Deeper

by Ronica Black

  “Jesus H. Christ,” Jacobs said.

  “He’s breathing.” Hernandez leaned over the victim. “Where’s that bus?”

  “Careful, don’t move him.”

  “Lucky motherfucker.”

  “Look at his face. This ain’t no lucky motherfucker.” Stewart looked distraught.

  “Serious head trauma.”

  “Jesus H. Christ. How is he alive?”

  Erin inched closer. Patricia snapped on gloves and felt for a pulse. Erin caught a glimpse of a sock-covered foot covered with dirt. As she moved closer she could see that the body had been partially buried in a groove in the hard earth. It had then been covered with large branches from a mesquite tree.

  “Pulse is low. Real low,” Patricia said.

  “Any ID on him?” Hernandez asked.

  Someone felt around very carefully for a wallet. Erin saw dirty denim and the nude torso of a man. She breathed out a long, shaky breath. She wanted to thank God above that it wasn’t Liz, but she winced when she moved her gaze from his chest to his face. It was severely beaten and swollen. When she saw the ligature marks around his purpling neck she turned away.

  “God damn, how is he even breathing?” Jacobs said.

  Erin walked slowly back to the Blazer. When she reached it, she crawled inside and cried herself to sleep.

  *

  Liz wasn’t going anywhere. That fact was clear in just the way they were behaving. Every cop she saw either stared directly into her eyes or wouldn’t look at her at all. They were angry, yet they were anxious. She couldn’t figure it out. Her last encounter had been a particularly bad one, so anger she expected; the anxiousness and all-out avoidance she didn’t quite understand. Maybe their hate for her had reached an all-time high.

  The feeling was more than mutual.

  The door to the interrogation room opened and she sat up straighter. Her wrists stung in protest, reminding her that she still had on handcuffs. She’d been a bad girl last time and lunged after the asshole who’d made remarks about Erin. She wondered if she would see him tonight and whether or not he would look her in the eyes.

  For the moment it seemed she was stuck with Patricia Henderson. The detective walked in carrying two small cups of coffee. She offered a smile and right away Liz stiffened with alert. A smile from Patricia was like a rattler giving you a wink. She readied herself for the strike.

  “Thanks, but no thanks,” she said as Patricia lowered the steaming cups. It was probably poisoned. That explained the smile.

  Patricia sat. “You might change your mind.”

  She looked as though she’d probably been up most of the night. Her thick auburn hair was tied back in a loose ponytail. She had on chinos and a polo shirt. Both looked as if she’d been playing in the dirt with a shovel and bucket. Liz wasn’t in the mood to see her castle.

  She’d called Cynthia an hour ago, waking her up. She then had to listen to a minute of grumbling and then another minute of instruction on how to keep her mouth shut until she got there.

  “When can I go?” she asked.

  “That’s up to you.”

  Liz grimaced. “Spare me the bullshit, Patricia.” She stared hard into her eyes. “What is it that you want tonight?”

  She’d been pulled over about a half mile from her destination. She only hoped she hadn’t led them directly to Jay. It had been close, way too close. On the ride to the station she’d wondered why there was an APB out on her this time. When she was being cuffed the young cop had said something about murder. But she’d rolled her eyes. How many times had she heard that before?

  “Well, there’s quite a bit we need to discuss.”

  “Not without Cynthia.” She didn’t feel like talking. She was keyed up, worried about what Jay would do when she didn’t show.

  “Hear me out. You might change your mind.”

  “Don’t waste your time. I don’t like coffee and I don’t like you. That won’t change.” Her hatred for the Valle Luna PD was growing, just when she thought it could grow no more.

  Again Patricia offered a smile. This time Liz studied it closely. It wasn’t the condescending smile she usually gave, it was different, more…sad.

  Patricia cleared her throat. “Liz, I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

  Liz hid her confusion and clenched her jaw. “What?” They were throwing her in jail for something she didn’t do? What else was new?

  “There’s no easy way to say this.”

  “Please spare me the drama, Detective.” It was fucking four o’clock in the morning, she’d been driving all damn day, and she’d missed her meeting with Jay, and—

  “Your sister, Jay. She’s dead.”

  Liz reared back. “What did you say?”

  Patricia held her stare. “I’m sorry. We found Jay’s body this evening about a half mile from where you were picked up.”

  Heavy blood surged up to Liz’s head and began thudding like an angry mob in her ears. She leaned forward, unable to hear. “What?”

  “Jay’s dead.”

  Liz laughed. She laughed so hard she pounded her cuffed fists on the table. “Fuck you, Patricia.” She sat back in her chair. Where the hell was Cynthia? “Fuck you and your entire department. I’ll sue you all for this shit. Bury you.”

  She couldn’t believe this. She looked around the room, expecting the walls to melt away to reveal some wicked sort of sideshow where all the cops were dressed as evil clowns and the eternal joke was on her.

  “I’ve hated a lot in my life. I’ve had good reason to. But this?” Her body stiffened as every last muscle flexed to its max. “This goes beyond any hate I’ve ever felt before.”

  Patricia watched her, listened without remark. Then she reached in her back pocket and pulled out a Polaroid photo. She laid it face up on the table and slid it across to her. Liz looked at it briefly and looked away. It looked like Jay. Blood on the temple. She felt her face harden and contort in anger.

  “This isn’t funny. You can’t fucking do this to people.” Patricia still didn’t move.

  She eased the photo closer, urging softly, “Look at it, Liz. It’s Jay.”

  Liz stood, chest heaving in anger. She looked to the door expecting the entire squad to come running in, ready to tase her. But no one came. She glanced down at the picture again. “It’s not her. It’s someone you made to look like her.”

  “We found her out in the desert. She had a gunshot wound to the temple. We think it was suicide.”

  Liz sat back down but didn’t remember telling her body to do so. She picked up the photo, and again the angry mob throbbed in her ears. Her breath hitched in recognition. She threw the photo across the table. “Fucking liar. That’s not my sister. She’s not dead.”

  “Were you going to meet her tonight?”

  Liz whipped her eyes up. How could she know? Was the world tilting? She held the table, trying to right the balance of things as her brain swam in her head.

  “We found a note in her back pocket,” Patricia continued. “It had directions on how to get to the location and it also spoke about the recent murders. We think maybe she arrived before you, and then killed herself knowing you’d find her.” She paused. “Did you know she was killing, Liz?”

  Liz didn’t speak. Her mind raced but nothing made sense.

  There was a brisk knock at the door and Cynthia Carmichael stepped in. Patricia whispered with her and then led her to another chair. Both women sat.

  Cynthia gave her a smile, the same kind Patricia had moments ago, a soft, sad smile. “Liz, I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t.” Liz ground her teeth and shook her head, fighting the rising emotion. “Don’t. Not you.”

  “They wouldn’t lie to you about this.”

  “Yes, they would. They are. It isn’t her.”

  Patricia handed the photo to Cynthia. “If Liz agrees that it’s Jay, then it is her. We have more photos, one of her abdomen where there’s a scar—”

  “Stop it!” Liz st
ood. She couldn’t take it. Couldn’t take any more.

  Patricia froze. She and Cynthia looked up at her in surprise.

  “Detective Henderson, will you give us a moment, please?” Cynthia asked.

  After Patricia left them alone, Cynthia moved alongside Liz and placed an arm around her waist but Liz stepped away. “Liz, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry this has happened. Come on, come sit down.”

  Liz didn’t want to sit. Didn’t want to hear the words of comfort. Didn’t want to hear any fucking apologies. She screamed as she charged the table, lifting it up off the floor, breaking the hinges that secured it. The coffee cups slid and spilled, the strong scent egging her on. She pushed as hard as she could, forcing the table up and back, slamming it down on its top. It wasn’t enough. The closest thing was a chair. She threw it across the room and went for the next one.

  Cynthia cried out, begging her to stop.

  The chair bent and one of the legs got stuck in the wall. Liz yanked it out and threw it. She heard the door open as she rammed the second chair against the wall. Patricia was calling to her, along with Cynthia. Then there were other shouts as the little guy with the glasses came in. The voices became a series of blurred noises. The room spun. The image of Jay went around and around in her mind. Dead. Shot. Gone.

  She should’ve been there. It was her fault. She’d let it happen.

  Jay had been there waiting for her.

  Jay.

  Oh, God. Oh God, no.

  She went for the wall again. This time with her fists. She beat at it over and over, loud wails coming from deep in her chest. She pounded harder. She tore at the holes with her fingers. If she could just get through. If she could just escape, it all would be better. The real world was on the other side. This was just a nightmare. This room was a stage in a wicked, wicked play. She had to get through to the other side.

  Hands clamped down on her back but she stood her ground and beat at the wall until it turned pink with her blood. Her arms and hands burned. But nothing hurt as bad as the pain inside. It scorched her heart, blackening it to a crisp. Then it churned in her gut and sent shooting flames up her chest to her throat. Oh, God, how it hurt. When she was dragged away from the wall, she collapsed and pounded the floor as the sobs came.

  Uniformed officers were now in the room. She heard Patricia telling them to back off. No spray. Leave her alone. She gave in completely then, too exhausted to continue. She lay on the floor, the smell of the worn gray carpet somehow soothing her.

  Patricia herded the men out of the room. Cynthia carried over a salvaged chair. A paramedic knelt down beside her. He spoke gently, encouraging her to sit up. She did so slowly but the room turned evilly and she retched. He held her arms and helped her straighten. He told her to breathe deeply as he shined a pen light in her eyes. He held her wrist for a pulse and examined her hands.

  Patricia stooped to unlock the cuffs.

  “Is she okay?” Cynthia asked the paramedic. She sounded very worried and looked even worse.

  “She needs to go to the hospital. A few fingers look broken and her wounds need to be cleaned, and possibly stitched.” He spoke into the mic. Then he covered the wounds as best he could and wrapped her hands in gauze, winding and winding.

  “I want to see her,” Liz said, barely able to get the words out.

  Cynthia spoke calmly. “You need to be tended to first.”

  Liz wanted to argue but couldn’t. A gurney was wheeled in. She stared at the ceiling tiles as they strapped her in and started an IV.

  Cynthia’s face appeared over her. “Just try to relax.”

  The ceiling started to move.

  “Erin?” Where was Erin? She wanted to see Erin. Needed her.

  “Jay,” she whispered, seeing her sister’s face floating above her. But darkness moved in from the sides, covering the ceiling, covering her sister. Her eyes grew heavy. Then there was nothing.

  Chapter Twenty

  When Liz woke she was staring at the ceiling again. She lifted her head and tried to move, but her right hand was covered in gauze and handcuffed to the bed. She tried to curse but her mouth felt like cotton. A curtain was pulled back, the metal rings scraping the rod. Cynthia stepped into the light. She had on a different outfit.

  “How long have I been here?” Liz asked.

  “They kept you through the night.” Cynthia’s smile was genuine but guarded, as if Liz were a child about to have a tantrum.

  “They drugged me.” Liz wished she was still unconscious, anything to kill the pain. She ached at the horrible realization that her sister was gone. Forever. Her head was like a boulder on her shoulders. She laid it back against the pillow.

  “They gave you something to help calm you and they thought it best for you to stay here to sleep it off.” Cynthia sat down on a vinyl chair next to the bed. The shadows under her eyes told of her lack of sleep.

  “Why am I handcuffed?” Liz couldn’t run away if she tried. Her bones were lead pipes.

  “You’re still a suspect.” Cynthia pressed the button to raise the back of the bed. “They think you knew or may have even helped Jay in the killings.”

  Liz took in the room, noting how quiet it was. Sunlight sliced in through the vertical blinds, stabbing behind her sensitive eyes. Squinting, she saw the curtain to her right behind Cynthia. Shadows loomed beneath it.

  Cynthia followed her line of sight. “We’re alone. They removed the other bed.”

  “I’m a criminal.” She cringed.

  “For now. There’s an armed guard too.”

  Liz tried to laugh but it hurt. Cynthia missed the humor in the situation.

  Liz grew serious in a split second. “Jay didn’t kill anyone.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because she was trying to solve the murders herself.” The ridiculousness of it got to her. “She came back to Valle Luna to find out who was responsible. I tried to stop her but she wouldn’t listen. She was just trying to help me.”

  “So you knew she was here.”

  “Yes. We’d meet up and I’d try to talk sense into her. I knew the cops were after her, so we had to be careful. She started writing me letters.”

  “About what?”

  “At first there were instructions about when to meet her. Then they came almost every day. They grew longer and stranger.”

  “Were they suicidal?”

  “No.”

  “Then how did she end up dead?” Cynthia asked the question gently, obviously trying to keep her calm.

  “He killed her.” Liz stared into the wall in front her. Thoughts of what Jays last moments must’ve been like cut like razor blades through her veins. “Jay had a suspect. Her last letter said she was getting close. She was going to tell me that night.”

  “But you think he got to her first?”

  “He must’ve. She’s dead.” The words were painful. But the thoughts were worse. She felt woozy all of a sudden and breathed deep. “I would like to go home.”

  But then she remembered her empty house, sitting dead itself without Erin. The only other remaining love in her life had gone as well.

  “Are you in pain? I’ll get the nurse.”

  “No, although more drugs would possibly help.” Liz licked her lips. “Listen, Jay didn’t kill herself, Cynthia. She wouldn’t kill herself.”

  “Why not?”

  Liz met her eyes and held them. “Because it would hurt me.”

  *

  Patricia took a deep breath. Liz was getting worked up and they were losing precious time.

  “She never killed anyone,” Liz insisted. “Ever. She never would.”

  “Unless they were hurting you.” Patricia was back to her old self as well, the ultimate professional. “Ms. Adams, do you have any idea who the last victim is? The man found near Jay?”

  “I have no idea.” Liz’s gaze traveled over to the wall. “Unless he’s the killer.”

  “We have reason to doubt that,” Patricia said
.

  “What if he shot my sister? What if she found him out and he killed her?”

  “He was beaten too severely, and he was buried. There’s no way he could’ve shot her.”

  Liz fell silent.

  “Was Jay a religious person?” Gary asked.

  “No. Not at all.”

  “You guys didn’t go to church, growing up in the South?”

  “No.”

  “Not ever?”

  Liz looked to Patricia as if Gary were a complete idiot. “What’s this about?”

  “Was she fond of crosses?”

  “Crosses?”

  “Crucifixes,” Patricia clarified.

  Liz shook her head. “No. Why are you asking?”

  “Could she draw?”

  “What?” Liz looked completely confused.

  “Was she artistic at all? Could she draw or sketch well?” Patricia asked in a softer tone.

  “No. She had trouble with writing ever since she was a kid. Now, tell me what this is about.”

  “It’s about murder, Ms. Adams. These questions pertain to the case,” Gary made some notes.

  The room grew quiet again. When Patricia glanced up, Liz was watching her.

  “How’s Erin?”

  The question sounded sincere but Patricia wasn’t sure how to answer. Liz looked to be in bad enough shape. Hearing that Erin was miserable might make things worse. And for some unknown reason, Patricia felt empathetic toward her.

  Liz sensed her hesitation. “Is she still staying with you?”

  Patricia lowered her notebook and pen. “Yes.”

  Liz stared at her gauzed hands. When she looked back up her face had hardened again and Patricia knew the topic was closed. Cynthia rose and brought her client a cup of water. Liz shook her head, too proud to be assisted in front of them. Patricia studied the woman she’d spent years hating. She was beaten now, and in physical and mental anguish. The sight was something Patricia thought she’d never see. There was no satisfaction in it, though. Just the understanding that Elizabeth Adams was indeed human after all.