Race the Darkness (Fatal Dreams, #1)(45)
Isn’t that the fucking question I keep asking myself? “You own it?”
Xander was half tempted to say yes, just to see Lathan’s reaction. “No.”
“Then I expect it’s none of your business.” Lathan’s tone wasn’t unfriendly; it just lacked the camaraderie they’d shared a moment ago.
Xander’s phone vibrated. He yanked it out and glanced at the screen.
Kent: Where the fuck are you? Everyone is waiting.
Shit.
He shoved his phone back in his pocket. All the guy’s attention was on him, wariness on his face, like he half expected Xander to attack.
“I’m late for an interrogation. You find anything, keep me in the loop. Contact Kent Knight at the BCI field office. Like I said, this one is personal.”
The guy dipped his head in agreement, but didn’t say—or think—anything as Xander turned and headed away.
Note to self: Ask Kent just exactly what kind of consulting Lathan does.
*
The fluorescent light over Xander’s head winked dim and then bright, the buzz of the dying bulb as annoying as a mosquito let loose inside his brain. Elbows on the table, he fisted his hands over his ears to drown the noise. Screw trying to look all invincible to the Prospectus County coppers observing on the other side of the interrogation room’s two-way mirror. Remaining sane and not letting the Bastard in His Brain make a guest appearance took top billing over looking mucho macho.
A splashing dark stain on the ceiling tiles indicated a leaky roof, and the gunk caked in the floor corners proved the janitor—if there was one—wasn’t being paid to care. The sheriff’s office seemed to be a victim of underfunding and understaffing. With Isleen and Gale’s case and the murder in Prospectus Prairie Park, you’d think the place would be overflowing with officers, but all staff on deck meant only a half dozen officers, making the place blissfully quiet. Except for that goddamned light droning on and on and on.
The moment he’d seen Kent pacing in the corridor, waiting for him outside this room, Xander had blasted off with questions about Lathan Montgomery. Kent knew less than he did, only that the FBI had called in a local consultant. That was it. Nothing else. And wasn’t that weird? That there was a local FBI consultant that no one knew anything about.
Xander waited three full revolutions of the minute hand on the clock across from him, then spoke without even facing the two-way mirror. “You want me to get answers? Get him in here. Now. I don’t have all day to sit on my fucking thumb.” He still needed to drive back across the state to interview William Goodspeed.
The scraping squeal of the door being opened practically lacerated his eardrums. He clamped his hands tighter over his ears. The frequency connection opened, the pain of it a fist to the temple. Without meaning to, Xander flinched and held his breath until the thudding in his head became a part of his body’s rhythm. He removed his hands from his ears and sat up straighter while the officer cuffed the suspect to the metal table.
Asshole acts like a spoiled brat just ’cause he’s a special consultant to the BCI. With a face like that, he probably hasn’t been laid in a decade. The officer’s thoughts were in line with how every other officer looked at him.
“Try six hours ago,” Xander said to the officer, then locked his attention on the Prairie Murderer.
How’d he—
“There’s a reason I’m the special skills consultant. Lock him down and leave.” Xander examined the blond beast dressed in jailhouse tangerine. Yep. Blond beast was the best description. A thick scruff of matted beard shadowed the guy’s face, and his hair fell in thick wheat-colored hanks over his forehead and into his eyes, obscuring the details of his features. But there was no hiding the indifference to sin shining bright in the guy’s eyes. Simon Smith, a.k.a. the Prairie Murderer, looked more rabid animal than Homo sapiens.
After the officer left the room, Xander inhaled a lungful of pungent air tainted with body odor and the moist, greasy scent of unwashed hair. This was going to be one of those breathe-through-the-mouth situations.
Simon Smith’s apathetic gaze roamed over Xander’s scars. He got what he deserved. Marked for life. Punished for life. Everyone will know about him. He’s no threat. His body betrayed nothing of his thoughts. He didn’t move a muscle, didn’t even blink.
“Who you talking about?” Xander asked.
You’ve been marked. You are no threat.
Xander’s heart jackknifed inside his chest. Queen’s words echoed through his brain—Mark of the Beast. The wording seemed too close to be random. But coincidences did occasionally happen.
“You think I’m no threat? Because of my scars? My scars are what make me a threat.” Actually, the lightning strike had caused his supercharged hearing. The scars were just the lightning’s version of saying, “I was here.”
Your scars are your punishment.
O-k-ay. They were having a one-sided conversation—Xander’s side—and this guy acted as if that were completely normal. Someone had stepped over the loony line. The guy had to be off his psych meds. Xander would bet if they searched, they’d find a history of Simon Smith being in and out of the nuthouse. Better alert Crazyland—one of their residents had escaped.
Another coincidence: Queen was just as fruitcake nutty.
Xander picked up his pen lying across the legal pad and wrote in big, bold letters: YOU’RE MENTAL. When he looked up, Simon’s gaze was still fixated on Xander’s face. He held the paper up covering his scars, forcing Simon Smith to see his words.