Already dead, p.14
Already Dead, page 14
They left the office and entered the cafeteria. There were more people in line now and it looked like it was time to eat. A portly man sporting a white apron stood behind a massive metal pot of simmering soup. Having not eaten since his burger the night prior, Floyd’s stomach started to grumble.
“Stevie, you hungry?” the cook, presumably Martin, asked.
The man had tight, dark curls on his head and a scorpion or spider tattoo was creeping up his neck from beneath the apron.
“Not right now, smells good, though, Martin,” Steve replied. He indicated Floyd. “This man’s from the FBI. He wants to know if you’ve seen someone.”
Martin smiled, revealing a large space between his two front teeth.
“If they’ve eaten here, I’ve seen ‘em. You got a photo?”
Floyd showed the photo to the man behind the vat of soup.
“My eyes ain’t that good. Can I…?”
Floyd leaned across the soup and Martin reached for the photo. Before he came even close, his other hand came up and shoved the massive metal vat in Floyd’s direction.
Floyd cried out and jumped back, but while he avoided most of the scalding liquid, a fair amount splashed the thighs of his jeans.
“Fuck!”
Thinking that it was an accident, Floyd instinctively put his arm to protect the security guard from the soup that still sloshed from the overturned cauldron.
“He’s running!” Steve shouted.
Floyd looked up. Martin was sprinting toward the rear exit.
He cursed again and tried to go after the cook, but he slipped on the broth and dropped to one knee. His burnt thighs cried out in protest.
“Go after him!” Floyd yelled. “Get him!”
Steve the security guard looked at him as if he had three heads and didn't move.
“Go after him!” Floyd screamed. “Go get him! Now!”
Chapter 32
“Hidey-ho, I'm Special Agent Tate Abernathy, I'm looking for Officer Dwight Connors?”
“I'm Officer Connors,” a thin man with large brown eyes and a narrow face replied.
Tate let the station door close behind him.
“We spoke on the phone. I have a couple of questions about the Owen Allman Case… drug dealer who was killed in his car just under a year ago.”
A grin suddenly formed on Conners’ face.
“What's so funny?” Tate asked.
“Come wit’ me. I wanna show you something.”
They walked past an oversized whiteboard with officer names and associated cases—as well as a running closing percentage—toward another board, this one of the cork variety.
On it, were various newspaper articles. Officer Dwight Connors pointed at a specific article near the top.
Local dealer rips off drugstore for thousands worth of anti-herpes medication.
The photograph beneath this creative headline showed a man leaping over a typical pharmacy counter.
“Anti-herpes medication?” he asked.
Connors chuckled.
“Yeah, you wanted to know what was so funny? Well, this asshole, Owen Allman, apparently doesn’t know how to read. Broke into the pharmacy and instead of stealing Vicodin he grabbed—” Connors leaned close to the article and squinted, “—Valacyclovir. Drug for herpes.”
“You can’t be serious,” Tate said.
“That’s what we figure. Don’t know for sure, ‘cause,” Connors dragged a finger across his throat, “he gone.”
“You mind?” Tate asked, indicating the article.
“Be my guest.”
There wasn’t much more to glean from the article, other than what Connors had already told him. And while Tate was no doctor, he was fairly certain that unless this Owen Allman had an uncontrollable outbreak, then his dash and grab of the anti-herpes medication was a mistake.
“He’s a bit of a legend here,” Connors said with a hint of pride. “America’s stupidest criminal.”
Tate pulled back from the board and looked at the officer.
“What happened to him?” Now, Tate replicated Connors’ throat slash. “I mean… that, but…?”
“I guess I lied to you, Owen is the second dumbest criminal in America. He robbed the store, then someone tried to rob him.” Connors started wagging his head and Tate knew why: the man was remembering the smell. “Some crazy junkie. They fought, and both ended up dead.”
So cavalier, Tate thought.
“Yeah, I have some questions about what happened in that car.”
Connors shrugged.
“Pretty much already told you everything.”
“I know, I know. Just need some clarification.”
This time Connors did nothing but stare. Tate continued.
“Is it possible that the vagrant killed Owen, then herself?”
“Why would she do that?”
“I’m only asking if it’s possible.”
Over the phone, Tate had made it seem like he was interested in Owen Allman because of a related unsolved drug case. Now that it was clear that his motivation was different, Connors wasn’t so keen on lending a hand. Nobody liked other dogs shitting in your backyard.
“I suppose it's possible,” Connors said flatly. “But unlikely. After all, who lies in the backseat to kill a drug dealer only to off yourself afterward? Don’t make sense to me.”
Tate shrugged.
It didn't make much sense to him either, but nor did killing a doctor on the street, or a man after he took out his work garbage, and then committing suicide.
“Why’s the FBI interested in this case, anyway?” Connors asked.
Tate completely ignored the question.
“Just going out on a limb here—the homeless chick in the backseat… she smelled, didn’t she?”
“Did she ever. Jesus, she fucking reeked. We were going to auction off Owen’s car but even after leaving it out for weeks, hiring anybody who would dare try to clean it, we couldn’t get the smell out. Had to burn the fucking thing.”
“Did anyone claim her body? Friends? Family?”
Connors shook his head.
“Nope. Still a Jane Doe.”
“You go to the homeless shelters? Ask about her?”
This came off as more of an accusation than a question, and Tate cleared his throat.
“Just want to be thorough, is all.”
Connors’ large eyes narrowed.
“She’s a Jane Doe.”
The response signified an end to their discussion.
“All right, thanks for your help.”
“You could've just done this over the phone,” Connors grumbled as Tate made his way to the front of the station.
“Eh, not really a fan of phones,” Tate said. Truthfully, his special skills worked much better in person. “Just one last question and then I’ll be gone for good.”
Connors crossed his arms over his chest and frowned.
“Did you find the herpes drugs? The Val-whatever it's called?”
Connors slowly shook his head.
“Nope, never found it.”
Tate tapped his chin and said, “All right, thanks.”
He didn’t understand a drug dealer not being able to read. He didn’t understand a vagrant killing the dealer and then herself. And he definitely didn’t understand who came later and stole a truckload of anti-herpes medication.
Chapter 33
Chase awoke to the sound of a beeping coming from her right.
“How are you feeling today?”
The nurse from yesterday was checking her IV fluids.
“Fine.” Chase’s voice was dry.
“Compared to yesterday?” Audrey asked. She switched out one bag of clear fluid for another. And then she started to change the dressing on Chase’s throat wound.
“A little better.” She was going to say that no matter what but was surprised to find that it was true. “How long was I out?”
Chase winced and Audrey leaned back.
“All night.”
This was surprising. She remembered her little visit to the ICU but not much else after that.
Audrey sighed and lowered the iodine that she was in the process of cleaning Chase with.
“I know that you’re itching to get out of here, but I have to, seriously, recommend against it. If you weren’t in such good shape, Agent Adams, you’d be dead right now.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
The problem with Audrey’s warning was that, over the years, nobody had tried to kill Chase harder and with more vigor than herself. And if she had been unsuccessful, what were the chances that someone else would get so damn lucky?
Audrey finished dressing Chase’s wounds.
“What’s going on with our friend in the ICU?”
“I heard about that, too,” Audrey muttered under her breath. “She’s awake.”
Chase shifted to a seated position without much effort.
“Seriously?”
“Yes, woke up three hours ago.”
“I need to speak to her.” Chase pulled her gown up and put her feet on the floor. The nurse eyed her disapprovingly but made no attempt to stop her.
“I don't know if they're gonna let you,” Audrey said. “And I don't think you should be out of bed.”
Chase only heard the second half of her sentence.
“Old curmudgeonly police officer by the door?”
“He was swapped out for someone more junior.”
That's good, Chase thought. That's really good.
Chase slowly stood, holding on to the bed in anticipation of a dizzy spell that never came.
“I don't think you should—”
Chase looked at Audrey sternly.
“I get that you’re just doing your job, and I appreciate your concern. But I have work to do and there's nothing you can do to stop me.”
Audrey looked as if she'd been physically slapped.
“I know I can't stop you,” the nurse said, sounding frightened. Her tone made Chase immediately regret what she’d said and how she’d said it. “I just want to make sure you're okay.”
“I'll be fine,” Chase said. “And I do appreciate it—what you’re doing. But I have to speak to her.”
“Your room will be here when you get back since you paid cash.”
That last part gave Chase pause, but it didn’t slow her down. The IV trolley tried—its wheels were stickier than last night—but she overcame this minor obstacle.
The next would be more formidable.
Worst case scenario, Chase simply did the same as last night. She just hoped it didn’t come down to that.
“FBI Agent Chase Adams,” she barked, flashing her badge. The police officer who looked as if he was working on his GED while at the same time finishing police academy, appeared startled.
Good start.
“I need to speak to the suspect.”
The officer started to stand, but Chase stayed him with her palm.
“I've been told that—”
“Do you know who I am?”
“I—I think—”
“I’m with the FBI. F. B. I. I need to speak to the suspect. Now.”
The officer started to slide his chair out of the way and Chase thought to herself, this is working out better than I could have hoped.
Until it wasn’t.
A doctor stepped to her side.
“Who are you?” he asked. The man was in his mid-fifties with a manicured white beard and spectacles.
“I’m—”
“Mrs. Adams, I see that now. You shouldn’t be here. You need to get your rest.” There was a familiarity to his voice and Chase concluded that he was the one who had operated on her.
She should thank him for saving her life, but there would be another time for that. It wasn’t a priority.
Speaking to the girl who tried to kill her was. But tact was required here. This doctor was neither young nor impressed by the letters F B and I.
“I hear that she’s up and talking.”
The doctor licked his lower lip as a way to bide his time.
“She’s awake, but not up. Very weak—deficiencies across the board.” The doctor glanced at her throat. “To be honest, I’m surprised she had the energy to attack you.”
“I guess I’m lucky she was too weak to finish the job, then,” Chase said. “I just need to have a few words with her, doctor…”
“Heinlin. Dr. Greg Heinlin.” Another lower lip lick. “If it’s okay with the officer, I think you can have a minute or two.”
Chase lowered her eyes at the still seated police officer.
“Yeah, s-sure. Fine by me.”
Dr. Heinlin opened the door to the ICU and held it for Chase.
“I’m guessing not, but you find any drugs in her system?”
“Nothing.”
Chase approached the bubble. It was still closed, but the girl’s eyes were open. And her chest slowly rose and fell.
Dr. Heinlin touched her arm gently.
“Just a few minutes. In her present state, getting her agitated might make things worse.”
Chase nodded.
“What’s your name?” she asked the girl in the bubble.
Nothing. The girl didn’t even turn in Chase’s direction.
“Can she speak?” Chase asked the doctor.
“We ran multiple scans—CAT, MRI—her brain is dehydrated, and she shows decreased volume in the anterior insular cortex but other than that—”
“Can she speak, doc?”
Dr. Heinlin nodded.
“She should be able to.”
Chase turned back to the bubble.
“Hi—can you speak?”
Not so much as a blink.
“Can you hear me? Hello? What's your name? You can tell me that, can’t you?” Chase could feel her temper beginning to simmer. She pulled down the front of her gown. “You tried to kill me, and I want to know why.”
And now the woman did turn, not her head, but her eyes. They appeared to scan Chase’s face before returning to neutral.
Fuck. I risked my life telling Floyd to save you because I thought you’d be able to help. Speak to me. God damn it, speak to me.
“I deserve to know why.”
“Please don’t upset her,” Dr. Heinlin said softly in her ear.
Don’t upset her? Chase thought miserably. I’m the one who she tried to kill!
“Why were you wearing a white dress? Who told you to wear it? Brian? Did he have something to do with this?” When there was no response, Chase placed her hands on the bubble. “Why were you wearing the dress?” she demanded.
“It’s time to leave,” Dr. Heinlin stated.
Chase glared at the doctor.
“I need to know. I need—”
A scratching sound drew her attention back to the bubble.
“No!” Dr. Heinlin shoved her aside and raced to his patient.
The woman had removed the plastic end to the IV port from the back of her hand and was using it to claw at the stitches on her throat.
The doctor was trying to save her, but he was having the same problem Chase had last night: he couldn’t get into the plastic bubble.
“Go get someone!” he yelled. “Now!”
It took Chase a few moments to realize the man was speaking to her.
“Go get someone before she kills herself!”
Chapter 34
Eventually, Steve the security guard started after Martin, but the man was already out the door.
Floyd wanted to follow, but his legs and his right hand, still clutching the photograph like a prized possession, were burning.
“Where’s the sink?” he asked.
Those who had been waiting for their meal had gathered around him, and one of them pointed to the corner of the room. Floyd hurried to the large metal basin and turned on the cold water. He removed everything from his pockets and set the items on the ledge and then splashed his burnt hand with the water.
What the hell happened? he thought, angry with himself. How did I let my guard down?
Floyd glanced behind him and saw a particularly savage-looking man with tattoos on his face eyeing him up and down.
In a place like this, Floyd? Really? While investigating a murder/suicide? When your partner is in the hospital after nearly being killed?
The cool water did its work and Floyd noted that his hand was more scalded than actually burnt. He turned his attention to his legs next, and although he wasn't in a position to remove his pants, he grabbed a roll of industrial paper towels and started to soak up as much soup from his jeans as best he could.
“What happened?” Margaret asked. “Are you okay?”
Margaret reached for the paper towel, but Floyd said, “I’ll be fine, thanks. Your cook—Martin—tried to burn me alive and then he ran.”
Margaret looked genuinely surprised. She pulled her glasses from her face and let them hang around her neck.
“I’m so sorry, Floyd. I didn’t—why did he do that?”
“I don’t know, but Steve is—damn.”
Steve reappeared near the back door, out of breath and empty-handed.
“I’m sorry,” he said, breathing deep. “Too many cigarettes—I’m sorry. Martin got away.”
Floyd was incredulous. Smoker or not, Martin was four-foot-three in all directions.
How the fuck did he get away?
“Steve, what happened?”
Floyd wondered if she was in shock, having asked the same question a moment ago.
“He—Floyd was showin’ him the photo and the soup spilled.”
“Could it have been an accident?”
Now Floyd was the one who was in shock.
“Accident? That was no accident. You don’t run from an accident.”
“We’ve never had a problem with Martin before. He’s been here for years.”
“Well, it looks like you don’t know everything about Martin.”
Margaret looked offended by this, and Floyd swiped at his jeans angrily.
“Sorry—I’m sorry. I guess in this place, everyone has secrets they want to keep from the FBI.”
And you should've known better, Floyd. This is why you don’t like to do things alone.
“I’ll get you something for your arm,” Margaret said. “I have a first aid kit in my office.”
“Stevie, you hungry?” the cook, presumably Martin, asked.
The man had tight, dark curls on his head and a scorpion or spider tattoo was creeping up his neck from beneath the apron.
“Not right now, smells good, though, Martin,” Steve replied. He indicated Floyd. “This man’s from the FBI. He wants to know if you’ve seen someone.”
Martin smiled, revealing a large space between his two front teeth.
“If they’ve eaten here, I’ve seen ‘em. You got a photo?”
Floyd showed the photo to the man behind the vat of soup.
“My eyes ain’t that good. Can I…?”
Floyd leaned across the soup and Martin reached for the photo. Before he came even close, his other hand came up and shoved the massive metal vat in Floyd’s direction.
Floyd cried out and jumped back, but while he avoided most of the scalding liquid, a fair amount splashed the thighs of his jeans.
“Fuck!”
Thinking that it was an accident, Floyd instinctively put his arm to protect the security guard from the soup that still sloshed from the overturned cauldron.
“He’s running!” Steve shouted.
Floyd looked up. Martin was sprinting toward the rear exit.
He cursed again and tried to go after the cook, but he slipped on the broth and dropped to one knee. His burnt thighs cried out in protest.
“Go after him!” Floyd yelled. “Get him!”
Steve the security guard looked at him as if he had three heads and didn't move.
“Go after him!” Floyd screamed. “Go get him! Now!”
Chapter 32
“Hidey-ho, I'm Special Agent Tate Abernathy, I'm looking for Officer Dwight Connors?”
“I'm Officer Connors,” a thin man with large brown eyes and a narrow face replied.
Tate let the station door close behind him.
“We spoke on the phone. I have a couple of questions about the Owen Allman Case… drug dealer who was killed in his car just under a year ago.”
A grin suddenly formed on Conners’ face.
“What's so funny?” Tate asked.
“Come wit’ me. I wanna show you something.”
They walked past an oversized whiteboard with officer names and associated cases—as well as a running closing percentage—toward another board, this one of the cork variety.
On it, were various newspaper articles. Officer Dwight Connors pointed at a specific article near the top.
Local dealer rips off drugstore for thousands worth of anti-herpes medication.
The photograph beneath this creative headline showed a man leaping over a typical pharmacy counter.
“Anti-herpes medication?” he asked.
Connors chuckled.
“Yeah, you wanted to know what was so funny? Well, this asshole, Owen Allman, apparently doesn’t know how to read. Broke into the pharmacy and instead of stealing Vicodin he grabbed—” Connors leaned close to the article and squinted, “—Valacyclovir. Drug for herpes.”
“You can’t be serious,” Tate said.
“That’s what we figure. Don’t know for sure, ‘cause,” Connors dragged a finger across his throat, “he gone.”
“You mind?” Tate asked, indicating the article.
“Be my guest.”
There wasn’t much more to glean from the article, other than what Connors had already told him. And while Tate was no doctor, he was fairly certain that unless this Owen Allman had an uncontrollable outbreak, then his dash and grab of the anti-herpes medication was a mistake.
“He’s a bit of a legend here,” Connors said with a hint of pride. “America’s stupidest criminal.”
Tate pulled back from the board and looked at the officer.
“What happened to him?” Now, Tate replicated Connors’ throat slash. “I mean… that, but…?”
“I guess I lied to you, Owen is the second dumbest criminal in America. He robbed the store, then someone tried to rob him.” Connors started wagging his head and Tate knew why: the man was remembering the smell. “Some crazy junkie. They fought, and both ended up dead.”
So cavalier, Tate thought.
“Yeah, I have some questions about what happened in that car.”
Connors shrugged.
“Pretty much already told you everything.”
“I know, I know. Just need some clarification.”
This time Connors did nothing but stare. Tate continued.
“Is it possible that the vagrant killed Owen, then herself?”
“Why would she do that?”
“I’m only asking if it’s possible.”
Over the phone, Tate had made it seem like he was interested in Owen Allman because of a related unsolved drug case. Now that it was clear that his motivation was different, Connors wasn’t so keen on lending a hand. Nobody liked other dogs shitting in your backyard.
“I suppose it's possible,” Connors said flatly. “But unlikely. After all, who lies in the backseat to kill a drug dealer only to off yourself afterward? Don’t make sense to me.”
Tate shrugged.
It didn't make much sense to him either, but nor did killing a doctor on the street, or a man after he took out his work garbage, and then committing suicide.
“Why’s the FBI interested in this case, anyway?” Connors asked.
Tate completely ignored the question.
“Just going out on a limb here—the homeless chick in the backseat… she smelled, didn’t she?”
“Did she ever. Jesus, she fucking reeked. We were going to auction off Owen’s car but even after leaving it out for weeks, hiring anybody who would dare try to clean it, we couldn’t get the smell out. Had to burn the fucking thing.”
“Did anyone claim her body? Friends? Family?”
Connors shook his head.
“Nope. Still a Jane Doe.”
“You go to the homeless shelters? Ask about her?”
This came off as more of an accusation than a question, and Tate cleared his throat.
“Just want to be thorough, is all.”
Connors’ large eyes narrowed.
“She’s a Jane Doe.”
The response signified an end to their discussion.
“All right, thanks for your help.”
“You could've just done this over the phone,” Connors grumbled as Tate made his way to the front of the station.
“Eh, not really a fan of phones,” Tate said. Truthfully, his special skills worked much better in person. “Just one last question and then I’ll be gone for good.”
Connors crossed his arms over his chest and frowned.
“Did you find the herpes drugs? The Val-whatever it's called?”
Connors slowly shook his head.
“Nope, never found it.”
Tate tapped his chin and said, “All right, thanks.”
He didn’t understand a drug dealer not being able to read. He didn’t understand a vagrant killing the dealer and then herself. And he definitely didn’t understand who came later and stole a truckload of anti-herpes medication.
Chapter 33
Chase awoke to the sound of a beeping coming from her right.
“How are you feeling today?”
The nurse from yesterday was checking her IV fluids.
“Fine.” Chase’s voice was dry.
“Compared to yesterday?” Audrey asked. She switched out one bag of clear fluid for another. And then she started to change the dressing on Chase’s throat wound.
“A little better.” She was going to say that no matter what but was surprised to find that it was true. “How long was I out?”
Chase winced and Audrey leaned back.
“All night.”
This was surprising. She remembered her little visit to the ICU but not much else after that.
Audrey sighed and lowered the iodine that she was in the process of cleaning Chase with.
“I know that you’re itching to get out of here, but I have to, seriously, recommend against it. If you weren’t in such good shape, Agent Adams, you’d be dead right now.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
The problem with Audrey’s warning was that, over the years, nobody had tried to kill Chase harder and with more vigor than herself. And if she had been unsuccessful, what were the chances that someone else would get so damn lucky?
Audrey finished dressing Chase’s wounds.
“What’s going on with our friend in the ICU?”
“I heard about that, too,” Audrey muttered under her breath. “She’s awake.”
Chase shifted to a seated position without much effort.
“Seriously?”
“Yes, woke up three hours ago.”
“I need to speak to her.” Chase pulled her gown up and put her feet on the floor. The nurse eyed her disapprovingly but made no attempt to stop her.
“I don't know if they're gonna let you,” Audrey said. “And I don't think you should be out of bed.”
Chase only heard the second half of her sentence.
“Old curmudgeonly police officer by the door?”
“He was swapped out for someone more junior.”
That's good, Chase thought. That's really good.
Chase slowly stood, holding on to the bed in anticipation of a dizzy spell that never came.
“I don't think you should—”
Chase looked at Audrey sternly.
“I get that you’re just doing your job, and I appreciate your concern. But I have work to do and there's nothing you can do to stop me.”
Audrey looked as if she'd been physically slapped.
“I know I can't stop you,” the nurse said, sounding frightened. Her tone made Chase immediately regret what she’d said and how she’d said it. “I just want to make sure you're okay.”
“I'll be fine,” Chase said. “And I do appreciate it—what you’re doing. But I have to speak to her.”
“Your room will be here when you get back since you paid cash.”
That last part gave Chase pause, but it didn’t slow her down. The IV trolley tried—its wheels were stickier than last night—but she overcame this minor obstacle.
The next would be more formidable.
Worst case scenario, Chase simply did the same as last night. She just hoped it didn’t come down to that.
“FBI Agent Chase Adams,” she barked, flashing her badge. The police officer who looked as if he was working on his GED while at the same time finishing police academy, appeared startled.
Good start.
“I need to speak to the suspect.”
The officer started to stand, but Chase stayed him with her palm.
“I've been told that—”
“Do you know who I am?”
“I—I think—”
“I’m with the FBI. F. B. I. I need to speak to the suspect. Now.”
The officer started to slide his chair out of the way and Chase thought to herself, this is working out better than I could have hoped.
Until it wasn’t.
A doctor stepped to her side.
“Who are you?” he asked. The man was in his mid-fifties with a manicured white beard and spectacles.
“I’m—”
“Mrs. Adams, I see that now. You shouldn’t be here. You need to get your rest.” There was a familiarity to his voice and Chase concluded that he was the one who had operated on her.
She should thank him for saving her life, but there would be another time for that. It wasn’t a priority.
Speaking to the girl who tried to kill her was. But tact was required here. This doctor was neither young nor impressed by the letters F B and I.
“I hear that she’s up and talking.”
The doctor licked his lower lip as a way to bide his time.
“She’s awake, but not up. Very weak—deficiencies across the board.” The doctor glanced at her throat. “To be honest, I’m surprised she had the energy to attack you.”
“I guess I’m lucky she was too weak to finish the job, then,” Chase said. “I just need to have a few words with her, doctor…”
“Heinlin. Dr. Greg Heinlin.” Another lower lip lick. “If it’s okay with the officer, I think you can have a minute or two.”
Chase lowered her eyes at the still seated police officer.
“Yeah, s-sure. Fine by me.”
Dr. Heinlin opened the door to the ICU and held it for Chase.
“I’m guessing not, but you find any drugs in her system?”
“Nothing.”
Chase approached the bubble. It was still closed, but the girl’s eyes were open. And her chest slowly rose and fell.
Dr. Heinlin touched her arm gently.
“Just a few minutes. In her present state, getting her agitated might make things worse.”
Chase nodded.
“What’s your name?” she asked the girl in the bubble.
Nothing. The girl didn’t even turn in Chase’s direction.
“Can she speak?” Chase asked the doctor.
“We ran multiple scans—CAT, MRI—her brain is dehydrated, and she shows decreased volume in the anterior insular cortex but other than that—”
“Can she speak, doc?”
Dr. Heinlin nodded.
“She should be able to.”
Chase turned back to the bubble.
“Hi—can you speak?”
Not so much as a blink.
“Can you hear me? Hello? What's your name? You can tell me that, can’t you?” Chase could feel her temper beginning to simmer. She pulled down the front of her gown. “You tried to kill me, and I want to know why.”
And now the woman did turn, not her head, but her eyes. They appeared to scan Chase’s face before returning to neutral.
Fuck. I risked my life telling Floyd to save you because I thought you’d be able to help. Speak to me. God damn it, speak to me.
“I deserve to know why.”
“Please don’t upset her,” Dr. Heinlin said softly in her ear.
Don’t upset her? Chase thought miserably. I’m the one who she tried to kill!
“Why were you wearing a white dress? Who told you to wear it? Brian? Did he have something to do with this?” When there was no response, Chase placed her hands on the bubble. “Why were you wearing the dress?” she demanded.
“It’s time to leave,” Dr. Heinlin stated.
Chase glared at the doctor.
“I need to know. I need—”
A scratching sound drew her attention back to the bubble.
“No!” Dr. Heinlin shoved her aside and raced to his patient.
The woman had removed the plastic end to the IV port from the back of her hand and was using it to claw at the stitches on her throat.
The doctor was trying to save her, but he was having the same problem Chase had last night: he couldn’t get into the plastic bubble.
“Go get someone!” he yelled. “Now!”
It took Chase a few moments to realize the man was speaking to her.
“Go get someone before she kills herself!”
Chapter 34
Eventually, Steve the security guard started after Martin, but the man was already out the door.
Floyd wanted to follow, but his legs and his right hand, still clutching the photograph like a prized possession, were burning.
“Where’s the sink?” he asked.
Those who had been waiting for their meal had gathered around him, and one of them pointed to the corner of the room. Floyd hurried to the large metal basin and turned on the cold water. He removed everything from his pockets and set the items on the ledge and then splashed his burnt hand with the water.
What the hell happened? he thought, angry with himself. How did I let my guard down?
Floyd glanced behind him and saw a particularly savage-looking man with tattoos on his face eyeing him up and down.
In a place like this, Floyd? Really? While investigating a murder/suicide? When your partner is in the hospital after nearly being killed?
The cool water did its work and Floyd noted that his hand was more scalded than actually burnt. He turned his attention to his legs next, and although he wasn't in a position to remove his pants, he grabbed a roll of industrial paper towels and started to soak up as much soup from his jeans as best he could.
“What happened?” Margaret asked. “Are you okay?”
Margaret reached for the paper towel, but Floyd said, “I’ll be fine, thanks. Your cook—Martin—tried to burn me alive and then he ran.”
Margaret looked genuinely surprised. She pulled her glasses from her face and let them hang around her neck.
“I’m so sorry, Floyd. I didn’t—why did he do that?”
“I don’t know, but Steve is—damn.”
Steve reappeared near the back door, out of breath and empty-handed.
“I’m sorry,” he said, breathing deep. “Too many cigarettes—I’m sorry. Martin got away.”
Floyd was incredulous. Smoker or not, Martin was four-foot-three in all directions.
How the fuck did he get away?
“Steve, what happened?”
Floyd wondered if she was in shock, having asked the same question a moment ago.
“He—Floyd was showin’ him the photo and the soup spilled.”
“Could it have been an accident?”
Now Floyd was the one who was in shock.
“Accident? That was no accident. You don’t run from an accident.”
“We’ve never had a problem with Martin before. He’s been here for years.”
“Well, it looks like you don’t know everything about Martin.”
Margaret looked offended by this, and Floyd swiped at his jeans angrily.
“Sorry—I’m sorry. I guess in this place, everyone has secrets they want to keep from the FBI.”
And you should've known better, Floyd. This is why you don’t like to do things alone.
“I’ll get you something for your arm,” Margaret said. “I have a first aid kit in my office.”
