Where All the Dead Lie

“Not right for women to act like that. What was she thinking?”

Taylor wished she could tell Trixie that she really hadn’t had much, just the beer and a few sips of champagne, not enough to be sick, for Christ’s sake, but she settled for an agreeable mmm-hmm and let herself be led into her rooms.

“Ye’ll be needing some ginger tea, that will help with the digestion. And the headache, I daresay. Sit ye down and let me call for it.”

Taylor needed some water, that’s what she needed. She weaved her way to the bar, found a liter bottle of Highland Springs, and brought it back to her chair. She couldn’t get the lid off. Her hands weren’t working right. Her head wasn’t working right either. Jesus, she was bleeding drunk.

Deciding discretion was the better part of valor, she dropped the water, swayed upright and managed to get to the bed. She sat on the edge, hoping Trixie would come back soon and lift her feet off the floor. Her eyes just wouldn’t stay open.

She dimly heard Trixie return, heard the clinks of teacups, then the world turned dark and swallowed her.

When Taylor woke, she was alone. The room was pitch-black. The fire had gone out again, or she’d gone blind. The thought made her want to throw up, so she lay quietly in the bed until the urge passed.

Her head was pounding. She’d passed out without taking the Fioricet or Percocet. She’d be a mess until she got that in her.

Bolstering her courage, she sat up. The headache made her sway in place. She’d never felt the pain this bad, not even when she’d woken from the coma after the shooting and the halo held her head steady, the four points of the metal biting into her flesh. Thank God it was dark in the room; she couldn’t imagine dealing with light.

Her feet touched the cold floor. Good. Upright. She managed to get into the bathroom, using the walls for guidance. The pill containers were out. She didn’t know which was which, so she opened all four and extracted a pill from each of them. Fioricet, Ativan, Percocet, melatonin. Got water flowing, into a cup, into her mouth.

It took all of her effort to make it back to the bed. She got horizontal, the searing pain making her nauseous again.

Don’t be sick. Don’t be sick. Don’t be sick.

There was a voice on the radio, or television. She didn’t know which. She didn’t know how to shut it up. How could she shut off that damn voice?

She listened. It hurt. Then she realized what it was. Maddee’s biofeedback tape.

Trixie must have put it on thinking it would help her.

She listened for a moment. The blue balloon rose to her mind’s eye. There was a knife. Her wrists. The pill bottles.

So easy. So easy. So easy.

She had to say goodbye first.

She needed to talk to Sam. Needed to apologize again. The laptop wouldn’t stay still. She fought with the headache as she typed. It didn’t all make sense to her, but the idea was there. How many times could she apologize?

The medicine started to work quickly. The pain began to fade. She began to drift, floating, feeling lighter. She put a foot out of the bed onto the floor.

The world stopped revolving so quickly.

That was better.

Time passed.

She realized she wasn’t alone.

She was afraid to open her eyes.

A hand cupped her face. Just like Memphis from the night before. But this was freezing cold, almost like ice. It felt good. It helped the pain go away.

But then it moved, to her forehead, touching her scars. And she knew it wasn’t Memphis, wasn’t anything real. The panic began in earnest, the feeling that she was tied down, couldn’t move. Flashes from the night before invaded her mind, the long thrusts, the gentle sucking, the icy touches. It was Memphis, and Baldwin, and Roland now, all three of them crowding around her, touching her, making her gasp with pleasure, then with pain. Somehow her shirt was off, and her own hands found her breasts. She was feverish, burning up, and the icy fingers moved around her body, between her legs, through her hair. Something in her spoke, deep, insistent. This is wrong.

A voice, neither man, nor woman, not human, began to whine in her ear. “Leave now, Taylor. Leave now…”

And then it stopped.

She knew she couldn’t scream. Her voice wasn’t working. But she could cry. Tears ran down her face. She was losing her mind. She couldn’t open her eyes for the pain in her head. It was eating her alive.

In her last moment of consciousness, she leaned over and vomited again, then passed out with her head hanging over the side of the bed, an icy vein boring through her skull.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Sam was driving the Forensic Medical van alone. Keri wasn’t the only ’gator with plans tonight. Such was life. Sam didn’t see any need for her team to suffer just because she hadn’t had a chance to straighten out all their lives. And this was a straightforward situation. She could handle it herself.

Damn, but it was cold. Sam loved Nashville, and loved winter, but not when she had to venture out in the freezing dark to attend a crime scene. A messy one, at that. The Regretful Robber had been so regretful that he’d shot himself. In the head. Sam wasn’t surprised. Honestly, she was just relieved that the rest of the family had made it out of the house unscathed.

Nashville done up for Christmas was a beautiful sight to behold. Sam and Simon had taken the twins to the Christmas tree lighting this year. They’d giggled and cooed and talked to each other in their bizarre twin babble. This would be the first time the kids had a real sense of the season, that is if their mother could pull her shit together.

There was no easy way to the scene from the highway. She opted for White Bridge to Post Road, then turned left at Dunham Springs Road and took the street directly onto Belle Meade Boulevard.

If Nashville’s Christmas could be categorized as beautiful, Belle Meade’s was more like a fairy tale. The owners of the stately mansions spent a lot to have their yards and houses professionally decorated, and the vast majority of them chose to go with Greta’s Custom Christmas. Sam knew this because both she and Taylor had gone to school with the owner, Greta Torhild. Sam also knew that she was raking in the dough; some of the custom designs went for upwards of $25,000. How people could spend that much on Christmas decorations, Sam would never be able to fathom. But they did.

She parked the van two driveways away and walked in on foot.

Douglas Bowerman’s house was decorated, but not by professionals. The place was an original Belle Meade bungalow, just off the country club golf course. A nicely made up evergreen wreath with fake fruit and gold bows hung on the door. Sam could see directly into the house; the door was splintered open and there was a lit Christmas tree. The tree had to have been on a timer. She couldn’t imagine the family taking time out from their benefactor’s suicide to turn it on.

It was moments like this that she missed Taylor dreadfully. Taylor would have cleared the scene already, had a spot carved out for the ME’s van to pull in. Instead, Sam was going to have to go back out, get the gurney, move it all herself. It was going to be a long night.

She mounted the stairs. Marcus was just inside the door.

“Hey. I thought Keri was on tonight.”

“She had a party. You’re stuck with me. Where’s the body?”

“Living room. He let his family leave, then locked the door and shot himself. Seems pretty cut-and-dried.”

“Shouldn’t you turn off the tree?”

“I don’t know. I thought it made things look kind of festive. Though I don’t think I’d want to wake up to this scene Christmas morning.”