Page 14 of Go Home (Kate Valentine #1)

Another thing they never told you in training, Kate thought, as she returned to the car with two cans of Coke and four packets of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.

The smells . And the smell of a long stake-out had to be one of the worst. Hot, unwashed bodies, the hint of burnt rubber from the car heater, a tang of engine oil blending with the oniony stink of cheap takeout.

It sucked. She wished, sometimes, that the experience could be more like its depiction in the old cop shows.

Both cops chain-smoking their way through it, creating one stink you got used to, rather than several that you never did.

“I think we could be in for a long wait,” she said, as she slid into her seat.

“No à la carte tonight?” queried Marcus, taking delivery of his half.

“This was literally everything that was left in the vending machine,” Kate replied. “The receptionist took one look at the photo and confirmed it was Sullivan. But he’s given a false name. He’s in room thirty-three. Checked in at midday, paid for tonight. Went out again about quarter after six.”

“So we still don’t know what he did between Monday afternoon and midday today.”

“Perhaps he found a whorehouse attached to a casino,” Kate suggested. “That would be a way of losing at least 24 hours.”

“But why come back here at all?” It was Marcus’s turn to be serious. “What does he want?”

Following their visit to the rehab facility, they’d issued an APB description and photograph of Ray Sullivan.

Kate had a feeling he would show up in a big city, and they’d made sure everywhere as far south as New Jersey had been copied in on the call-out.

Subsequently, and to their great surprise, round about tea-time, Arthur, the young local beat cop, had spotted him coming out of a motel on the south side of Douglas Cove, trailed him for a short while on foot, then managed to lose him.

The Fulton Inn – an establishment considerably seedier than the one Kate and Marcus were staying in – confirmed Sullivan as a guest, and they were now parked discreetly outside, awaiting his return.

“So he goes to the trouble of using a false name, but nonetheless – this is a small town. What are the chances of him being spotted by someone? If you’ve committed a murder, you’d try and lose yourself in Boston or NYC, wouldn’t you? Or at least Bangor or Portland.”

Marcus tipped the last of the Cheetos down his throat. “I guess he’s not thinking straight. I don’t know. The wife didn’t seem to care if he lived or died. Maybe he doesn’t either.”

They’d called at Ray Sullivan’s home address and spoken to his wife.

She’d been the first one to make the quip about the whorehouse with a casino, but she hadn’t meant it in a remotely fond or humorous way.

Both agents could tell from her drawn features, and the angry way she sucked on a cigarette, that she’d been worn down to the bone by living with Ray Sullivan.

“What was his false name?”

“Oh you won’t b– “

Kate froze mid-sentence, eyes fixed on the rear-view mirror. A tall, heavy-set man was clutching a brown paper bag full of bottles. With him, a considerably smaller and skinnier young woman, in cut-off jeans and a thin zip-up.

Kate and Marcus stepped out of their sedan.

“Mr. Reagan?” she flashed him her ID. “Kate Valentine, FBI.”

The man blinked owlishly. “Huh?”

“Let’s cut the pretense. You’re Raymond Sullivan. We want to talk to you regarding the death of Father Thomas Grayson.”

There was a moment when Kate thought she could almost see the thoughts unsteadily tiptoeing their way through Sullivan’s mind, like a drunk trying to walk in a straight line.

In the next moment, Kate felt the bag of bottles crash into her chest with surprising force as the man took to his heels, heading back towards the street. Bottles smashed, the scent of whiskey filled the air, and the girl screamed.

“Leave him alone you Fed bastards!”

As Marcus tried to run after Sullivan, the girl leaped on his back, tearing at his hair with her fingernails as he blindly swung around, trying to dislodge her.

Assuming Marcus could handle that particular situation, Kate sprinted off after Sullivan who, for a large intoxicated man, was surprisingly light on his feet.

Kate hated chases. She was in good shape, but she always ended up injuring something, then having to limp around the office for days while her colleagues exchanged knowing looks.

She pursued Sullivan – who was panting like a steam train at this point – across the road and down the street, feeling her lungs burn, the slap of her shoes on the pavement.

“FBI, stop!” she shouted.

Sullivan turned to check how close she was, in the process stumbling and almost going over. But he righted himself and kept on thundering down the pavement, fueled on booze and sheer terror. Kate could feel it in every muscle now, every bead of sweat on her brow. How long could he keep going?

There was a narrow alley up ahead and Kate could see him slowing down. From her perspective, it looked way too tight for him to squeeze down: more of a gap between a pair of buildings than a cut-through.

Dammit.

He slipped through and as he did so, Kate skidded on a patch of wet leaves, losing a crucial second or two.

The alley was dark. But as she headed in after him, she could see his broad back coming to a sudden, lumbering halt.

Her instincts kicked in. Was he going to turn and attack?

Did he have a weapon? She reached for her gun.

But as he turned, she recognized from his body language what had happened.

His shoulders sagged, his eyes flashed panic.

Up ahead, the alley was a dead end. As he slowed, she sped up and, ducking her head down, Kate lunged at him, ramming into his chest with her shoulder.

The pain was instant. They both crashed down into a pile of wooden crates, each one scrabbling for the advantage amid the splinters.

Sullivan took off, back towards the street, but by this stage, his power had all but gone.

Kate threw herself at his back, and he let out a last grunt as she locked her arms around his torso, pinning him to the cold ground.

“Raymond Sullivan, you’re under arrest.”

+++++

“Hello?”

Whitman’s voice came out high and reedy in the deserted corridor. He swallowed. Took a deep breath. Breathed out through his nose.

This was ridiculous. After he’d heard the elevator stop at the fourth floor, he’d waited for an eternity to hear the doors open.

But there was nothing. He’d stood up and crossed the room, annoyed, more than anything else, that his peace had been interrupted.

He’d listened with his ear pressed against the door, hearing nothing but his own heartbeat.

Could the elevator be on the fritz? That made some sense, actually. It had broken twice in the past few months and at the last facilities meeting there’d been mutterings about the need for an overhaul.

He’d just check. Just to be certain. If it was going up and down of its own accord, then he’d file a report tomorrow. That would be tedious, more time squandered, but…

He opened the door and came out onto the landing.

There was sufficient light coming through the window for him to tell that the doors were closed.

And they’d be open if someone had come up.

Wouldn’t they? Or did they shut after a short while, like after thirty seconds or something?

Why would he know? Why would such information ever encroach upon his consciousness?

He glanced up and down the corridor. A notice had been torn from the wall; it was on the floor next to the drawing pin that had fixed it there.

He tutted. The cleaners were not exactly thorough in this part of the building.

They kept the grander, more visited spaces near the Dean’s office and the new IT center clean as a whistle.

Social sciences was the poor cousin, as ever.

He walked over, and bent down with a grunt.

Pinned it back up. A meeting about something, unworthy of his attention.

Feeling relieved, he turned back to his office. The door was shut. He must have shut it, then, but it was odd that he didn’t remember doing so. He opened it.

“Hello Professor Whitman.”

Whitman’s heart banged so hard that it hurt. A large, dark, hooded figure jumped at him from behind the door, grabbed him, and with savage strength, started to haul him towards the window.

“Wh-who the hell are you?” Whitman managed to say, as he struggled in the man’s grasp.

There was an awful smell in the room, something like airport runways, eye-watering.

In spite of everything else, he felt a surge of annoyance as the man kicked the rug aside and slammed him up hard against the window.

Defenestration , Whitman thought. What a fucking stupid word for throwing someone out of a window.

But that wasn’t the plan at all, it seemed. Roughly, the man cuffed Whitman to the heavy iron radiator below the window, kicked his legs out from under him and went to sit at Whitman’s desk.

“What do you want?” Whitman asked, sore and trembling. The figure was silent, motionless, huge and brooding like a Henry Moore sculpture.

In the quiet, Whitman’s mind went into overdrive.

Thinking of explanations, possibilities.

Was this some sort of frat-house prank? He’d failed a few of those meatheads in his time.

Enemies? Okay, he’d made some. It happened in academia, there were jealousies, differing accounts as to who had found what, but…

God, what about the kid, though? That stupid, stupid Bible-swallowing kid.

“Are you Brandon?”

The figure seemed to chuckle, privately, without a sound. “You really paid no attention to him, did you?”

“But you’re doing this on his behalf, right? What’s the link? Do you go to the same church? Are you related?”