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Chapter Five
Niko
I stepout of my truck and pocket my keys. My steps are slow and sluggish as I walk up the steps to the precinct where I was transferred one month ago. Having been back on duty for two weeks now has been both a blessing and a curse. Despite the purpose of becoming a detective to help with my search of Aislin, I enjoy my job. It’s satisfying to know I help uphold the law, and that others depend on me to protect them and ensure their safety. Although law and order can be twisted and unjust at times, it’s still a system I’m proud to be a part of. Between working and fixing up Aislin’s old house, the two have kept me sane.
However, the hours I spend on the job are hours I don’t spend looking for clues of Aislin’s kidnapper. I love my job, and I’m damn good at it, but until I find what I’m looking for and make the bastard pay, I won’t rest. I want to spend every waking moment scouring the streets until I find the answers I seek.
I carry two pictures in my pocket everywhere I go. One is of Aislin when she was twelve years old, and the other is of her mutilated form on the examiner’s table. With every person I come across, I want to stop and show them the pictures and ask if they recognize her. She was gone for fifteen years, and it’s hard to believe no one ever saw her again.
In an attempt to rectify their fuck up, the department has given several public statements regarding her case. They’ve posted the picture of her as a little girl. Because her face was so unrecognizable and would probably terrify people if they saw the damage, they looked behind the scars and used an age progression software to generate an image of what she would look like without the scars and wounds today. We had a few call-ins, but every single fucking one was a dead end. It was as if she never existed to everyone else, when to me, she was my existence. She was the reason I got up in the morning. She was the reason I moved through life. She was the reason I kept moving forward. She’d been my light for years, but now that light has flickered out.
I walk into the department, passing by a couple of front desk officers handling citizen inquiries. I weave through the abundance of desks littered through the room and straight over to the coffeepot that has ass-flavored coffee. I don’t care at the moment because I need that boost even if it does make me gag as I drink it.
Tucking a file folder underneath my arm, I pour myself the foul-tasting sludge-thick coffee before taking it to my office. I throw the file on my desk and drop on my chair.
“You look like shit warmed over.”
I look up and find David Tavers striding through the door. As one of my oldest friends, I’ve known him since before Aislin disappeared. He’s one of only a handful of people I’ve kept in contact with over the years. Before Aislin’s body was found, we both worked on her case off the books. When a lead needed to be followed, I did the following while Tavers stayed behind on the home front. We both knew the idiots working in Westbridge at the time weren't doing dick regarding her case.
“Fuck off,” I grumble, lifting my cup to my lips, then cringe when the nasty liquid hits my tongue.
“How in the hell can you stomach that shit?” Tavers asks, leaning a hip on my desk and crossing his arms.
“I can’t, but it’s either that or take a nap on one of the bunks.”
“Another dream?”
Tavers knows about the fucked-up dreams I deal with regularly. Hell, they aren’t dreams; they’re nightmares. Nightmares that would have a weaker person waking up from shitting their pants. Last night, after sleeping for only about thirty minutes, I woke with Aislin’s face a distorted mess, hearing her screams. Visions of a faceless man hovering over her wielding a bloody knife, his glowing grin the only thing I could see through the darkness.
There was no fucking way I was going back to sleep after that, only for it to grip me again. Some nights I can get through the nightmares, but some nights, like last night, they leave my adrenaline running and my body shaking. I’m a grown fucking man, but sometimes those nightmares scare the fuck out of me.
I’ve never prayed so much to a God I’m not sure exists that Aislin didn’t endure the horrors my unconscious mind conjures up.
“Yeah.”
He leans forward, ensuring no one hears our conversation. “Think you need to talk with someone about them? They aren’t getting better, man. If anything, they’re getting worse.”
I shoot him a scowl. There’s no damn way I’m talking to some shrink who will try to analyze what I’m going through. There is no fixing what is wrong with me. I take that back. There is a way to fix it. Find the twisted fuck who’s the root of my nightmares and rip out every organ in his body while he’s still alive.
“Fuck that. They couldn’t do shit for me.”
I pull the folder toward me and flip it open. It’s an open case Tavers and I are working on about the murder of a four-year-old child. The parents were out on a date while their seventeen-year-old babysitter was at their house watching the little boy. A robbery occurred, and the child was stabbed in the back while he was sleeping in his bed. The whole thing feels off. The parents aren’t grieving like normal parents who’ve just lost a child to a violent crime. Not to mention, why would the robber enter the child’s room and murder him in his sleep? Something else is going on here.
I barely have the folder open when Captain Morgan— yes, Morgan is his last name—walks in my office with an older man following him.
“James. Tavers. Change of plans. Coborn will take the case of the four-year-old. This is Clem Stewart.” He gestures for the man to step forward. His eyes are red rimmed and puffy, indicating he’s been crying. His hand trembles when I grasp it in mine for a shake.
Morgan turns back to Mr. Stewart. “Mr. Stewart, these are two of my finest detectives. They’ll be the ones working on your case. You tell them what you just told me, and they’ll be able to help you.”
Flipping the file closed, I hand it to Captain and motion for Mr. Stewart to take a seat in the chair across from my desk. I grab a pen and pad of paper to take notes as Tavers comes to stand beside me.
“Mr. Stewart, what can we help you with?”
Mr. Stewart rubs both hands down his pale face as if to compose himself before saying, “I need help finding my niece. I think she was abducted.”
“When was the last time you saw her?” I ask.
“Two days ago.”
