey’s head hurt like a motherfucker. Angel and the medic spoke quietly, their words slurring out of Morrisey’s hearing. Were they even speaking English? The clicks and whirrs didn’t sound like any language he’d ever heard before.

Then again, what did Morrisey know? World traveler, he wasn’t.

And drugs. Yeah.

The angel caught Morrisey’s eye, giving a bittersweet smile, complete with a flash of a dimple on one cheek. “Rest now,” the vision said in English, with a soft, lilting accent. “You’re going to need it.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “Tenebris.”

Tenebris?

The bluish man injected a syringe into Morrisey’s IV.

A song title came to mind…The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia. Except now they were going out in Atlanta. Well, Atlanta was in Georgia. Yep. Out they went.

***

“Sure you weren’t high? Start from the top again. You saw a monster with big pointy teeth.” The cop questioning Morrisey smirked. “Did you also see a singing teapot?”

The second cop in Morrisey’s hospital room no longer attempted to hide his laughter. “He probably just glanced at himself in a mirror.”

If they didn’t believe him, why keep asking? No chance to escape since everything still hurt, and leaving the hospital bed might be undoable at the moment. Plus, they sat in chairs between Morrisey and the door. “I don’t care how often I tell it, the story ain’t changing.” Someone give him drugs for his headache or finish the job of splitting his skull with a hammer.

“Didn’t the report say he’d been to a liquor store?” the second cop asked. “I bet he was drunk off his ass.” He shifted his focus from his partner to Morrisey. “Hey, James! Were you drunk?” Not the most creative of bullies.

They did, however, find his RAV4 at a liquor store.

No real stretch of the imagination there. Craig’s death ushered in a new era of self-destruction through alcohol and tobacco that clearly Morrisey hadn’t hidden as effectively as he’d thought. He’d avoided coworkers off the job, though some probably knew, hearing rumors from friends of friends, seeing him out at night, or maybe catching a whiff of his day-old whiskey breath.

So much for hiding his drinking problem. He’d only been kidding himself, thinking he’d kept his vices private.

He ignored the sniggers. The stench of antiseptic stinging his nose offered a distraction.

“Drank your dinner, didn’t ya?” the first officer said, tone mocking.

“Enough!” The whip-crack of Captain Gaskins’s shout as he came through the door silenced the two officers. Both shot to their feet, nearly toppling one chair.

Gaskins invaded their personal space. Morrisey watched them fight not to back away. “A brother on the force experienced trauma. You will not disrespect a member of my team. Do I make myself clear?” Anyone who didn’t know him would think Gaskins extremely pissed judging by the growl in his tone, not knowing he always sounded like a cornered bear. Being summoned to the hospital in the late hours probably didn”t improve his mood. Even dressed casually in jeans and a polo shirt, he commanded the same sense of authority he did at work.

Good thing he seemed to be on Morrisey”s side—for now.

“Yes, sir,” both officers responded, all mirth gone.

“Good. Since you’re not being very productive, get back to work. I’ll take over from here.” Gaskins waited until they’d left to sag into the chair vacated by the chief instigator. He squeezed the bridge of his nose between his index fingers. “Damn. Could this night possibly get any weirder?”

Probably wise not to talk about blue men right now. Morrisey would thank Gaskins for the save, but he could’ve traded one evil for another. Gaskins wasn’t smiling. Then again, Morrisey couldn’t recall the boss smiling more than a handful of times in the past eight years. Morrisey wasn’t smiling much, either. Every inch of him hurt.

Gaskins propped his chin on his palms, elbows on knees—an awkward pose for such a tall man. Though he still growled, he sounded less hostile now. “How are you feeling, James?”

James. Not “Morrisey” or “Morse,” so a professional call. “I’ve been better.”

“I’ve seen the reports. Deep thermal burns, brain trauma. Your doctor likened your injuries to being struck by lightning but with no external signs. Your brain being affected explains your hallucinations. Confusion is a normal symptom of a lightning strike.”

Hallucinations? Like a blue bald man tending to Morrisey in an ambulance? There hadn’t been even a hint of a storm in days. “He said those should go away.” Morrisey wanted to believe the doctor, but the nurse who’d just entered had the same blueish glow as the paramedic. Probably best not to say so.

“Yeah. Until you’re cleared by your doctor, you’re on leave.”

“But—”

Gaskins put up a hand, cutting off Morrisey’s protests. “There’s an investigation since you shot a suspect, though a pretty credible witness corroborated your story of self-defense. The victim’s wife at the liquor store confirmed the suspect’s identity from security footage. Looks like you took down a murder suspect.” He narrowed his dark brown eyes, deep lines furrowing his brows. “Pretty risky thing to do off duty without backup.”

Suspect hell!Having Agnes on hand had been a happy accident. Morrisey remained quiet. Nothing more he could say when he’d already told his story five times, at least.

His methods weren’t risky if he actually hoped to catch a bullet one day. Giving his life to save another might earn him some redemption when he breathed his last and faced whatever came next.

Judgement, he’d always been told.

Might be worth the risk to see the angel again.

Wait! Agnes! “Where’s my gun?”

“With forensics. You’ll get it back once they’ve finished their inspection. We’ll give you a department weapon until then.”

Fuck! No Agnes! The mere thought sent a shiver of panic into Morrisey’s belly, where it squirmed with whatever remained in his stomach.

Gaskins lowered his volume to a near whisper. “The guy you shot? Straight-up model citizen who didn’t even drink, according to his family and friends. Then, about a week ago, he started changing, almost like he was possessed, according to what they said.”

“What did he do?” Images from last night came to Morrisey’s mind. A grinning mouth. Bloody teeth.

“He tormented his wife. A neighbor found their cat dead. The same night, the perp’s wife said our suspect came in from outside covered in blood. Said he’d nicked himself working on his car.” Gaskins gave a disapproving shake of his head. “He’d never worked on a car before, and she found no traces of blood on either of their vehicles, but there was some in the backyard, along with fur and a bloody knife.”

Possessed sounded about right. The visual of a face over a face came back to mind: a man merged with some nightmare creature.

Morrisey remained silent. Speaking wouldn’t help the situation, only remove any doubt about his sanity.

Gaskins leaned closer. “Remember how you asked about rising crime rates? This isn’t the first report of a good person suddenly growing violent.”

The final case concerning Will. The party. Had good people gone bad there, too?

“Are the suspects trying to scare the victims as much as possible before killing them in the most gruesome ways possible? I’ve seen things even horror movies haven’t come up with.” Gaskins swept his hand across his head, a mannerism so familiar Morrisey sometimes made silent bets with himself on what part of conversations he’d see the gesture. “I’m telling you, Morse, I need you recovered and back in the office. Yours is the most level head we got at the moment.”

Morrisey? Level headed? Wow! The world really had gone to shit.

Gaskins didn’t wait for a verbal response. “You also have excellent insight, like pointing out the possibility that one victim might have known the killer on your last case.”

Morrisey telling how he knew wasn’t happening. “How about those yahoos?” Morrisey gestured toward the door. “You heard what they said about me.” It wasn”t like Morrisey hadn”t fielded his share of insults throughout his life for anything from his attitude, lack of family, choice in music, being gay, or hell, even not liking doughnuts. You’re a disgrace to the badge. What kind of cop hates doughnuts?

“And you know how things work at the precinct. If they’re not talking about you, they don’t like you. They’re just happy the weird shit didn’t happen to them.”

If only the weird shit hadn’t happened to Morrisey. “So, what did y’all do to the guy who attacked me?” Had a blinding light really come to the rescue?

“He was brought here to Mercy General. About an hour later, a nurse who I’m told shouldn”t have been attending him exits the premises without a word to anyone. No one has seen her since. The suspect downright sobbed, saying how sorry he was.”

“Wait. I thought he was dead.”

Gaskins puffed out his cheeks and blew a noisy breath, a familiar stalling gesture while he organized his thoughts. “He survived, but not for long. The missing nurse slipped him a scalpel before leaving.”

What the fuck? “So, we won’t get any answers.”

“No, we won’t.”

Morrisey definitely didn”t want to touch the guy again for impressions. “What did he steal from the liquor store?” The liquor store. Morrisey hadn’t even gotten to replenish his booze supply.

“That’s the strange part.” Gaskins glanced out the window at the brick wall next door. “He didn’t take anything. He entered the store waving a gun, threatening everyone, then randomly shot the owner.”

“Fuck.” Killing for no reason?

“I’ll say.” Gaskins refocused on Morrisey. “That’s not even the worst part.”

“It gets worse?”

“The gun the suspect used was registered to an officer from another precinct.”

An icy chill raced down Morrisey’s spine. “There’s more you’re not saying. Talk.”

“They found the officer’s car on the shoulder of a back road. A search turned up bits of him.”

Much more bad news would have Morrisey chanting “fuck” like a mantra.

“We’re still looking for the whole body. This wasn’t a mere cop killing. This was rage.” Gaskins produced his cell phone, turning the screen toward Morrisey. “Recognize him?”

Blond hair, blue eyes. Looked a bit like the angel, but barely. “No. I don’t.”

Gaskins put his phone away. ”He”s the third local law enforcement officer lost within the last two weeks, not counting Will. This one was Atlanta PD, one was a highway patrolman who disappeared eight days ago, the other DEA.”

Wheels turned in Morrisey’s thoughts as he attempted to put the pieces together. Three different organizations, all dealing with law enforcement. If he had to guess, he’d say drug trafficking must be involved. After all, Highway 85 ran through the area, a known drug corridor. “Are there any connections besides their jobs?”

“They all three match the same physical description. Slightly built blond men with blue eyes. All under thirty years old. Either we have a serial killer with a type, or our killer is angry and searching for someone specific. He or she doesn’t care how many innocent men they have to kill to get to the one they want.” Gaskins stood, stretching out the kinks in his back with an audible pop. “Whatever the hell is going on, I want the open season on law enforcement to stop.”

“You and me both.” Memories came back with a vengeance: three women butchered, Will slipping the pistol barrel into his mouth, the mess that greeted Morrisey when he’d reached the car. Crying, screaming at Will to stop—too late. One face layered upon another, excruciating pain. No one believing Morrisey. Too much, too much.

He clutched his head tightly and screamed.