Stay awake. You can’t give up now. John Lyons could be downstairs, waiting for you.
She forced her eyes open.
She had to get out of here.
The elevator landed with a gentle bump on the main floor. The door opened. She peered into the main embalming room. No sign of anyone.
Relief weakened her legs. She stumbled toward the door. A set of shelves built next to the wall caught her eye. Scrub gowns were stacked neatly on one of them. She grabbed one, clumsily thrusting her arms in the sleeves. The back gaped open, threatening to fall off her shoulders. She snatched another gown and put it on back to front. Being clothed gave her strength. Like she was one step closer to the living.
She staggered through the door into the hall. The building was silent. What time was it? She had no idea how long she’d been unconscious. She stumbled down the hallway, her hand holding the wall for support, her right leg becoming heavier as if it was filled with water.
Go faster.
John Lyons was somewhere in here.
She forced her feet to move one after another. The dots had receded to the edge of her vision, leaching color from the walls. Everything had a shadow.
Her heart raced, urging her forward, yet begging for reprieve. She eyed the final corner. Was John waiting around the curve with his tire iron raised?
She inched forward, her leg now dragging.
Get ready to run.
She tried to psych herself. She couldn’t run. Her leg could barely move. Fear put her heart into overdrive.
She reached the corner. Pressed her back against the wall. Listened.
Was that John’s ragged breathing on the other side?
Or hers?
A minute passed.
Then another.
Her leg was numbing. If she didn’t move soon, she wouldn’t be able to.
On the count of three.
One.
Two.
Three—
55
Friday, May 18, 7:49 p.m.
She barreled around the corner, head low. She’d take him in the middle, take the tire iron on the back, not the head.
The momentum pitched her forward.
She fell onto her hands and knees.
She scrambled to her feet, staggering against the wall, and looked around frantically.
She scanned the shadows. The dots in her vision converged, then pulled apart. She rubbed her temple.
John was not here.
The hallway was empty.
Where was he?
She didn’t know. All she knew was that she needed to get out of here. Now. Before she collapsed in this hellhole.
Her strength was ebbing like sand through fingers.
She would not die in this funeral home. She wouldn’t give Anna Keane and John Lyons the satisfaction.
The doors to the loading bay loomed in front of her.
She threw herself against the doors and they swung open. The scrub gowns clung wetly against her legs. She stumbled through the doorway, falling to her knees.
Air. Freedom.
She was alive.
She pushed herself to her feet.
The dots careered wildly. She put a hand against the building.
You cannot stay here. Move. Move. You’re almost home free.
She staggered forward. One foot. Lurch. The other foot. Her muscles did not belong to her. They belonged to someone else. Small pebbles of gravel dug into her feet.
Warmth. On her leg.
It was blood. The wound on her thigh was still bleeding. Gushing.
Wait. No.
She froze.
A man’s silhouette, black against the trees. Silver hair that gleamed—
The spots spun themselves into a fury.
Not now. Not now.
Not now…
Pavement struck her arms, then her face.
The spots careered into a black hole.
56
Friday, May 18, 7:53 p.m.
Ethan slammed the brakes so hard the car spun around. It narrowly missed crashing into Ferguson’s car behind him. His eye had caught something green sprawled on the ground, lit by the streetlight on the edge of the parking lot. He jerked the wheel hard. The car lunged over the curb and into the parking lot.
The green came into focus.
His heart jammed into his throat. It was Kate. She lay in a bloody heap.
He leaped out of his car, running faster than he’d ever run in his life. Sirens blared around him. Tires squealed. The rest of the team careered into the back parking lot of Keane’s Funeral Home.
She lay facedown, her arm crumpled under her. Blood seeped through the scrub gown she wore. Her legs and feet were bare. She looked so vulnerable, so exposed, he had to fight hard to keep himself from scooping her into his arms and holding her tight.
Because if he moved her, and if she was—he could barely imagine the words—if she was dead, then he would disturb evidence that might ultimately convict the killer.
He threw himself to his knees and pressed a hand against her neck. Her skin was still warm.
“Please, Kate,” he whispered. “Please.”
His fingers probed the delicate lines of her throat. He couldn’t find her pulse.
He couldn’t find her pulse.
He pressed further, his fingers desperate.
Please God. Please.
No matter how frantic his fingers, he couldn’t find her pulse.
Ferguson knelt down on Kate’s other side. He felt her gaze on him. He wouldn’t look up, couldn’t bear to see the compassion in her face.
His eyes stung with tears. Tears of loss. And of regret. He had turned her away. He had failed to forgive her.
This was his punishment. Nice work, God. You really know how to put it to a homicide cop.
An ambulance veered next to them. The paramedics ran out, pulling a stretcher. Ferguson moved out of the way. Ethan remained where he was.
The paramedics knelt down. Ethan reluctantly removed his hand from Kate’s throat. It still held the warmth of life. Once her skin cooled, she would be another homicide victim. She would be part of a process that would talk about her life in terms of her cause of death, her injuries, her final moments, not dwelling on all the moments leading up to this. That was reserved for the victim impact statements. But those could never do justice to all the little ordinary things that, together, made someone extraordinary.
Ethan rocked back on his heels. He couldn’t watch the paramedics trying to put air into lungs that no longer breathed. It would make him hope. And that was too painful.
He turned, desperately scanning the scene playing out in the parking lot. It had taken on a surreal quality. Cars blocked the entry, officers stormed the funeral home, guns ready. Several patrols had been sent to block the front of the home.
But it was too late. They were too late to save her. He hadn’t been able to save her. This woman, who’d been brought down into the darkest trenches of life and had fought her way out of them.
He saw that now. He wished he’d seen it before.
He hadn’t understood how that past had made her prove her worthiness, over and over again. She deserved so much more.
Why the hell did he have to figure this all out now, when it was too bloody late?
He turned back to the paramedics and waited for the verdict. The male paramedic checked her blood pressure. Kate’s arm hung from his grasp. “She’s tachycardic. Heart rate one hundred and twenty per minute. Blood pressure seventy-eight systolic. Respirations present.”
Ethan’s blood began pounding in his ears. The paramedic looked over at him. “She’s still alive.”
Tears broke free of Ethan’s eyes and trickled down his face. He squeezed his eyes shut. Then opened them and grabbed Kate’s hand. “I couldn’t find her pulse.” Her fingers curved limply in his palm. He never wanted to let go.
“Her blood pressure was too low,” the other paramedic said, tying a tourniquet above the wound on
Kate’s leg. “She’s lost a lot of blood,” she added. “She’s got trauma to her head and a bad break in her arm. She’s not out of the woods yet.”
Her partner checked Kate’s pulse and her airway. “Eye movement to sound. She’s withdrawing to pain. Verbal responses incomprehensible.” He began inserting an IV into Kate’s arm.
Ethan held her other hand. It was still warm. It would always be warm.
She was alive.
The paramedics lifted her carefully onto the stretcher. Ethan walked with them to the ambulance, his hand gripping Kate’s until they lifted her inside. The ambulance drove away, its sirens almost drowning out the sudden ringing of Ethan’s cell phone.
He yanked it out of his pocket. He was in no mood to speak to anyone, but the only people who had this number were the C.I. team and Kate.
“Detective Drake?” The voice on the other end of the phone made Ethan’s blood pressure rise. “It’s Randall Barrett.”
“How the hell’d you get this number?” His fear had passed, leaving him with a burning anger at all the people who had put Kate in this situation. Randall Barrett numbered high on his list.
“Is Kate okay?” The urgency in Randall’s voice cut through Ethan’s anger.
“She’s hurt, but she’s alive,” Ethan said curtly. “She’s been taken to the hospital.”
“What about Lyons?”
“The team’s in the building. We’ll soon find out.”
“Look, I’m sitting at the intersection. The police won’t let me near the place. Can you tell them to let me through?”
“Stay away, Barrett. This is no place for a civilian. If John Lyons isn’t in there, I’ll let you know. Under no circumstances should you have any contact with him. Call the police instead.”
“I’m not a fool.” Randall didn’t bother to hide his frustration.
A bitter smile curved Ethan’s lips. Randall Barrett was used to being in control, taking charge of a situation. When would he learn he had no place in a murder investigation?
“I’ve got to go,” Ethan said. “I’ll be in touch.”
They both knew what he’d left unsaid: when hell freezes over.
57
Saturday, May 19, 8:00 p.m.
It was dark when Ethan got to the hospital. Shadows had deepened to indigo an hour before as the sky darkened. Ethan hoped the gift shop was still open.
It wasn’t. Damn. No flowers for her tonight. Tomorrow he’d make sure to send her a hundred tulips, her favorite flower. He thought of Dr. Clare. Of the tulips lining her walkway. An ebullient welcome to spring, to the season of rebirth. But for her, it was a season of grief and loss. Her husband would be dead within weeks. Her children would probably not even remember him.
He hurried to the elevator and pressed the button for the orthopedic ward. His fingers slid into his jacket pocket, hesitating. Screw it. He turned off his cell phone. So what that he was breaking his own cardinal rule.
He was still stunned by the discoveries the team had made about the TransTissue fraud. And shamed that Kate hadn’t trusted him enough to share her suspicions. He had failed her as a lover, friend. And as a cop.
He stopped at the nurses’ station. Unlike the last time he was visiting the GH2, the ward clerk went out of her way to give him Kate’s room number. He strode down the hall, his pulse leaping at the thought of seeing her. Touching her. Hopefully holding her.
Her door was half-open. He couldn’t hear any voices in the room. He knocked softly.
“Come in,” she said, her voice drowsy.
He walked in, his heart in his throat. She lay in the bed, a stack of newspapers next to her, untouched. A large bouquet of lilies and roses sat on her bedside table.
When she saw him, her eyes widened. Her face was a mess, her cheekbone swollen and bruised, one eye black, a bandage wrapped around her head. A monitor was hooked up to her chest and an oxygen tube ran from her nose to a tank. The arm that had been broken lay by her side, the cast a stark white against her gray skin. Her fingers were swollen.
His throat constricted.
“Kate,” he said softly. “Sweetheart.” He took her uninjured hand in his own.
Her skin was warm, soft. Alive. He rubbed his thumb gently over the back of her hand.
“How are you feeling?”
“Terrible.” She smiled. His heart swelled in gratitude.
“You look beautiful.”
The smile grew more lopsided. “Liar.”
“You are beautiful.” His voice was husky.
The smile left her lips.
“Kate…” There was so much he wanted to say. She had taken the curveballs life had thrown at her with grace. Unlike him.
I don’t blame you for not telling me about your sister. You were right. I would have blamed you. I did blame you. Not anymore. He squeezed her fingers gently. The words that flowed so freely in his head jumbled in his throat. He managed, “I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.” Her words were thick.
“I miss you.”
She looked at him, her eyes dulled with drugs but still searching. Searching. It struck him to the core. She had spent her life searching.
He took a deep breath. “I love you.” He cradled her fingers in his.
She stared at him for a moment. Tears welled in her eyes. She turned her face away.
His throat tightened. “Kate, please, look at me.”
She slowly turned her face toward him. A tear slid crookedly down her cheek. He wanted to wipe it away. But the look in her eyes froze him. A look of resignation. Sadness.
“I know this isn’t the right time—” It sure as hell wasn’t with her being on opiates and him having no sleep for days on end, but suddenly he was desperate to let her know how he felt. He had to say it before she had a chance to say something he didn’t want to hear. “But we’ve never been good at timing, have we?” He smiled.
Her eyes searched his. “That’s been the whole problem, Ethan. I don’t think anything’s changed.”
But it has, his heart roared. It has. “When I saw you lying on the pavement…”
“Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t say anything you’ll regret.” She squeezed his hand, her grip so weak it was almost nonexistent, but he felt it, as unflinching as the vise of pain closing around his heart.
Yesterday he had thought she was dead. But she had survived. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes. It was a sign. He couldn’t let her get away again. He had learned from his mistakes—
“Ethan,” she said haltingly. “I will always love you.” Another tear slid down her cheek. He wanted to put a finger on her lips to stop the words he sensed were coming, but he realized he was too late. Too damn late. “But I don’t think we were meant to be together.”
She closed her eyes, as if the sight of him was too much to bear.
His own tears burned his eyes. He would not make her pay for his mistakes anymore. He bent down and kissed her forehead. “I made a mistake I will always regret, Kate,” he said huskily. “I’m sorry.”
“Me, too,” she whispered.
After he left, she let the tears come. Slowly, trickling a tentative path over the swollen terrain of her face.
What had she done?
She finally had what she had hoped for. She had turned it away.
There had been too many hurts, too many betrayals, on both sides for the careless happiness they had enjoyed to continue. When they did not have that to share, they had little else. They were too different. To become the same, one of them would have to compromise too much of their intrinsic self. It would result in more disaster for both of them.
She knew that. She believed that. And yet she couldn’t help but probe her heart one final time.
The pain was there. Deep, silent, waiting for her to approach. But not reproachful. It was the pain of having something that had been lodged deep in her flesh finally removed.
It was a healing pain.
Her tears ran over her lips. She taste
d their warmth, their saltiness. They were strangely comforting.
Sleep pulled at her. She let it carry her away.
58
Friday, May 25, 9:00 a.m.
In addition to a body that had been left on display for visitation at the funeral home, two other bodies had been discovered by the C.I. team. The first was Craig Peters’ body. The second was Anna Keane’s. She’d been strangled to death with an embalming tube. Just like all of Craig Peters’ other victims.
But John Lyons wasn’t in the building. He was found the previous Saturday morning, floating in the Halifax Harbour. He’d jumped off the bridge.
One of Anna Keane’s employees identified Craig Peters as the man who “disarticulated” the bodies. His car, a silver Chrysler, was found and its plate run. The seat fibers matched the ones found on the victims. The Forensic Identification Unit began the laborious process of scouring the funeral home, the car, his apartment and Dr. Gill’s lab for evidence.
“So the kill site was the embalming room,” Lamond said, a touch of amazement in his voice. “Friggin’ genius.”
“Craig Peters was a smart man,” Ethan said. Very smart. He had been at the funeral, after all. They matched his photo with the coverage they’d shot at the funeral. “The embalming room was a perfect place to dismember the bodies. The room was sterile, so no trace evidence.”
“And he even had a nice cold spot to store his trophies.”
They hadn’t matched all the body parts yet, but Ethan had no doubt some of those bagged legs, eyes and spines belonged to their victims.
No wonder they had came up empty.
“It seems likely that Vangie Wright was ground zero for spreading CJD,” Ferguson announced, walking into the room. “Her sister confirmed that the Department of Health suspected she had the illness.”
“Jesus,” Lamond muttered.
“We are still trying to track down some of her brain tissue to do a biopsy. The GH2 thinks it might be able to find some.”
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