This Fallen Prey (Rockton #3)(32)

Anders looks at me, his mouth set in a tight line. He knows this can be faked. Stick your finger down your throat to start the vomiting and then act out the rest.

“Guys?” Paul says.

“Lock the back door,” I say, and then I do that with the front. As Anders holds open the back door, he says, “Out,” to Paul . . . who hasn’t moved.

“But he—”

“—could be just hoping we throw open the cell door and let him make a run for it.”

“You think he’s faking?” Paul says.

I say, “I think every second you debate whether to do as I said, you delay us helping him if he’s not.”

Anders shuts and locks the rear door as he says, “Stay here then. And don’t expect me to forget that you disobeyed an order.”

We don’t hear Paul’s protest. I’m at the cell door with my key in one hand, gun in the other. Storm stands beside me. I hand Anders the key, and he unlocks the door. Brady is still doubled over, dry-heaving now, panting hard and letting out whimpers of pain between breaths. The stink of vomit fills the room.

Anders opens the door and steps over a puddle. His gaze goes to something behind Brady. He motions to me that he’s going to bend over the heaving man to retrieve it. I stand poised while he crouches. What he lifts is Brady’s breakfast tray. He backs out of the cell to set it on the floor. Then he starts in again.

Anders makes it one step. Brady lurches. I shout “Will!” but Anders is already on him, pinning him to the floor, a slap as Brady’s body hits the vomit pool. Brady’s arms fly out to the sides, as if in surrender.

“Dog,” he rasps. “The dog.”

He points in my direction, and I’m not sure if I’m mishearing, but he just keeps pointing. Then he starts heaving again, his body jerking and convulsing under Anders.

“Lock the door,” Anders says.

I hesitate—I’m loath to lock Anders in there with Brady—but it’s only a split second. Then I lock it and train my gun on Brady as Anders rises off him.

Brady stays facedown, racked with dry heaves.

“I need you to put your hands behind your back,” Anders says.

At first, Brady just moans. Anders repeats the command, and Brady complies. Anders snaps on a wrist strap. He looks from me to the puddles to the food tray. It’s mostly empty, the water and coffee drained. If Brady just finished his meal—including two drinks—that could account for the quantity of vomit. That tray, though, also suggests he might not be faking.

“Here?” Anders says, and I know he’s asking whether we should attempt to care for Brady in the cell.

If it is poison, we need him at the clinic. He can’t even lie flat in the cell, and it’s such a mess that it’ll impede our efforts.

“He’s secured,” I say.

“Can you walk?” Anders asks Brady.

The younger man puts one foot out and begins to rise. It’s slow, unsteady, but even if he forced the vomiting, he will be weak.

Anders helps him to his feet. Then, “Paul?”

“Yes, sir.” Paul hurries over from where he’s been watching in silence. “I can help you carry him.”

“Not you. Get Kenny.”

Paul flushes. He knows Anders is saying: I don’t trust you. He bobs his head and runs out the front door. I relock it behind him. Then I move to the cell and unlock that. Anders has Brady up, supporting him. I open the door and move in to help, but Anders says, “I’ve got it. Just stand point, please.”

I step back and keep the gun ready as they walk out of the cell. A key scrapes in the front door lock. Then it stops.

“Casey? Will?”

I call for Dalton to come in, and he finishes unlocking the door. He steps through, sees Brady, and curses. Then he hurries over to help.



If there is an advantage to having parents who raised me to be a doctor, it is that I don’t need to consult our medical texts to recognize the signs of poisoning. I assess Brady as Dalton and Anders carry him to the clinic.

He has a fever. He’s struggling to breathe. His heart is racing.

Oliver Brady has been poisoned.

At the clinic, we pump his stomach. It’s only our second time using the procedure. In Brady’s case, after all that vomit, there really isn’t much to pump, but it’s all we know.

Brady is thankfully unconscious by this point. I say thankfully, because we would not have earned his confidence if he’d been awake, hearing Dalton reading aloud from a chapter on emergency poisoning treatment as Anders and I worked.

And he really wouldn’t want to hear us concur that pumping his stomach is the extent of what we can do. After the pumping, we put him on an IV to replace fluids. Then we wait.

It’s two hours before he wakes. I’m collapsed in a bedside chair. Anders sits on the floor beside me. Dalton has gone back to the station to secure the scene.

Brady wakes, and the first thing he says is, “Dog.”

I remember him saying that in the cell, and again I think I must be mishearing.

“Doug?” I say. We do have a resident named Doug . . . who also works as a chef.

He shakes his head and rasps, “Dog. Your dog food.”

Anders rises. “You think someone served you dog food?”

More head shaking, Brady’s face screwing up in frustration. “Your dog. The food. Poison. Did she eat—?” He coughs and winces as the cough sets his raw throat aflame. “Did your dog eat the food? Tried—tried to warn—”