Defeated, she pulled the curtains, went to the bathroom. Dumped two of the thick white Percocets in her palm and swallowed them with water from the tap. Hoped that they’d help.
Back to the bedroom. She saw her laptop was open. She’d been online? She shouldn’t have had so much to drink. She was feeling sick again. The drink, the drugs, the pain, it was all jumbling together.
The truth.
Shadows heavy as blankets swathed her body, nipped at her bare feet. She made her way to the bed by rote, lay down on the ornate spread, and gave in to the pain, the fear, the gut-wrenching terror that filled her night after night after night. The only things she could see were the dancing lights that shimmered off her brain, and the pearly outline of the ghost who’d come to tuck her in. She closed her eyes against the intrusion. Perhaps it would leave her alone tonight.
No.
It was here.
She felt its chilly caress slide against her cheek, its slim finger moving across her forehead, stopping at last to trace the bullet’s entry wound. The scar burned cold. She would not move, would not call out in fear. The thing loved her terror, and this, this moment of abomination, when the ghosts of the past and present mingled in the very air she breathed, this was the one moment when her voice came back full and true. She’d made the mistake of screaming the first time it touched her, and would not give it that joy again.
The chilled path moved lower now, to the long-healed slash across her neck. She wouldn’t be so lucky the next time. The touch was a warning. A sign.
And then it was gone. She let the throbbing wash over her and wept silent tears.
One Week Earlier
“Like a broken gong be still, be silent.
Know the stillness of freedom
where there is no more striving.”
—The Buddha
CHAPTER TWO
Nashville, Tennessee
December
“Taylor, you’re doing great.”
Dr. Benedict had the laryngoscope deep down Taylor Jackson’s throat. The anesthetic they’d sprayed before the procedure made her tongue curl; it tasted like bitter metal. Who the hell could be a sword swallower? This was ridiculously intrusive. Though she didn’t hurt, she could tell they had something threaded into her. The thought made her want to gag. The doctor caught the motion and murmured to her, softly, touching her on the shoulder like he was gentling a horse.
“Shh, it’s okay. Almost done. Just another minute.”
She was tempted to get him a stopwatch. That was the third time he’d promised he was almost done. She tried to think of something, anything, that would distract her. The panic was starting to rise, the claustrophobic feeling of having her mouth open for too long, the knowledge that there was something…
“Okay, cough for me, Taylor.”
Finally.
The metal slithered out of her mouth. She felt like an alien, regurgitating a particularly indigestible meal.
At least she could breathe again.
The examination table was close to the wall. She slumped back for support and watched the doctor set aside his tools. The scope made a thunk against the metal of the tray, discarded, no longer an instrument of healing-by-torture, just an inanimate implement with no intent, no plot.
He patted her shoulder again. “Why don’t you get dressed and come on into my office. We’ll talk more there.”
She tried not to notice that he winced when he said talk.
She wasn’t doing a lot of that these days.
Taylor dressed, shedding the thin paper gown in a huff. Why she’d needed to get seminude for Dr. Benedict to look down her throat was a mystery to her.
John Baldwin, her fiancé, stood quietly in the doorway, waiting for her. Reading her mind, he smiled. “Because if you’d had a bad reaction to the anesthetic, or had a problem, he wouldn’t be able to take the time to get you undressed to stabilize you.”
She nodded. That made sense. She knew the logic behind it, but that didn’t mean she had to like it.
She watched Baldwin watching her, his green eyes full of concern, his black hair standing on end, the salt at his temples smoothed back. He was tall, six foot four, and broad-shouldered. She’d always thought him beautiful; it wasn’t an appropriate adjective for a man, but he was. Well proportioned, a full, teasing mouth, high cheekbones and a sharp jaw. He was her everything.
Was. Had been. She didn’t know why she was thinking in past tense—he was still here, she was still here. Together. They were touching, holding hands even. But physical proximity means nothing when your world’s been turned upside down.
She was afraid of more than just her visible injuries. She was scared that the invisible ones, especially the brittle crack in her heart, would be what did her in. He’d lied to her about his past. She asked for one thing, loyalty, and he had failed her.
“Let me help you,” Baldwin said, and squeezed her hand as they started down the hall. She let him. It had been nearly a month since the shooting, and she was still wobbly. Head shots did that to you. A mantra that had been forced on her for weeks.
She ignored the fact that he was looking at her with that confused gaze, the one that said please, please, let me back in. As if he’d known what she was thinking. He did that sometimes, stole her thoughts right out of her head.
Oh, Baldwin. What have you done to us?
*
Dr. Benedict had left the door open. Baldwin held it for Taylor as she entered the room, then followed behind her. There was a lot of dark wood, a huge desk, a few framed photos and degrees. She sat in one of the two chairs facing the desk and raised an eyebrow expectantly.
Dr. Benedict cleared his throat. “Okay. Good news first. I’m not seeing anything that indicates a permanent condition. The dysphonia responded to the botulinum injections—though your vocal cords are still bowed a bit, they are starting to adduct in the midline and when you cough. There are no signs of polyps or tumors. This is good news, Taylor. Your vocal cords are intact and working. When you were shot, when you fell, you hit your throat on something. That blunt force trauma is what caused the dysphonia. This isn’t a result of the bullet track, or the surgery. You were damn lucky. Your voice should come back.”
She shook her head and pointed at her throat.
“Taylor, I don’t know. All I can say with certainty is that the problem is no longer a purely physical one. The bullet didn’t penetrate into the vocal area of the brain, otherwise you’d really have some issues. There’s nothing out of the ordinary in your neurological profile, and the wound has healed nicely. Your balance is remarkably good, considering. You’re eating all right, sleeping all right, for you at least. The headaches aren’t getting any better?”
She shook her head. The pain left her breathless sometimes.
“That’s not entirely unexpected. They’ll fade in time. Rest, and no stress, that will help. But your voice…”
He broke off, and she braced herself. She was experienced in giving bad news. She got the sense she was about to get a huge dose of it.
“I think you may be experiencing a bit of what we call a conversion disorder.”
She shrugged. He bit his lip a couple of times, then continued.
“You’ve just suffered a major trauma, both physically and emotionally. You’re healing well, so I’m inclined to think that this continued dysphonia is non-organic, more of a… psychological disequilibrium, if you will. And as such, it’s much more treatable through some form of psychotherapy, combined with antianxiety medication. Which also wouldn’t hurt to help get you through the stress of…all this.”
Dr. Benedict actually waved his hand around in a circle.
Can you banish it for me, Doctor? Can you wave your magic wand and make me better?
All this. Being shot in the head by a suspect. Spending a week in an induced coma while the swelling on her brain subsided, then, when the medication wore off, scaring everyone to death by not waking up for another week. Opening h
er eyes to find Baldwin hovering anxiously over her. Not being able to talk…to tell him she loved him, and that she hated him. The Pretender, setting up residence in her brain, invading her dreams, haunting her days. Psychological disequilibrium. What a perfect term for what she was feeling. Pissed off and scared, too. This couldn’t all be in her head. Could it?
She grabbed the pad of paper from her pocket, flipped it open and scribbled furiously. She held it up for the doctor to see.
He raised his hands in defense.
“Now, Taylor, I’m not saying you’re crazy. Far from it. A conversion disorder fits with your symptoms. And it’s fixable.”
Baldwin shifted in his chair, faced her, his voice deep and grave. “Taylor, he’s right. A conversion disorder does fit. We’ve talked about you having PTSD. You should hear yourself sleep. You moan and scream and yell. You thrash around all night. It’s obvious you’re reliving the shooting.”
She shook her head vehemently, wrote That’s not true and showed it to Benedict. She didn’t need him to see how weak she’d become. She put her hand on Baldwin’s arm and scowled at him. He seemed grimly determined to sabotage her today.
Of course she was reliving it. Every second of every day. It was on loop in her head.
Benedict frowned at her. “Taylor, you need to let me know these things. I prescribed Ativan when you were here last—you’re not taking it regularly, are you?”
She shook her head. The Ativan made her logy.
“I keep telling her she needs to take the meds.”
She hated when Baldwin sided with the doctor against her. If he could just be on her side, and stop being so fucking solicitous and knowledgeable.
Maybe I am just sitting on a head full of crazy. I can’t talk. I can’t work. I’m communicating with a notepad. Yeah, I’m going to be just fine. Sure.
She missed her life. She missed her team. Her homicide detectives at Metro Nashville: Lincoln Ross, Marcus Wade, Renn McKenzie. Her former sergeant, Pete Fitzgerald. Sam, Forensic Medical, the acrid scent of formalin. Commander Huston. Everyone. Even missed Baldwin, though her fury at his lies hadn’t faded, and the hurt was all that was left behind. But she didn’t know how to face them. Any of them.
Her breath started to come quicker.
“Taylor?” Baldwin said, jerking her from her thoughts.
She needed to get out. Away. Now. She shot daggers at them both, then stood and marched from the room.
She made it out of the doctor’s office and into the vestibule by the elevators. She wasn’t going to get far. Baldwin had the car keys.
She tried to say the words aloud that were burning her mouth, her throat. But the images started—the hardwood floor, covered in dust that tickled her nose, the beating of her heart, so loud, so close, the blackness she knew was blood covering her eyes. Her blood. Baldwin screaming, Sam bleeding, the Pretender crumpled in a heap just inches from her, his eyes open, staring into hers as she struggled, and failed, to maintain consciousness.
She was dying again.
She started to hyperventilate. A fucking panic attack, in public, for everyone to see. She glanced about wildly—where could she go?
Strong arms encircled her. She smelled cedar, Baldwin’s natural scent.
“Breathe, baby. Just breathe. Deep in through your nose. You’re all right.”
She was getting tired of people telling her she was all right. Obviously she wasn’t. She was far from all right. She was broken.
She sagged against Baldwin, let him take her weight. How many times had they done this in the past few weeks? Four? Ten? Fifty?
She felt herself center, the panic subsiding. The Ativan was supposed to help avoid and alleviate this very problem. Maybe she should try it again. She just hated to admit defeat. She kept hoping she would find a way to handle this.
“Honey, come on back inside. I think Dr. Benedict wants to finish.”
She fought to get the words out—fuck Dr. Benedict—but they wouldn’t come. Instead, she clamped her lips tight together and followed Baldwin back into the office. They took their seats.
Benedict acted like nothing had happened. He just cocked his head and asked, “So?”
I’ll do it.
Benedict clapped his hands together. “Good. I’ll send word over to Dr. Willig that you’ll be making an appointment to see her ASAP. She’s well versed in conversion disorder; I can’t think of a better doctor to work with on this. I’ll see you back here in a couple of weeks. If you have any pain, or problems swallowing, or bleeding, you get in here immediately, all right?”
They stood, and he walked them to the door. He let his hand linger a moment on her back in reassurance.
“Hang in, okay? This will improve. Time heals all wounds, remember that.”
God, if only that were true.
“I know this is hard. I know it sucks. Whether you’re ready to admit it or not, you’ve been through an unbelievable trauma, no matter how ‘lucky’ you got with that shot. The stress of your situation alone is enough to cause the conversion disorder. Listen, I’ll throw in some incentive. You see Victoria—regularly, mind you—and I’ll talk to Commander Huston about you going back on the job. I see no reason you can’t at least handle a non-field post in a few weeks.”
How much convincing had Baldwin had to do to talk the doc into that? At least driving a desk would be something. Better than sitting at home waiting. Waiting for her voice to come back, or the anger to fade. For Sam to forgive her. For Baldwin to agree to talk about the search for his son.
“Deal?”
She nodded, and put out her hand to shake.
At this point, she’d do almost anything to get back to normal, even if it meant getting her head shrunk. Working murder was her life, her purpose. Take that away and she felt like a shell of herself. Take away her voice too, and she was slowly locking herself down, inside, where only her demons resided. This was a fitting punishment for her sins, to be sure. A little bit of hell on earth. She just wondered how long it was going to last.
CHAPTER THREE
When they’d arrived at Baptist, Taylor had watched an older couple get out of a car in the handicap space, two tiny, shriveled beings, male and female, showing up for an appointment. It had made her sad, the parallels between them—old and young, both hurt and looking to be fixed. Taylor knew her odds were better, but she couldn’t help but feel that this was what she had to look forward to. The romantics of growing old with someone were shattered by the realities of the flesh incrementally dying.
But leaving the hospital, she wasn’t feeling as pessimistic. As annoyed as she was, with both Baldwin and the doctor, she couldn’t help but feel buoyed by her appointment. Having a plan of attack was eminently preferable to this constant sitting and waiting.
“Hungry?” Baldwin asked.
She nodded. She was starving. She wrote Prince’s.
“Hot chicken? At 9:00 in the morning?”
Her mouth started to water at the mere thought. When she was coming up on the force, they ate at Prince’s almost every night shift, right around 3:00 a.m. Ridiculously hot fried chicken, full of spices and peppers, a true Nashville delicacy. It brought tears to your eyes. She’d seen more than one tough cop use the spices in the chicken to cover real tears after a particularly nasty night.
Baldwin laughed briefly. “Prince’s it is.” He turned right onto Charlotte. She stared up the hill, wishing she could go straight to the CJC right now, announce herself and jump on the closest case. Commander Huston wouldn’t like it. She’d given strict instructions about Taylor’s time off. Everyone was coddling her, when in truth a little action might shake things loose. She was mentally stable, the wounds were healed, the headaches were manageable, most of the time. She just couldn’t talk. Really, that wasn’t much of a handicap, was it?
Unless no one believed that was all that was wrong with her.
Baldwin was playing with the steering wheel.
“So you’re cool with see
ing Willig?”
Taylor nodded, shrugged.
He took his right hand off the wheel, laid it gently on her wrist. “Honey, remember, I’ve been there. I know what it feels like to revisit a nightmare. To feel like I somehow failed, even when it wasn’t my fault.”
She felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes. Solicitousness was bad. She could handle most anything—anger, fear, pain, concern. But pity set her off. She was too strong to be pitied, damn it.
Baldwin just wouldn’t let up. Every word from his mouth was like stepping on hot coals. Her teeth clenched.
“We can talk about it anytime you want. I want to help, Taylor. Let me help you.”
She responded with a deafening sigh.
Leave. Me. Alone.
They drove on in strained silence until they reached the trailer that housed the restaurant. She was hoping that the spices would loosen things up in her throat, like really hot tea. It hadn’t worked yet, but she was willing to try most anything.
Her cell rang as they pulled into the lot. It was Dr. Benedict’s office. She opened the phone and handed it to Baldwin. He uh-huh’d for a second, then looked over at Taylor. “Today at one o’clock with Willig sound good?”
She nodded. The sooner the better.
He hung up and handed the phone back to her. They got out of the car, let the chilled air surround them. There was a stream of warmth coming out of the side door to the trailer. It enveloped her so thoroughly she almost forgot it was winter.
They ordered their chicken—extra hot for her, medium for him—then sat at the picnic table with a bundle of napkins, waiting for their food to be ready.
“Wanna talk?” Baldwin asked softly. She turned to him, his clear green eyes full of empathy, and shut down. He was doing it again, that look of sadness, of compassion. Couldn’t he just yell and scream like a normal man, get pissed at her for giving him the cold shoulder? He was too understanding. Goddamn it.
How about you go first. A little more detail about your son would be nice. How are things in adoption land?
He flinched as if she’d struck him. Perfect. She’d wounded him right back.
Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 2 Page 97