Trixie must have put it on thinking it would help her.
She listened for a moment. The blue balloon rose to her mind’s eye. There was a knife. Her wrists. The pill bottles.
So easy. So easy. So easy.
She had to say goodbye first.
She needed to talk to Sam. Needed to apologize again. The laptop wouldn’t stay still. She fought with the headache as she typed. It didn’t all make sense to her, but the idea was there. How many times could she apologize?
The medicine started to work quickly. The pain began to fade. She began to drift, floating, feeling lighter. She put a foot out of the bed onto the floor.
The world stopped revolving so quickly.
That was better.
Time passed.
She realized she wasn’t alone.
She was afraid to open her eyes.
A hand cupped her face. Just like Memphis from the night before. But this was freezing cold, almost like ice. It felt good. It helped the pain go away.
But then it moved, to her forehead, touching her scars. And she knew it wasn’t Memphis, wasn’t anything real. The panic began in earnest, the feeling that she was tied down, couldn’t move. Flashes from the night before invaded her mind, the long thrusts, the gentle sucking, the icy touches. It was Memphis, and Baldwin, and Roland now, all three of them crowding around her, touching her, making her gasp with pleasure, then with pain. Somehow her shirt was off, and her own hands found her breasts. She was feverish, burning up, and the icy fingers moved around her body, between her legs, through her hair. Something in her spoke, deep, insistent. This is wrong.
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.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
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 insomnia; 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 o
n 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.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
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?
CHAPTER FORTY
Baldwin paced through Amsterdam’s Schiphol airport. His flight to London had been cancelled. Everything into the U.K. was grounded for the foreseeable future.
He alternated trying Taylor’s cell with calls to Me
mphis. Neither one was picking up, and he was ready to pull his hair out.
He had to get to Scotland. It didn’t matter that the airports were closed. Taylor needed him.
He couldn’t drive, obviously.
It was time to call in the big guns.
He called Atlantic.
“Good job on Julius. Is there something else you need?”
“I need to get to Scotland. Just outside of Edinburgh.”
“Impossible. The airports are closed.”
“Atlantic, it’s an emergency. So help me God, if you don’t get me there, I will go public with your little operation.”
Atlantic chuckled, his laughter cold.
“You’d be dead before you uttered a word, Baldwin. But let’s not go there. I think of you like a son. And since it’s so vital that you reach your destination, get yourself to the following coordinates. And be prepared for a bumpy ride.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
It took Sam hours to clear the crime scene. Marcus, diligent, talented detective that he was, had pinned the wife down in a lie, and was back at Metro, interrogating her. It wasn’t his fault; they were all terribly distracted.
All they knew was that Bowerman planned to run all along, get settled somewhere, then bring his wife and kids. She swore she had no idea who the dead man in her living room was.
They didn’t believe her.
The dead man’s fingerprints registered back to a man named Joseph Trimble. Trimble was homeless, and according to a quick check with the folks at the mission, Trimble had a benefactor, someone he claimed was “helping him back on his feet.” Proving it was Bowerman was a different story.
On the surface, it seemed he’d been setting him up to be the fall guy for the bank robberies. But Marias González had ruined the plan, and Bowerman had been forced to stop her.
It was far from a tidy little scheme. It was unfortunate that they didn’t know where Bowerman was truly headed. The Regretful Robber, at least for the time being, had gotten away.
Sam finally got home at eleven-thirty, only six hours later than she’d been expected. Simon had put the twins down and was waiting for her with an open bottle of wine. Honestly, all she wanted to do was fall into the bed and sleep forever, but she accepted the offering and sat at the kitchen table with him for a few minutes.
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