Authors: Joan Swan
Fever (22 page)
As good as any other theory, Alyssa guessed. She had a few theories of her own to check out.
“Does there happen to be another computer in this place?” she asked.
He eyed her for a moment too long, and in that instant she knew there was indeed another computer source. “Why?”
“Because I’d like to do some research, too. Vasser threatened my career, not to mention my life. I’d like to get a jump start on some background information for Mitch.”
Teague wiped both hands down his face, leaned over to pull open a bottom desk drawer and lifted out a laptop.
Alyssa’s heart picked up speed as she stepped forward and took a blank notepad and pen from the desktop. “Does it have an Internet connection?”
“Wireless. But don’t—”
“Puh-leeeez give me some credit.” She took it from him over the desk. “I’m here by choice, remember?”
“Yeah,” he muttered. “And I’m still questioning your sanity.”
“Join the club.”
Alyssa retreated to the privacy of the bedroom. She would have preferred the ambiance of the living room with the big, soft sofa, high ceilings and the crackling fire, but she didn’t want Teague seeing all her topics of research. Yes, Vasser was on her list, but so were Teague and Luke and Seth and Quaid and Desiree and the murder and the warehouse fire and anything else that popped up along the way that connected the previous topics. She also planned on looking into these abilities Teague had and what chemical change in the body could cause them.
She sank into the soft bed, propped herself up on the slatted wooden headboard with a mound of pillows and tried to squeeze months of research into a few hours.
By the time the computer battery waned and the screen went black, Alyssa couldn’t squish another word onto the notebook and she was seeing double. She rubbed her eyes and looked at the clock on the nightstand, only slightly shocked to see that over three hours had passed as fast as three minutes.
She’d always been absorbed by research. And she had found some interesting tangents regarding DNA mutagens that could cause the powers Teague had experienced the last several years. She’d also uncovered loads of photos of Vasser with Senator Schaffer and Jocelyn Dargan, the Director of D.A.R.P.A., both of whom were well-known advocates of experimental scientific studies for the advancement of military warfare. Amped and ready to dig back in, she stretched her back. All she needed was a power cord ... and maybe a cup of coffee.
Standing, she tuned in to the silence. No Teague tapping on the keyboard. No distant, muttered curses. She started toward the office and poked her head around the jamb. Computer and lights were still on, but no Teague. She turned toward the living room where the hallway opened into the main space, and paused when she saw paper and folders. Everywhere. Piles on the coffee table. On the sofa. Lining the floor. And Teague, asleep on the sofa, with what looked like photographs lying facedown against his chest.
On a quick indrawn breath of excitement, Alyssa realized what lay spread out before her. Information. Research. Answers. All at her fingertips.
She darted a look at Teague where he lay sleeping and tip-toed around the piles as she made her way closer. Then she stopped and simply admired him. He wore nothing but those gray gym shorts again. Bare chest, bare arms, bare belly, bare legs, bare feet. She could stare at all that muscle definition forever. And that face—the masculine jaw. The straight nose. The full lips. And the golden eyelashes brushing his cheeks. There should really be a law against men getting the great lashes.
In sleep, his intensity simmered down a notch to merely serious. When her brothers slept, Alyssa always saw the youth come out in their eased faces. But whatever little boy had once lived in Teague was gone. This man was definitely one-hundred-percent warrior, one hundred percent of the time. And, she had to admit, she admired that about him. She also knew the toll that role took on a person. She lived it.
Alyssa took in the piles again. Two empty boxes sat by the coffee table, two full boxes with the lids askew by the arm of the opposite sofa. Colorful photographs drew Alyssa in that direction.
Excitement sparked like firecrackers. The same burning inquisitiveness that drove Alyssa to uncover the source of a patient’s illness nagged at her now.
With another glance at a still-sleeping Teague, she crouched and lifted the edge of the top box. Inside lay more photographs, along with files and notebooks. She fished out a handful of pictures and eased to a seat on the edge of the sofa, studying the image of someone dressed in full firefighter gear. The heavy, yellow turnouts were covered in soot, the man’s face so black the only immediate part visible was a gleaming, white grin.
She looked closer, searched the shadows and found Teague’s face. His smile was so clear, so crisp, so pure. She hadn’t believed him capable of such joy, and her stomach tightened with a mix of sadness for what he’d lost and hope for the possibility that grin held.
The next photo was of Teague centered in a group of five other firefighters in some type of training setting with a crumpled vehicle in the background and monstrous-looking tools scattered around the asphalt at their feet. Each of them—three men, two women and Teague—wore heavy turnout pants held up by thick red suspenders and navy T-shirts with Nevada County Fire stretching across their chests. Every one sported a grin that spoke of serious fun, loyal camaraderie and common purpose.
Envy stirred deep inside Alyssa. She was not a jealous person. Competitive, yes. Driven, sure. Ambitious, absolutely. Envious? Never. But, as she turned through picture after picture of Teague in his element, at the height of a meaningful career he loved with people he adored, Alyssa definitely felt a little on the green side—both jealous of a camaraderie she’d never experienced and sick over what he’d lost.
With her curiosity electrified, Alyssa crouched beside the boxes and peeked in again. A pastel floral cover stood out against the cream file folders.
She drew out the notebook and looked at the front cover. Dates from six years ago were scrawled on the front in a woman’s cursive handwriting. Alyssa opened the book to a random page about one third of the way in, chose a passage and read.
It’s nice to have Teague home, but I’m worried. He’s not the same man who left the house that day before the warehouse fire. He’s distracted and preoccupied. He says he’s just worried about me, but I know something’s going on. He’s researching doctors for me again.
He also found a woman to watch Kat on the days he works. We both know I can’t take care of her. From one moment to the next I can’t recall if I’ve fed her or changed her. It scares me. I’m afraid to be alone with my own baby.
Sympathy bloomed in Alyssa’s chest. She turned to a halfway point in the book and skimmed another passage.
I’ve felt like death all day. I’ve cried from the moment I woke up. I feel as if I’m dying from the inside out. What scares me the most is that as I have more and more days like today and the hopeless, deep, dark, torturous feelings last longer and longer. I feel as if I don’t have anything left to fight with.
The fire crackled. Alyssa started, her gaze darting to Teague. But he remained still, eyes closed, chest rising and falling in a peaceful rhythm. His words filtered back through her mind:
She’s dead. And before you ask, no, I didn’t kill her. She committed suicide... .
She’s dead. And before you ask, no, I didn’t kill her. She committed suicide... .
The quick beat of Alyssa’s heart created a painful stab beneath her ribs, but she needed to know how the dominoes had fallen, how Teague had ended up in this position, and how her own life had been ultimately and irreversibly changed because of it.
She opened the diary past the halfway point and picked another passage.
Ambilify, Zoloft, Prozac, Paxil, Citalopram, Celexa, Ativan, Xanax, Lorazepam, Ambien, Lexapro ... I’ve tried them all. I still can’t get rid of the headaches. I can’t stop crying. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can’t FEEL. I’m dead inside.
“Jesus.” Alyssa breathed the word. Those were heavy drugs for severe depression—bi-polar, manic depression.
She overdosed on depression meds
.
.
She sure as hell had. Alyssa’s mind tripped over the course of events. Fire, Teague’s strange powers, Suzanna’s suicide, Desiree’s murder, Teague’s imprisonment. A downhill spiral destroying a previously perfect life—all starting with that fire.
She turned to the last page of the diary. This passage was different from the rest. Suzanna’s writing was smooth and clear, the words centered and double-spaced, more like a letter than a journal entry.
Teague, I love you dearly. I’m so very sorry for everything I’ve put you through. You have been the best husband I could have ever dreamed of, the best father Kat could ever want or need. I hope you’ll both be able to forgive me someday.
The torment throbbing in Alyssa’s chest had to be nothing compared to the pain Suzanna had gone through or the trauma and loss Teague had suffered.
Exhaustion layered over Alyssa like a heavy blanket. A person could only take so much physical and emotional turmoil. And as she closed the diary with Teague’s promises that he’d die before he went back to prison floating through her head, she couldn’t help wondering how much stress was too much. At what point did a person break and do the unthinkable?
She couldn’t let that happen. Not here, not now, not for her or for Teague or for Kat. She had the determination, the intelligence, the resources to make a difference. And, she had to admit, she often shared her brother’s passion for slaying dragons. Especially the ones out to burn those she cared about.
Alyssa set the photos aside and picked up the top file on the coffee table. A soft jingle brought her attention to the car keys. She darted a look at Teague, but he was still asleep.
Settling into the soft cushions, she scanned the documents inside—court transcripts. After skimming four pages of dry court proceedings, Alyssa rolled her eyes and set that file aside, muttering, “No wonder I decided against law.”
She snuck a glance at Teague before perusing the other piles for something interesting. He remained completely still, his chest rising and falling easily. The pile farthest away, at the edge of the coffee table, caught her eye. She made out the partial word:
Autop
. Alyssa scooped up the autopsy report and rifled through the other papers in the pile. Radiology reports, toxicology results, crime scene notes.
Autop
. Alyssa scooped up the autopsy report and rifled through the other papers in the pile. Radiology reports, toxicology results, crime scene notes.
Jackpot.
S
IXTEEN
IXTEEN
T
eague peered through cracked eyelids toward Alyssa, who was perched on the edge of the couch. He had to clench his fingers to keep from ripping those files out of her hands. Of all the things for her to latch on to, the autopsy report and crime scene details were two of the worst. If she’d picked up the file with the actual autopsy photos, he wouldn’t have been able to hold still. As it was, he had to continue to remind himself that if she was horrified enough by what happened to Desiree and he was able to convince her she was in the same danger, he might actually get her to leave. Which would be best for both of them.
eague peered through cracked eyelids toward Alyssa, who was perched on the edge of the couch. He had to clench his fingers to keep from ripping those files out of her hands. Of all the things for her to latch on to, the autopsy report and crime scene details were two of the worst. If she’d picked up the file with the actual autopsy photos, he wouldn’t have been able to hold still. As it was, he had to continue to remind himself that if she was horrified enough by what happened to Desiree and he was able to convince her she was in the same danger, he might actually get her to leave. Which would be best for both of them.
His stomach churned as she flipped each page. He’d scoured that damned information so many times, he knew exactly what she was reading. And with every word, she seemed to get deeper into the details. Brow furrowed, lips compressed, she flipped pages back and forth, scooted to the edge of the sofa, then laid the reports side by side on the coffee table.
After another twenty minutes of total focus, she finally sighed, propped her elbow on one thigh and dropped her forehead into her hand. “Jesus Christ.”
Her tone of disgust tore at Teague. He’d wanted that reaction, but hated witnessing it.
She planted one finger on a line of type and followed it to the end of the paragraph. A low moan escaped her throat, and it cut through him like a razor blade.
Teague swung his feet to the floor and sat up. “Seen enough?”
Alyssa startled but didn’t respond, just stared at him with a complex mix of emotions he couldn’t read.
“What is wrong with you?” he asked. “Why would you torment yourself with all this stuff?”
Her beautiful eyes sparked with something hot, something intelligent. She grabbed for the knot of keys on the table and, in one quick, fluid move, chucked it at him.
Teague barely lifted his hand in time. He caught them an inch from the cheekbone she’d already cracked once days earlier.
“That’s it.” She pushed to her feet. “I knew something wasn’t right.”
“What the hell was that for?” Teague dropped the keys on the table and rubbed at the sting in his palm.
“Confirmation.”
“Of what?”
“That you’re right-handed,” she said as if the answer should be self-explanatory. “You held the scissors to my throat with your
right
hand. You stitched my side with your
right
hand. You caught those keys with your
right
hand. I thought you were right-handed, but I was just making sure because whoever killed Desire was
left-handed
. It’s not evidence of who else killed her, but evidence that
you
didn’t.”
right
hand. You stitched my side with your
right
hand. You caught those keys with your
right
hand. I thought you were right-handed, but I was just making sure because whoever killed Desire was
left-handed
. It’s not evidence of who else killed her, but evidence that
you
didn’t.”
His mind stopped turning. He darted a look at the papers she’d been reading. “I’ve read those reports over and over and over. I know for a fact the medical examiner didn’t say whether the killer was right or left-handed.”
The look in her eyes shifted from distracted consideration to frustration. “M.E.’s don’t draw conclusions like that. Not on paper. They state the facts, offer opinions on those facts relating to the manner of death, not
who
might have caused that death. Detectives and attorneys take those facts and twist them to fit their respective cases. But I don’t know how anyone could come up with anything other than a left-handed killer given the realities in that report. It’s all in the details—the area of her body damaged by blunt force trauma, the angle of the stab wounds—”
who
might have caused that death. Detectives and attorneys take those facts and twist them to fit their respective cases. But I don’t know how anyone could come up with anything other than a left-handed killer given the realities in that report. It’s all in the details—the area of her body damaged by blunt force trauma, the angle of the stab wounds—”
“This may all be clear to you, Alyssa, but you’re a doctor, for Christ’s sake.”
She snatched the report up from the sofa and started reading. “ ‘Blunt force trauma ... right skull fracture, broken right humerus, cracked right ribs.’ ”
“She also had a broken left hand and bruising on her left hip, shoulder, knee—”
“If someone hit you in the head with a bat or a pipe, wouldn’t you have less severe injuries on the opposite side of your body from falling in that direction?”
Neurons long dormant fired off in a chain reaction of little explosions. “Oh, my God.”
“What do you mean ‘oh, my God’? Any halfway decent attorney—” She stopped mid-sentence. “You
had
a halfway decent attorney ... right?”
had
a halfway decent attorney ... right?”
Shame made Teague break eye contact. “I had a public defender. Evidently, he was about ten-percent decent. All he managed to do was save me from the death penalty.”
“Why did you trust something so crucial to a court-appointed attorney?” she asked in breathless shock. “You had a good job, you could have afforded—”
“No, I couldn’t.” He forced his voice down. “I spent every last damn dime I had on an attorney for the custody battle against Luke. When this hit me, I had nothing left.”
They stood there, staring at each other in the midst of thick silence. Teague’s stomach roiled with memories of terror and agony. He wiped at the sweat on his forehead. “What about the stab wounds? Those were everywh—” A rush of nausea took him off guard. “Those were everywhere on her body. A crime of passion, they said. Personal, they said. Someone who knew her.”
“What? You’re the only person who knew her? She’d never had another boyfriend? She’d never had a fight with someone? For Christ’s sake, Teague, she was an assistant district attorney. Half the prison population probably wanted her dead.”
He didn’t believe her. Couldn’t believe there was evidence that he hadn’t committed the crime staring him in the face while he’d been trying to aid in his own defense. Evidence that his attorney had missed and the prosecution had skimmed over at best, repressed at worst.
“Humor me,” he said. “How could you possibly tell if all those stab wounds were inflicted by someone left-handed? I read the report. They crisscrossed, overlapped. There were some places that had so many they dug a hole in her tissue—”
He wiped a hand down his face and rested it over his mouth to quell the urge to puke. He couldn’t do this. Couldn’t go back through all these gruesome details.
Alyssa snapped the papers back into place in front of her, one finger following the text as she read. “ ‘Penetrating stab wound of the skull passing through the skin and into the brain tissue diagonally
upper left
to
lower right
.’ And here.” She flipped to a new page. “ ‘Four slanted stab wounds passing through the sternum in a roughly diagonal fashion with a penetration angle of
left
to
right
.’ ”
upper left
to
lower right
.’ And here.” She flipped to a new page. “ ‘Four slanted stab wounds passing through the sternum in a roughly diagonal fashion with a penetration angle of
left
to
right
.’ ”
She lifted her hands and let them fall to her sides in a that-should-tell-you-everything type of gesture.
Teague shrugged, lifted his right hand and made a cutting motion across Alyssa’s torso using his right hand for demonstration. “Yeah. Upper left to lower right.”
“No. That’s
your
left, not the victim’s left. From the wounds we know Desiree was facing her attacker, so this,” she shook the report, “is talking about
her
left side.” Alyssa took Teague’s left hand by the wrist and lifted it across her body to her left shoulder, then made a cutting motion across her body toward her right hip, saying, “
Her
upper left to
her
lower right. That is not a normal right-handed movement.”
your
left, not the victim’s left. From the wounds we know Desiree was facing her attacker, so this,” she shook the report, “is talking about
her
left side.” Alyssa took Teague’s left hand by the wrist and lifted it across her body to her left shoulder, then made a cutting motion across her body toward her right hip, saying, “
Her
upper left to
her
lower right. That is not a normal right-handed movement.”
The physical demonstration instantly registered with Teague. He tried to twist the information to fit a right-handed attacker, but couldn’t. Based on the angle of the wounds, the depth of penetration, there was no way someone could have made them with their right hand.
“Good God.” Teague pulled out of Alyssa’s grasp and smacked his hands against his head, raking his fingers down the sides of his face. “How could I have missed something so obvious?”
“Teague,” she said, her voice easing into a compassionate tone. “Even top physicians can operate on the wrong organ or amputate the wrong limb. You were stressed, you were terrified and you expected your attorney to do his damn job.” She paused and got that rock-solid serious look on her face. “Which begs the question ... where did your attorney
really
come from? The DOD could have slipped anyone into the lineup that day to become your public defender.”
really
come from? The DOD could have slipped anyone into the lineup that day to become your public defender.”
Teague’s stomach pitched. He covered his face and rubbed his eyes. “I feel sick.”
He turned to the fire, opened the grate and added several logs to the flames. He stayed crouched there and watched them catch.
His mind needed a few minutes to rest. If he focused on everything he’d lost, he’d definitely snap. He needed to think about all he still had. He was free. He would find Kat. He would follow through with his plan and live a quiet life with her under the radar. And, Alyssa ... No, he couldn’t think about losing Alyssa. She wasn’t his to lose.
“Okay.” Her voice finally brought Teague’s gaze around. She paced the room, her focus blurred in the middle distance as her mind twirled in thought. “Okay, here’s what we’ll do. I’ll call Mitch, explain everything. He can refile your appeal. This is more than enough information to get you a new trial. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if Mitch got all charges dismissed. You and I will go through these files together. We’ll highlight all the discrepancies. Mitch can get copies through the court. He can track down your previous attorney and look into the circumstances of how he was assigned to your case.”
As Alyssa rambled, Teague grabbed her hand and tugged her to a seat beside him on the sofa. “No.”
She leaned forward in earnest. “He’s good. I wasn’t lying when I said he’s the best criminal defense attorney in the state. He knows everyone—attorneys, judges, politicians, cops, detectives, private investigators. Once I explain this to him, he’ll jump on it—”
“Alyssa ...” He waited for her to focus. The hope he saw in her eyes both healed and broke his heart. “What’s done is done. The life I had is gone. No matter what happens, nothing will ever be what it was. It’s over.”
“Once you’re exonerated, you can rebuild. You’re an amazing man. You’re intelligent, educated, skilled. What you’ve been through has made you a deeper, richer, more compassionate person. You can have an even better life. You can have your career back. You can have Kat back.” She ran her hands up his forearms and held on. “Teague, please, trust me on this.”
She pleaded with so much sincerity and conviction, he ached. She believed in him. After everything he’d done to her, and with so little evidence, she was ready to fight for him. His firefighting team had been steadfast and loyal throughout the process. They had visited Teague in prison, initially battling for his innocence. But as the weeks turned into months, the months into years, he’d urged them to move on. And eventually, they had. And while each of his team members—other than Luke—had continued to believe in his innocence, in him, this felt different. This felt deeper. So much deeper.
He wished he could hold on to her confidence, to her faith. To her. Aside from being a father to Kat, there was nothing he’d like better than to imagine Alyssa in his future. Unfortunately, he knew the horror of the legal system firsthand and just how it could be manipulated. And he sure as hell wouldn’t let her ruin her own life. He’d done enough damage already.
He lifted one hand to her face, cupped her jaw and ran his thumb over the skin of her cheek. “At this moment, there is no one I trust more.” He dropped his hand and leaned back. “But I told you before, I’m not going back to prison.”
“You won’t have to. With the evidence, you could get out on bail—”
“You aren’t listening. I have no money, no home, no collateral. No family money, no rich friends. I don’t have any means for bail—”
“I can pull from credit. Mitch can get your bail reduced—”
He squeezed her hands hard, then dropped them and stood. “No, Alyssa. I’m not going through it again.”
She stood and faced off with him. “You should want to clear your name, if not for you, then for Kat.”
“Should? According to who? You? You didn’t sit through a yearlong trial. You didn’t lose custody of your daughter. You didn’t spend three years in San Quentin.”
“So a rough life is your excuse for taking Kat away from everything and everyone she knows? For putting her life at risk when you have the means to prove your innocence and provide her with a good life here in America?”
A big part of him knew she was right. An even bigger part did want to prove his innocence. To be a living example for Kat. To show whoever had created this nightmare they hadn’t beaten him. But he knew the hell of a trial, the horror of prison. He knew all about manipulation, cover-ups and stonewalling. And he wouldn’t risk Kat’s safety by living within reach of whoever had killed Desiree.
“A life with me in another country is better than no life with me at all. You don’t have to like my plan. You don’t have to agree with me. Hell, there’s the door. You don’t even have to stay.”
“Oh, that’s mature.”
“Don’t you get it? This isn’t just about the murder charge anymore. I’ve committed new crimes—crimes I’m actually guilty of.” He put out his hand and ticked off fingers. “Escape, kidnapping, assault, grand theft auto. For Christ’s sake, Lys, I
killed
Taz.”
killed
Taz.”
“That was self-defense.”
“Says who? You? The woman who aided and abetted my escape?”
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