Sleep No More (12 page)

She put on her garden shoes and let herself out her front door. She'd get a head start on that garland for the Ostrom wedding. It might be the last ceremony she ever did flowers for.

As she walked toward the carriage house in the velvety darkness, a deep sadness settled in her chest. And if that sadness had a voice, she realized, it would sound just like that scratchy, desperate voice she'd heard on the phone tonight.

At seven-thirty a.m. Abby was making much-needed coffee in her kitchen. The only sleep she'd had since the accident was that unintentional nap last night. She was so tired her bones ached--or perhaps that was from the accident. She hoped the coffee would at least clear her foggy head.

Hearing a car pull up in front of her house, she went to the front window and looked out. The lane ended about forty feet from her front steps, as it used to stop in front of the big house. Deputy Trowbridge was getting out of his cruiser and putting on his hat. The slanting sun glinted off the brass nameplate on his chest, stabbing her eyes with a shaft of light. He reached back in the car and pulled out a small plastic box, then headed for her door.

She hadn't noticed before how young he was. He looked more like a fresh army recruit than an officer of the law. He moved with an air of arrogance that reminded her of his skeptical questioning at the hospital, spurring a streak of defensiveness in her.

Last night's resignation ducked behind her dislike of his attitude and the irrational hope that he was here to tell her the accident investigation team had concluded that Kyle Robard had been responsible for the accident, that he'd been drinking, or high; that she had been the victim.

Her mouth went dry as she took a deep calming breath and opened the door before he knocked.

"Ms. Whitman." He tipped the brim of his hat. "I apologize for the early call, but we have a few questions about the accident." He didn't sound at all sorry; he sounded as if he was going to relish every moment of what he was about to do.

She stepped back and opened the door wider. "Come in."

As he stepped across the threshold, he removed his hat. Abby wondered why he put it on for the short walk to the door in the first place. Probably for intimidation.

She realized he was just standing there, waiting.

"Please, sit down," she said.

He sat on the edge of the seat at one end of her sofa. Because it was the only place to sit in her living room, she sat at the other end.

His gaze moved from her face to her hands and back again. She realized she was twisting them in her lap. She tucked them beneath her thighs.

"First of all, we need your fingerprints, in order to help sort out the scene," he said.

When she didn't respond right away, he said, "Unless you have an objection...?"

"No. Of course not."

He opened the plastic box and took her fingerprints without further comment. When he was finished, he handed her a packet holding a towelette.

He settled back on his end of the couch, silently watching her while she cleaned the ink off her fingers.

Finally he spoke, "Have you remembered anything more since we last spoke?" There was a cutting edge to the way he said "remembered" that stuck like a thorn in tender skin.

She sat up straighter, biting her tongue to keep from snapping at him. She managed a calm, "No." It was true. She hadn't
remembered
.

He didn't respond for a long moment, just pinned her in place with his glacial stare.

Finally, he said, "I see."

He seemed to be waiting for her to elaborate. She didn't.

As he pulled a little flip notebook from his pocket, he said, "We've drawn a few conclusions. We were hoping you'd be able to corroborate them."

"As I said, I don't recall anything. But if something you say sparks a memory, I'll certainly tell you." Why couldn't he have stayed away? She'd feel so much more comfortable talking to Sheriff Hughes in his office, coming in on her own, not cornered like this.

"The accident happened shortly before three a.m. just prior to the 911 call--not near the time when you say you left Jeter's." He looked at her with expectation that set her teeth on edge.

"And you established this how?" She was hungry for solid facts.

"Kyle Robard was with a friend in town until two-thirty. Left there alone. The medical examiner established a time of death that backs this accident time."

Time of death.
She thought of that poor boy using the last of his fading strength to call for help and she flushed hot with nausea.

Trowbridge noticed. "Are you ill?"

"Who wouldn't be sick thinking of that poor kid's death?" She held his gaze, refusing to let him fluster her further.

He didn't respond, but made a show of jotting down a note.

"You say he'd been with a friend. Is it possible that he'd been drinking?" she asked, cringing a little at the naked hope in her voice.

"We haven't gotten all of the test results yet." He looked at her like she was trying to blame the dead. "Do you have any recollection at all of someone else, a third party, at the scene?"

The question took her by surprise. "No. I didn't even know about Kyle until you--found him."

Deputy Trowbridge went on before she uttered another word. "There must have been someone. Kyle Robard
could not
have made that 911 call."

"But you found his phone with the 911 line still open."

"The medical examiner determined that Kyle was killed instantly. So there was either someone else on scene, or you made that call yourself."

For a moment Abby sat in stunned silence.

She looked into the cold hearth and thought back through the events of that night. She remembered waking in the van--dry except for her feet, leaving the vehicle, thrashing out of the swamp. Then the deputy arrived almost immediately. There hadn't been any time for her to find Kyle Robard and use his cell to call for help, even if she'd known he was there.

She looked back at Trowbridge. The smug look on his face clenched it. She wasn't going to give him anything. She'd go to straight to the sheriff with her confession. "I didn't."

"You said you couldn't remember most of that night. Perhaps you found him, called for help, and don't recall."

"No. I awakened in the van, went to the road, then you arrived. I'm not missing any bits of memory in that area."
At least I don't think I am.
Her memory seemed to be getting foggier, not clearer.

"You think on it for a while." His tone was one a person would use on a naughty six-year-old. "You were in shock. There could very well be things missing from your memory
after
you awakened in the vehicle."

She could only imagine his reaction if she admitted she suspected she'd been sleep-driving.

She said, "Maybe someone stopped, found Kyle, called for help, and left. That makes more sense to me."

"It's possible, but not likely. We're checking his phone for fingerprints. Perhaps that will solve the mystery." He raised a brow, as if waiting for her to confess.

"Perhaps," she said stiffly.

"You say you got out of the van and went to the road. Did you return to the van after you exited the vehicle?"

"No... well, yes. I got out, realized I left my purse and cell phone, climbed back in."

"Through the door?"

"Of course."

"It was still open from your initial exiting?"

"Yes."

"Do you know how the driver's side window got broken?"

"No. When I awakened there was glass all over me, so I assume it broke as I drove off the road."

He made a note, and then closed his notebook. "You said you lost your purse and cell in the marsh."

"I did--after I got them out of the van."

He stood. "All right. That's all for now."

"Do you have any idea yet what happened?" She stood and followed him to the door, reaching around him to open it.

"We're still working on it." He put on his hat, then he looked her in the eye. "You'll be sure and let us know if you have any clearing of your memory, won't you?"

"Of course." She closed the door behind him, turned the deadbolt, and sagged with her back against it. Her tired mind was scrambling her thoughts until she was beginning to doubt herself. Was she forgetting something?

Who made that 911 call?

Even if sleepwalking explained her lack of memory, it didn't answer that question. Could someone have stopped and then just left Kyle's dead body in the woods? Who could have been so callous?

Abby looked out the front window, resting her throbbing forehead against the cool glass.

As Trowbridge's brake lights brightened at the end of her lane, she suddenly remembered those headlights, fast approaching and making an abrupt U-turn just as the deputy had arrived. With everything that happened afterward, she'd forgotten completely about them.

Could they somehow be connected?

She wasn't about to call Deputy Trowbridge and tell him. She'd save it for the sheriff.

T
his morning, Uncle Father wasn't in the kitchen making pancakes as usual. And Abby was going to be here soon. Maggie had to be ready.

She went back upstairs to look for him.

She heard him whispering prayers. His bedroom door was open. Uncle Father said it was always all right for her to come in if the door was open. But she stopped. He was praying. Praying was private.

Uncle Father had two crucifixes in his bedroom. One over his bed where everybody had one. And one on the wall beside the closet door.

Below Jesus-by-the-closet was a little table with two candles. One for Maggie's mother and one for her daddy.

That's where Uncle Father was praying. On his knees. His face was bristly. His eyes were closed. He was rocking back and forth with the music of his words. Maggie couldn't understand any of them.

She stood at the doorway waiting for him to notice her. Maybe she should just go away.

Then she heard him make a little sob sound.

She went in and got on her knees beside him. She put her arm across his shoulders and bowed her head.

"Don't be sad, Uncle Father," she whispered. "I'll help you pray."

He made a low sound that wasn't prayer and wasn't words. He leaned forward and put his forehead on the floor.

It scared her but she didn't leave. She even kept her hand on his back.

She said, "God will help you."

He sat up and wiped his cheeks with his hand. He looked at her with a smile and said, "
You
give me strength, Maggie love."

"You better now?" she asked.

"Yes. Thanks to you."

"Good. I'm hungry."

He laughed a little. "I didn't realize it was so late. Let's go make pancakes, then."

They made the pancakes together, but Uncle Father didn't eat any.

The doorbell rang.

"That's Abby!" Maggie jumped up and put her plate in the sink.

"Abby?" Uncle Father said. He sounded funny, not quite surprised, but different. Maybe he was still sad. "Why is she here?"

Maggie sighed. "I
told
you. We have to make a wedding garland today."

"Oh. Yes. I guess I forgot."

She kissed his cheek. "Will you be all right without me?"

"Of course. Now you run along. Don't keep Abby waiting."

"You don't want to go to the door and see her?"

"Not this morning. I haven't even shaved yet."

She was so excited her feet wanted to dance. Today she was going to do everything on her own.

"Okay. Bye." She hurried out of the kitchen.

She was so happy that Abby hadn't had an accident again today.

This was going to be the best wedding garland ever made.

Abby sat across the workbench in the carriage house from Maggie, thinking there was no way she would have all of the arrangements ready for the wedding tomorrow. Her exhaustion made it so she had to think and rethink every move; work that normally came naturally now was an act of conscious will.

Maggie's chatter had ceased. Her tongue was caught between her lips as her blunt fingers worked wires slowly and meticulously around the flowers and magnolia leaves. Abby was happy for the silence. Her fatigue was making her irritable. She didn't want to take it out on poor Maggie.

Abby's cell phone rang. She'd stopped at the Verizon store to get a new one on her way to pick up Maggie this morning. It felt like having the ability to walk restored after a stint in a wheelchair.

She looked at the number on the screen. It was Dr. Samuels, the physician who'd taken care of her as long as she'd been alive. She'd left him a message earlier today. He was only practicing part time now, after having retired and unretired twice already. Naturally, he didn't have office hours on Friday.