Three Libras - BLACKBIRD book 4

1. in the rain

"If I cut off this nose from my face
Then I wouldn't feel so out of place
But it still wouldn't be quite enough for you..."
Aaron Lewis, Please

Brock stormed out of the federal building, Glock in hand. It was pouring, and through the thick rain, he saw the security guard hurrying to stand on the street, to keep cars away from the curb lane. And there by the curb, kneeling on the pavement past one of the building columns, her back turned to him, Gillian bent forward.

He froze for a split second, and needed to open his mouth to draw some air to his burning lungs. Then he ran to her.

"GILLIAN!" he shouted, his heart hammering his chest as to crack it open.

Maybe he would regret it later, but he felt relieved when he found out Gillian was unharmed. She kneeled by a woman sprawled on the street by the curb, her blood pooling beneath her. Her right hand was apart from her body, a hunting knife pierced through her palm. She'd been shot in her chest and stabbed in her belly. Like the guard said, she was bleeding out, but still conscious.

Gillian had taken off her flannel and kept it against the woman's ripped, bleeding belly, as she held the woman's other hand in hers.

Then Brock heard her speak in a soothing, warm way. "Here, hun, look at me. It's gonna be alright, you hear me? You just hang on."

She only wore her tank top under the freezing rain, so Brock took off his suit coat and wrapped it around her shoulders. She didn't register it. He crouched down by her side as she kept talking to the dying woman.

"Easy, you need to stay still. I'm right here, see? Look at me, Betty. You're with me now, you're okay."

The woman drew in one last gurgling breath and her head tilted on its own weight. Gillian lowered hers for a moment. Then she closed gently the woman's eyes and leaned in to reach the knife.

"Wait," Brock said, out of years of habit. "That's evidence. You cannot touch it."

She ignored him and yanked the blade off the woman's palm. Only now Brock saw the piece of paper pinned with it.

Gillian stood up slowly, soaking wet, blood all over her, letting Brock's suit coat drop to the ground. She met his eyes, and he couldn't tell if they were raindrops or tears running down her face.

He straightened up, still working on swallowing his heart, not quite sure what to say.

Her eyes darkened in a furious glare, she smashed the bloody piece of paper against his chest.

"Fancy another press conference, Agent Brockner, sir?"

Her voice was cold steel thrusting right through him. Brock could only keep a shocked stare on her, his hand grasping the paper just out of instinct. Gillian brushed past him, phone in hand, as he looked down at the paper. It was a print from some online chronicle on his press conference, with a picture of him talking to the reporters. And his face was framed by an underlined omega painted in blood.

Gillian's voice reached him. "Jack, it's Reg Gillian. Call everybody in, we have another victim of the Libra copycats here at my office." She snorted. "YES, THE FBI OFFICE! NOW SEND THE BOYS OVER!"

Brock closed his eyes, all those horrible memories flashing by in his head, mixed with his recurrent nightmares. Gillian yelled at the security guard on the street. Something about writing down a partial on his phone.

Phone. Coleman. He found his phone, and he was about to dial Russell when he heard Gillian barking at the other guard, still inside the building. "CALL ON MY TEAM AND AGENT COLEMAN! NOW!"

She brushed back past him to kneel again by the woman's body, her phone still to her ear. "Ma'am, it's Gillian. Something happened. Please call me asap."

A siren wailed closer. And only then did Brock register that she'd called the victim by her first name. Even when the woman was in no shape to speak at all. He circled the body to crouch down in front of her. He kept his voice low to ask, even though he already knew the answer, "Did you know her?"

Brock was grateful she didn't look up at him, because he didn't want to face that resented glare from her again.

"She was Betty Stullen," she replied in a dull voice that caused him a chill. "Fifty-two last week, mother of three cool kids, wife to stupid Charlie. She baked the best pies downtown and she was on her way to work. I'd buy a slice of pie at her bakery, two streets away from here, every single morning since I got my cop badge, twenty-two years ago. Just like many other cops in the city..." She paused, taking a shaky breath. "Cook and the King love her chocolate cakes... Banks dies for her lemon pies... Andrew Lloyd was addicted to her cupcakes... Taylor got me over her strawberry pie..."

An ambulance squealed behind them. More sirens wailed closer. Brock forced himself up and signaled the medics there was no hurry anymore. Two police cruisers and Taylor's car came to a sharp stop around the ambulance. While the uniforms spread out to block the street and tape off the spot, Taylor ran to Gillian in the rain.

"REG! REG, YOU OK?" He halted at seeing the body and scowled in disbelief. "Betty...!?"

Gillian allowed him to help her up. "I'm fine, don't worry. Agent Brockner will tell you what he needs from the scene." She spun around and strode into the building.

Russell's car skidded around the corner, against the traffic. He and Aldana jumped out of the car. They had hardly run past the ambulance, when Fred and Ron swerved to slip their cars between the cruisers and jumped out as well.

Russell spotted the blood on Brock's shirt and sprinted to him. "Brock! You okay?"

And Brock realized that no, he was not okay. He was actually far from okay. But he couldn't tell Russell so. "I'm fine, it's not my blood," he said slowly, struggling to take everything in and grasp some sort of inner balance back.

Ron and Fred barely waited for him to answer and hurried to the body.

Brock heard their exclamations at recognizing the victim. He looked up at Russell and showed him the paper. "This was pinned to her hand."

Behind him, Fred inspected the body. "No kill shot. Judging by the amount of blood, the son of bitches left her here to die. Look, there's a stab in her hand." He spotted the suit coat on the street, not a step away from the pool of blood, and picked it up. "Isn't this yours, Brockner?" he asked.

Russell frowned down at the chronicle. "This was meant for you," he muttered.

Brock managed a nod. Before he could say anything, Ron grabbed his arm and tugged him around, pointing at the body. "That's Reg's flannel full of blood there! Where is she, Brockner!?"

He replied from far away, fighting back the red haze clouding his eyes. His voice sounded calm to a surreal extent, even for him. "She's fine. She just went back inside."

Russell realized how close he was from shock and signaled Ron to step back. Then he pressed gently Brock's arm. "We got this, Brock. Go change this dirty clothes."

Brock scowled at his words and found his concerned look. He had a flash of Carson's mugshot pinned to the board. "See you upstairs in five minutes," he said. "We have the identity of the dominant subject."