Final Words

by Teri Thackston

  Emma reached one hand toward his spirit but then lowered it to her side. “Tyrone. I’m so sorry.”

  “Gotta go.” He inclined his head toward Jason. “Say goodbye to my boy there, will you?”

  “I will.”

  Tyrone’s spirit faded.

  Emma touched Jason’s arm. His flesh was cold and constant shivers coursed through him. “He’s gone,” she said. “Let me get Talbot to put him back in the cooler. Then we’ll get you up to my office.”

  Jason tried to listen as Emma led him from the autopsy suite to the shower area. But her words made no sense. Nothing made sense. Tyrone’s body… It was ghoulish. Was she was so obsessed with the dead that she would violate his friend?

  That thought chilled him to the marrow of his bones. There had to be some other answer that made sense.

  “How did you know about the scar on my leg?” he demanded. “How did you know about the cow-tipping? Only Tyrone—”

  Putting her hands on his shoulders, she pushed him down on a bench in front of the showers. Stripping off her lab coat, she tossed it into a bin near the wall. “I should have told you before but I was afraid to.”

  “Tyrone is dead.” Catching her hands, he pulled her down beside him. “You couldn’t have talked to him tonight because he died months ago. The same night that Brian died.”

  “You felt his presence tonight, Jason. You felt the cold. You shivered when he came close to you.”

  Jason remembered the strange sensation in the autopsy room. It had felt as if the blood drained from his flesh. But that must have been from the shock of seeing Tyrone’s body. At the funeral, he’d seen a carefully made-up version of his friend, at rest and wearing clothes. Tonight…those marks from the autopsy…

  Emma squeezed his hands. “I had a near-death experience. I left my body and watched the ER staff work on me. I even saw you come into the emergency room.”

  Jason waited for a punch line he knew wasn’t coming.

  “I saw it all, Jason. Everything you’ve ever heard about near-death experiences. I left my body, entered a corridor—a tunnel. I saw a light. It was so peaceful there and I wanted to stay. But it wasn’t my time. I had to come back.” She leaned toward him. “You were part of the reason.”

  He shook his head. “How did you know about my scar? How did you know—”

  “Tyrone told me. Just like the other spirits told me things. Amalia Campanero. Robert Harris. Dennis Turner.” She tightened her hands around his. “Since the night of the hit-and-run, since I died on that emergency room table, I’ve been able to communicate with the dead.”

  Her words punched him in the gut. He jerked his hands from hers. “Stop.”

  “I can’t communicate with everyone. Only the ones who come to my autopsy table. Their souls speak to me, Jason.”

  Jason stared into her eyes but saw no trace of madness or levity or anything other than a solid belief in her own words. And that scared the hell out of him.

  Emma pressed her palms open on her lap. “At first I thought I was hallucinating from stress or from my injury—”

  “That’s it.” He latched onto that rational explanation. “You were hallucinating. You’d been hurt and—”

  “Then how did I know that Amalia Campanero’s brother killed her? How did I know his name was Jaime and that they’d argued? How did I know where to find Craig Potter and the gun he used to kill Dennis Turner? There was no anonymous caller.”

  “There has to be a logical explanation for all that.” He forced himself to calm down so he could get through to her. So they could get back to where they were this afternoon. In the park. In the sunlight. “People cannot communicate with the dead.”

  She gazed steadily at him. “Then tell me how I knew the secret your friend took to the grave with him.”

  No one had known. He hadn’t even gone to a doctor, had just swabbed himself with alcohol and antibiotic ointment and then put a butterfly bandage on the wound.

  Nausea churned up his stomach. “Maybe you can read minds or something.”

  A patient smile played at the corners of her lips. “You believe in psychic powers but not in spirits?”

  “Hell, no!” Anger flushed his nausea away. “Why did you have him on that table tonight? Who gave you the right to—”

  “I found out that Tyrone had been seeing Dr. Sanders.” She spoke quickly now, cutting him off when he tried to interrupt. “I autopsied a young man the other day. Graham Jones. He told me that Dr. Sanders killed him.”

  “Stop it, Emma.”

  She raised her voice. “But he offered no proof. Then when I found out that Tyrone had been seeing Paul and that his body had been brought back to the morgue for more study, I thought maybe I could get the proof I needed from him.”

  Jason’s mouth filled with spit. He swallowed hard. “So you…” He stopped, unable to say it.

  “All I did was touch his arm. Please, Jason. Believe that I would never have disturbed your friend if there was another way. But he told me he was actually waiting to talk to me. I don’t know why but…” She lowered her voice to a thoughtful tone. “It must have something to do with the fact that we died on the same day.”

  He shot to his feet, whirled away, shoving both hands through his hair. “This is insane!”

  “The others told me how they died and in every case they were right.” Her voice trembled and grew thick. “I wanted to hear it from Tyrone. I wanted him to tell me who killed him. And he did. It was Paul Sanders, Jason. Just like Graham Jones and who knows how many others.”

  “That’s nuts too.” Glancing over his shoulder, he saw her wince again and knew that his words were hurting her. But part of him wanted to hurt her for putting him through this, for dragging him through Tyrone’s death again, for bringing back the bitter grief of his losses. For putting an end to the dream he’d started to spin about a normal life with a woman he could love.

  Another part of him wanted to comfort Emma, to help her find her way out of this terrible fantasy world she’d built around herself.

  Returning to the bench, he sat beside her and took her hands again. “Emma, the dead can’t speak. Once they’re gone, they’re gone. You can’t communicate with them.”

  Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears. “You’re still so hurt that you can’t hear what I’m saying. I saw Rose that night. She spoke to me. She wants you to let go of your guilt.”

  “That guilt is all I have left of her!” He choked on the words. “I thought I’d let it go but…I can’t.”

  She lowered her gaze to their tightly clasped hands. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me. I knew you’d think I was crazy. That’s why I didn’t tell you before.”

  Her sudden meekness gnawed at him. “Emma—”

  “I don’t want to have this…this gift,” she interrupted, her voice barely more than a whisper. “But I do have it and I have to use it to solve cases and bring killers to justice.”

  “You can’t testify on behalf of a dead man.”

  She raised her glistening eyes as one of her tears slid free. “Someone has to.”

  Her tears cut through him and he knew that he would do anything for her. But to accept this…

  “That’s why I try to find the proof they tell me about.” Her voice grew stronger. “That’s why I went to the Stripple Brothers’ warehouse. There was no anonymous informant. Dennis Turner’s spirit told me where to find the gun that Craig Potter used to kill him.”

  Looking into her eyes, Jason tried to put aside everything he thought he knew. She believed she could communicate with the dead. So far the things she’d discovered supported that impossible theory.

  And what did that mean about her alleged message from Rose?

  Breath hitched in his chest and he felt himself waver. Suddenly he wanted to waver, wanted to believe her.

  “I saw you at the cemetery the other day,” he said. “When you touched that old man in his casket. And that kid who almost drowned at the beach the night b
efore. Did you talk to their spirits too?”

  She gripped his hands between hers. “I can communicate only with the people who come to my autopsy table. I don’t understand it. Maybe there’s an intimacy there that forms some kind of bond between me and the deceased. But once they’ve told me what they need to say, they go on. I never hear from them again.”

  Jason stared at her. She talked as if she was discussing communicating with someone who didn’t speak English instead of someone who had died. It was crazy and yet…

  “Jason, will you help me find evidence on Paul Sanders?” Her hands tightened on his. “Please?”

  Her eyes got to him. Her eyes and his own damned heart.

  “I’m not saying I believe you, Emma but you do seem to know things that you shouldn’t—couldn’t—know.” Jason took another deep breath and gave in just a little. “But we certainly can’t arrest him on the word of a dead man.”

  * * * * *

  As Emma went with Jason to the police station, she realized that she had to give him points for being open-minded.

  “I really appreciate your help,” she said as he led her toward his desk at the rear of the quiet detectives’ room.

  “We should have some privacy back here.” His voice was gruff, revealing his inner conflict. “Most of the other guys are off-duty or out on cases.”

  Emma sat in a chair beside his desk. She pressed her purse flat against her legs, resisting the urge to twist the strap around her fingers. “Speaking of other detectives, I had a visit from Layne Simmons this afternoon.”

  Jason scowled as he dragged out his own chair and sat. “What did she want?”

  “Just to mouth off a little. I think she’d been drinking.” Emma rested one elbow on his desk, trying to relax. Impossible with him so close, with this tension between them. “I got the impression that she knew you pretty well.”

  Jason shrugged. “We’ve had a few dates but it was never anything serious.”

  “I don’t think she understands that.”

  “That’s why I’ve been avoiding her. Layne is a little…”

  When he hesitated, Emma tilted her head to one side. “Possessive?”

  He lifted one eyebrow. “Yeah. That would be the word.”

  “So if you’ve made it clear that you’re not interested in her, why is she still in Clear Harbor?”

  “I think she’s working on a case here. Now can we please talk about something more pleasant than Layne Simmons?”

  Emma slid her elbow off the desk. “Like murder?”

  “Yeah. You have your list of autopsies?”

  Emma drew a computer report from her purse. She’d run it before they’d left her office. It listed all the post mortem procedures handled by her office in the past twelve months.

  He pecked at his keyboard. “I’ll run a list of suspects who were referred for psych treatment in the past year. We’ll cross-check it to your list.” Lifting his hands, he stared at the blank screen. “If I can remember how.”

  “You might want to turn the computer on,” she suggested, gesturing toward the switch on the CPU.

  A blush crept up his neck as he darted a glance in her direction. “I guess that would help.”

  He flipped the switch and then they waited while the computer booted up. Once it was done, Jason logged in awkwardly and then accessed an inquiry program. He entered “psychiatric referral” in a search prompt and then they waited again while the computer processed the request.

  “I still can’t believe Paul Sanders would commit murder,” Jason said as the computer went through its paces. “He has a solid reputation here and at the DA’s office.”

  “The spirits have never been wrong.” When he gave her an uneasy glance, she smiled. “At least you haven’t called the guys with the straightjackets to take me away.”

  For the first time that evening, he smiled too. Although strained, it was a definite smile. Then his computer beeped again and Jason leaned forward as the screen filled with data. “What’s the first name on your list?”

  “Thomas Addison.”

  Jason scanned his result list. “That name isn’t here.”

  “Try Tanya Allen.”

  Jason shook his head. “Nope.”

  “The next one is William Barcus.”

  “Barcus. Burglary. Long list of priors. No convictions. Referred to Dr. Paul Sanders on January fifth of this year.”

  “Barcus died on March seventh. It was ruled a suicide. He slashed his wrists.” Emma made notes in the margin of her list. “Let’s try the next one. Michael Briggs. Died April ninth of a gunshot wound to the head.”

  “Michael Briggs. No.”

  “David Cain. Died March first of a drug overdose.”

  “Here.” Jason pointed at the screen. “Referred to Dr. Arthur Tamburello on February twelfth of this year.”

  Emma pulled her chair around the desk, positioning it close to his so that she could see his screen better. Her knee bumped his and they both startled.

  “Sorry,” she murmured.

  “No problem.”

  For a moment, they gazed into each other’s eyes again. Emma knew that he felt the same pull she felt. She saw it lurking behind the other emotions he was feeling. But now wasn’t the time to focus on attraction, no matter how strong it was. Now he was the one who wanted to hold back and she couldn’t blame him.

  “A different doctor.” Lowering her gaze, she tapped her pen against the list. “I didn’t expect that.”

  “Sanders wouldn’t be the only psychiatrist consulting on suspects. We use several area psychiatrists and even send people to Houston for consultations sometimes.”

  Emma sighed. “I guess I was expecting this to be easy.”

  “So we won’t be able to tie every suspicious death to Paul Sanders. We’ll tie what we can. How many names are on your list?”

  She shuffled to the last page of her report. “Seven hundred-three.” When he looked up in surprise, she explained, “We average two autopsies a day, six days a week.”

  “This could take all night.”

  The huskiness in his voice brought her gaze up to his again. His eyes burned bright and, for a moment, neither of them spoke. Emma felt heat flow down from her face, across her neck to her breasts and then it sank through her body.

  Jason reached for the telephone. “I’ll order sandwiches.”

  Emma shot to her feet. “While you do that, I’ll run to the ladies’ room.”

  “Down the hall and to the left.”

  “When isn’t it? I’ll be right back.” As Emma walked away, she smiled tearfully. Could she really be falling in love with a man who thought she was nuts?

  As he hung up from ordering the sandwiches, Jason wondered what he was doing. Logic insisted that what Emma knew about the Campanero and Turner cases must have sprung from something more reasonable than conversations with the dead. And her claim about Tyrone’s death… The idea of a respected psychiatrist like Paul Sanders killing the coke-addicted detective didn’t completely strain Jason’s belief—as a cop, he’d seen normal people do some terrible things—but it bordered on it.

  And that look he and she had just exchanged—full of heat and promise and need that had nearly taken him back to lunch this afternoon. Damn, what was he thinking?

  Overwhelmed by the night’s events, Jason struggled to find a point of reference that would help him grasp what was going on. Reality insisted there had to be a logical explanation for Emma’s knowledge. His own desire demanded it. But, the most logical explanation was that she was out of her mind and that possibility didn’t sit with him any better than the notion that she could communicate with the dead.

  He pressed a hand to his forehead and couldn’t tell which part of his body was clammier.

  “You’re here late tonight, MacKenzie.”

  Looking up, Jason saw Buck Hosken standing in his office doorway. He quickly turned over the papers on his desk. He wasn’t ready to explain what he was doing—especial
ly not to his boss—and he hoped Emma wouldn’t return from the ladies’ room before Hosken left.

  Rising, he pushed his chair under the desk. “Thought I’d catch up on some paperwork,” he answered warily, remembering the altercation they’d had and wondering if the chief intended to fire him after all.

  “Paperwork makes the world go around.” Hosken jingled his coins and his doughy face flushed. “I came down hard on you today, MacKenzie. That was wrong and I’m sorry.”

  Jason stared at the man. An apology from the chief was almost as unbelievable as Emma’s claim that she could talk to spirits. Maybe the impossible could happen.

  Hosken lifted one shoulder. “You and Garcia are my best guys because you care. I shouldn’t have blasted you for what makes you good at your job.”

  Jason cleared his throat. “Thanks, Chief. I shouldn’t have lost my cool at you, either.”

  “Forget it. Tyrone Sharpe was your friend. I should’ve told you what was going on.”

  Jason nodded slowly. “Did Dr. Powell find anything new when he examined Tyrone?”

  “No.” Hosken jingled his coins again. “It was all for nothing after all.”

  Maybe not, Jason thought, thinking of Paul Sanders and what Emma had insisted Tyrone had told her. “When can Ty’s parents have his body back?”

  “I’ve already made arrangements. He’ll be returned to his hometown in the morning. The cemetery staff will reinter him tomorrow evening if you want to be there. In fact, you oughta take the whole day off. You deserve it.”

  “Thanks.” As Hosken headed on toward the door, Jason stepped around his desk. “Chief?”

  Hosken’s alligator books creaked as he stopped and turned back. “Yeah?”

  “Do you know what case Layne Simmons is working on?”

  Hosken frowned. “Who’s Layne Simmons?”

  Something cold and heavy slithered through Jason’s stomach. “Detective Layne Simmons from Houston PD. She’s in town tracking down a case from there.”