“Right.” Jonas gripped the wheel and drove.
The rearview mirror gave a perfect view of the flames consuming the house. In the distance, fire engines wailed. Someone had already called 9-1-1.
“Is that the cops?” Jonas asked.
“No. The fire department.” They rounded a corner and the fire faded from view.
In silence, they drove for several minutes before Jonas gripped the steering wheel tighter. “Can we do it again? I want to do it again!”
“Not right away. We have to wait.” Anticipation burned under the yoke of Reason’s screams to be freed.
But like Jonas, Madness didn’t want to wait. Madness had been starved for too long and would not allow Reason to dictate terms.
Lights from Broadway in Nashville’s music district flashed across Jonas’s face as they made their way toward an open bar. “I don’t want to wait.”
“Let’s get a drink.”
Jonas frowned.
“You’ve trusted me this far. Have I ever let you down?”
“No.”
“Then trust me.”
Chapter One
Monday, August 14, 8 A.M.
Detective Rick Morgan’s nickname was Boy Scout. He didn’t like the moniker, given to him by his partner Detective Jake Bishop, but in the four weeks they’d been partnered, it had stuck.
“Why?” he’d once asked Bishop.
The answer came with a shrug. “You couldn’t lie if you tried, you keep your hair buzzed, walk like you’ve a stick up your ass and, Christ, what’s with the Johnny Cash black suits?”
If Rick had cared, he’d have explained that a natural bluntness limited conversations to the facts; the haircut and suits were convenient, and, well, better a rigid gait than reveal the limp, a reminder of the two bullets that had sliced into his upper leg and spilled his blood on I-40.
Memories of lying on hard asphalt heated by the July sun as he bled out remained vivid. Broad daylight. Not a cloud in the sky. It had been a routine traffic stop. A blue Ford truck with a busted tail light. He’d flashed his lights. The truck had pulled to the side. No signs of trouble. Plates called in, he’d approached the car, careful to touch the back trunk and leave fingerprints, a precaution in case of trouble. Before he cleared the trunk, the gun muzzle flashed. He’d drawn his gun. Gunfire. Pain. His thumb had jammed against the release button on his vest, opening the back door of his vehicle to free his canine Tracker. The shepherd had leapt into action. Snarls and barking mingled with more gunfire. Tracker had gone down in a heap, the whimper of his pain echoing in Rick’s ears as he’d fired again and mortally wounded the shooter.
It had all gone down in less than thirty seconds. Thirty fucking seconds.
A horn honked.
Rick straightened and glanced up at the green light. He pushed the accelerator and drove the remaining blocks to the Nashville Police Department’s offices located on Union and Third Avenue North. He parked, shoved out a breath hoping it would take some of the tension with it. He’d been in the homicide department four weeks now and still hadn’t fallen in step with his new partner.
Out of the car, he was grateful the persistent throb in his hip was manageable today as he opened the back door. Tracker looked up at him and barked, his signal that he was ready to work.
Rick pulled a ramp from the floorboard and rested it against the seat and the ground, allowing Tracker an easy exit from the vehicle. Tracker had lost a good portion of his back right leg and, though he walked well enough, he was no longer certified for duty. The department had allowed Rick to adopt the dog as a personal pet.
But Tracker was no more built for the civilian life than Rick. During his medical leave, Rick had tried returning to school but found the day-to-day classes underwhelming. No buzz. No excitement. Just boring.
And so he’d put in his papers to be reinstated and, as luck would have it, he’d been tossed the new spot on the homicide team. Rick wasn’t foolish enough to believe he’d gotten the job strictly on merit. He was a good cop, maybe a great one, but it had been his father’s forty-plus years of service to the department, as well as his brother’s current spot on the homicide team, that had tipped the scales. Family connections had opened the door to this opportunity and he sure as hell wasn’t going to squander it.
“Beggars can’t be choosers, right, T?” He and Tracker made their way to the front doors.
The two, both stiff from the car ride, moved slowly to the elevators. So far, Rick and Tracker had held their own. Not setting it on fire but closed a few slam-dunk cases. He punched the second-floor button.
When the door opened, the hum of the fluorescent lights and chatter offered a half-hearted welcome. A few detectives glanced up in their direction. One or two tossed an appreciative glance toward Tracker, none toward Rick. No one had an issue with the dog.
Tracker settled on a thick army blanket next to a metal, five-drawer desk as Rick glanced at the stack of homicide files he’d been reviewing yesterday. A teen knifed behind Broadway in an alley. A floater in the Cumberland River. A hit-and-run near Fourth Street.
He shrugged off his coat and moved to the break room to pour a cup of coffee. He’d not slept well last night or any other night since the shooting. A year should have loosened the hold of that night but time apparently didn’t heal all wounds. Nightmares still jerked him out of sleep, leaving his heart pounding like a jackhammer and his body doused in sweat.
He eased into his chair and sipped coffee as he reached for a file.