by Cassie Miles
"Or unusually good taste." But she didn't dismiss Ted as a suspect. It was easy to imagine him taking the care to remove every trace of evidence from his victims. "Does he have access to drugs?"
"I wouldn't be surprised to find out that his mother requires the occasional sedative."
"A nice shot of elephant tranquilizer," Blair said. "Did you believe what Eddy said about choosing Ted to send the notes to? Because their names were the same."
"Kind of a creepy link between them. Eddy and Teddy."
Instead of taking the highway on the last leg of their trip from Colorado Springs to Denver, David had chosen a back route that added forty-five minutes to their drive time. But this ride was far more mellow. At times the two-lane road followed the twisty curves of a small creek. There were more trees in this area. Cottonwoods and aspen groves.
"This is pleasant," she said. "Almost makes me forget where we're going."
"We could keep driving. Straight through Denver and north to Wyoming." He exhaled a breath. "But we won't. Not until we're sure the Fisherman is caught."
Tentatively she asked, "And then what happens? To you and me?"
"I'm not sure." His forehead crinkled as he considered her question. "Did you ever go to the old roller coaster at Elitch Gardens?"
"Once," she said. "It was rickety, made out of wood."
"Remember how the roller-coaster car would climb, real slow to the top? It ratcheted up one click at a time. I feel like that's what we're doing. Gathering info, reasoning, building a case. Each fact takes us a bit higher. Click, click, click. Then, when we finally have the answer, we'll take a screaming dive, straight down. After that, life will even out."
"We just have to wait," she said. "No promises or assurances."
It was hard to make a lifetime commitment when you didn't know if the only life you had left was a matter of days or hours.
She noticed David peering into the rearview mirror, and she turned. There was a big, black pickup truck coming up behind them, following too close. Though she'd sworn not to nag, she said, "Pull over and let him pass."
"I will as soon as there's space."
The shoulder was only a few feet wide, then down a slight embankment to the trees bordering the creek.
David sped up.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Giving him some room."
The speedometer showed they were going only fifty miles an hour, but it felt like 150 to Blair. The green branches of trees lashed past her window in a dizzying blur.
The road curved. She leaned against the passenger door. Too fast. They were going too fast. The road widened slightly. Beside them was a wide meadow bordered by a barbed wire fence.
The truck behind them honked.
"David, please." Every nerve in her body gnarled with tension. They were going to have an accident. "Stop the car."
"Can't. He'll run right over me."
The pickup pulled out to pass. His engine roared as he raced up beside them.
At the next curve a red station wagon appeared from nowhere. It was headed toward them. In the same lane as the pickup.
David stood on the brake as the pickup swerved in front of him.
She heard the sickening crunch of metal against metal as the rear of the pickup clipped the front fender of David's car. The nose of the Acura spun toward the field. They were on the narrow shoulder, churning up pebbles and dust. Out of control.
Blair screamed. Oh, God, not again. She couldn't stand for this to happen again.
She was aware of David fighting the skid. His airbag exploded, blocking his vision. She heard the screech of the tires. Her body jostled against the seat belt. Terror consumed her.
She squeezed her eyelids closed but didn't lose consciousness. She was too scared to pass out, afraid that she'd wake up in a hospital. Broken. Destroyed.
The car stopped.
They hadn't crashed.
Beside her she heard David cursing and struggling with the airbag. His- hand grasped her shoulder.
"Blair, are you okay?"
She wanted to speak, but her mind was frozen in time. Her memory cleared. This was exactly what had happened before. When Jake was driving, the car that tried to pass wasn't a truck, but it had forced them off the road. Someone else had been responsible for the accident.
All along Jake had claimed that the accident wasn't his fault. He told her there was another car involved, but Blair couldn't remember and didn't believe him. She'd cursed him, thrown him out of her life, despised him. And he wasn't to blame.
"Blair!"
She opened her eyes. "I owe Jake an apology."
Her near-miss accident with David wasn't exactly the same as the disaster five years ago when Jake had been driving. With David, the other two vehicles stuck around and exchanged insurance information. The Acura sustained serious body damage but was still driveable. And, most important, David had controlled the skid and managed to stay on the road.
But the choreography was very similar to what had happened in the first accident—the accident that hadn't been Jake's fault. Blair had wasted a lot of time and effort, hating him for no good reason.
When David finally returned to the car, she said, "Jake didn't dump me."
"Whatever." His eyebrows pulled down in an expression of deep concern. "Are you certain you're not injured?"
"I dumped him. Told him that I never wanted to see him again." She frowned. "It was pretty cruel."
"My God, Blair. Don't waste time feeling guilty about Jake. If I remember correctly, he recovered fast."
"He tried to tell me it wasn't his fault, but I wouldn't listen." She gazed directly into David's eyes. "I wouldn't let him help me. I pushed him away."
Was she making the same mistake with David? For much of her life she'd clung to a misguided sense of independence. The result was not freedom. But bone-deep loneliness.
David checked his wristwatch. "We can still make it back to Denver in time for the autopsy. What do you want to do?"
"I'll attend the autopsy." Too much of her life and livelihood had already been lost. "Then I'll decide." She looked up at David, linking her gaze with his, and she amended her statement. "We'll decide. You and me."
Right up at the top of her list was the need to apologize to Jake. It seemed important to wipe that slate clean.
Gloved and gowned in the autopsy room, Blair observed as Dr. Reinholdt opened the body cavity. The corpse was anorexically thin. Though her wrists and ankles showed the ligatures typical of being bound, there was little bruising. Possibly her captor had used too much sedative for a woman of such low body weight, and she'd been too weak to struggle. Unlike Pamela Comforti, there were no unusual markings on this victim's abdomen.
Reinholdt's dissection to free the large intestine was uncharacteristically sloppy, and Blair looked up in surprise. What was wrong with him? Above his surgeon's mask, dark circles ringed his eyes. His ruddy complexion was faded to an ashen hue. He was obviously exhausted, weighed down by heavy stress.
Someone else should be handling this important autopsy. Blair glanced toward the other doctors who were assisting. The man she knew from five years ago was a pathologist, not qualified as a medical examiner. The other was young—too junior to take over.
Though it was the height of presumption for her to interfere, Blair had to relieve Dr. Reinholdt of this burden. He'd never forgive himself if he overlooked a clue because he was too tired to do a proper job.
She cleared her throat. "Dr. Reinholdt, would you mind if I participated in the autopsy? It would mean a lot to me."
Quickly, he stepped back from the stainless steel autopsy table. "Be my guest, Blair."
As she glanced toward the other medical examiner, she saw him nod. She was doing the right thing.
Blair put on a mask and stepped up to the table. Was she ready for this? She hadn't done an autopsy since before her accident. Her gloved fingers grasped the razor-edged scalpel firmly. She focused on the bod
y that lay before her. Basic anatomy. Intestines, bile duct, liver, stomach.
She took a deep breath. "I'll start with the lower gastrointestinal area."
"Yes, Doctor."
"You take the lungs."
"Right."
For a moment she paused. Her wrist trembled, and she was afraid. What if she messed up? What if she couldn't do this work?
Her gaze lifted. Though David had declined the opportunity to join her in the autopsy room, he was here. Standing in the corridor, he watched her through the glass window. His gaze met hers. He smiled and gave her a thumbs-up signal.
He believed in her, and she didn't want to let him down. What was more important, she had something to prove to herself.
Watching from the hallway, David worried that Blair was taking on too much. At the same time he was proud of her. If she hadn't been up to her elbows in somebody else's innards, he might have run into the autopsy room and kissed her.
He turned away from the window and saw a familiar figure leaning against the opposite wall. Justin Hunter pushed his glasses up on his nose, straightened the lapels on his sports jacket and sauntered toward David. "Nice to see you again."
It couldn't be a coincidence that he was here, lurking around outside the room where the Fisherman's latest victim was being autopsied. This was the second time he'd shown up for the Fisherman autopsies. In a way, Hunter's appearance was like returning to the scene of the crime. "What are you doing here?"
"I sell medical supplies." Hunter gestured ingenuously. "This is a medical facility."
Even if Hunter was the Fisherman, David wasn't concerned about safety. Not for Blair or for himself. There were cops all over the Coroner's Office, including a uniformed officer posted outside the door to the autopsy room. "I thought this area was restricted."
"I had an appointment. Besides—" he flashed a twinkly smile "—nobody notices a guy like me. I come and go and do my job and nobody even remembers I was here."
"I doubt that," David said.
"And you'd be right. I make myself known."
His boast could have been directly transcribed from the psychological profile for serial killers' manual. Phony self-deprecation combined with a need to be acknowledged and in control.
Since it might be worrisome for Blair to see Hunter while she had her hands full, David started strolling with him toward the exit. "I saw a friend of yours. Eddy Adderly."
"In Canon City?"
"That's right." David watched for a reaction. "He mentioned you."
Hunter's chin lifted. His expression was smug, as if he'd done something clever. "How about that! Edward Adderly knows who I am."
"He mentioned that you wanted to sell copies of his Fisherman notes. I don't think that's strictly legal. Eddy's not allowed to profit from his crimes."
"Who said anything about sharing the profit?" Hunter chuckled. "And it's not like I'd declare the sale of criminal artifacts on my income tax."
"Do you sell other artifacts?"
He stopped walking, leaned toward David and waggled his index finger. "You're trying to trip me up, David. I'm not about to reveal all my secrets to you. You're a reporter, after all."
What secrets? "How are you going to get the acclaim you deserve if nobody knows what you're doing? You don't want to stay anonymous."
"Lots of people know about me," he protested. "That's what my Web site is about."
David pushed a bit harder. "You can tell me your secrets. I'd write about you. Make you famous."
Behind his glasses, his eyes went cold as he considered David's proposition. "Why don't I show you instead?"
"Show me what?" David remembered the souvenirs the Fisherman had taken from his crimes. Bits of jewelry from his victims that had never been recovered.
"Come with me now."
David hesitated. He couldn't leave Blair here alone, but he wanted to see what Hunter was hiding. This might be evidence, might be the key to finally proving a case. If Hunter was the Fisherman...
"I don't live far from here," Hunter said. "Maybe twenty minutes away. In the Washington Park area. By the lake."
His mention of living near water clinched David's decision. "You're on," he said. The autopsy ought to last for another hour. "Let me leave a note for Blair."
He took a pen from the inside of his jacket pocket and scribbled a note on the back of one of his business cards. Quickly he paced down the hall toward the autopsy room and gave it to the cop. "Please give this to Dr. Weston when she's done."
"Who?"
"The lady doctor doing the autopsy. Brown hair. Green eyes."
"The cute one."
"That's the one." David nodded. "Whatever you do, don't let her leave. She's an important witness. Protected. Do you understand?"
"Sure."
David hurried down the corridor toward Justin Hunter. Somewhere in the back of his mind, it occurred to him that it wasn't a very smart idea to go home alone with the man he suspected of being a serial murderer. But David was carrying his gun in his shoulder holster, and he was willing to take the. risk. Maybe he was finally going to catch a break.
Chapter Sixteen
By the time Blair completed her portion of the autopsy, she was physically tired. The muscles in her leg were tense from standing so long in one position. Her wrist felt weak. But her heart was soaring. She'd done a good job.
In the hallway outside the autopsy suite, Dr. Reinholdt engulfed her in a huge bear hug. "Thanks, Blair. As soon as I stepped back from the table, I realized how stressed I was."
She ought to be thanking him. His willingness to step aside had given her the last nudge she needed to make her decision. "I want to come back. I want to work for you again. Full-time."
He held her at arm's length and regarded her with glowing paternal pride. "Name the date."
"Two days after the Fisherman is apprehended."
"Done," he said. "I don't need to tell you that my wife will be pleased. With you back here, I can relax, maybe even take a family vacation."
And David? Would he be pleased? Of course, he would be. He was consistently supportive—her best and most handsome cheerleader. She scanned the hallway. Where had he gone? She couldn't wait to share her happy news with him.
A uniformed cop approached her. "Dr. Weston, your friend left you this note."
She took David's business card and read the scribble on the back: "Be back in a sec. Don't go anywhere alone."
"What's up?" Reinholdt asked.
"Apparently, David got called away." No big deal. "He'll be back."
"He seems like a good man."
"A very good man." Five years ago, when she'd been working with Reinholdt, he'd taken more interest in her dating pattern than her own mother. According to Dr. Reinholdt—who was no Dr. Phil—a doctor was only as good as his or her spouse.."I know you'd approve of him."
"Travels a lot, doesn't he?"
"David is thinking about changing his job focus, maybe going back to sports reporting."
"Excellent choice. You need someone who can be home for dinner more often than not, a shoulder to lean against, a friend. In our business, it's vital not to take your work home with you."
"As if I'd try to sneak out with a spare gall bladder?"
"You know what I mean, Blair."
"It's good advice for you, too. Tonight, promise me that you'll get a good night's sleep."
"Glad you're back on the team." He patted her shoulder. "I'll call with the forensic analysis results."
She waved goodbye and started toward the exit.
The cop who had given her David's card blocked her way. "I'm sorry, ma'am. But you're supposed to wait here."
But she was too excited to stand around and wait for David to return. She needed to move. If not to dance, at least to stretch her legs and breathe fresh air. She smiled up at the cop. "I won't go far."
"You're a protected witness."
Right at the moment, there was nothing to protect her from. The Fishe
rman had already made his strike. She dodged around the cop. "I'll be fine."
Her words echoed ominously inside her head. The last time she'd refused protection was when the Fisherman attacked at the swimming pool in her apartment. But this was different. She wouldn't go far.
Outside the Coroner's Office, a brilliant sunset settled over Denver. Reflected glory streaked the spring skies with magenta and painted the underbellies of clouds with pure Rocky Mountain gold. A balmy breeze kissed her cheeks.
Nothing bad could happen on a day like this. She'd said it before with sarcasm, now she meant it. This was a wonderful, significant day.
She thought back to their near accident on the drive from Colorado Springs. Now might be a good time to call Jake. Reaching into her fanny pack, she took out the tiny cell phone and punched in the main number for the Denver Post. Their offices weren't far from here. Maybe she could stop by and talk to Jake personally. Though she didn't usually like to admit she'd been wrong, this was an apology she was looking forward to.
As she strolled on the sidewalk with a steady stream of traffic to her left, Blair felt safe enough. She wasn't being careless. Even if the Fisherman was after her, he was too careful to grab her in front of so many witnesses.
She reached Jake's extension. A woman answered and informed her, "He's not around."
No big surprise. "Do you know where he's staying?"
"I'm not supposed to tell."
That was typical of Jake. He probably had a dozen angry ex-girlfriends after him. "Don't worry," Blair said. "I'm his doctor."
"He's staying with a friend. Ted Hurtado."
Blair thanked her and disconnected the call. She was tickled to think of Jake, trapped in that dark brick house with Ted's nutsy mother. Doris would likely be plying him with burned cookies and asking his advice on fuschia nail polish.
With an impatient sigh, Blair realized that she'd walked as far as the lot where her little Toyota was parked. She looked to the car, then to the street, then to the skies. Where was David? He must have been detained. Surely he wouldn't expect her to wait all night.
Almost before she realized what she was doing, Blair had crossed the asphalt parking lot and slipped behind the steering wheel. She sat with the doors locked. Even after several days and a thorough investigation by the police forensics team, the faint odor of rotting fish lingered.