by Anne Frasier
"Sorry," Elise said.
Inside the wrought-iron cemetery gates, Elise pulled to a stop. Through silhouetted live oaks and draperies of Spanish moss, people moved in front of headlights, creating beams of diffusion. A low-lying fog shifted and swirled like a staged special effect while police cars parked erratically and an ambulance waited, light flashing, doors open. Yellow crime scene tape wrapped around trees and cemetery statuary.
She and Gould were met by one of the first officers on the scene. "Paramedics pronounced the victim dead," Officer Eve Salazar told them, hand resting on her belt. "They worked for ten minutes, but weren't able to revive him."
"Where's the body?" Elise asked.
"Waiting for the ME." She jerked her thumb behind her. "Due to the circumstances, the crime scene's been compromised."
"What about the kids? We're going to need to get their statements."
"Taken down to the police station. They were pretty upset, and we thought it would be better for them to wait there."
Elise nodded. She wouldn't have wanted Audrey to remain at the scene any longer than absolutely necessary.
What had at first appeared to be a practical joke had turned into a homicide, with two innocent kids inadvertently stumbling across a body that was still alive.
Not an unusual scenario. Sometimes victims of crime were dumped because they were thought to be dead. And it wasn't all that strange for kids to come across bodies, since the same kind of seclusion appealed to both teenagers and killers.
Elise and Gould followed a path that had been tagged with yellow markers as Officer Salazar led them to the body. A small group stood around it, the area illuminated by high-powered lights run by small generators. Elise recognized Abe Chilton, head crime scene investigator.
"Smells like he's been dead a few days rather than a few minutes," Elise said, hand to her nose. She turned to Salazar's partner. "Are you sure the victim was alive when you found him?"
"He opened his eyes," Officer Reilley insisted.
"Could that have been a postmortem muscular response?" Gould wondered aloud.
"The guy was alive," Reilley insisted.
"What about the site where the teenager was grabbed?" Elise asked.
They doubled back, then veered off to follow another path lined with markers.
"This is the place." The glow of Salazar's flashlight revealed a shallow grave. "Kid said a hand came out of the ground."
An indentation revealed where the body had been.
Nearby stood an unopened bottle of whiskey. Beside it, a silver dollar.
"Gifts for the dead," Elise commented. "Or in this case, the undead."
"A killer who leaves presents?" Gould asked.
"So the victim doesn't come back and haunt him."
"Nice." Gould trained his flashlight away from the disturbed earth. "Drag marks."
"It starts at the water's edge," Officer Salazar told them. "Musta come by boat."
"Any evidence?" Gould asked.
"So far, a couple of footprints." Salazar shrugged. "Maybe a man's nine or ten."
"There's some weird shit going on in this city," Reilley said. "Some really weird shit."
Gould nodded. "Weird shit happens."
Abe Chilton and some of his team appeared out of the darkness. "I want you to see this." Chilton raised his flashlight, pointing the beam at a nearby tree. Nailed to the trunk five feet from the ground was a small twisted figure.
"Mandrake root," Elise said. The human-shaped root was said to scream when pulled from the ground.
"Nightshade?" Gould asked.
"One and the same."
While Chilton kept his flashlight beam directed on the tree trunk, Elise continued to visually examine the small figure. It was wrapped in brown paper, probably torn from a grocery sack.
Root work. "This might reveal our victim's identity," Elise said.
Somebody handed her a pair of latex gloves. She snapped them on, then stepped closer. Others stepped back.
Elise removed the root from the rusty nail, then unrolled the paper to reveal a name written over and over in black ink.
Seven times seven. The root worker knew his or her stuff.
"Jordan Kemp," Elise said. "Somebody call that in."
Two minutes later, they had a report. "Jordan Harold Kemp," Officer Salazar reported. "White male. Age twenty-one."
"Any record?" Elise asked.
"Arrested twice for prostitution."
"Should have a print on file, then."
Officer Salazar shot a worried look from Elise to the root she cradled in her palm. "I don't like the looks of that," she said nervously.
"It won't hurt you," Elise assured her. "It has nothing to do with you."
People often got curses, spells, and root work confused. "See this?" Elise pointed to a leaf that had been glued to the body of the root. "It's acacia. Ancient Egyptians made funeral wreaths out of acacia leaves."
"So it's a tribute," Gould said.
It was amazing how quickly Elise's years of study came rushing back. As if the knowledge had always been there. As if she hadn't spent over a decade trying to forget everything she'd ever learned.
"A single herb can be used for a lot of different things, in a lot of different ways," Elise said. "It all depends on how it's handled and what it's with."
"And acacia with nightshade ... or mandrake root... ?" Gould prodded.
With a rotting corpse just yards away and an ancient spell in the palm of her hand, Elise suddenly felt bathed in certainty. "That particular combination," she explained, "is used to resurrect the dead."
Chapter 9
Audrey gripped the metal bat and dug her cleats into the loose soil. Behind her, the catcher kept up a stream of chatter that was supposed to make her miss the ball.
It was the bottom of the eighth inning, and the catcher had been taunting everybody throughout the game. Audrey's coach didn't let them use negative chatter, so it was really hard to take when the team they were playing could say anything they wanted.
Not fair!
"Aren't those your mommies on the bleachers?" the catcher teased in a baby voice. "Your two mommies?"
Audrey glanced over to where Elise and her stepmother, Vivian, sat with Audrey's baby brothers. Each woman held a baby. The twins were wearing the matching blue hats Audrey had gotten at the mall.
Audrey loved her little brothers. They got a kick out of her too. She could act goofy and make them laugh in stereo until tears streamed down their fat little cheeks.
Audrey kept her eye on the pitcher and moved out of the batter's box. She took a few practice swings, then stepped back up to the plate.
In the outfield, the opposing team chanted, "Batter, batter, batter..."
"Swing."
Audrey swung.
"Strike!"
Once you missed a ball, the pitcher liked to keep the balls coming, one after the other, so you didn't have time to pull yourself together. Right now she was standing sideways, concentrating on her next release.
"Choke up on that bat," Audrey's coach instructed.
The catcher kept up her taunts in a high-pitched singsong. From the outfield came, "Batter, batter, batter..."
"Swing!"
The bat connected solidly.
Audrey didn't wait to see where the ball was heading. She dropped the bat and ran for first, her cleats digging into the ground.
The ball moved with rocket speed—a line drive between third base and shortstop, about a foot above the ground. The outfielder made a dive and missed.
*
Elise didn't know much about softball, but she knew a good hit when she saw one. She started to jump to her feet, then remembered the baby. She clung to Tyler with one arm, while cupping her free hand and shouting as Audrey rounded first, then second.
Home run? Was it going to be a home run?
Two outfielders scrambled for the ball, one of them finally sending it infield to the pitcher just as Audrey tag
ged third.
Stop! Stay there! Elise thought.
Audrey didn't hesitate. Didn't even think about playing it safe. She flew for home. The pitcher shot the ball to the catcher.
Beside Elise, Vivian shouted, "Slide! Slide!"
Audrey slid. Riding into home on her hip and thigh, crashing into the plate just as the ball smacked the catcher's mitt, enveloping the players in a cloud of dust.
Had the catcher fumbled?
Had she dropped the ball?
Elise stared at the umpire, her heart in her throat.
After what seemed the longest pause in softball history, he shouted and gestured wildly. "Safe!"
The winning run.
Game over.
Elise cheered madly. Beside her, Vivian joined in.
The noise frightened the twins; they began to bawl, their little mouths wide, faces red.
Elise bounced her knee. "Don't cry, sweetie."
That didn't help, because Tyler was afraid of her.
"Have you ever seen anybody slide like that?" Elise asked over his head.
"Not a girl."
Both women laughed.
The ball teams lined up for the traditional high-five and "Good game" pass.
On the bleachers, people gathered up their belongings and climbed down until it was just Elise, Vivian, and the crying babies.
"She hates me," Elise said, watching her daughter move through the line of girls.
Vivian dug into her blue diaper bag and produced two teething crackers, which she handed to the boys. Like a flipped switch, they both quit sobbing and took the treat. "Who?"
"Audrey."
Vivian twisted around to stare at Elise. "What are you talking about?"
"She doesn't want to visit anymore. Not that she ever wanted to visit much anyway."
"It's not you," Vivian reassured her. "She's at that age when friends are so important. She wants to be near them."
"She's slipping away."
So many songs had been written about how quickly kids grew up, and how parents had to be there or miss out. Those songs may have been cliches, but they were true.
It had all started gradually.
When Audrey was a baby and Thomas had remarried, it seemed logical for Audrey to spend her days with Vivian rather than a baby-sitter. And when Elise was working odd hours—which was most of the time—Audrey stayed with Thomas and Vivian. They loved her every bit as much as Elise did, which made it easier for Elise to sleep at night and do a good job during the day, knowing Audrey was safe and loved and well cared for.
When it came time for Audrey to begin school, it seemed practical for Audrey to go to school near Thomas and Vivian. Schools were better and less dangerous in the suburbs, and if Elise was working late, she didn't need to worry about Audrey.
Even before the twins came along, Thomas, Audrey, and Vivian had been a real family with a traditional life. And they had a schedule. A routine to their days that rarely varied. That was important. Something a child needed.
Sometimes Elise felt tainted. Tainted by her past. Tainted by her job.
Vivian was solid. Stable.
People thought it strange that she and Elise were friends, but to Elise it had always seemed natural. There had never been any hostility in the divorce, only a realization that she and Thomas couldn't have been more wrong for each other.
Audrey looked in their direction and waved.
Elise and Vivian waved back.
The mob broke apart and Audrey ran toward the bleachers in her red-and-white uniform with matching striped socks. Along one side, from waist to ankle, was dirt-stained evidence of her slide.
She put down her ball glove and held out her hands to Tyler. He began squealing in delight, arms outstretched.
"Got him?" Elise asked.
Audrey kept her eyes locked on her little brother. "Yep," she said with a beautiful smile. She tucked Tyler firmly against her. He immediately grabbed her hair with a gummy, cookie-encrusted fist.
"Oh, my God!" Audrey said. "He is so gross! He's getting my hair full of gross stuff!"
Elise watched as her daughter and Vivian looked at each other and began laughing hysterically.
The family life Audrey had with Thomas and Vivian was good. She was happy. But for Elise, the price of that happiness may have been the loss of her daughter.
Chapter 10
"As your psychiatrist, I have to ask—are you thinking of harming yourself?"
"Of course not."
"Are you thinking of harming anyone else?"
With the phone to his ear, David Gould stared at the cat for a long time. Beth's cat.
"David?" his psychiatrist asked in her calm voice. "David? Are you still there?"
"No. I mean yes—I'm here. And no, I'm not thinking of harming anyone else."
Getting off drugs cold turkey—no matter that they were pharmaceutical—had seemed like a good idea on Friday, not long after Elise had brought up his lack of engagement. Today was Sunday. Well, actually Monday, since it was long past midnight, and David was crawling out of his skin.
Stopping the antidepressants was doing a strange number on his head.
In all the time he'd been taking them, he hadn't experienced a single high or low. He hadn't experienced anger, or joy, or sorrow. He wasn't even sure he could say he existed. But now ... now all that was changing. Now he was AWAKE, with capital letters. Awake after almost two years of being dead.
But you wanted to be dead. Didn't you even ask the cops to kill you? To put you out of your misery? To stop the pain?
Agony rushed up his throat, threatening to choke him.
He couldn't deal with the memories now. One thing at a time.
Control. Control. Control.
It was an FBI agent's mantra. It was his mantra.
This was like a rebirth. A baptism.
Emotions he'd forgotten existed pulsed through him. Pain. Anger. Sorrow.
Wonderful emotions. Overwhelming emotions. Too many at once. Too intense. Let some of it in, but not all of it. Slam that door. He couldn't handle it all. Not yet.
"Is there anyone in Savannah you can call?" Dr. Fisher asked.
He hadn't switched psychiatrists when he'd moved to Savannah because he hadn't wanted the people he worked with to know he was seeing a shrink—something that had turned into an issue in Ohio. As soon as coworkers had become aware of his problem, things changed and they began to second-guess him. Not a safe situation for anyone involved. When he realized what was going on, he decided to start over somewhere new. A clean slate.
"Your partner, perhaps?"
His partner? "Out of the question."
What would he say to Elise? Hey, I'm flipping out and wondered if you could come over and hold my hand?
"You've been working with her for three months. Surely it wouldn't be out of line to give her a call."
Three months. Yeah, normally you would kind of know somebody by then. "I've been a little … disconnected."
David was sitting on the floor of the combination living room/kitchen, back to the wall, phone balanced on one thigh.
His leg was jiggling.
He made it stop.
The room was dark—the only light the one above the stove. "Believe me, calling my partner is out of the question."
What was that smell? Like wood that had been soaked in urine for twenty years. And sick, fevered bodies.
Yellow fever.
It's my apartment. My fucking apartment.
No wonder his sister had been so appalled.
Sorry, Sis.
His apartment smelled like a nursing home and he hadn't even known it.
His leg was jiggling again.
"Are you still on your meds? Both the Paxil and Valium?"
"I may have missed a few doses."
"You can't do that."
"Actually ... I'm thinking of quitting them both completely."
"David, that's not a good idea. You've been through a very traumatic
event."
"It's been almost two years."
"That's not much time when dealing with something of this magnitude."
Why had he called her? He knew what the problem was. And he knew how she'd fix it. But he was tired of being a lobotomized idiot. If the idea behind the cocktail she'd prescribed was to feel nothing, then it had certainly done the trick.
Then she said the C word. And the T word.
"It's not good to quit cold turkey. There have been some serious problems with patients who weren't stepped down gradually."
Yep. David had heard about them. Not only heard, but seen. Some people went nuts. They even killed. Anti-depressants were being found in the bloodstreams of murderers. Was it because they were the ones who needed help, or did the drugs finally establish an unreality that allowed them to move past the thought, the fantasy stage, to take a step they would normally not have taken?
He'd been prepared for some violent mood swings. Maybe even a few crying jags he could blame on some old movie, but not the sweating and shaking and stomach cramps.
Not the crawling out of his fucking skin.
Not the desperate need to move, to do something, anything.
Jiggle, jiggle, jiggle.
Chewing on his knuckle.
This is like trying to kick heroin.
Not that he personally knew what that was like, but he'd seen Trainspotting, and he was expecting a baby to start making its way across the ceiling at any moment.
"I can't sleep. I haven't slept in three days."
He couldn't wind down.
He'd already run ten miles. Should he run ten more?
"Have you been drinking? Your voice sounds slurred. You aren't supposed to drink when you're taking either of your medications."
Too late. Desperation had come knocking. "Everybody knows that, Doc."
From his position on the floor, David looked up at the kitchen counter at all of the empty beer bottles. He didn't have a lot of experience with overindulgence. He'd planned to drink only one or two beers. Just to take the edge off. After six, the edge was still there, and he was feeling like a drunk on speed.