Possession in Death (In Death #31.5)(15)

“Stop. Just stop,” she ordered herself. “Do what you have to do, then get some sleep.” She pulled away from the curb, but gave in to need and called home.

And her heart slowed, settled a little when Roarke’s face flowed on-screen.

“Lieutenant, I was hoping I’d—What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Well, nothing except having some old Hungarian woman bleed out under my hands. Tired,” she admitted. “I’ve got to head down to the morgue because there was a glitch with the TOD. I need to get it straightened out, then talk to a bunch of cops about a Russian ballet guy. Sorry,” she added. “This one literally fell in my lap.”

“I’ll meet you at the morgue.”

“Why?”

“Where else does a man meet his wife—when they’re you and me?” She looked pale, he thought, her eyes too dark against her skin.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll see you there.”

When she broke transmission, Roarke stared at the blank screen of his ‘link. Not even a token protest? More than tired, he thought.

His lieutenant was not herself.

She got lost. She would have deemed it impossible, but she couldn’t find her way. The streets seemed too crowded, too confusing, and the blare of horns when she hesitated at a light had her jumping in her seat. Frustration turned to sweaty fear that ran a snaking line down the center of her back. Battling it back, she ordered the dash navigator to plot her route, then gave in and put her vehicle on auto.

Tired, she assured herself and closed her eyes. Just tired. But there was a lingering unease that she was ill—or worse.

Need a boost, she thought, nearly shuddering with relief as she arrived at the morgue. She’d grab a tube of Pepsi at Vending, down some caffeine. Maybe even choke down a PowerBar because, Jesus, she was starving.

What was wrong with the air in here? she wondered as she started down the white tunnel. The lights glaring off the tiles slapped into her eyes and made them ache. It was frigid, an icy blast after the heat of the summer night. Yet under her chilled skin her blood beat hot, like a fever raging.

She headed for Vending, digging into her pockets, her mind on food and caffeine. A woman sat on the floor beside the machines, her face in her hands, weeping.

“I’m scared. I’m scared,” she repeated. “Nobody sees me now.”

“What’s the problem?” As Eve crouched down, the woman dropped her hands. Her face, livid with bruising, shone with shock and what might have been hope.

“You can see me?”

“Of course I can see you. You need medical attention. Take it easy. I’m going to get someone, then—”

“It’s too late.” Tears ran down the swollen face as the woman dipped her head again. “Look what he did to me.”

Eve froze as she stared at the gaping wound on the back of the woman’s head, at the dried blood matting the hair, soaking the blouse.

“Hold on. Just—” Eve reached out, and her hand passed through the woman’s arm. “Jesus God.”

“It was Rennie.” Sniffling, she pushed the heels of her hands through the tears.

“What are you? What is this?”

“I don’t know, but I have to tell somebody. It was Rennie,” she repeated. “The bastard. He was mad at me ‘cause I helped Sara get away from him. He must’ve followed me from work, and when I was in the park, he was just there. And he yelled and he hit me. He kept hitting me, and I couldn’t get away. Nobody came to help. Nobody saw, and he hit me and hit me, and I fell. And he picked up a rock and he killed me. It’s not right. What am I going to do now? I’m scared to be here. I’m scared to be dead.”

Eve couldn’t swallow, could barely breathe. “This has to stop.”

“Rennie killed me.”

The woman—the hallucination—held out her hands. Tore them up, Eve thought in some cold part of her brain. Tore them up when she fell, when she tried to crawl away.

“He killed me, and now I won’t ever get married or eat ice cream or buy new shoes and have drinks with Sara. Rennie Foster killed me with a rock in Riverside Park, and maybe he’ll kill Sara next. What’s going to happen?”

“I don’t know.”

“Aren’t I supposed to go somewhere? I don’t want to stay here. It’s cold here. It’s too cold and it’s too bright. Can you help me? I’m Janna, Janna Dorchester, and I didn’t do anything wrong. Is this hell?”

“No.” But she wasn’t entirely sure.

Maybe hell was cold and bright. Maybe hell was losing your mind.

“Eve.” Roarke dropped down beside her, took her arms. “Christ, you’re burning up. Come on now.”

He started to lift her, but she resisted. “No. Wait.” She sucked in a breath, shuddered it out. “You don’t see her?”

He pressed a hand to her forehead. “I see you, sitting on the floor of the morgue looking like a ghost.”

“At one,” she murmured.

“I guess he can’t see me because I’m dead and everything,” Janna said. “Why do you?”

“I don’t know. I need Morris,” she told Roarke. “And God, I need something to drink.”

“Don’t leave me,” Janna begged, dropping her head again so Eve could see the ugly wound that killed her. “Please don’t leave me here alone.”