The dark pounded on her head.
Get away. Get away.
She shouldn’t have come here. She should escape while she could. Before she got caught. Because she knew she would.
She’d worked so hard to get to this point in her life, to leave behind her shame. She couldn’t just throw it away. She’d find some other way to nail BioMediSol.
She turned.
Stopped.
Squeezed her eyes tight.
“Fuck it.”
She flipped the light switch on. Her gaze fell on the metal gurney in the middle of the room.
She stared at its smooth, silver surface. At the drains running down the side. An embalming tank with a thick pink tube wrapped around it sat nearby. No sign that this was where her sister had been pieced together for her funeral fifteen years ago.
She imagined all the dead people who had been bathed, stitched, embalmed, made up and dressed so that their loved ones would be able to grieve without being reminded again of the pain they had suffered.
Was this the same place that people’s loved ones were now being taken apart?
If that had happened to her sister…
Her heart began hammering in her ribs.
She had thought she was trying to protect all the living victims who might get infected from tainted tissue. But now she realized she was here to protect the dead victims, too.
It was one thing to choose to donate your body to be used for the greater good of all; it was another to have it stolen after you could no longer defend yourself. She would protect all the sisters, mothers, fathers and brothers that had been entrusted to Anna Keane and were being taken apart, piece by piece, and sold to the highest bidder.
She circled the room, her heels sounding like hammers on the ceramic floor, walking by—but not touching—the equipment. A shelf of green disinfectant soap and pink and orange bottles lined one wall. But there were no filing cabinets in here. Where would the records be kept? She hadn’t noticed any filing cabinets in Anna Keane’s office, either.
Then her eye caught something. It was a red button set in a panel on the far wall next to a light switch. She hurried over to it. As she neared it, she saw that an elevator door was recessed into the wall, barely noticeable from across the room. Maybe the elevator led to Anna’s—or, better yet, BioMediSol’s—offices.
She pressed the button. The elevator door slid open silently and she walked in. She couldn’t shake the feeling she was being lured into a trap. She pushed the lone button in the elevator, battling the fear that mushroomed as the elevator climbed upward.
The elevator stopped at the attic. The doors opened. She stepped gingerly out of the lift into darkness. The elevator slid back down to the bottom floor. She stood for a moment in the dark, the odor of decay crawling into her pores.
She patted the wall. Relief cascaded through her as her fingers hit a light switch.
Light flickered over the room. The opaque glass of the attic’s lone window reflected her tense face back at her. The light would be visible from outside. She needed to hurry.
Her gaze skimmed the room. It was small, probably a secondary office in another life. Now it had been converted into an embalming room. It had the same setup as the embalming room below, but it didn’t have the long counter: just a gurney, a sink mounted over a cupboard, a small filing cabinet and three meat freezers all squeezed together.
She hurried over to the filing cabinet and yanked the top drawer open.
Bingo. These were BioMediSol’s records. This room must be where BioMediSol did its tissue harvesting.
She pulled out the first three records. They appeared to be for leg parts.
She would try to match the ID numbers on the records to the body parts in the freezers. The body parts might still have the names of the decedents on them. She could trace them back to Anna Keane’s clients. Then she could contact family members and find out if consent was ever given. And if it wasn’t, Anna Keane and BioMediSol would be toast.
She eyed the freezers.
Took a deep breath.
Here goes. Goose bumps chased her nerves as she pulled open the door of the first freezer. Long knobby strips of yellow flesh in clear plastic bags lay jumbled carelessly on top of one another. She stared at them, confused. Then she realized what they were: spinal cords. They were each labeled with a tag, on which was scrawled a name and an identification number.
She closed the lid and pulled open the next freezer. A scream welled in her throat. She bit it back just in time. Eyes glared balefully up at her. Two dozen pairs of frozen eyeballs, at least.
She slammed the door closed. Sweat trickled down her sides. It had a rank smell, one she’d never smelled on herself before, like that of a trapped animal. She prayed that she would find legs under door number three. She could deal with legs.
She flipped open the lid.
A foot stuck up from the pile of legs. It looked as if it had tried to kick the door open.
She jumped back.
She could have sworn it moved. She swiped the sweat from her face. She needed to get out of here.
But first she needed to match the ID numbers she had on the BioMediSol records with those dismembered legs. She checked the kicking foot. It did not match any of the three ID numbers. She reached in and quickly pulled up the bagged limb under it. The ID number didn’t match. Nor did the next one.
Damn. Maybe BioMediSol had already sold the batch for these records.
She reached down into the freezer to return the limb. A tattoo on the inside of the ankle caught her eye. It was a small hummingbird fluttering next to a honeysuckle. The colors were dulled, the brown skin no longer providing a rich contrast to the reds and oranges.
She stared at it.
A hummingbird.
“A little bird. With little wings that fly really fast.”
That was how Shonda had described Vangie Wright’s tattoo.
She checked the name. The leg was identified as belonging to Mary Littler. The foot was so small it looked childlike. But no child would sport a tattoo. She stared at the delicate design. Her breath caught in her throat. The vine trailing away from the honeysuckle was subtly curled to form the initials V.W.
She closed the freezer and ran over to the filing cabinet. She needed to find the record for Vangie Wright/Mary Littler.
The deep rumble of the hearse vibrated from outside. The engine died.
A door banged shut downstairs.
Chapter 45
Thursday, May 17, 6:00 p.m.
Her fingers fumbled over the handle of the filing cabinet drawer.
Be calm. You still have time.
She yanked open the drawer. Tabs separated groups of files by the hundreds. She searched frantically for 1429. A glance confirmed the number matched the ID on the leg labeled Mary Littler.
She pulled the forms, stuffing them in her waistband. Running to the elevator, she flipped off the light and jabbed the button.
But what if Anna Keane had seen the light and was waiting for her at the bottom of the elevator?
Fear weakened her legs. Until now, she’d only been afraid of what Anna Keane could do to her career if she caught her. But seeing Mary Littler’s/Vangie Wright’s dismembered leg had cast a whole new light on the funeral director. She didn’t have proof—yet—it was Vangie Wright’s leg, but she was damn sure it was. Vangie Wright had gone from being a missing prostitute to a cadaveric product.
Had Anna Keane killed her?
The thought stopped her heart. When it resumed beating, it skittered like a mouse running across a marble floor.
Stop panicking.
She took a deep breath and kicked off her shoes. Snatching them from the ground, she stepped away from the elevator, achingly conscious of the vibration her footsteps would make on the ceiling below.
She slipped through the doorway of the mini embalming room and into a big storage area. It was full of boxes and tools. A narrow wooden staircase ran along a side
wall.
She crept down the stairs. They ended in a small kitchenette. It looked like a staff room, with a table and chairs, a microwave and a refrigerator. She hurried into the hallway. The lights were dim but they shone like spotlights after being in the dark.
She hugged the wall and began inching her way along the plush, ornately patterned carpet. To her left was the chapel. A soft light glowed within. On her right was a private reception area. In a few moments, she would pass Anna Keane’s office and then she’d be home free.
She crept closer to the funeral director’s office. The light was on. Was she inside?
She paused, listening.
She could hear nothing. The funeral home was silent.
She crouched down and crawled past Anna Keane’s door.
A door banged loudly.
Her pulse jumped in her veins.
Was it the front door or the back?
She took a deep breath and ran to the main door. No sign of Anna Keane or her staff. The banging must have come from the back. She grabbed the doorknob. The door wouldn’t budge.
It’s after five o’clock; it’s locked.
She scrabbled around the knob and found the dead bolt. It slid back smoothly just as her shoes fell from her arms.
Jesus.
She snatched them from the ground and yanked the door open.
Damp air brushed her face. She darted outside, closing the door behind her. Rain fell on her hair.
She slid on her shoes and walked quickly to the sidewalk. A car drove down the street. Then another. Relief swept through her. Anna Keane couldn’t hurt her now. There’d be witnesses.
She veered to the right, crossed over to the shadows of the newly leafing trees and approached her car from the other side of the street. She jumped into it and locked the door.
She was just about to turn on the engine when a silver sedan drove past her. It turned into the funeral home parking lot. She slid down in her seat again.
The sedan parked next to the hearse. A man got out of the car. She peered desperately through her rain-blurred windshield. She couldn’t make out more than his tall, dark form. But she bet it was BioMediSol’s president, Craig Peters. With a sudden shock she realized he was probably overseeing the order she’d placed with them. He disappeared inside.
She began to shake. That was too close a call. When she’d decided to sneak into the funeral home, she had totally forgotten that the fake order she’d placed with BioMediSol would mean that they would be trying to get the order ready—at the funeral home, where BioMediSol’s operations were based.
So much for thinking you were so clever. You almost walked into your own trap.
She peeled away down the street, her body working into one big shiver by the time she reached her house. She could barely get the door open. Alaska bounded toward her. She buried her face in his fur. He let her hold him until her shivering stopped.
She pulled the BioMediSol forms from her waistband. Mary Littler had died in a car accident, the form said.
She sank down on the floor. Should she call the police? She had a form with a fake name on it.
But was that really Vangie Wright’s leg? Tattoos were a dime a dozen. And even if it was, had Vangie been murdered? Maybe she really had died in a car accident. Heck, maybe her real name was Mary Littler. Prostitutes used street names all the time.
There was only one person who could tell her the truth.
Vangie’s sister.
Chapter 46
Friday, May 18, 4:00 p.m.
“Randall, it’s CreditAngels on line two.” His assistant, Virginia, allowed a hint of puzzlement to creep into her usual efficient tone. CreditAngels was a company that gave credit to people the banks turned away—in exchange for usurious interest rates. They didn’t want a person’s firstborn, Randall thought. Too expensive. He pushed away the nagging irritation that rose whenever he thought of the revised order for custody support his ex-wife’s lawyer had delivered two days ago.
He punched line two. “Randall Barrett.”
“Mr. Barrett, this is Ashley Dickson from Credit Angels.” She spoke with practiced staccato.
“Yes, Ms. Dickson, how can I help you?” He used his smoothest tone. Perhaps the tables had been turned on them and they needed some legal assistance.
“You are the managing partner of Lyons McGrath Barrett, correct?”
Randall didn’t like her tone of voice—as if she was honing in for the kill. He frowned. “Yes. And may I inquire as to why you are calling me?”
“We are calling in a bad debt. We demand repayment of $182,000, which includes $57,000 interest on a principal amount of $125,000.”
He loved how the loan company called in the loan at the very last hour before the weekend started. He pitied the real Barrett they were after. “You must have me mistaken with a different Barrett. I have no loans with your company.”
“But your firm does.”
“I can assure you that our firm does not. We deal with a different banker.” He allowed a hint of condescension to creep into his voice.
“Mr. Barrett.” Ashley Dickson’s voice was discomfiting in its absolute confidence. “We have your signature as managing partner on the loan document authorizing LMB to be a guarantor for the loan to BioMediSol, Inc.”
“I’ve never heard of that company.” But he sure as hell was going to find out what BioMediSol was about. “I most certainly did not sign the loan, Ms. Dickson. I’m afraid you’ve been a victim of fraud.” He could guess what had happened. Not only was CreditAngels not too fussy about to whom they lent money, it appeared they weren’t too particular about getting proper ID, either.
“I don’t think so, Mr. Barrett,” she said. “The co-signee was John Lyons.” Randall’s gut contracted. And suddenly the picture crystalized. John Lyons. Surely he wouldn’t do this just for revenge. He was sinking the whole damn ship. “He’s the one who took the loan. And now he’s in default. We want our money, Mr. Barrett. There will be interest penalties accruing as of tomorrow.”
He had no doubt that a company named CreditAngels would demand its pound of flesh.
“I’ll look into it and get back to you. Please fax me a copy of the lending instrument.”
“I’ll call you first thing Monday morning.”
So John Lyons had faked his signature on a loan document. He doubted the document would ever hold up in court, but the very fact John had resorted to fraud and involved LMB was extremely disturbing. John’d been acting strangely recently. Stressed, uncommunicative, not his usual suave self. He’d even seemed to distance himself from his little protégée, Kate. Randall had been secretly pleased by these developments. He had thought it demonstrated John’s awareness of the new order in LMB.
He’d been wrong. Not only that, he’d been duped. And by John Lyons, the man who envied him his success.
Had John duped them in more ways than one?
Had John had been hiding a conflict of interest with BioMediSol?
He picked up the phone. “Virginia, I need all of John Lyons’ client records for the past two years. ASAP.”
“Right.”
He thought for a moment. “And did Kate Lange ever return my call?”
“No.”
Was she somehow embroiled in this? Was this her way of getting back at him for stealing his notes?
His gut told him she wasn’t the type to be petty. Life had dealt her too many hard knocks.
Then a thought stopped him cold. Maybe John cooked this up with Kate before she joined LMB. Kate would be the perfect recruit: toiling away in a dead-end firm, desperate for success. And then, in a masterstroke, John feigned an interest in Kate whenever he was with Randall—knowing that it would needle him, but never knowing how disturbing Randall found the thought of Kate being intimate with John—in order to distract him from their true intention: to defraud LMB and exact John’s ultimate revenge.
He had a sudden image of her amber eyes. They dug so sharply into him an
d didn’t reveal a thing. Whenever he looked into them he had the sensation of staring into a pool of water, of seeing himself reflected in all his flawed nakedness. But never being able to see what was underneath.
She hadn’t returned his phone call.
There’d be hell to pay when he saw her next.
* * *
Friday, May 18, 4:00 p.m.
“Someone’s playing games with us.” Anna fought to keep the panic from her voice, but John could hear it.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that a person pretending they were from a phony company called the Surgical Teaching Institute placed an order.”
“Damn.” John stared at his desk in disbelief. What the hell was going on? “Who was it?”
“She said her name was Dr. Tupper. I believed her until the delivery times were changed around. No one met our delivery company. Then I discovered that there is no such thing as the Surgical Teaching Institute. And—” her voice rose “—it gets worse. I think someone stole some of BioMediSol’s files last night.”
“What?” Shock accelerated his heart.
“Not only that, but Ron said Kate Lange had been at his lab, asking questions.”
“You think she did all this?”
“I don’t know who else would.” Anna paused. “I just don’t know why she’s doing it.”
“I do,” John said softly. “I know exactly why. She’s figured it out, Anna.”
“Are you sure? You told me no one would figure it out if we put Craig as president.”
“There was no paper trail between Keane’s Funeral Home and BioMediSol. Nor with me. I didn’t think anyone would figure it out.” Especially Kate. That’s why she’d been the perfect associate for the TransTissue file. He thought she’d be more concerned about getting hired on with LMB than snooping around BioMediSol.
He’d been wrong.
“We’ve got to do something.” Anna’s voice was definitely panicked. “Craig’s been acting bizarrely. Ron thinks he’s got some kind of brain disease. I knew we should have stopped him when we had the chance.”
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