I look around, expecting someone to jump out and say, “Just kidding!” Except they don’t.
“What about all these symptoms I’m having?” I watched my wife die with lung cancer. I know the damned symptoms.
He nods, his lips compressed. “I’ve spoken with a colleague, a cardiologist. He’s looked at your scans, your lab work. He wants to see you. The symptoms you’re having strongly suggest congestive heart failure. The scans show some significant narrowing of the coronary arteries. If you recall, we discussed this.”
I nod. I do recall, but I just can’t find my voice. I was so damned certain.
“The cardiologist will recommend the steps to take next. They’ll set up an appointment for you as you check out.” He stands, reaches for my hand. “I’m very glad you no longer need me, Detective Duncan.”
I manage to stand and accept the handshake. “So my ticker is giving out on me.” Well, hell, how is that much better?
“The cardiologist will advise you on how to proceed, but in my experience, medication and lifestyle changes can make all the difference. You could live a long and productive life if you follow the doctor’s orders.”
Stunned, I manage a “Thanks.”
Kingsley nods once and passes my file to the nurse standing by. He’s out the door, and she’s ushering me in that direction.
I leave the office with an appointment to see the cardiologist next week.
In the parking lot, still in a bit of shock, my cell vibrates against my hip. I pull it free of my utility belt as I slide behind the wheel of my Tahoe. “Duncan.”
“Hey, Walt.”
Tim Reynolds from the crime lab. Reynolds is my go-to guy. A couple years younger than me, he has more experience and expertise in his little finger than most have in their entire beings. If there’s anything in the collected evidence to help our investigation, he will find it. “What’ve you got for me, Reynolds?”
It’s too early to have a DNA match on the blood. We’re operating under the assumption that the blood is Fanning’s, but it’s always possible it belongs to someone else. Not the sort of news I want to hear, considering what that would likely mean. I want the blood to be his.
“Most of the blood is B positive, Fanning’s type. We should have DNA results in a couple of days. The chief put a rush on it.”
“Thanks for the update.” The idea that he said “most” nudges me, but before I can ask, he says, “Wait, there’s more.”
I hesitate before backing out of the parking slot. “I’m listening.”
“I found a second blood type in the mix, mostly on the hand towel that was in the puddle. This one’s O positive. Maybe that blood was already on the towel before whatever happened in his kitchen. Either way, it belongs to someone besides Fanning.”
Holy shit. That is not what I wanted to hear. It could simply mean that Fanning’s kidnapper injured him- or herself during whatever happened in the house.
Or it could mean Fanning had someone in the house with him. Possibly a victim.
“Thanks, Reynolds. Let me know if you find any DNA matches in the database.” I drop my cell phone into the cupholder of the console.
Son of a bitch. I sag in my seat.
Every victim Carl Fanning ever took was a child.
My gut twists. We need to look at any children who’ve gone missing in the past few days.
This is damned bad news.
Three
The Child
The bleeding has stopped. I should bandage the wound, but I won’t. It’s more painful if I leave it gaping open just as it is. Let him suffer.
Most people think I’m a good person, but if they knew the real me, they wouldn’t like me very much. They see what I want them to see. They know what I want them to know. They have no idea about the things I’ve done. Bad things. But, like everything else in life, my actions are relative. Relative to the pain and the fear. Relative to what he did to me for eight long years.
Relative to survival.
