Dead Calm

by Lindsay Longford

  It made terrible sense.

  Because something was being triggered. In fairness, she couldn’t lay all the blame at Judah’s feet. But every time he pushed her, she overreacted. She knew she wouldn’t have acted this thornily and warily with anyone else—not with the grungiest, most argumentative patient who ever walked into the ER, not with the most arrogant doctor on staff.

  So, were his relentless questions about the woman who’d died making her question what she’d done a year ago?

  And that, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, was the dead elephant in the middle of the living room. Had she made her decision to order the test too quickly because George had ticked her off with his constant innuendos and needling? Some twisted self-righteous payback?

  Oh, God. She felt like throwing up.

  Even the idea that she could have let her annoyance and dislike interfere with the man’s treatment shook her to her core. Could she have been that petty? That unprofessional?

  She’d been so sure that night a year ago, so sure all the nights since. No doubts. Until Judah had showed up tonight in the ER, she hadn’t doubted herself, not once.

  Had she?

  Not until today.

  She shook her head.

  She’d had her nightmares, but those hadn’t been about George. Judah’s face, cruel in judgment, had stalked her through the dark alleys of sleep, not George’s.

  Had she been in denial? Had the dreams revealed doubts she wouldn’t allow to the surface?

  Two long fingers snapped in front of her eyes. “You still with me, Sophie?”

  “What? I didn’t hear you.” She brushed his hand away impatiently. “And don’t snap your fingers at me. It’s annoying.”

  “I thought it might be. Reckoned I needed something drastic to snap you out of your spell. Thought you’d gone to sleep standing straight up.” Once again an unexpected glint of mischief flicked across his face.

  “You don’t even have to work at being annoying, do you?” She jammed her fingers into her hair instead of pulling it out by the roots. “All right. Repeat your question. Please.”

  “You don’t know what or who she was calling for?”

  “No.” Sophie forced her mind back to the evening in the ER. She’d sort out these other thoughts later, without the distraction of Judah’s presence. “We didn’t have an interpreter at the hospital. She could have been saying a name, she could have been calling for help. There’s no way we would have known. She wasn’t really conscious, but she kept making the same sound. It could have meant anything.”

  “Do you know yet what killed her?”

  “Not for sure. There’ll be an autopsy, of course, and then we’ll know definitely.” Sophie stared at the blinds, at the stripes they cast against her walls even in the dim light.

  “Liver, ruptured spleen. Internal bleeding everywhere. All bad stuff.”

  Abruptly she moved to the blinds, yanked them all the way up. “She was so small, you see. She didn’t have a chance.” The cord dangling from her hand, she swung back to Judah. “She was beaten to death. That’s it. She wouldn’t have died if someone hadn’t treated her like a punching bag.” She released the cord. The plastic knob smacked against the window. She turned back to the view of water stretching far and away. Her back to Judah once more, she shoved the faucet lever up and let the water run over her hands. “We found nothing in her clothes. They were moderately nice, not pricey, not cheap. Like the stuff Belker’s carries.”

  “What do you mean? I’m not much of a shopper.”

  She tilted her head and looked at the two-day beard stubble, at the shock of hair several weeks past haircut time. “That’s pretty obvious.”

  “What?”

  In spite of everything, she almost smiled. “Heck, Judah, a platypus has a better sense of style than you do. You’re into all that basic Southern guy stuff. Jeans. White T-shirt. Blue T-shirt when you’re feeling adventurous. The occasional baseball cap, but at least you wear yours bill forward. Of course everyone else is wearing theirs bill back, so you could argue that you’re sort of carving out a retro look.”

  “Clothes are clothes. Mine are comfortable.” His mouth went all stubborn. “Jeans wash easy.”

  “A little defensive, are we?”

  His frown was fierce and all male intimidation. “I’m not defensive. I know what works for me.”

  She resisted the impulse to soothe. “Whatever you say. But, no, you wouldn’t know about Belker’s. It carries stylish clothes for the price, Judah. Good quality marked down. This was a woman who knew value for her money, and she was careful with herself and her appearance. She would have lived somewhere. Probably in an apartment. A house? If so, I’d guess a rented one.”

  “What makes you think she was a renter?” Once again he stepped too close, stepped right into her space.

  Not looking at him, she ran her hands back and forth under the cool water. “Because she seemed too young to afford anything else? I don’t know, Judah. I said it was a guess. Don’t bully me. Anyway, I can’t tell you anything else. You’ve picked my brain clean. There’s nothing left.”

  He moved away, paced. Then the sound of his footsteps circling behind her ceased. “Okay. I’m through, then. If you don’t know anything, you don’t. Tyree and I’ll have to start with where she was found and work outward from there. See if anybody recognizes her.”

  She couldn’t stop rubbing her hands under the faucet. Water sluiced down them, swirled away down the drain. “I don’t see how anyone could.”

  “The forensic photographer’s good.”

  “Even so…not in the condition she was in.”

  “Right now that’s our best shot at identifying her, what with no purse or any kind of markers. Fingerprints will take a few days because of the holiday.” He passed behind her, and the swirl of air following him carried the scent of his skin, a scent she’d know anywhere now. “I reckon the baby’s identity is up for grabs, too. Until we find more information, anyway.”

  She pressed her wet hands against her bleary eyes. His statement had sucked all the tension and energy out of the room. “The baby,” she said. “She was so quiet.” Water dripped from her hands, her face, small sounds in the silence. “You’ll find where she belongs?”

  “It’s a crap shoot. It’s likely there’s a connection with your vic. Either way, I want to know. The Coast Herald will run the story, have pictures. If she’s lucky, we’ll find her people.” His steps moved to the door. “Or not.” The screen door squeaked. “Sophie, somebody stuck that baby out in the rain on a cold night. Could be better for her if we don’t find them.”

  “She needs a family.”

  “Not necessarily. And not the one that dropped her like an unwanted puppy in the first convenient spot.”

  “Or where they knew she’d be found and taken care of.”

  He made a rude noise. “Anything’s possible, I guess.”

  Slowly Sophie turned to face him. “By the way, Judah, why didn’t you ask me these questions at the hospital?”

  He paused. “There wasn’t time.”

  “Really?”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “I don’t. Like you said, it’s in the eyes.”

  “Then you tell me, Sophie. Why did I bike all the way out here?” He was a dark shape in the doorway. “What other motive would I have? Tell me.”

  “As I mentioned a few minutes earlier, I think you have reasons for everything you do. And they’re not necessarily the obvious ones. So, detective, are you on duty, or off?”

  “I already told you, I didn’t plan what happened this morning.” He shifted, a shadow in shadows. “Look, Sophie, this thing that happened—”

  “No.” She shook her head, couldn’t stop shaking it. “No.”

  He sighed. His hand lifted, fell. “I had questions about the case. I didn’t ask them earlier. I’m on my own time. Working the case. That’s all.”

  “All right. Whatever you say.” Sophie wal
ked toward him. Sand gritted under her bare feet. “Any more questions? Are you through here?”

  “No more questions.” But he hesitated, still holding onto her door. “Not for the time being, anyway.”

  Sophie took the door from him, closed it gently. “Fine.” The mesh of the screen patterned his face. “If you think of some more questions, Judah, find me at the hospital. Make time there. Don’t come back here.”

  He studied her, his tired eyes like burned holes in a blue blanket.

  “And for future reference, I don’t like being called a fool. Don’t do it again.”

  His expression never changed. She met him stare for stare, silently. She wanted him to give her some indication that he understood what she was talking about, to acknowledge at least that her viewpoint was as valid as his harsh one, that hers offered the possibility of hope while his saw only the certainty of evil.

  Still expressionless, he shrugged once again and turned away. Midway down the steps he half-pivoted, his face in the gloom of the overhang. “You are a fool, you know. If you think people are more good than bad.”

  “Then I’m a fool. I’ll live with it. Go home, Finnegan. Or go back to whatever dark cave you call home. Just go.”

  This time he walked out into the gray day, the watery light casting his shadow westward in front of him.

  At the side of the road, his bike roared into action. The faint red taillight winked and disappeared down the south road to the bridge.

  “Damn you, Finnegan,” she whispered. Her hand curled against the screen. “You turn my life upside down and then walk away. How many times do I have to watch you vanish into the darkness?”

  Behind her, her house was silent, waiting.

  It had never felt empty before.

  Now it did.

  A window creaked with a gust of wind. A floorboard popped in one of the bedrooms. Sophie listened to the whispers coming from her empty house.

  She leaned her cheek against the screen door. She’d loved this house from the first minute she’d seen it. She loved the way the sun flooded it and bleached its old floorboards. She even loved the salt-sticky feel of the walls. All its spaces had welcomed her the minute she’d walked in with the Realtor. She knew she’d come home.

  When had it started feeling empty to her? It seemed to be holding its breath, waiting.

  The wind rattled the palm fronds, sent dried brown branches crashing to the ground. Pieces of cardboard and newspapers cartwheeled across the yard.

  She’d have a real clean-up job after the storm finally blew out.

  She went back into her kitchen and reheated water for tea in her orange microwave, waiting while it merrily ticked the seconds away.

  Another year winding down.

  Odd, Judah appearing in her life again, after a year. Their lives coming full circle in a way. Yet nothing was different.

  Everything was different.

  What had she done?

  The microwave timer ticked down the final seconds.

  She stared blindly at the bright reds and yellows of her kitchen. What had she done?

  The bell dinged. She picked up the mug, swished a new tea bag up and down and headed for the bathroom.

  With one hand she turned the shower faucet as hot as it would go. With the other, she set the mug on the sink edge. Shucking her clothes, she let the surfwear fall to the floor. A whimper escaped her as she stepped into the steam. Puffs of shampoo foam collected around her toes, floated around the drain. Rubbing the peach-soap-filled loofah over her body, she drew a quick breath and looked down.

  Her skin bloomed with whisker rash. Near her belly, her breasts—everywhere. The pounding of the shower pebbled her nipples into hard, aching points. The long muscles of her thighs trembled with strain and remembering.

  She smoothed the loofah down her body and gasped. The touch was unbearable. Head bent forward, she let the loofah fall.

  Too much sensation. Too much…everything.

  Her back against the tile, she slid to the shower floor and curved her arms protectively around her empty, aching body.

  Shudders wracked her for a long time before the tears came. Head buried against her drawn-up knees, she surrendered to the ugly, wrenching sobs.

  She cried for the patient she’d lost, for the baby who had no one, and, finally, a little, she cried for herself and the emptiness within her.

  When the water ran cold, she reached up and turned it off, then crawled out onto the bath mat and wrapped herself in one of her thick burgundy towels. Her skin was still too sensitized to dry with a towel, and her knees kept buckling.

  Bracing herself against the toilet, she stayed there for a long time on the warm mat, drifting in and out of awareness. Awake but not. Not asleep, either.

  Some burst of wind and rain startled her out of her sleep-that-wasn’t, and she blinked, coming fully awake.

  She rose clumsily to her feet, the towel trailing behind her. Looking down at herself, she examined again the trail of tiny marks, marks that Judah had left on her. She touched one and shivered, but not in pain.

  In remembered pleasure.

  In the bathroom mirror, her stunned eyes met her gaze. Uncombed dried hair coiled messily around her face. A faint discoloration showed at the base of her neck. But it was her eyes that fixed her attention.

  Judah was right. It was all in the eyes.

  With a shaking hand, she reached for her tea. It was cold, with a film topping it.

  Still wrapped in the towel, she trudged to the bedroom. She slipped a soft, midriff-baring shirt over her running bra. And then a pale purple shirt over that. She couldn’t seem to put enough layers of fabric between her skin and the air. The lightest brush along her skin sent shivers through her. She grabbed faded low-rider jeans and socks and shimmied into them.

  Even the tips of her fingers tingled.

  Did she need gloves?

  A full body wrap?

  She banged her head gently against her chest of drawers. She’d gone round some quaint Southern bend of thinking, that was it. She’d slipped into full Looney Tunes mode. It was time to move back north. Her brain had gone tropical.

  In the kitchen, she made a fresh pot of tea, opened a package of lemon-cream ginger cookies, and carried everything on her grandmother’s red-and-gold painted tray to the porch.

  Folding herself into the rocker, she rested her elbows on her knees and watched the waves boom and crash toward her as she sipped her tea and nibbled the cookies.

  And thought.

  Sex changed everything.

  Boy, did it ever.

  Later, even though the weather hadn’t cleared, she walked down the beach toward Sarasota. Socks stuffed in her pockets, she scanned the sand to see what the storm had washed up from the deep. Shiny pieces of sand-smoothed glass. Horseshoe crabs, wickedly ugly and perversely fascinating.

  Starfish.

  She picked them up and flung them back into the Gulf.

  Pretty shells, their colors shimmering in her hand and sparkling in the air as they spun over the water.

  One shell, all pearly and pink and perfectly formed stayed in her palm as she traced the whorls and crevasses glistening with salt water. The tip of a questing foot peeked out from its depths, tickled her hand.

  Storms always dredged up something interesting.

  You had to keep your eyes open.

  You could never tell what you’d find right underfoot.

  She sent the shell arcing and tumbling into the water, sending it home.

  As it spun out, rising, falling, a sudden shaft of sunlight turned it into a tiny star, sparkling against the gray clouds.

  Chapter 6

  What had he done?

  The rain was sporadic now, sudden gusts slashing against his sides as he gunned the Harley’s engine and let it rip. Bent low, hands clenched on the handles, he had to concentrate to keep the bike riding straight against the buffets of the wind.

  He’d lost control.

  H
e’d never lost control in his life.

  Never.

  Not with anyone. Not with his father, not with George. Damn sure not with Sallie. He’d let her walk out of their marriage without a second thought. Leaning into the slope of a curve in the road, he tried to picture the tiny redhead who’d been in his life for three years. He couldn’t get a clear memory of her face. But he’d loved Sallie, right? Sure he had.

  He must have. After all, he’d married her. You don’t marry someone if you don’t love them. They’d been eighteen. Sallie was cute, sexy as all get-out. He’d been hotter than a two-peckered billy goat. So they’d gotten married.

  Seemed like the reasonable thing to do at the time.

  He reckoned a nineteen-year-old guy getting regular sex would consider that a good marriage by definition.

  So why couldn’t he remember the color of Sallie’s eyes?

  Because he hadn’t cared enough to remember?

  Or because he hadn’t wanted to remember?

  Two very different motives.

  Gravel spat against his arm, nicked his chin. Hunching forward, he pushed the engine to its limit.

  The bike slid greasily on the sharp turn to the bridge, and he fought to keep it upright as he sped onto the old wooden-planked bridge that shivered with the wind.

  He’d never lost control with Sallie, not in any way. Not sexually. Not emotionally. They’d never argued. They’d never fought.

  Not even when he’d come home and found her packing her collection of crystal animals. Walking slowly toward her, trying to make sense of what she was doing, he’d looked down to see shards of the steins she’d given him for Christmas. His shoes crunching over the glass, he’d said only, “If you’re sure this is what you want.” He’d helped her swaddle her crystals in bubble wrap and carried everything down to the sports car he’d bought her for their first anniversary.

  Alone in the apartment, he’d swept up the glass and felt weirdly relieved. He should have felt sad. Lonesome. He should have felt something. He hadn’t. He’d felt only relief.