Chapter Eight

Ben

I might have known the basics of what Griffin did and how he did it—we'd once had an unusual line in pillow talk—but knowing it and seeing it first-hand were two very different things. His efficiency in setting everything up surprised me. It didn't fit with the new jaded version of Griffin that had come crashing back into my life. I'd known his sister's death had changed him. It was impossible not to when it had caused our split. But I'd hoped time would heal him, rather than leave him as a mere husk of the man I'd once known. One who used alcohol as a crutch.

The drawing of the symbol on Rupert's chest threw me, its presence a little too similar to the ones drawn on the wall, and I found myself comparing them. Both drawn in blood. Both with a circle as its base.

"What's the purpose of that?" I asked.

Griffin answered without looking up. "It's a message. "

"A message to whom?" This time he did look up, his expression saying I could have picked a better time. "Humor me."

"A message to those beyond the veil that I want a temporary loan of the soul. I could tell them that, but it's easier and quicker this way."

Interesting! I pondered it for a moment. If the one Griffin drew was a message, then it was likely the ones on the wall were too. The question was who it was aimed at, and why? I needed to push harder to get them looked at if this didn't go as well as we hoped. Lou could do it. Make his desk time count. Fucker would get lazy if I didn't keep him busy.

I held my breath as Griffin crouched next to the victim and extended his gloved palm toward the symbol he'd drawn. He stopped before he made contact, his fingers hovering above Rupert's skin. "What's wrong?"

"The hands," he said flatly. "If this works, he's going to see that someone has removed all his fingers and freak out. You'll be lucky to get anything but screams out of him."

"Shit!" I should have thought of that myself. "Towels," I said, as I carefully stepped over Rupert to access the small bathroom. The space was unremarkable. Tiny, like most bathrooms in London were unless you had loads of money to throw around, with white bathroom furniture. A shelf contained the usual things you'd expect to find in a man's bathroom: shaving foam, deodorant, and an electric razor. Even though I wore gloves, I was careful not to touch anything as I grabbed all the towels off the rack.

"You can't," Patrick said as I reappeared. I ignored his protests as I dropped to my knees and placed towels over Rupert's body—one large towel to cover his crotch, and two smaller towels to cover what remained of his hands.

"Jesus!" Patrick said in the background. "This is fucking ridiculous. Whoever allowed this needs to take a long hard look at themselves and their morals. And I'll be happy to tell them that if I ever find out who it is."

Griffin threw a look in Patrick's direction, his jaw tight. "I can't do this with him mouthing off. I need to concentrate."

I sighed. "Right." Standing, I went over to Patrick. The forensic pathologist had the look of a caged animal, one who desperately wanted to pace, but couldn't because he knew he'd disrupt the crime scene even more. Talk about being stuck between a rock and a hard place. I lay a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to look at me. "We know you don't like this. Trust me, we get it. But it's happening and either you accept that or you need to step outside until we're done."

Patrick's chin lifted in a show of defiance. "I'm not leaving."

"Then…" I tamped down on the urge to finish that sentence with shut the fuck up , summoning some diplomacy from the depths of my soul instead. Patrick wasn't the only one who was tense. I was tense. Hell, even Griffin was tense. Patrick might not be able to tell, but I knew that man inside and out, and all the telltale signs were there.

I patted Patrick's shoulder, resisting the urge to curl my fingers around it and dig my nails in, but barely. "Just… let us get on with it, please. The quicker it's done, the quicker we can all get out of here. Hopefully to arrest the bastard who did this."

Conflict raged on Patrick's face for a few seconds before he finally gave a tight nod. I spun on my heel and returned to Griffin, crouching back at his side. He waited for sixty seconds of silence from Patrick before continuing, a miracle occurring and it happening. Tension built as Griffin pressed his palm to the symbol on Rupert's chest. I'd expected words, but if he said any, he kept them in his head. Probably wise, given Patrick's earlier mumbo jumbo comment.

Griffin's eyes were closed, his breathing steady. In contrast, my chest felt like someone had wrapped a rubber band around it. A very thick and tight rubber band that made even the slightest breath difficult. A couple of minutes ticked by, each second seeming to last a lifetime. Should something have happened by now? I should have questioned Griffin more before we got here, found out what the process entailed, how long it took, and whether the subject came back slowly or all at once. It would have been a better use of time than sniping at him about his alcohol abuse.

Just as the atmosphere in the room reached breaking point, Griffin opened his eyes and rocked back on his heels. "It's not working with the glove on. I need skin to skin contact."

Patrick started forward, but it was already too late, Griffin ripping the glove off and pressing his bare palm to the victim's skin. I shot Patrick a glare that warned him not to kick up a fuss.

"I'll need his fingerprints," he mumbled with his eyes glued to Griffin. "To discount him from the investigation."

I conceded the point with a slight nod. "I'll make sure it's done. You'll have them by tomorrow at the latest."

And then the whole waiting game began again, my heart doing its best to beat right out of my chest. When I'd been told about this, I hadn't realized the impact it would have on me. It had seemed so easy. Bring the victim back. Get the details of what had happened. Arrest the perpetrator. But this was anything but easy. This was reanimating a badly mutilated man who should have had his whole life ahead of him. A man who'd had hopes and dreams, and presumably ambitions. A family. Friends. Now, someone had ripped it all away from him. And for what? Because someone had wanted his damn fingers. For what purpose? And why him? Had they picked him for a reason, or was it nothing but bad luck that had placed him in the killer's sights? Did the end really justify the means here? Maybe I should have put my foot down and refused to play any part in this. Maybe Patrick was right.

"His heart's beating."

I jumped at the sound of Griffin's voice, so lost in thought that I'd forgotten to watch Rupert for signs of life. I focused on his face, the pallid white of his complexion slowly infusing with color, and muscle tone returning to replace the slackness. His eyes were still closed, but he'd started to breathe shallowly.

"Are you with me, Ben?"

I jerked my gaze to Griffin's, finding him regarding me with some measure of concern, the turmoil I was experiencing on the inside presumably showing on the outside. Either that or he could feel it. I took a deep breath in and then nodded. I might have doubts about this, but it was happening, so I needed to get with the program. "I'm with you." And just like that, I let the shutters come down, the professional veneer that had served me well over the years sliding into place as I set my phone recording.

It was in the nick of time, Rupert's eyelids fluttering for a few seconds before he opened his eyes to reveal they were a pale blue. He looked from me to Griffin and then back again, confusion clouding his features. Thankfully, Patrick had chosen to stay far enough back to not be in Rupert's eyeline. Rupert's mouth worked for a few seconds, like finding words was difficult. "Who are you? What's happening?" He tried to sit up, Griffin pressing him back down and hastily pulling the towel back into position over his left hand when he almost dislodged it.

"DCI Ben Weaver," I said, "and this is…"

"Griffin. Griffin Caldwell," Griffin supplied when I hesitated. "You should stay still."

Rupert blinked. "Why?"

Why had no one thought to give me a script for this? Reanimating dead victims and what questions to ask had never come up in my police training. Funny that. "There's been an accident."

"An accident?" Rupert's gaze darted around the bedroom. "Did I fall? Did I hurt myself? Has someone called an ambulance?"

"Try not to panic," I urged, the words sounding completely ridiculous given the circumstances. Rupert had been dead and would be again. How was he supposed to not panic about that? The answer was obvious, though. It was my job to make sure he didn't find out about it. "I need to ask you some questions," I said as calmly as I could.

"Questions about what?" He lifted his head and took in Griffin's hand still pressed against his chest in case he tried to sit up again. "Am I bleeding? Are you a paramedic?"

Griffin and I exchanged a look. In this room, we didn't have a complex relationship history. We weren't two people who fate had decreed should be together, only for Griffin to decide that fate was talking out of its arse. We were simply two men trying to get through a difficult situation. And as bizarre as it might be, I was glad it was him here with me. Griffin had always been good in a crisis. Until that crisis had involved him, anyway, and then he'd shown that just like the rest of us, he was only human .

"I'm not a paramedic," Griffin said carefully. "But you have a wound and I'm keeping pressure on it until they get here. Is that okay?"

Rupert let his head drop back onto the carpet. "I guess so. I mean, thank you. Was I attacked?"

I wouldn't get a better opening. "You were. And I need you to tell me as much as you can about the man who did it. So that we can find him before he does it to someone else."

Rupert's brow furrowed. "Can't it wait until I've been to the hospital? I'd like to get medical treatment first, if that's alright."

I shook my head. "No, I'm sorry. It can't wait. We think the man that attacked you is an extremely dangerous individual, and we need to apprehend him as quickly as possible. Where did you go tonight? Were you on your own or with friends? Who did you meet there?" My questioning technique was usually much smoother than this, a gradual build-up rather than firing questions out left, right, and center. I wasn't usually on a time-crunch, though, Griffin having already informed me that bringing them back sometimes only lasted minutes. And at least a couple had already passed.

"It was my friend Amelia's birthday," Rupert said. "She was twenty-six, the first of us to hit that milestone." A milestone that Rupert would never reach.

"Where did you go?" I repeated, keen to cut through anything that wouldn't help us catch the bastard who'd done this.

"The Jigsaw Bar. They do two cocktails for the price of one on a Thursday."

"Great. You're doing great," I said, excitement building in my chest. It was a start, at least. Somewhere to canvas the staff and the regulars to see if they'd noticed anything suspicious. Perhaps even to stake out if I could get the go-ahead. "Is that where you met the guy?"

Rupert shook his head and the excitement fizzled out. I should have known it wouldn't be that easy. "There was no atmosphere there, so I didn't stay. Nobody else wanted to leave, so I left in a bit of a huff."

"Where did you go next?"

"I don't remember. I remember being there, but I can't remember where it was."

"Think," I urged. "Did you walk? Did you get a cab? Take the bus? How did you get there?"

Rupert thought hard for a moment. "I think I walked. I hate paying for cabs. They're so bloody expensive."

So it had to be a bar or a club within walking distance. That had to narrow it down. "Tell me what you do remember?"

"Nothing concrete. It's all a bit of a blur. Maybe snatches of things."

"Such as?" Rupert's pause was long enough for panic to set in. What if all of this—clearing the room, facing Patrick's understandable ire at defiling his crime scene, lying to a man who'd been murdered and telling him everything was going to be okay, having to work with Griffin of all people, was for nothing?

"He was good-looking," Rupert finally said. "I felt flattered that he was interested in me."

That wasn't exactly a revelation when Satanic Romeo had been so successful in convincing men to take him home. "What else? Anything. No matter how small or inconsequential it might seem. Hair color? Eye color? Build? "

"We danced together," Rupert said, his voice sounding distant, like he was back there reliving it. "He was a good dancer. Better than me."

I certainly couldn't take that one to the DCS. Good news, Baros. We need to put out an APB on a man with no physical description, but who knows how to throw a few shapes.

"Taller than me," Rupert said. I didn't ask how tall Rupert was. I could find that out later. "Brown hair." I sat up straighter. Now we were getting somewhere. "Blue eyes… I think."

"You think?"

"It's fuzzy. What did he do to me? You said he attacked me. With what? Why don't I remember? Do I have a head injury?"

"Shhhh." That was Griffin, his voice surprisingly soothing. "Try not to get upset." His glance to me said to wrap it up. I just wasn't sure how I was supposed to do that when this was our best chance of making sure that what had happened to Rupert wouldn't happen to anyone else.

"You're doing great, Rupert," I assured him. "Just try to remember a little more if you can. How was he dressed? Did he have an accent? Did he tell you his name?"

A pained expression settled on Rupert's face. It seemed more of a mental pain than a physical one, his catastrophic injuries not seeming to register. "I don't remember. I'm sorry." He made as if to get up, Griffin pushing him back again. "I don't feel well. My vision is blurry, and it hurts to breathe. Is the ambulance here yet?"

A nod from Griffin confirmed my worst fears, that Rupert was already slipping away. Something heavy settled in my gut as I sat back on my heels. I didn't end the recording on my phone yet. There was always the chance he'd say more .

"Has anyone called my mum?" Rupert asked, his voice thin and reedy. "She's always telling me to be careful when I go out. I'm going to get such a lecture from her."

"Not yet," Griffin said. "If I speak to her, is there anything you want me to say to her?"

Shit! I knew what he was doing, and I knew why, but that didn't make it any easier to listen to. I could get up and I could walk away now that my part in this was over, but that hardly seemed fair. Griffin might not have said a lot while I'd questioned Rupert, but him being there had helped.

Rupert smiled fondly. "Tell her I'm sorry for getting in trouble. That she was right when she said I should have given Ivan another chance, but that I was too stubborn to do that." I assumed Ivan was an ex. "Tell her I love her and that she shouldn't get too annoyed with me." He gave a pained laugh. "It probably won't work, but it's worth a try. Maybe tell her she has to be nice to me for a couple of weeks." His voice trailed off and his eyelids flickered shut, his breathing slowing. Bile forced its way up my throat, and I realized how lucky I'd been to never have to witness any of my murder victims dying before. Well, that luck had just run out.

"Does he just go?" I asked.

Griffin nodded. "It happens fairly quickly."

"I'd hold his hand," I said, "but…"

"Yeah."

For a moment, there was no noise save for Rupert's breath rattling in his chest. Then his eyes popped open. "Sage," he said, his voice barely audible.

"What?" I leaned over him, hope sparking in my chest. "Was that his name? The man that attacked you… is that the name he gave you? "

Nothing. He'd already gone, his eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling. My fingers trembled slightly as I reached over and stopped my phone from recording. Griffin was already blowing out the candles and collecting them as I rose less than steadily to my feet. "I'll meet you outside," I said. "I need some fresh air."

I got halfway across the room before Patrick blocked my path, his eyes narrowed. "I hope you're happy now."

My hands curled into fists at my side and I allowed myself the momentary fantasy of drawing my hand back and punching him in the face. Anyone else I might have taken that comment from. But he'd been in the room during the entire thing. He'd witnessed it. He'd seen how fucking awful it had been. Therefore, he deserved a smack in the face. Cold clarity came with the thought of the suspension that would follow if I gave in to my base instincts. Not to mention the psych assessments I'd have to undergo before my return to work. The case would be assigned to someone else, and it wouldn't exactly pave the way for any future promotion prospects. It might even lead to a demotion. Yeah, as satisfying as it might be in the moment, it wasn't worth it. "No, I'm not happy," I ground out. "Not even slightly, so get the fuck out of my way unless you have something helpful to say about the case."

Reacting, either to what I'd said or the look in my eyes, Patrick stepped aside. After that, the trip to my car was nothing but a blur, any conversations I might have had on the way occurring on auto-pilot. It surprised me when I reached the Toyota to find Griffin had followed. He climbed into the passenger seat as I got behind the wheel.

Perhaps it shouldn't have come as a surprise, considering I'd been the one to drive him here. But my current disposition was such that I suspected most people would choose to be stranded at a crime scene over traveling with me. But then Griffin wasn't most people. He knew me like no one else knew me. Knew me and had rejected me, anyway.