The Dollmaker(The Forgotten Files #2)(22)

CHAPTER SEVEN


Wednesday, October 5, 6:30 a.m.

In Sharp’s mind, every aspect of the autopsy suite was unnatural. The air was heavy, and it smelled of antiseptic and death. Fluorescent light robbed the living of color, and the hollow sound of the basement hallway reminded him of a horror movie.

His mother and Roger had traveled to a morgue like this to see Kara. His mother had told Sharp how she’d wept as she stared at her daughter on the metal table. The doctor’s kind words had not chased the chill from her. So cold. His mother had been convinced Death followed her from that day forth.

He rolled his head to the side, waiting for the small pop in his neck to relieve some of the persistent stiffness from an IED explosion that had sent him flying fifteen feet across a street in Iraq. It had been eleven years since that explosion, but the smell of fire on flesh, screams, and pain still stalked him. This damn place always jarred those memories free of their cage.

“Shit,” he whispered.

The past was gunning for him. First Roger. Kara’s files. Iraq. Tessa.

Tessa.

Why the hell had she kissed him? She’d said she couldn’t forget him. She wasn’t willing to file papers. He wasn’t sure where she’d dreamed up the idea of embracing second chances. If he had to bet, he’d put his money on guilt and pent-up sexual tension.

He shouldn’t have allowed the kiss. He should have stepped back. Refused contact. But the kiss had been Eden’s forbidden fruit.

Touching her hadn’t silenced any of his demons. In fact, the kiss had antagonized the monsters within and had rewarded him with a night of tossing, turning, and enduring a shitload of his own sexual tension.

A reunion with Tessa was seductive but impossible. She might be naive enough to believe a second try would work, but he wasn’t so foolish.

He pushed through the suite doors and found Tessa standing at the instrument table. A frown furrowed her brow as she studied the instruments. She’d tied her black hair back into a neat bun and tucked it under a surgical cap. She wore green scrubs and paper booties over her tennis shoes.

She looked up at him. A smile flickered, then scurried away. “Dr. Kincaid is on her way, and the lab technician is bringing up Mr. Dillon.”

“Thanks.”

He turned and moved toward a small set of lockers, where he shrugged off his jacket, carefully unfastened the cuffs of his shirt, and rolled up his sleeves. He knew damn well the extra care he took was buying time until Dr. Kincaid arrived. The last thing he wanted was conversation. Grabbing a surgical gown, he slipped it on as a lab technician rolled in the gurney carrying the sheet-clad body of Terrance Dillon.

The tech positioned the body under a lamp hanging from above, and Tessa pushed the instruments closer to the exam table.

The tech was in his early twenties with muscled arms. He grinned at Tessa and winked. “That’s my job.”

Smiling, Tessa flexed gloved fingers. “I know, Jerry. Just trying to get the lay of the land.” She held up her hands in surrender. “I leave it all to you.”

“I’m not fussing at you,” Jerry said. “Just know, you’ll have your hands full soon enough.”

“Great,” she said. “I can’t wait.”

Sharp didn’t mind the way Tessa smiled at Jerry. He recognized it as her polite smile, the one saved for strangers. There was no charge lingering behind her gaze when she looked at Jerry. No undercurrent. Just simple. The exact opposite of what they shared.

He envied her ability to shrug off anxiety and at least look calm and happy. If one of them had a chance at getting out of this marriage whole and healthy, it was Tessa. And he’d see to it she got that chance.

Run while you can, Tessa.

The doors opened to Dr. Kincaid, whose gaze swept to him and briefly to Tessa. “Agent Sharp. How are you this fine day?”

“Can’t complain.” The doctor’s body language revealed what he suspected. Tessa had been up front about their relationship. She was like that. Straightforward. What you saw was what you got. I haven’t been able to forget you.

Dr. Kincaid pulled the microphone toward her lips. She moved closer to the table. Her gaze dropped to the body, and all traces of lightness vanished. “Shall we get started?”

“Let’s do this,” Sharp said.

Jerry pulled back the sheet, folding it, leaving it just below the feet. He clicked on the overhead light, and Dr. Kincaid flipped on the microphone. “This is Dr. Addison Kincaid, and with me today are Dr. Tessa McGowan, lab technician Jerry Taylor, and Agent Dakota Sharp with the Virginia State Police.”

Terrance Dillon’s body had been stripped and cleaned. The dried blood and mud were gone, and his ebony hair was brushed back from his face. His body was lean and fit.

The kid had it all going for him. And yet here he lay, perfect except for the neat knife wound puncturing his midsection. Because cool weather had preserved his body, he looked as if his eyes would open and he could hop off the table.

Dr. Kincaid began with the external exam, detailing a tattoo of a football flanked by wings on his chest as well as an old scar on his knee. She took a reading of his liver temperature and estimated his time of death was between midnight and 2:00 a.m. of Monday morning. The medical examiner’s tone grew heavier as she talked about the knife wound. “This wound is efficient. Either the killer was lucky, or he knew exactly where to jab the knife. I’ll get a better look at the damage when I open him up.”