When Shadows Fall

by J. T. Ellison

  She touched them then in her mind—Simon, his geeky glasses and floppy hair and crooked grin, the man she’d loved since they were teenagers; Madeline and Matthew, twins who’d shared her womb; the faceless little stranger taken from her by force. Four reasons for living, four senseless deaths.

  She waited for the urge to overtake her, but it didn’t.

  This must be what they meant when they talked about acceptance. And hope.

  She took a deep breath. “You want to know the worst part of losing Simon and the kids? Aside from their permanent absence, I mean? The pity. People pitied me. And damn it, I didn’t want that. I didn’t want their pity, their shoulders to cry on, their casseroles and whispers. I lost my world, and they just looked at me like I was the girl in the after-school special, incapable and sad and not myself. I didn’t become a different person, but everyone treated me differently. This is one of the big reasons I moved to D.C. You, and Xander, and Nocek—you don’t pity me. You understand what I’ve been through without making me feel bad about it. And I love all of you for it. But I am strong and capable and sick to death of these shackles. I refuse to feel guilty anymore for being happy. I’m going to go by the beat of my own drummer, and to hell with what people think.”

  The voice in her head stood up and took a bow.

  Fletcher’s face broke into a huge grin, making the bandage on his neck shift. “Well said, sister.” He held up a hand and high-fived her, making her laugh.

  “You seem awfully happy, my friend.”

  “That’s because as of this morning I’ve officially been promoted. Improves my outlook on life.”

  “To lieutenant? Congratulations. But I thought you wanted out?”

  “I did. I don’t know what possessed me to say yes, but I did, and so it’s happening.”

  “What’s Jordan think?”

  “She’s really happy for me.”

  “I’m happy for you, too, Fletch.” She put her hand on his arm, hoped he understood she was talking about more than his promotion. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Fletcher spoke into his comms unit, checked off everyone listening. They were all set. He raised an eyebrow. “You ready?”

  Sam adjusted the small wireless microphone they’d taped between her breasts, making sure there was no way anyone would suspect it was there, then gave him a sly smile. “Don’t worry. I was the lead in every school play we had. I’ve got this.”

  * * *

  Mac Picker ushered her into his office with a look of sheer confusion. She liked that he was off-balance. It had been a perplexing few days for him, certainly, but Sam hoped this little charade would be the key to getting the proof they needed to take Curtis Lott and Mac Picker down for good.

  Picker offered her coffee, which she accepted. Having a cup, a prop, would give her hands something to do so they wouldn’t shake.

  As cocky as she’d been in the car with Fletcher, she was feeling a few nerves now. This was it, this was their chance, and she couldn’t afford to blow it.

  Coffee doctored, she took a sip, then set it in its fine bone china saucer. Picker took the hint.

  “What can I do for you, Dr. Owens?”

  She smiled, tremulous. “For starters, can you call me Sam? I’m not here in an official capacity. Actually no one knows I’m here, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. You see...well, this is going to sound crazy, but I was hoping you could help me.”

  Picker’s face softened a touch, and he gave her an avuncular smile. “Help you how, my dear?”

  She cast her eyes downward. Careful, girl, careful. “This is very hard for me. I have a request of a very personal nature.” She looked up, knowing there were tears shining in her eyes. “Very personal. I’d like to state up front this conversation is so far off the record, I will deny ever having it if it comes to light.”

  Now she had his attention. He leaned forward in his old leather chair, the springs creaking under his weight. “If you retain me as your lawyer, everything we discuss here will remain under attorney-client privilege. Would you like to take that step?”

  She nodded. “I think that’s a very good idea. It would protect you. Especially considering what I’m about to ask.”

  “I see. All right, then. Let me just grab an attorney-client privilege form. Once you sign it we can talk freely. It will protect both you and me in the event there are questions later about our conversation.”

  He walked to his credenza and thumbed through a file, pulling out a single sheet of paper and bringing it to her. He was careful not to touch her as he handed her the paper. She glanced at it quickly—it wouldn’t do to look too interested in what it said—then signed her name. He signed, as well, then slid the form to the corner of his desk and sat expectantly in his chair.

  “What can I do for you, Sam?”

  She blurted out the words. “I want to have a baby.”

  He didn’t react, didn’t move.

  “I’m sorry. That didn’t come out right.” She took a deep breath. “I’m unable to have children anymore. I was married, and had twins, and was pregnant again when...” This time she did swallow hard, then stood and pulled the front of her shirt up. The scar was four inches long, sliced diagonally across her stomach below her belly button. She knew it was dramatic, the edges silver, the twist at the end leaving absolutely no question as to the nature of the wound.

  “I was held captive by a deranged man, and he made sure I lost my baby. And that I wouldn’t ever be able to have one again.”

  Picker sucked in a breath. “Dear God in heaven. I am so sorry.”

  There was no reason for him to know that the stabbing hadn’t caused the miscarriage; it was the stress of being held against her will, the stress of being captured and nearly eviscerated by a madman. That according to her doctor, there was no reason why she couldn’t conceive again, should she so choose.

  “Since I can’t have a child of my own, I’d like to look into adoption. With all the things that have gone on since Rolph Benedict’s murder, I’ll understand if you say no. But I overheard one of the detectives on the case when he was talking about you facilitating private adoptions. I certainly don’t want to go through an agency or anything like that. And when I say private, I mean private. I don’t want anyone to know the child is for me, and I want the mother to sign away her rights to any sort of future contact.” She gave him a meaningful look. “I don’t intend for my child to know I am not his or her mother.”

  He actually looked relieved. “Oh, Sam, I am sorry. We don’t engage in private adoptions anymore. There are so many legal issues these days with adoptees searching out their biological parents, the lawsuits were becoming more trouble than they were worth.”

  She shook her head.

  “Forgive me for being forward, Mr. Picker. And if you’re not interested, of course, you can tell me right now, and I’ll leave and you won’t hear from me again. But when I say private, I mean I want this adoption totally off the books. Your name, and your firm’s, wouldn’t be anywhere near it. It would just be an exchange of funds, cash, from me to you. You get paid, and I get the child I so long for. Everyone’s happy.”

  “Don’t you have a husband? A boyfriend? Wouldn’t he like to know about this?”

  “This is only for me, Mr. Picker. No one else. The way I see it, it’s simply no one’s business. Hypothetically speaking, how much are we talking here? How much would a baby cost me? Fifty thousand dollars? A hundred thousand? I have plenty of funds, Mr. Picker. Mac. Can I call you Mac?”

  She could have sworn his face lit up when she mentioned funds, but he was a careful old codger; he wasn’t biting. Not out loud, at least.

  “Sam. I understand your predicament, I surely do. Who could blame you, after losing your own babies? Of course
you’d want one of your own. There are many firms who do this sort of thing. I can put you in touch with a couple, very reputable, very professional about all this. I’m afraid this simply isn’t our bailiwick at Picker, Green and Thompson.”

  The missing “Benedict” hung between them like a shiny ringing gong. The firm certainly hadn’t wasted any time getting Rolph’s name off the masthead.

  “Never? You can’t do a favor for a friend?”

  “I’m sorry. No.”

  She cocked her head to one side. “Are we negotiating?”

  He shook his head, the avuncular and sympathetic smile gone. “There’s nothing to negotiate. I don’t do this sort of thing. It’s not proper. I’m very sorry, Dr. Owens. Sam. I’m not the right lawyer for you, and we’re not the right firm for you.”

  “If we could just talk a bit more about this, Mr. Picker.”

  His voice was cold and distant. “I’m afraid I have another meeting. I think it’s time for you to leave now.”

  Damn it. She’d lost him. Something she’d said must have tipped him off.

  He stood, and bent over his desk, pulling a yellow Post-it note from behind the phone. “Good day to you, ma’am. I hope your drive back to D.C. is pleasant.”

  He wrote something on the Post-it, then folded it and reached a hand out to shake. She stood, as well, and accepted his hand.

  He pressed the paper into her palm, then dropped his hand as if burned. He grinned at her then, and showed her to the door.

  She couldn’t wait to get out of the office. She stepped down the wide graceful stairs to the sidewalk, wiped the sweat from her brow. The mike was sticking to her skin in a most unpleasant way. He must have suspected he was being taped, was very careful not to say anything that could implicate him or the firm. But he was greedy. She’d seen it in his eyes. He wanted the cash. Maybe he was going to use it to sneak away; maybe he was playing her. Who knew? They’d have to be very careful going forward.

  She waited until she heard the door close behind her to check the note he’d given her. She unfolded the small square of yellow paper and felt her heart leap.

  $250k, cash, today by 5. Drop at Hoyle’s.

  They had him.

  TUESDAY

  “Keep your face always toward the sunshine—and shadows will fall behind you.”

  —Walt Whitman

  “Freedom is at hand, sayeth the Mother. Accept this dying breath as your final benediction and know, at last, you are free.”

  —Curtis Lott

  Chapter

  62

  Georgetown University School of Medicine

  Washington, D.C.

  THE FIRST MEETING of Sam’s Forensic Gross Anatomy class was over. Unlike other med school anatomy classes, this program was in place to study those who’d died violent deaths. It was specifically designed for doctors who wanted to be forensic pathologists. Who wanted to use science to right wrongs.

  The room smelled faintly of formaldehyde and the meat of open bodies, the sweat of anxiety and denatured alcohol. She dismissed the students with a smile. They’d done so well. Not a fainter in the group. She remembered her first gross anatomy class, her knees knocking in fear, the surreal experience of the bodies lying inert on the tables, the unshakable feeling they might all rise from their metal graves and march out of the room to a deeper unknown.

  The students left, chattering in excitement, and she packed her own things, happy to know she’d done a good job.

  The craziness of the weekend would never truly fade away, but she was determined to let it go. She’d done the best she could, and that was all anyone could ever ask of her.

  She ran back to her office to drop off her things, and was surprised to find her T.A., Stephanie, today with deep red streaks in her black hair in honor of the first day of bloodletting, in deep conversation with John Baldwin.

  Sam gave Baldwin a quick hug, watched Stephanie wilt. Then the girl smiled at her boss and walked out, leaving them alone.

  “I thought you went back to Nashville.”

  “I’ve got a flight in a couple of hours. I wanted to say goodbye properly. Can I buy you a quick lunch?”

  “Sure.”

  They walked to the Tombs, a Georgetown favorite, which was already thrumming with life at noon, the students who didn’t have afternoon classes tilting their pint glasses in happy abandon. Sam ordered a Lagavulin and fried calamari. Baldwin got Guinness and a bowl of chili.

  “So. Have you decided you miss this life enough to join us?” he asked.

  The server returned with their drinks. Sam swirled the amber Scotch around the glass. “I don’t miss it,” she said.

  “You’re lying, and we both know it. You should have seen yourself out there in the woods. The whole place was burning down and you’re scheming, then saving lives at the drop of a hat. The most experienced medics would have had a hard time with Fletcher’s injury. You did it without a thought.”

  “I was thinking, Baldwin, trust me.” More than you want to know.

  “I know you think you want to teach, be quiet, stay out of the fray, but it’s in your blood, Sam. Just like it’s in mine, in Xander’s and Fletcher’s. In all of us. We’ll make it work for you, however you need.”

  “You aren’t going to give this up, are you?”

  He grinned at her. “Nope.”

  She watched his deep green eyes, and nodded. Raised her Scotch, tapped his pint glass. Gave him a smile. “All right. I’m in.”

  * * *

  Xander and Thor were waiting for her at home, sitting out by the pool. Xander couldn’t get in the water all the way to swim, but could dangle his legs on the edge. It would be a few weeks until he could get back into his normal groove, and she knew it was already driving him mad.

  Thor barked once in hello. The cut on his nose was healing well. The vet had done a wonderful job.

  She kicked off her shoes and sat next to Xander. “Baldwin took me to lunch.”

  “Did you give him an answer?”

  She ran her hand in the water, watching the ripples. Like her life, everything she did rippled out and affected the people around her. “I said yes.”

  He hugged her with his good arm. “I figured so.”

  “Are you sure you’re cool with this? It’s going to mean changes.”

  “Hon, your drive, your passion, your commitment to helping others is one of the reasons I fell in love with you. Hell, you got me down off my mountain and inserted back into the real world. I wanted my life to start again because of you. I want you all for myself, but I know that’s not going to happen. You’re going to be great.”

  “I’ll continue teaching. That would be my primary job. D.C. would be home base. Baldwin said I could pick the cases, and I’d only be called in for special situations.”

  “This is good. You can still teach, still drive me mad, still do whatever you want.”

  He ruffled her hair off the back of her neck. Air flowed over her shoulder blades, cooling her. She was ready for summer to end. For the next phase of her life to begin. She kissed his cheek. “Thank you for understanding.”

  “I do. More than you know. Now. While we’re discussing big, life-changing events, I have something else I’d like to run by you.”

  She ran her finger along the edge of the ring he’d given her, and smiled at him. “Do you, now?”

  Epilogue

  I SUPPOSE YOU realize the truth by now. I was the one who killed Doug.

  I know you hate me. I hate myself. I never should have listened to him. Never agreed to his stupid plan, the one he cooked up with that crazy old lawyer.

  You’re asking yourself how I could do that to the man who saved my life. Who brought me out of the darkest recess of the world into the light. You want to know how I could kill a man I
claim to love. And why I would cry for him when I was finished choking the life out of him.

  I had no choice. In the end, Doug betrayed me. He’d conceived a plan to end his own life, because of his guilt, or his sickness, or whatever it was. In so doing, he brought every nasty, seedy, horrible moment of mine to light. I had put the past behind me. I had no desire to relive it. Yet now I have. Every wound reopened, every decision rethought.

  Now I know he was lying when he told me he had been to the doctor and was riddled with cancer. That he had only weeks to live, and those numbered days would be incredibly painful. He told me that he would die by his own hand were it not the gravest sin, and if I could take that sin from him, he would be forever grateful.

  When I refused, he reminded me of the horrible favor he’d done for me all those years ago, the night I’d been ripped apart from childbirth, tossed bleeding and exhausted into the darkness, left with a bottle of water and an empty womb, my blood leaking onto the dirt floor. He’d found me there, and spirited me away. Treated the infection that almost killed me, nursed me back to health, gave me a chance at a better life.

  He reminded me he chose to do that, to break with Eden, and his life. That he’d compromised everything he believed in, spent all those years hiding me, keeping me safe from Adrian and Curtis. That he’d educated me and loved me like a father, a brother, a lover, and if I loved him at all I would do this for him.

  When I still refused, he flew into a fury and attacked me. He said words I still do not comprehend about the night I was given to the Reasoning, the Reasoning that started the life in my womb. That the man Adrian was not the one who’d been there in my blindfolded darkness, but it was Doug, my surrogate father, my best friend and teacher, who’d held me down and raped me for hours. He was full of rage, his eyes wild and fiery, and he put his hand around my neck and forced me to listen to his confession, and in those brief moments of cataclysmic shock, I realized what he said was true.