Jackson 07 - Where All the Dead Lie (21 page)

A voice, neither man, nor woman, not human, began to whine in her ear. “Leave now, Taylor. Leave now…”

And then it stopped.

She knew she couldn’t scream. Her voice wasn’t working. But she could cry. Tears ran down her face. She was losing her mind. She couldn’t open her eyes for the pain in her head. It was eating her alive.

In her last moment of consciousness, she leaned over and vomited again, then passed out with her head hanging over the side of the bed, an icy vein boring through her skull.

Sam was driving the Forensic Medical van alone. Keri wasn’t the only ’gator with plans tonight. Such was life. Sam didn’t see any need for her team to suffer just because she hadn’t had a chance to straighten out all their lives. And this was a straightforward situation. She could handle it herself.

Damn, but it was cold. Sam loved Nashville, and loved winter, but not when she had to venture out in the freezing dark to attend a crime scene. A messy one, at that. The Regretful Robber had been so regretful that he’d shot himself. In the head. Sam wasn’t surprised. Honestly, she was just relieved that the rest of the family had made it out of the house unscathed.

Nashville done up for Christmas was a beautiful sight to behold. Sam and Simon had taken the twins to the Christmas tree lighting this year. They’d giggled and cooed and talked to each other in their bizarre twin babble. This would be the first time the kids had a real sense of the season, that is if their mother could pull her shit together.

There was no easy way to the scene from the highway. She opted for White Bridge to Post Road, then turned left at Dunham Springs Road and took the street directly onto Belle Meade Boulevard.

If Nashville’s Christmas could be categorized as beautiful, Belle Meade’s was more like a fairy tale. The owners of the stately mansions spent a lot to have their yards and houses professionally decorated, and the vast majority of them chose to go with Greta’s Custom Christmas. Sam knew this because both she and Taylor had gone to school with the owner, Greta Torhild. Sam also knew that she was raking in the dough; some of the custom designs went for upwards of $25,000. How people could spend that much on Christmas decorations, Sam would never be able to fathom. But they did.

She parked the van two driveways away and walked in on foot.

Douglas Bowerman’s house was decorated, but not by professionals. The place was an original Belle Meade bungalow, just off the country club golf course. A nicely made up evergreen wreath with fake fruit and gold bows hung on the door. Sam could see directly into the house; the door was splintered open and there was a lit Christmas tree. The tree had to have been on a timer. She couldn’t imagine the family taking time out from their benefactor’s suicide to turn it on.

It was moments like this that she missed Taylor dreadfully. Taylor would have cleared the scene already, had a spot carved out for the ME’s van to pull in. Instead, Sam was going to have to go back out, get the gurney, move it all herself. It was going to be a long night.

She mounted the stairs. Marcus was just inside the door.

“Hey. I thought Keri was on tonight.”

“She had a party. You’re stuck with me. Where’s the body?”

“Living room. He let his family leave, then locked the door and shot himself. Seems pretty cut-and-dried.”

“Shouldn’t you turn off the tree?”

“I don’t know. I thought it made things look kind of festive. Though I don’t think I’d want to wake up to this scene Christmas morning.”

Marcus was right. There was never anything nice about suicide, especially by gunshot. Bowerman had used the .40 Glock. Sam could see it lying right next to his hand. He only had half a face.

“Ugh.”

“Yep. You need any help?”

“I’ll yell if I do. Thanks.”

She just wanted to get this over with.

She set up by the body, gathering his effects. She flipped open his wallet, doing a standard double check of the man’s identity. The driver’s license said Douglas Bowerman, but the photo showed a blond. This man, what was left of him, was brown-haired. Remembering the wig hairs found in Marias González’s pocket, she reached down and pulled. No, the hair was real. The height was off, too—the license said six feet, and this man was infinitely shorter than that. They were going to have to go through a full identification process in order to figure out if this was Bowerman, or if the Reluctant Robber had murdered yet another innocent in his bid for freedom.

“Marcus?” she called.

He wasn’t far away, was by her side in seconds.

“What’s up?”

“Who is this?” She pointed at the body on the floor.

“Bowerman.”

“No, it’s not.” She stood and handed him the driver’s license. He looked at it, then down at the body.

“Son of a bitch.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“Keller!” Marcus took off like a shot. Sam backed away from the body. Suicide was one thing—especially one attended by so many people. But if this wasn’t the suspect, then who had been shot? And why?

She stepped to the kitchen, took off her gloves and retrieved her BlackBerry from her back pocket. Sent Simon a message that she’d be later than planned. Called Keri McGee and told her to apologize to her boyfriend and get her butt over to the crime scene.

Marcus was still talking to Keller, who was gesticulating wildly. They were having a doozy of an argument. She left them to it, sat down at the abandoned kitchen table and checked her email. They’d call her when they were ready for her to get the body. They’d need a crime scene tech to take a different set of pictures and video first.

There was a new note from Taylor. She’d sent it in the middle of the night. Up all hours, just like at home. Some things never change. Poor thing. Nothing would fix her in somnia; it was a part of her being.

Sam opened the mail and started to read.

Dear Sam,

There is a moment in every life that defines, shapes, transcends your previous spirit, molding you as if from newborn clay. It’s come for me. I have changed, and that change is irreversible.

Sam, there’s no doubt anymore. I’m losing my mind. The shooting is haunting me. The horror of your loss, of who I’ve become, all of it is too much. I’m not sure how much longer I can stand to go on like this, trapped under glass, trapped away from everyone. I’m lost.

Oh, no.

This was not good. Taylor was completely going around the bend. Ghosts and hauntings were one thing, but she was coming unhinged. Damn it. She should have listened harder yesterday. Taylor was trying to tell her she was in trouble.

Sam knew her best friend very well. Better than she knew herself, in many ways. Something was wrong, and it wasn’t with Taylor’s mind. She was probably having a bad reaction to the meds Dr. Benedict had given her. She didn’t want to be an alarmist, but the more she read of the note, the more she felt like something was terribly wrong.

She finished reading the email quickly and immediately speed-dialed Taylor’s number, not caring about the international rates. It went to voice mail. Damn it. She tried again. Nothing.

She didn’t hesitate this time. Taylor would be pissed at her, but what did that matter? She was in trouble, and Sam wouldn’t forgive herself if she didn’t at least try to help.

She forwarded the email to Baldwin, then followed up with a call. He, unlike Taylor, answered on the first ring.

“Sam. Are you okay?”

“Hi, Baldwin. Yes, I’m fine. I’m sorry to bother you. I know you’re working. I was calling about Taylor. I just forwarded an email she sent me—something is obviously wrong. I think she may be having a bad reaction to the meds. I think she needs you. She’s certainly too proud to ask for your help.”

“Well, hold on and let me read it.”

“Sure.” Marcus was gesturing for her. “Actually, can you call me back when you’re finished reading it? I’m at a scene.”

“No rest for the wicked. Of course. I’ll call you right back.”

She hung up and went into the living room. Marcus was fuming.

“Hey, Sam. Holding pattern. We have to all stop and treat this as a homicide. I need to go talk to the wife, find out if she knows who this is.”

“This guy likes the chase—no one robs banks for their health. There’s a huge rush to it. Now he’s guaranteed you have to come looking for him.”

Marcus shook his head mournfully. “We were set up. Marias González has cleaned here. They have a Jaguar. The wife said her husband wrecked it and it’s in the shop for repairs. Bowerman’s our guy, I’m sure of it. The real Bowerman, that is. But where the hell is he?”

“Think he used her as an escape hatch? Y’all didn’t know this guy was in here. Bowerman sends his family out, shoots this one and takes off. We think it’s a suicide and don’t go looking any further, at least for the time being. Gives him time to flee. He’d have to know we’d figure it out eventually.”

“I don’t know, Sam. I hope his wife isn’t in on it.”

“Anything’s possible.”

“You know it. I’ve got a BOLO on him. He can’t have gone too far.”

Her phone rang. Baldwin. “I gotta take this, Marcus. Hang on.”

Baldwin’s voice was strained. “I can’t raise her. You’re right, that letter is over the top. I’ll keep trying. If you hear from her, you let me know, okay?”

“Can’t you just go get her?”

“I don’t think I can.” His voice was bleak. She hadn’t heard him sound this upset before. “There’s a huge storm, all the transportation services are out. There are no flights getting into or out of Great Britain. I’m in Amsterdam, if you can believe that. I’ll be stuck here, at least for another day.”

“Where’s the illustrious Memphis?”

“I don’t know.”

“Great. So we can both worry about her from afar. Let me know if you hear anything.”

“You too.” He hung up. She tried Taylor’s phone again, got her voice mail.

She had to get back to work. Sam typed a quick message then, frustrated, turned back to Marcus.

“Sorry. You were saying?”

His forehead creased. “What’s wrong with Taylor?”

“Nothing. She’s fine.”
I hope,
she added silently.

Please, God. Not again
.

Memphis had been stuck in the car for over an hour, trying to get onto the A1. The trains were stopped. The planes were grounded. The only hope he had was driving, and he was still nearly three hours away. He couldn’t believe the snow. It was coming down harder than he’d seen in years.

All he knew was he had to get to Taylor, as quickly as possible.

Damn that woman. She hadn’t seemed that bad to him. Delicate, certainly. Not being able to speak, being forced away from hearth and work, into the clutches of the big bad wolf…yes, she’d been a bit vulnerable. But not crazy. But she was used to acting strong, to keeping people at arm’s length. But from what Trixie said, she was well past that. She’d gone straight to hallucinations and crying in her room. Acting decidedly unlike the Taylor Jackson he knew.

Acting like Evan, before she died.

Please, God. Not again
.

The car in front of him inched forward. He thought he would scream if they didn’t start to move.

How could this be happening again?

Evan was never a strong woman. And he’d been attracted to her like a moth to the flame, his chivalrous streak overwhelmed. He remembered the night he met her. At Oxford, at the Playhouse. Tryouts for
Hamlet
. They’d sat together and shared a cigarette, then a finger of scotch, for courage. He was shocked at how nervous he felt. He went on and did his lines, was well received. But Evan—Evan
became
her role. She captivated. Drew a standing ovation from the group of drama students who were casting the roles.

She’d been humoring him. She was a fine actress. It was only on the stage that she left behind her fears, her concerns.

He’d been cast as Laertes. Evan was, of course, Ophelia.

If he’d only known then. If he’d seen it in her eyes. That terrible foreshadowing of her eventual end.

They’d kept the truth within the family. The media had been held at bay.

He still had the note she’d left. He wanted to burn it, but it had been Trixie who stopped him.

“Someday, you’ll need this. Put it away and forget about it until then.”

He thought they’d arrested Evan’s psychosis. Maddee had worked with her. They brought in a specialist, one trained to deal with nervous disorders. But nothing worked.

And then she’d fallen pregnant.

And they’d all been so very thrilled.

And she improved, dramatically. Became the old Evan.

He’d coddled her. They’d had an idyllic few months in London, nesting in the Chelsea flat.

Then he’d taken her to the castle to let his parents dote on her. He’d gone back to London to work. That had been the mistake, in the end. Her isolation brought the old fears back to the surface. She started seeing things. Losing weight. Accusing him of the most despicable acts. She was beyond his reach.

He hadn’t known what else to do. They’d been considering committal when she snuck the keys to his car and crept away, found her way to Dulsie Bridge.

And drove the car off the edge.

The idea of her screams invaded his head. He couldn’t see this happen again.

Traffic was moving. Slowly. But moving.

Taylor might feel it was a disloyalty, but he’d deal with that later. It was time for him to call Maddee.

He looked at his mobile, saw the red light flashing. A message. He put it on speaker.

Speak of the devil.

“
Memphis, it’s Maddee. Your girl here has had quite a psychotic break. I’m trying to find a way to sedate her, but she’s locked in her room. I’ll—
“

The phone cut off. His battery, damn it all.

It was happening again.

What had he done?