The Summer Children (The Collector #3)(53)
He never called her angel, or baby, never called her beautiful.
But then there was a car accident, and unlike Mama’s, this one really was an accident, and another group of kids was scattered. The next house was all right, everyone fairly content to ignore each other outside of meals, but then the man’s sister and children came to live with them, and the sister was sick, too sick for the man and woman to take care of children who weren’t theirs.
That’s when the little girl was sent here, to a woman who passed her days in a haze of pills and her nights with alcohol and sedatives, and never knew what her husband did to the children in their care.
Daddy would have liked the husband.
She cried, because this wasn’t supposed to happen, she was never supposed to have to suffer through this again (ever, the angel had said; she wasn’t supposed to have gone through this ever) but the man came to her room and told her that she liked it, she knew she did, she knew she’d missed this, being taken care of properly.
But she couldn’t stop crying; she never could.
19
“Sterling, get the girls back to Vic’s. Come on, Ramirez, we need to change.” Eddison dumps the emergency bucket of sand over the grill, extinguishing the flames, and grabs up whatever packaging he can. After a moment, the rest of us pitch in, then jog up to his apartment. The girls grab bags and give me hugs or kisses as they follow Sterling out.
It seems stupid to take time to change clothes, especially when we’re not the ones working the case, but I can’t well show up in shorts and a halter top. We yank on jeans, and Eddison tosses me a long-sleeved University of Miami tee to throw on over the halter top. We’re out the door less than two minutes after the girls, and actually pull out of the parking lot before they do.
“They wandered into a fire station,” I tell him, hanging on to the oh-shit handle for dear life. Eddison doesn’t dick around when he’s driving to a scene. “Three kids, they’re being taken to Prince William.”
“Got it.” He curses at a red light, then, seeing no one coming down the cross street, runs it. “Three days. The time between kills is getting shorter and shorter.”
The car screams into the hospital’s parking lot just behind the ambulances, and then we’re running to the ER entrance to follow the kids who are way too small for the gurneys they’re on. The boys look like twins, so thin it’s impossible to guess their age, and the girl doesn’t look any better. Holmes is waiting at the nurses’ station. She draws herself up to greet the children, but upon actually seeing them, her giant coffee slips from nerveless fingers to splash all over the floor.
“Are they high?” she hisses.
One of the boys is shaking, not a seizure so much as a full-body tremor, grinding his teeth as his head sways back and forth. He plucks and tears at the skin around his fingernails, leaving great bloody streaks behind, and he can’t seem to stop talking, the words spilling out fast and half-formed. His twin is silent, but his pupils are blown so wide he can’t possibly see anything, and his skin is bright with sweat. He keeps trying to swallow, but each time, his dry throat clicks and catches, and he tries again. Their sister . . .
Their sister is screaming, stopping only long enough to draw another ragged breath, and her arms are belted to the gurney, I assume to keep her from adding to the scratches all down her arms. She’s absolutely hysterical, pupils blown and eyes unfocused.
“They’ve been exposed to meth,” I say breathlessly. “A lot of meth to have this kind of effect.”
The nurses jump into action, the charge nurse snapping instructions and sending one of them running for doctors.
“How much do you think, to get that?” Holmes asks.
“Their parents have to be cooking it.” Jesus, my hands are shaking. I’ve seen kids under the influence before, but never to that extent. Usually when someone’s drugging a child, it’s to subdue them, not hop them up. “Has anyone made it out to the parents yet?”
“The closer fire station,” she answers grimly.
“The house is on fire?”
Eddison curses under his breath. “Meth kitchens explode pretty frequently, but I’m going to guess this one had help. If the parents were inside . . .”
“Explains why the only blood on the children is what they’ve drawn themselves.”
“Mignone is out at the scene; we called Simpkins, she and some of her agents are heading out, but the girl, Zoe, she kept chanting your name. Can you—”
“Yes.” Leaving Eddison and Holmes mopping up spilled coffee, I head behind the girl’s curtain. Zoe, Holmes said. She’s fighting the nurses as they unstrap her, her bony arms flailing as she continues to scream. “Zoe? Zoe, can you hear me?”
If she does, she’s too worked up to answer.
“Zoe, my name is Mercedes, Mercedes Ramirez.”
The screams stop, at least, and she stares at me, or tries to, her shoulders heaving with labored, gasping breaths. “Mer-mer-mercedes. Mercedes. Safe Mercedes, she said that.”
The charge nurse frees a hand to point at a spot on the bed. Obediently, I sit there, pulling on the gloves she tosses me, and when they transfer Zoe to the bed, I’m at the perfect position to take her hands in mine, gently but too firmly for her to pull free and scratch. Around the long, frenzied scratches, bright rashes bloom up and down her arms.