Текст книги "Where All the Dead Lie"

Автор книги: J. T. Ellison

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Sam was driving the Forensic Medical van alone. Keri wasn’t the only ’gator with plans tonight. Such was life. Sam didn’t see any need for her team to suffer just because she hadn’t had a chance to straighten out all their lives. And this was a straightforward situation. She could handle it herself.

Damn, but it was cold. Sam loved Nashville, and loved winter, but not when she had to venture out in the freezing dark to attend a crime scene. A messy one, at that. The Regretful Robber had been so regretful that he’d shot himself. In the head. Sam wasn’t surprised. Honestly, she was just relieved that the rest of the family had made it out of the house unscathed.

Nashville done up for Christmas was a beautiful sight to behold. Sam and Simon had taken the twins to the Christmas tree lighting this year. They’d giggled and cooed and talked to each other in their bizarre twin babble. This would be the first time the kids had a real sense of the season, that is if their mother could pull her shit together.

There was no easy way to the scene from the highway. She opted for White Bridge to Post Road, then turned left at Dunham Springs Road and took the street directly onto Belle Meade Boulevard.

If Nashville’s Christmas could be categorized as beautiful, Belle Meade’s was more like a fairy tale. The owners of the stately mansions spent a lot to have their yards and houses professionally decorated, and the vast majority of them chose to go with Greta’s Custom Christmas. Sam knew this because both she and Taylor had gone to school with the owner, Greta Torhild. Sam also knew that she was raking in the dough; some of the custom designs went for upwards of $25,000. How people could spend that much on Christmas decorations, Sam would never be able to fathom. But they did.

She parked the van two driveways away and walked in on foot.

Douglas Bowerman’s house was decorated, but not by professionals. The place was an original Belle Meade bungalow, just off the country club golf course. A nicely made up evergreen wreath with fake fruit and gold bows hung on the door. Sam could see directly into the house; the door was splintered open and there was a lit Christmas tree. The tree had to have been on a timer. She couldn’t imagine the family taking time out from their benefactor’s suicide to turn it on.

It was moments like this that she missed Taylor dreadfully. Taylor would have cleared the scene already, had a spot carved out for the ME’s van to pull in. Instead, Sam was going to have to go back out, get the gurney, move it all herself. It was going to be a long night.

She mounted the stairs. Marcus was just inside the door.

“Hey. I thought Keri was on tonight.”

“She had a party. You’re stuck with me. Where’s the body?”

“Living room. He let his family leave, then locked the door and shot himself. Seems pretty cut-and-dried.”

“Shouldn’t you turn off the tree?”

“I don’t know. I thought it made things look kind of festive. Though I don’t think I’d want to wake up to this scene Christmas morning.”

Marcus was right. There was never anything nice about suicide, especially by gunshot. Bowerman had used the .40 Glock. Sam could see it lying right next to his hand. He only had half a face.

“Ugh.”

“Yep. You need any help?”

“I’ll yell if I do. Thanks.”

She just wanted to get this over with.

She set up by the body, gathering his effects. She flipped open his wallet, doing a standard double check of the man’s identity. The driver’s license said Douglas Bowerman, but the photo showed a blond. This man, what was left of him, was brown-haired. Remembering the wig hairs found in Marias González’s pocket, she reached down and pulled. No, the hair was real. The height was off, too—the license said six feet, and this man was infinitely shorter than that. They were going to have to go through a full identification process in order to figure out if this was Bowerman, or if the Reluctant Robber had murdered yet another innocent in his bid for freedom.

“Marcus?” she called.

He wasn’t far away, was by her side in seconds.

“What’s up?”

“Who is this?” She pointed at the body on the floor.

“Bowerman.”

“No, it’s not.” She stood and handed him the driver’s license. He looked at it, then down at the body.

“Son of a bitch.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“Keller!” Marcus took off like a shot. Sam backed away from the body. Suicide was one thing—especially one attended by so many people. But if this wasn’t the suspect, then who had been shot? And why?

She stepped to the kitchen, took off her gloves and retrieved her BlackBerry from her back pocket. Sent Simon a message that she’d be later than planned. Called Keri McGee and told her to apologize to her boyfriend and get her butt over to the crime scene.

Marcus was still talking to Keller, who was gesticulating wildly. They were having a doozy of an argument. She left them to it, sat down at the abandoned kitchen table and checked her email. They’d call her when they were ready for her to get the body. They’d need a crime scene tech to take a different set of pictures and video first.

There was a new note from Taylor. She’d sent it in the middle of the night. Up all hours, just like at home. Some things never change. Poor thing. Nothing would fix her in somnia; it was a part of her being.

Sam opened the mail and started to read.

Dear Sam,

There is a moment in every life that defines, shapes, transcends your previous spirit, molding you as if from newborn clay. It’s come for me. I have changed, and that change is irreversible.

Sam, there’s no doubt anymore. I’m losing my mind. The shooting is haunting me. The horror of your loss, of who I’ve become, all of it is too much. I’m not sure how much longer I can stand to go on like this, trapped under glass, trapped away from everyone. I’m lost.

Oh, no.

This was not good. Taylor was completely going around the bend. Ghosts and hauntings were one thing, but she was coming unhinged. Damn it. She should have listened harder yesterday. Taylor was trying to tell her she was in trouble.

Sam knew her best friend very well. Better than she knew herself, in many ways. Something was wrong, and it wasn’t with Taylor’s mind. She was probably having a bad reaction to the meds Dr. Benedict had given her. She didn’t want to be an alarmist, but the more she read of the note, the more she felt like something was terribly wrong.

She finished reading the email quickly and immediately speed-dialed Taylor’s number, not caring about the international rates. It went to voice mail. Damn it. She tried again. Nothing.

She didn’t hesitate this time. Taylor would be pissed at her, but what did that matter? She was in trouble, and Sam wouldn’t forgive herself if she didn’t at least try to help.

She forwarded the email to Baldwin, then followed up with a call. He, unlike Taylor, answered on the first ring.

“Sam. Are you okay?”

“Hi, Baldwin. Yes, I’m fine. I’m sorry to bother you. I know you’re working. I was calling about Taylor. I just forwarded an email she sent me—something is obviously wrong. I think she may be having a bad reaction to the meds. I think she needs you. She’s certainly too proud to ask for your help.”

“Well, hold on and let me read it.”

“Sure.” Marcus was gesturing for her. “Actually, can you call me back when you’re finished reading it? I’m at a scene.”

“No rest for the wicked. Of course. I’ll call you right back.”

She hung up and went into the living room. Marcus was fuming.

“Hey, Sam. Holding pattern. We have to all stop and treat this as a homicide. I need to go talk to the wife, find out if she knows who this is.”

“This guy likes the chase—no one robs banks for their health. There’s a huge rush to it. Now he’s guaranteed you have to come looking for him.”

Marcus shook his head mournfully. “We were set up. Marias González has cleaned here. They have a Jaguar. The wife said her husband wrecked it and it’s in the shop for repairs. Bowerman’s our guy, I’m sure of it. The real Bowerman, that is. But where the hell is he?”

“Think he used her as an escape hatch? Y’all didn’t know this guy was in here. Bowerman sends his family out, shoots this one and takes off. We think it’s a suicide and don’t go looking any further, at least for the time being. Gives him time to flee. He’d have to know we’d figure it out eventually.”

“I don’t know, Sam. I hope his wife isn’t in on it.”

“Anything’s possible.”

“You know it. I’ve got a BOLO on him. He can’t have gone too far.”

Her phone rang. Baldwin. “I gotta take this, Marcus. Hang on.”

Baldwin’s voice was strained. “I can’t raise her. You’re right, that letter is over the top. I’ll keep trying. If you hear from her, you let me know, okay?”

“Can’t you just go get her?”

“I don’t think I can.” His voice was bleak. She hadn’t heard him sound this upset before. “There’s a huge storm, all the transportation services are out. There are no flights getting into or out of Great Britain. I’m in Amsterdam, if you can believe that. I’ll be stuck here, at least for another day.”

“Where’s the illustrious Memphis?”

“I don’t know.”

“Great. So we can both worry about her from afar. Let me know if you hear anything.”

“You too.” He hung up. She tried Taylor’s phone again, got her voice mail.

She had to get back to work. Sam typed a quick message then, frustrated, turned back to Marcus.

“Sorry. You were saying?”

His forehead creased. “What’s wrong with Taylor?”

“Nothing. She’s fine.” I hope, she added silently.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Please, God. Not again.

Memphis had been stuck in the car for over an hour, trying to get onto the A1. The trains were stopped. The planes were grounded. The only hope he had was driving, and he was still nearly three hours away. He couldn’t believe the snow. It was coming down harder than he’d seen in years.

All he knew was he had to get to Taylor, as quickly as possible.

Damn that woman. She hadn’t seemed that bad to him. Delicate, certainly. Not being able to speak, being forced away from hearth and work, into the clutches of the big bad wolf…yes, she’d been a bit vulnerable. But not crazy. But she was used to acting strong, to keeping people at arm’s length. But from what Trixie said, she was well past that. She’d gone straight to hallucinations and crying in her room. Acting decidedly unlike the Taylor Jackson he knew.

Acting like Evan, before she died.

Please, God. Not again.

The car in front of him inched forward. He thought he would scream if they didn’t start to move.

How could this be happening again?

Evan was never a strong woman. And he’d been attracted to her like a moth to the flame, his chivalrous streak overwhelmed. He remembered the night he met her. At Oxford, at the Playhouse. Tryouts for Hamlet. They’d sat together and shared a cigarette, then a finger of scotch, for courage. He was shocked at how nervous he felt. He went on and did his lines, was well received. But Evan—Evan became her role. She captivated. Drew a standing ovation from the group of drama students who were casting the roles.

She’d been humoring him. She was a fine actress. It was only on the stage that she left behind her fears, her concerns.

He’d been cast as Laertes. Evan was, of course, Ophelia.

If he’d only known then. If he’d seen it in her eyes. That terrible foreshadowing of her eventual end.

They’d kept the truth within the family. The media had been held at bay.

He still had the note she’d left. He wanted to burn it, but it had been Trixie who stopped him.

“Someday, you’ll need this. Put it away and forget about it until then.”

He thought they’d arrested Evan’s psychosis. Maddee had worked with her. They brought in a specialist, one trained to deal with nervous disorders. But nothing worked.

And then she’d fallen pregnant.

And they’d all been so very thrilled.

And she improved, dramatically. Became the old Evan.

He’d coddled her. They’d had an idyllic few months in London, nesting in the Chelsea flat.

Then he’d taken her to the castle to let his parents dote on her. He’d gone back to London to work. That had been the mistake, in the end. Her isolation brought the old fears back to the surface. She started seeing things. Losing weight. Accusing him of the most despicable acts. She was beyond his reach.

He hadn’t known what else to do. They’d been considering committal when she snuck the keys to his car and crept away, found her way to Dulsie Bridge.

And drove the car off the edge.

The idea of her screams invaded his head. He couldn’t see this happen again.

Traffic was moving. Slowly. But moving.

Taylor might feel it was a disloyalty, but he’d deal with that later. It was time for him to call Maddee.

He looked at his mobile, saw the red light flashing. A message. He put it on speaker.

Speak of the devil.

“Memphis, it’s Maddee. Your girl here has had quite a psychotic break. I’m trying to find a way to sedate her, but she’s locked in her room. I’ll—“

The phone cut off. His battery, damn it all.

It was happening again.

What had he done?

CHAPTER FORTY

Baldwin paced through Amsterdam’s Schiphol airport. His flight to London had been cancelled. Everything into the U.K. was grounded for the foreseeable future.

He alternated trying Taylor’s cell with calls to Memphis. Neither one was picking up, and he was ready to pull his hair out.

He had to get to Scotland. It didn’t matter that the airports were closed. Taylor needed him.

He couldn’t drive, obviously.

It was time to call in the big guns.

He called Atlantic.

“Good job on Julius. Is there something else you need?”

“I need to get to Scotland. Just outside of Edinburgh.”

“Impossible. The airports are closed.”

“Atlantic, it’s an emergency. So help me God, if you don’t get me there, I will go public with your little operation.”

Atlantic chuckled, his laughter cold.

“You’d be dead before you uttered a word, Baldwin. But let’s not go there. I think of you like a son. And since it’s so vital that you reach your destination, get yourself to the following coordinates. And be prepared for a bumpy ride.”

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

It took Sam hours to clear the crime scene. Marcus, diligent, talented detective that he was, had pinned the wife down in a lie, and was back at Metro, interrogating her. It wasn’t his fault; they were all terribly distracted.

All they knew was that Bowerman planned to run all along, get settled somewhere, then bring his wife and kids. She swore she had no idea who the dead man in her living room was.

They didn’t believe her.

The dead man’s fingerprints registered back to a man named Joseph Trimble. Trimble was homeless, and according to a quick check with the folks at the mission, Trimble had a benefactor, someone he claimed was “helping him back on his feet.” Proving it was Bowerman was a different story.

On the surface, it seemed he’d been setting him up to be the fall guy for the bank robberies. But Marias González had ruined the plan, and Bowerman had been forced to stop her.

It was far from a tidy little scheme. It was unfortunate that they didn’t know where Bowerman was truly headed. The Regretful Robber, at least for the time being, had gotten away.

Sam finally got home at eleven-thirty, only six hours later than she’d been expected. Simon had put the twins down and was waiting for her with an open bottle of wine. Honestly, all she wanted to do was fall into the bed and sleep forever, but she accepted the offering and sat at the kitchen table with him for a few minutes.

“We need a vacation,” he said.

“I couldn’t agree more.” She accepted a glass of wine from him. “Where do you want to go?”

“Somewhere warm.”

“Can you leave the lab?” Simon ran Private Match, which specialized in running DNA samples for a variety of clients, some public, some private. He usually accepted the overload from Metro if they got too bogged down and needed results ASAP.

“Yes. I think you and I need to find ourselves again. Maybe think about getting pregnant?”

He looked so hopeful. She didn’t know how to tell him she wasn’t ready.

That she didn’t know if she’d be ready ever again.

She was saved from answering by the ringing of her cell phone. She glanced at the ID: Taylor. Finally.

“Baby, I need to take this. We’ll talk more later, okay?”

Simon was not happy with her. “Can’t you put this conversation first? Really, Sam. This is important.”

“It’s Taylor. Baldwin and I have both been trying to reach her for hours. Just give me a few minutes, okay?”

Simon stalked off toward their bedroom. Shit.

But this was something that couldn’t be helped. Taylor needed her.

She answered the phone. “Taylor Bethany Jackson, I have been worried sick about you.”

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Birds were pecking at her head.

For a moment she thought she was back in Nashville, at the entrance to the Snow White’s house, with those damn birds chirping. She’d felt that way when she woke up in the hospital too, that incessant beeping crowding its way into her head. But this, this wasn’t the same.

She felt empty. Her throat, her head, her arms, everything hurt.

Taylor was afraid to move. She knew she’d been sick last night, very, very sick, that she’d gotten a violent migraine that had left her unable to move. Seeing things. Hearing things.

Feeling things.

She cracked an eyelid.

The world didn’t explode.

She cracked the other. Dragged herself upright. It was morning. There was brightness streaming through the window. It didn’t burn, so that was a good sign.

What happened last night?

She got out of the bed, avoiding a small puddle of what looked like water on the floor between the bed and the window. She went to the bathroom. The pill vials were scattered on the counter. She remembered having the worst migraine of her life and barely managing to get the medicine in her.

She remembered thinking how much better off everyone would be if she’d just end it all.

Then passing back out.

Memphis had come to her again. As had Baldwin. That much she remembered. Her cheeks flamed. It had felt so real. But neither man was here. It was impossible.

Something was not right. Something was very much not right. She felt like she was sick, but didn’t feel ill, not like the flu or a cold. She felt…shattered.

The bathroom window showed her a magical world, a snowstorm that was blowing flakes by the window so hard that it looked like a white sheet had been spread across the glass.

Taylor stripped and got under the shower. Let the hot water work its magic on her sore muscles. Goodness, she hurt from head to toe.

She stayed under the double heads until she was getting wrinkled, then toweled herself off, wrapped her hair in the damp towel and went to the computer.

She needed to talk to someone about all of this. Opened her email. There was a message from Sam. Perfect.

Taylor clicked on the message, shocked to see Sam writing in all caps, like she was yelling at her. The message was abundantly clear:

STOP TAKING THE PILLS!

Out of habit, Taylor looked at the note below it that Sam was responding to. She read a long, rambling diatribe that she’d apparently written in the middle of the night. It was more cogent than she’d felt. She didn’t remember writing it, just the vaguest sense of moving about her room and getting her laptop out. She checked the time stamp. Good grief, she had written it last night, in the middle of her hallucinations.

Great. Now she was imagining things and writing letters she couldn’t recall sending. She had gotten sick last night, that much she was sure of. She could taste it in her throat.

She reread the email. It made little sense, but was clear on one thing. She had felt she was losing her mind.

And maybe last night, she was.

But now, in the cold light of day, her body so wretchedly empty, she didn’t think that was the case. She thought Sam had a very good point.

The pills.

Oh, hell. The tea.

Trixie.

Taylor grabbed her phone. She’d turned the ringer off somehow. There were eight missed calls from Sam and four from Baldwin.

She didn’t even bother listening to the messages. If Sam had sent her something wild and crazy in the middle of the night, Taylor would have immediately tried to touch base, and, failing, would have moved on to Sam’s husband, Simon. Since Sam hadn’t reached her, she’d obviously checked with Baldwin, who’d started his own campaign.

No calls from Memphis. Hmm. He obviously hadn’t been pulled into the red alert.

She looked at the clock. It was six in the morning in Scotland, which meant midnight in Nashville. She’d be forgiven if she woke the twins. She dialed Sam’s number. Sam answered on the first ring, her voice ringing with concern.

“Taylor Bethany Jackson, I have been worried sick about you. Why did you turn your phone off? Don’t answer that. You better have a damn good reason for freaking me out like this. You scared the living daylights out of me. Losing your mind? You? Where the hell have you been?”

“I…”

“Your voice is gone again? Open a chat right now. And don’t you dare hang up. I’ll wait. Are you okay?”

“No. Give me a minute.” God, it felt like she was swallowing glass. She must have been screaming in her sleep. She drank some water and tried again.

“I’m fine. You said no more pills. How did you know?”

“It’s hardly a secret. Dr. Benedict prescribed you the Percocet and Ativan, plus the Fioricet. After your bad response to the Ambien, I thought maybe you were having a reaction to one of them. You always react backward to meds, remember? And if I know you, you may have been taking too much of the Percocet. Why, what pills are you talking about?”

“Maddee, Dr. James. Memphis’s friend? Gave me melatonin. I was thinking that might be causing a reaction. But Sam, I think I know what’s happening. I think Trixie is poisoning me.”

She heard Sam take a deep breath. “Now, honey—”

“Don’t honey me. I’m dead serious. And very, very sober right now. Trust me. Something is wrong with that woman. She’s always lurking around my door. She’s fed me tea fourteen times a day since I got here. That has to be what’s happening. I bet she thinks I’m trying to replace Evan. She probably loved Evan. Everyone seemed to.”

“Taylor. Listen to yourself. Sweetie, I think we need to get you home.”

“I don’t disagree. I’ve had quite enough of this place.”

“Are you still having hallucinations?”

Taylor looked around the room, waiting for the telltale red wave to start. Nothing. Maybe she’d gotten it all out of her system when she threw up. She pulled the towel off her hair and shook her head. Still nothing, outside of the pounding headache.

“No. I feel better right now. Clearer. The…visions come at weird intervals. I keep seeing red flashes out of the corner of my eye, and get the sense someone’s watching me. Then I see the Pretender, just standing there. Like he’s waiting for me.”

“God, Taylor, I’m sorry. You tried to tell me, and I just assumed…”

“I don’t remember typing that letter.”

“That was one seriously fucked-up email, girl.”

“It’s been a seriously fucked-up few days. Sam? I need to tell you something. Please don’t yell at me, okay?”

Sam answered carefully. “What is it?”

“I think I slept with Memphis.”

The screech that was heard around the world rang through the phone. “What? When?”

In for a penny, in for a pound.

“The night before he left. The night we kissed on the bridge. I thought I had the door barred. There’s always someone creeping around this place. I don’t like the access they have. Hell, they probably have some sort of secret passageway or something. It seems like people can get in my room even if the door’s locked. I hate feeling like I’m not totally alone. At least that I could handle. Anyway, after I went to bed, I had a bad nightmare. Trixie brought me tea, then he came in my room. Things got pretty out of hand.”

“When did you start feeling strange, Taylor?”

“The second night I was here.”

“You said you think you slept with him. You mean there’s some doubt in your mind about it?”

Doubt. Yes. She was starting to doubt everything.

“There wasn’t until last night. At the time, it felt awfully real. But it was totally weird. He wasn’t there when I woke up, which felt really odd. Then he acted like nothing had happened at breakfast. Actually left for London without a single word about it, no flirting, no innuendo. Definitely no kiss goodbye. No setting me up for the next time…which doesn’t seem like him, you know?”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“I’ll admit, I was hurt. And embarrassed. But, Sam, what if it didn’t happen at all? What if I hallucinated the whole thing? It would explain the way he was behaving.”

Sam was quiet for a minute. When she spoke again, her voice was gentler, not as angry. “Taylor, that might be wishful thinking. Are you sure you’re not feeling remorseful and just wishing you hadn’t slept with him? ’Cause it’s kind of hard not to know if you’ve had sex.”

“I know that. And yes, I’ve regretted it, every minute of it. It was wrong. If I did it, I shouldn’t have.”

“True.”

“Sam, come on.”

“What do you want me to say, Taylor? I’m not going to condone it. You know he’s not high on my list of favorite people.”

“Trust me, you’ve made that abundantly clear. But listen to the rest before you make up your mind. This is going to sound crazy, all right? Last night, Memphis was here. With me. Again. We were… But so was Baldwin. And Maddee’s husband.”

Sam chuckled. “Jeez, Taylor. Only you get to hallucinate a threesome.”

“Foursome, if you’re being accurate,” Taylor mumbled.

“Was it good?”

“The foursome? No, it was creepy.”

“I mean with Memphis.”

Taylor stopped and thought back. Good was an understatement. She knew she needed to tell Sam the whole story if she was going to figure out what was real, and what wasn’t.

“It felt very real, but Sam, I never opened my eyes. I never actually saw him. And after what I dreamed, or hallucinated, last night…parts of it were very familiar. There’s no way we did it, because he’s in London, or was, at any rate. He’s not physically here in the castle.”

“Honey, if you aren’t sure, then yes, you might have hallucinated being with him in the first place. It’s possible to have an erotic fantasy fueled by certain types of drugs—LSD, for example. Maybe you didn’t even kiss him that other time. I think you need to ask him.”

“No, I’m sure about the kiss. But the rest… There’s an embarrassing question. ‘Hullo, Memphis, how are you? Did we sleep together the other night, or did I just imagine the whole thing?’”

Sam had the decency not to laugh. “It’s gotta be done, sugar. For your peace of mind as much as anything. Listen, I have to go, the twins are crying, and Simon is less than pleased with me, and you sound way more coherent. But don’t take any more pills. Stop taking everything. I’m sure you have some Advil. Take eight hundred milligrams if the headache starts, repeat that every six hours. You might have some shakes after a day or so—that’s the Percocet talking. Just gut it out. I know you can. And if there is any way to have blood drawn, so you can see what’s in your system, do it.”

“All right.”

“And Taylor? For God’s sake, watch your back.”