Already dead, p.16
Already Dead, page 16
“The shelter,” Tate said. “I’ll go slink around there to see if that Martin guy returns.” He looked at Floyd. “He’ll recognize you, but I’ll blend right in.”
I bet you will.
“And I'll go back to the hospital, talk to Dr. Heinlin about the woman who attacked me. Maybe even try to talk to her again.”
They parted then, Tate going with Floyd, while she got into her rental alone. She was pulling out of Henry’s driveway when she got a text. It was the visitor log.
As if caused by this message, Chase felt a pain in her neck. She made sure that Tate had since driven away before inspecting her bandage. It was dark red and soaked through.
Shit, you need to take it easy, she told herself.
But Chase didn't know how to take it easy. She only knew one speed: maximum. It was how she lived her life ever since she’d been grabbed by Tim and Brian all those years ago.
And now that her niece had been threatened, she had no time to slow down. Chase would find out why she’d been attacked, who was behind Roger’s and Wayne’s murders, if it was someone different than the girls in the morgue, and then be waiting for Brian when he was released.
The list only contained four names, one of which—Horatio Barnes—sounded like a lawyer. The other three, Chase recognized.
Sue-Ellen, Portia, and Melissa Jalston.
The fact that these women used the names that Brian and Tim had forced on them angered Chase even further. For the past two years, they had visited every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, respectively.
Chase shook her head in disgust. It sickened her that these three women continued to dote on Brian even after he was behind bars. It was a twisted addiction, and she knew firsthand how hard it was for humans to break their patterns.
Especially longstanding ones.
To break the pattern would mean admitting to oneself that they’d wasted a huge portion of their lives. Sometimes, it was easier to continue to live a lie than it was to admit the truth.
There was, of course, a fifth name on the list.
Her name. Or, more specifically, her sister’s name.
Why did I go? Why couldn’t I just stay away?
Shaking her head, Chase was about to toss her phone on the passenger seat when she spotted an additional entry near the bottom—after her sister’s name.
Melissa Jalston.
According to the list, Melissa came on Fridays, but this was a Tuesday. And the time listed was a mere two hours after Chase had left.
Did he call her? Tell her to visit? Why? Did he have some pent-up anger from Chase’s visit? Did he need someone to slap around a little?
That didn’t jive with the calmness, the serenity, that she’d felt when touching Brian’s hands. But how much could she rely on her ‘voodoo’?
If it wasn’t broken, it was bent. It hadn’t worked in the morgue, and it hadn’t worked with Brian. Something had happened with Father David, or so she thought, but who’s to say that wasn’t just Cerebrum working its way through her system.
Why did she visit?
Chase closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. A white dress appeared in her mind.
First Tennessee, then the alleyway, then right before the attack.
Stitts was right, this was no coincidence.
A stab of pain in her throat forced her eyes open.
“You’re just wasting time,” she told herself. “And you only have two more days.”
Chase started her rental and drove back to the hospital. On the way, she dialed Louisa’s number. She’d previously avoided speaking to Georgina for fear of reminding her of Brian, but that cat was already out of the bag.
“Hey, what's up, Chase? How’s work?”
“Fine, it's going fine,” Chase lied. It was anything but fine. This whole thing had been a clusterfuck from the moment she’d stepped into the prison, intending to see Brian Jalston.
“Yeah, you're lying. But that’s alright. Anything I can do to help?”
“I just need to speak to her,” Chase said softly. She parked in the hospital lot and got out of her car.
“Georgina? Chase, she's in school right now.” Louisa grew serious. “It’s the middle of the afternoon. Everything okay with you?”
Chase grunted and looked down. There was blood on her shirt now.
“Just fucking peachy. Listen, Louisa, I need you to keep Georgina home. Like, home for school for the next few days. Think you can do that for me?”
There was a pause.
“Okay. Yeah, I can do that.”
Bless you, Louisa, for not asking questions.
“Thanks. I'll be home as soon as I can. A couple of days.”
But in her heart, Chase knew that this was also a lie. In two days, she would be in Franklin, Tennessee. In three, she had no idea.
“Mrs. Adams? Mrs. Adams, you're bleeding.”
Chase looked up and was surprised to see Audrey standing in front of her, a startled expression on her face. She followed the nurse's gaze to her own chest.
The blood on her shirt, what had been a small dot moments ago, was now the size of her fist.
And growing.
“I am,” Chase said. Her voice sounded faint. Faint and thin. “I am bleeding.”
And then she toppled, falling into Audrey’s waiting arms.
Chapter 38
“Is Chase… single?” Tate asked as they drove toward E-Tronics.
Floyd looked at the man, blinked once, twice, and then shook his head.
“She's not?” Tate said, sounding disappointed.
“Single or not, that’s…” Floyd collected his thoughts. “I’m not sure that’s something you want to get involved with.”
Floyd loved Chase. He loved Chase for what she'd done for him, who she was, and what she’d overcome.
And he liked Tate.
But the idea of Tate becoming romantically involved with Chase was incomprehensible.
“Why not? She's hot. Nice set of—”
“Trust me, Chase’s complicated.”
Tate shrugged.
“I can do complicated.”
Floyd knew the man was referring to his previous partner, Constantine Striker, and agreed. But Con was one thing, Chase was another. Come to think of it, the two might be perfect for each other.
But not for Tate.
“Not this kinda complicated,” Floyd said, becoming serious.
“Meh, maybe.”
Tate pulled into the parking lot. The lights were off and the sign on the door was still turned to ‘CLOSED’.
“You have the keys?” Tate asked.
Like the photograph of Henry, Roger, and the random girl, Floyd had gotten the keys from Chase after she’d been attacked.
“Doesn’t look like anyone’s here,” Floyd said in the hopes that Tate would suggest that they go straight to the homeless shelter together.
“Someone has been here, though,” Tate said absently.
Floyd peered through the shop’s windows.
“What makes you say that?”
“The lights are off.”
“So?”
“So? So, is Chase so concerned with the environment that she wandered back inside, bleeding to death, shut the lights off, and then collapsed in the alley? That make sense to you?”
Floyd, still looking at E-Tronics, said, “Maybe she didn’t turn them on. Or maybe the cops shut them off after they arrived on the scene.”
When Tate didn’t respond, Floyd looked at him. He had a strange expression on his face.
“What?”
“Have you… have you spoken to the cops?”
“Yeah,” Floyd said hesitantly. “Gave them a statement after Chase was admitted. Why?” Once again, Tate didn’t answer right away. He had a far-off look in his eyes, and Floyd could almost hear the gears inside his head turning. “What are you thinking, Tate?”
“I’m thinking that when I was at the hospital, I didn’t see a lot of police presence. No detectives, no Lieutenant Lehner-types. That’s a bit weird, innit? An FBI agent is nearly killed… you’d think there would be some sort of investigation, right?”
Floyd mulled this over.
“They already have the person responsible,” he said with a shrug.
It was a weak response and they both knew it. Tate was right, the lack of overt investigation into Chase’s attack was strange. But so was everything else about this… these… cases.
“Maybe.” Tate leveled his eyes at Floyd. “Go take a look in the store. See if there are other… pictures, anything. If Roger or Henry have paperwork, see if there’s a mention of Martin anywhere. Or the herpes drug.”
“Like a calendar? A big red circle around a date with the words ‘OUTBREAK’? What am I really doing here, Tate?”
“Becoming a big boy. Go on, I’ll come grab you in less than an hour.”
Floyd tried to think back to a time when Tate might have been alone with Chase. He didn’t think there had been. But this felt like a setup.
“I—”
“Just fucking go.”
Floyd shook his head and got out of the car.
“If you need anything, give me a call,” Tate said out the window as he sped off.
The instant he was alone, Floyd felt a familiar tightness in his chest. The simple act of walking toward the store suddenly felt difficult as if the air had been replaced by something thicker.
Come on, Floyd! For fuck’s sake, there’s no one here.
But no amount of admonishment would make his legs move any more fluidly. He imagined what someone would think if they observed him walking in this way.
They’d probably assume he was recovering from a spinal injury, relearning how to walk.
It wasn't funny.
It was embarrassing.
Floyd’s breathing had become labored as well, but this was mostly because of anger. Anger at himself for being such a coward.
Chase had told him to find what works for him.
But how the hell was he supposed to do that?
His hand was shaking so badly that the set of keys sounded like a maraca as he tried to find the correct one to slip into the lock. It took him five minutes to get the door open.
There’s no one here… there’s no one here.
The mantra was moderately reassuring. And it proved correct.
There was a smell, though. Not quite as pungent as a corpse, but not even remotely pleasant, either.
Floyd flicked on the lights and spotted the source: a litter box. He thought about the cat that Henry had been holding when they’d visited him and the similarly full litter box at Roger’s place.
He was considering what this might have to do with their case if anything when he heard movement from the back of the store.
“Hello?”
This time, unlike at the shelter, his hand immediately went to his gun.
“Hello?”
Floyd listened as he slowly moved toward the storeroom. There was a sudden flurry of movement, and he heard the rear exit open.
“Hey!” he yelled and broke into a run. “Stop!”
Floyd’s foot struck the litterbox and he nearly fell.
“Fuck!”
By the time he collected himself and burst into the alley, the woman was fifty yards ahead. Floyd raised his gun, took aim, then lowered it.
What the fuck are you thinking?
“Hey!”
The woman, who was wearing some sort of gray suit, didn’t slow. Floyd couldn’t make out any of her features either, other than the fact that she had straight brown hair. And that this woman was no corpse.
The door clicked closed behind him and Floyd looked at it.
There was a key still in the lock, and it was hanging from a keyring. Squinting, Floyd removed the key and then held it up to the yellow light above the door.
He pulled his keys out, the ones from Chase, and compared them to this set.
They were identical.
Floyd looked down the alley, but the woman was gone. Whoever she was, she wasn’t a run-of-the-mill burglar.
She’d come here with a purpose.
She’d come here looking for something specific.
And Floyd sincerely doubted that it was a new iPad.
PART III – Control
Chapter 39
“You must be Margaret Stacy,” Tate said with a small smile.
The woman behind the desk smiled back, and Tate instantly knew how to talk to her.
“That’s me.”
“And I’m FBI Agent Tate Abernathy,” he said, extending his hand.
Margaret shook it.
“Martin hasn’t come back. How is your friend doing… the other agent? Agent Montgomery?”
Tate dropped the smile for a concerned expression.
“He’ll be fine, sore for a while, but it’s nothing serious.”
“That’s good. It’s not like Martin to do anything like this… he’s been working here for a long time, and like I told your partner, he’s one of the most reliable volunteers we have.”
Tate considered this for a moment before asking, “Henry and Roger were volunteers, too, weren’t they? Did they know Martin?”
Margaret nodded and she adjusted her glasses.
“Definitely. We’re not a very large group here.” She gestured to her office. “Lots of space, not so many volunteers.”
“Tough to find good help.”
“Speaking of which, how are Roger and Henry? I haven’t seen either in more than a week. Maybe even two.”
Tate had to invoke all of his willpower to suppress the cringe that threatened to break his façade of the caring individual, the gentle agent. He should have known that Floyd would have avoided discussing Roger’s death at all costs.
Tate bowed his head slightly and grasped one wrist in front of his waist.
“I’m very sorry to tell you this, Margaret, but Roger passed a few days ago.”
Margaret’s mouth fell open.
“What? What happened?”
Tate politely averted his gaze and noticed a cross hanging on the wall.
“I don’t want to shock you, but Roger was murdered. I can’t discuss any of the details because it’s an ongoing case, but rest assured that he is in a better place with our Lord.”
Tate thought that maybe he laid it on a little thick, but Margaret seemed appreciative.
“That’s… that’s terrible.”
Tate nodded.
“It is indeed a terrible shame. I’m very sorry to break the news to you this way, but that’s kind of why we’re here. Like I said, we can’t reveal too much information about what happened, but we’re trying very hard to figure things out.”
“I—” Margaret swallowed hard and adjusted her glasses again. “If there’s any way that I can help… you don’t—you don’t think that Martin had anything to do with this? Do you?”
Tate shook his head.
“I don’t think so. Right now, we’re just trying to learn more about Roger. My partner… he showed you a photo, right? Of Henry and Roger and a girl?”
Margaret nodded.
“Yeah. I thought I recognized the girl, so after your partner left, I looked around a little. Hold on a second.”
She reached into the desk drawer, sifted through its contents for a moment, and then produced a photo of her own.
“I knew I recognized her, but I didn’t realize that the girl in your partner’s photo was the same person as this. Here.”
Not the same person?
Tate accepted the photo with a nod and instantly understood.
He spotted Roger and Henry instantly. In the background was a rotund man in an apron, presumably the cook, Martin. Then there was the girl. She appeared to be in mid-conversation with Henry. She was… grimy, to say the least. But Tate did see similarities between this girl and the girl from Floyd’s photograph. It was like looking at a photo before and after heavy use of social media filters.
Tate tapped the photo.
“Her name is Rebecca,” Margaret said. “At least, I’m pretty sure her name was Rebecca, but she insisted on being called Becca.”
“Did you—”
Tate stopped when Margaret began to smile. Regular people, people not involved in law enforcement, loved to play detective. And he loved to let them.
“Yep, I asked around. Apparently, Henry and Roger took Becca under her wing. Helped her get cleaned up, turn her life around. They got pretty close.”
Tate recalled Floyd’s picture. They did indeed look like one happy family.
“How old would you say Becca is?”
Margaret thought about it.
“Seventeen?”
Tate looked at the photo.
“Do you know when this was taken?”
“A year ago? I’m not sure. We don’t take many photos around here… try to protect our guests’ anonymity.”
Tate couldn’t find a date on the photo, but he thought it was older than a year. Henry looked three years younger. And that would make Becca twenty-ish today. Tate recalled what Chase had said about Roger’s killer. She was in her late teens. DNA had proven that they weren’t the same person, but the girl in the photo was filthy just like the cadaver. Not quite as bad, but…
“Can I keep this?” he asked.
Margaret shrugged.
“Sure.”
Tate slipped it into his pocket.
“Just one last thing,” he said. “When’s the last time you saw Becca?”
“Oh, gosh, a year?” she pointed to Tate’s pocket. “I can’t remember seeing her after that photo was taken, actually.”
And you also can’t remember when it was taken.
Civilians loved to play detective, but they just weren’t very good at it.
“Well, thank you, Margaret. You’ve really been a great help. You have my partner’s card, right?”
“Yes,” she found it on her desk and held it up with a smile. “I have it right here.”
“Well, if you think of anything else, or if Martin shows up, please give Floyd a call.”
Chapter 40
“Maybe this time you’ll think better of leaving early,” the nurse said, the moment Chase opened her eyes.
Normally she would have been offended by this, maybe even get angry. But she hadn’t the strength, and Audrey looked, and sounded, legitimately worried about her. She didn’t appear to have a mean bone in her body, either.
