Abandoned in Death (In Death, #54)(17)

She thought she heard something else, something familiar.

A car.

She knew there were cars in the world. She knew she wore red sneakers, sneakers coated in mud. She knew, because she’d run her hands over it, she wore her hair short. But she couldn’t bring an image of herself into her mind.

If she had a mirror—she knew what a mirror was!—would she know herself?

She tried to walk in the direction she thought she’d heard a car. Someone would help. If she could find someone, someone would help. Water, someone would give her water. She was so thirsty.

She had no sense of time, of distance.

She followed snatches of moonlight.

She knew the moon, the sun, flowers, buildings, trees—why were there so many trees? She knew cats and dogs and hands and feet.

Her feet ached and ached. Her head felt as big as the moon and pulsed with pain.

Delirious, she muttered to herself things she remembered and found the word for the body of water she nearly fell into.

Swamp.

She wanted to drink it, but knew the things that swam in swamps.

Alligators, snakes.

She walked the other way. What did it matter? She’d walk until she died.

And then, like a miracle, she stumbled out onto a road.

She knew what a road was, and cars traveled on them.

She walked, limping now, as her shoes rubbed blisters on her feet. But no car traveled this road. Maybe she was the only person left in the world.

Maybe there’d been a nuclear war. She knew what that was, sort of. Everything blew up. But there was still a road, and trees.

As dawn began to break, she gave up, gave in to exhaustion, and simply dropped down on the road. She curled into herself and let the darkness come.



* * *



On his way home from a graveyard shift at the ER, Dr. Joseph Fletcher had the top down, the radio blasting. Both ploys to keep him alert after a long, hard night.

He loved his work, had always wanted to be a doctor, and he’d chosen emergency medicine. But there were nights he wondered why he hadn’t listened to his parents and gone into private practice.

Of course, he knew why. He helped more people, often desperate people, on any given night than he might have in a week in a posh office.

He was thinking about a long cool shower and his big soft bed when he rounded the final curve before home and nearly ran over the figure crumpled in the road.

He had to slam the brakes, swerve. He nearly lost control of the BMW Roadster he’d treated himself to when he got his degree. Gravel spit from the wheels when he hit the shoulder, and he fishtailed but managed to stop without ending up in the gully.

Grabbing his medical bag, he was out of the car in seconds and running.

When he dropped down beside her, he feared the worst, but he found a pulse. And when he began to check for injuries, she stirred.

She opened her eyes, bloodshot, swollen, and glazed with shock.

Her voice came out in a hoarse croak, but he heard her.

She said, “Help me.”





NOW


Eve read the tox report on her victim and got a picture of those last hours. As she copied it to Mira, added it to her book and board, Peabody buzzed through.

“Detective Norman’s here, Lieutenant.”

She considered her office, the single ass-biting visitor’s chair, and decided to give Norman a break. “Let’s take it to the lounge. I’m right behind you.”

After a last look at her board, she started out.

“One second, LT.” Santiago hustled over to her. “If you can sign off on this, Carmichael and I can close it out.”

She scanned the report on the suspect in a bludgeoning death—her spouse—and her confession thereto.

“Looks like good work between brownie breaks.” She scrawled her signature and kept going.

She found Peabody and Detective Norman already at a table with crap coffee. A scatter of other cops took their break, or used the quieter space for work.

Norman looked young. Since she’d already looked him up, she knew he was only a couple years older than Trueheart, her youngest detective.

He had smooth, golden brown skin, deep-set dark eyes that spoke of some Asian in his DNA. He wore his hair close cropped with hints of gold among the black. He had a skinny build inside a black suit and a dull gray tie knotted at the base of his long neck.

As well as young, Eve thought he looked miserable.

She sat. “Detective Norman, thanks for coming in. I’m Lieutenant Dallas.”

He offered his long, slender hand—and a solid grip with it. “Lieutenant. I brought all the files on Lauren Elder. I was working with Detective Marlboro on this case—she’s senior—but she’s on vacation.”

“Okay, why don’t you just run it through for us.”

“Yes, sir. Roy Mardsten, who identified himself as Elder’s cohab, reported her missing on the morning of May twenty-ninth. Detective Marlboro and I caught the case, and though it had been less than twenty-four hours, and Elder an adult, Mardsten expressed urgency. Elder wasn’t answering her ’link, and he’d checked with her coworkers—I have a list in the files—and her family. He’d contacted her friends, and had also contacted local hospitals.”

He paused to gulp at some coffee. “We interviewed him, and there was no indication he and Elder had any relationship difficulties. This was confirmed by interviews with neighbors, coworkers, family. Her coworker Buddy Wilcox was the last to see her at approximately zero-two-thirty-seven when they closed the bar, Arnold’s, where they both worked. The door cam confirms both of them exiting at this time. He stated Elder intended to go straight home, indicated no distress, and was in fact joking with him as they closed for the night. They stood on the sidewalk for a minute, according to his statement, talking. Then she walked in the direction of her residence, while he traveled in the other direction to catch the subway to his own. We have security footage of him on the train platform, time stamped at zero-two-thirty-seven, and getting on the train two minutes after.”