Bones Never Lie (35 page)

The only crisis was occurring at a curtained cubicle, third in the right-hand row of curtained cubicles. A CMPD uniform stood guard outside. Sounds filtered through the white polyester: taut voices, the rattle of metal, the rhythmic beeping of a machine.

I felt sorrow for the person behind the partition. A man or woman gunned down while helping a distraught wife or girlfriend, maybe her kids. I said a silent prayer.

But I had to find Mary Louise’s abductor. Or determine that I was wrong.

Feeling like a trespasser, I began parting fabric, searching for a face.

Behind the first curtain lay a child in a Spider-Man suit, forehead stitched and smeared with blood. A woman with mascara-streaked cheeks held tight to his hand.

Behind the second, a bare-chested man breathed oxygen through a clear plastic mask.

When I neared the third cubicle, the guard raised a palm. Behind him, a hastily positioned cart created a wedge-shaped opening into the enclosure.

As I veered left to cross to the other row, I glanced through the wedge.

Saw equipment. Bloody clothing. Masked doctors and nurses.

The patient on his gurney, face gray, lids closed and translucently blue.

I froze in place.

I STOOD PARALYZED
. Staring at Beau Tinker.

The death-mask face. The blood-soaked shirt.

Suddenly, the cruisers made sense. Blue and whites, yes. But some SBI, not CMPD.

For a moment I saw only a terrible whiteness. In it, a name in bold black letters.

I’ll see that yank-off in hell before I bring him back in.

I took a step toward the guard. He spread his feet and shook his head. Stay back.

Beyond the parted curtain, the doctor’s head snapped up. Muffled words came through his mask. “Keep everyone away.”

I felt a buzzing inside my skull. Placed a palm on the wall to steady myself.

Was that why Slidell wasn’t answering my calls? Where was he? What had he done?

Seconds ticked by.

A moth brushed my hair. Looped back.

I spun.

Ellis Yoder stood behind me. Doughy and freckled. Like some hideous apparition summoned by my fear.

Close. Too close.

I swatted Yoder’s hand from my shoulder.

“The gunshot patient in there.” Tipping my head toward Tinker. “What’s the story?”

“You work with that psycho detective.”

“What happened to that man?”

“Tell the jerk to lay off.”

“That patient is a field agent with the SBI. How was he shot?”

Yoder just stared.

A hundredth of a second slipped by. A tenth.

I grabbed Yoder’s arm, hard. “I know you’re a snoop.” Vise-gripping the flabby flesh. “What’s the word, gossip boy?”

“You people are all nuts.” Yoder tried to turn. I yanked him back.

“How. Was. He. Shot?” I hissed.

“You’re hurting me.”

“Call a nurse.” My fingers clamped tighter.

“All I heard is another cop did it.”

My mouth went dry. I swallowed.

Another tick of the clock.

Forget Slidell. Mary Louise needs you.

With my free hand, I yanked the picture of Tawny McGee from my pocket and held it up. “Point me to her.”

Yoder glanced at the image. “She’s not here.”

Dear God, I’m right.

“Santos at the front desk says otherwise.”

“Santos is clueless what goes on back here.”

“You’re sure?” Clutching the paper so hard it crumpled.

“I told you—” Whiny.

My nails dug deep into the mushy biceps.

“I’m sure.”

I could hear my breath in the quiet of the car. Blood pounding in my ears.

I sat a moment studying the scene. The algae-coated brick. The rusty fences and awnings. The stunted concrete slabs.

Nothing moved but the rain. Which was falling harder now, drumming a tattoo on the car hood and roof.

I got out and scurried under the towering trees. Pushed into the lobby.

Not a single magazine lay on the tile.

Ring her bell? A neighbor’s? Think!

No time.

I hurried outside and across the soggy lawn. Threw a leg over the railing and dropped onto the patio. Squatted and put my face to the milky glass.

Light seeped from a hallway running from the back of the apartment, feeble, barely penetrating the gloom. I could make out the silhouettes of a sofa, chair, and TV stenciled in the darkness cramming the room.

I reached up and tried the door. To my surprise, its latch disengaged, and it hopped a few inches across the track. The sound was like thunder cracking in the stillness. I froze.

Wheels whooshed wetly on the street at my back. A dog barked. Its owner whistled and the animal went quiet.

From the apartment’s interior, an ocean of silence.

Was Mary Louise in there? Was my quarry? Did her twisted ritual involve some prelude that was buying us time? How long would it last? Was the child already dead?

Wait for Hull? I’d given her the address, but she wasn’t here yet.

Move!

Pushing with both palms, I eased the door six inches more. Waited, senses alert to the tiniest nuance. Then, still crouching, I scuttled inside.

Like an animal seeking cover, I darted into a corner. Blinked to adjust my eyes. Listened.

Nothing but the hum of a motor. The hammering of my heart.

I rose and pressed my back to a wall. Slid to the hallway and peeked around the corner.

Two yards ahead, a bathroom, empty and dark. The light was coming from a door on the left.

My adrenaline-stoked brain flashed a rational thought. I had no weapon. No way to defend myself should she be armed.

Heart banging, I backtracked through the living room and into the kitchen. A window above the sink oozed a fuzzy peach quadrangle onto the porcelain. Streetlight. Odd, but some tangle of cells made note.

The first drawer held towels, the second a jumble of cooking utensils. I cautiously rifled among them.

Bingo. A paring knife.

Ever so gently, I teased it free and set it on the counter.

Carefully digging out my phone, I tried to text Hull.

My fingers refused to obey my cortex. They felt numb. As though deadened by cold or anesthesia.

Shake it off!

Breath in.

Breath out.

I managed to key three words. An address. Hit send. Pocketed the phone. Then, blade angled backward and down, I tiptoe-ran back to the hall.

Light slivered the jamb and across the bottommost edge of the door. Yellow, steady. A low-wattage bulb, not a candle.

Shrinking inside my own skin as much as I could, I began inching forward. Two steps. I paused, straining for signs of another presence.

Only the hum of the refrigerator and the drumbeat of rain.

Three steps.

Three more.

Tightening my grip on the knife, I closed the final two feet. Stepped to the side of the door and pressed my back to the wall.

Every nerve a heated wire, I extended my free arm and pushed with a back-turned palm. No theatrical Hitchcock sound-effect creak. Just a noiseless re-angling of the door on its hinges. A slo-mo reveal of the room. I scanned the contents.

A twin bed, all done up in pink. A dresser with a ballerina princess lamp. A rocker stuffed with animals and dolls. A desk. Above it, a bulletin board layered with photos, news clippings, and memorabilia.

It looked like the room of a teenage girl.

My eyes probed the blackness in the corners and under the dresser and desk. The edges of bed skirt. A door I assumed gave on to a closet.

I listened for breathing. The soft whisper of fabric.

Heard nothing. The room was empty.

My gaze reversed. Swept more slowly. Came to rest on the bulletin board.

My brain did a cerebral cinematic zoom.

My chest tightened.

No!
I was mistaken. It was a trick of the meager lighting.

I shook my head. As if that would help.

Front teeth pressing hard on my lower lip, I crossed to the board and stared at the photo.

Anique Pomerleau gazed up from her barrel, eyes blank, blond hair wrapping her skull like a shroud.

I took an involuntary step backward. Maybe to distance myself from the evil I sensed. Maybe to avoid contaminating the scene.

A box sat dead center on the desktop. Old, carved, the knob on its cover darkened by the touch of many hands. Or the touch of just one.

Careful to avoid contact, I inserted the tip of the knife into the narrow space surrounding the lid. Levered up. Then, fast as lightning, I caught the lid’s underside and flipped it free.

The box was full. Too full to disclose what lay in its depths. But one object sent blood surging into my head.

The uppermost item was a ballet slipper. In size and color, a perfect match for the one found in Hamet Ajax’s trunk. Lizzie Nance’s.

The slipper rested atop two photos. Me in a lab coat measuring a skull. Me entering the annex at Sharon Hall. My home.

My thoughts began racing. Emotions. Fear. Rage. Mostly rage.

Where was Slidell?

Where was Hull?

I closed my eyes. Felt heat at the backs of my lids.

No tears! Get more help! Find Mary Louise!

Using my iPhone, I shot two pics. Then, no longer concerned about stealth, I raced back to the kitchen, set the knife on the counter, yanked off my jacket, and wrapped it around my hand. Deep breath. I opened the freezer.

Popsicles. Fish sticks. Bagels. Lasagna.

Ziplocs containing hair and flesh. Vials of blood-red ice.

My stomach did something gymnastic. A bitter taste filled my mouth. I pivoted and took two shaky steps. Steadied myself on the sink with a jacket-swaddled hand.

When the nausea passed, I raised my eyes to the window. Saw a rain-blurred distortion of my face.

Beyond the glass, a streetlight, not five feet distant. Power lines crisscrossed its misty glow, casting spiderweb shadows on a patch of gravel below.

On a striped bucket hat with a tassel on top.

THE SHOCK MORPHED
into a bloodlust of which I would have thought myself incapable. A savage hatred I’d never experienced.

I wanted the bitch.

And I knew where to find her.

The picture in the box.

Was it a mistake? Or a plea to end the insanity? Perhaps bait to lure me into a deadly trap?

I didn’t care. I knew she’d gone to find me. I texted Hull again.

At the wheel, minutes after leaving the apartment on Dotger, I winged onto a narrow street shooting behind Sharon Hall. At ten
P.M
. the block was still as a tomb.

I killed the engine and flew from the car. Rain stung my face as I pounded up a driveway, through a backyard, and onto the grounds.

At the point where I pushed through the hedge, the townhouses were freestanding brick structures in rows of three. The structures formed two sides of a square. Inside the square was a patch of concrete for parking.

I stopped to catch my breath and do a quick scan. Five cars. Among them a 2001 Chevy Impala. Tan.

She was here!

But where?

The main house was off to my left. Straight ahead, beyond its two wings and back courtyard, was the coach house. Beside it, the annex.

Would she dare bring her malignancy right to my doorstep?

My eyes probed the shadows among the trees and shrubs.

Rain soaked my hair, my jeans. My jacket clung to my shirt like an outer layer of skin.

Circle to the front? Take the brick walk along the back of the property?

Wait for backup? How long?

Fearing a male presence might trigger a full psychotic break in Tawny McGee, I hadn’t phoned 911. Had I erred in relying on Hull? Had she gotten my second text giving this address? Was she already here? Could she even take action in this county?

My scalp felt tight and cold, my skin clammy inside my shirt. Not from rain. From adrenaline jolting every system into high.

Screw it.

I was off the block and sprinting. Around the back, down the walk, to a live oak directly opposite the annex.

There was no one in the patio, the side yard, the area where I parked. No one at the coach house.

Flashback.

Movement below a giant magnolia.

Heart banging, I raced to the front lawn.

And saw her beside the tree, brick boundary beyond her.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the knife.

Go!
screamed every cell in my brain stem.

Wait!
urged a reasoning part of my cortex.

Panting and sweating, I allowed my higher centers to process. To convert my animal instincts into rational thought.

My breathing slowed. My heart eased its hammering against my ribs. My dilated pupils took in detail.

Her back was to me, so I couldn’t see her face. But I could tell she was tall and broad-shouldered. Long neck. Slender legs. High boots.

She held an object in one hand. A larger one lay at her feet.

Above and around her, a tower of leaves gleamed slick as black ice. Here and there, a dull underside looked darkly opaque.

One deep breath. I began zigzagging from tree to tree, placing my feet soundlessly on the wet lawn. Jealously guarding the element of surprise.

When only one live oak stood between us, I tightened my fingers into a death-grip on the knife. Checked my hand.

No trembling. Good.

As my mind tore through options, she squatted and leaned over the thing on the ground. Head movements suggested speech, but no words made it to where I stood.

The thing on the ground changed shape.

She reached out.

The thing twisted, rounded like a sprout in time-lapse video.

Sat up.

White-hot fury sent wasps whining in my brain.

Blowing off caution, I strode forward.

“Alice.” Loud. “Or should I say Kim?”

Both heads swiveled at the sound of my voice. One fast, one slow, as though dazed. Or drugged. Two pale ovals pointed my way in the darkness.