Time of Departure (23 page)

Geiger sighed and headed up the stairs. After taking them two at a time, he caught up to Lipinski on the final landing. “I think you stepped in it, boss. That woman—”

“Tell me later.” Lipinski exited the stairwell into the corridor, drew his weapon, and strode to the door of Marc's apartment. He pounded on the door. “Open up, Hastings! Police!”

Silence.

“This is Ted Lipinski, Hastings! Open this door now, or I'm coming in to get you!”

Dead air.

Lipinski stood back, ready to kick in the door.

Geiger stepped in front of him. “Boss! We need a warrant!”

“Out of my way, Jeff!”

“Boss!”

Lipinski stared at him. Geiger stood aside.

Lipinski kicked the door. The sound boomed through the narrow corridor. He kicked again … once … twice. It exploded inward.

Lipinski surged through the doorway. Geiger followed cautiously.

Lipinski yelled, “Hastings!”

His voice echoed through the empty living room and kitchen.

The cops pivoted, guns up.

“It's the wrong apartment!” Geiger blurted.

Lipinski rechecked the number on the door. “No, it isn't!” He pointed at the curving staircase. “Check up there!”

Geiger raced up the stairs.

Lipinski ducked into the kitchen. The double doors of the large stainless steel fridge stood half-ajar. Its interior was dark, and its shelves were empty. He checked a few cupboards. They were bare.

Doors banged upstairs. Lipinski stepped from the kitchen just as Geiger appeared at the top of the stairs. “Nothing up here, Lieutenant!”

“Furniture?”

“Not a stick.” He started down the stairs.

“Knock on a few doors,” Lipinski said. “See if anyone in the building knows—” His cell phone rang. He checked the display and answered. He listened for a second and then said, “Tell them we're coming.” He disconnected and headed for the door. “Let's go!”

“Where?” Geiger hustled after him.

“We've got a homicide.”

 

CLAIRE

 

33

I awakened to silence.

Not the silence of 3
A.M
. in a quiet house on a quiet street. Not that silence, which really isn't silence at all.

This was a dense, moonless, impenetrable silence that deadened my senses.

More accurately, this silence hadn't simply deadened my senses—it had deleted them. I had no sense of physical existence. No sense of having a body.

No sense, in fact, that I'd ever had a body.

My first conscious thought was that I was dead. My second thought was that my first one was idiotic, because if I were dead, why was I thinking?

As I write this, I realize that I am not absolutely certain that those were my first two thoughts. I only know that they are the first ones I remember.

Then, after what seemed like an interminable time, I felt it.

Numbness.

Numbness was encouraging, because it signaled to my floating consciousness that something was attached to it that could feel numb.

My mind sighed, and I slept.

When I awoke, I had a body.

This welcome development was somewhat sullied by the fact that my body was lying facedown. The surface under the upper half of my body felt rough and uneven. In the same instant, I realized that the lower half of my body was wet.

I was partly immersed in water.

Then the silence was broken.

First I heard buzzing insects.

Then I heard a splash.

Much later, I learned that the splash was caused by the dip of an oar.

I tried to move, but my body refused to respond. Although it had dutifully telegraphed that it was attached to my consciousness, it was as yet unready to acknowledge that higher authority. I lay inert while my mind shouted orders and my body ignored them.

But my ears worked. I could hear more splashes, one upon the other, louder and louder, closer and closer. Belatedly, I remembered I had eyes. The uncomfortable pressure on my left cheek told me that my head was turned to one side. I tried to open my eyes. The lower eyelid seemed to be sealed shut, but the other one responded.

I saw mud. And sedge weed.

Then I saw a man's boot.

I felt strong hands lift me, and once again, the world went black.

*   *   *

When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed. I lay there for long minutes, willing myself back to life. Perhaps it was hours; I'm not sure. It felt as if every joule of energy had been methodically drained from me while I slept.

At least I was alert enough to be thankful I was still alive. I took inventory. One by one, I checked my limbs. I could move them, and when the effort didn't generate assaults of leaping pain, I concluded that they were intact. As for the rest of my body, there was no acute pain: just pervasive, debilitating exhaustion.

I tried to take in my surroundings. The window blinds next to my bed were pulled all the way down. From the absence of any light leaking in around the edges, I deduced it was nighttime. The room itself was dimly lit from a small light above the door, and I could see that the single bed opposite mine was unoccupied.

My left arm was hooked to an intravenous feed. I tracked the line upward. It was connected to an inverted glass bottle. I strained to read the label on the bottle, but the angle defeated me. I tried to sit up. Instantly, my head swam, and I felt nauseated. I dropped back on the pillow and waited for the sensation to pass.

There was an old visitor's chair next to my bed, its wheat-colored arms discolored by a thousand sweaty palms, the beading of its vinyl cushions ragged and cracked. Behind it, running under the window, a cast iron radiator ticked quietly, proving that my ears were still working.

I need a phone.…

I rolled my head. The top of the bedside table was bare.

Looking around again, I realized the room had an old-fashioned feel about it. I decided I must be in one of those old Catholic hospitals.

Meaning: no in-room telephones.

I felt about with my hands, hunting for a call button to summon a nurse. Finding nothing, I craned to check the wall above my bed, hoping to spot a lanyard to pull. No luck. The only thing mounted above me was a mercury manometer with a dangling blood pressure cuff.

I considered shouting, but I was so desperately tired, I couldn't find the breath to do it.

I fell asleep.

 

34

The deputy was sitting on the vinyl chair. He had pulled it closer so he could hear me. At that moment, he was chewing on the end of a pencil and looking confused.

I was eyeing him and thinking:
You're confused?

Yes, I was groggy, and my speech was slurred—making me suspicious about what the medical staff might have been adding in my IV—but by now I was pretty confused myself.

The cop's name tag read
TATTERSALL
, and his shoulder patch told me he was from the Putnam County Sheriff's Office. When I woke up and found him sitting there, the first words out of my mouth were “Where am I?”

“Putnam Community Hospital, ma'am.” He told me how two fishermen had found me half-drowned on the western shore of the St. Johns River, twelve miles north of Palatka.

“That would make sense,” I slurred. “I was on that—” I coughed weakly. “I was in that train wreck on Tuesday. What day is it?”

His gun belt creaked as he leaned forward, craning to hear me. “What day is it?”

I nodded.

“Today's Saturday, ma'am.” He scratched his ear. “What train wreck?”

“The Amtrak wreck! That train that fell in the river!”

“Ain't heard of a train wreck.”

I stared at him.

His brow knitted.

Silently cursing, I sank back into my pillow. Just my luck to get saddled with the dumbest cop in Florida.

He took out a notebook. “Could you please tell me your full name, ma'am?”

“It's Claire Talbot.… Claire spelled
C-l-a-i-r-e;
Talbot,
T-a-l-b-o-t.
”

“Miss or Mrs.?”

“Ms.”

He looked up. “Like that magazine?”

I suppressed a sigh. “Yeah. Capital
m,
small
s
. Like the magazine.”

“Any middle name?”

“Alexandra.” I had to spell it for him.

“Address?”

I gave it.

“That's in Gainesville?”

“That's what I said!” I was getting impatient.

“Phone number?”

I gave it to him. He scratched his head for a second, asked me to repeat it, and wrote it down.

At that moment, the door hissed open and a pretty redheaded nurse appeared. She was wearing a starched white uniform, complete with cap.

Okay, I thought, maybe not a Catholic hospital, but definitely a traditional one.

“Time's up, Norm! The lady needs her rest.”

The deputy rose slowly to his feet. His eyes lingered appreciatively on the nurse's tidy form for a second and then swung back to me. “I'll come back when you're feeling better, ma'am.”

My irritable attempt at a contemptuous reply morphed into a coughing fit. The cop left hurriedly while the nurse busied herself settling me down and pouring a glass of water.

“You've given us quite a scare,” the nurse said. Her name tag read:
G. HOPKINS, R.N.

“Scared myself,” I croaked.

She smiled gently. “I'm Gertie. What's your name, hon?”

“You don't know?”

“There was no identification … I mean, on your person.”

“Oh … right. It's Claire. Claire Talbot. I really need to make a phone call.”

“You'll have to wait until the doctor says you can get up. Is there somebody I can call for you?”

“Can't you just bring me a phone?”

She looked at me strangely.

“Okay, could you please call someone for me? Sam Grayson. He's the State Attorney in Gainesville.”

“Sure.” She felt in the pocket of her uniform. “I left my pen. I guess the number's in the book?”

“Yes. Just tell him where I am, and he'll come for me.”

“Okay.”

“Thanks. And now—” I made a face. “—I really have to pee.”

She opened a drawer in the bedside table and pulled out a bedpan.

“I'd rather use the bathroom.”

“I'm sorry, but the doctor was firm about you being confined to bed.”

“Well, maybe you should call him.”

She assessed me, weighing her response. “Okay. I'll do that. Then I'll phone your friend. Meanwhile…” She held up the bedpan.

I sighed and capitulated. She got me organized and stepped away. When I finished, she removed the bedpan and carried it to the bathroom. I heard the toilet flush, and she returned to my bedside.

“So, it's Mr. Grayson, right?”

“Yeah,” I replied. “Sam Grayson.” I examined her face. Something about it seemed familiar. “Gertie, can I ask a question?”

“Sure.”

“Does your mother live in Florida?”

The question seemed to startle her. “My mom passed away three years ago.”

“Oh, I'm sorry! I didn't mean … It's just…”

“What?”

“I met someone who looked a bit like you, but older.”

“Where was that?”

“On the train.”

“You talked about a train. In your sleep.”

“Oh?”

“Actually, you were yelling,” she said with a little half smile.

“Sorry.”

She shrugged and started straightening my blankets. I moved my hand and caught one of hers. “Gertie, did anyone else survive?”

She looked at me warily. “Survive?”

“Survive the wreck.”

“Nobody else was brought here,” she said carefully. “To our hospital.”

I could see she was trying to protect me from a shock, so I let it go. She checked my IV and then asked, “Are you hungry?”

“Starving!”

“That's a good sign. Okay, officially it's not mealtime, but I'll see what I can scare up.”

“Thanks.”

She turned to leave, but then stopped. “Miss Talbot…”

“‘Claire' is fine.”

“Claire. Do you mind if I ask what kind of work you do?”

“I'm a lawyer. Why?”

“A lawyer? No kidding! Okay, well…” She hesitated, shook her head, and said, “Forget it.”

Now I was curious. “Tell me.”

“Um, okay. Did you ever…” Now she seemed thoroughly embarrassed. “Did you ever, uh … you know, work as one of those exotic dancers?”

“No.” I suppressed a smile. “Why?”

“Oh. It's just … that tattoo on your back. I've never seen that before.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. But, you know, I'd kinda like one myself.”

She left me thinking about what a strange pair she and Deputy Tattersall were.

*   *   *

I didn't see the deputy again.

Instead, shortly after I downed a bowl of surprisingly tasty buttermilk soup, half a tuna sandwich (white bread; crusts removed), and a tumbler of pale apple juice, I received a new visitor.

Dr. Arthur Bland was just what his name implied—five foot nothing, with a flavorless personality, a colorless face, and eyes as pale as a mackerel. Moving at a snail-like pace, he checked my pulse and blood pressure, reviewed what I assumed was my chart—he had carried it in with him in a buff folder—and then stood perfectly still next to my bed, just looking at me.

I said, “I need to get out of this bed!”

“I'm sorry. I'm not your GP.”

“Well, who is?”

“Dr. Weaver. He'll see you on rounds tomorrow morning.”

“Then who are you?”

“A consultant. Dr. Weaver asked me to see you.”

“What kind of a consultant?”

After a beat, he replied, “Psychiatric.”