She heard footsteps on the stairs. Will entered the kitchen, shaking his head. "I hit the redial on the upstairs phone. I got the brother's answering machine in Houston."
There was a book in his hand. "What's that?"
He handed her the slim novel, which had a library band on the spine. The jacket showed a naked woman sitting on her haunches. She was wearing high heels, but the pose was more artistic than kinky, sending the distinct message that this was literature, not trash. So, not the type of book Faith would ever read. She skimmed the back copy and told Will, "It's about a woman who's a diabetic meth addict and her abusive father."
"A love story." He guessed the title. "Expose?"
He was close enough. Faith had figured out that he generally read the first three letters of a word and guessed the rest. More often than not, he was right, but odd words threw him off.
She put the book face-down on the counter. "Did you find a computer?"
"No computer. No diary. No calendar." He opened drawers, finding the television remote. He turned on the set, tilting the screen toward him. "This is the only TV in the house."
"There isn't one in the bedroom?"
"No." Will flipped through the channels, finding the usual digital offerings. "She doesn't have cable. There's not a DSL modem on the junction box in the basement."
"So, she doesn't have high-speed internet," Faith surmised. "Maybe she uses dial-up. She could have a laptop at work."
"Or someone could've taken it."
"Or she just keeps her work at the office. Her brother says she's on the job from sunup till sundown."
He turned off the television. "Did you find anything down here?"
"Aspirin," Faith said, indicating the bottles in the pantry. "What did you mean about Olivia protecting Michael?"
"It's what we were talking about at Pauline's. Did your parents have much time for your brother when you got into trouble?"
Faith shook her head, realizing what he said made perfect sense. Olivia had drawn all the negative attention away from her brother so that he could have some semblance of a life. No wonder the man was racked with guilt. He was a survivor.
Will was looking out the back window, up at the seemingly vacant house behind Olivia's. "Those curtains on the door are bothering me."
Faith joined him by the window. He was right. All the blinds were closed on the back windows except for the curtains that hung open on the basement doors.
Faith raised her voice. "Dr. Tanner, we're going to step outside a minute. We'll be right back."
"All right," the man returned.
His voice still sounded shaky, so Faith added, "We haven't found anything yet. We're still just looking."
She waited. There was no response.
Will held open the back door and they both walked onto the deck.
He said, "Her clothes are all size two. Is that normal?"
"I wish," Faith mumbled, then realized what she had said. "It's thin, but it's not horrible."
She scanned Olivia Tanner's backyard again. Like most in-town lots, it was barely more than a quarter of an acre, fences delineating the property lines and telephone poles springing up every two hundred feet. Faith followed Will down the deck stairs. Olivia's yard was cordoned off by an expensive-looking cedar fence. The boards were flat, the supports on the outside. She asked, "Does this look new to you?"
He shook his head. "It's been pressure-washed. Fresh cedar is more red than that."
They reached the back of the property and stopped. There were marks on the cedar planks. Deep scratches running up the center. Will leaned down, saying, "It looks like someone did this with their feet, probably trying to get over."
Faith glanced up at Olivia Tanner's backyard neighbor again. "It looks vacant to me. You think it's a foreclosure?"
"Only one way to find out." Will went to a different section of the fence and started to lift himself up and over before realizing that Faith was with him. "Do you want to wait for me here? Or we could walk around."
"Do I look that pathetic to you?" She grabbed the top of the fence. They had done this sort of thing at the police academy, but that was several years ago, and hadn't been in a skirt. Faith pretended not to notice when Will gave her an assist from behind, just as she hoped he would pretend not to notice that she was wearing her powder blue granny underwear.
Somehow, she managed to scramble to the other side. Will made sure she was clear, then bolted the fence like a ten-year-old Chinese gymnast.
"Show-off," she mumbled, making her way up the steep hill toward the empty house. The basement was a wall of windows onto the backyard with French doors at either end. As she got closer, she could see that one of the doors was open. The wind picked up, and a piece of white curtain flapped outside in the breeze.
"This can't be this easy," Will said, obviously thinking what Faith was thinking: Was their suspect hiding inside? Was this where he was keeping his victims?
Will walked toward the house with a determined gait.
She asked, "Should I call for backup?"
Will didn't seem concerned. He pushed open the door with his elbow and poked his head inside.
"Ever hear of probable cause?"
"Do you hear that noise?" he asked, even though they both knew that he hadn't heard a thing. Legally, they couldn't go into a private home without a search warrant or threat of imminent danger.
Faith turned around, looking back at Olivia Tanner's house. The woman obviously did not believe in window coverings. From Faith's vantage point, she could see clear through to the kitchen and what must have been Olivia's bedroom. "We should call for a warrant."
Will was already inside. Faith cursed him under her breath as she took her gun out of her purse. She went into the basement, stepping carefully onto the white Berber carpet. The basement was finished, probably a media room at one time. There was a pool table and a wet bar. Wires stuck out of the wall where a home theater system had been. Will was nowhere to be seen. "Idiot," she mumbled, taking another step inside, pressing back the door until it was flat against the wall. She listened, her ears straining so hard that she felt a phantom pain from the effort.
"Will?" she whispered. There was no answer, and Faith ventured farther, her heart pounding in her chest. She leaned over the wet bar, looking behind the counter and seeing an empty box and a soda can on its side. There was a closet behind her, the door partially open. Faith used the muzzle of her gun to open it wide.
"It's empty," Will said, rounding a corner and scaring the shit out of her.
"What the hell are you doing?" Faith snapped. "He could've been in here."
Will didn't seem fazed. "We need to find out who has access to this house. Realtors. Contractors. Anyone interested in buying the house." He took a pair of latex gloves out of his pocket and checked the lock on the French door. "There's tooling marks here. Someone picked the lock." He walked over to the windows, which were covered in cheap plastic blinds. One of the blades was bent back. Will twisted open the plastic wand, letting natural light flood in. He squatted down and studied the floor.
Faith put her gun back into her purse. Her heart was still beating like a snare drum. "Will, you scared the crap out of me. Don't walk into a house like that without me with you."
"You can't have it both ways."
"What does that mean?" she demanded, though she figured it out before the question left her mouth. He was trying to be more aggressive to please her.
"Look." He motioned her over. "Footprints."
Faith could see a reddish outline of a pair of shoes on the flat surface of the carpet. One of the great things about living in Georgia was the red clay that stuck to every surface, whether it was wet or dry. She glanced out the window, past the broken blade on the blinds. Olivia's house was on full display.
Will said, "You were right. He's been watching them. He follows them, learns their routines, knows who they are." He walked behind the wet bar, opening and closing cabinet doors. "Someone
used this Coke can as an ashtray."
"Movers, probably."
He opened the refrigerator. She heard glass rattling. "Doc Peterson's Root Beer." He had probably recognized the logo.
"We should get out of here before we contaminate the scene any more than we already have."
Thankfully, Will seemed to agree. He followed Faith outside, pulling the door back to where they'd found it.
She said, "This feels different."
"How so?"
"I don't know," she admitted. "We didn't find anything at Jackie's mother's house or Pauline's work. Leo searched her house. There was nothing there. Our guy doesn't leave clues, so why do we have a pair of shoe prints? Why was the door left open?"
"He lost his first two victims. Anna and Jackie escaped. Maybe Olivia Tanner was in the pipeline. Maybe he had to move her ahead to replace them."
"Who would know this house was vacant?"
"Anybody who was paying attention."
Faith looked back at Olivia's house and saw Michael Tanner standing on the back porch. The thought of wrangling her ass over that fence again was not a welcome one.
Will said, "I'll go. You walk around."
She shook her head, walking back down the yard with a determined gait. The fence would be easier from this side, since the supports were facing out. There was a long two-by-four down the middle that acted as a step, and Faith was able to lift herself over with less assistance than before. Will did another swoop, vaulting over with one hand.
Michael Tanner stood at the back door of his sister's house, hands clasped together as he watched them approach. "Is something wrong?"
"Nothing we can share with you right now," Faith told him. "I'm going to need you to—"
Her foot slipped out from under her as she stepped on the bottom stair. A comical noise close to a woof came out of her mouth, but there was nothing funny about the way Faith felt. Her vision went crazy for a few seconds, her head spinning. Without thinking, her hand went to her stomach and all she could think about was what was growing inside.
"You okay?" Will asked. He was kneeling beside her, his hand cupping the back of her head.
Michael Tanner was on her other side. "Just breathe very slowly until you catch your breath." His hands went down her spine, and she was about to slap him away before she remembered he was a doctor. "Slow breaths. In and out."
Faith tried to do as he said. She had been panting for no apparent reason.
Will asked, "Are you okay?"
She nodded, thinking maybe she was. "Just knocked the breath out of me," she managed. "Help me up."
Will's hand went under her arms, and she realized how strong he was as he easily lifted her to standing. "You've got to stop falling down like this."
"I'm such an idiot." She still had her hand on her stomach. Faith made herself move it away. She stood there, silent, listening for something inside her body, trying to feel a twinge or a spasm that might indicate something was wrong. She felt nothing, heard nothing. But was she okay?
"What's this?" Will asked, pulling something out of her hair. He held up a piece of confetti between his thumb and forefinger.
Faith ran her fingers through her hair, looked behind her. She saw tiny pieces of confetti in the grass.
"Dammit," Will cursed. "I saw one of these on Felix's book bag. It's not confetti. These are from a Taser."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
SARA HAD NO IDEA WHY SHE WAS AT GRADY ON HER DAY OFF. She'd only gotten through half her laundry, the kitchen was barely functional, and the bathroom was in such a sorry state that she felt a rush of shame every time she thought about it.
Yet, here she was, back at the hospital, climbing the stairs up to the sixteenth floor so that no one would see her as she made her way to ICU.
She felt responsible for not doing a more thorough examination on Anna when the woman was first brought into the emergency room. X-rays, MRIs, ultrasounds, body scans. Almost every surgeon in the hospital had laid hands on the woman and they had all missed the eleven trash bags. The CDC had even been called in to culture the infection and had come up empty-handed. Anna had been tortured, cut, torn—damaged in countless ways that would not heal because the plastic was inside of her. When Sara removed the bags, the stench had filled the room. The woman was starting to rot from the inside. It was a wonder she hadn't gone into toxic shock.
Logically, Sara knew this was not her fault, but in her gut, she felt that she had done something wrong. All morning as she folded clothes and scrubbed dishes, her mind wandered back to two nights ago when Anna was brought in. Sara saw herself fashioning an alternate reality where she was able to do more than hand the woman off to the next doctor. She had to remind herself that even unbending the woman to do X-rays had caused her excruciating pain. Sara's job had been to stabilize the woman for surgery, not do a full gynecological exam.
And yet, she still felt guilty.
Sara stopped at the sixth-floor landing, slightly winded. She was probably the most fit she had ever been in her life, but the treadmill and elliptical machine at her gym were hardly good preparation for real life. Back in January, she had vowed that she would run outside at least once a week. The gym near her building, with its televisions and treadmills and temperature-controlled atmosphere, negated one of the key benefits of running: time alone with yourself. Of course, it was easy to say you wanted time alone with yourself and quite another thing to actually do it. January had passed into February, and now they were already in April, yet this morning was the first time Sara had taken an outside run since she'd made the promise.
She grabbed the railing and heaved herself up the next flight. By the tenth floor, her thighs were burning. By the sixteenth, she had to stop and bend over to catch her breath so the ICU nurses didn't think a madwoman was in their midst.
She tucked her hand in her pocket for some Chapstick, then stopped herself. A flash of panic filled her chest as she checked her other pockets. The letter was not there. She had been carrying it forever, a talisman that she touched every time she thought about Jeffrey. It always brought a reminder of the hateful woman who had written it, the person who had been responsible for his murder, and now it was gone.
Sara's mind raced as she tried to remember where she left it. Had she washed it with the rest of the laundry? Her heart leapt into her throat at the thought. She scanned her memory, finally recalling that she'd put the letter down on the kitchen counter yesterday when she'd gotten home from Jacquelyn Zabel's autopsy.
Her mouth opened, a sharp huff of air coming out. The letter was at home. She'd moved it this morning to the mantel, which seemed an odd place to put it. Jeffrey's wedding ring was there, the urn with some of his ashes beside it. The two things should not be together. What had she been thinking?
The door opened, and a nurse came out with a pack of cigarettes in her hand. Sara recognized Jill Marino, the ICU nurse who had been taking care of Anna the morning before.
Jill asked, "Isn't today your day off ?"
Sara shrugged. "Can't get enough of this place. How is she?"
"Infection's responding to antibiotics. Good catch on that. If you hadn't taken out those bags, she'd be dead by now."
Sara nodded off the compliment, thinking if she'd seen them in the first place, Anna would have had much more of a fighting chance.
"They took out the breathing tube around five." Jill held open the door for Sara to pass through. "Brain scan results came back. Everything looked good except for the damage to the optic nerve. That's permanent. Ears are fine, so at least she can still hear. Everything else is fine. No reason she's not waking up." She seemed to realize the woman had plenty of reasons not to wake up, and added, "Well, you know what I mean."
"Are you off ?"
Jill guiltily indicated the cigarettes. "Up to the roof to ruin the fresh air."
"Should I waste my breath and tell you those things will kill you?"
"Working here will kill me first," the nurse countered,
and with that, she began a slow trudge up the stairs.
Two cops still guarded Anna's room. Not the same as the day before, but they still both tipped their hats to Sara. One even pulled back the curtain for her. She smiled her thanks as she went into the room. There was a beautiful arrangement of flowers on the table by the wall. Sara checked them and found no card.
She sat in the chair and wondered about the flowers. Probably someone had checked out of the hospital and given the flowers to the nurses to distribute as they saw fit. They looked fresh, though, as if they'd just been plucked this morning from someone's backyard garden. Maybe Faith had sent them. Sara quickly dismissed the thought. Faith Mitchell didn't strike her as particularly sentimental. Nor was she very smart—at least not about her health. Sara had called Delia Wallace's office that morning. Faith had yet to make an appointment. She would be running out of insulin soon. She'd either have to risk another fainting spell or come back to Sara.
She leaned her arms on Anna's bed, staring at the woman's face. Without the tube down her throat, it was easier to see what she had looked like before all of this had happened. The bruises on her face were starting to heal, which meant they looked worse than the day before. Her skin was a healthier shade now, but it was swollen from all the fluids they were giving her. The malnourishment was so pronounced that it would take several weeks before her bones receded under a healthy layer of flesh.
Sara took the woman's hand, feeling her skin. It was still dry. She found a bottle of lotion in a zippered bag by the flowers. It was the usual kit they gave out at the hospital, filled with the things some administrative committee thought patients might need—slip-proof socks, lip balm, and lotion that smelled faintly of antiseptic.
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