章節 2: Chapter 2
The streets of San Francisco were deserted, the hour too early for commuters to clog its narrow arteries. Beyond the circus of the crime scene, people were shuttered inside their homes, unaware of the dangers that lurked outside their walls. Or maybe they actually knew, and chose to lock themselves in their voluntary prisons because of it. Either way, nobody stole Brady’s attention as he maneuvered toward the highway. He slipped onto 80 and headed south, with only the cacophony of imagined screams for company.
His apartment in San Bruno was tucked off the main roads, a tiny complex whose best attribute was its privacy. Brady didn’t need a view or fancy workout rooms or community centers. As long as it was safe and clean, he could do the rest. He moved every other year, always a new town in the Bay Area, always with excellent references. If he didn’t hate the hassle of getting mail redirected and setting up utilities so much, he would make the change annually. They joked at the station that he had to move so often to escape the hordes of women he left behind. It was a misconception Brady had no problem fostering.
He didn’t date. Even if he ever chose to, it wouldn’t be with a woman.
The scent of eucalyptus infused the air as he locked the car and walked the short distance to his front door. Shadows danced across the pavement, a gentle breeze rustling the leaves overhead in front of the security lights. Brady didn’t even blink. That bothered him. By all rights, he should be tenser, jumping at any sound. He wasn’t. He reached his apartment with his keys dangling half useless in his hand. More telling, he only glanced over his shoulder once before letting himself inside.
In spite of Webster’s orders, he wouldn’t sleep right away. Too many ghosts clamored for his attention, and the only way to slam the door on them was to push himself to the brink of exhaustion. If he didn’t, they’d populate his dreams with their bloody claws and hungry mouths, and he’d be worse off by the time he returned to work.
Brady stripped as he walked through the apartment, leaving a trail of clothes behind him that would be forgotten until he needed them again. Nobody would follow these breadcrumbs. If someone did, he’d just get rid of them like he got rid of everybody else.
A treadmill occupied the corner of his bedroom, the one piece of large equipment he owned. He bought a new one every time he moved. They were fucking heavy and easy to push on Craigslist since he always sold at a deep loss. It wasn’t the most financially sound choice, but the rest of his budget spending was practically nonexistent. He didn’t take vacations. He didn’t go out. He had little to spend his money on, except for the one piece of equipment he could count on to help keep him in shape. He ran ten miles a day on it, sometimes more, never less. Three times a week, he hit a gym around the corner of the station to do weight training for muscle tone. He tried to work in a rest day to give his body time to recover, but more often than not, he caved to the urge to run again. It was difficult to sleep without being physically spent, and the fear of going soft terrified him. He hadn’t joined the force to push papers like Webster seemed content to do. The people he’d sworn to protect needed him to be in peak condition. For his own sanity, he needed it too.
After changing into shorts and a T-shirt, Brady picked up the remote control to start the movie he’d been watching the day before. Vin Diesel’s gravelly voice filled the room as he hit the settings on the treadmill, and within a minute, his feet pounded against the belt.
Run. Run. Run. Don’t think.
“‘Richard B. Riddick. Escaped convict. Murderer.’”
Murderer. Or more than one. Tore their hearts out. Monsters in the street. Shouldn’t have invited them in.
“‘Battlefield doctors decide who lives and dies. It’s called triage.’”
“‘They kept calling it murder when I did it.’”
Maybe it’s not the same. Maybe it’s just some sick fuck with a blood fetish.
But not even Vin Diesel blowing the shit out of aliens was enough to convince him that particular theory was anywhere near the truth. Webster would lie to himself about what had really happened, and he’d convince everybody who’d listen that his lies were real—mostly because he wouldn’t know any better—but Brady would be the one to see through it all. Brady would be the one who’d have to keep his mouth shut when they locked up the wrong bad guys and the real murderers walked free.
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