3 Blood Lines (31 page)

Swearing softly, Mallard yanked the cuffs around on Vicki’s wrists to give him a better angle with the key. “Goddamned things are stuck a . . . there.” They dropped into his hands and he straightened. Without his support, Vicki sagged away from the wall and toppled sideways off the bench.

Although voluntary motor functions seemed to be under someone else’s control and all the crevices of her brain had been filled with mashed potatoes, she was completely aware of everything that was going on. This was the Metro East Detention Center on Disco Road. Mallard and Gowan had tossed her bag at the Duty Sergeant and dragged her past saying, “Wait until you hear the story on this one . . .” They were now, obviously, going to leave her in the holding cell. Locked up. They said they had a warrant.

She managed to focus on Mallard’s face. The son of a bitch was smiling.

“Such a pity when a cop goes bad,” he said clearly.

He reached down and pinched her cheek, hard enough for her to feel it through the drug, and gently resettled her glasses on her nose. “Wouldn’t want you to miss any of this.”

Don’t leave me here! You can’t just leave me here, you bastard!
The thought slammed around inside her head but all that made it out was a kind of stuttering moan.

“I’ll always remember you like this.” His smile broadened, then he turned and moved back out of her line of sight.

She couldn’t turn her head fast enough to watch him go.

Heels rang against the concrete floor and Vicki struggled to focus on the young woman now standing over her.

“Fucking cop.”

The toes of her boots were dangerously pointed. Fortunately, she didn’t know where use them to their best advantage. Nothing broke.

Vicki made an effort to remember the face behind the garish makeup before pain squeezed her eyes shut. “Leave her alone, Marian. She’s too stoned to feel it anyway.”

She could feel snot running over her upper lip. She could feel something damp soaking through her jeans where her hip pressed against the floor. She’d never felt so desperately helpless in her entire life.

“How long do you figure the drug will last?”

Gowan shrugged. “I dunno, a few hours. It’s the same stuff the animal control people use to bring down bears. Doesn’t really matter how long it lasts. After the story we spun, they’re not going to believe a word she says.”

“But what if she gets a lawyer?”

“Not where she’s going.”

“But . . .”

“Chill out, Mallard.” Gowan pulled carefully out of the parking spot and waved at the driver of a wagon just coming in. “Cantree said he needed a couple of days to get the evidence to nail the bitch and we’ve given it to him. It’s his problem now.”

“And hers.”

Staff Sergeant Gowan nodded. “And hers,” he repeated in pleased agreement.

The whores had been taken away. Vicki didn’t know when. Time moved so slowly she might have been in the holding cell for days.

Inch by inch, she crawled one arm up the wall far enough for her hand to grab the edge of the bench. It took four tries for her grip to finally hold and another three before she could remember how to bend her elbow. Finally she was sitting, still on the floor but a definite improvement.

The massive physical effort needed to get this far had held panic at bay but now she could see—thank God they hadn’t taken her glasses—it rolled over her in turgid waves that crashed against the backs of her eyes, recede and crashed down again. The only coherent word in the surging tide was
NO!
so she clutched at it and used it to keep from being pulled under.

A sharp slap on her right cheek gave her a new focus and she managed to drag herself partially free.

“Hey? I said, can you walk?”

Vicki blinked. A guard. The panic receded further and relief flooded in to take its place. They’d realized what had happened and come to get her. She tried to smile and nod at the same time, couldn’t do both so achieved neither, and threw everything she had into a struggle to get to her feet.

“Atta girl, upsa daisy. Christ,” the guard grunted as she ended up lifting most of Vicki’s weight. “Why are the stoners always so fucking big?”

The second guard, standing at the door of the cage, shrugged. “At least this one doesn’t stink. I’ll take a head over a drunk any day. Drugs don’t make you puke on your shoes.”

“Or my shoes,” the first guard agreed. “Okay, you’re up. Now then, left foot, right foot.
None
of us will enjoy it if we have to carry you.”

It was more of a threat than an encouragement, but Vicki didn’t notice. She could walk. It was shuffling, unsure, and slow, but it was forward locomotion and while both guards seemed merely satisfied, Vicki was overjoyed. She could walk. The drug must be wearing off.

Her relief grew when they took her straight to the Duty Sergeant and pushed her down onto a wooden chair.

“So,” he said when the door closed and they were alone, “the two officers who brought you in suggested I book you myself.”

He patted the warrant with his fingertips. “They’ve left me a number to call for the official explanation. I can’t wait. Cops who take advantage of their position to molest little kids don’t go down very well with my people, or the inmates either for that matter. The officers seemed to think it would be better if no one else knew what you’d done.”

“Now they had no idea what drug you’d taken and I can’t wait for it to wear off—if it’s going to wear off—so we’ll just enter your information off the warrant.”

Okay. Don’t panic. My name goes into the system, someone’ll recognize it
.

“Terri Hanover . . .”

“. . . age, thirty-two . . . five-foot ten . . . one hundred and forty-seven pounds . . .” He clicked his tongue. “Shaved a few pounds off there, did we?”

It’s me, but it’s not my name
. Detectives were issued fake ID all the time and her specs were probably still on file.
What the hell is going on?

The sound of his fingers against the keyboard began to sound like nails pounding into a cage being built around her. She couldn’t just sit there and let it happen.

Except her mouth refused to form the words. Nothing came out except guttural noises and a trickle of saliva that ran off her chin to drip slowly into the hollow of her collarbone.

“Now then,” he set the keyboard to one side and reached for the phone, “let’s see what headquarters has to say.”

 

“The Solicitor General’s office. One moment please, he’s expecting your call.”

The phone on Zottie’s desk buzzed but the Solicitor General just stared at it, a puzzled smile on his face.

“Pick it up,” Tawfik commanded softly. The man would not last much longer. Fortunately, he wouldn’t have to.

“Zottie here. Ah, yes, Sergeant Baldwin. Well, actually, it’s not me you should be talking to. Hold on . . .” He passed the receiver to Tawfik, then lapsed back into semi-awareness as Tawfik began to speak.

 

After his initial enthusiastic greeting, the Duty Sergeant said little. Finally, even the monosyllables faded into a blank stare.

 

This time the panic came with words.

She couldn’t breathe. It hurt to breathe. She couldn’t remember how to breathe.

The . . . mummy . . . has . . . to . . . be . . . stopped.
And if Mike Celluci was dead? His death must be avenged.
A . . . venged.
She breathed in the first syllable and breathed out the second.
A . . . venged. A . . . venged. Avenged.

“I understand.”

“It will be done.”

Eyes wide, unable to look away, Vicki watched him hang up the phone, pick up the warrant, her warrant, and walk over to the shredder.

She’d been entered into the system and as far as the system was concerned she now belonged here until they pulled her for a court appearance. Court appearances were booked by warrant. Without a warrant, she would rot here forever.

I could jump the sergeant. Hold him hostage. Call the newspapers! Call . . . call someone. I can’t just disappear!
But her body still refused to obey. She felt muscles tense, and then go slack, and then she began to tremble, unable to stop it or control it.

Sergeant Baldwin looked down at the shredder, frowned, and brushed one hand over the gray fringe of his hair. “Dickson!”

“Sarge?” The guard who had lifted Vicki to her feet back in the holding cell, opened the door and stuck her head into the office.

“I want you to search Ms. Hanover and then take her down to Special Needs.”

“To the nut bars?” Dickson’s brows rose. “You sure she shouldn’t go to the hospital? She doesn’t look so good.”

The Sergeant snorted. “Neither did the kid when she got through seeing to him.”

“Right.”

Vicki heard the guard’s voice pick up an edge; skinbeefs against children were universally despised. Strong fingers closed around her upper arm and heaved her up and out of the chair. Shoved toward the door, she struggled to remember how to walk.

“Oh, and Dickson? I want it to be a thorough search.”

“Aw, come on, Sarge!” The guard’s grip loosened a little as she turned to protest the order. “I had to do the last one.”

“And you get to do this one, too. Here.”

Vicki heard Dickson grunt as she caught something heavy and managed to get her head turned enough to see that it was her black leather shoulder bag.

The guard looked down at the huge, bulging bag in disbelief. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“It came with her. When you’ve got her put away, you can enter the contents in her file.”

“It’ll take days.”

“All the more reason to get started.”

“Why me?” Dickson muttered, throwing the bag over her shoulder and dragging Vicki out of the office.

The grip on her arm had not been retightened. While going through the crowded doorway, Vicki attempted to twist free, reaching for her bag. If she could get her hands on it, it would make a decent weapon. She shouldn’t be here. Anything to attract attention . . .

“Don’t do that,” Dickson sighed, effortlessly bouncing her off the wall and then propelling her forward. “I’m not having a very good day.”

The strip search was worse than Vicki could have imagined although, as she’d regained some gross motor control on the walk down the hall, it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Trapped inside her own head, there wasn’t anything she could do but endure. She didn’t blame Dickson, the guard was just doing her job, but when she got out of there Gowan and Mallard were going to be having their balls for breakfast. The image helped sustain her.

Dickson peeled off the rubber glove and tossed it into the trash. “These things only come in two sizes,” she said, replacing the clothing Vicki had removed with jail issue. “Too big and too small. Can you dress yourself, Hanover?”

“Yuh . . .”
My God, that was almost a word!
She tried it again, humiliation wiped out in that one small victory over her body. “Yuh, yuh, yuh.”

“Okay, okay, I get the picture. Jesus, you’re drooling again. ”

With every article of clothing a small measure of control returned. Her movements were still jerky and unsure, but somehow she struggled into the jail blues, oblivious to the bored stare of the guard, oblivious to anything but the battle she fought with her body. Hands worked. Fingers didn’t. Her sense of balance was still skewed and large movements nearly tipped her over but she leaned against the wall and got into the underwear, the jeans, and the shoes. The T-shirt nearly defeated her. She couldn’t find the opening for her head and began to panic. Outside hands yanked it down, nearly taking her nose with it.

“Come on, Hanover. I haven’t got all day.”

The cotton overshirt with its wide v-neck was a little easier.

The drug’s wearing off. Thank God. As soon as I can talk, someone’s going to get one hell of an earful
. As carefully as if she were threading a needle, Vicki reached for her glasses. Dickson reached them first.