Ford
"WHAT DOES CARSON NOT HAVE access to? First, it's potassium chloride to simulate a heart attack, then knives crafted well enough to severe limbs, some sort of fucking storage unit to keep all his memorabilia over the years, and now fucking bombs?" I spit out.
Detective Needham's voice emanates from the phone that's placed almost dead centre on our dining room table, and there's a gentle swish of wind mingled in behind his voice. All six of us crowd around it, and William and Clark are the only ones sitting down. "We've got our bomb disposal unit on it. Whatever remains, they're searching through to determine what type of bomb was used. We might have to reach out to counter terrorism squads in the state if we require more information on the bomb used."
"Mason and Jeanette are definitely dead?" William pipes up.
All of us glare at him. Jeremiah's muttering under his breath, "Of course they're fucking dead at that close range."
William has the grace to appear shamefaced, and Detective Needham doesn't even entertain his moronic question. What he fails to remember is that there were two uniformed officers in that car with Jeanette and Mason, and they're both dead as well. They're just collateral damage, and that really exhibits the heinous lengths Carson's prepared to go to with his unbothered persona.
"How do you think he got access to bombs? You think he made them himself?" Jax queries.
"It's possible," Detective Needham responds after a moment's thought. "He's been quiet for a few days. I'd be inclined to say that yes, he did make it rather than outsourcing the work, but if he has access to the illegal side of West Point, he could have easily ordered one of there. Ford, I'll get someone else to check the order history and see if anything marries up to the bomb he used."
Silence settles for a moment as Detective Needham murmurs some instructions to officers close to him. I already know he's at the scene of the crime now. I close my eyes, conjuring up the image of what it must look like. The bare infrastructure of the car and not much else, blackened by the heat of the impact. Where's the car? On an empty road or surrounded by buildings?
"Where's Genevieve?" I ask.
The other guys are informed of everything now. We're all abreast and sharing equal amounts of knowledge. Jax lost his comedic tendency early on, and Harris has been pale and clenching his jaw for the last ten minutes. It's Harris observing me now, and I wonder if I should have called her Coralee—does she want to be known as that from now on?—but Genevieve is the girl I know and love, and right now in her absence, that's all I have to go off.
"She's at home. Shewas in shock, but I've left her in the capable hands of a few of my fellow officers and I've stationed some along the street and in the estate. She's safe, Ford. You should stay there. I don't think she's ready to see you just yet." He sighs. "I need to go. I've got shit to deal with now. I just thought it would be right to inform you all what Carson's done. We're reaching the climax of whatever he has planned. Stay vigilante—all of you. He's turned on Jeanette and Mason. He's unpredictable."
"Thanks, Detective."
As Jeremiah reaches out to disconnect the call, a sudden realization occurs to me.
The pampering of the victims—the ones who enjoyed a mouth-watering final meal—were all prepared by Jeanette. She even works—worked—as a chef in a goddamn restaurant downtown. The answer was literally hiding in plain sight. Hindsight really is a motherfucking bitch.
"What do we do?" Harris asks, but his eyes are focused on me as if I have the answer.
"I don't fucking know," I bite out, irate beyond belief. I can feel my blood boiling, pulsating beneath my skin in an insatiable itch I can't seem to reach. My blood even pounds in my ears, and all I can fucking see is red. "I don't exactly have a manual on what to do if there's a fucking psychopath on the loose."
