Daddy's Little Killer (28 page)

Then again, delusions have never suited me
much.

My fingers find temples and start massaging
gently.  Ah, yes.  That feels better.  If only I can
rub this dratted stupor away.

The bed dips beside me.  "Dad?"  I
want to cheer at the clear word my lips make, that my tongue
doesn't slaughter into a mushy garbled mess.

"Doc, it's me.  You're gonna be
fine."

My eyes are still closed, yet I'm keenly
aware of this new presence.  Maybe it's his voice, the gentle
concern, the steadfast reassurance.  Whatever it is soothes
the bubbling bejesus back into the pit of my stomach where it can
be contained and controlled with all my other irrational
emotions. 

I don't know who
me
is, but I'll sure as
hell take his comfort in a heartbeat.  Almost as soon as my
brain processes safety, another realization creeps over me. 
I'm cold, and barely dressed.  Some strange guy is reassuring
me, making me believe in something other than death in Peru, and
I'm not sure how the two facts can peacefully co-exist.

Don't misunderstand.  Helen Eriksson is
not a prude.  She does have a body image issue or two. 
She also, incidentally hates people who refer to themselves in the
third person.

I shake off the creepy self condemnation and
bent toward bizarre self-conversation and try to figure out if I
should protest, demand answers or lie here and let myself be
soothed back into oblivion.

"Charlie is here.  He's worried
sick.  We've called a doctor to come see you.  I wasn't
sure if you'd rather have us take you to the hospital or not."

"Doctor?"

"She swears her bedside manor is best suited
for the dead," is that grinning I hear in his voice?  "But
when word spread that you were ill, she offered to come over right
away."

I have no clue who Charlie is, but something
in Suave Guy's tone tells me that they've called the undertaker to
certify that I'm not dying.  Talk about irony.

"Who?"

"Maya."

"Maya."

"Doc ... "

"Don't call me doc." 
God how I despise that nickname!  Speaking of body image
problems, an old memory – at least I think its old – flits through
my mind.  My mouth is too big.  Fat lips, big teeth, tad
bit of overbite that unfortunately wasn't corrected until the
invention of invisible braces (God help the world if I'd worn the
metal kind and drawn even more attention to my mouth).  One of
my so-called peers in my doctoral program used to mime Bugs Bunny
at me and ask
what's up,
doc?
  He almost landed on a hit list
for his taunting.

I hear a warm, low chuckle.  The hairs
on my arms stiffen more, but this time, I like how it feels. 
Excitement.  Thrilling.  I can feel his eyes on me. 
If I peek, will they look as adoring as they feel?

"That's my girl.  You're gonna be fine,
I promise."

Oh how I want to believe
him.  That word, that feeling,
belief
is almost non-existent in my
psyche.  I'm one of those annoying folks who demands
proof.  Dad drilled that into me harder than he
realized. 
Demand proof. 
My context had evolved to more than accusations
of criminal behavior as he intended the message.

Something slender and calloused strokes
lightly at the inside of my wrist.  It draws another moan,
this one building from a much deeper place than the back of my
throat.  Nice.  Feels so very nice.

"Am I hurting you?"

"Mmm.  No."

I hear his breath draw in quickly. 
Funny how the senses adjust when one is deprived.  I can hear
everything he does, every emotion he conveys, and my eyes haven't
fluttered a millimeter.  I ponder for a moment how much nicer
this is than my usual way.  Dissecting everything I see. 
Maybe I should start closing my eyes and feeling the world around
me once in awhile.

The pressure on my wrist increases, not in a
bad way.  It strokes downward.  Long fingers pluck at
mine before closing gently over my hand for a light
squeeze. 

"How do you feel?"

Great right now.  This lovely sensory
distraction has all but muted the jackhammer.  "Okay."

Now why did I do that?  He asked a
valid question.  Why not tell the truth?  "I feel
great.  You make me feel so much better."

"I think you just told me the truth for the
first time."  The words are soft, reverent, full of
wonder. 

This too is cause for serious
consideration.  I'm not in the habit of lying to complete
strangers, am I?  Not without a good motive.  Good motive
loosely translates into a perceived threat. 

"Maya who?"

He laughs again.  This one tickles my
insides, starting at the navel and working its way outward, like a
stone creating a ripple in a pond.  I shiver.

"Maya Winslow.  Are you sure you didn't
hit your head?"

Maya.  Maya?  I haven't seen her
in ... gosh, it's been at least two or three years.  What in
the world am I doing in Baltimore of all places?  How did I
get from Rick's funeral in Arlington all the way up to
Baltimore?

"What time is it?"

"After five."

Ho boy. 

"What happened?"

"We're not sure yet.  This isn't the
time for that conversation, Doc.  You can tell me what you
were doing at Jerry Lowe's house later."

"Who?"

Suddenly his playful relief evolved into
something quite different.  "Doc, do you know where you
are?"

"Please don't call me that.  I hate it
so much."

"Fine.  Helen, do you know where you
are?"

I drag my lower lip through my teeth. 
At least that's what I think I'm doing.  Maybe my sensation
isn't quite right yet.  "Baltimore?"

"Why would you be in Baltimore?"

"I ..."  I really
don't want to have this discussion, because then you'll know that I
don't know, don't have the first foggiest clue in hell what's
happened to me, and then you will
insist
on taking me to the
hospital.

Remain calm.  Think, Helen.  This
guy must know me.  He had the common sense to realize that the
last place I want to be is in a hospital.

"Helen?"

"I'm fine, really.  Groggy.  I'm
not sure I've been sleeping."

Another voice joins his.

"Mr. Orion?"

God bless whoever you are.  Now I've
got a name!

"Johnny," he says.  "Please.  I've
seen you, but I think this is the first time we've actually
met."

And I have a first name.  Thanks again,
Invisible Sky Monster, Pink Unicorn or whichever unseeable entity
is throwing bones my way.  In my delight, I almost miss the
subtle sound of flesh pressing.  They're shaking hands.

Wait a minute.  I remember that
voice.  Maya Winslow, forensic pathologist
extraordinaire!  "Maya ..."

A chuckle aborts my greeting.  Johnny
has a wicked sense of humor.  He really was telling me that
the undertaker was coming to tell me I'll be fine.

"Hey kiddo."

The bed dips again.  I can smell
lavender and vanilla, and the mattress isn't displaced as much as
when Johnny Orion sat beside me.

"How you doing?"

"I feel ... disconnected.  Disoriented
maybe.  I thought we had to be in Baltimore if you were coming
to see me."

"I'll say you're disoriented."  A cool
hand pressed to my forehead.  "You don't feel feverish. 
Then again, that's no proper way to check a temperature. 
Johnny, do you have a thermometer?"

"No, but I'll send Charlie out for
one.  Do you need anything else?"

"I think that'll do for now.  I suspect
I know what happened to our friend."

"You do?"  My brain starts tingling in
anticipation.  Please tell me.  I need to know what's
happening to me.

"When I saw you this morning, you were
practically toxic on caffeine.  I know for a fact that you've
slept very little since you got to Darkwater Bay."

Bless you, Maya.  Keep talking.

"And given the other issues I know you've
endured over the past couple of weeks, I suspect this is stress and
sleep deprivation."

"I'm going to be all right?"

"My prescription is a solid eight or more,
of uninterrupted sleep."

"She's got an interview scheduled
tonight.  Charlie doesn't want to go without her."

"It'll have to wait until tomorrow,
Johnny.  She won't be able to function if she keeps pushing
herself like this."

"So all I have to do is sleep?"

"That's right, kiddo.  Easy as
pie."

Permission given, order accepted.  I
sighed into the bed, rolled to my side and hugged the pillow to my
chest.  Good doctor.  Great news.

Chapter 26

I woke to sunlight streaming into the west
facing window of Orion's guest room.  An ache rippled in waves
from the top of my skull to the tip of my spine.  Good lord,
what happened?

The duvet on the bed was tangled around my
legs.  I swam my way free, groaned deep discomfort and pulled
myself up into sitting position.  My shoulders rolled forward,
creating an arch of my vertebrae, a cat hissing at crickets
perhaps.

"Jesus.  What the hell happened to
me?"

"You're awake."

My eyes took a regrettable
rapid motion toward the voice.  "Orion.  It's you." 
I pulled the duvet to my chest and glanced at him warily. 
Amend that. 
Any
movement of my eyeballs felt like hot knives stabbing into my
brain.

"How are you this morning?"

"Hung over as hell.  What happened last
night?"

He crossed his arms over his chest, frowned
and said, "You tell me, Doc."

Palms ground into my face.  "I have no
clue.  God, I feel like death warmed over."

"Do you remember Maya coming to see you late
yesterday afternoon?"

I peeked through fingers.  "No."

"And I don't suppose you can tell me why you
were found in this condition at Jerry fucking Lowe's house."

"Don't take that tone with me."

"Answer the question, Doc."

"Don't call me –"

"Yeah, you said that last night too. 
Frankly, I don't give a shit if you like it or not.  Why were
you at Jerry Lowe's house?"

"Technically, I am a detective, and he is
the chief of detectives."

"You don't answer to that moron."

I also didn't remember going to his house
for any reason under the sun.  The whole damn day was a bit
foggy.  Everything after my conversation with Maya about the
missing teenagers and those I suspected were survivors of sexual
assault.

"Oh dammit!  I was supposed to talk to
someone last night!"

"Yeah, I know.  Charlie brought you
home."

"This isn't my home, Orion.  My home is
..."

"Is where?"

Something vital was on the tip of my
tongue.  What was it?  Why couldn't I remember
yesterday?  Maya.  Her tantrum over the messy condition
in the wake of my night of research.  Scrubs. 
Central.  Oh yeah, Danny Datello implied that I'd be burning
in hell soon with my dead ex-husband.

"Datello."

"Excuse me?"

"I talked to Datello yesterday morning."

"You personally spoke to him?"

A bit of my usual wariness returned. 
"I can't talk to you about this, Orion."

He huffed a bit, muttered something about
liking me a hell of a lot more last night.  "So where is home,
Helen?"

Blonde hair and a perky, utterly annoying
image flashed before my eyes.  "Theresa something."

"You're still sick."

"I'm fine, dammit.  She's a
realtor.  I met with her yesterday.  I found a
house.  She was supposed to drop the keys off for Michel last
night.  I live in Beach Cliffs."  Ha!  Take that Mr.
You're-Still-Sick.

"Great.  What happened next?"

I wasn't quite sure why he looked so morose
that I remembered something.  "It's blank."

"Completely?"

"Not even there.  You said I was at
Jerry Lowe's house when Charlie found me?"

"Yeah, somebody made an anonymous 9-1-1 call
about a woman passed out in front of his house in her car."

"He wasn't
there
?"

"Were you snooping?"

"No!"  Was I?

"How can you be sure if you don't
remember?"

"Because I know me.  And there is
absolutely no reason for me to spy on my boss."

"He's not your boss."

"You know what I mean."

Orion filled the doorway with his massive
frame.  "Well, new house or no, you're not leaving here until
I'm sure you're not still under the effects of whatever caused this
little fugue state."

"I did not suffer a fugue."  Then
again, I wasn't sure of much, just that I'd lost a day, and unless
Charlie found Caroline Blevins and talked to her, the momentum of
our case took a serious hit.  "Did Charlie talk to my ...
appointment last night?"

"No, he wasn't comfortable going
alone.  He rescheduled."

I jumped from the bed, staggered a step and
sat down hard.  "We've got to have that conversation right
away."

"You're in no condition to do jack shit,
Doc.  Go back to bed.  I'll see if Michel got your keys
and order up something for you to eat.  God only knows the
last time you've done more than nibble and feast on caffeine. 
By the way, whatever you did yesterday, you forgot to shut off the
warmer under the coffee pot.  Burned the hell out of the
damned thing."

"I'll buy you a new one."  Orion was
already gone when my sarcastic retort fell.  Fine with
me.  If he was going to be high handed and controlling about
where I'd go, what I'd do and who I'd see, I'd work from home.