A Thin Dark Line

A

He looked as if she'd smacked him across the face with a dead carp. "What? Nothing!"

"You come out of her room and two minutes later this happens!"

"Keep your voice down!" he ordered, reaching for her arm.

She jerked away from him. What if Stokes was the rapist? What if he was something worse?

"I went in to talk to her," he said, as they entered the waiting area. "She wasn't awake. Ask the nurse."

"I win."

"Christ, Broussard, what's the matter with you? You think I'm a killer?" he demanded, a flush creeping up his neck. "Is that what you think? You think I'd walk into a hospital and kill a woman? You're out of your fucking mind!"

He sank down onto a chair and hung his long hands and the smashed hat between his knees.

"Maybe you oughta check yourself into this place," he said. "You need your damn head examined. First you go after Fourcade, now me. You're some kinda goddamn lunatic. You're like that crazy broad in Fatal Attraction. Obsessed -that's what you are."

"She was better yesterday," A

Stokes gave a helpless shrug. "Do I look like George Fucking Clooney? I ain't no ER doc. It was some kind of seizure, that's all I know. Jesus, somebody bashed her head in with a telephone. What'd you expect?"

"If she dies, it's murder," A

Stokes pushed to his feet. "I told you, Broussard-"

"It's murder," she repeated. "If she dies as a result of her injuries, the assault becomes a murder rap."

"Well, yeah." He dragged a jacket sleeve across his sweating forehead.

A

"Epinephrine and lidocaine! Dobutamine-run it wide open! Labs?"

"Not back."

"Charging!"

"Clear!"

Buzz. Snap!

"Flat line!"

"We're losing her!"

They repeated the process so many times it seemed as if time, and hope, had become snagged in a continuous loop. A

"She's gone."

"Damn."

"Call it."

A

The staff trailed out of the room looking defeated, disgusted, blank. A

The doctor came toward the waiting area, a frown digging deep into his long face. He looked fifty, his hair thick and the color of gunmetal. The name on his badge was forbes unser. "Are either of you family?"

"No," A

"I'm sorry. She didn't make it," he said succinctly.

"What happened? I thought she was doing better."

"She was," Unser said. "The seizure was likely brought on by the trauma to her head. It led to cardiac arrest. These things happen. We did everything we could."

Stokes stuck his hand out. "Detective Stokes. I'm in charge of the Faulkner case."

"Well, I hope you get the animal who attacked her," Unser said. "I've got a wife and two teenage daughters. I barely let them out of my sight these days. Madeline wants me to keep a gun under my pillow at night."

"We're doing everything we can," Stokes said. "We'll want her body transported to Lafayette for an autopsy. Standard procedure. The sheriff's office will be in touch with your morgue."

Unser nodded, then excused himself and went back to his normal duties for the day, the death of a woman in his care just a glitch in the schedule. "These things happen."

A

Unser was just coming out of another patient's room with a chart in his hand as A

"Are you all right, Deputy?" he asked. "You look a little pale."

"I'll be fine. It was just a shock, that's all. That didn't look like a very pleasant way to die."

"She fought it, but it was over before we could really do anything for her."

"Is that the way it usually happens?"

"It's always a possibility with a head trauma."

"I guess what I'm asking is: was there anything unusual about her death? Any strange readings, abnormal levels of… whatever?"

Unser shook his head. "Not that I'm aware of. The blood test never came back. You can check with the lab." He stepped up to the counter and handed the chart to the monitor technician, "If they haven't lost it entirely, they might be able to answer your questions."

A

"Never get sick here," A

Outside the heat was already edging toward oppressive, an unwelcome joke from Mother Nature. Summer was long enough without adding an early preview. Sweat beaded immediately between her breasts and shoulder blades. The sun burned into her scalp.

"You go

Stokes stood beside his Camaro in the red zone, smoking a cigarette. He had shed his jacket, leaving his lime green shirt free to blind anyone looking directly at it.

"I'm sorry," A

"You accused me of being a goddamn killer." He flung the cigarette butt down on the asphalt beside a crumpled Snickers wrapper and crushed it out with the toe of his brown and white spectators. "Personally, I take umbrage at that. You know what I'm saying?"

"I said I was sorry."

"Yeah, well, that don't cut it by half. I've had it with you, Broussard."

"And what are you go

"I hear I'd have to get in line. I've got better things to do."

"Like screw around with the evidence on those rape cases?"

"Don't fuck with me, Broussard. I'll have your badge. I mean it."

He slid behind the wheel of the Camaro and started the engine with a roar. A

The groundskeeper emerged from behind the statue of Mary and made a beeline for A

"I'm sorry, sir," A

"What?!" he squealed. "No, she ain't killed nobody, but-"

"Then I can't help you."

She walked away from him toward the Jeep, her mind on Stokes, while Do