Читать книгу Nancy Bush's Nowhere Bundle: Nowhere to Run, Nowhere to Hide & Nowhere Safe - Nancy Bush - Страница 22

Chapter 14

The next morning Liv woke up when he walked past her to the kitchen in a pair of low-slung blue jeans and no shirt. She sat up, finger-combed her hair, then followed him into the kitchen. He’d picked up his cell and was looking at it.

“Let’s go somewhere for breakfast,” he said.

“I don’t want to be seen. . . .”

“If you’re with me, it’s less chance you’ll be recognized. Put on your baseball cap again.”

“I guess I’m buying, huh.”

That stopped him short and he shot her a look. “I . . . guess so.”

She smiled faintly. “No problem. But I’m going to take a shower first.”

“Do it,” he said, turning back to his phone.

“Is there . . . a towel?”

“Should be. Linen closet’s in the hall outside the bathroom.”

She left him working through his phone and wondered if he’d lied about being such a loner. Maybe he’d contacted someone. He could be texting someone right now.

With a last look back at him, she picked up her backpack and headed into the bathroom.

Auggie had indeed received a text. A raft of them, actually. Mostly from his sister. At least she’d shown the good sense to move from phoning to texting. He’d turned off the text “alert” and they came in silently.

It was Sunday. He had one day until he needed to bring, coerce or drag Olivia Dugan to the Laurelton police station.

He heard the taps turn on and he texted his sister, telling her to stop texting him. He would bring Olivia Dugan in tomorrow. Monday. And did she have any leads on the Zuma massacre, or Trask Martin’s death?

She texted back:

New case. Short-handed. Will get back to you.

New case? Something that superseded the Zuma shooting? Not likely.

“Hmmm,” Auggie said aloud.

What was that about?

September stared down at the cold, white corpse of the woman and felt ill. The woman’s body had been stripped to the waist and her abdomen was carved with the scrawled words:

DO UNTO OTHERS AS SHE DID TO ME

“Jesus, somebody went to a lot of trouble.” Gretchen’s nasal tones were normally cool, curling around the edges with disdain, but staring down at the female corpse she sounded shaken. “‘Do unto others as she did to me.’ What the hell does that mean?”

“Who is the ‘she’ he means?” September asked.

“Or the ‘she’ she means,” one of the techs corrected her. Bronson, September remembered.

“This wasn’t done by a woman,” Gretchen said with a cold look at Bronson.

“I’m just saying it’s possible,” he argued, although lamely. “She’s been strangled, too. There are ligature marks.”

“Anyone taking bets on whether she’s been sexually abused?” Gretchen asked.

There were no takers.

“You have all the charm of a boa constrictor,” Bronson said. He had a nerdy, prim look and a way of rolling his eyes that was epic theater.

“Shut up,” Gretchen said, though it was almost an afterthought. She was gazing around the clearing where the body had been found while they stood on the edge of a small, wooded area filled with Douglas firs, oaks and scrub pines.

“This is a lot like Sheila Dempsey,” September observed. She hoped to stall the pissing contest between Bronson and Gretchen, though they seemed to like to go at each other. She’d learned that much on her few weeks on the job.

Bronson rocked back on his heels. “Mebbe,” he allowed.

Gretchen’s lips grew even tighter, as if she were forcibly holding back another argument.

They were on the north side of the clearing where the shallow grave had been discovered by a couple of day hikers on a jaunt carrying a picnic basket and a bottle of wine. Now the basket was upended, the wine spilled in a red river on the ground and both hikers were sitting in bug-eyed silence on a moss-covered log, their arms entwined in a hug of support. The man’s mouth was twitching as if he couldn’t control it; the woman looked ready to keel over.

Sheila Dempsey’s body had been discovered in an overgrown field behind an abandoned building. Unlike this one, she’d been stripped bare, where this victim still had on her jeans, socks and a pair of running shoes. Her chest was bare; no sign of a blouse or bra.

“Dempsey’s the picture on Weasel’s desk,” Gretchen said, as if they’d asked.

September nodded. For a moment they all stood in silence in the shadow of the firs while Bronson slowly rose, brushing his palms together as if to rid himself of the taint, all of them sheltered from the noonday heat which was blistering nonetheless.

An hour earlier, D’Annibal had received the call. Neither George nor Wes had been available while Gretchen and September had shown up by mutual agreement to go over the Zuma case. Gretchen wanted to interview Camille Dirkus and September had offered to go along.

But then the call came in and they were sent out after the hikers called 911.

Now it was September’s turn to gaze past the body and over the dry, yellow field grass that ranged north from their large copse of mixed oak, fir and pine trees. This too, could be the county’s problem; this crime was right on the city line, but the dispatcher had called Laurelton PD.

D’Annibal had apparently claimed rights to this case, or maybe county was simply bowing out. Somewhere along the line, a guy from county named Jernstadt, since retired, had royally pissed off the lieutenant according to remarks she’d heard around the squad room. The result was nobody wanted to go head-to-head with D’Annibal, involving whatever he decreed, and therefore there was no strict protocol on jurisdiction. If the lieutenant wanted a case that could be considered county, the prevailing thought was to let him have it. So, though September and Gretchen were already working hard on the Zuma Software case, Laurelton PD was on this one, too. County might complain about it, but they would acquiesce. D’Annibal did things his own way and his attitude was, if county didn’t like it, they could just go screw themselves.

Said attitude didn’t exactly foster warm and fuzzy relations, but such was the way of things.

Gretchen dragged her gaze away from the body and shook her head. “Learn anything from those phone records, Nine?”

September shot a look at her partner who’d apparently detached from the scene around them. “Yes,” she said. She’d been scouring Kurt Upjohn’s phone records and had discovered several numbers that had yet to be identified from the myriads that he’d placed to friends, family and business associates. “I was hoping maybe Camille Dirkus could shed some light.”

“Yeah, whenever that interview takes place,” Gretchen grumbled.

“I was thinking about giving the list to George.”

Gretchen snorted. “Good idea. He’s bound to be back in the squad room now. He just always misses the calls to the field. Weasel’s on something else, drugs and gangs, like your brother was.”

Was being the operative word, September thought.

“I’m not stopping on Zuma. This has gotta be somebody else’s, or we need some serious help.”

“Yeah.” September gazed down at the body again for another moment, unsettled. “I wonder who she is.”

“We’ll check missing persons.” Gretchen made a face. “I wonder who he is,” she added, meaning the killer.

Bronson shot her a look as a hot breeze caused the oak leaves and fir and pine needles to dance lithely, as if waving at the victim and the group of bystanders. Victims left in fields . . . something tickled the back of her brain.

“Get her covered and outta here before the fucking newspeople show up,” Gretchen ordered the techs.

“You do your job, we’ll do ours,” Bronson said. “The ME’s on his way.”

“Don’t get all testy on me, Bron.” Gretchen offered a humorless smile. To September, she added, “Maybe this second body will make our letter carver easier to find and we can get back to Zuma.”

September had her doubts, but she kept them to herself.

Waiting proved more difficult than Liv had anticipated. They went to a small café and Liv ordered an omelet that she moved around her plate as the morning dragged slowly by. For all the talking they’d done, all of a sudden it felt like she and Auggie had run out of things to say to each other. As they got up to leave he really struggled with the fact that she was picking up the tab, but what could he do? She wanted to suggest they go back to Bean There, Done That and see if someone had turned in his wallet, but she couldn’t.

“I can’t afford for us to get pulled over,” she said, to which he answered, “Okay,” and the subject appeared to be closed.

Now, back at his house, they were both sitting at the table, lost in their own thoughts, when his cell phone suddenly rang, surprising them both.

He swept it up quickly and got to his feet. “Hello?” he answered as Liv’s pulse began to race. He shot her a look. “Ah, yes. Talia’s right here . . .”

Carefully, he handed Liv the cell and she said, “Dr. Yancy?”

“Yes,” the doctor answered cautiously.

Liv could visualize the woman in her mind: small, birdlike, with short, dark hair and narrow glasses that she looked over the top of. “I was just wondering if you could maybe help me with remembering a few things.”

Dr. Yancy’s voice said, a bit uncertainly, “Did Hathaway House give you my number?”

“No, I took a chance on F. Yancy. I knew your first name was Fern. I—um—”

“You’ve been having dreams,” Auggie whispered. “About the doctor . . .” He moved his hand in the “go ahead” signal.

“I’ve been having dreams,” Liv said. “About a doctor . . . at Hathaway House. I feel like it’s important somehow.” Auggie was nodding at her. Good. Good. Keep going, he mouthed. “A visiting doctor, maybe? He wasn’t there all the time. He kind of—stalked, if you know what I mean.”

Dr. Yancy didn’t answer immediately. “Have you spoken to anyone else at Hathaway House about this?”

“I wanted to talk to you first,” Liv said.

“You know I’m retired?”

“You helped me.”

“But I wasn’t your personal doctor, Talia.”

Liv swallowed hard. She’d forgotten that. “I always trusted you,” she stated honestly. “Do you know the doctor I mean?” she asked urgently. “Do you remember him?”

“I think you mean Dr. Navarone.”

Navarone!

“Dr. Navarone,” Liv repeated for Auggie’s benefit. “He wasn’t one of the regular doctors.”

“He was on staff at Grandview Hospital during that time,” she said. “He came to Hathaway when he could. We were always short-staffed.”

Liv felt her senses swirl. “Grandview,” she said faintly.

“You know the hospital’s no longer in existence,” Dr. Yancy went on. “Loss of government funding. Grandview’s now an elder-care facility.”

“Oh . . . no, I didn’t know,” she murmured.

Auggie was eyeing her with concern. She could imagine what she looked like: white face, pale lips, shadowed eyes. And she felt like she was going to faint. Gripping the receiver harder, she said, “I’d like to reach Dr. Navarone. Do you know where he is now?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t.” A pause. “Are you all right, Talia?”

“Fine.”

“I know Hathaway House is for teens, mostly, but if you’re looking for a recommendation, I could give you some names, or make some calls—”

“No, no . . . thank you, but no . . . I’m . . . I’ve got that handled. I just wanted to find Dr. Navarone.”

She said slowly, as if thinking over her words, “I don’t know quite why you’re so interested in him, but he might not be the right doctor for you.”

“Oh?”

“His methods were unorthodox, and he was . . .”

When she paused long enough for Liv to worry she wasn’t going to go on, she urged, “Tell me. Please.”

“He was asked to leave Grandview. He was a fine doctor,” she added quickly. “His reputation was clean. It was just his methods weren’t in sync with Grandview.”

“And Hathaway House . . . ?”

“He was never accused of any wrongdoing, you understand. But he was . . . his methods were deemed unacceptable at other facilities as well.”

“What kind of methods?” Liv asked.

“What are you looking for, Talia?”

The doctor’s voice had grown ever more cautious. Time to hang up. “I think he was the doctor of a friend of mine who really felt he’d helped her,” Liv said, lying through her teeth. Her voice was starting to shake. One of those “I cannot tell a lie” idiosyncracies that cropped up unexpectedly. “I just was hoping to find him.”

“Well . . .” There was censure in her tone. “I’m not sure I would recommend the man.”

“If I asked at Hathaway House, do you think they’d know where he was?”

“Are you still getting treatment?”

“I’m seeing someone privately.” She glanced around the room wildly, her gaze falling on Auggie. “Dr. Augdogsen.”

“I don’t recognize the name,” Dr. Yancy said, and Auggie shook his head in disbelief.

“He’s not from the Portland area.”

“Well, if you need anything, please call again, now that you have my number. I’d be happy to help.”

“Thank you. I will.” Liv hung up quickly, her hands trembling.

“Augdogsen?” Auggie repeated, picking up the cell phone where she’d set it down.

She ignored that. “The zombie doctor is Dr. Navarone. I recognize the name. He’s the stalker in the photos, I’m almost sure of it. I never paid that much attention to him at Hathaway House. He looked different than in the photo, but I’m almost positive he’s the guy.” Liv hugged herself, suddenly cold even though the room was warm. “The killer.”

“So, where is he now?”

“She didn’t know. He used to be at Grandview Hospital, but now it’s an elder-care center, and he was asked to leave anyway, something about his methods of treatment.”

“Electric shock therapy? Lobotomies? Kumbaya?”

“None of the above,” she said automatically. They looked at each other, and for some reason both of them cracked up. “I don’t know why I’m laughing,” she said after several moments of hilarity. “Hysteria, I guess.”

“C’mere.” He pulled her to her feet, amusement still lurking around the corners of his eyes. “You can’t keep this stress up without some laughing. You’ll go crazy.” She lifted a brow at him, and he made a sound. “I wasn’t gonna say it.”

“You thought it.”

“You’re the one who thinks you’re crazy. I’m just here to listen.”

“My dad’s the one who thought I was crazy,” she corrected him. “And Lorinda. Later, they sent Hague away, too, though I was out of Hathaway by then.”

“Your brother was at Hathaway House?”

“No . . . Hague’s my father’s real son. Not his crazy adopted daughter whose real parents were probably crazy, too. Hathaway wasn’t quite good enough for blood.” Liv looked into his face, so close still; he hadn’t backed away from her. “To Grandview Hospital.”

He stared at her. “Are you saying your brother was at Grandview when Dr. Navarone was there?”

“That’s what I’m thinking.” Liv moved slightly away from him. Being so close was becoming unnerving.

“So . . . does Hague know something about Navarone?”

“I don’t know. Hague’s hard to read.”

“What did he say to you?”

They keep their hands in their pockets and wear rigor smiles.... He’ll drill holes in your head and he’ll put receivers inside the folds of your brain.... We both know him . . . from when we were kids...

She shivered, remembering.

“What?” Auggie’s gaze sharpened on her.

She shook her head. “He doesn’t know much more than I do. Less, probably. He’s not really in touch with reality.”

“You showed him the package.”

“He barely leaves his apartment.”

“But maybe he’s involved somehow, at some level. Could he have any—”

“No!” Liv cut him off. “He doesn’t have anything to do with this. My brother’s sick, but not like that. He wouldn’t hurt anybody. He was a baby when my mother died! And the only place he goes is to the ground-floor cantina in his own building.”

“But it sounds like he crossed paths with Navarone at Grandview. Maybe something got kick-started then that involves Hague. Maybe—”

She pushed him. In the chest. In sudden fury. He staggered back a couple of steps.

“Hey,” he said, affronted. He’d been so wrapped up in his train of thought that she felt he’d forgotten she was there.

“Leave Hague out of this,” Liv ordered. “It’s not about him.”

“Well, it kinda is,” he argued. “He didn’t kill your mother, sure, but there’s a connection there.”

She wanted to clap her hands over her ears. No! Not Hague. Not her little brother.

“If this Dr. Navarone is the man in the picture with your mother, and she sent you these photos, photos you showed to your brother who was a patient at Grandview Mental Hospital about the same time Navarone was there . . .”

Liv didn’t respond. She was wrestling with anxiety and a sudden fear that she might not want to know the truth after all.

“When you showed your brother, and his girlfriend, caretaker, whatever, and your father and stepmother, the photos in the package, they saw this guy. The stalking man in the photo. And you told them you were going to look into your mother’s death, and so maybe . . . somehow . . . word got back to him?”

“I don’t know for sure they’re one and the same,” Liv said, backpedaling.

“We need to find this Navarone.” Auggie was certain.

“We,” she repeated.

“We’ll go to Grandview. So it’s an elder-care facility now. Someone there might remember, or at least direct us to Navarone.”

“Why are you doing this? What do you care?” she demanded, her voice rising.

He stared at her for a long moment, then slowly leaned forward, grabbing her by the forearms and pulling her gently toward him. She resisted, holding back, until her feet actually stumbled a bit as he drew her closer.

“What are you doing? Let go of me,” she said in a voice that sounded high and alarmed to her own ears.

“Stop fighting. Let me help you,” he stated with repressed urgency.

“Do I have a choice?”

His face was way too close to hers. “Maybe not. You dragged me into this, and now I’m committed. I have to know how it ends.”

“How it ends?” She half-laughed. Definitely hysteria creeping in this time.

“I’m going to kiss you,” he said.

She reared back on that one, eyes wide. “No . . . I . . .”

But her protests were lost beneath his lips on hers. Liv stood stock still, completely shocked. She told herself to move but her brain and body felt disconnected. All she could really feel were his lips molding to hers, his thighs pressed to hers, his hands sliding around the small of her back.

She didn’t want him. She didn’t. She didn’t want any man. But her traitorous fingers were clenched on his arms, feeling taut, sinewy muscle beneath. Her mind fractured. Too many sensations bombarded her at once: his lips, his hands, his shallow breaths. No, those were her breaths, rapidly growing in tandem with her heartbeats.

His mouth was hard and soft and warm and his tongue teased at the crease of her lips.

She wasn’t sure how this had happened. She didn’t want it to stop.

She opened her mouth to protest and his tongue moved in, taking it as an invitation. The feel of his tongue was warm and slick and the way it filled her mouth did something to her knees. They quivered wildly and she would have sunk down, but his arm was a bar around her back, keeping her lower body hot against his.

She could feel his arousal. It was all she could think about. She’d put on her jeans and a clean T-shirt but it felt as if there were nothing between them. Her bones had turned to liquid. Her skin felt sensitized. Somewhere in her mind she knew she should resist, but she couldn’t. This was nothing like anything she’d experienced before and she suddenly wanted it. Wanted it. If she died tomorrow, she was going to have this. Now.

He sensed her capitulation and half-walked her, half-dragged her to the couch. They didn’t say a word to each other. One moment they were kissing and bending toward each other as if they wanted to fuse bodies, the next they were both naked and she was feeling the cushions of the couch meet her bare buttocks and shoulders.

And then he hesitated. As if second thoughts had finally penetrated the blinding passion that consumed them. “I—don’t—” he began.

“Shhh . . .” She dragged his mouth down to hers.

It was all she needed to say. His body pressed against hers, his hands sliding along her sides, one of them caressing her left breast convulsively. Her hips rose of their own accord and his other hand slid between her legs, stroking her in a way that sent her pulse skyrocketing and made her desire flame along her nerves.

Hurry, she thought. Hurry. If something happened—anything—to interrupt them, she didn’t think she could bear it.

And then he was poised at the brink of fully taking her and she wanted to yank him forward. Somewhere distantly in her brain she sensed that if things didn’t proceed at breakneck pace they wouldn’t happen. Reason would reassert itself. Auggie would remember she was a crazy, damaged fugitive and would stop himself.

And she needed this. Maybe it wasn’t love. But it was desire. And she was going to have it.

“Livvie . . .” he whispered unsteadily.

“Come on,” she urged, her hands running down the hard muscles of his back.

That did it. He pushed against her and she felt a joyous thrill slide into her feminine core. Her hips urged him forward and he pushed harder, entering her, wringing a gasp from her lips. He stopped but her hands were urgent, pulling him closer and then he began rhythmically moving, sliding in and out until her mind was mush and she was simply sensation. No body. Nothing. Some other plane of consciousness.

The pressure built. Her body moved with his as if she’d been meant for him. Maybe she was, she thought half-hysterically. Maybe that’s why she hadn’t understood the joy of Trask and Jo, why she hadn’t felt anything that even vaguely resembled this pleasure.

Trask . . .

For a moment she was filled with anguish, but a pulse was beating in her head and her hips were meeting his in a delicious rhythm and before she knew it her hands were raking his back and she was convulsing beneath him, crying out. A moment later he thrust harder, stiffening in his own climax before he collapsed against her, his breath rasping against her ear, his heart galloping against hers.