Before I Wake (23 page)

Nathan Fury looked across the autopsy table at FBI medical examiner Jason Devore. “Thanks for coming,” Fury said.

Devore wore a yellow disposable Tyvek suit, a heavy vinyl apron, latex gloves, and a face shield pulled back and resting on the top of his head. “This isn’t an easy place to get to.”

Devore was a busy man and in high demand. He’d been brought in by FBI helicopter, which was waiting in a nearby field to scoop him away once he was finished.

Devore looked tired, and ten years older than his thirty-seven years. The FBI did that to a person. When you were good at your job, you put in a lot of overtime.

“I’ve heard a lot about the Hill.” Devore glanced at the dark, sweating stone walls of the Hill’s Mercy Unit basement and morgue. “Always wanted to see it. Now that I have, I can say it would have been better if we’d brought the bodies to the facilities in Virginia.” He shook his head. “Didn’t know this place was such a dump.”

It had been tough convincing the local police department to allow them to conduct the autopsies on asylum grounds.

“They don’t usually have murders in Madeline,” Fury said. “And when they do, bodies normally get shipped upstate. Considering the circumstances and the controversial nature of the program, we thought it better to involve as few people as possible. The town is already talking about kicking us out.” But Devore’s outstanding credentials should make everybody happy.

“Putting together a lynch mob?” Devore asked with a wry smile.

He was kidding, of course, but Fury had been down off the Hill a few times since the homicide and suicide, and a mob mentality was definitely brewing in town. Fury rarely displayed his ID in public, but residents seemed to know he was FBI. There were no smiles, and he was a little afraid to order food anywhere. Not that he thought someone would try to poison him, but spitting in his tea would probably be good for some giggles.

Outside, the sun was shining. In the morgue, you wouldn’t know what time of day it was, or even what month. But the cooler was adequate, keeping the waiting bodies at a nice, even thirty-eight degrees. The first one they wheeled out was Vera Thompson.

“I haven’t worked without assistants in years,” Devore said, uncovering the body.

Fury didn’t know if Devore was griping or bragging. “It’ll be okay.” Fury adjusted the sleeves of his disposable suit. “I’ve been in on a lot of autopsies.”

“Not complaining,” Devore said. “In fact, this is kinda fun.” He looked up. “Reminds me of the old medical school days when things were a little more relaxed.”

“Not sure
relaxed
is a word I’ve used around here lately, but… okay.”

Devore turned on a small digital recorder and documented the time, location, victim’s name, date. That was followed by approximate weight and height of the body on the table. He then did a cursory external exam, beginning at the top of her head.

The autopsy table wasn’t equipped with a down-draft; the fumes were drawn from the room by an antiquated system that didn’t seem much more powerful than a residential exhaust fan.

Fury’s eyes and throat burned.

Devore, on the other hand, was chatting as if the stench didn’t register. But then, Fury had known a coroner who would sometimes munch on snacks while perusing a cadaver. Or had that been Devore? God, it
had
been Devore.

Devore focused his attention on the body. “These…” With the scalpel, he lifted the edges of the stab wounds. “Weapon was a knife, which the police already determined. Anybody find it yet?”

“No.”

It would make things much easier if they had. Lack of a murder weapon was one of the most frustrating stumbling blocks to any case.

“The attack came in from a high angle, with quite a bit of force,” Devore said. “Made by a fairly tall person.”

“How tall?”

“Close to six feet. Maybe taller.” Devore picked up one of the woman’s hands, then the other. “Nails are clean.” He slipped a block under her neck, dropped his face shield, readied the scalpel, and made an incision from the sternum to the pelvic bone.

The internal exam took forty-five minutes.

When it was over, they covered Vera Thompson, wheeled her back into the cooler, and retrieved the body of Noah Viola.

“What a shame,” Devore said, shaking his head. “Nice-looking kid.”

Noah was small and on the frail side.

Devore measured his height and looked up at Fury. “Five feet, five inches.”

Not tall enough to have stabbed Mrs. Thompson, Fury thought, unless he’d attacked from a high vantage point…

When the autopsy was complete, Fury walked Devore to the waiting helicopter. “Thanks for coming.” He offered his hand and Devore shook it.

“I’ll get a full report to you in a few days.” The ME ducked and ran beneath the swirling blades, disappearing through the open door. A minute later, the craft lifted away in a swirl of leaves and violent wind.

That evening, in his room on the Hill, ears still ringing from the sound of the helicopter, Fury sat at a scratched and varnished desk, crime-scene photos spread in front of him.

He pored over the Thompson photos again, paying particular attention to the close-ups of spatter on the bathroom walls.

There could be no doubt that the crime had been committed in the bathroom. When Devore had first mentioned that the killer had been tall, Fury had considered different scenarios, but the spatter proved otherwise.

The blood on Noah’s shoes and shirt had turned out to be A-negative, same as Vera Thompson’s. The bloody footprint of Noah’s shoe proved he’d been in the room.

Had there been two people involved in the murder? And was the kid’s death really a suicide? Or had someone—the person who’d actually slit Thompson’s throat—pushed Noah from the window?

A witness claimed she’d heard Noah say the old woman needed to be put out of her misery, but if Noah hadn’t murdered Thompson, then who had? And what was the motive?

Fury’s cell phone rang.

It was one of the local detectives.

“We got the credit card records for Eli Norton, Franny Young, and Arden Davis,” he said. “They all drew cash from the same ATM machine near the town of Parkersburg, West Virginia. Since then, no more withdrawals.”

Arden would know better than to leave a paper trail, Fury thought. She would get as much cash as possible at the beginning.

“Then we got lucky and came up with one charge to Norton’s credit card. The Coffee Cup Cafe in Cambridge, Ohio.”

Fury thanked him and disconnected.

He got out an atlas and turned to Ohio.

They were heading north on Highway
77
, toward Cleveland. Arden’s family farm was northeast of Cleveland, in Lake County.

Up until that point, Fury had felt Lake County, Ohio, was the last place Arden would go. Now he thought different.

Eli turned off the TV, tossed the remote on the couch beside him, and sat staring at the blank screen.

The news had been full of weather.

Eli had grown up in Tucson, Arizona. He usually didn’t pay much attention to weather—it bored him—but on television they’d been talking about a storm. A big storm. That made him nervous.

Franny was sleeping. Arden was upstairs. Harley was puttering around in the kitchen, banging pans and running water.

The air in the house had finally warmed up, but anything you touched was cold. The cushions under his ass were still putting off a deep chill.

He’d been having fun until they got there. He wasn’t having fun anymore.

He should pack up Franny and they should get the hell out of there. That’s what his gut was telling him. But he didn’t want to leave Arden alone with Harley. The guy was a mess. Completely unpredictable. And violent. Now they knew he was violent.

Eli got up from the couch and walked quietly into the bedroom.

Franny was asleep, curled on her side, clutching the ragged teddy bear she said she’d had since she was three. He sank down on the bed.

“Franny?” he whispered, gently shaking her by the shoulder.

She made a small sound of protest, followed by a smacking of her lips. Her shook her again. This time she woke up.

It was getting dark, and he could barely make out her features.

“Eli?” she muttered.

“Sorry to wake you.”

“That’s okay.”

Her words were a little slurred and groggy. He knew how it was, waking up from a long daytime nap. It really drained you. Really fucked you up.

He scooted closer, an elbow on the mattress, his head resting in his palm. “I’m thinking about leaving,” he whispered.

She was silent, and he had the feeling she was trying to read his expression in the dark.

“This place is creepy,” he said. That sounded childish. Dumb. “I’m getting a bad vibe.” That sounded even dumber. “I know this is where Arden’s parents were killed, but it’s more than that. I mean, I’m not afraid of ghosts or anything.”

He felt her warm fingers curl around his cold hand. “What about Arden?” she whispered back. “And Harley? I don’t think Arden will want to leave.”

“I don’t think either of them will leave, but that doesn’t mean we have to stay.”

“What about going to the newspaper?”

“We can still do that. We can still get everything together and meet someplace when we’re ready. Or you and I can go by ourselves.”

She dropped back on the mattress, her hand still holding his. “I can’t think. My brain is mush.”

He loved Franny.

Now that Noah was gone, he could tell her that. Not now. Now would be a bad time. But later. When they were away from there.

“On TV, they keep talking about a storm,” Eli said. “Some big-ass thing. Supposed to hit in a day or two. I think we should get out of here before that. I mean, we’re in the boonies as it is. I can’t imagine what it will be like if it snows two feet. I don’t want to be trapped here.” He leaned closer. “With that guy.”
Harley
. He didn’t want to say his name, just in case he heard. In case he was nearby.

“I’m not sure I want to leave Arden,” Franny said. “Maybe she’ll come. Maybe we can all leave.”

That wasn’t going to happen. Eli was sure of it.

“Spaghetti will be ready in five minutes!” Harley shouted from the kitchen.

Eli didn’t want to let go of Franny’s hand. Things would be okay once they got away. Just the two of them.

“I’m going to find Arden.” He made himself release her. He started to get up from the bed, then paused. “Stay here until I get back, will you? I mean, don’t go in the kitchen.”

“Harley’s okay,” she whispered.

“He almost killed Arden’s brother.”

“He was defending her.”

“Stay here.
Please
.”

She laughed. “Okay.”

It was the first time he’d heard her laugh since Noah died. He wanted to kiss her, but he didn’t dare. Instead, he got to his feet and went upstairs to find Arden.

Her bedroom door was shut. He knocked. There was no reply, but he could hear her moving around inside. Not any big sound, but something like a footfall, or like something being set down on the floor.

“Arden?”

A louder sound. Like a scramble. Then the door opened a couple of inches. A lamp with a crooked shade sat on the floor. It backlit her, casting her face in shadow. Apparently lights were no longer an issue.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

She sounded guilty. Sneaky. Little-kid sneaky.

He pushed on the door; she held it where it was.

“Can I come in?”

Giving up, she released her grip and stepped back.

The floor was strewn with papers, books, photos, and photo albums. In the center of it all was a bottle of vodka.

“I’ve been looking for something.”

She tugged the hair back from her forehead and stared at the mess around her feet. “A passport. I used to have a passport; I’m sure of it. I wanna check the stamps. See how many I have. See where I’ve been.”

She dropped to the floor, legs crossed.

Her ankles were bare. She was wearing a pair of old Nike sneakers she must have found somewhere.

He joined her so they both sat cross-legged, face-to-face.

“And yes, I’ve been drinking.” She offered the bottle to him.

He shook his head. “Maybe later.”

“Straight vodka’s nasty. Especially the cheap stuff.” She took a long swallow, as if she didn’t think it was nasty at all. “There’s probably some tomato juice around, but tomatoes give me hives.”

“Don’t wanna get hives.”

“Nope.”

Eli tried to think back on how all of this had happened, how Arden had convinced them that they needed to run away from the Hill.

She’d seemed coherent. Logical. Automatically falling into the role of leader. But she’d been losing her grip ever since they’d arrived at the house. She’d been acting almost as weird as Harley.

Not good. Not good at all.

“Harley says the spaghetti is almost ready.”

 “I’m not hungry. And there’s the whole hives thing.”

“It might be a good idea to eat something.”

“And kill the buzz?”

She had more than a buzz going on.

“Lookie here.” She held up a photo.

He took it and leaned closer to the light. A color three-by-five of a little girl dressed like a pirate. Her arms were around the neck of a dog that looked like some kind of black Lab cross.

“This you?” He pointed.

“Cute kid, wasn’t I?”

He nodded and passed the photo back. “Franny and I… we’ve been talking about maybe heading out. Going to my folks’ for a while.” Franny didn’t have any family. Hopefully she would come home with him. “Stabilize. And with the holidays not that far off…”

She held up a newspaper clipping. “I must have cut it out of the local paper shortly before their funeral.”

Yellow, even though it wasn’t all that old. The headline read, IN COLD BLOOD, REDUX? It was the story of the murder of Arden’s parents.

“I don’t remember it,” she stated matter-of-factly. “I was hoping this”—she swept her hand across the memorabilia—”would help me remember.”

“You were bleached.”

“But they caught the guy,” she said with a strange, sarcastic laugh. “The killer.”

“Albert French.”

“He got the death sentence and was executed not long ago.”

“Yeah, I heard about that.”

“But he claimed he was innocent. Oh, he confessed to the other killings, but not this one.”

“So… the killer hasn’t been caught?” Was that what she was saying? They were in the house where the murders had taken place, and the killer was still out there somewhere? What other secrets was she keeping from them?

“Nothing is over. Nothing is solved.”

He swallowed hard. “Does anyone have any theories?”

“I do. More than one, actually.”

“Yeah?” He had the urge to look over his shoulder, but restrained himself.

She took another long swallow of vodka. The bottle was over half-empty. Had it been full when she’d started? He’d be laid out flat if he’d drunk that much.

She looked up at him and shrugged. “That’s all they are. Theories with nothing to substantiate them.” She leaned back and hooked one hand under her crossed ankles.

Lamplight fell across the side of her face, creating a shadow on the wall.

The shadow looked like a person. Looked like a man with a long nose, large teeth, and a protruding forehead. It bore absolutely no resemblance to Arden.

Was she one of the shadow people?

Eli unfolded himself and jumped to his feet.

“Do you remember being in the float tank?” Arden asked.

“Vaguely.”

“Do you remember what they did to you there?”

“No.”

She nodded. “That’s because Harris didn’t want you to. It’s because they pumped you full of drags so you wouldn’t remember. So you wouldn’t argue and tell somebody. Once they put you in there, they piped a killer’s words and beliefs in your ear for hours at a time. So now the thoughts you have aren’t completely your own.”

She got to her feet.

A small cardboard box of photos and things girls collected slipped off the bed and crashed to the floor. She waded through the mess to stand two feet from him. She tapped his forehead.

He slapped her hand away and took a step back.

“Eli is in there, but he’s not alone. Somebody else is in there with him. Could be Albert French. Could be Jeffrey Dahmer.”

She was paranoid. And delusional. Why hadn’t he seen that before?

“What about you?” he asked.

Ten minutes ago, he’d been ready to get the hell out of there without her. But now, seeing her like this, he was more worried about her than ever. It was this place. This place was doing weird things to her head. “Maybe you should go somewhere else too.”

“No place to go.”

“What about wherever you were before you came to the Hill?”

“I can’t go back there. I was hiding there. No, this is where I need to be right now.” She dug into her pocket. “Here.” She slapped his car keys into his hand. “No more hiding for me. No more running away.”