Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 2

by J. T. Ellison

  Wonderful. Brilliant.

  They went into the room. A young man dressed in gray was led in. His head was shaved. He looked cold.

  He sat at the table and lit a cigarette.

  Memphis and Pen sat across. Pen made a show of taking out her notebook, setting up her pen, before she cleared her throat and dove in.

  “Mr. Madison. Thank you for volunteering to talk with us. You know why we’re here. Tell us about your friend Roger.”

  The man—no, he was just a boy, really—had wide blue eyes. He smoked the cigarette as if he’d just learned, not inhaling, but pulling the smoke into his mouth, holding it and blowing a stream that dissipated the moment it hit the chilled prison air.

  “You have to promise me that I’ll get out of here. I don’t belong here. All I did was steal some oranges from the takeaway. There’s people in here done much worse.”

  “We will make a recommendation. You have our word. Now, tell us about Roger Waterstone.”

  “Not Roger. Urq. He’s batshit. He seems all fine, but once you’re in, he drops the mask. But by then, you’re on the pipe, and it’s too hard to walk away. Nothing’s free, you know. Nothing’s ever free. I wanted to get straight, so he kicked me out.”

  Puff. Blow. Puff. Blow.

  “Kicked you out of the church?”

  “Out of the house, innit. The house on Baker Street. The one no one’s supposed to know about.”

  Memphis’s cell phone rang. He cursed. He wasn’t supposed to have it in here. Pen shot him a look. He jumped up, apologizing, and stepped out of the room.

  The phone number was instantly recognizable. It was the house phone at Dulsie.

  Ignoring the guard’s steely glare, he answered. It was Trixie.

  “I think you’d best come back, my lord. Something is terrible wrong with Miss Jackson.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Taylor paced the sitting room, back and forth, back and forth. She couldn’t get his face out of her head. His eyes, empty and unseeing, looking right into her soul.

  Taylor didn’t know what else to do. She called Sam’s cell phone, not caring that she was interrupting her work.

  Sam answered on the fourth ring.

  “Sorry, I was gloved. What’s wrong?”

  “How did you know something was wrong?”

  “You’ve got your voice back. Sounds like it hurts to talk, but that’s wonderful!”

  “He’s coming for me, Sam.”

  “Who is?”

  “The Pretender. He’s here. He’s been following me around the castle.”

  “Taylor, honey, you’re imagining things. You’re just overtired. Overwrought. You need rest. You need sleep. Drink your tea and go to bed. Maybe back off the Percocets. They can make you a little goofy.”

  “I’m not being goofy, Sam. I know it can’t be real. But it’s happening all the time now. It’s getting worse.”

  There was a brief pause.

  “What’s happening all the time? What are you talking about, Taylor?”

  “It was my fault, Sam. It was all my fault. If it weren’t for me, you’d still be pregnant.”

  “Taylor, honey, stop saying that.”

  She did a lap around the room, stopping at the fireplace. She pulled her notebook from her back pocket and threw it in. The evidence needed to be destroyed. She had to destroy it all before it was too late.

  “No, really. Maddee made me see, Sam. If I’d come straight to you, if I hadn’t waited, I could have stopped him. I could have saved you.”

  Tears started down her face. She needed to confess. To be shriven. To have Sam chase all the ghosts away.

  There was silence, then Sam sighed.

  “Taylor. You need to listen to me. The very first thing he did was stab me. It happened hours before you knew I was missing. There’s nothing you could have done. Did you hear me? He stabbed me. Not you. You are not to blame for this. He was a sick man who chose to do what he did. Do you understand me?”

  Taylor heard the words but they didn’t sink in. She couldn’t get her feet under her. She couldn’t erase the image of Sam, her eyes brimming with tears, the pool of blood at her feet.

  “Taylor, I’ve got open bodies. I have to go back to work now. But listen to me. You have to stop internalizing all this. You have to let it go. You aren’t the only one having problems. The sooner you see that, the sooner you’ll be back to normal.”

  The phone was a snake with bared fangs. She shut her eyes then opened them. It became a phone again.

  Sam was right. This wasn’t all about her. She just needed to find a way to make everyone else understand that.

  *

  Sam hung up the phone, worried. Taylor had been drinking, without a doubt. She always got paranoid when she had too much to drink.

  It was my fault.

  Oh, God. A wave of despair crashed over Sam. In her darker moments, she’d said the very same thing about her girl, her best friend.

  But she knew, in her heart, that she couldn’t blame Taylor. The Pretender was the one who’d made the choice. He’d kidnapped her. He’d knifed her in the abdomen. He was responsible. Not Taylor.

  But something felt wrong about this. She’d sounded…scared, for lack of a better term. And that wasn’t something Sam ever saw in Taylor. Fear wasn’t an option for her.

  She picked up the phone and let it dangle between her fingers. Taylor would kill her if she went behind her back.

  Some things couldn’t be helped.

  Sam dialed Baldwin’s cell. The voice mail kicked in immediately. She debated, then hung up without leaving a message.

  She was being irrational. This was Taylor. Probably on a bender. And off on her own, with no support system to tell her things were fine and to put down the bottle.

  Sam wrote her a note, encouraging her to lay off the alcohol and pills for a couple of days, see if her headache wasn’t some sort of rebound from the opiates, and went back to work.

  She couldn’t face it anymore. Not now.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Taylor couldn’t sleep.

  She’d taken all the meds, dutifully, one by one. Laid in bed, fretting. Worried she shouldn’t have called Sam. Knowing she’d just dragged all the bad stuff back to the surface.

  Her unique gift—shitting on the parade.

  What was wrong with her? She was supposed to be getting better. Yes, she had her voice back, but Maddee’s words rang through her head over and over until they became mantra.

  They don’t trust you.

  They don’t trust you.

  They don’t trust you.

  She got out of the bed. The snow fell in graceful piles outside her window. The fresh green landscape was gone, covered in a blanket of white.

  She knew that feeling. She was being smothered.

  There was nothing else to do.

  She closed the drapes and sat on the chair by the bookcase. The only light came from the fire.

  She invited the ghost, and let the memories take her.

  When it came for her, she didn’t even flinch.

  *

  Four in the afternoon. She had no idea what day it was. She was freezing cold in the chair, the fire gutted. Her head was splitting. The detritus of her pity party lay scattered around the room. Yikes. It looked like a rock star’s hotel room, minus the furniture damage. She’d had a little too much to drink.

  Chagrined, Taylor straightened up, then showered and dressed. She was sick of sitting in her room, sick of letting things happen to her. She’d never get it together like this.

  She decided to go for a prowl around the castle. If she couldn’t go outside, at least she could stretch her legs inside.

  When she reached her door, she saw a piece of paper had been shoved under it. It must have been delivered while she slept. The note was handwritten, and Taylor didn’t recognize the handwriting. She scanned to the bottom and saw the name Maddee signed in a flourish.

  She was tempted to rip the thi
ng to pieces, but decided to be a grown-up about it. The note was simple, straightforward.

  Dear Taylor,

  I am so sorry for the way yesterday’s session ended. Please accept my apologies. I was trying to get you to vocalize. I thought if you got mad enough, you’d forget that your voice wasn’t working. While it did work, I was wrong to handle it that way.

  Can we try again? I’m here in the castle. I came back to apologize in person and the snow has hampered my escape. I didn’t want to wake you. My husband will be along to fetch me in his four-wheel drive after dinner.

  Friends?

  Yours truly,

  Maddee

  *

  Taylor’s first thought was Bitch. Her second was Fine. It had worked. She did have her voice back.

  She needed to get out of this room anyway, so she didn’t just sit and pout for the rest of the day. It would be good to have some company for dinner, at least. Provided they stayed on safe topics.

  She gathered her sweater and headed downstairs.

  Maddee was sitting in the drawing room, right where Taylor had left her yesterday. If she hadn’t actually seen her drive off after their aborted session, she would have assumed she’d never left. Her hair was still skinned back from her face. She was reading a magazine. Taylor caught the cover as she turned the page—the glossy Hello! So the woman wasn’t above a little gossip.

  Taylor cleared her throat and Maddee jumped.

  “Wow, you’re quiet. Hey, I’m so glad you came down.” She put the magazine on the couch and came to Taylor. “I’m so sorry. I thought, well, you read the note. You know what I thought. No chance it helped?”

  She looked genuinely remorseful and hopeful at the same time. Taylor forgave her. She was just trying to help.

  “Yes. It did. I don’t condone what you said, that really hurt. But I can talk. So I guess in one way I owe you a debt of gratitude.”

  “What about some tea?”

  Taylor saw that the ubiquitous tea cart was sitting against the wall. She shook her head, she was getting sick of tea.

  “What about a little whisky, then? That might help things along.”

  She shook her head, vehemently. She hated whisky. But some hair of the dog wouldn’t go amiss. Her head was pounding, and it wasn’t from the aftereffects of the shooting.

  “I’ll have some, if you don’t mind. I don’t want to drink alone, though. What will you have?”

  There was a small bar off to the right of the tea cart that Taylor hadn’t noticed before. Maddee bustled up to it, picked out a decanter and poured some amber liquid into a cut-crystal glass. The scent of… Good grief, that was Jack Daniel’s. Her stomach turned. Ugh.

  Taylor picked through the other decanters until she found one that was red. She took the stopper out and sniffed. Yes, the vintage port. She poured some for herself.

  They sat opposite one another on the sofa, clinked glasses and drank.

  Maddee took a slow sip, savoring, then, with a wink at Taylor, tossed the rest of the drink back.

  “What the hell, right? We’re stuck here for a bit, and I’m not driving. Roland might get lucky—if he’s a good boy. What do you say, Taylor. Shall we tie one on?”

  She went to the bar and poured herself a bigger shot this time, mixed in some Coke, dropped in a couple of square ice cubes.

  Taylor debated for a second. It wouldn’t take much to get her back over the edge. But a beer wouldn’t hurt.

  She set the wine down on the table and rummaged in the small refrigerator under the bar until she found a Heineken.

  “Oh, no. Not that swill. You need to drink a real beer.” Maddee dipped down and looked in the fridge, pulled out a Tennant’s lager.

  Maddee handed her the bottle, then turned to the bar and found a glass. She held up it critically to the light, then apparently decided it would do. She took the Tennant’s back from Taylor and poured it into the glass ceremoniously.

  “We are in a castle. Drinking out of the bottle is a bit gauche, don’t you think?”

  Taylor smiled and nodded. She’d had Tennant’s before. She liked it well enough. She took the proffered glass and took a sip. They settled into the chairs.

  Maddee turned out to be good fun. She regaled Taylor with stories, tidbits about the estate, about Memphis and his foibles, of which there were many, and gossip about the servants. She knew everyone, it seemed. She assiduously avoided the topic of Evan, which suited Taylor just fine.

  Trixie came for them at seven, to announce that dinner was ready, and found them both quite tipsy. They made their way up the stairs to the second dining room. Taylor sat heavily at the table. She was suddenly feeling the beer, was light-headed and silly. Her hands moved clumsily as they tried to secure her napkin.

  Dinner was a somewhat simple affair, with only soup, Highland steaks, carrots, peas and a side of boiled potatoes, but Maddee insisted they have a bottle of champagne to toast their newfound friendship. The bell was rung, the serving girl sent off to the cellars. She returned five minutes later with a bottle of Dom Perignon, 1987. Taylor had to admit, there was something nice about having a massive wine cellar of excellent vintages at your disposal.

  Maddee popped the cork and poured. She held the crystal flute high and slurred, “To friends.”

  “To Scotland,” Taylor said.

  They clinked glasses again, buddies, and tucked into dinner.

  The food was good, a bit undersalted for Taylor’s taste tonight, but she guessed that had to do with her throat being sore. Three bites into the steak, her stomach started to get upset. She set her fork down and licked her lips. Surely she wasn’t going to get sick. She hadn’t had that much to drink.

  It was quickly apparent that she was most definitely wrong.

  “Where’s the bathroom?”

  Though drunk, Maddee’s face creased in concern.

  “Over there, through the cream-colored door. Do you need me?”

  Taylor shook her head and bolted for the door. There was a long hall that ended in a bath. Thanking whichever earl had decided to install modern plumbing, she ran down the hall and made it just in time.

  She vomited up all the drink and food. Even had some dry heaves for good measure. That wasn’t going to help her throat.

  After fifteen minutes, she cleaned herself up and was able to make her way back to the dining room. Maddee was still there, but her head was on the table, cradled in her arms. She’d passed out before the pudding.

  Good grief. Taylor made a note to check the alcohol content of the beer she’d had. Even after being sick, getting all the alcohol out of her system, she still felt woozy and unsteady on her feet.

  There was a bit of a commotion from the hall, and with effort, Taylor turned her head toward the main dining room door. A stocky brown-haired man came through. He took in the scene, shaking his head.

  “Och, Maddee, lassie, what have ye done?” He turned to Taylor. “Ye must be Memphis’s friend. I’m Roland MacDonald, Maddee’s husband. Ye’ll no be better off than she, I see. Trixie,” he called. “Trixie!”

  Trixie appeared through the same door.

  Roland was smiling good-naturedly, though Taylor could tell he was annoyed. “These lassies have drank themselves to sleep. See to the lass there. I’ll get Maddee home.”

  “Och, Miss Taylor, are you all right?” Trixie’s concern was nice. Taylor allowed herself to be led from the room. She heard Maddee come to a bit as she left.

  “Hiya, honey,” she said to Roland, then started to laugh. She hardly sounded drunk, just exceptionally happy.

  But Taylor definitely was intoxicated. Her feet weren’t moving the right way. She had to lean heavily on Trixie’s arm, and listen to the older woman muttering under her breath.

  “Not right for women to act like that. What was she thinking?”

  Taylor wished she could tell Trixie that she really hadn’t had much, just the beer and a few sips of champagne, not enough to be sick, for Christ’s sake, but she s
ettled for an agreeable mmm-hmm and let herself be led into her rooms.

  “Ye’ll be needing some ginger tea, that will help with the digestion. And the headache, I daresay. Sit ye down and let me call for it.”

  Taylor needed some water, that’s what she needed. She weaved her way to the bar, found a liter bottle of Highland Springs, and brought it back to her chair. She couldn’t get the lid off. Her hands weren’t working right. Her head wasn’t working right either. Jesus, she was bleeding drunk.

  Deciding discretion was the better part of valor, she dropped the water, swayed upright and managed to get to the bed. She sat on the edge, hoping Trixie would come back soon and lift her feet off the floor. Her eyes just wouldn’t stay open.

  She dimly heard Trixie return, heard the clinks of teacups, then the world turned dark and swallowed her.

  *

  When Taylor woke, she was alone. The room was pitch-black. The fire had gone out again, or she’d gone blind. The thought made her want to throw up, so she lay quietly in the bed until the urge passed.

  Her head was pounding. She’d passed out without taking the Fioricet or Percocet. She’d be a mess until she got that in her.

  Bolstering her courage, she sat up. The headache made her sway in place. She’d never felt the pain this bad, not even when she’d woken from the coma after the shooting and the halo held her head steady, the four points of the metal biting into her flesh. Thank God it was dark in the room; she couldn’t imagine dealing with light.

  Her feet touched the cold floor. Good. Upright. She managed to get into the bathroom, using the walls for guidance. The pill containers were out. She didn’t know which was which, so she opened all four and extracted a pill from each of them. Fioricet, Ativan, Percocet, melatonin. Got water flowing, into a cup, into her mouth.

  It took all of her effort to make it back to the bed. She got horizontal, the searing pain making her nauseous again.

  Don’t be sick. Don’t be sick. Don’t be sick.

  There was a voice on the radio, or television. She didn’t know which. She didn’t know how to shut it up. How could she shut off that damn voice?

  She listened. It hurt. Then she realized what it was. Maddee’s biofeedback tape.