Already dead, p.25
Already Dead, page 25
Even more alarming, however, was what was adjacent to the photo: a human skull.
“What happened to Becca?” Chase asked, her eyes moving from the skull back to Henry.
“We did everything for her,” he sobbed. “Everything. She was abandoned by her own family—and we—we became her family.”
“What happened to her?” Chase repeated. She spat again and Henry glared at her with a burning hatred.
“What the fuck do you think happened to her?” he shrieked. “What the fuck do you think happened?”
Henry started to rise, and Chase meant to stop him by flashing the gun. Only, she was too weak.
“She killed herself,” Henry stroked the cat in his arms. “After everything… she just… she just came here, with him, and he went out hunting as he always did and she stayed here and waited for him, waited with the knife to cut up whatever animal he murdered. But she… she… she must have been confused—she used the knife on her own throat! God damn it, he should never have left her! Why didn’t he stay here with her! She should never have been left alone!”
He… Roger, he’s talking about Roger, Chase’s addled mind informed her.
“You killed him… you killed Roger.”
Henry, now standing, shook his head.
“No, no, no, no, no. I didn’t do it. One of them did it,” he gestured toward the two girls huddled in the corner. At some point during the man’s frenzied diatribe, they’d both procured similar-looking hunting knives. “It’s almost poetic, isn’t it? Those knives, they’re the same kind that Becca used to take her own life. They don’t want to live…” he laughed. “They don’t even think they’re alive. You can do anything—no, everything—you can do everything for them, and they still don’t want to live.”
“They’re sick,” Chase’s voice was barely audible.
In her mind, she saw two images of Bridget—one as a corpse, the other as a blonde-haired girl—that overlapped like a scene from a poorly made 3D film.
“I’m sick?” Henry through his head back and laughed again. “I’m sick? You’re the one who’s bleeding.” He indicated her chest and torso, but Chase didn’t look down—she didn’t need to. She could feel Audrey’s now soaked sweatshirt weighing her down, pulling her to the earth.
Chase shook her head and her world started to swim.
“I said, they’re sick. But you…” she fell to one knee. “You’re just a fucking coward.”
With this final utterance, Chase collapsed, falling face-first into the dirt.
“Do it,” she heard Henry say in his deeper voice. “Finish what you started. Kill.”
“Kill.”
A knife.
“Kill.”
A promise.
“Kill.”
A way out.
“Kill.”
The last iteration of the word that reached Chase’s ears was not spoken by a single person, but by three.
Chapter 62
“Her car isn’t here,” Floyd said desperately. “Chase’s car isn’t here!”
There was something wrong. He could feel it. Something had happened to Chase.
And he was too late.
Tate didn’t reply as he pulled up behind Henry Saburra’s Mercedes. Floyd sprung from the car before it was even fully stopped and he bounded toward the cabin, only to trip on the first step that crumbled beneath his foot. He fell hard, a shock wave of pain radiating from his knee to his balls.
Then he heard a scream, and the pain went away.
“Chase!”
Floyd rocketed to his feet and threw the door open. The stench that blasted him in the face made his eyes water and his stomach revolt.
He would have vomited if not for seeing the two women on the ground. It looked as if they had been struggling over a knife, but a clear victor had since been named.
“Kill!” someone screamed from behind him. The voice was almost inhuman. “Kill!”
Floyd rushed to the combatants, thrusting the vagrant off the woman on the ground. Blood soaked the front of her, from neck to navel. He couldn’t even tell what kind of clothes she was wearing. There was just so much blood.
“No!” he cried. “No!”
Floyd’s searching fingers found the wound in Chase’s throat and inadvertently slipped into it up to the second knuckle before reaching any resistance.
And now he did vomit, turning his head to one side and letting loose a stream of mostly lukewarm coffee.
Fury took over him and he searched the darkness for the woman who had taken his partner’s—his friend’s—life. But he was once again too late.
She had slit her own throat and was bleeding out.
“Fuck!”
Floyd cradled Chase’s head in his hands, trying to wipe the blood away from her features but only ended up smearing it all over.
“No. Nooo!”
He had completely forgotten about the demonic commands he’d heard upon entering the cabin, and his eyes went wide with fear. But it wasn’t a voice he heard now—it was a wet splashing sound.
Another vagrant, indistinguishable from the first, slumped on the ground, the knife she’d used to cut her throat falling from her hand.
“Tate!” Floyd screamed. “Tate where the fuck are you?”
More scrambling noises and Floyd finally spotted Henry. The man was staring at the mantle, stroking a cat in his arms. For a split second, Floyd thought that this man, like the girls he cultivated, was ill. And perhaps he was, but his affliction wasn’t Cotard’s. It was something more… intractable.
“You! This is your fault!”
Henry, who seemed to be in some sort of daze, shook his head. Then his cat meowed, and the man snapped out of his trance completely and darted toward the door.
The cat, Floyd thought incomprehensibly, this is all about the cat.
He struggled to rise, but Chase was heavy, and Henry had a head start.
The man grabbed the door opposite the one that Floyd had come through and flung it open.
“Tate!”
Henry ran outside only to immediately backpedal. It was as if someone had rewound the last few seconds of real life. The only difference was that the cat was gone and there was blood, twin streams of it, dripping from Henry’s nostrils.
Tate entered next, shaking his right hand.
The cat reentered the cabin, darting to a dark corner.
“Anne!” Henry shouted as he tried to grab it, but he stumbled and fell. Tate pinned him there with his foot, pressing it hard into the man’s shoulder.
Anne… Rebecca Anne Griffith, Floyd thought.
“Stay down,” Tate instructed.
“We’re too late,” Floyd whined. “Chase… Chase is… Chase is…”
“She’s right there,” Tate exclaimed. “Floyd, she’s there!”
Floyd followed Tate’s outstretched finger.
Confusion washed over him, and he looked at the dead woman he was cradling. Blood… there was just so much blood and the cabin was dark and—
“That’s Chase!” Tate shouted.
The handcuff sealed it. The woman in Floyd’s arms had a handcuff attached to her wrist.
…it wasn’t the woman leading Chase out of the building, it was the other way around.
This was the lawyer, and that was—
“Chase!”
Lying face down in the dirt was his partner. He recognized her whitish-gray hair. Adrenaline surged, his adrenals pumping out the very last reserves of the hormone. Floyd extricated himself from the stranger and went for Chase.
He rolled her over and was relieved to find that while her sweatshirt was covered in blood there was no wound in her throat. No fresh wound, that is.
She was still breathing.
“Chase!”
She murmured something he didn’t understand, and Floyd addressed Tate.
“Call 911!” he shouted. “Call 911!”
Tate shook his head.
“No signal here. You need to bring her in.” Tate drove his heel into Henry’s shoulder and the man wailed. “Put pressure on the wound and get her to the hospital. Go now!”
This was the encouragement Floyd needed.
He searched her pockets and found her car keys.
“Up, Chase! Get up!”
He managed to hoist her to her feet and saw that there were deep gashes on her cheek.
“You’re going to be okay,” he whispered. Now it wasn’t time reversing itself a few seconds, but a few days. And he wasn’t in the cabin. He was in an alley behind E-Tronics.
Only this time, Chase wasn’t saying “Save her,” but “Save me.”
Chapter 63
“I can’t believe you’re eating,” Floyd said.
Tate shrugged and took another bite of his sandwich.
“I’m hungry. Didn’t eat at all today.”
Floyd looked away. His stomach still hadn’t settled from the cabin.
“I can’t believe that you were right all along,” Tate said, his mouth full of chicken salad.
“What do you mean?”
Floyd still couldn’t look at his partner. Even the idea of food made him grimace.
“The cat. This was all about the fucking cat.”
Floyd’s lips twisted into a grin, and he shook his head.
Fucking Tate.
“Not all about the cat.”
Tate took another bite of his sandwich and then pointed it at Floyd as he spoke.
“Not all about it, sure, but the tipping point? Anne… that was Rebecca Griffith’s middle name, right?”
“You tell me.”
Tate nodded.
“Yeah, it was. Henry was on the verge of breaking after Becca killed herself—if that’s what really happened to her—but if Roger hadn’t tried to gain custody of the cat? Maybe the deaths would have stopped with Dr. Griffith? Who knows?”
Floyd considered this. It was possible, sure, but realistic? There was also the dealer in Portsmouth to consider.
When he didn’t answer right away, Tate flapped the sandwich more dramatically.
“Alright, I’ll bite. What do you think happened? I won’t laugh this time, even if you go all Berkowitz with a talking animal theory.”
“What I think?” Floyd took another moment to collect his thoughts. “I think that Roger and Henry did try to help Rebecca. She was sick, had some sort of psychological disorder. Maybe Cotard’s, maybe not. Maybe she was just depressed. Anyway, Henry and Roger give her the stable life she needs. They get a cat. It’s her cat, or theirs—doesn’t matter. They name it after her, and then…” Floyd cocked his head as something occurred to him. “You know what? I think maybe she contracted herpes, or already had it, and got a prescription for Valacyclovir and then things went south. She committed suicide in that cabin. That’s when Henry started to lose it. Blamed the drug, blamed everyone, including her biological father. Wayne was a doctor after all, but I doubt as a plastic surgeon he knew much about rare psychological disorders. What? Why are you giving me that look?”
Tate was smiling from ear to ear.
“Yeah, I mean, what you’re saying makes sense. Kemosabe, you may have just become the Lone Ranger,” he said. “But if I may?”
“By all means.”
“Can’t let you have all the credit,” Tate said, still grinning. “I’m guessing Henry’s still working at the shelter, even after Becca dies. He comes across another girl and maybe they try to save her, too. Around the same time, the absolute numpty drug dealer is in the news for stealing the wrong drug. Still furious, Henry goes with this new girl and uses her to try to steal the drug.” Now it was Tate’s turn to look off to one side. “You know what? The officer in Portsmouth concluded that both died in a struggle. Robbery gone wrong. I think… I think that Dilbert might have been right. Maybe Henry only wants the drug and then things get fucked up. Enraged, he goes back to Charleston. Still trying to blame someone, he targets Wayne. After he’s killed, Roger either feels guilty if he was involved, or finds out about it, and wants to turn Henry in. Henry has no choice—”
“The cat,” Floyd interrupted. “Roger wants the cat. As their only link to Becca, Henry refuses to give her up. But Roger—”
Tate hushed him and his expression grew serious.
“What?”
“Code Blue,” blared over the intercom. “Code Blue—room 216.”
“Chase’s room,” Floyd blurted and jumped to his feet. “That’s Chase’s room!”
Tate was at his heels as he sprinted out of the cafeteria.
There was a flurry of movement toward the end of the hallway and Floyd pushed by several nurses. Near the door, the throng of doctors was too thick for him to make into the actual room.
“Chase? Chase!”
A familiar-looking man grabbed Floyd and pulled him aside.
“It’s not Chase,” Dr. Heinlin informed him. “It’s Henry.”
Floyd made a face.
“Henry?”
When he’d left the cabin, Henry had at worse a broken nose and dislocated shoulder. Floyd glanced at Tate who shrugged.
“Suicide,” Dr. Heinlin said flatly. “I don’t even know how he did it. There was a cop stationed right outside his door at all times.”
Floyd sighed and grabbed his forehead.
“Chase is at the other end of the hallway, room 261.”
A loud beeping came from Henry’s room and then Floyd saw the crowd begin to dissipate. Dr. Heinlin locked eyes with a nurse who passed by, and she shook her head.
“Fuck,” Floyd muttered.
Dr. Heinlin looked at him and then at Tate.
“Let’s get out of here. Let’s go see how Chase is doing.”
Tate put an arm around Floyd’s shoulder.
“I guess we’ll never know,” he said, all the humor gone from his eyes now.
“Know what?” Floyd asked.
“If it was all about the cat.”
Chapter 64
Chase felt coldness radiate from the back of her right hand and up her arm. She opened her eyes and attempted to sit up, only to be stopped by a hand on her opposite shoulder.
“Just—just lay there, for once, Chase. Stay still.”
It was Dr. Heinlin.
Chase was about to complain when whatever he’d just injected reached her brain. Her eyelids fluttered and a pleasant calmness came over her. It didn’t last long. Unaware of her history, Dr. Heinlin had likely given her a small amount of morphine or similar opiate. For a normal person, the effects might persist for hours. But not Chase. Her receptors or enzymes or whatever was responsible for rendering the drug inert were maxed out from years of abuse.
As the sensation passed, Chase noticed that there were two other people in the room with her: Floyd and Tate.
Floyd looked concerned, whereas Tate was smiling. But, like Rebecca in the photograph, it didn’t seem real.
“Nice to see you again, ma’am,” he said, tipping an imaginary hat in her direction.
Chase didn’t smile, but she didn’t frown either.
“Henry, he—” Floyd began, but Chase interrupted him.
She didn’t give a shit about Henry.
“What about the two girls?” she said hoarsely. “The ones in the cabin?
Floyd averted his eyes and shook his head.
“Shit,” she swore. “What about Melissa?” When this question was met with blank stares, she clarified, “The woman handcuffed to my car?”
Chase saw the muscles in Floyd’s neck tense.
“What? What happened to her?”
“Sh-she s-s-s-saved you.”
“What?”
Tate intervened.
“Best guess? Henry told one of the girls to attack you and Melissa got in the way. Saved your life, but it cost her own.”
Chase groaned.
“How many people have to die because they know me?” She pushed herself up. This time when Dr. Heinlin tried to force her back down she glared at him. “How many fucking people have to die?”
“Mrs. Adams, you have to be calm.”
“Fuck being calm. I want to talk to Henry.” Now Chase did give a shit about the man—he was the only remaining link. Everyone else who might have known how Brian had gotten in contact with him were all dead. Tate had suddenly grown uncomfortable, as had Dr. Heinlin. “What? What is it now?”
“I-I t-t-t-tried to tell you,” Floyd began. “H-h-he’s dead.”
“What?” Chase was incredulous. “How?”
“Suicide,” Tate said flatly.
Chase let her head fall back to the pillow. Selfishly, she was pissed. Rationally, she thought that maybe this was the only fitting end for the man.
“She needs her rest,” Chase heard the doctor say. “Why don’t you—”
Eyes still closed, Chase said, “What day is it?”
“The thirteenth. Why?”
Chase’s eyes snapped open. This time when she started to rise, nobody in the world could have stopped her.
“I have to go.” She started to stand and felt better than she had the last time she’d been admitted.
“Chase, you have to rest. This is the third time that I’ve stitched you up. You can’t risk tearing the wound open again,” Dr. Heinlin advised, but his tone suggested that his words were purely for insurance reasons and not because he expected her to obey.
“Wait, third?” Floyd asked.
His query went ignored.
“Where are my clothes?” She couldn’t see her shirt or pants anywhere in the room. “Where are my fucking clothes?”
“They were covered in blood,” Floyd informed her. “Completely soaked. We had to—”
Tate produced a grocery bag.
“I just guessed your sizes. The gear is probably less expensive than you’re used to, too.”
Chase grabbed the bag without hesitating. Inside, was a plain gray tracksuit.
“Thanks.”
As she stripped down, she saw Floyd glaring at Tate. And then all of them turned their backs as if she cared if they saw her in her underwear.
“Gun? Badge?”
Floyd grabbed a case from the desk by the door.
“Found it in your car. Gun and badge are in there.”
She grabbed it, but Floyd didn’t immediately let go.
