Jackson 07 - Where All the Dead Lie (2 page)

Scotland
The Highlands
Dulsie Castle
December 22

Taylor slammed the laptop shut. Nauseous again. Pain built behind her eyes. A demon’s hammering. Her only recourse was to lie down, lids screwed shut, praying for the hurt to pass. Percocet. Another. The pills they provided had stopped working. Nightfall signaled her brain to collapse in on itself, to allow the doubt and pain to rule. Weakness. Mornings brought safety, and courage.

Her mind was made of hinges, pieces that held imaginings she didn’t want to acknowledge. If she did, the demons overtook her thoughts.

Defying the headache, she stumbled to the window, stared out at the mountains. Darkness enveloped their gentle curves. Bitter snow reflected the outline of the massive Douglas firs. Completely desolate. Private. Perfect for her to hide away, in the wilds of Scotland, pretending to the world that she was fine, just visiting for a time, on holiday, as the Brits around her liked to say.

She’d run away from the people who knew the truth about her situation—Dr. Sam Loughley, her best friend, and Dr. John Baldwin, her fiancé. She’d even managed to push away Memphis Highsmythe, a friend who wanted more from her than she was willing to give.

She brushed her hair off her shoulders and leaned against the window. The cool glass felt good on her temple. The small, puckered scar, another battle wound, nearly healed. Even the pinkish discoloration was beginning to fade. She no longer bore the blatant stigma of the killer known as the Pretender, at least on the outside. He’d stolen something from within her though. Something precious she didn’t know how to retrieve.

Now she was only half a woman, half herself. A crazy little girl shut up in a castle, too tired to play princess anymore.

Movement over the mountains. The storm was changing. Gray clouds billowed down into the valley, nestled up against the loch, and opened. Stinging ice beat a merciless tattoo on the ground.

Her heart beat in time with the sleet, the pounding as insistent as a knock on the door—over and over and over—and the grip of the pain became too much to bear. The migraine overwhelmed her. The heavy Victorian-era furniture in her room was coruscating, beginning its nightly danse macabre.

Defeated, she pulled the curtains, went to the bathroom. Dumped two of the thick white Percocets in her palm and swallowed them with water from the tap. Hoped that they’d help.

Back to the bedroom. She saw her laptop was open. She’d been online? She shouldn’t have had so much to drink. She was feeling sick again. The drink, the drugs, the pain, it was all jumbling together.

The truth.

Shadows heavy as blankets swathed her body, nipped at her bare feet. She made her way to the bed by rote, lay down on the ornate spread, and gave in to the pain, the fear, the gut-wrenching terror that filled her night after night after night. The only things she could see were the dancing lights that shimmered off her brain, and the pearly outline of the ghost who’d come to tuck her in. She closed her eyes against the intrusion. Perhaps it would leave her alone tonight.

No.

It was here.

She felt its chilly caress slide against her cheek, its slim finger moving across her forehead, stopping at last to trace the bullet’s entry wound. The scar burned cold. She would not move, would not call out in fear. The thing loved her terror, and this, this moment of abomination, when the ghosts of the past and present mingled in the very air she breathed, this was the one moment when her voice came back full and true. She’d made the mistake of screaming the first time it touched her, and would not give it that joy again.

The chilled path moved lower now, to the long-healed slash across her neck. She wouldn’t be so lucky the next time. The touch was a warning. A sign.

And then it was gone. She let the throbbing wash over her and wept silent tears.

Nashville, Tennessee
December

“Taylor, you’re doing great.”

Dr. Benedict had the laryngoscope deep down Taylor Jackson’s throat. The anesthetic they’d sprayed before the procedure made her tongue curl; it tasted like bitter metal. Who the hell could be a sword swallower? This was ridiculously intrusive. Though she didn’t hurt, she could tell they had something threaded into her. The thought made her want to gag. The doctor caught the motion and murmured to her, softly, touching her on the shoulder like he was gentling a horse.

“Shh, it’s okay. Almost done. Just another minute.”

She was tempted to get him a stopwatch. That was the third time he’d promised he was almost done. She tried to think of something, anything, that would distract her. The panic was starting to rise, the claustrophobic feeling of having her mouth open for too long, the knowledge that there was something…

“Okay, cough for me, Taylor.”

Finally.

The metal slithered out of her mouth. She felt like an alien, regurgitating a particularly indigestible meal.

At least she could breathe again.

The examination table was close to the wall. She slumped back for support and watched the doctor set aside his tools. The scope made a thunk against the metal of the tray, discarded, no longer an instrument of healing-by-torture, just an inanimate implement with no intent, no plot.

He patted her shoulder again. “Why don’t you get dressed and come on into my office. We’ll talk more there.”

She tried not to notice that he winced when he said
talk
.

She wasn’t doing a lot of that these days.

Taylor dressed, shedding the thin paper gown in a huff. Why she’d needed to get seminude for Dr. Benedict to look down her throat was a mystery to her.

John Baldwin, her fiancé, stood quietly in the doorway, waiting for her. Reading her mind, he smiled. “Because if you’d had a bad reaction to the anesthetic, or had a problem, he wouldn’t be able to take the time to get you undressed to stabilize you.”

She nodded. That made sense. She knew the logic behind it, but that didn’t mean she had to like it.

She watched Baldwin watching her, his green eyes full of concern, his black hair standing on end, the salt at his temples smoothed back. He was tall, six foot four, and broad-shouldered. She’d always thought him beautiful; it wasn’t an appropriate adjective for a man, but he was. Well proportioned, a full, teasing mouth, high cheekbones and a sharp jaw. He was her everything.

Was. Had been. She didn’t know why she was thinking in past tense—he was still here, she was still here. Together. They were touching, holding hands even. But physical proximity means nothing when your world’s been turned upside down.

She was afraid of more than just her visible injuries. She was scared that the invisible ones, especially the brittle crack in her heart, would be what did her in. He’d lied to her about his past. She asked for one thing, loyalty, and he had failed her.

“Let me help you,” Baldwin said, and squeezed her hand as they started down the hall. She let him. It had been nearly a month since the shooting, and she was still wobbly. Head shots did that to you. A mantra that had been forced on her for weeks.

She ignored the fact that he was looking at her with that confused gaze, the one that said please,
please,
let me back in. As if he’d known what she was thinking. He did that sometimes, stole her thoughts right out of her head.

Oh, Baldwin. What have you done to us?

Dr. Benedict had left the door open. Baldwin held it for Taylor as she entered the room, then followed behind her. There was a lot of dark wood, a huge desk, a few framed photos and degrees. She sat in one of the two chairs facing the desk and raised an eyebrow expectantly.

Dr. Benedict cleared his throat. “Okay. Good news first. I’m not seeing anything that indicates a permanent condition. The dysphonia responded to the botulinum injections—though your vocal cords are still bowed a bit, they are starting to adduct in the midline and when you cough. There are no signs of polyps or tumors. This is good news, Taylor. Your vocal cords are intact and working. When you were shot, when you fell, you hit your throat on something. That blunt force trauma is what caused the dysphonia. This isn’t a result of the bullet track, or the surgery. You were damn lucky. Your voice should come back.”

She shook her head and pointed at her throat.

“Taylor, I don’t know. All I can say with certainty is that the problem is no longer a purely physical one. The bullet didn’t penetrate into the vocal area of the brain, otherwise you’d really have some issues. There’s nothing out of the ordinary in your neurological profile, and the wound has healed nicely. Your balance is remarkably good, considering. You’re eating all right, sleeping all right, for you at least. The headaches aren’t getting any better?”

She shook her head. The pain left her breathless sometimes.

“That’s not entirely unexpected. They’ll fade in time. Rest, and no stress, that will help. But your voice…”

He broke off, and she braced herself. She was experienced in giving bad news. She got the sense she was about to get a huge dose of it.

“I think you may be experiencing a bit of what we call a conversion disorder.”

She shrugged. He bit his lip a couple of times, then continued.

“You’ve just suffered a major trauma, both physically and emotionally. You’re healing well, so I’m inclined to think that this continued dysphonia is non-organic, more of a…psychological disequilibrium, if you will. And as such, it’s much more treatable through some form of psychotherapy, combined with antianxiety medication. Which also wouldn’t hurt to help get you through the stress of…all this.”

Dr. Benedict actually waved his hand around in a circle.

Can you banish it for me, Doctor? Can you wave your magic wand and make me better?

All this. Being shot in the head by a suspect. Spending a week in an induced coma while the swelling on her brain subsided, then, when the medication wore off, scaring everyone to death by not waking up for another week. Opening her eyes to find Baldwin hovering anxiously over her. Not being able to talk…to tell him she loved him, and that she hated him. The Pretender, setting up residence in her brain, invading her dreams, haunting her days. Psychological disequilibrium. What a perfect term for what she was feeling. Pissed off and scared, too. This couldn’t all be in her head. Could it?

She grabbed the pad of paper from her pocket, flipped it open and scribbled furiously. She held it up for the doctor to see.

He raised his hands in defense.

“Now, Taylor, I’m not saying you’re crazy. Far from it. A conversion disorder fits with your symptoms. And it’s fixable.”

Baldwin shifted in his chair, faced her, his voice deep and grave. “Taylor, he’s right. A conversion disorder does fit. We’ve talked about you having PTSD. You should hear yourself sleep. You moan and scream and yell. You thrash around all night. It’s obvious you’re reliving the shooting.”

She shook her head vehemently, wrote
That’s not true
and showed it to Benedict. She didn’t need him to see how weak she’d become. She put her hand on Baldwin’s arm and scowled at him. He seemed grimly determined to sabotage her today.

Of course she was reliving it. Every second of every day. It was on loop in her head.

Benedict frowned at her. “Taylor, you need to let me know these things. I prescribed Ativan when you were here last—you’re not taking it regularly, are you?”

She shook her head. The Ativan made her logy.

“I keep telling her she needs to take the meds.”

She hated when Baldwin sided with the doctor against her. If he could just be on
her
side, and stop being so fucking solicitous and knowledgeable.

Maybe I am just sitting on a head full of crazy. I can’t talk. I can’t work. I’m communicating with a notepad. Yeah, I’m going to be just fine. Sure.

She missed her life. She missed her team. Her homicide detectives at Metro Nashville: Lincoln Ross, Marcus Wade, Renn McKenzie. Her former sergeant, Pete Fitzgerald. Sam, Forensic Medical, the acrid scent of formalin. Commander Huston. Everyone. Even missed Baldwin, though her fury at his lies hadn’t faded, and the hurt was all that was left behind. But she didn’t know how to face them. Any of them.

Her breath started to come quicker.

“Taylor?” Baldwin said, jerking her from her thoughts.

She needed to get out. Away. Now. She shot daggers at them both, then stood and marched from the room.

She made it out of the doctor’s office and into the vestibule by the elevators. She wasn’t going to get far. Baldwin had the car keys.

She tried to say the words aloud that were burning her mouth, her throat. But the images started—the hardwood floor, covered in dust that tickled her nose, the beating of her heart, so loud, so close, the blackness she knew was blood covering her eyes. Her blood. Baldwin screaming, Sam bleeding, the Pretender crumpled in a heap just inches from her, his eyes open, staring into hers as she struggled, and failed, to maintain consciousness.

She was dying again.

She started to hyperventilate. A fucking panic attack, in public, for everyone to see. She glanced about wildly—where could she go?

Strong arms encircled her. She smelled cedar, Baldwin’s natural scent.

“Breathe, baby. Just breathe. Deep in through your nose. You’re all right.”

She was getting tired of people telling her she was all right. Obviously she wasn’t. She was far from all right. She was broken.

She sagged against Baldwin, let him take her weight. How many times had they done this in the past few weeks? Four? Ten? Fifty?

She felt herself center, the panic subsiding. The Ativan was supposed to help avoid and alleviate this very problem. Maybe she should try it again. She just hated to admit defeat. She kept hoping she would find a way to handle this.

“Honey, come on back inside. I think Dr. Benedict wants to finish.”

She fought to get the words out—
fuck Dr. Benedict
—but they wouldn’t come. Instead, she clamped her lips tight together and followed Baldwin back into the office. They took their seats.

Benedict acted like nothing had happened. He just cocked his head and asked, “So?”

I’ll do it.

Benedict clapped his hands together. “Good. I’ll send word over to Dr. Willig that you’ll be making an appointment to see her ASAP. She’s well versed in conversion disorder; I can’t think of a better doctor to work with on this. I’ll see you back here in a couple of weeks. If you have any pain, or problems swallowing, or bleeding, you get in here immediately, all right?”

They stood, and he walked them to the door. He let his hand linger a moment on her back in reassurance.

“Hang in, okay? This will improve. Time heals all wounds, remember that.”

God, if only that were true.

“I know this is hard. I know it sucks. Whether you’re ready to admit it or not, you’ve been through an unbelievable trauma, no matter how ‘lucky’ you got with that shot. The stress of your situation alone is enough to cause the conversion disorder. Listen, I’ll throw in some incentive. You see Victoria—regularly, mind you—and I’ll talk to Commander Huston about you going back on the job. I see no reason you can’t at least handle a non-field post in a few weeks.”

How much convincing had Baldwin had to do to talk the doc into that? At least driving a desk would be something. Better than sitting at home waiting. Waiting for her voice to come back, or the anger to fade. For Sam to forgive her. For Baldwin to agree to talk about the search for his son.

“Deal?”

She nodded, and put out her hand to shake.

At this point, she’d do almost anything to get back to normal, even if it meant getting her head shrunk. Working murder was her life, her purpose. Take that away and she felt like a shell of herself. Take away her voice too, and she was slowly locking herself down, inside, where only her demons resided. This was a fitting punishment for her sins, to be sure. A little bit of hell on earth. She just wondered how long it was going to last.