Eleven (Brandon Fisher FBI Series)

Chapter 11 & 12

Chapter 11

LOUD BANGING ON THE DOOR startled me from sleep straight into a seated position. The clock read five fifteen.

What the hell happened to the alarm? Shit!

I opened the door to Jack, who was dressed in black slacks with a silver shirt. He looked down, making me realize I was just in boxer shorts. "Rise and shine, Kid."

"Just give me five minutes."

"Hmm."

I closed the door on him and hurried around the room trying to see if I could beat some sort of record for getting dressed. I went into the washroom and wiped a fingertip across my teeth. I needed to brush them, but I didn't have time. I think I had gum.

Five minutes later, I opened the door to see the rest of the team assembled in the parking lot. They all had coffee cups in their hands. The sun hadn't risen yet, and the lights mounted on the hotel cast the only illumination.

"Decided to return, after all, Pending?"

I stuck a piece of gum in my mouth, realizing the moment I drank coffee the refreshing effect would be compromised. Oh well.

"Sleeping beauty must have slept good, boss."

"There was a problem with my alarm." I wanted to add a bit of flair to the statement, possibly add knucklehead, but I resisted the urge.

"Next time make sure there isn't." Jack headed to the driver's seat. "I want us all back at the crime scene. I want us to study it, breathe it, and analyze it. Until some other people wake up, there's not much else we can do."

"Course, boss." Zachery and Paige got into the other SUV and drove out before Jack even had the keys in the ignition of ours.

The day was going to be a scorcher, and the rain from the night before only seemed to intensify the humidity. All I wanted was the vehicle's AC on.

Jack did up his seat belt and faced me. "There are a few things that bother me. One of them is tardiness."

"My alarm—"

"I don't want excuses."

I buried my sour facial expression into the lip of the coffee cup and took a sip.

*****

AS WE PULLED INTO BINGHAM'S driveway, any hunger that had my stomach growling ceased. Instead, it churned thinking of what lay beneath the ground—the tunnels, the burial chambers, the victims who had been tortured and murdered—all of it had etched permanent residence into my memory.

Two deputies were in charge to watch the place. They waved us past while they stayed in their cruiser, likely comfortable in the car's air conditioning.

We let ourselves in and headed to the cellar. My chest tightened thinking about going further down, but we stalled there to talk. I took a deep breath.

Jack had an unlit cigarette perched in his mouth, even though he had smoked one on the way over. "Now, I thought it would be best to immerse ourselves in Bingham's and our unsub's state of mind. What do we know about Bingham, The Redeemer, as he terms himself?" He turned to me.

The coffee hadn't infused me with sufficient caffeine yet.

"Time to wipe the sleep out of the eyes, Pending."

I disregarded Zachery and answered Jack. "We know that Bingham and his sister lost their father when he was twenty. The mother had died years before that." Everyone watched me. "We know that he came to Salt Lick from Sarasota, Florida where he was born and grew up."