by Anne Frasier
She pulled into his apartment parking lot and left the car in gear, foot on the brake. “I like the idea of trying to create a life outside Homicide,” she said. “It might even help my case with Audrey. But I’m feeling skeptical about the running.”
He unlatched his seat belt. “It’s a great time of day. Birds singing. Cafés setting up outdoor seating. The smell of coffee and that sweet stench of the paper mill.”
He could see the second she caved.
“Six o’clock,” she said.
He resisted the urge to high-five himself. Instead he opened the door and stepped out. Then, leaning down so he could peer inside the car, he said, “Go home. Get some rest. I’ll see if I can track down your dad.”
CHAPTER 14
Arriving home, Elise did a quick pass around the exterior of her house to make sure she’d had no unwelcome visitors. Inside, she set the alarm and checked doors and windows. House secure, she entered the first-floor guest room where her father had been staying. His bed had been stripped, and his clothes were no longer in the closet. When she’d passed his door that morning, his bed had been made, so this had to have happened after the cemetery incident. She called Sweet’s cell. No answer, so she called Strata Luna.
“He’s gone,” Strata Luna said. “He dropped off some clothes and told me he was leaving.” She sounded resentful, as if blaming Elise.
“Do you know where he was going? Did he say?”
“No. But he made it clear the two of you couldn’t live in the same town.”
“I’m sorry. But he’s an adult. I didn’t chase him away.”
“Really? ’Cause I’d say that’s exactly what you did.”
Elise was tired of fighting with people. It seemed she was arguing with everybody nowadays. She told Strata Luna good-bye and disconnected.
In the kitchen, she opened the refrigerator and stared blindly for a full minute before pulling out a beer, digging an opener from a drawer, and popping the top off the bottle.
As a detective, she’d learned to work backward, follow the clues from the end to the beginning. Not for the first time she attempted the same technique with her life, trying to figure out where the wrong turns were located. It was hard, because there were so many. And one of those wrong turns had produced Audrey, so how could it ever be considered a wrong turn? Odd to think one of the biggest mistakes of her life, her disastrous marriage, had resulted in the most important person in her life.
In the living room, she drank the beer too quickly, hardly tasting it, mainly hoping for a buzz. Polishing it off, she leaned deeper into the couch and reached for the afghan. Going upstairs to bed seemed too much of a commitment to an old life. Like the previous night, she put her head down and feet up, fully dressed, and reran the events of the day.
Her focus was scattered, her thoughts jumping from Audrey to the raising of her hand to take an oath in the mayor’s hospital room, David being pleased about being back, and those disturbing times during the day when various locations had brought up the past with jolting and disturbing clarity in a way she hadn’t experienced before. All of the things she’d buried deep were resurfacing. It would take time to bury them again, but she would bury them. She’d get them under control.
Exhaustion prevailed, and she fell asleep, dropping into disturbing dreams of a house and the evil man who’d tortured her. Like a few nights ago, she was startled awake by the sound of someone on the porch. She jumped to her feet and peered through the peephole to see the same shrouded figure.
Not fully awake, still trying to shake off the dreams, she grabbed and raised her gun, jerked open the door, and froze, distantly aware of the alarm she’d set earlier counting down.
Beneath the hood, in the faint light cast from her house, was a face she hadn’t seen in a long time, a face she’d hoped to never see again, belonging to a man who was supposed to be dead.
Atticus Tremain.
She wasn’t a screamer, but she felt a scream deep in her guts, trying to escape, blocked by a smothering tightness in her throat.
“Is this the Elise Sandburg residence?” The words came out a stammer, spoken in the same white fear she felt.
She shifted her stance, the movement allowing more light to illuminate the porch. A kid. A young kid wearing a hooded sweatshirt.
Not Tremain. He looked nothing like Tremain.
She lowered the weapon. She found her voice. “What do you want?”
“I-I’ve got a delivery.” He lifted a basket covered with plastic wrap and tied with a red bow. “It’s from the mayor’s office. I stopped by earlier, but nobody was home.” Talking fast, words tripping from his mouth. “I was told not to leave it on the porch. That it would get stolen in this neighborhood.”
Jesus.
She took the basket. “Wait here.” She left him standing there while she punched in the alarm code, the room going silent. Then she dug a ten-dollar bill from her bag to give the poor kid. When she returned to the door, he was gone, his car speeding away. She would have done the same.
She closed the door and locked up, reset the alarm, sat down on the couch, and stared at the gift basket on her lap. Apples and oranges, cheese, local honey, crackers. A card tucked between two packets of tea.
She’d aimed a weapon at a kid. It made her wonder about what she’d seen a few nights ago. The cloaked figure in the street. Maybe she’d been wrong about that too. But no, on the table near the door where she always tossed her keys was the Ziploc bag. That really happened.
With shaking hands, she opened the small envelope and pulled out the card. Welcome back.
She carried the basket to the kitchen and dug through a metal tin full of odds and ends to finally find the scrap of paper she was looking for. It contained the name and website of a psychologist Major Coretta Hoffman had recommended a couple of months ago, before her death. Back in the living room, Elise pulled up the website and was able to schedule an appointment online. The first available opening was two months out. She chose a date and time and included a note explaining the reason for her visit, along with a request that she be called if they had an earlier cancellation.
CHAPTER 15
John Casper pulled into the morgue parking lot and cut the engine. Predawn, the sky in the east a lighter shade of black, the day already in the low seventies—a temperature that felt cool and pleasant after the heat of the past week.
He was sad, and he was hardly ever sad. He didn’t like the feeling. He didn’t know what to do with it. That’s what love did to a guy. Made you sad, made you hurt.
Mara was angry with him.
What had happened between them wasn’t really a fight, but she’d hardly spoken at dinner. He was inexperienced, and he didn’t know how to fix it.
Mara was just as fascinated by dead bodies as he was. They’d clicked from day one. Of course she was sweet and kind and beautiful. That didn’t hurt either, especially when it came to someone like him, a geek who’d never thought he’d find anybody because of the dead-body thing. Even though he was young for his profession, he’d resigned himself to remaining single the rest of his life. He’d given up.
And then Mara came along.
But now his occupation, the thing that had drawn her to him, was the thing she no longer liked about him. He knew her sudden shift was because of concern for him, that the danger of the job had taken her by surprise. Him too. He’d never really thought about danger. She’d said something about how they could move to Dallas and both get jobs where she’d been working when they met. A place that was cold and clinical and removed from the action. Something safe.
“We’ve been married a month, and you’re already trying to change me,” he’d told her, gathering up dinner dishes of uneaten food while she stood watching from the doorway, arms crossed. Then she’d turned and silently walked to the bedroom. He’d joined her a short time later, and they’d tried to talk, but it was awkward, mainly because John didn’t know how to engage in a conversation that was unpleasant.
He could joke around, he could riff, and he could tell her he loved her. Those things came easy. But not arguing. So he hardly said anything, and what he did say probably made little sense.
“I never thought you’d be in danger,” she told him before turning her back and pulling the covers over her shoulder, upset with him for not saying more. Cold shoulders were real.
Preoccupied, arranging and rearranging the words he’d say to his young wife next time he saw her—beginning with how much he loved her—he unlocked the morgue door, stepped inside, and canceled the alarm. He was reaching for the light switch when he heard footsteps outside. Before he could turn, the unlocked door slammed against the wall. In the darkness someone crashed against him, propelling him to the floor. Air escaped his lungs, like a dead body expelling gas when cut open.
He reached for his pocket, intent on retrieving his cell phone to call 911. A boot stomped his wrist. Bones crunched. He wailed in pain and rolled to his side.
With his uninjured hand, he struggled to push himself to his feet, managed to get his knees under him. The boot connected with his side, his ribs, his kidney. He buckled again, blinking rapidly, trying to clear his vision. Two intruders. Probably male. Medium size. Hooded sweatshirts pulled down low, too dark to see a face.
“What do you want?” It hurt to talk, hurt to breathe. This wasn’t a robbery. They weren’t here for his billfold. He was pretty sure of that.
He thought about Mara’s warning. He’d have to tell her she’d been right. He might even tell her he’d think about Dallas. Those were words he could say, words that might come easier next time.
The door slammed closed, the sound followed by a metal click as the lock fell into place. One of the thugs hit the wall switch. Fluorescent bulbs buzzed, illuminating in sequence down the long, narrow hallway. The two hoods were pulled back, and John got a look at the assailants towering over him. One guy’s face was a mess, almost like part of his skull had been blown away, leaving a crater above his nose, between his eyes.
As a medical examiner, John had seen a lot of disturbing things, but this was up there near the top. Because the guy with the messed-up face was alive. More disturbing? Behind the deformities was a face that looked familiar.
The guy gave him a smile that couldn’t really be called a smile. Crooked, the nerves most likely damaged or severed. The other man was older. White, in his sixties. A bit on the heavy side.
John’s phone buzzed. Without thought, he went for it. The guy with the messed-up face placed a foot on his arm and shook his head. The gesture seemed almost friendly. John didn’t check his phone.
He’d seen them, could ID them. They had no plans to let him live.
Should have carried a gun. No, that wouldn’t have done any good. He’d never pull a gun on anybody. His love of dead bodies didn’t extend to killing.
He heard the turn of a key in the lock.
Few people had access to the morgue, and he and Mara were the only ones who ever came so early. He let out a silent wail of despair as the door opened. Mara spoke his name the way she often did when arriving. Just a hello to let him know she was there.
He found the air he needed to warn her. “Mara! Run!”
That heavy boot again, this time kicking him in the head.
CHAPTER 16
Those aren’t running shoes.”
Elise looked down at her black canvas sneakers. “They’ll do.”
“You have to get running shoes.” David had arrived at her house at 6:00 a.m. on the dot, his very promptness exasperating.
“This is inhumane.” She was often up this early, but she didn’t participate in anything physical at such an ungodly hour unless making coffee and walking to her car counted. “I feel fortunate to have pulled this ensemble together.”
It was already too hot for full-length sweatpants, so she’d cut off a pair just above the knee. A blue Savannah PD T-shirt completed the outfit. David was dressed in jogging attire—gray cotton shorts, white T-shirt, shoes that probably cost a fortune.
“Leave your phone,” he said. “You don’t have any place to put it, and I’ve got mine.” He nodded at the band on his arm.
“I’ll carry it.”
“You want your hands free.”
“I’m not concerned with technique. If I’d known you were going to be so anal on the very first day—”
“Okay, okay.” He gave up. She locked the door and pocketed her keys, and they left her house, heading in the direction of Forsyth Park.
Three blocks in she was breathing hard, her bad leg aching. She slowed to a walk, hand to her side. Pathetic and embarrassing. David fell in beside her.
“Go on without me,” she gasped. Her shortness of breath caused the words to sound more dramatic than she’d intended, almost as if they were dealing with a life-and-death situation and his remaining behind would be the end of them both.
“No.”
“This is ridiculous. You won’t get in a good run.”
“I ran to your place. Once we’re done, I’ll run back to mine. No big deal. It’ll get easier quickly,” he promised. “You’ll be surprised.”
“I’m limping. Did you notice?” Her phone buzzed.
“Ignore it.”
She wasn’t sure if he was talking about her limp, her phone, or both. She checked the screen. “Avery.”
“Call him when we’re done. This is our new plan, remember?”
She answered, hitting “Speaker” so David could hear too.
“You need to come to the morgue.” Avery sounded odd, and his voice held a tone she’d never heard in it before. Elise shot David a concerned look, and they both halted in the middle of the sidewalk.
“What’s going on?” She thought about Mara’s paranoia yesterday, and her heart began to slam. “Is John all right?”
“Just come. Now.”
“Be right there.”
She and David ran back to her house, Elise forgetting about the pain in her leg and stitch in her side. When they reached her car parked in the alley, David spoke her name. Calmly, firmly.
She sharpened her focus to see him standing beside the driver’s door, hand out. It was a moment before she understood why he wanted to drive. She was shaking. Again. But this time it wasn’t subtle. This time it was that extreme kind of shaking she’d witnessed in the field when interviewing someone who’d lost a friend or loved one. The kind of shaking that didn’t even look real.
She curled her hands into fists and dug her nails into her palms in an attempt to get her body under control; then she tossed him the keys. Seconds later he was behind the wheel and she was in the passenger seat.
Racing to the morgue, they met an ambulance speeding in the direction of downtown. David pulled to the shoulder, waited for it to pass, then resumed his driving.
And they both wondered . . .
They heard the sirens and saw the black, billowing smoke long before reaching their destination. The street was clogged with vehicles, so many they were forced to park two blocks away. Hurrying the rest of the way on foot, they were stopped by firefighters. With no badges to flash, gaining access to the scene presented a challenge. Elise finally pulled out her phone and called Avery, who emerged from the crowd to act as escort.
His jeans and T-shirt were soaked, his hair saturated and dripping. It took Elise a moment to realize he’d been inside the building while the sprinkler system was running. “Fire’s out,” he said. “They’re trying to get the water shut off.” The words were spoken in that flat, meant-to-inform way that went along with death. Numb words, the brain locked into the events at hand and the need to communicate simple information. “I put extra patrols in this area right after the cemetery shooting. Officers were driving past every thirty minutes. One pass, everything looked fine. Next one, all hell had broken lose. Perpetrators long gone.”
“Is it John?” Elise’s voice shook as much as her body had earlier.
Avery nodded.
She stared at him, tryi
ng to read through the horror in his face, fearing the answer. “Dead?”
“No, but it doesn’t look good. He’s been taken to Saint Joseph’s/Candler.”
The ambulance they’d met on the way to the morgue. Not dead. Elise clung to those words. “Injuries?”
“Don’t know.”
Elise began moving toward the building. David and Avery ran after her. “Elise, wait,” Avery said. “That’s not all.”
She stopped.
“It’s Mara.”
Elise was breathing hard, almost panting, peripherally aware of David standing beside her, waiting for Avery to continue, not wanting to hear what he had to share.
Avery swallowed, struggled to speak, finally said, “She’s dead. Mara’s dead.” He broke down, buried his face in his hands, and began sobbing. Numbly, without realizing what she was doing, Elise touched his arm, rubbing up and down in an attempt at comfort while her mind denied what he’d just told them. Not Mara.
Her thoughts raced and jumped from one kind of awful to another, finally landing and settling on John. This would kill him. If he lived through his injuries, this would kill him.
The media had beaten them there. Elise was aware of their lurking, of cameras with telephoto lenses pressed to faces. She didn’t care. This was bigger than their photos and the stories they would write that might or might not be true.
David was struggling too. She saw he was trying to figure out what had led to such an awful thing, while Elise found herself returning to the conversation she’d had with Mara not twenty-four hours earlier. She’d dismissed her fear. She’d been annoyed by it.
Avery uncovered his face, wiped his eyes with the back of one hand. “Looks like she was strangled. And John was beaten so badly I didn’t even recognize him at first.”
“Jesus,” David said under his breath.
“Mara’s body?” Elise asked.
“Still on-site.”
They resumed their approach to the building. “It’s bad,” Avery warned. “Real bad.”