by K C West
“Dr. Blair, may we come in?” she asked.
Icy fingers of fear raced through me, settling in my gut. “Yes, of course.” I stepped aside.
“This is Constable William Thomas,” Blodwyn said. We nodded at each other. Apprehension had formed a giant lump in my throat. I searched Blodwyn’s face for some explanation for their visit. She met my gaze and held it. “Detective Chief Inspector Doreen Edwards has been in touch with Mr. Curtis. He asked us to speak to you. He didn’t want you to be alone when you got the news.”
Oh, Jesus. A wave of nausea washed over me. “What news?”
“I think you had better sit down.” The sergeant motioned me to a chair.
I sat, glancing from one to the other, willing my nerves to settle down. This couldn’t be good news. They were too formal, too polite, too damned considerate. “Please, get on with it. Tell me what’s happened.”
The sergeant and the constable exchanged glances before she continued. “We have an unidentified body in the morgue. A woman.”
“No! No, please. It’s not PJ. There’s some kind of mistake.”
Sergeant Jones crossed the distance between us and put a hand on my shoulder. “We don’t know for sure, but the general description fits your colleague.”
“No.” The room darkened and began spinning. I bent my head and covered my eyes, trying to combat the dizziness. The sergeant put her arm around me and steadied me until I regained some control.
I wanted to cry. I needed to cry, but I couldn’t. Damn Frederick. Why hadn’t he told me right away? I had slept in our bed last night thinking that PJ was a captive somewhere, but alive. And now to have found out that she -
“We need you to come with us,” Constable Thomas said, in a clipped, business-like manner.
I stared at him, not comprehending.
“To identify the remains.”
Drowning in a black pool of confusion and despair, I gathered up my jacket and shoulder bag, only vaguely aware of Sergeant Jones helping me into the police car.
“We have to go to Aberystwyth,” she said as she slid into the backseat beside me.
“Aberystwyth?”
“That’s where she was found, on South Beach.”
“How did she - ?”
“Gunshot.” The sergeant hesitated a moment before continuing. “She was shot and then dumped in the ocean.” Her warm hand rested on my arm. “We have reason to believe she was still alive when she went into the water.”
“Stop!” I motioned with my hand, and the car came to an abrupt halt. I stumbled out and vomited into the weeds at the base of an ancient rock fence.
*
It was all a mistake. She couldn’t be dead.
I thought it when they first told me about the body, and I continued to think it as we walked into a forbidding, gray stone building that reeked of disinfectant.
Not my PJ.
I was shown into the anteroom, and I steeled myself for what I knew I had to do. I wondered if I was capable of viewing her with all the light and vitality gone from her eyes.
She was too young, too loving, too full of life.
My knees started to buckle. Sergeant Jones held on to me, guiding me to a hard metal chair.
It was only then that I became aware of another woman in the room. “What the hell are you doing here?” I asked.
“Frederick Curtis hired me to help with the investigation.”
Sergeant Jones shot me a puzzled look. “Dr. Simms is one of the best known forensic anthropologists in your country.”
“Oh, I know all about Dr. Simms.” My tone was not kind. I couldn’t stomach the idea of Terry Simms being around right now, no matter how impressive her credentials. Even after all these years, my feelings toward her were still raw. Why did Frederick think this woman could help with anything? There were plenty of dedicated medical examiners in Wales. And frankly, I’d trust any one of them over her.
PJ’s father, though, had no way of knowing that Dr. Terry Simms and I had been lovers for many years, until Terry left with a younger and, in her words, “livelier woman.” I did not want to share my grief with her.
“We’ll be with you in a minute,” Sergeant Jones said, leaving the two of us alone in the charged atmosphere of the bare room.
“So, how have you been?” A faint smile played around Terry’s attractive mouth.
“You dare to ask me that now?”
She shrugged. “Sorry, I’m just making conversation.”
“Then save it.”
“Is that the best you can do, when we haven’t seen each other for, what, almost a year? As I recall, you weren’t very friendly then, either.”
I folded my arms and turned away from her, remembering the night she had showed up unexpectedly at my motor home in Apache Junction, basically announcing my sexual preference to PJ and Sandy. “It’s the best you’re going to get.”
“By the way, is there any truth to the rumor that you’ve been sharing a mattress with Curtis’s daughter? Quite a catch. How’d you manage that?”
I turned around and glared at her. “What I do is none of your business.”
“Was she as good as I was?”
I turned away again, livid.
Terry gave a dramatic sigh and began to pace. “But then, you had to teach her, didn’t you? She was new to the life as well as new to you. Such a drag, having to tell someone where and how to touch you.”
I balled my fists and turned on her. “Terry, shut up before I shut you up.”
“Struck a nerve, did I?”
“And stop referring to her in the past tense.”
She held up her hands in mock surrender. “Sorry. Really, I am. I’ll change the subject. Perhaps, when we’re done here, I can interest you in some lunch.”
“Damn lunch and damn you!” I wanted to slap the smirk off her face. “As far as I’m concerned, the less we see of each other the better.”
“Hey! I’m not the enemy here.” Terry flopped onto one of the scratched and dented chairs and propped her briefcase against a table leg. “Curtis hired me as part of his team to help find his daughter.”
“I’m sure Mr. Curtis is making it worth your while.”
“He’s paying me well.” She leaned back against the chair, arms folded. “For as long as I’m here, I’ll do my job to the best of my ability, with or without your help.” For a moment, she was serious and almost sounded believable.
“See that you do.”
*
Sergeant Jones led us into a cold-storage locker room and introduced the assistant medical examiner. His name passed by me in a blur. The body, covered with a white sheet, lay on a bare metal table. The smell of disinfectant overpowered everything else.
This couldn’t be real. It was a nightmare. Any moment now, I would wake up. PJ would be with me and everything would be all right.
Terry, thank the gods, had the presence of mind to stand behind me, out of my line of sight. Sergeant Jones stood next to me, her hand on my elbow. “It won’t be easy,” she said quietly. “Being in the water hasn’t helped. I suggest that rather than seeing her face, you look for distinguishing birthmarks or scars. It might be easier.”
“Yes, of course, but I’d like to see her face.”
“It’s not a pretty sight.”
“I understand.”
“I’m not sure you do.”
“Please. I must see her face.”
“Very well, you tell me when you’re ready.” The assistant medical examiner stood beside the table, his hands on the sheet, ready to fold it back for my inspection.
My mouth went dry, and a buzzing sound filled my ears. I felt like an actor, going through the motions, as if on stage in a Shakespearean tragedy. Soon, I would walk off into the wings and the show would be over, and so would this nightmare.
Or was my nightmare just beginning?
I nodded and braced myself for what I was about to see.
The assistant folded the sheet down to her should
ers. Her face was blue, bloated, and damaged beyond recognition. I swayed. The sergeant’s grip on my arm tightened, her other arm circled my waist. Bile rose into my throat, cutting off my breath, choking me.
The hair was the right color and length. I shook my head, trying to dispel the vision. “I’m just not sure. She has a tattoo of a shamrock,” I whispered to Sergeant Jones, “on her buttock.”
“Which side?”
I couldn’t answer. My mind had ceased to function.
“Check her bum for a tattoo,” the sergeant instructed the assistant.
He covered the face before rolling the body forward, away from him. After a thorough examination, he shook his head. Then, he walked around the table to check the other side. He shook his head again. “No tattoos.”
“No tattoos,” the sergeant echoed.
All the apprehension I’d been struggling to overcome escaped, exploding outward in a huge sigh of relief.
“You’re sure about the tattoo?” the sergeant asked. “She may have told you she had one. Have you actually seen it for yourself?”
I nodded. “Yes, and you wouldn’t miss it.”
As we were leaving, I turned to look at the sheet-draped young woman on the table. “What happened to her face? It appears to be more than water damage.”
“She was caught in the rocks. The incoming and outgoing tides battered her without mercy. Did a lot of damage, it did, to her head and shoulders.”
“I’m glad I couldn’t identify you as my friend,” I said to the dead woman, “but I hope someone who loves you will claim you and lay you to rest in a lovely garden.”
“Sometimes no one claims them,” Sergeant Jones said. “It’s like they’re little more than rubbish to be thrown away.”
“If that’s the case with her, please see she’s buried somewhere nice and send the bill to me.”
“You mean that?”
“Yes, I do.” I laid my hand on the sergeant’s forearm. “Will you do that for me?”
“Yes, I will. I thank you on her behalf for your kindness.”
“I’m sure Dr. Curtis would want it, too.” I took a deep breath. “And now, I must return to Dolgellau.”
“I’ll have the constable drive you.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. You’ve been very kind.”
“I’m relieved that she wasn’t your colleague. I hope we find her in good health, and soon.”
“Thank you.”
I turned my back, and without another word to Terry, hurried the constable along.
PJ was still missing, so I had work to do.
Chapter 15
Kim and I were running along the beach below the cottage in Newport, dodging sea grass and ocean-polished stones. She wore a black, one-piece swimsuit that looked stunning on her. I couldn’t wait to get it - and her - wet.
With each stride, we came closer to the incoming tide. The waves surged and foamed, sliding across the damp sand at our feet. As one large wave broke, I nudged Kim toward it. She slipped and recovered, but not before getting her shoes and ankles wet.
“Yeow! That’s so cold.” She hopped from one foot to the other. A devilish grin creased her face. “Come here, you.”
I couldn’t escape her firm grasp, and seconds later we both splashed into the water.
“Ahh! It is cold. But it feels great. Doesn’t it feel great?”
She lifted one soggy shoe. “The water feels good, but I’m not sure this gritty sand is going to do anything special for these Nikes.”
“Then take them off,” I said, laughing. “I’ll hold you up.”
While I held onto her waist, she yanked one off, but another wave caught up to us. Thoroughly soaked now, I gasped and swallowed a mouthful of saltwater.
Kim screamed.
“Hey, it’s okay. I’ll get you.” I reached out my hand, but she fell away with another scream, this one more desperate.
“Kim!” I sat up in total darkness with the thin blanket tangled around my legs. “Kim?” Sweat dampened my neck and chest, plastering the T-shirt to my body.
In a rush, it all came back to me. I was still a captive, and I’d had a nightmare. There was no ocean, no Kim. Just me, alone in this basement room.
I heard the scream again. A woman, in pain.
This time, I wasn’t dreaming. Sweet Jesus. Was it Sarah?
I pitched sideways off the cot, stumbled to the door, and pounded against it. “Open up, damn it! What’s happening? Sarah! Are you okay?”
Nobody answered me. My hands stung from beating against the solid wood, but no one came to the door. I pressed my ear to its surface trying to hear something, anything, but I only heard the thumping of my heart.
A scream in the night wasn’t a good sign. But they wouldn’t hurt her, would they? They needed her to take care of me.
I fumbled for the light switch and blinked when the dull light illuminated my cellar room. Shivering with cold and fear, I returned to the cot and pulled on my jeans. With the blanket pulled up around my shoulders, I waited, but all was quiet. There were no more screams, no heavy footsteps, and no voices. Only silence.
*
I heard a rustling noise in one corner and opened my eyes. I hadn’t intended to fall asleep, but somewhere between the screams and the rustling, I must have dozed off. There was daylight in the room now in addition to the overhead light, which I had left on. How could I have gone back to sleep when Sarah might be hurt?
The rustle came again. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a small brown mouse venture out of the shadows, scamper toward my dinner tray, and sniff at the remains of last night’s meal.
I watched in fascination as he sat up on his haunches and surveyed his surroundings. We looked right at each other, or so I thought.
“Sorry, fella. There’s just a crust or two of bread and maybe a crumb of cheese.”
He dipped his furry muzzle into what was left of my cheese sandwich and came up rubbing his whiskers.
“Good, huh?” I whispered. “I’ll try to get you more for breakfast.”
He snatched up the bread, raced into the shadows, and vanished as quickly as he had arrived. I smiled. I wasn’t alone in this prison. I had a roommate. Then, I shuddered. Wait a minute. What was I thinking? It was a mouse, second cousin to a rat, like those ugly things that were in the shed where Kim and I hid at the Morrison estate. But this was different. He was cute and hungry and a survivor. I could learn a lot from the little guy.
The door rattled and my guards entered. “What’s going on?” I asked. “Why didn’t you come when I called you earlier? Where’s Sarah? Is she okay?”
“Shut up. You ask too many questions.” Garlic Breath’s dark eves glared at me from the ski mask.
“What have you done to her?”
Woodsy gathered my shoes and wool shirt. “Come with us. The boss wants to see you.”
“Wait. Wait a minute.” This was something new, a change from the routine. Fear made a tight fist in my stomach. Don’t panic. Think tough.
“Don’t I get to use the bathroom or eat breakfast first?”
“Shit!” Garlic Breath gripped my shoulder in his meaty paw and gave my whole body a shake. “Always a pain in the ass, aren’t you? You can use the John, but the only way you’ll get breakfast is to fix it yourself.”
His nicer companion handed me the shirt and shoes, then glanced at his partner. “Hey, maybe she could fix us all something to eat.”
“Sure.” I smiled at him, as I slipped into the shirt and pulled on the shoes. “I’d be - ”
“I said shut up, damn it.” Garlic Breath’s thick fingers clamped around my cheeks and jaw, daring me to speak further. “The boss is waiting. We’ll figure the other stuff out later.”
He pulled me upright and yanked my hands behind my back. The straps dug into my wrists, irritating the old wounds.
“Is this really necessary? You two are twice my size.” I tried a glare of my own, but it was lost on them. They were too intent on getting me up
stairs to meet their boss.
“Sorry, miss. It’s the boss’s orders,” Woodsy mumbled by way of apology.
We shuffled along in single file with me between them. “And we certainly wouldn’t want to disobey the boss, would we?”
Garlic Breath turned around so suddenly that I slammed into him and bounced a few steps backwards. Talk about a brick wall.
He grabbed a fistful of my shirt and twisted it at the neck, forcing my head upward. His breath fouled the air between us. “You shut your yap, bitch. Not another sound.”
Sensing that he was at the end of his minimal allotment of patience, I decided to keep my pithy retorts to myself and climbed the steps in silence. Pastel-striped wallpaper lined the sides of a narrow hallway in what I thought might be an effort to make the windowless passage lighter and brighter. It failed on both counts.
I was hustled into what was probably the dining room. A large wooden table commanded most of the space in the center, and four sturdy chairs with woven seats surrounded it. There were a couple of brown-toned pastoral prints hanging from the walls, and some thick, dust-covered drapes hung at the window, blocking out most of the daylight. Compared to my basement prison cell, the upstairs felt dry and warm. Though a large ceramic lamp was lit, the ambience was not at all friendly.
We entered in silence. Playing the part of a defiant captive, I held my head high and kept my posture erect. Both guards had prodded and poked me along our journey upstairs, and I bristled at the unsolicited contact.
Woodsy’s touch was innocent enough. He seemed intent on keeping me from falling and out of reach of Garlic Breath’s roaming hands. Resentment built inside me with each little pinch or squeeze from that oversized animal. The creep drew a chair away from the table, turned it sideways, and, using a combination shove and grope, forced me to sit. My butt slammed against the hard seat, and my bound wrists scraped along the wide slats of the chair’s back.
I gasped in pain.
When he patted my cheek, I tried to bite one of his fingers. He snatched his hand away before I could connect, so I settled for a murderous glare.
He winked at me behind his mask.
A tall, well-built man entered the room. He wore a black ski mask and a tailored black suit. Armani? No, that new French designer, Rene Delacorte. This thug had good taste in clothing, not that it helped me any.
