Page 23 of Darkness

“And Morse?”

He stopped with his palm resting on the doorknob, looking back over one shoulder. “Sir?”

Gaskins slid a gun across the desk. “Until the investigation is closed and you get your usual weapon back, here’s a loaner. Now, go home, shower, shave, and dress the part. You still look like warmed-over shit.”

“Truth in advertising, Captain, truth in advertising.” Because Morrisey sure as hell felt like shit.

Or worse.

***

Showering and squeezing into a slightly tight suit—the only clean and unrumpled one in the closet—didn’t improve Morrisey’s appearance much. He just looked like better-dressed shit. Unless he made it to the gym soon or started eating actual food, his ass wouldn’t fit those pants much longer.

Regardless of how close his shave, dark follicles still tinted Morrisey’s face, threatening to sprout into a five o’clock shadow well before five. Ah, the joys of Mediterranean blood.

Or so he’d been told, not having known his biological parents.

Eyedrops didn’t clear his bloodshot eyes—a side effect of whatever the hell happened to him. The doctor said the effects would fade in time, but Morrisey preferred to earn his bloodshot eyes the old-fashioned way. If he ever summoned the courage to visit a liquor store again.

Time heals all wounds, he’d heard folks say. Bullshit. Some wounds never healed; they just sort of scabbed over and pulled if you moved wrong.

Once he’d reached a somewhat presentable state, Morrisey drove downtown to the FBI offices, rummaging through the car’s console. Crap. No breath mints. Instead, he popped a stick of cinnamon gum into his mouth that he’d had to peel off the wrapper. It might be time to throw the pack out if you didn’t remember buying the gum.

He flexed his fingers against the steering wheel in time with the industrial rock beat firing from the RAV4’s speakers. What could the FBI possibly want with him, especially since his attacker didn’t seem to be involved in other crimes? Wanting to hear an account of the attack directly from him screamed of bullshit.

Unless the FBI was having a slow week and hoped for a good laugh.

He stopped by a guard shack and handed over his lD and badge. “Detective Morrisey James here to see Agent Austen.”

The guard inspected the ID, studied his computer screen, then glanced at Morrisey. After a few moments’ scrutiny, he returned the items. “Atlanta PD, huh? I’m afraid you’ll have to leave any weapons in your car or check them here.”

They could have Morrisey’s gun when they pried the latest Agnes from his cold, dead fingers.

Morrisey must’ve appeared as affronted as he felt, for the guard gave a shaky laugh. “Thought so. Have a good day, detective.”

The gate lifted, allowing Morrisey inside the compound. Another car sat nearby, trunk and doors open, with a uniformed security guard rifling through the trunk's contents.

Yeah, it must be a special privilege not to be searched. Morrisey exhaled a heavy breath. One hurdle passed. For a moment, he’d clung to the hope of there being some mistake and the FBI hadn't asked to see him after all.

The three-story example of 1960s architecture consisted of red brick on the first floor and stucco on the second and third. Older than most buildings in this section of the city, it appeared to be a poor cousin next to glass and chrome high-rises. A nondescript building most folks wouldn’t look at twice. He certainly wouldn’t have. The architectural version of himself. The parking lot appeared freshly paved, though, with clearly marked parking spaces.

He perused the lot. A disproportionate number of trucks but few flashy vehicles. Then again, this was Georgia. Apart from the owner-making-up-for-shortcomings muscle trucks, nothing stood out. He’d learned long ago to judge a place by the quality of vehicles their employees drove.

One sectioned-off area held remarkably similar dark-colored cars, most likely official vehicles.

Five minutes from his appointment at ten o’clock, he found an empty visitor spot near the front entrance. He killed the engine and sat in the driver’s seat, checking his reflection in the visor mirror once more, spitting the gum into a fast-food bag, and taking a few deep breaths to calm his rattled nerves.

He reviewed the events of his attack again: the running, shooting, being attacked.

Being saved by an angel.

Would there ever come a time when he’d be over sharing the latest edition of “Weird shit that only happens to me?” Someone once said that the more times you recalled an event, the more your memory broke down. A few more tellings, and he’d probably say, “What alley?”

No use putting off the inevitable. After tucking his new Agnes into the glove box—damn, but he missed the old one—and a final nose and zipper check, he climbed out of his vehicle and ambled toward the entry.

He felt naked without Agnes.

Two suit-clad men and a woman exited the building as he entered, giving him nods of acknowledgement. All looked one hundred times better put together than Morrisey. He stepped through a metal detector into a glass observation and containment area, no doubt made of bulletproof glass, tugging nervously at his suit coat. A silver vent allowed speaking to the uniformed security guard behind the desk.

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