Expire

by Danielle Girard

  “Please.” Hal ended the call.

  His mother looked up from her magazine. “You have to go?”

  “I caught one.”

  “Those shootings near Union Square?”

  He nodded. “You should go home, Mom.”

  “I’m not worried about any shooter.” Her mouth twisted unhappily. “You hurry home.”

  He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Don’t open the door for anybody.”

  “I am no fool, Hal.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  24

  Thursday, 2:55 a.m. MST

  Schwartzman woke disoriented by the wedge of light that cut through the bedroom window, as bright as daylight. And yet the dark edges in the room suggested it wasn’t yet morning. Thoughts arrived through a thick fog. A dull headache thumped in the posterior of her temporal lobe, and she detected the slightest smell of orange in the air. Easing herself up in the bed, she considered the strange smells and the head pain and wondered if the drug had affected her sense of smell.

  But she had found a source of clean water. Why would she feel the effects of the drug now?

  Drawing excess slack above her collar, she rose from the bed. The partial moon was like a sliver of a flashlight aimed through the window, the sky around it bright and clear. Not a cloud in the sky. The weather in the mountains changed quickly. Just because it wasn’t snowing now didn’t mean . . .

  But the fear was already building in her chest like a cough. She tugged the metal clip along the track to the window. The snow looked lower than it had under the window. A wet sheen glistened on its surface. She told herself it couldn’t be that much lower, but the spot where she’d shoveled through the window was now lower than an outdoor spigot. One she’d never seen before because it had been under the snow.

  You can still reach it. Even in her mind, the words reeked of doubt.

  Not allowing herself to hesitate, she removed the slat from under the bed and guided it out the window. Pressed to the sill, she stretched her arms through the bars and reached down. The slat waved awkwardly in her extended hands.

  With her torso partway out the window, the slat touched the surface of the snow. Pressing, she tried to dig in, but the top layer was crusty and stiff. She shoved harder, extending her arms until she held only the bottom three or four inches of slat. Finally, the metal broke through the ice, and the release pitched her forward. The cord caught against the frame, tightening the collar on her neck. The familiar choking startled her. A whir filled the air as the cord jerked upward. The collar bit into her trachea, making her gasp.

  In her panic, she grabbed hold of the collar. The metal slipped from her fingers, and the slat dropped, landing short-end first into the snow. She let go of the collar, stretching to grab it. Her fingers grazed the end. The collar tightened again, and she was yanked onto her tiptoes.

  She stumbled back, both hands gripping the collar as the cord retracted into the ceiling track. Her feet barely touching the floor, she swung one foot onto the bed and then the other. The collar loosened as she yanked on the cord to slow its retreat. The cord stuck, no longer shortening, and she looked out the window to see the slat had tipped sideways. Its long, thin edge cut through the snow, and the slat was now almost invisible in the white crust below. She stood on the bed, shaking, the cold air stinging her skin. She couldn’t reach the window to close it, and she was not yet ready to move back to the floor.

  After some tugging, the cord released from the track, and her heart rate slowed. She was able to draw full breaths. Slowly, testing the cord, she lowered herself back onto the floor and closed the window. Her face to the glass, she looked down on the only remnant of the slat—a thin line in the snow where it had broken through.

  Rubbing her neck, she moved away from the window. The water glass on the bedside table was full. After it was gone, there was only one more cup of melted snow, hidden in the oven.

  Already, she could feel her thirst building again.

  She reminded herself of how much she’d had to drink the day before. Still, she was light-headed and panicky. She closed her eyes and filled her lungs. One thing at a time. She should sleep, but the adrenaline had filled her bloodstream, and it would be at least twenty minutes before the sensation ebbed. She would return to the kitchen and check the snow level out that window. If the snow were lower, maybe she could find another way to disconnect the source of the drug to the pipe.

  She carried the water to the kitchen and thought of the icicle in the freezer. Her weapon. She would drink it if she had to.

  She set the water glass in the center of the dining table and tried not to think about it. Each time her gaze was drawn there, she reminded herself that the human body could survive without water for five or six days. But it would almost certainly kill the baby. Out the window, she could just barely make out the plastic bottle and tube that housed the drug. It was too dark to see how much liquid remained in the plastic bottle.

  Turning back to the kitchen, she took stock of the food items in the house. Her back ached as she stooped to check the refrigerator, noting with a wave of panic that the shelves were starting to look bare. Again. Had it been two days now since new food had appeared? Three? She’d lost count. Even the milk that she’d been dumping systematically down the drain was almost gone. What then?

  They knew she had water. There was no immediate risk of her dying.

  She thought again of the container of drug she’d seen out the kitchen window. Was someone restocking that as well? If they hadn’t been here to replenish her food, maybe they hadn’t tended to the drug supply either. How long would it feed into the water before it ran out? At the kitchen sink, she cranked the water on high and watched it spurt into the basin. Leaving it on, she returned to her place at the dining table.

  Holding the cup of melted snow in both hands the way the parishioners did when taking Communion at her mother’s church, she lifted it to her lips and closed her eyes. The back of her throat seemed to absorb the cold water before it slid down her throat, leaving her with only a moment of icy relief.

  She stared at the empty cup, longing for more. If the water ran all night, surely the drug container would be empty. She could run it for a full day. If she could wait sixteen or even just twelve hours to drink, the water should be drug-free.

  Checking that the tap was open as far as it would go, Schwartzman felt the last bits of adrenaline leave her system. Keeping hold of her collar, she headed back to the bedroom to sleep.

  25

  Thursday, 2:14 a.m. PST

  Despite the late hour, the area around Union Square was still busy with pedestrians. The bars closed at 2:00 a.m., and the streets were dotted with drunken people trying to hail cabs and waiting for Ubers. As he always did approaching a crime scene, Hal scanned the faces of the crowd for any who seemed especially interested in the scene or in the police presence. A dark-haired woman caught his eye. She stood with her side pressed to the outside of a building, her coat over her shoulders. She was Anna’s height and build. The dark coat and slacks similar to what Anna wore. His pace slowed, and he waited for her to turn so he could see her face.

  It couldn’t be Anna.

  And still, he couldn’t draw his gaze from her. Unlike most of the people out at this hour, she didn’t sway but stood upright and still, a phone pressed to her ear. The police barricade was approximately fifty feet ahead, but Hal would go crazy if he didn’t see her face. Crossing the street, he changed course, heading toward her. The air was cold and his jacket lightweight, but in the twenty steps that it took to reach her, sweat collected at the back of his neck. He slowed as he approached, his throat closed, his eyes burning. Her hair was just the right shade of brown, a long wavy piece stretched out on the back of her jacket, its sheen caught in the light of the streetlamp. He was almost to her when she lowered the phone and looked up.

  She had dark skin and eyes, rounded features that were nothing like Anna’s.

  “Sorry,” Hal sai
d. “I thought you might be someone else.”

  She blinked and said nothing, her expression startled and uncertain.

  He hesitated momentarily with the thought that he should explain himself or at least show his badge, but his thoughts were jumbled. And he could come up with no way to tell her what he thought he’d seen. He rubbed his head with his hand and tried to shake off his body’s reaction to thinking he had seen Anna. Telly was working on it. Hal touched his phone through his pants pocket. He hadn’t heard from Telly since he’d arrived in Denver. He had promised he would call as soon as he had an update. Hal had to hold the faith. It was harder than usual.

  As Hal approached the crime scene tape, two bystanders turned to vomit, almost in sync. From the look of them, it was hard to say if the vomit was caused by alcohol or if they had somehow gotten a look at the victim behind the makeshift barrier. Approaching the scene, he felt a familiar sense of calm. He knew how to do this. The police had barricaded an area of Stockton Street around the sidewalk where the victim lay, but without detouring traffic, it wasn’t enough of a buffer to prevent drunken onlookers.

  The victim lay in a puddle of blood. That meant the attack had been aggressive, and the victim had likely exsanguinated in a matter of minutes. Hailey was squatting beside the victim. Next to her was a figure in a Tyvek suit, like the one Anna always wore. Though he knew it wasn’t her, Hal swayed momentarily at the sight of the suit. Hailey caught his eye and turned. The figure in white turned, too.

  Inside the Tyvek suit was a thin black man with charcoal glasses that made his eyes look too large for his face. His skin was darker than Hal’s, and he wore his hair in tight curls that faded into his neckline and grew maybe an inch long on top. His face was clean-shaven, and with the hard part on his left side, he looked young enough to be in college. But then Hal reconsidered the Tyvek suit. He was here as a medical examiner, in Anna’s place.

  “Hal, hi,” Hailey said, waving him in to the scene. “This is Scott Theobold. He’s working the scene.” She spoke the words carefully. Avoiding the term medical examiner. Avoiding mention of Anna.

  Hal’s ribs seemed to topple on one another until they were bone on bone, constricting his lungs. His heart rattled against the solid sheath of his sternum. He couldn’t inhale, as though drowning in the night air. The department needed someone to fill in for her, he told himself. It wasn’t permanent. The department had to believe she would be found. They couldn’t accept that she was gone forever. She was not gone forever.

  “Hal?” Hailey asked, concern in her voice.

  Without answering, Hal lowered to his haunches beside the body, noticing the open wound on the victim’s neck. The whiteness of exposed vertebrae glowed under Hailey’s flashlight. An aggressive attack didn’t begin to describe what Hal saw. Whoever cut this guy had almost severed his head. “What do we know?”

  Hailey motioned to the interim ME, although Hal had already forgotten his name. Or blocked it out. His Tyvek suit felt offensively bright and white, his presence wrong inside it. Hal wondered briefly if it was one of Anna’s or if he had his own supply. But the fit implied the suit was his size and not Anna’s.

  “Victim is mid to late thirties,” he went on. “Five foot eleven, approximately one sixty-five.” The man paused.

  “What else can you tell, Dr. Theobold?” Hailey asked, the sound of the man’s name strange in his ear.

  “Please,” he said. “Call me Scott.” Theobold pointed to the wound. “Assailant was likely right-handed. Wound direction is left to right and came from behind. Also likely that the assailant is at least six foot one. It would have been difficult to achieve that cut if the assailant were shorter than the victim.” He put up a hand as caution. “But that’s just a guess. I need to study the wounds more carefully before I can be certain that both victim and assailant were on their feet at the time of the attack.”

  Hal felt a hand on his back. For a moment, he thought it was Theobold’s, and he resisted the instinct to shake it off.

  “Hey,” came a familiar voice. Roger Sampers stood above him, his gaze steady. Hal rose and drew a deep breath, gathering strength from the presence of Roger beside him. Roger, who had come to Anna’s house after she’d been abducted. Roger, who’d found the pregnancy tests, who knew what was at stake.

  “I’m going to take a walk over to Union Square,” Hal said. “See who’s sleeping down there.”

  Hailey rose. “I’ll come with you.”

  “That’s okay,” Hal said. “You stay here, see what else we can learn about the attack. I’ll see if I can’t round up some folks and bring them to the station for questioning.” He turned without waiting for her answer and walked away in long, purposeful strides. It seemed only in motion could he breathe.

  And even then, the air burned in his lungs as though he had just walked through fire and inhaled hot black smoke.

  26

  Thursday, 4:34 a.m. MST

  “What the fuck are you playing at?”

  Schwartzman woke to the sound of Roy’s voice. There was no gentle stirring. Instead, she was thrown into full awareness, the edges of her mind as sharp as blades. Her pulse throbbed in her head and ears, the sound so loud, she imagined he could hear it. She kept her eyes closed, pressed her head to the pillow, and squeezed a fist beneath the sheets.

  “I mean it,” he said.

  The voice was not in the room with her. She was still alone.

  She drew a steady breath and shifted her head, opening one eye to look at the empty room.

  “You stay the fuck out of here!” he shouted. The sound of skin on skin reached her, a hand striking, followed by a high-pitched cry. Another woman.

  Schwartzman stared at the door. Had Roy Butler brought another woman here? She heard the soft sounds of crying; then a door slammed. She waited. Had Roy left? Was the woman in another room? Was she locked up also? She started to raise herself when she heard boots on the hardwood floor.

  Growing closer.

  She curled up on her side, face to the wall, and prayed he would go away. The hinge on the door creaked, and she squeezed her eyes closed. The smell of cigarettes assaulted her, and bile rose into her esophagus. She clenched her jaw to keep from being sick.

  His fingers touched her chin, pulling her head to face him. She fought the panic as she pretended to be asleep. She let her neck hang loosely. Held her breath. After a moment, he let go. The boots retreated, and the front door slammed again. Afraid it was a trick, she kept her eyes closed and counted to one hundred once and then again. Finally, she rose and pulled the cord along the track. Hovering at the bedroom door, she stared at the hallway, scanning the floor for shadows. Then she made her way into the main room of the cabin. She was alone.

  She turned on the small light over the stove and checked the room again. The kitchen faucet had been turned off, but otherwise, the room appeared unchanged. The cup of melted snow—the last of her water—was still hidden in the oven, and in the refrigerator, she found a handful of new yogurts but nothing else. Her stomach ached uncomfortably, and she sat at the table to eat one. As soon as it was gone, she longed for another. More than that, she longed for water. She filled her glass from the kitchen sink and stared at the clear liquid. The water had probably been running for an hour or two. Had Roy checked the drug when he was here?

  Again she thought of the other woman. Perhaps someone who had come to help Schwartzman and Roy had caught her? It was more likely a wife or a sister. If Schwartzman had been awake, she might be free by now. If Roy hadn’t come . . .

  Maybe the woman would be back. If she had risked coming once . . .

  Schwartzman closed her eyes and prayed that the woman—whoever she was—would be brave enough to come again. Then she tried to put it from her mind. Surely she wouldn’t come back tonight, which meant Schwartzman had to keep herself alive by whatever means necessary.

  She stared at the water, wondering if she’d managed to clear the drug from the pipes. There was only one w
ay to find out. She lifted the cup to her lips and drank it down in long, satisfying gulps. Then she filled it twice more and drank again, stopping when the liquid filled her stomach.

  She returned to the bedroom and sat on the bed, her back to the wall. Out the window, the sky was growing light. As she waited for the water to digest and the drugs—if there were any—to take effect, she thought about her work. Who was taking her place? Her last day in the office, she’d completed an autopsy on a victim of cardiac arrest, a thirty-eight-year-old man who had died in the shower. Thirty-eight. So young.

  On January 18, she would turn thirty-eight. She counted back the days, trying to sort out how long she’d been in the cabin. Maybe she was already thirty-eight.

  She pushed the thought from her head. She would celebrate her birthday when she was home. Soon. The woman would come back. Cut her loose. She would escape. The thoughts brought a wave of panic. Her heart racing, she felt the drug’s fog settle over her. She shifted to lie on the bed, afraid if she fell asleep seated, she might slump down in a manner that might inadvertently cut off her own air supply.

  To calm herself, she recounted her other active cases. She’d still been working on the autopsy report for a suspicious death of a man who’d died at a dinner party with his wife and three other couples. The other attendees had told the police they thought the man had choked on a piece of meat. Two people had tried to perform the Heimlich maneuver on him, without success. But she’d found no food in his trachea—nothing blocking his windpipe at all.

  At the autopsy, Schwartzman had determined the cause of death was anaphylactic reaction—an extreme allergy that had closed off his windpipe. Unlike many victims of anaphylaxis, though, this victim presented with no signs of the most obvious indicators: mucous plugging, hyperinflated lungs, or petechial hemorrhaging. Nor did she find any signs of pharyngeal or laryngeal edema, which also pointed to this type of extreme reaction. It was a comment from Hal that had inspired her to run additional tests. The victim’s wife and one of their friends, Hal had told her, mentioned that the man suffered from a narrow trachea that caused issues with food.