Runed, p.1
Runed, page 1
Contents
Copyright
Acknowledgements
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
About
Connect
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are a result of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner and any similarities to real life names, places, and events are strictly coincidental.
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book infringes upon copyright laws and could subject the infringer to criminal or civil liability.
Runed
Wendy Hewlett
Copyright © 2019 Wendy Hewlett
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 0992166756
ISBN-13: 9780992166755
ISBN: 9780992166748 (eBook)
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The highest praise I’ve received from readers is from women who’ve written to tell me how reading the Taylor Sinclair Series has helped them to heal from their own childhood trauma.
It’s taken me much longer to write the third book in the series than I anticipated. It may have taken longer without the encouragement from these amazing women. Your strength and determination are a constant inspiration to me.
It is my sincere hope that Taylor’s journey continues to inspire, motivate, and encourage women to heal and grow.
The editing skills of the amazing Abbie P. has been a life saver once again. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I also have to thank Sherri M. who’s been a devoted beta reader since the beginning. Your support means the world to me.
Lastly, to Carol M., I was overwhelmed and thrilled to receive your offer to beta read RUNED. Your belief in me and in the Sinclair Series is why I write.
To all of you lovely readers for your patience in waiting for the long overdue release of this book. Your loyalty and support means the world to me.
CHAPTER ONE
TORONTO POLICE CONSTABLE Taylor Sinclair sat with her fists clenched at her sides. “If you’re planning on leaving me chained to a desk, I may as well go back on patrol. I didn’t do twelve weeks at the Academy and six weeks with a training officer so I could sit at a desk.” After two weeks of nothing but admin duties and cold cases, Taylor was ready to go back to patrol. The only reason her partner, Detective Sergeant Chris Cain, took her out this morning was because she wanted her to participate in her talks to grade nine students on bullying. Taylor just observed this time, but Chris wanted her to share her experiences with bullying at the next one. God, help her.
Chris glanced at Taylor to find her staring off out the passenger window. She rubbed her hands together as she waited for her old, beloved Crown Vic to warm up and the heat to kick in. What Taylor endured just weeks before left scars - inside and out. Her black rimmed glasses did little to hide the angry red scars on her left eyelid and bridge of her nose, but those weren’t the scars worrying Chris. She seemed to be unaffected by the trauma and that was worrying.
Taylor had surrendered herself to Troy Rappaport, a drug dealer obsessed with her in order to save the life of the man she loved. Rappaport’s drug enterprise was crumbling around him as the police closed in. His plan was to escape the city with Taylor. He’d left Taylor tied to the end of a bed in a locked room and his brother, Brandon Moody, found her there, shredding her back with a bullwhip before Rappaport stopped him. When the cavalry arrived to save Taylor, Moody was gone and Rappaport held a gun to Taylor’s head. The gun discharged when Taylor made a grab for it, the bullet grazing the bridge of her nose and her left eye.
“I’m just trying to ease you into it.”
Taylor whipped her head around and glared at Chris. “Do you treat all of the officers under your command differently because of their histories or is it just me?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Taylor. That’s below the belt and you know it.” When Taylor’s response was to stare out the window again, Chris wanted to bitch slap her.
“Lane cleared me for full duty – physically, emotionally, and psychologically.” The department’s psychologist, Dr. Lane McIntyre saw Taylor on a regular basis, helping her process and heal from her childhood trauma.
They had this argument numerous times over the past couple of weeks, but every time Chris requested to take Taylor out in the field she was shot down by Inspector Worthington. It wasn’t fair to Taylor because she was right, Lane cleared her for full duties on her return to work. “I’ll push to get you on active cases. I don’t know what else I can do.”
“Fair enough. Thank you.”
“You really need to start bouncing on Cail again.”
Mouth agape, Taylor stared bullets at Chris. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Just thought that might be why you’re in such a bitch of a mood.”
“I’m not in a bitch of a mood.” Typical Chris comment. Everything related back to sex. Taylor’s relationship with Caillen Worthington had been a bit of a roller coaster ride over the past month, with Cail’s temper at the forefront of their issues. They broke up shortly before he was kidnapped by Brandon Moody a few weeks prior. With Rappaport’s funds frozen, Moody demanded a ransom from Taylor. She hadn’t seen Cail since Moody’s arrest and Cail went off to the hospital.
He’d texted. He’d called. But, if she took him back before anything was resolved, he would just keep doing the same thing - get angry with her, lash out emotionally, perhaps physically, and then walk out on her without giving her a chance to explain or defend herself. Then he’d come crawling back, apologizing and telling her he couldn’t live without her.
“Great suggestion. Let’s just forget how much he hurt me and I’ll take him back so we can have sex to improve my mood. Wonderful. It will be great, at least until the next time he gets angry. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that.”
Chris’s shoulders hunched as she winced. One of these days she was going to learn to think before making stupid comments. “I’m sorry. That was out of line. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“You think?”
Chris’s cell phone shrieked the theme song from Hawaii 5-O, indicating the call was coming in from the Toronto Police Dispatch. She removed her foot from her mouth and answered, “Cain.”
A stern male voice informed her one of the detectives in her unit requested her presence at a crime scene. The only details she was given were that a female victim had been held in her own home and repeatedly raped and beaten. “Ten-four,” Chris acknowledged. “Responding with Constable Taylor Sinclair. ETA, five minutes.” She checked the time on the dash and added, “Eleven forty-two.”
Taylor was about to get her wish, Chris thought and proceeded to give Taylor the limited information dispatch related to her.
“You’re taking me to the scene?”
“Yep. Sometimes it’s better to ask for forgiveness than it is to ask for permission.”
They drove to the scene in silence, mentally preparing themselves for what they were about to descend upon.
An ambulance was parked in front of the two storey residence, as were a slew of squad cars and an unmarked. The Forensics Mobile Unit, a large RV-like vehicle, snugged against the curb across the street and yellow crime scene tape circled the property, flickering in the wind. Two uniformed officers stood on the sidewalk at each side of the property, guarding the crime scene from pedestrians. Another officer directed traffic around the emergency vehicles and one stood guard at the front door of the victim’s house.
Taylor stepped out of the vehicle and tugged the collar of her navy uniform jacket up around her ears as her emerald green eyes scanned the street from behind stylish black framed glasses, consciously taking in every detail from the dull grey of the clouds hanging over the prettily restored narrow brick houses to the vehicles parked on the street.
As they approached the old red brick home with white shutters and trim, Chris recognized the cop on the door. He held a clipboard in gloved hands, ready to record Chris and Taylor’s names and time of entry onto the crime scene log. “Constable Allen, what have we got?”
Allen greeted Chris with a bright smile glowing against his café au lait complexion then sobered before giving her a brief summary. “Bad one, DS. Detective Stone is with the vic. She’s refusing medical transportation and care. Vic’s friend came over to check on her when she hadn’t been able to get hold of her since early this morning. Perp was still on scene and knocked her out before fleeing. Detective Ambrose is with the friend. The photographer is recording the scene, but the rest of the forensics team hasn’t entered the house yet.”
“Were you first on scene?”
“Yes, ma’am. I go
“Where was the vic when you arrived?”
“They were in the living room. The friend untied the vic, wrapped her in a robe and a blanket, and brought her down to the living room before I arrived.”
“Where’s Stone. I want to see her first.”
“Living room. Just inside to your left.”
“Thanks, Constable. Let’s get a few more patrol units here. Trade off warming up in the vehicles with the officers posted outside.” She held up her badge so Allen could record her badge number, then initialed the sheet and waited while Taylor did the same.
They donned paper booties over their boots and entered the foyer. The first thing they both noticed was a large, black vase, smashed on the floor with dried flowers scattered around it. Taylor placed one foot in the foyer behind Chris and was struck by a nasty vision of what the victim endured. It took her right back to the rage and violence of her own past. It probably only lasted seconds, but it felt like eons. Coming out of it, she found Chris’s face inches from her own, her hands cupping her cheeks and an intense look in her brown eyes. “Are you going to kiss me?” The intensity faded and a grin worthy of a toothpaste commercial appeared on Chris’s face. Taylor could have sworn her eye tooth sparkled.
“Do you want me to?”
Might take her mind off of what she just experienced. “N-no.” God, even her voice was trembling. At this rate, they’d never let her on another crime scene.
“You okay?”
Taylor nodded, stifling the urge to roll her eyes. She was so sick of people asking if she was okay.
Chris kept her hands on Taylor’s face, kept her eyes focused on hers. “Can you do this?”
Taylor narrowed her eyes. “I can,” she said through clenched teeth.
Chris got what she hoped for – that touch of anger to stiffen Taylor’s resolve. “Yeah, you can,” she said. “Tell me what you saw in your vision.” Taylor’s psychic abilities were a blessing and a curse. She’d been through enough trauma in her own life without having to deal with experiencing someone else’s. Chris had pushed Taylor to use it in the past, but that was before she understood the pain it caused her.
“You know what I saw, what I felt.”
“I know it’s hard, Taylor. We know exactly what victims of these types of crimes go through. It hurts me, too.”
It didn’t surprise Taylor that it hurt Chris. It surprised her she admitted it.
“But, you can use it to your advantage. Do you understand?” Chris asked.
“Yeah, I get it.” And she did. It was one of the things that made Chris the stellar investigator she was.
“Okay.” Chris waited a moment until Taylor seemed more stable. “Ready?”
Taylor nodded again and followed Chris into the open concept living room. Everything was in black and white. The walls and carpeting were only shades off pure white with a creamy tint to the carpets and a hint of blue on the walls. A gas fireplace with a white marble surround and matching mantel sat dormant on the other side of the room. The furniture was black leather framed by chrome and glass tables. Cold, except for the vibrant painting hanging over the fireplace with splashes of bright colours.
Taylor recognized Detective Daniela ‘Danny’ Stone from Chris’s unit. Her shoulder length dark brown hair greyed at the temples, but she made no attempt to cover it up. Taylor figured she was a good twenty pounds overweight, but she seemed comfortable with that, too. She sat on the edge of the sofa next to the victim who was wrapped in a blanket, shaking, and sobbing while Stone held her hand. Taylor could only see the top of the victim’s head, her short blonde hair matted with blood and in disarray, as she sat with her head hung low. Taylor cringed as she recognized the raw wounds on the victim’s wrists and ankles. She absently rubbed the raw wounds circling her own wrists courtesy of Troy Rappoport.
Two paramedics stood just inside the entrance to the living room on standby.
Stone looked up as Chris walked straight to the victim. She crouched down next to her as Stone introduced them. “Detective Sergeant Chris Cain, this is Raine Delacourte.”
“Ah, shit,” Chris said a little too loudly, before dropping her voice to a whisper. “Raine, I’m so sorry.”
Raine’s head came up slowly, her face red and puffy. “Chris…” It was said before dropping her head again, her shoulders heaving as she sobbed.
“I’ve got her statement, Sarge,” Detective Stone began. “She really needs to go to emerg, but she’s refusing.”
Chris tentatively laid her hand on Raine’s knee. “I get why you don’t want to go, but you know better than most why it’s important you do.”
As Chris attempted to convince Raine to go with the paramedics, Taylor scanned every inch of the living room, dining room, kitchen, and the stairwell to the right of the front door. Bloodstains smeared the white handrail and the wall. The living room and dining room appeared untouched, but the kitchen was a mess of broken dishes and scattered cutlery. A picture frame on the living room mantle held a photograph of two women, one a fit, athletic blonde and the other a tall, slim woman with long dark hair. The photograph appeared to be of their wedding. It was obvious Chris knew Raine, but just how well? One thing Taylor was sure of - this case was going to be another difficult one for Chris.
Chris motioned the paramedics over as she moved out of the way. “Is there anyone I can call for you, Raine?”
“Bonkers … is here. Somewhere.”
“She’s with Detective Ambrose in the office,” Stone advised.
“Has she been interviewed?”
“Yes, Sarge.”
“Okay. She can ride in the ambulance with Raine. I want her to get checked out, too.” Chris turned her attention back to Raine again as Stone slipped out of the room. “Is there a family member I can contact for you?” She had a brother, if Chris remembered correctly.
“No, please don’t contact my family.”
Chris nodded and let the paramedics work on Raine. They had her hooked up to an IV and a heart monitor before Stone returned with Bonkers, a tiny, pixie like woman who reminded Taylor of stories she read of fairies and sprites as a kid. Her dark hair was cut in a pixie style with wisps hugging her forehead and cheeks, her delicate nose turned up slightly at the tip. Her pale green eyes were red rimmed. She wore what looked like hospital scrubs under a black Canada Goose coat hanging well past her knees.
Bonkers went straight to Raine, holding her hand and gently rubbing her shoulder as the paramedics transferred her to the gurney.
Under the blanket, Raine wore a long, white terry cloth robe stained with blood. Taylor could barely stand to look at it. She would though. She’d look at Raine’s wounds, study the crime scene, and be a rock for Chris. And she’d prove to the whole damn police department she was more than capable of handling active cases.
Chris made eye contact with Detective Ambrose and gestured with two fingers for him to come to her. When he did, she whispered, “I want you with her at all times until a patrol officer takes over. No one sees her unless she knows who they are and authorizes the visit. Let’s include hospital staff in there. I want everyone cleared before they go near her. Also, once you get to emerg, I want Delacourte and Cruise separated. I’ll be in to interview them in a while. Don’t leave them alone together until that time.” Then she turned to the paramedics. “Don’t take her to Toronto General.”
“We don’t make that call,” one of the paramedics responded.
The second paramedic, a man in his thirties with receding light brown hair and gentle brown eyes, said, “Let me find out what hospital they’re routing us to and we’ll see what we can do.” He called in on his radio and within seconds had an answer that saved his partner from the wrath of Cain. “St. Mike’s.”
“Thanks,” Chris told him, the look in her eyes conveying relief and appreciation.
Chris waited until the door closed behind the paramedics before turning to Stone. “You called me in because you know this guy isn’t done. He’s going to strike again.”
