Jackson 07 - Where All the Dead Lie (4 page)

So she really would be alone. That was tempting. So very tempting.

I’ll think about it. Promise. I have to go though, my appointment with the shrink is soon. Have a nice dinner. Wish the Earl Happy Birthday for me. Enjoy the grouse.

How did you know that’s what I’d be ordering?

Just a guess. See ya, Memphis.

Au revoir, ma chere.

The chat window closed and she was left alone, wondering why she was even entertaining the idea of taking Memphis up on his offer. It was a foolhardy, dangerous thing to do. Baldwin wouldn’t agree to it in a million years. But maybe leaving town would help? Distance could make the heart grow fonder.

Or break it cleanly in two.

Dr. Samantha Owens Loughley stood poised over the body of an older man who’d passed away on the porch of his home, taking notes.
Slight skin slippage. Facial congestion. Insect activity on legs.
She was relatively certain he’d died of natural causes, but an unattended death meant an autopsy.

The rest of the day’s autopsies were lined up on their individual tables, attendants at the ready, waiting for her to stop by and do the external exam before they turned the pristine stainless-and-white autopsy suite into a Technicolor rainbow—the subcutaneous fat gamboge under the skylights, the organs a muddy sinopia, limp inside their dead homes, the blood as vivid and intense as a burning fire. There were four techs but five bodies, so she’d offered to take one of the guests herself to make things go quicker.

She finished her notes, made her rounds.

Everyone was situated now.

“Let’s go,” she said.

She returned to her table. Consulted the case file one last time. Pulled on her mask and picked up her scalpel. She was just about to make the Y-incision when the lab phone rang. It startled her; she’d been very much lost in thought, not seeing the body beneath her blade, not mindfully thinking about the possibilities of the apparent cardiac infarction. She’d been watching the sharp tip of a large knife slide into her sweater, then slowly, inexorably, pierce the skin of her lower abdomen.

Son of a bitch.

“You got that, Doc?” Stuart Charisse was her favorite tech. He was handling the body of an overdose on the other side of the wall.

She tossed the scalpel onto the tray to her right with a clatter. The phone rang again.

“Let it go. If they need me, they’ll page.”

Sam turned away from the autopsy table and took a seat on a stool near the sinks. Though snow was expected in the afternoon, for now the skies were misleadingly sunny, the frosted skylights dropping warm beams onto her shoulders. She breathed in deeply, counted to four, then let her breath out. The phone stopped ringing. Her breath didn’t slow. Shoot.

“I’m stepping out. I’ll be back in a second.”

There were murmurs of assent. Her team understood; she’d had to step out a few times over the past month.

She stripped off her gloves, pushed through the door to the changing area, and sat at the desk in silence, her breath a background noise to the snapping, sawing and clanking behind her.

This had to stop. Her work was her sanity. She’d always had a comfortable level of detachment from her cases. The precision of the human body was fascinating, and she was damn good at her job. She was helping, she knew that. Giving answers. Putting minds at rest. Solving cases. But being lost entirely outside the room while she was cutting wasn’t fair to the bodies she worked on. They deserved better.

But damn, would she ever be able to look at her work the same way again?

When Barclay Iles had finessed his way into her life, she hadn’t even seen him coming. She’d laughed with him, trained him, worked alongside him, shared meals, late nights, even gave her blessing to his union with her receptionist. When that same man dropped the pretenses and alias, kidnapped her, tied her to a chair, revealed himself as the Pretender and divested her core of the small, innocent life within, she thought she might go insane. It was one thing to miscarry, to have your body make the decision for you. But to lose a child by force, before it was even born, that was too much for her to handle.

The moment replayed itself over and over and over. She could swear she felt the child tear away from the wall of her uterus; the ripping sensation found her in her dreams. The knife wound had been nothing compared to the massive cramp that had seized her midsection. She’d simply wanted to roll into a ball and cry, but with her arms handcuffed behind her, she was forced to make do with a slight bending at the waist. She didn’t want him to see her pain, which was a mistake. He liked pain. He liked to inflict it, and loved to see the effects his actions had on her frailty. When she finally admitted to it by crying out, he had stopped.

But the damage was done. Sam was alive. But her child was lost.

My God. If Taylor had just arrived sooner. If she and Baldwin had figured out who Barclay was earlier. If Taylor had only…

If Sam hadn’t trusted him like a fool.

If, if, if.

She wanted to blame Taylor. Wanted to lay the blame at her feet like a dog drops a rolled-up newspaper.
Here, you take it. It’s your responsibility. Now I’m going back to my life.

Her rational brain repeated, over and over, that it didn’t work that way. That she was wrong to blame Taylor because a serial killer decided to target her. That it was inevitable that Sam would be caught in the cross fire. That Sam was the one who’d opened their doors to the Pretender instead of helping to catch him.

Sam had sat back and watched her best friend take ever-increasing risks. She should have known better. Taylor had a breaking point, just like all people. She wasn’t a superhero, she was just a woman, who’d been pushed too far.

Sam could have done something. She could have seen the madman for who he was, instead of being charmed by him. She could have looked more closely at her friend, paid attention to the cracks in her ever-present armor.

But Taylor didn’t have to take things into her own hands, either. If she’d just told someone of her hunch—that she suspected the Pretender had returned to his former lair—someone could have gotten to Sam in time. If Taylor had just let her team in, let them know what she was planning, maybe Sam wouldn’t have lost the baby. Maybe Taylor wouldn’t have been shot.

Instead, they’d all sat back and let Taylor run off the reservation. Sam thought she was the only one who knew that Taylor wanted to be the one to annihilate the threat. Baldwin had been distracted, worried about his son, and hadn’t realized what Taylor planned to do. Had he? Surely he hadn’t. He’d never condone murder.

Then again, Sam knew Taylor better than she knew herself. And Sam was the one who was there, locked in that attic, when Taylor had come through the door. She’d seen the look on Taylor’s face: for once all the masks pushed aside, all the walls dropped, hate and righteous fury emanating from her…it had frightened Sam. Perhaps her best friend was a better actress than she gave her credit for. She’d always kept the dark side of herself hidden.

Sam pushed her bangs off her forehead and regloved. She went back into the suite, made the rounds, looking at the hearts in situ, then returned to her table, took up the scalpel and made the incision into the dead man’s chest a bit harder than absolutely necessary.

She felt so worthless. She could blame no one but herself. She was the one who’d let the monster into their lives. And he’d taken from all of them—her child, Fitz’s eye, Taylor’s voice.

The man’s breastplate was off now, the rhythm of the posts around the room underway. The bone saw whirred to life, a few moments later there was an audible pop and Stuart called out, “Head’s ready.” Sam dropped her scalpel and went to the body, smoothed her fingers across the young man’s brain, saw nothing unusual, then nodded her okay. Stuart took the brain from the cavity with a few quick cuts, set it in the scale to be weighed, and as she went back to her own table again, he shouted, “Brain’s ready.” It would wait; she’d have to dissect the organs of all five bodies in turn, searching for the clues that would affirm the cause of death. No murders this morning, nothing extraordinary, so no special precautions were being taken. Just another day at the office.

Cutting and sawing and weighing and measuring soothed her tired mind. This was her world, finite, sure, and expected. Unlike Taylor, she had the luxury of being able to work, of finding herself again through her job. To throw herself into the sameness of each day. Every body held its secrets, but in side, they’re all alike.

Was she still?

She didn’t think so.

Oh, the rational part of her understood that all of her organs were in their proper places. The doctors said there was even a chance she could conceive again. But the thought of losing another child brought her up short. Her grief had been tremendous, but it was the reaction of her husband, Simon, that had been more than she could handle. He
did
blame Taylor, hadn’t wrapped his head around the situation yet. They still went to bed stiff and unloving, his back turned to hers.

He blamed Sam, too. She knew that. And she agreed with him. She
could
have fought harder, could have seen what was coming. Could have protected their child. She vacillated between understanding his frustration and hating him for blaming her. She hated herself a bit, too. What kind of mother lets her child be murdered?

The haze of the past weeks had finally been lifted by her son’s first steps. The twins, Matthew and Madeline, weren’t fazed by their mother’s inability to pick them up, to look at them. They had each other. They knew, inside, that she loved them, that she was afraid that if she touched them, she’d taint their souls with the rot permeating hers. She saw it in their eyes—the forgiveness, the patience. They would heal her, if she’d let them. For their sakes, she had to come to grips with this.

When she began to bleed yesterday, that’s when the rails came off the train again. It was her first period since the miscarriage, and such an open acknowledgement that her life was inextricably altered. She was empty again. No child growing, no soreness in her breasts, no morning sickness. When the child was cut from her, so were the symptoms, with such suddenness that she wondered if it were all a dream.

A nightmare, more likely.

She realized she was standing with both hands on her stomach, her left holding the skin down flat, her right poised at the ready, a scalpel between her fingers, pointed toward her own flesh.

Edinburgh

The papers screamed the news, the radio and television repeating the story over and over at ten-minute intervals, making Memphis’s head ache. Another girl was gone. Hannah Straithwhite—an eighteen-year-old student. London was up in arms—she was the third girl to go missing in the past three months. No bodies had been found, no signs of foul play. Just a regular girl, from a regular world, disappearing from the streets of her life.

A clear pattern had emerged. All three girls were blonde, eighteen, students, though from different areas of London and wildly different socioeconomic backgrounds. It was a nightmare, and he knew he was going to get dragged in.

Ever since he’d participated in the capture of the Italian serial killer Il Mostro and his literally evil twin, the Conductor, anything that remotely smacked of a serial case was dumped in his lap. His superiors expected a good close. Not that he wasn’t willing, of course. More work meant less downtime, less time to think and thus dwell. And around the holidays, that was for the best.

Thank God for the train. An escape. He was looking forward to seeing his father. Being away from New Scotland Yard for a bit. Tomorrow his commander, Toy McQuivey, was sure to pull him into the wet-wool-scented head office and ask him to take charge of the Straithwhite case. But that was tomorrow. He had all night ahead of him.

He stared out the window. Into the darkness, the quickening night.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the offer he’d just made to Taylor. It was selfish of him to want her near. He could delude himself into thinking it was about work; she was a damn good investigator. In addition to being the loveliest woman he’d ever set eyes on. He had no business pursuing her, he knew that. But he’d been brought up to take what he wanted, and she presented a challenge. She loved her G-man, no doubt about it, but there was an opportunity. He could feel it. Her catastrophic injuries had changed her, made her…afraid wasn’t the right word. Cautious, then. And he knew they weren’t getting along. It wasn’t very sporting of him to try and separate them, but if there was ever a time….

God would strike him down for this, but he didn’t care about eventualities. Not anymore.

Memphis didn’t know if he loved Taylor or simply wanted to acquire her, but either way, having that gray-eyed woman in his life made him feel alive for the first time since his wife, Evan, died.

Besides, he wasn’t lying about his psychologist friend. Dr. Madeira James was married to one of Memphis’s best chums from school, Roland MacDonald, the second son of the Earl of Killicrankie. Roland was content to live the squire’s life, not having to work, spending his time hunting, fishing and otherwise engaged outdoors. He’d gone to America in the late ’90s and returned with Madeira, already in possession of a doctorate at the tender age of twenty-two, already ripe with his child. Maddee, as she was known, was great fun, a beautiful woman with long, dark hair and a wide smile: a good mother, a good wife, and a good friend to Memphis and Evan. She’d helped pick up the pieces after Evan’s death, and Memphis trusted her with his life.

She’d be perfect for Taylor.

If only Taylor would agree to come over. He doubted his money or title impressed her; she’d grown up with largesse and wasn’t enamored of its abilities to smooth one’s life. It was going to take much more to steal her away from Nashville. It would take compassion, and understanding, and freedom. Freedom most of all. And that he had the ability to give her.

They had so much in common, more than she really knew. Privileged upbringings, yet a desire to eradicate evil, to solve crimes, to put away the bad guys. He knew Taylor was reacting to her father’s illegal activities when she decided to become a cop. His path was more direct.

There was a killer, famous in the U.K., who was on a rampage while Memphis was in school. He was known as the Jeweler. He started killing the same year as the infamous Babes in the Woods murders, 1986, and was forever linked to the two young girls found strangled in the woods outside Brighton, even though he wasn’t actually responsible for their murders. He’d killed eight women, all by stabbing, then disappeared off the map. He’d been suspected in the murders of dozens more, women who were lost and never found. Mostly prostitutes, but a few upscale schoolgirls as well.

During the killings, Memphis was just finishing at Eton, on his way to Cambridge, and was convinced that those murders, plus the two lost girls in the woods, with their constant news coverage, instilled the investigative bug into his world. He was captivated by the case in Brighton, followed it in the papers. One night, he and a couple of school chums had gotten legless on whisky and taken a drive up to the woods. He remembered stumbling into the forest, then stopping, certain that the ghosts of the strangled girls were nearby. He nearly pissed himself getting back to the car, his chums in no better shape.

It took more than the idea of a specter to run him off a case now.

He stepped out of the Waverly train station into a spitting cold rain at half six, grabbed a taxi and headed up the Royal Mile.

The rain began falling in earnest. He ducked into the alleyway that led to The Witchery, one of his favorite restaurants in the world. He skipped the main dining room and went to the second door, to what was known as the Secret Garden. The maître d’ recognized him, gave him a wide smile.

“My Lord Dulsie, what a pleasure to see you. As always. Our favorite earl is below. Shall I take you to him?”

“Yes, please, Alfred. Lovely to see you as well.”

They descended the stairs under the watchful eye of a large elk. The earl was tucked away in the corner, at the best table, his serious brown eyes focused on the menu, though he knew it by heart.

Memphis let Alfred take his coat and slid into the chair opposite. “Happy Birthday, Father. You’re looking well.”

The earl set his menu down and smiled warmly at his eldest son. “Ah, James, my boy. So good to see you. You’ve come alone? If I had known I’d have invited Jenny Blakely.” He cast an appraising eye over his son.

His father was forever hoping he’d get over the death of Evan and find a new woman to settle down with, and was keen on making the match himself. They’d had a few minor rows about it already, his father proclaiming, “If this was two hundred years ago, I’d have made the match for you and you would have thanked me for it.” The earl was full of it. He was about as dedicated to the antiquities of the peerage as Memphis was.

“Jenny Blakely is a pretentious cow and you know it.”

The earl spit out a laugh, then shook his head in admonishment. “Now, now, Memphis, that’s no way to talk about a lady.”

“She’s not a lady, Father. Have you seen the mole on her eye? It deserves a title of its own.”

They went on like this for an hour, teasing, poking, eating a luscious meal and chasing it with a fine port. The earl grew serious as he signed the bill.

“I know this is a difficult time for you, James. Why don’t you come to Johannesburg with us? Get away from here. From the ghost of Evanelle. I can see her haunting you, still. It breaks my heart to see you suffer.”

Memphis squeezed his father’s arm. “I know it does. I promise, things are better. But no, I won’t be able to get away. Work, you know. And I’ve invited a friend to come stay for the holiday.”

“A
friend?
” His father wasn’t subtle, he waggled his eyebrows at him lasciviously. Memphis smiled.

“A good friend. The investigator I met in Nashville. I’ve mentioned her before, I believe. Taylor Jackson.”

“You have. Well. I hope that she comes. For your sake. No one should spend Christmas alone.”

“No need to worry about me, Father. I have more than enough to keep me busy.”

The earl insisted on dropping Memphis at the station, good-naturedly grumbling about him not coming back to the estate. They parted with a hearty handshake, as always, and Memphis boarded the last train back up to London.

Accepting a cup of tea from the trolley girl, he checked his email and sighed. He was in for a long night. The commander hadn’t bothered to wait until the morning; he was calling Memphis into the Straithwhite case immediately.

So much for his escape.

Despite his grousing to Taylor, he had to admit this case was intriguing. A challenge. He always did love a challenge.

He put a call in to his detective constable, Penelope Micklebury, known far and wide as Pen. She answered on the first ring, the annoyance clear in her voice.

“Left me to stand in the rain while you had a beautiful dinner with Daddy, eh, Memphis?”

“My repasts are none of your concern, Pen. You eat like a bird anyway, you would have hated it. Tureens of soup and platters overflowing with rich, juicy meat. I can barely move, I’m creakingly full.”

Pen was a vegan; she moaned aloud at the thought. “That stuff’s going to rot you from the inside, Memphis.”

“Perhaps. Where are you?”

He could hear her heels clicking on the pavement, then a door slammed and things quieted down. She must have stepped into her car.

“Victoria. Had a date. Did you get a call from the Boy Toy?” she asked in turn.

“He sent me an email. I’ve just seen it. And if you keep calling him that, he will find out. And I won’t be able to save you.”

“It’s just a bleeding nickname. You’ll be in tomorrow?”

“Unless you need me tonight?”

“No. I’ve got things covered here. Assembling the files, all that. Go and have a rest.”

“Fine, Pen. Until then.”

He hung up, watched the lights from the village to his right flash by as the train crossed the countryside. In the daylight, this was a beautiful part of the trip, but in the darkness it became murky and lonely. A fitting scene, really. He
was
feeling rather lonely tonight.