Already dead, p.13
Already Dead, page 13
That’s our girl. Just an unfortunate… murderer.
“Fingers crossed, she used a name?”
The man shook his head.
“Nope. Didn't say a single word. When she was getting off, I asked her if she had a place to stay or if she wanted to know where the local homeless shelter was. She just stared at me, then walked off.”
Tate wasn't surprised. Disappointed, but not surprised.
He rubbed his mustache.
“And where were you coming from, kind sir?”
This answer, like the previous, wasn’t a surprise either.
“Charleston,” the bus driver informed him. “Charleston, West Virginia.”
Chapter 29
Tate was a good man. If there had been any question of this before their conversation on the phone, they were dashed now. Any number of other partners that Floyd could have been teamed up would have seen their communication go very differently. More than likely, they would have told him to fuck off, that they weren’t going to take orders from someone who was their junior.
But not Tate Abernathy.
Tate was accommodating, Tate was caring, Tate was very different from Chase, and he was exactly what Floyd needed.
“What was that about?”
Floyd tapped the back of his cell phone before putting it in his pocket. Then he looked at Chase and relayed what Tate had told him. At the last second, he decided to hold back the information about the drug dealer. She needed to focus on her health, on getting better. The rest was just a distraction.
“Anything else?” Chase asked.
Floyd wasn’t sure how to answer, wasn’t sure how much Chase had heard when he’d been on the phone. In the end, he was saved by a nurse who entered the room. She was pretty, with dark hair pulled back into a ponytail and high cheekbones. Floyd put her somewhere in her mid-twenties until she looked at him disapprovingly.
Then she appeared much older.
“Mrs. Adams, my name’s Audrey. I’ll be your nurse for tonight.” She removed the pillow from behind Chase’s back. “You need to get some rest. Have you spoken to the doctor yet?”
Chase shook her head.
“Well, I’m sure he’ll be in later to talk to you. You were very lucky.” Audrey touched the side of her neck on the left side, just above her collarbone. Chase and Floyd looked at the bandage covering her wound. “The blunt side of the knife actually struck your carotid artery—bruised it fairly badly. You really need to rest. Any strain on the artery could spell disaster.”
The idea of sitting still—resting—was like a death sentence to Chase, Floyd knew, and she made no effort to hide her displeasure.
“How long?”
“How long, what?” Audrey asked.
Chase appeared visibly annoyed.
“How long until I get out of here?”
The nurse frowned.
“Three days, maybe more. It depends.”
“Yeah, that's not happening.”
Audrey sighed and checked one of the monitors. It was clear that she’d dealt with stubborn patients like Chase before.
Or at least she thought she had. Except there was no one like Chase.
“If you push yourself, that weakened carotid artery can develop an aneurysm. That is life-threatening. Not to mention all the vessels that were severed. You lost a lot of blood—a lot.”
Having read the room the way only a nurse knew how, Audrey looked at Floyd for support.
Floyd mobilized immediately.
“Chase, she’s right. What happened… you need to rest. This case will be—”
“I am the case,” Chase snapped.
If anybody else had uttered those words, Floyd would've thought them the most egotistical things ever spoken.
But given the circumstances, he had a time arguing with her on this point. She was the case because she was almost the third victim.
Then Floyd remembered what Tate said.
Third or fourth.
“Just rest, please.”
For a moment it looked as if Chase was going to complain, perhaps even get out of bed, but she grimaced and slumped.
She was weaker than Floyd had thought.
“Who’s the girl? The one who attacked me?”
The question was posed to the ether, and Audrey took it upon herself to answer.
“She had no ID on her when she was admitted. But a police officer is staying outside her room.” The nurse looked at Floyd. “He might have a better idea of who she is.”
Floyd shook his head.
“Already spoke to him—he doesn’t. No one knows who she is or where she came from.”
“Alright, well I think that’s enough excitement for now,” Audrey suggested. She gave Floyd that look again.
“Try the homeless shelter,” Chase said, completely ignoring the nurse. “Floyd, go to a couple of the nearest homeless shelters and see if they have any record of the girl in the ICU or the one who killed Roger. It's a long shot, but you never know.”
Floyd nodded.
It was a good idea. Homeless shelters and Charleston’s version of Junkie Row. Maybe someone had seen one of them or, better yet, maybe someone knew them.
“I’ll do that,” he said softly. “Get some rest, Chase.”
Floyd was at the door when the nurse addressed him directly.
“Before you go, I don't seem to have any sort of insurance on file for Mrs. Adams. Do you—”
“Cash,” Chase said quickly from her bed. “I'll pay cash.”
“No, that’s alright,” Floyd said, confused by her outburst. “I’ll call Director Hampton and he’ll set things up.”
“No, please,” Chase insisted. “There should be a credit card in my wallet. I want to pay out of pocket.”
Floyd would've pushed back harder, but Chase was looking pale, and the nurse was gesturing toward the door. He gave it one last attempt.
“Chase, it's going to be—”
“It doesn't matter. I'll pay cash.”
Floyd shrugged, said goodbye once more, and then stepped into the hallway, scratching his head in confusion.
There was only one reason he could think of for someone to want to pay cash, especially when they had insurance.
They wanted no record of where they’d been.
Chapter 30
Chase slept for a grand total of ten minutes.
Then she opened her eyes and looked around.
She was aware of just how close she’d come to death, but it didn’t frighten her. Chase had been closer.
Still, she would be more of a burden than anything else if she didn’t get some rest. But there was one thing she had to do first.
Chase took the lead off her finger and then slowly peeled back the sheets. It wasn’t until she’d swung her legs over the side of the bed that she felt weak. The dizziness, however, didn’t appear until after she stood. While Chase waited for this to pass—both hands, palms flat on the handrail—Chase tried to understand why she was targeted.
Was I getting close to something? Was I a threat? If so, to what? To whom?
It didn’t make sense. At least, not yet.
Moving slowly, trying not to shock her system any further, Chase grabbed her FBI badge and dragged herself and her IV bag out of the room.
She looked around, feeling more than a little like a criminal executing a poorly planned prison escape. But this was fleeting, and when Audrey or any of her minions failed to intercede, Chase followed the overhead signs to the ICU. Even if the area hadn’t been clearly indicated, the uniformed officer sitting outside the door was a dead giveaway.
“Can I help you?” the man asked in a gruff voice.
Chase held up her badge.
“Chase Adams, FBI.”
This officer wasn’t impressed by her credentials. Truthfully, Chase doubted she would have been either. A woman in a hospital gown, pale, frail, dragging an IV cart, flashing a badge, FBI or not, didn’t instill anything but confusion.
Chase had met many young and impressionable police officers who grew up watching shows about the FBI and had become enamored with the idea.
Not this man.
He was neither young nor impressionable.
“I want to go see her,” Chase said bluntly.
The man shook his head.
“I'm sorry, Agent Adams, no one is allowed in.”
Chase pulled down the front of her gown, revealing the bandage above her collarbone.
“She did this to me and I want to see her. I need to speak to her.”
The officer’s eyes never left hers.
“All the more reason for you not to see her. Besides, she isn’t awake yet.”
Yet—that was an upgrade from what Floyd had told her about the would-be killer’s chance of survival being no more than a coin flip.
“If she’s not awake, then what’s the big deal?” Chase indicated her weakened body. “I just want to talk to her.”
The cop was unmoved—literally.
“Strict orders not to let anybody see or speak to her. Not until the doc gives it the okay. She can’t even see her lawyer or guardian.”
This last part surprised Chase.
“Guardian?”
The cop shrugged.
“Not sure if she’s underage or not. I’m sorry, but you’re not going to be able to go in there tonight.”
Chase grimaced.
“Please, I—” a strong dizzy spell came over her and Chase closed her eyes. Unlike the one back in her room, this took a good ten seconds or more to pass.
“Agent Adams?”
“Fine,” Chase said through gritted teeth. “I’m fine. Let me see her, please.”
There was sympathy in the man’s eyes, but not enough.
“If you want to see her so bad, you can look through the door. That’s as close as you’re going to get, I’m afraid.”
Chase gave up and shuffled to the door as the cop leaned away to allow her access. She approached the door as if she were going to peer through the window, but at the last moment grabbed the door, opened it, and slid inside.
“Hey!” the cop hissed. “Goddamn it.”
There was only one patient in the ICU. Either it was a slow night or Charleston PD had cleared everyone out.
The woman who had tried to kill Chase was inside a protective bubble. Someone, probably the nursing staff, had tried to clean her up. But her hair was still grimy and the pillow on which her head lay was streaked with stains. Her skin was the color Chase had only known previously on corpses and if it weren’t for the heart rate monitor that pinged with every labored beat, Chase would have thought her dead.
“I told you can't be in here,” the cop warned.
Chase ignored him. What was he going to do? Tackle her? What about a bear hug from behind? Would he risk reopening her wounds? Why? Because she snuck into the ICU to get a better look at someone who was unconscious?
Chase didn’t think so. But he would do something, eventually.
She walked right up to the bubble and peered down at the sleeping woman.
“Why did you do it?” she whispered. “Why did you try to kill me and then try to kill yourself?”
“Agent Adams, you can’t—”
“Why?”
The officer thought this was a question for him.
“Because she’s unconscious, for Christ’s sake! You can’t interview an unconscious person!”
But Chase wasn’t interested in interviews. Even the fact that she was unconscious was of no consequence to her. If the woman couldn’t speak, there was still one way that Chase could learn something from her.
She shuddered when she recalled what had happened back in the morgue.
The reek of death and the oppressive darkness.
But Chase couldn't get into the hermetically sealed box. There were no holes for gloved hands, no hidden slots. It seemed impossible—How can the doctors treat her?—but it bested Chase.
“Agent Adams!” The officer was directly behind her now.
Chase cursed under her breath and looked around. There was a table off to one side and on it, she spotted several extra-large evidence bags.
She stepped away from the bubble.
“Are those her things?”
The cop didn’t answer so Chase tried to go look for herself.
Only, she couldn’t.
Her IV was stuck.
The cop had finally figured out how to stop her—hold the IV trolley.
“I just want to know if she was wearing a white dress.”
“You need to leave,” the cop ordered. “Now.”
They got into a mini tug-of-war with neither participant willing to apply more than a small percentage of their strength to the liquid-filled tube that ran into the back of Chase’s hand.
“Listen, just tell me if the dress is white and I’ll leave. I swear.”
Now it was the police officer's turn to curse. He reluctantly let go of the IV and walked over to the table. He rifled through the bags before picking one of them up.
“This is what she was wearing,” he said, jabbing the bag angrily.
“Is it white?” Chase asked.
The officer looked at it.
“It’s red. It’s covered in her blood.”
And some of mine, too, I bet.
“But is it white? Is the dress white?”
The cop pointed at a small patch that hadn’t been soaked.
“Yeah, I think it was white. You happy now?”
No, I’m not happy. I’m fucking pissed.
“Yeah, you’re welcome!” the man shouted as Chase left the ICU without a word. “Entitled asshole.”
As Chase retired to her room, she wondered if they would be better off if she’d been wrong. If the whole white dress thing had just been in her head.
Because now things were complicated.
Three days? They want me to stay here for three days?
Chase lay her head on the pillow.
That’s not happening. I have a date in four, and I need to get ready.
Surprisingly, it wasn’t Brian Jalston who flooded her dreams that night. It wasn’t anything.
For Chase Adams, there was nothing but darkness.
Chapter 31
Floyd struck out at Charleston’s version of Junkie’s Row. No amount of money he shelled out brought him any closer to the woman who had tried to kill Chase.
With his wallet a little lighter, he decided to check out the homeless shelters next. Floyd thought he might have more luck there, given their strict rules about alcohol and drug use, and considering that none of their killers had anything in their systems.
The largest homeless shelter was the most promising—there was a security guard out front, and they tended to be a little more reliable than the patrons.
“Floyd Montgomery, FBI,” he said sternly. “I have a few questions for you.”
“Yeah, fine,” the guard said. “But not here. Not where people can see us.”
Floyd agreed and followed the guard into the shelter. A dozen or so people were waiting in line for food even though it didn’t appear as if the cooks were ready to serve. The guard led them to an adjacent office, and he knocked on the door before opening it. A woman with square glasses on a beaded chain looked up from behind a desk. She smiled when she saw both of them and gestured for them to enter.
“This is Margaret Stacy, she's the director here,” the guard said as way of introduction. “And this is agent…”
Floyd showed the director his badge.
“Agent Montgomery of the FBI.”
The woman looked down her nose and above her glasses.
“Not too often we get FBI agents in here. What can I do for you, Agent Montgomery?”
“Just Floyd, please.”
“Okay, Floyd, what can I do for you?”
Floyd looked at Margaret, then the guard, and wondered what Tate’s approach would be here. What would make these two comfortable? What would make them open up?
He had no idea. And the more he thought about becoming someone else, the more Floyd got confused. And when he got confused and nervous, his stutter came back with a vengeance.
“Floyd?” Margaret asked.
He shook his head and took a deep breath.
Tate could do his chameleon act, but he couldn’t.
“I-I was ju-just wondering if either of you has seen this girl before?”
Floyd showed the photo of the woman who had attacked Chase to the security guard first. He looked it over and shook his head before passing it on to Margaret.
Glasses up this time, she observed it closely.
“I don’t think so. I’m usually on the administrative sides of things, however, so I can’t say that she wasn’t here.”
“And I’ve been off for the past week,” the guard offered.
Shit.
Floyd had been hopeful.
“Is there anybody else I can ask? Somebody who’s maybe a little closer to the… uh… guests here?”
So far, Floyd’s approach had worked. But now, it was falling short.
“Why? Is she in trouble?”
It wasn’t that Margaret didn’t want to help, she just cared for these people and wasn’t keen on contributing to their problems.
“She’s in the hospital.”
Floyd was tempted to add more information but held back. Sometimes, less was more. And he thought, in his limited experience, that this was one of those cases.
“Is it serious?” Margaret asked. “We don’t allow drugs or alcohol inside the building. But outside…”
“It’s serious, but not drug or alcohol-related so far as we can tell. I’m trying to reach this girl’s friends or family or someone who knows her.”
Margaret looked at the guard.
“Steve, why don’t you take Floyd to see Martin. If she was here, he’d have seen her. He sees everyone.”
The guard nodded at the director.
“Martin?” Floyd asked.
“Head cook. If people come in here, they’re usually hungry. C’mon.”
“Thank you, Margaret.”
