Visions

by Kelley Armstrong

  "I will refrain from telling you to take a minute," Gabriel said. "But I think you should. There's something there."

  "I know," I muttered. "Follow the signs. Macy. Something about visiting her--Thanatochemistry. That book was on Macy's shelf, with her nursing texts." I did a quick search on my phone. "Thanatochemistry is mortuary science. I dreamed that Macy was going to embalm me, and Tristan was going to cut off my head."

  "Your subconscious was linking the textbook to Ciara's embalming."

  "But I'm sure they don't teach that in nursing school. Macy's records indicate she went straight from high school to college. Maybe she'd been interested in mortuary science? If so, I might find it online."

  "I can't imagine you'd add that to a dating profile."

  I sputtered. "I was referring to social media. Facebook, Twitter, and so on."

  A slight curl of his lip. "Ah."

  "Yes. I'm going to bet you don't have a Facebook page."

  "My practice does, which Lydia maintains. We have Facebook and possibly MySpace."

  "MySpace? It's 2012, Gabriel."

  "Perhaps not MySpace. That's the one I recall from my college days."

  "Never had a page then, either, did you?"

  "Certainly not. It's a waste of time, and it's dangerous. I've only ever been on Facebook when gathering information to influence potential sources."

  "Influence. I like that. So much nicer than blackmail. Back to the point, though. The actual purpose of Facebook is not to provide sources of potential influence, but to socialize. To talk to friends and to share things like hobbies and interests in hopes of finding new friends."

  His look said he couldn't imagine the point. Whether he meant hobbies or friends, I don't know. Probably both.

  "People talk about their interests online. Let's see if Macy ever mentioned dead people." I picked up my laptop. "Later, I'll set up a Twitter feed for the firm. Don't worry--I'll run it, too. Advertising tweets like: Gabriel Walsh, Attorney-at-Law. Finding the Saint in Satan's Saints. Or helpful tips like: Note to clients, quicklime is a preservative, not a corrosive."

  He gave me a look.

  "We'll work on it," I said.

  "Work on that." He pointed at the laptop.

  --

  I'd gone through Macy's online presences before now, but briefly, as a way to get to know her before our meeting. I didn't find "embalming" in her list of Facebook interests or photos of amazing pre-funeral reconstruction work on her Pinterest account.

  What I did find was more subtle. A tag on a friend's wall post from last Halloween. The friend had been dressing up as a zombie and tagged Macy, saying she should get Macy to help with the makeup because of "all that time she spent with dead people." Another friend asked what she meant, and the thread went on to joke about Macy hanging out at a local funeral home. Then Macy herself jumped in to snap that she hadn't been "hanging out." The conversation ended there.

  I hadn't actually thought Macy did embalm Ciara, as I'd seen in my dream. If I had, I wouldn't have been joking with Gabriel about Facebook and Twitter. But now . . .

  "That would mean she's not an innocent bystander," I said as I showed Gabriel the thread. "She didn't meet Tristan at a party. She may have actually killed Ciara. For what? To get her family back? Tristan tells Macy that she should be living Ciara's life, and she decides to . . . I can't fathom that. I just can't."

  "As legal grounds for defense, it's so flimsy I wouldn't even attempt it. Diminished capacity would be the only way to play it. Drugs, alcohol, mental illness." He took my laptop. "Now, before we speculate any further, the comment mentions a funeral home on Lawrence Avenue. We'll start there."

  --

  There were three funeral parlors on Lawrence. I called the first. Someone picked up on the second ring.

  "Walker Funeral Home," a man said. "Kendrick Walker speaking. How may I assist you?"

  His voice was pleasant, sounding older than I'd expect from someone named Kendrick. Once I explained that I was checking a reference on Macy Shaw, though, his tone changed, becoming younger and brighter, as if throwing off his professional voice once he realized I wasn't a grieving relative.

  "Oh, sure, Macy and I went to school together. Well, high school, and only for a couple of years before my parents moved."

  "Did she volunteer or work there?"

  "In senior year. She wanted to become a mortician, so she worked here for two summers, but . . . Well, trust me, it's not an easy career choice. Especially for a girl. Eventually the pressure got to her. She went into nursing. She kept working here for almost a year after she started college. She told people it was just for the money, but I think she was still considering."

  "May I ask you for a reference? Or should that go through someone else?"

  "Probably my dad. I'd just tell you she was great. If you talk to her, tell her Kendrick said hi. It's been a while."

  "I'll do that. And on another note . . . This is a little awkward, but as long as I have you on the phone . . ."

  "What's up?"

  "I have an uncle in palliative care, and the funeral home we always used has closed down. I know that's the last thing on my aunt's mind, but . . . the end is close. Is there any chance I could come over and have a chat with someone? See your establishment?"

  "When?"

  "As soon as possible. It really is . . . close to the end."

  "I completely understand." His tone changed, reverting to the soothing one. "We can make an appointment for tomorrow, or tonight after seven--there's a viewing right now."

  "Seven would be great."

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  Gabriel fell asleep before we hit the outskirts of Cainsville. This would have been much more troubling if he'd been the one behind the wheel.

  That left me with a sleeping passenger and a long stretch of road to play with. A boring, straight stretch. The scenery wasn't much, either. Farmer's fields on my left, the river to my right. The river would have been lovely, if I could have actually seen it--it was at the bottom of a gully. So a boring road and boring scenery, but the car made up for it, so smooth it was like riding on glass. The June sun was just beginning to dip, the car interior cool, the leather seats comfortable, the music . . .

  Well, the music needed a shake-up. It was Chopin's Funeral March, which was appropriate, given our destination, but really not a driving tune. I flipped through his library, looking for a Mendelssohn piece I'd heard earlier. I finally found it, and the information scrolled across the display. It was the Overture to A Midsummer Night's Dream.

  As I heard Rose's voice, quoting from the fairy play, I looked back at the road. There, in the distance, was a hound. Standing on the road.

  I hit my brakes, but as soon as I did, metal crunched and the car swerved. The side air bag whacked into me as the car sheered off the road.

  It went over the gully, careening down, then hitting something and flipping and--

  The front air bag slammed me in the face. I didn't pass out, but it was as if I mentally left for a few seconds, shock shutting down thought until the car stopped . . . and I was hanging upside down.

  I clawed at the seat belt, desperate to get free. Then I managed to stop myself. Nothing was burning. Slow down. Assess.

  It took a second for me to even remember what had been happening before the crash. All I could see were the air bags, deflating around me.

  I was in Gabriel's car.

  Gabriel.

  I twisted, calling his name. He was there, slumped onto the roof.

  "Gabriel?"

  No answer.

  I reached over and nudged his shoulder. "Gabriel!"

  Still nothing. That's when I scrambled to get free again, caution be damned. I got halfway out of my belt before I found the release. I hit it and fell, knocking my head hard on the roof.

  I twisted and writhed, hearing my shirt rip as it caught. My skin ripped, too, warm blood welling up on my arm. I ignored it and got myself right side up, crouched the
re between the seat and the roof.

  I could reach Gabriel, but he was doubled forward. I couldn't see his face. I couldn't get to his neck or wrist to check for a pulse. The solid wall of his shirt blocked me.

  I backed out through the driver's window. It was shattered, the remaining safety glass crumbling when I went through. As I pushed myself out, I could see the driver's door was bashed in. We'd been hit. That's why the side air bag deployed. Someone had hit us. Pushed the car over the embankment.

  I craned to look up the gully. It was only about a thirty-foot drop but nearly perpendicular. The top was clear. No sign of another vehicle. No sign of a passerby who'd witnessed the accident. There'd been no one else on the damned road. So where had the other car been--? A billboard. There were several along this stretch.

  Had someone been lying in wait?

  Was I really trying to figure that out while Gabriel lay in a car wreck?

  His window had smashed, too, on the roll down the gully. I swiped out the remaining glass and shoved my head and shoulders through. Gabriel's head hung down, but I could see his face from this angle. There was a moment there when I don't think he was breathing. Then it came, that faint rasp, and when I pressed my hand to his neck, his pulse was strong.

  He'd laid his jacket in the back before we set off, and there were only a few drops of blood on his white shirt. I searched for the source. A wound on his head.

  As much as I wanted to get him out of there, I knew better than to move him, in case there was spinal damage. It seemed as if he was only hunched awkwardly--his height not accommodating the crushed roof--but I wasn't taking any chances. I backed out. That's when I saw the smoke.

  The engine was on fire, wisps of smoke snaking from under the hood. There are a half-dozen flammable things in an engine. While they're well contained, they aren't meant to withstand a serious crash and a rollover landing. And the barrier between the engine and the passengers isn't good enough to hold off fire for long.

  I ran to the front of the car and peered under the crumpled hood, praying I wouldn't see--

  Flame. I saw flame.

  I tore back to the passenger side, squeezed in, and undid Gabriel's seat belt. It wasn't jammed. Gabriel was, though--wedged in tight enough that he didn't even budge when the belt came loose. As I tugged at him, he groaned.

  "Gabriel?" I said. "Gabriel!"

  I shook him, but he slid out of consciousness again without even opening his eyes.

  I could smell the smoke now and hear the whoosh of fire. No time to second-guess. I grabbed his shirt by one shoulder and heaved, my other hand bracing his head. I had to brace my legs, too, against the car, using every bit of leverage I could, until--

  His head and shoulders swung free and he fell, nearly knocking me down with the dead-weight drop. I dragged him out of the car. Smoke billowed, making me cough, my eyes tearing up. I had Gabriel out on his back, my hands wrapped in his shirt, and thank God it was well made, because I'm sure I wouldn't have gotten him very far otherwise. As it was, the seams still ripped while I dragged him over the rocky ground.

  Once he was out of the smoke, I went for my cell phone . . . and remembered it was in my purse. I dropped down beside Gabriel and patted his trouser pockets. No phone. It must be in his jacket.

  I raced back to the car. Flames poured from the engine, but they hadn't yet broken through to the interior. I fell onto all fours and pushed in through the passenger window. The interior was filled with smoke, and I had to close my eyes, pull my shirt over my nose, and feel around blindly. I couldn't find my purse. I didn't try hard because I knew Gabriel's jacket was in the back. I located it after fumbling and groping. I backed out of the car, sputtering now, eyes streaming tears as I returned to Gabriel's side, where the air was clear, reached into his jacket and--

  There was no goddamned cell phone.

  I crouched on the ground, heaving breath, my lungs burning.

  Get Gabriel somewhere safe and go for help. There was no other option. The car was on fire. I'd never find my phone in time.

  I looked around for a place to drag Gabriel. The car had landed at the base of the cliff, twenty feet from the river. That limited my choices.

  I grabbed Gabriel's shirt again and hauled him another ten feet before the fabric gave way. I tried putting my hands under his armpits, but I couldn't get any leverage. He was too big.

  I looked back at the car. Fire still burned in the engine compartment. How much longer until it reached the gas tank? Even if it did, Gabriel was far enough away.

  I tried rousing him again, but after dragging him twenty feet from a burning car, I had to acknowledge that he wasn't waking up. I hoped he was just out cold. Otherwise . . . I wasn't even thinking of "otherwise." I already knew the damage I could have caused, hauling him from that car.

  I made sure he seemed okay, then started climbing the embankment.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  I got about halfway up the cliff, grabbing whatever I could and hauling myself up the nearly perpendicular incline. Then there was nothing else to grab, and I scrabbled for a handhold, my fingers digging into dirt, nails breaking as I frantically pulled myself--

  I lost my grip and fell backward, my ass hitting the ground hard enough to bring tears to my eyes. I scrambled up and looked around.

  The gully was shallower farther down. I really should have looked before trying to scale the damned cliff.

  I ran, pain jolting through my body with each stride. I was still exhausted from the fever, and climbing the cliff had me panting already.

  I saw a path heading up the gully. Just another twenty feet. Ten--

  There was blood on the cliff side. A patch of bright red, just ahead. My feet skidded to a halt as my brain processed the sight.

  Not blood. Poppies. Growing on the cliff.

  I whirled back toward Gabriel.

  A dark shape rose from behind a bush.

  I hit the ground. Even as I dropped, my brain said, What the hell are you doing? But I dropped anyway, and a bullet hit the cliff beside me, dirt exploding.

  My gun. Where was--?

  In my purse. With my cell phone. And my switchblade.

  God-fucking-damn it! I armed myself and then stuck it all in my purse like I was still a goddamn socialite.

  I dove behind a boulder as the second shot fired. As I did, I thought of Gabriel. Unconscious. Defenseless. With a killer between us.

  I dashed to the next boulder. Then the next. Drawing the shooter away from Gabriel.

  Yet as I ran, no shots rang out. Instead, a voice called, "Stop."

  It was a woman's voice. Macy's.

  I darted to the next source of cover, a sofa, dumped over the cliff.

  "Do you think I won't shoot you?" She fired a bullet into the sofa as I dropped behind it. "You're not going to make it to the road, Eden, and even if you did, do you have any idea how long it would take for someone to find you? I was behind that billboard for twenty minutes and yours was the first car I saw. I could have killed you, you know. We're both lucky that fancy car has side air bags."

  "We're both lucky?" I croaked a laugh. "I could have sworn you were trying to kill me."

  "No. I thought he'd be driving. The lawyer. It's his car."

  She sounded put out, as if I'd deliberately thwarted her plans.

  "I bet you're wondering how I intercepted you so fast," she continued.

  Um, no. Last thing on my mind, really.

  "I was at a motel off the next exit," she said. "Trying to figure out how to talk to you. How to make you listen to me. Then Kendrick called."

  "And you decided the best way to talk to me was to run me off the road?"

  "No, I realized we were past the point of talking. You'd figured everything out. It was time to cut a deal. Or kill you."

  "I'd prefer a deal."

  She laughed. "I'm sure you would."

  I shifted behind the couch. As I did, I swore I smelled cat pee, as I had hiding behind the sofa at Will Ev
ans's house, the odor triggering some hidden memory that started my gut twisting.

  There weren't enough cover spots for me to dodge my way to safety. My best bet was to stall and hope Gabriel woke up. Which, given that he hadn't done so before now, seemed unlikely. Failing that, maybe if I talked long enough, I'd actually come up with a plan.

  "You killed Ciara," I said.

  "No." The denial came hot and fast. "I wanted to talk to her, but she kept screaming. The sedatives weren't working, and she wouldn't be quiet. I just wanted her to be quiet. I wasn't trying to choke her. It was her own fault."

  "And then you embalmed her."

  "It was his idea. Tristan's."

  "He's the one who told you who you were."

  "Yes. Tristan told me about my birthright. About Ciara. He took me to see her, that rich bitch, turning her back on a good life to tweak in a scummy apartment. She belonged with my family--she'd fit right in."

  "And you belonged with hers. So Ciara dies, and Tristan has you embalm her and cut off her head--"

  "No, he cut off her head. But only to protect me. To erase any evidence I left strangling her. Afterward, he realized he could use her head to get your attention."

  Tristan had done his work here, weaving Macy a story that she could accept. Sprinkled with pixie dust to make it go down easier.

  A shadow passed. I looked up to see a raven circling, leisurely, as if getting the lay of the land.

  Are you here to help? To observe? To gloat?

  The raven winged off toward the wreck, as if to check that out, too.

  Not hindering. Not helping, either. There was no help here. No sudden brainstorm that would solve my predicament. Only the obvious plan--play along and watch for my opportunity to get that gun from her.

  "You mentioned a deal?" I said.

  "I want you to tell the police about the switch. That's what Tristan said you'd do. You'd investigate, and you'd realize what happened, and you'd tell the police. And then it wouldn't matter how Ciara died, because my real parents would have their real daughter and they'd be happy. Her real parents wouldn't care who killed her. They only care about themselves. Everything would be fixed."

  Did she really think a murder investigation could be halted if no one cared about the victim? That the Conways wouldn't care about the girl they'd raised?