by Tami Dane
Katie strolled in just as we were digging into our food. “What’s this? Mexican? Smells so good.” She inhaled. “Where’s mine?”
“I asked you if you wanted some, but you didn’t answer.”
“Of course, I answered. I told you I wanted a beef-and-bean burrito, with extra sour cream.” Katie glared at me. Then her squinty, mean eyes slid south, to my full dinner plate and the beef-and-bean burrito sitting in the middle of it. “Why would you order one for yourself, but not for me?”
“I ... uh ...” I looked down at the delicious meal on my plate, cursed under my breath, and vowed to find a way to get my roommate in to see a doctor if she kept acting so strangely. “Mom?”
“I thought I heard her ask for the burrito dinner.” Mom chewed, then nodded. “Yes, I’m pretty sure that’s what I heard.”
Of course, the schizophrenic who regularly heard voices would say that.
With my mouth full of saliva, at the mere thought of digging into that plate full of Mexican heaven, I handed the dish to Katie and stood. “My mistake. You can take mine. I’ll dig up a little something in the kitchen.”
“Thank you.” Katie settled next to Mom and plunged her fork into what should have been my Mexican rice and beans, smothered in sour cream. It was probably for the better. My jeans were getting a little snug in the thighs.
In the kitchen, I found a jar of olives in the refrigerator and a box of stale Cheez-Its in the cupboard. After that piddly dinner, my jeans would be fitting better by morning. I choked down the old crackers and tried to convince myself they were yummy, while Mom and Katie stuffed themselves full of beef, cheese, and rice. A little while later, Mom left, hauling what was left of her meal in a little foam box. Katie wandered off to her room without so much as a “good night.” I decided I’d wait until tomorrow to ask her about the DNA sample, and placed it in the freezer for safekeeping. After getting the weather report—we were in for a deluge tonight—I took a trash bag and roll of duct tape out to the car to close up the gaping window. Once that minor task was finished, I decided to go to bed. When I was asleep, I wouldn’t feel hungry.
All we know is still infinitely less than all that remains unknown.
—William Harvey
12
“Don’t hide from me. You can’t hide anymore. I’ll find you.”
It was back again. She could tell. As always the warmth, the life, had been sucked from the room. Her eyelids squeezed tightly, she concentrated on breathing slowly, evenly, and silently prayed for it to leave.
Don’t move. What does it want?
“Where are you, my little mouse? Come out of your hole. I have a nice treat for you.”
The stench of death seeped through the blanket covering her face. Her throat constricted. Don’t gag. Something poked through the blanket, piercing the skin of her upper arm. She fought the urge to flinch.
“Ahhh, there you are, little mouse.”
The blanket slid down her body. Goose bumps prickled over her arms and shoulders. A draft so cold, it burned drifted across her body. She opened her eyes and looked up, toward the voice and—
“Wake up, Sloan!”
I jerked up. My eyes darted around the dark room. My hand smacked against my breastbone, as if it could still my racing heart. “What? What!”
“It’s me, Katie.”
“Katie.” I took a breath. Another one. I still felt shaky and foggy-headed. “Oh.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s okay. What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. I feel ... strange. My head. It’s not working right. Can’t think.”
“What do you want me to do? Is it another migraine?” I asked.
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Were you inhaling fumes today? Did you take too many pills for your migraine?”
“I ... I don’t know. I can’t remember.” Her voice rose with every word. “I can’t remember what I did today, Sloan. Why can’t I remember?” Katie grabbed me. She shook me. She squeezed my arms. And I saw stars as my brain splatted against the inside of my skull.
“Katie! Stop!” I broke out of her grip and scuttled out of her reach.
“Everything’s a blank,” she said. “I don’t remember.”
I glanced at the clock. It was just after midnight. “I’m going to take you to the hospital, okay?” On hands and knees, I crawled to the opposite side of the bed. Katie mumbled while I tied on a pair of tennis shoes and stumbled into the bathroom. Squinting against the glaring light, I finger-combed my hair. “Let’s go.”
Katie clung to my arm as we hurried out to my car dodging fat raindrops. I put her in the backseat, afraid there was still some glass on the front, and sped down flooded streets to the closest emergency room.
Hours later, the rain had stopped. And my soggy clothes and hair were dry. I drove Katie home, now doped up on Xanax. The diagnosis: anxiety. The doctors had found nothing medically wrong. I caught a few more hours of sleep before dragging myself to the shower. Katie was still asleep when I headed out to work. Mom’s car was in the lot. She waved at me. I waved back and strolled to her car.
“I’m making a coffee stop on the way to Quantico. Do you want something?” I asked.
“Sure. I’ll take a bagel and some black coffee.” Mom scowled. “You look terrible, Sloan. You need to take better care of yourself.”
“I’m trying, Mom. I really am. I have a lot going on right now.” Hoping JT wouldn’t notice the bags under my eyes were now big enough to hide a small child, I scurried to my car and settled in for the drive. At the bagel shop, I bought our bagels and coffees, delivered Mom’s to her car, and chugged half of mine before I pulled out of the lot. I noticed Mom didn’t try to follow me all the way to the FBI Academy. Because the building is located on a military base, only people with a military ID were permitted. She did, however, give me a little wave good-bye.
I hurried into the office, my breakfast in my hands, my laptop bag slung over one shoulder. Inside, I headed straight for my desk. JT, I noticed, was already at work, pecking at his laptop’s keyboard. I chomped on my bagel as I set up my computer.
“Did you think I was lying?” he asked, standing behind me no more than a minute later.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Lying about what?” Did he think I suspected him of breaking my car window? Or was he referring to turning me in to the chief?
“When I said I’d put in for you to take a medical leave, I meant it.”
Aha. “But I’m not sick.” I donned my best pity-me look, normally reserved for police officers who’ve pulled me over, and turned to face him. “And I went to bed early. I swear I did.” I didn’t mention the fact that I didn’t stay in bed. “I believed you. Absolutely.”
He squinted at me. His jaw clenched ever so slightly. “You’re lying.”
“No, I’m not. You can call my mother and ask her. She was at my place last night. I’ll give you her number.”
“That won’t be necessary.” He leaned closer, and I panicked just a little, knowing the deep bruiselike circles would be that much more obvious up close and personal. There was only so much the inch-thick layer of concealer I’d caked on could do. “We roll in five minutes.”
“Okay.” I stuffed a piece of bagel in my mouth and washed it down with the last of my coffee. “I’ll be ready.”
Thankfully, he said nothing more, just walked stiffly back to his cubicle. I skimmed my e-mails and shut down my computer. I stuffed it back in the case and stood just as JT was heading my way again.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Yep.” I fell into step beside him. “Where are we going?”
“To interview a witness who claims she saw Patty Yates get into some kind of altercation the morning of her death.”
“Hmm, okay. The morning she died? Couldn’t be the killer. He or she,” I said, putting intentional emphasis on the feminine, “would’ve had to inject the pathogen several days
earlier.”
JT poked the down button, calling the elevator. “Maybe he was watching her, waiting for her to collapse, like we talked about. And maybe Patty Yates recognized him and tried to get away? Remember, the saliva samples?”
“I guess I could see that.”
The trip to Baltimore was fraught with tension after that point. Ever since the trip to the emergency room, JT had been acting a little differently toward me. It was a subtle difference, but pronounced enough for me to notice. I wasn’t convinced he was concerned about my sleep deprivation. “JT, you know I wasn’t the one who clobbered you over the head and threw you in the Dumpster, right?”
“Of course. Why would you ask me that?”
Now I felt a little stupid. “Because you’ve been acting differently toward me since that day.” Then another possibility came to mind. “If you’re worried about what you said at the hospital—”
“I’m not.” He glanced over his shoulder to check for traffic before changing lanes. His gaze flicked to me for a second, then jerked back.
“What’s going on, then? Will you tell me?”
“Nothing’s going on.” His jaw clenched. He was lying. About what? His gaze zigzagged between me and the road a couple of times.”Everything’s fine, Sloan.”
“If everything’s fine, why’d you black out your computer screen when I came to talk to you the other night?”
He shrugged. “I always do that. I hate it when people read over my shoulder.”
“I see.” I didn’t, of course, but there was no use trying to drag the truth out of JT. He wasn’t going to spill. At least, not without the help of another bonk on the head.
“What does it matter, anyway? I told you what I’d found.”
I didn’t say a word the rest of the drive. Neither did JT. It was painful, sitting in that small space, the tension so thick I could taste it. It was a lot like being on a bad date. But I survived. Bad dates are my forte. I just lost myself in my thoughts, and occasionally looked behind us to see if Mom was following. Before I knew it, we were pulling up in front of yet another suburban Colonial. I dug a notebook and pen out of my laptop case and followed JT up to the house.
No sign of Mom. Evidently, she didn’t feel the need to follow me when I was riding with an agent.
He knocked. We waited. No answer. He knocked again.
“Are we here too early? It is Sunday.” I checked my watch. It was a little before nine. “Or maybe your witness has gone to church?”
“No, she said she’d be home.” He knocked a third time, harder.
We waited some more. I stepped off the porch to get a better angle on the front window. It looked dark inside. A lace curtain fluttered. “I think I see someone.” An orange tabby cat walked along the window ledge, tail sticking straight up. “Cancel that, it’s only the cat.”
A second later, the front door’s lock rattled. The door inched open. JT introduced himself through the two-inch crack between the door and the frame. By the time I’d made it back on the porch, he was inside the house.
“Mrs. Ester, this is Sloan Skye.”
I offered my hand. “Mrs. Ester.”
Mrs. Ester, who could very well be older than God, took my hand in a delicate grip and gave it a little shake. Her hand, heavily wrinkled and veined, was fragile and soft. “Miss Skye.” She turned eyes the shade of a winter sky toward JT. “I saw the whole thing. I was on my way to the store to pick up a few things, and I saw her fighting with another woman.”
“Where did you see this?”
“Just down the road.” The woman pointed a finger toward the west. “On the side of the Dempsters’ house. I can show you.” The woman took a wobbly step toward a door to the left, which probably led to the garage. “I need to get my scooter, though.”
“We can go in a minute.” JT jotted a few notes. So did I.
Mrs. Ester opened the door and hit a button, powering up the automatic garage door opener. I peered into the garage and immediately realized there was no car. I hadn’t seen one on the street either.
“I don’t drive anymore. Failed the eye exam three times. I think the test is rigged so folks like me can’t drive.” Mrs. Ester took a faltering step down. “My son, the little bastard, took my car so I couldn’t drive it after I got caught driving without a license six months ago. I showed him. I wrote him outta my will. Everything I have is going to The Critter Connection. They rescue abandoned guinea pigs.” I rushed to her aid, supporting her down the second concrete step and the short walk to her electric cart. “If you’d be so kind as to unplug me.” She motioned to the rear of the cart.
“Sure.” I yanked the plug.
“I don’t need no license to drive this thing, but it’s a pain in the ass when it’s raining. And snow and ice? It gets stuck in a two-inch drift. I’m going to be housebound from December till March, unless we get a midwinter thaw.” Mrs. Ester’s little cart hummed as she drove it at a snail’s pace out into the morning. JT and I followed. She stopped the cart a couple of houses down and pointed at the area between two identical Colonials. “They were there.”
“Between the houses?”
“No, farther back. Almost at the fence.”
JT and I looked at each other.
Granted, these properties were hardly sprawling, but if Mrs. Ester was correct, she’d been watching the exchange from a distance of no less than seventy feet. She’d failed the eye exam and lost her driver’s license. How reliable could her testimony be?
“What did you see?” I asked.
“I saw the first woman jump over the fence. She cleared it in one leap.”
I looked at the fence. Chain link. Taller than the average residential fence. I estimated six feet. Probably because the property on the other side was a school. I didn’t know any woman, or man for that matter, who could leap over a six-foot anything.
“Are you certain she jumped? Maybe she climbed?” I suggested, growing more skeptical by the second. Did we have another Miss Zumwalt on our hands?
“No, I’m sure.” Mrs. Ester nodded. “She just hopped right over it. Never seen anything like it.”
“What time was this?” JT asked, hiding his thoughts on the witness’s reliability, or lack thereof, very well.
“It was early. A little after seven.”
“And you were out that early?”
“I needed some milk for my tea. And cat food. Nibbles gets nasty if he doesn’t have his breakfast.”
“Don’t we all?” I joked. JT didn’t laugh. Neither did Mrs. Ester. “So what happened after the woman ‘hopped over’ the fence?”
“The woman grabbed Mrs. Yates and shook her. And then they started wrestling. I’ve always thought Mrs. Yates was a strong girl. She liked to jog and ride her bike. And she taught a Zumba class at Bee’s Dance Academy. I went to the class once, but it moved too fast for me. But even as strong as she was, she didn’t stand a chance against that other beastly woman. That woman tossed Mrs. Yates around like a rag doll. And then, the strange woman did the oddest thing, she kissed Mrs. Yates.”
“Kissed her?” I echoed.
“Yes.” Mrs. Ester nodded. “I figured they were lesbians, secret lovers. Fighting over ... well, heaven only knows what. Poor Mr. Yates. He couldn’t have known.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, at our block party just a week before, he was crowing about what a dedicated wife he had. I didn’t have the heart to tell him. That’s why I called you after those other agents had left. I didn’t want him to overhear. He’d be devastated. His whole life is—was—that wife of his. They’d never been able to have children. He’d blamed himself, but now I’m thinking it had nothing to do with him. Them sperms can’t do their job if they aren’t where they need to be, if you get my drift. Then again, maybe I should tell him. So he won’t keep blaming himself anymore ... what do you think?”
Ah, the intrigues of suburbia. Lesbian affairs, misplaced sperm, and catfights.
“I thin
k you should do what you think is best,” I said. “Are you sure the attacker kissed Mrs. Yates? Could she have ... bitten her?”
“Bitten?” Mrs. Ester grimaced. “Why would anyone bite someone? I suppose it’s possible.... I don’t know.”
“So you believe the two women knew each other?” JT asked, redirecting the conversation.
“I didn’t at first. But the more I think about it, the more convinced I am.”
“Can you describe the woman you saw attacking your neighbor?” I asked.
“I can try. She was more petite than Mrs. Yates. That I can say for certain. Her hair was light and short, shorter than yours.” She pointed at my head. “Her skin was very pale. And she was wearing shorts and a sweater.”
I scribbled more notes. “And you’re absolutely sure the attacker was a woman?”
“Yes.”
“What makes you so certain?” I asked. “She was clearly very strong, to be able to ‘throw’ your neighbor around so easily, not to mention leap over a six-foot fence.”
“It does sound strange, doesn’t it? I know. But all I can say is she moved like a woman. Not like a man.”
“Do you have prescription glasses?” JT asked.
“I do.” Mrs. Ester pointed at her eyes. “I only wear them at night. I look better in contacts.”
“Why did you fail the eye exam if you have prescription lenses?” I asked.
Mrs. Ester tapped her temple. “Cataracts. I’m afraid to go under the knife, but I know I’m going to have to suck it up and go, sooner or later.”
I looked into her eyes, and sure enough, I could see the slightly milky reflection of the cataracts in her pupils.
“I can still see good enough to do most everything else,” Mrs. Ester said. “Just not drive.”
“I understand.” I looked at my notes. She hadn’t given us much that was useful. The only piece that fit was the possible bite. As far as the unsub’s description went: petite woman with short, light hair? There had to be hundreds of those running around this neighborhood. “Did you notice anything unusual about the attacker? Something that would help us identify her? Did she have any scars? Tattoos? Anything?”