Final Words

by Teri Thackston

  Feeling the weight of Edgar’s gaze as he took a position beside her, Emma picked up a ruled scalpel with her right hand. Then, facing the body, she placed her left hand on its chest. “Let’s see what else Mr. Turner has to say.”

  “I have plenty to say, Dr. St. Clair.”

  Emma’s heart slammed into her ribs. She looked up from the corpse to the figure standing near Skitch on the far side of the table.

  Tall and lanky, face gaunt and eyes hollow, the young man settled both hands on his hips and glared at her. His right eye drooped slightly. “I want everyone to know what that hop-headed little wimp did to me,” he said. “I want him punished for this!”

  Emma looked down at her fingers as they splayed across the naked chest of the dead man. It’s my touch, she realized with some distant fascination. That’s what brings out the spirits. They appear only after I touch the body.

  “Doc, you’re looking funny again.”

  As her attention shifted toward Skitch, Emma tried to force her face into an innocent expression. “I’m fine.”

  “Emma?” Edgar leaned forward to peer into her eyes.

  “I’m fine,” she said again. Her voice sounded, to her relief, good and strong. She realized too, that while her heart raced, it did so at a steady pace.

  “Well, I ain’t fine!” shouted the shade of Dennis Turner. “I’m dead! I’m pissed! And I want that little weasel to pay!”

  “Victim is a white male.” Emma hoped the image would leave if she ignored its presence. “There are numerous signs of drug abuse. Along with what appears to be an exit wound in the upper left chest from a gun shot.”

  “That hop-head was a regular customer and I always treated him fair.” The apparition paced behind Skitch. “But last night he groused about my prices. When I told him to take it or leave it, he shot me in the back and stole my whole stash plus all the cash I’d collected that day. Sorry little bastard!”

  “Get his body weight, will you, Skitch?” Emma cleared her throat. “It looks like he lost a lot of blood.”

  “Most of it, I’d say.” Skitch looked down at the weight dial. “Everybody step back so I can get an accurate reading.”

  Stepping back, Emma watched the pacing figure. If the image wasn’t going to leave her alone, she might as well conduct an experiment on just how much information it could provide.

  “I wonder who killed this guy,” she said quietly.

  “I told you.” The figure walked around the table. “The hop-head’s name is Potter. Craig Potter.”

  “The police will figure it out.” Studying the needle tracks on the corpse’s ankles, Edgar shivered as the spirit passed close behind him. “Is it just me or is it unusually cold in here today?”

  “I was wondering the same thing,” Skitch said as the spirit passed him. “The air conditioner’s been wonky in here lately. The temperature seems to go up and down.”

  “I wonder where the gun is,” Emma said, watching as the spirit moved around the table toward her. The temperature in the room did seem to drop as the faint figure drew closer.

  “No telling,” Skitch replied. Kneeling, he peered at the weight dial. “This thing seems to be stuck.”

  “He hid the gun in the back of a moving van,” the spirit said. “Then he drove the van away. Damn coward!”

  Reaching Emma’s side, the shade seemed to grow clumsy, as if exerting great effort to move. The figure lurched suddenly and one spectral arm swung toward Emma. A nauseating chill swept her as the translucent limb passed through her body. As the spirit wobbled away, the chill went too, leaving her nearly breathless.

  “Let me look at it.” Edgar joined Skitch near the weight dial.

  Neither man seemed aware of what she was experiencing. As they focused on the dial, Emma half turned toward the apparition.

  “What moving van?” she whispered.

  “You say something, Doc?” Skitch asked just as Turner’s spirit gasped out, “Stripple Brothers Moving and Storage.”

  “Doc?”

  Emma looked at her assistant and replied in what she hoped was a casual tone, “I just asked if you need another hand.”

  “No, thanks. I think the dial is just stuck. I bet something’s wrong with the air conditioner’s thermostat too.” He shivered again. “We seriously need to fix some things around here.”

  “Potter shoved that gun inside the van. Under a pile of moving pads.” The specter’s chest heaved. “Sometimes he works for the Stripples. You tell the cops, Dr. St. Clair. You tell ’em.” The shade of Dennis Turner vanished.

  Emma grabbed the edge of the table and steadied herself. This time she had specifics. Specifics that her subconscious mind could not have known had the image of Dennis Turner not told her. This time, if the missing gun was found where the specter had claimed it was, she would know for certain that ghosts did exist.

  But she had to investigate on her own. No way could she explain her suspicions to the cops. They would want to know where she had gotten her information and, if she told them the truth, they would call for a straightjacket.

  She didn’t need a straightjacket. She needed to look for that gun.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sheets of newspaper drifted across La Salle Street and came to rest against a padlocked gate. Thistles bordered the rusted chain link fence surrounding a row of deserted warehouses, the slender weeds dancing in an evening breeze that swept in from the bay. Other unfenced warehouses appeared to be locked up tight as Emma drove past them, each one leading her closer to the main docks of Clear Harbor. Finally, she saw the address she wanted, along with a sign that read “Stripple Brothers Moving and Storage”.

  Parking her SUV a block past the small brick warehouse, she sat for a moment with one hand pressed against her jittery stomach. Finding the company in the phone book had supported her theory that her visions were more than hallucinations and she couldn’t help but wonder if she might see ghosts here too. Although she’d shaken the terror that contact with Dennis Turner’s spirit had invoked, she had no desire to repeat the experience. That paralyzing chill to her body when his spectral arm had passed through her had shaken her to her core.

  Two bobtail trucks sat near the concrete loading dock but the place appeared to be deserted. Still Emma hesitated. Her father had worked in the dock area throughout her childhood and teenage years. His office had been located only a couple of blocks west of La Salle Street and she’d spent many afternoons there with him after school. He’d explained that most dock workers were honest folks but there were always a few in a busy harbor town who had less than pleasant intentions, especially toward little girls. Now, as she watched the wind chase bits of debris down the empty street, her father’s warnings echoed through her head.

  This isn’t smart, she thought as panic trickled through her.

  But along with worry came the images of three dead people. Amalia Campanero, Robert Harris and Dennis Turner. She had to know if what she’d seen had been real or hallucination and coincidence.

  Opening her car door, she stepped onto a street spider-veined with tar-repaired cracks. The breeze brushed warm fingers through her hair, bringing along a tang of salt and fish from the bay. Traffic whispered in the distance but the warehouse area was silent.

  Quietly closing the vehicle door, she tucked her keys in a pocket of her trousers and started toward the warehouse. Both trucks were backed up close to the building, leaving just enough room for her to slip behind them. The rear door of the nearest truck stood open.

  Glancing around once more to make sure she was alone, Emma hoisted herself into the back of the truck. The metal bed creaked as she walked across it to a pile of heavy furniture mats that smelled of cigarettes and mildew. Dirt and lint littered their folds but Emma found no gun. Cigarette butts and crumpled gum wrappers littered the rest of the empty space. Disappointed, she climbed down and went to check the other truck.

  Dusk deepened. Not wanting to hang around that area of town in the dark, she hur
ried. The other truck’s rear door was closed but unlocked. At her touch, the catch squeaked and then rotated over to the right. The door bobbed open with a rumble that had her glancing around in fear. But no one appeared to check out the sudden noise so she climbed up into the truck bed. Deep inside lay another pile of quilted furniture mats. It took even less time to search through them. Again, there was no gun.

  Tossing the last fold away, she stood up and settled her hands on her hips. Am I losing my mind after all, she wondered.

  “What are you doin’ in there?”

  Emma whirled around. A man stood in the truck opening. As tall and lanky as Dennis Turner, he held a gun in a hand that trembled. He wore a faded blue work shirt with the name “Potter” embroidered above the left front pocket. This was Dennis Turner’s killer.

  Elation swept through Emma. “I’m not crazy,” she murmured.

  Craig Potter waved his gun. “Get out!”

  Elation swelling once more into fear, Emma stepped to the rear of the truck. Getting out was just what she wanted to do. Get out and get away.

  But as she stepped off the bumper and tensed to run, Potter grabbed her arm. “What were you doin’ in that truck?”

  His touch, his demand, the wildness in his bloodshot eyes, woke her instinct to fight. Without thinking, she kicked his shin and tried to wrench her arm free.

  Howling in pain, Potter gripped her tighter and raised the gun as if he meant to hit her with it. Suddenly, a hand clamped over Potter’s wrist and whirled him around. Emma spun too and slammed into the hard metal door of the warehouse. The world, dark and dusky, whipped around her. She heard shouts, then the blast of a gun, followed by muffled silence. In the next instant, someone turned her back around and she found herself face-to-face with Jason MacKenzie.

  His mouth was moving but in those first moments after the gunshot, his voice was indistinct, his words a muffled torrent beneath the sound of silence inside her head. Gradually her hearing returned. She almost wished it hadn’t.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Jason demanded, running his hands up and down her arms. His dark eyes burned with a golden light and worry made his sun-darkened face look harsh.

  For a moment longer, she just stood there and let him run his hands over her. Fear shuddered through her, with something even more exciting on its heels. Jason had saved her. It was ridiculous but the fact that he’d physically fought off her assailant to rescue her kicked off a sharp arousal inside her.

  “He could have killed you, Emma!”

  Recovering her wits at his words, she pushed his high-voltage hands away. She needed to catch her breath and stop this electric string of desire from drawing any tighter inside her. She needed to calm down and figure out what had happened.

  Beyond Jason, Potter lay face down on the ground. A stockier man bent over him, fixing handcuffs around Potter’s wrists. There was no sign of blood on Potter. His gun lay on the ground near the stocky man’s feet, smoke curling faintly from its barrel.

  Jason stepped close again but didn’t touch her. “Did he hurt you?”

  “No. Just… He just tugged on my arm.” She rubbed at her bruised wrist but it was her arms—where Jason had touched—that truly ached. “I’m all right.”

  “So answer me—what the hell are you doing down here?”

  “I-I…” Her brain refused to function again as his eyes burned with suspicion.

  “Were you lost?” he demanded.

  “Yes.” She latched onto that explanation. “Yes, I was lost. I was looking for a phone.”

  Skepticism narrowed his eyes. “You don’t have a cell phone?”

  “I do but…it…the battery is dead.” The lies tasted bitter.

  “So could you have been if we hadn’t come along.” He turned to the other man. “How hard did I hit him, Charlie?”

  “Hard enough to put him out.” Charlie, shorter and darker than Jason, sat back on his heels near the prisoner. A soft accent revealed a Mexican or South Texas heritage. “He’ll be going to the hospital instead of downtown. Good thing he’s a lousy shot or you might be going to the hospital too.”

  “Who…” Emma snatched another deep breath and asked the question they had to be expecting her to ask. “Who is he?”

  “Craig Potter. He’s a suspect in a murder case.” Jason glared at her until she felt certain he could see the lies stamped on her brain. “I heard you did the autopsy on his victim today.”

  “His…victim?” She didn’t have to try hard to make herself stutter.

  “Yeah. Dennis Turner. Gunshot wound to the back.”

  “Oh.” She nodded. “Yes. Yes, I think I did work on him.”

  Again, lines formed at the outer corners of his eyes. “You think?”

  “I did. I did work on him. Sorry. I’m a little shaken up.”

  “You could have been a lot dead.”

  She hugged her arms over her chest. “Stop saying that.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  The other man stood up, groaning as his knees popped. “Ah, these old joints of mine. Jason, go to the car and call for an ambulance. Potter needs a doctor.”

  Jason glared at Emma. “At least he doesn’t need a coroner,” he muttered and then turned and walked away.

  Emma slumped against the wall. Now that she was safe, fear slid away. The elation she’d experienced when she’d realized she hadn’t imagined the ghost of Dennis Turner—or any of the others—swelled inside her again. She wasn’t crazy. She hadn’t been hallucinating. Her attacker was Craig Potter. He’d been on Stripple Brothers property—presumably he drove a van for them—and he had a gun. Maybe the gun was the murder weapon.

  The other detective offered his hand. “Charlie Garcia. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Dr. St. Clair. Our paths have never crossed but I know your reputation.”

  Emma had never heard of him but she hadn’t had to deal with many of the detectives on the Clear Harbor force. Edgar and Brian had handled most of that contact.

  “Uh, it’s nice to meet you, Detective.”

  As Charlie released her hand, Emma looked past him and saw Jason standing next to an old green Mustang about half a block away. He spoke into a radio microphone while he glared back at her.

  “He’s angry,” Charlie said, following her gaze. “Because he cares about you.”

  A strange little thrill shuddered through her but she ignored his comment. “What are the two of you doing here?” she asked, hoping to deflect some attention from herself.

  “We were looking for Craig Potter. And Jason was right.” He gestured toward the unconscious suspect. “It’s a good thing for your sake that we did come looking for him.”

  She inhaled deeply and then slowly released her breath. “Thank you.”

  Charlie tilted his head to one side. “Are you sure you’re all right, Dr. St. Clair?”

  “Yes. Yes, I’m all right.” She felt Jason’s gaze still, branding her skin. She felt too, that other strange sensation that seared her from the inside. Closing her hands into fists, she began to back away, toward her car down the street. “I have to go.”

  Charlie took a step after her. “I’m sorry, Dr. St. Clair but you have to come to the station with us. Potter is a suspect in a murder investigation so we need a statement from you.”

  Emma’s heart tripped. She’d met her quota of lies for the day and wasn’t sure she could handle any more questions tonight.

  “Could I come by the station in the morning?” she asked.

  “It’s better to do it while the details are still fresh in your mind. We can wait for the ambulance together and then I’ll ride with you to the station.” Charlie smiled gently. “To show you the way since you’re lost.”

  “Oh.” Trapped by that particular lie, Emma forced herself to return his smile. “All right. Thanks.”

  * * * * *

  Jason pulled away from the curb a few minutes later and fell in behind the ambulance. Glancing in his rearview mirror, he saw C
harlie settle into the front passenger seat of Emma’s SUV.

  Jealousy jolted him. He scowled. He had no reason to feel jealous. Charlie might flirt outrageously sometimes but he was a married man who was deeply in love with his own wife.

  Besides, Jason decided, Emma means nothing to me. At least, she shouldn’t.

  Still, he wanted to know what she was really doing near the docks. Charlie would be too much of a gentleman to insist on a straight answer. Lost. She’d claimed to be lost.

  No, she hadn’t claimed it herself. She’d simply confirmed the answer he’d provided for her.

  He snorted. “This town is laid out like a grid,” he muttered, turning a corner after the ambulance. “No way could she be lost.”

  There had to be another reason for her presence here, for her run-in with Craig Potter. The fact that she had autopsied Potter’s victim that day was too coincidental. Added to her hunch about Amalia Campanero’s brother, it was all just a little too coincidental for his taste.

  He considered how he and Charlie had wound up at the docks. It hadn’t taken much persuasion to get “Carrot-top”—real name David Ferrell—to admit who had taken his gun and where that person worked. Luckily for Emma.

  Jason glanced in his mirror again. Emma’s car went straight at the corner he’d just turned. He scowled deeper. Not only had the woman aroused his suspicions again but she had awakened emotions in him that he didn’t have time for. She made him want to hold her and protect her and laugh with her. Because of that he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the truth of how she’d come to be at the docks with Craig Potter. There were some things, he realized, that a man just didn’t want to know.

  Unfortunately, as a cop, he had to find out.

  * * * * *

  Sitting beside a desk on the second floor of the police station, Emma looked at the grimy windows and the dusty floor and tried not to fidget as she waited for Charlie Garcia to return. This big detectives’ area was nothing like her nearly sterile work environment. Stacks of paper and the dust that usually accompanied them stood on every surface. Office paraphernalia and coffee mugs—some clean, some not—were interspersed among the clutter. Despite the late evening hour, many people were scattered around the large open room and paper and files lay everywhere. Telephones rang almost constantly. At least Charlie Garcia’s desk appeared to be clean and tidy.