Page 45 of Darkness

Fuck. Morrisey would have to call and apologize to Gaskins later. Right now, he seemed bound for the Twilight Zone.

***

Morrisey slouched in the backseat of Leary's SUV, reading over the case file. Michael Hawkins, Caucasian male, twenty-six. Neighbors found him three houses away from the attack, where he’d apparently gone for help and lost consciousness on the doorstep. Morrsiey recognized the man’s picture from the photo at the birthday party crime scene of a man, woman, and child.

The killers hadn’t slashed him like the others—not a mark on him, yet he’d lapsed into a coma.

Drawing from the photographs and FAET's report, the survivor sustained nonvisible injuries similar to the ones Morrisey suffered, only worse. Much worse. Had he made it through with his mental faculties intact, he’d have been a big help in solving the case.

How could anyone obtain useful information from Michael Howkins now? Morrisey might get impressions, but little more.

Leary and Farren chatted quietly in the front seat. Farren Austen. Except for the single internet entry, Morrisey found nothing. Now the reference gave an “not found” error when he tried to find more info on the bookmarked site. Someone seemed determined to erase any traces of Farren Austen’s pre-FBI life. How had a model wound up in law enforcement with some secret task force, not aging a day in ten years?

Which made the whole thing even more suspicious.

Leary turned off Main Street, making a few rights and lefts before pulling into the parking lot of an imposing ten-story building. Mercy General Hospital. Morrisey knew the place well, having visited coworkers here. He’d even stood outside the nursery while proud father Will gushed baby talk through a window.

But mostly, Morrisey visited the morgue—far too often. He didn’t dare touch anyone, living or dead, unless he had to. He didn’t want or need any extra pain.

Evenly spaced planters of marigolds led to the entrance, giving a splash of color to the otherwise gray walls, a likely attempt to create a more cheerful atmosphere, as if that could happen. Oh, how Morrisey hated gray.

Farren followed in Leary’s footsteps. Morrisey brought up the rear. There might’ve been a metaphor there. An automatic door whooshed open, admitting them into an overly optimistic reception center. A gift shop stood to the left, offerings spilling out of the open storefront, enticing visitors to make impulse buys rather than arrive at a loved one’s bedside empty-handed.

Leary showed his badge to the attendant, who gestured toward the elevators. Morrisey and Farren followed, riding to the sixth floor in silence. They arrived at another reception area. Morrisey peered out the windows while Leary talked to the duty nurse seated behind a glass barrier, the better not to see things—or people—who might leave Morrisey needing a drink.

At one time, he’d have considered ten a.m. too early for a drink. How times had changed. Hell, these days, just waking up sent Morrisey reaching for a bottle.

The nurse stood, shaking her graying head. Whew! No extra face distorted her features. “I’m sorry, sir, but the patient is unresponsive. He’s only on life support until his organs are ready for transplantation.”

Leary spoke to the nurse in much softer tones than normal, presenting his badge. “The hospital administrator has already cleared us. Agents James and Austen, Special Agent Leary, FBI. We’ll only need a couple of minutes.”

The nurse made a call, speaking in hushed tones. With a curt nod, she disconnected and informed them, “You can go in.” She stared after them, likely wondering what the FBI wanted with a patient who couldn’t answer questions.

Leary led the way to the room, taking up a position just inside the door. “Good. No family here makes things easier.”

Much easier since the poor family mourned multiple losses.

The room contained two beds: one empty, one occupied. The steady whooshing of air and machines filled the room, as well as the bitter stench of antiseptic.

Even reading the report hadn’t prepared Morrisey for the reality of a young man looking peaceful, unmarked. Nonvisible injuries. “What happened to him?”

“Same as with you,” Leary replied. “A traveler tried to take his body. He put up a fight, likely because the traveler tried to use him to attack the women—his loved ones. Damaged his mind beyond repair. My guess is the attacker’s host body sustained injuries, and the traveler needed to make a clean break. Our victim was covered in blood when we found him. This poor guy must’ve fought like hell. He didn’t win, but he didn’t lose either. Not totally.”

Tubes and wires connected the patient to machines. A ventilator concealed a portion of his face.

Farren fixed his gaze on the motionless body, a furrow appearing between his brows. “We are short on time.” Without another word, he moved the second bed close to the first and flopped onto the mattress. “Touching helps,” he explained.

So, maybe this was similar to how Morrisey read victims.

Leary turned Morrisey with a hand to the shoulder, putting them eye-to-eye if Morrisey looked down. “You’re about to witness a process you might find horrifying at first. I know it terrified me completely. But neither Farren nor the patient will suffer harm from the procedure. Whatever you do, don’t interfere.”

“Except I might lose a little sleep at night.” Farren reached for the patient’s hand, placing two fingers against the exposed skin on the man’s wrist. He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. On an exhale, he went motionless.

The injured man shuddered yet didn’t open his eyes. What the hell were they doing?

Farren’s body lay still. Too still. His chest didn’t rise and fall.

Morrisey inched a finger toward his neck.

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