Dead, Without a Stone to Tell It

by Jen J. Danna

  Leigh pushed open the door, letting Matt enter the foyer before stepping in after him.

  “You’re home late.” A disembodied voice came from around the corner, before an older man in a wheelchair rolled into the hallway. “Did you get through everything you—” He froze, his face going slack with shock when he saw his son.

  Leigh followed his gaze, seeing Matt with fresh eyes. He was covered in blood: It soaked into his jeans and splashed in obscene arcs over his shirt, his hands and forearms were stained dark red, and a smear covered one cheekbone.

  Matt’s father reached out a hand. “Matt! What—?” His tone was sharp with alarm.

  “It’s not his blood,” Leigh quickly interrupted.

  After sparing her only the quickest of glances, the older man rolled forward into the hall to stare more closely at his son’s blank expression and dull eyes. “Matt?”

  Matt never even looked at his father. He simply walked past him in silence and climbed the stairs.

  The older man pushed his chair toward the bottom of the staircase, but Leigh stepped forward, laying a hand on his arm before he could call out. “Mr. Lowell, please, let him go,” she said quietly. “He needs a minute.”

  His gaze stayed fixed on the now empty staircase. “What happened?”

  Leigh circled the wheelchair to sink down onto the third step so she was eye-to-eye with him. “I was following a lead on a potential suspect and was going to go check out his residence. Matt asked to come along in case we found any of the weapons used on the victims. He thought he might be able to recognize if something at the scene produced the bone trauma that he’d already identified. I agreed as long as he stayed out of the way until we’d cleared the residence.” She sighed heavily. “But when I went in, I found our suspect in a pool of blood on the kitchen floor. He’d been attacked and was bleeding out fast.”

  From upstairs came the sound of a shower turning on.

  “I called for Matt then,” Leigh continued. “He’d told me he was a combat medic, so I knew he’d know field triage. I thought he might be able to save the suspect’s life.”

  “That explains the blood then.”

  “Yes.” Leigh rubbed her hands roughly over her face, unmindful of the dark crescents of blood that still stained the cuticles around her nails and the creases of her knuckles. “Matt did everything he could, but the wounds were too severe. Multiple stab wounds and he’d been eviscerated and—” The older man winced and she cut off abruptly. “Sorry.” Giving into exhaustion, she hung her head, letting her eyes fall shut. “We’re both a little rattled.” She pulled in a deep breath, trying to compose herself. “I had to go after the attacker. While I was gone, Matt did what he could, but the suspect died anyway. Matt was just kneeling beside him, covered in blood and completely still. He had that same blankness you just saw in his eyes. I had to call his name twice before he even heard me. I knew we were contaminating the crime scene, kneeling there together, but I needed to reach him. I did get through, to some extent, but he’s been shut down ever since. He answers questions if asked directly, but other than that, he hasn’t said a word. I drove him back, but he was silent the whole time, like he was lost in his own personal hell.” She met the older man’s gaze. “Was his time in Afghanistan that bad?”

  Mike gave a curt nod. “When William Tecumseh Sherman said ‘War is hell,’ he was giving us the straight goods. Matt experienced some horrible things. As a medic, he saw the worst of what humanity can do to its own. He saved many lives, but he lost too many—in firefights, explosions, and roadside bombs. War is ugly and raw and brutal, and it affected Matt deeply. He has physical scars from his time in the Marines, but it’s the invisible scars I worry about. He doesn’t like to talk about it, but it’s got him twisted so tight that sometimes I wonder how he can breathe. It certainly changed his long-term career goals. He wanted to be a doctor once, but by the time he came home, he wouldn’t even consider it. The memories associated with being a medic just hurt too much. I suspect today threw him back into those memories.”

  “I hate to think that I’ve done this to him.”

  “You haven’t done this to him. He’s a grown man, and he could have turned this case down.” His gaze flicked over her blood-smeared clothes. “But let’s not make this worse for him than it has to be.” He backed up his chair a few inches before deftly turning toward the kitchen. “Follow me. I’ve got some fresh laundry and I think one of Matt’s old T-shirts might do. It’ll be too big, but it’s better than what you’re wearing now. And I can probably find a pair of drawstring shorts.”

  Leigh followed him into the brightly lit kitchen. He wheeled out of the room but returned a minute later with a soft, faded blue T-shirt, a pair of black shorts, and a plastic bag lying across his knees. He held them out to her. “The bathroom is just down that hallway,” he said. “Why don’t you wash off the rest of the blood and get yourself changed. There are towels under the sink. Help yourself.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Lowell.”

  “ ‘Mike’ will do just fine. No need to stand on ceremony with me. Go on.”

  The water turned off above them and deep concern shadowed Mike’s face briefly before he composed his expression. Leigh turned away to give him some privacy, and left the kitchen in search of the guest bathroom.

  She returned a few minutes later, her face and hands scrubbed and her hair neatly pulled back into a ponytail. She glanced around the kitchen, but Mike was alone. “Matt’s not down yet?”

  Mike cast worried eyes toward the ceiling. “No. He’s taking too long. I need to go up there and make sure he’s okay.”

  He started to roll toward the hallway but Leigh reached out to grasp his shoulder. “No, I’ll go. I know he’s your son and no one knows him better than you, but I was there with him. I know what he saw and how it affected him.” Her voice dropped. “Please, Mike. I brought him into this situation. If I’ve done damage, I need to fix it.”

  Mike opened his mouth to reply, but then closed it again before nodding. “If you need me, I’ll be here.”

  She pushed back her chair to stand. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

  She left the kitchen, feeling Mike’s worried gaze on her back until she rounded the corner.

  Hand on the railing, Leigh stopped at the top of the stairs.

  Silence.

  Of the three doors in this hallway, only one was closed. She stared at it, sure that Matt was on the other side. She crossed over to knock lightly on the door. “Matt?” she called. “Are you okay?”

  When he didn’t respond, she repeated the knock, a little louder this time, before laying her palm flat against the cool wood. “Matt? I need to talk to you.” More silence. Concern spiraled higher. “I’m coming in.”

  She pushed open the door, stepping into the room and closing the door behind her.

  Matt stood at the far end of the room, in front of the windows. His feet were bare and his hair was a damp tangle, but he wore a fresh pair of jeans and a gray T-shirt.

  Crossing the room, Leigh circled the double-wide chaise that angled toward the windows for nighttime star gazing or daytime dozing in the warm sun. As she passed the open door to the master bath, a bloody pile of clothes on the tile caught her eye. He had taken them off, dropping them where he stood, and then walked away, not yet ready to deal with them or what they represented.

  “Matt.” The single, softly spoken word finally seemed to penetrate and suddenly he looked startled to see her standing in his bedroom.

  “I knocked several times, but you didn’t answer.” Coming to stand beside him, she laid a hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  He nodded once, jerkily.

  She looked into his shadowed eyes. “No, you’re not. Talk to me. What did I do to you?”

  That snapped him out of his silence. “You didn’t do anything,” he said, his voice rough and uneven.

  “I took you into that situation.” He opened his mouth to speak, but she interrupted him. �
�You’re not the cop, I am. To be honest, I was being selfish. I knew you’d be helpful.”

  “Some help I turned out to be.”

  He angled his body away from her, but she caught his arm to pull him back. “I would have been lost in there without you. I have basic first aid, but I wouldn’t have known what to do in that situation. You didn’t even question what was going on, you just did what needed to be done.”

  “Fat lot of good it did.” Disgust coated his words. “He died. Just like she did in the dream.” He squeezed his eyes shut as if to block out the visions in his mind.

  They flew open again in surprise when Leigh’s fingers came to rest softly against his jaw. “What dream?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Look you probably need to get going. I’m sure you’ve got—”

  “There’s nothing I have to do right now that’s more important than this. Don’t tell me you’re okay. It’s as clear to me as this scar that you’re not.” She reached up with gentle fingers to touch the scar at his temple, only partially visible under his damp hair.

  His eyes went wide and he jerked his head back out of her reach. “Don’t!”

  She froze, her fingers suspended only an inch from his temple. “Don’t what? Don’t touch you? Don’t touch it?”

  “It’s ugly.” His words were harsh, a bitter whisper.

  “It’s a badge of honor,” she contradicted softly. “It’s a wound you received while fighting for your country. There’s no shame in that. You nearly died. Another inch to the left and they would have sent you home in a body bag.” She reached out again. He flinched slightly as her fingers nearly touched him and she hesitated, but then resolutely closed the distance between them, slipping her fingers under his tousled hair, her fingertips feathering along the hard, twisted furrow of scar tissue. He winced once as she made contact, but then held still beneath her touch. “You take such pains to hide your scar. You shouldn’t.”

  “Most people think scars are ugly. They stare, or worse, ask questions. And I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Then they’re insensitive idiots. It’s a battle scar. It means something. It’s like a cop being injured in the line of duty. You’re there for a greater purpose. You should wear that mark proudly.” Understanding suddenly dawned. “But you don’t just mean ‘people,’ do you? You mean ‘women.’ Well, if some woman told you it was ugly, or wouldn’t touch you because of it, then you’re better off without her.”

  Matt laughed roughly and shook his head in consternation. “You’re one of a kind.”

  “I doubt that.” Her tone softened and she let her hand drop from his face. “Are you okay? You shut down on me for a while there.” Embarrassed color suffused his cheeks, but she was past allowing him to shut her out. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  He turned away from her to cross the room toward the wide king-sized bed. He sat down on the edge of the bed and she followed to sit beside him.

  “Tell me what happened back there. It’s the same thing that happened back on the Essex coast when we found Tracy’s body, isn’t it? When you walked into the kitchen I knew you were in trouble from the way you lost all color just before your eyes went blank.”

  “Yes.”

  Leigh’s eyes searched his face. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  He nodded.

  “Do you suffer from PTSD?” She asked the question flat out, as if she was asking him if he liked sugar in his coffee. No disgust, no blame, no derision of a diagnosis of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Just a simple, straightforward question.

  But one that packed a hell of a punch. Matt’s whole body jerked and he pulled away from her grasp as he abruptly shot to his feet to pace the room. “Why would you ask that?”

  She didn’t answer immediately as she simply gauged his reaction. “Because it would be entirely reasonable seeing what you’ve gone through. Your dad told me a little about it. No, don’t blame him,” she said, when she saw him stiffen. “I asked him about your time in the Marines. I’m an investigator. If I can’t put your past together along with two significant reactions to horrific attacks and your own words—I don’t do flesh—then I’m not very good at my job.” She patted the bed beside her. “Matt, sit down. Please.”

  He hesitated for the space of several heartbeats before complying.

  Leigh simply waited in silence beside him, thigh to thigh, giving him the time he needed to collect himself.

  “I joined the Navy after dropping out of medical school. I’d always wanted to be a doctor, but in the end, med school itself took that away from me when my best friend, another med student, committed suicide. The impossible work hours, the debt, and the stress all combined to bring on clinical depression. We all saw the signs. Hell, we all displayed them ourselves, but we never thought Dave was that bad. I never thought he was that bad. It was all right in front of me, but I just couldn’t see it.”

  “Probably because you were busy and struggling yourself,” Leigh said quietly. “You took on too much if you blamed yourself for his death.”

  “I was too wrapped up in myself to see that he needed my help,” he said bitterly. “In the end, it made me question what I was doing there. Would I be the next one to snap under the pressure? Was it worth all the mental and financial anguish? Finally, I decided it wasn’t, and I dropped out. After that, Mom and Dad and I spent a lot of time talking through where I could go next. They helped me see that medicine was right for me, but not necessarily the traditional route that included med school. In the end, it was Dad’s idea to join the Navy that felt right. He suggested that I join as a Hospital Corpsman, that way I could still have the medical angle that I was interested in and I might see a little of the world at the same time.”

  “When was that?”

  “I enlisted in July of nineteen-ninety-nine. I went to boot camp, then did the fourteen week Hospital Corpsman training. Then I spent a year with the Fleet Marine Forces, training to move to the Marines.” He could see her doing the math in her head and beat her to it. “I had just been officially transferred over to the Marines at the beginning of September, two-thousand-and-one.”

  “9/11,” Leigh breathed.

  He nodded. “9/11. It changed everything.”

  “You deployed overseas?”

  “As part of Operation Enduring Freedom. I was part of one of the frontline Marine battalions. We deployed in November of two-thousand-and-one and I was with the Marines until January of two-thousand-and-three when I was granted a hardship discharge following my parents’ car accident. There was a blizzard and they were just trying to get home …” He cleared his throat roughly. “My mother was killed and my father ended up in that wheelchair.”

  Leigh reached out to touch his knee. “Oh, Matt. I’m sorry.”

  He swallowed harshly but pushed on. “There was no one else. I’m an only child. My father needed care, so I applied for a hardship discharge. I left the service, and never went back.” He paused, weighing his words. “The first few years … they were hard. I’d have flashbacks to some of the worst battle scenes, and I’d get the sweats or I’d have spells where my heart would race, kind of like a really bad anxiety attack. That went on for months. Later, there were nightmares.” He rubbed his hand over his forehead. “Those were worse and lasted for years.”

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “At this point? Sure.”

  “How did you manage working at the body farms?” He frowned, but she pushed on. “Most of the bodies donated to those facilities are pretty fresh. That must have taken you back, must have brought on some PTSD reactions.”

  “It did.” He took a moment to choose his words carefully. “I knew that I wanted to go into osteology, but you can’t just study that. You have to learn decomposition from death onwards. So I took it as a challenge, sort of as my own psychological therapy. If I could force myself to deal with bodies like this on a regular basis, then maybe I could desensitize myself.”

  “Did it work
?”

  “Sort of. I still had nightmares.” His shoulders rose on an uneven breath. “But then I graduated and came to Boston, and specialized strictly in osteology. And eventually the nightmares went away.”

  “Until now.”

  Matt’s head shot up. “What?”

  “You said earlier today that you had a rough night last night. At the time, I thought you meant you didn’t sleep, but there’s more to it. Am I right?”

  His eyes stayed locked on hers. “Yes.”

  “The murders, the attacks, they’re bringing it all back for you, aren’t they?” Guilt layered over the regret she already felt. “I’m sorry, Matt. I had no idea that this case would turn into the nightmare it’s become.” She reached out to comfort him, lifting her hand to clasp his jaw. “How could one bone spiral into such chaos and so many deaths?”

  She was only inches from him. His gaze flicked from her eyes to her lips and back again. Her eyes went wide as she realized his intent just a moment before he moved in, covering her mouth with his.

  There was a moment suspended in time and then heat exploded between them.

  She gasped in shock and he took advantage, sliding his tongue over the tender skin of her lower lip before sinking in deeper. His hands delved into her hair, his fingers unerringly finding her ponytail to tug the elastic free. It fell unnoticed to the bed behind them as his fingers entwined in the loose strands, angling her head up for his kiss.

  She framed his jaw, the stubble of his late afternoon beard rough against her fingertips. She backed off to change the angle of the kiss, tangling her tongue with his and hearing his low groan of satisfaction when she slid her arms around his neck and pulled him in.

  Gripping her shoulders, he tipped her backward, pressing her into the duvet as he rolled his weight partially over her. Her fingers speared into his hair as she sucked his lower lip into her mouth before nipping at it and then soothing the small sting with a swirl of her tongue. His weight felt heavy and satisfying, his body solid and muscular. Pulling her hands from his hair, she ran them over the wide breadth of his shoulders and down the solid planes of his back.