Chapter 17 #2
No matter what Lincoln thought of Carter, or what Carter mistakenly thought Lincoln thought of him, Lincoln did not think his partner lacked competence or professional discipline. Hell, it had been Lincoln who had been late at every turn on this case.
Was he late now?
Late to come around to Larry as the prime suspect? Carter’s field instincts had been on point every other instance.
Late to realize this absence wasn’t just Carter sulking or blowing off steam? Because that was not Carter.
Fuck. He opened the text messages again. Still no Read. And he knew his texts were coming and going just fine. He’d texted back and forth with Elena a half hour ago.
Elena. W-W-E-D? But this wasn’t a technical malfunction. He needed to think like a field agent. Like Carter.
W-W-C-D. What would Carter do?
Lincoln’s first thought was to ask Ollie and Beverley for help, ask them to call in the cavalry.
But the cavalry Lincoln needed was already here, agents and law enforcement who knew the area better than DC feds.
Lincoln shrugged on his coat, grabbed his bag, and started for the stairs, scrolling through his contacts as he went.
O’Shea answered on the first ring. “Agent Monroe, what’s going on?”
“We may have a situation. Can you and Jo meet me at my and Carter’s house?” He relayed the address of the rental, texted Ollie and Beverley that they would need to reschedule, then barreled out the back door of the lab building.
He navigated the Wrangler through campus and town in less than ten minutes and pulled into the driveway in fifteen. Next to Carter’s Forester. Relief slammed into him, and hot on its heels, anger. Was Carter here? Safe and sound . . . and sulking?
Or maybe Carter had fallen asleep? That Lincoln could understand.
He’d been so on edge earlier, exhaustion and dead ends a cocktail that didn’t mix well, Carter’s temper flaring in a way that surprised Lincoln.
And saddened him. And made a certain amount of sense, given Carter’s childhood.
Lincoln should have handled things better too.
Though as Lincoln entered through the front door and tripped over Carter’s shoes, he wasn’t feeling so magnanimous.
“Carter!” he shouted. “Where the fuck are you?”
Silence replied.
“Wake up or come out from wherever you’re pouting!”
Not exactly the definition of handling things better, but the string of hallway detritus that kept tripping Lincoln was not begetting kindness.
Irritation mounting, Lincoln almost committed a fatal forensic error, catching himself at the last second over the threshold of the kitchen, where, with one look, Lincoln realized something had gone terribly wrong.
Two coffee mugs were on the table, as if Carter had been having a chat with someone there.
A chat that took a turn for the worse, and the coffeepot had shattered on the floor.
In the ensuing fight that played in Lincoln’s imagination, someone—Carter?
—had smeared blood on the end of the kitchen island.
His head? A knife wound? Lincoln spun back toward the foyer, reassessing the items he’d waded through on his way in.
Carter’s shoes, coat, and gloves he hadn’t had a chance to pick up.
Someone had dragged him out of here without any of that stuff on.
Into the cold. He looked back at the island. Injured.
“Agent Monroe!” O’Shea called through the partially ajar front door.
“In here,” he returned, though his gaze had drifted sideways to the narrow strip of wall between the front door and light switches where a key rack hung.
Carter’s keys were on the middle peg, and above it, taped to the wall was a folded-over note with Lincoln’s name written on the front in horribly familiar script.
O’Shea appeared in the open doorway.
“Wait!” Lincoln lifted a hand, fingers spread, in the universal sign for STOP. His eyes, however, remained locked on the note even as phantom flames licked his skin. “Come around to the back door.”
Jo’s face materialized over O’Shea’s shoulder. “Why?”
“This is a crime scene.”
Lincoln withdrew his phone and snapped pictures of the note and scene, then pocketed the device.
He knelt and tugged a glove from the pocket of Carter’s discarded coat.
Because Carter was a good agent. Always prepared.
His right hand gloved, Lincoln carefully stepped through the foyer and peeled the note off the wall.
It was a diagnosis for Special Agent Carter Warren: Fear of never being good enough.
Lincoln’s legs were gonna go. Possibly also his stomach.
Surely his skin, burned right off by flames.
He had to get out of the path of evidence.
Stumbling, he lurched for the stairs and barely saved the note, held aloft, as he collapsed gracelessly on the lower steps.
He lifted his other hand, covering his mouth and muffling the strangled cry that was on the verge of breaking loose.
Jo, gloved and cautious, appeared from around the office wall and made her way over to him. “Lincoln, what’s going on?”
“He’s got him.” He held the note out to her, his hand shaking much like Carter’s had earlier in the library.
She took the note from him, cursing, and as Lincoln clasped his hands in front of him, sunlight streamed in through the glass transom above the door, reflecting off the braided silver of his ring and momentarily blinding him.
And opening his eyes, all the way. One of a pair that Carter had picked out, for them.
This was very real. He stared up at Jo and Mark and let the threatening tears fall. “Dr. Fear has my husband.”