Painting the picture for the dispatcher in the ER gave him time to reach down inside, open the rough, buttonless shirt and attach the cardiac monitor electrodes.
“Lead one—flat line.”
Had she gotten a call too?
“Lead two—flat line.”
“Roger. Stand by,” the dispatcher said.
The only personal effects the sheriff’s team had located on the scene were those fucking magazines. It was hard not to hit something just thinking about it.
There had to be a cell phone. He held his phone cocked against his shoulder, pulled off the electrodes with one hand and snaked the other hand down into the bag, along the body. It was cold already. There were damp patches where fluids had started to settle. He felt the change of texture and temperature through the thin casing of latex over his hands.
Nothing.
The phone wasn’t the only thing missing that could get him into trouble.
“Everything all right back there?” his driver called out.
“Fine.”
He had to find the sample bag. Everyone was watching him now. Thinking the worst. No matter how hard he tried to explain, to fix things, it never seemed to be enough. Nothing else could go wrong now or more people would get hurt.
She didn’t know what she was getting into. He was not going to let her fuck everything up now.
The face lying before him wore a contorted grimace of pain and bruising.
He wasn’t supposed to touch the body but he couldn’t stop himself. He pounded down with both fists, hard, center of the chest, right over that guilty heart.
What did you do? What did you do, you dumbass farmboy?
“Hey! Whoa, what’s going on back there? We’re one minute away, man. Captain’s going to be at the other end. Don’t freak on me now.”
“Okay. I’m okay.”
There was no peace in death on that face. Only pain. And hatred.
Gently, he laid his hands on the face. He massaged the mouth, the jaw, the brow. He tipped the head and smoothed the expression.
At last, the face appeared peaceful.
He would do whatever he had to do to fix it, to smooth it over.
Everything was going to be fine. Just fine.
He zipped the bag shut slowly, so there was almost no sound at all.
3:52:34 p.m.
It took forty-two minutes for Ainsley to drive me to the house that once belonged to my sister, Angelina O’Hara.
Jenny was waiting, sitting on the doorstep hunched by the bulk of her backpack, fiddling intently with her shoe. She’s the kind of kid who looks like she’s made of hollow straws and toothpicks, all held together by wire bread ties. Everything about her was either stiff or sharp.
I swear, we couldn’t have been more than twelve, thirteen minutes late, at most.
“This is where you live?” Ainsley asked.
“Yeah.” A squat, yellow-brick ranch house was not my idea of heaven either.
“Who’s that?” Ainsley asked.
I had a sudden flash of the Boy Wonder reporting back to Uncle Rich all the details of my life story. Definitely not. Not before I signed the paperwork anyway.
I popped the van door open but didn’t get out. “You’re mighty curious, aren’t you? Let’s add research to your job description. Go back to the station and make some calls. See if you can find out why Sheriff Curzon hates us. I’d guess he’s worked with the press before. See what you can find out. Then call the police station just before five. If they still won’t ID the body, get a name on who owns the property where it was found. We ought to try to set up an interview first thing tomorrow. Early light would be nice. Call me at home later so we can set a schedule, but plan on picking me up around seven-A. You got my cell number?”
“Yeah. I got it.” He sounded distracted. Or maybe it was pissed. Sensitive boy. Wasn’t like I ordered him to pick up my dry cleaning.
“Oh, one more thing. Push my bike into the dock, would you? Night air isn’t good for Peg.” I slammed the door behind me. “See ya.” I followed the van as it backed down the driveway, walking all
“Lead one—flat line.”
Had she gotten a call too?
“Lead two—flat line.”
“Roger. Stand by,” the dispatcher said.
The only personal effects the sheriff’s team had located on the scene were those fucking magazines. It was hard not to hit something just thinking about it.
There had to be a cell phone. He held his phone cocked against his shoulder, pulled off the electrodes with one hand and snaked the other hand down into the bag, along the body. It was cold already. There were damp patches where fluids had started to settle. He felt the change of texture and temperature through the thin casing of latex over his hands.
Nothing.
The phone wasn’t the only thing missing that could get him into trouble.
“Everything all right back there?” his driver called out.
“Fine.”
He had to find the sample bag. Everyone was watching him now. Thinking the worst. No matter how hard he tried to explain, to fix things, it never seemed to be enough. Nothing else could go wrong now or more people would get hurt.
She didn’t know what she was getting into. He was not going to let her fuck everything up now.
The face lying before him wore a contorted grimace of pain and bruising.
He wasn’t supposed to touch the body but he couldn’t stop himself. He pounded down with both fists, hard, center of the chest, right over that guilty heart.
What did you do? What did you do, you dumbass farmboy?
“Hey! Whoa, what’s going on back there? We’re one minute away, man. Captain’s going to be at the other end. Don’t freak on me now.”
“Okay. I’m okay.”
There was no peace in death on that face. Only pain. And hatred.
Gently, he laid his hands on the face. He massaged the mouth, the jaw, the brow. He tipped the head and smoothed the expression.
At last, the face appeared peaceful.
He would do whatever he had to do to fix it, to smooth it over.
Everything was going to be fine. Just fine.
He zipped the bag shut slowly, so there was almost no sound at all.
3:52:34 p.m.
It took forty-two minutes for Ainsley to drive me to the house that once belonged to my sister, Angelina O’Hara.
Jenny was waiting, sitting on the doorstep hunched by the bulk of her backpack, fiddling intently with her shoe. She’s the kind of kid who looks like she’s made of hollow straws and toothpicks, all held together by wire bread ties. Everything about her was either stiff or sharp.
I swear, we couldn’t have been more than twelve, thirteen minutes late, at most.
“This is where you live?” Ainsley asked.
“Yeah.” A squat, yellow-brick ranch house was not my idea of heaven either.
“Who’s that?” Ainsley asked.
I had a sudden flash of the Boy Wonder reporting back to Uncle Rich all the details of my life story. Definitely not. Not before I signed the paperwork anyway.
I popped the van door open but didn’t get out. “You’re mighty curious, aren’t you? Let’s add research to your job description. Go back to the station and make some calls. See if you can find out why Sheriff Curzon hates us. I’d guess he’s worked with the press before. See what you can find out. Then call the police station just before five. If they still won’t ID the body, get a name on who owns the property where it was found. We ought to try to set up an interview first thing tomorrow. Early light would be nice. Call me at home later so we can set a schedule, but plan on picking me up around seven-A. You got my cell number?”
“Yeah. I got it.” He sounded distracted. Or maybe it was pissed. Sensitive boy. Wasn’t like I ordered him to pick up my dry cleaning.
“Oh, one more thing. Push my bike into the dock, would you? Night air isn’t good for Peg.” I slammed the door behind me. “See ya.” I followed the van as it backed down the driveway, walking all
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