Blood of Eden (15 page)

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Authors: Tami Dane

BOOK: Blood of Eden
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“Yep.” I pulled out of the store parking lot, with Mom tailing behind me. She followed me into my apartment's parking lot, parked the car, and met me at my apartment door.
“I thought, since I was here, anyway, I'd join you for dinner.”
“Sure, come on in. Everything's all cleaned up now.” I followed Mom into the apartment. It was dark, quiet. There was no scent of burned chemicals. No sound of clattering chemistry equipment. No Katie. The kitchen, I noticed, was spotless, just as I'd left it. No spilled liquids of unknown identity stained the counter. No powders collected where the counter met the wall. The kitchen hadn't been used at all. I could actually cook in there, if I wanted. Not that I would. That was plain silly.
I snatched the stack of take-out menus from the closest drawer—the one that most people kept cooking stuff in—and asked, “What're you in the mood for tonight? Chinese? Thai? Italian?”
“How about Mexican?”
“We can do that.” I found the menu for the closest Mexican restaurant from the stack, scribbled down her order, and called it in. “It'll be ready in twenty minutes. I'll run out and pick it up in a few.” I headed for my room, anxious to change into a pair of sweats and a T-shirt. I halted in my tracks, though, when I saw Katie standing just inside her bedroom, staring at the wall. She was so still—she looked like a mannequin. The light was off. She wasn't moving. It was weird. “Hey, Katie. What's up?” When she didn't respond, I gave her shoulder a little shake.
“Don't touch me,” she snapped, her upper lip curled like a snarling dog's.
I jerked my hand away. “O-okay.” I half stumbled back out into the hall. “Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you.”
Katie didn't move. She didn't speak. She just stood there, staring at the wall.
I headed to my room, changed my clothes. On my way back out to the living room, I checked on Katie. She hadn't budged. “We're getting Mexican for dinner. Do you want anything?”
Katie didn't answer.
“Mom, there's something wrong with Katie.” I checked the clock on the microwave. I needed to leave in a couple of minutes to get our food.
“What's wrong with her? Is she sick?” Mom looked concerned. Katie and I had been close for years. Her folks were both dead. Mom had basically adopted her before we'd finished our first year of college.
“I don't know. She's staring at the wall, and I swear she snapped at me like Mrs. Heckel's Chihuahua, Daisy, when I touched her. Her eyes look a little buggy too, like Daisy's.”
“She's probably just stressed-out. School did that to you too.”
“I don't know.” I grabbed my license and debit card, slouched into a hoodie and stuffed the cards in my pocket. “I've been living with Katie for years, and she's been in school since I met her. She's never acted like this.”
“We all handle stress differently,” Mom said, following me out the door.
Stress could cause some bizarre symptoms. And couple that with PMS, and the effects of whatever medication Katie might have taken for her migraine, and it was no wonder she was acting oddly. “I guess that's possible. Are you going with me?” I asked.
“No, I'm following you. I have a job to do, remember?”
“Mom, I'm just going to the restaurant down the street to pick up our dinner.”
“That's okay.” She went to her car. I went to mine. She tailed me the half mile to the restaurant, parked a few spaces away from me, and waited as I walked in. Then she followed me as I drove home, parked in the lot, and followed me back into my apartment. It was silly. I wondered who in their right mind would pay someone to follow me 24-7.
Nobody, that was who.
“Mom, don't you get a dinner break or anything? Do you clock out after six?”
“Nope. This is an important client. An important job. If he, or she, wants me to follow you everywhere, then that's what I'm gonna do.”
“That's fine and dandy, but the FBI might have a problem with you tailing me while I'm working.”
“Not a problem.” Mom shrugged. She didn't seem at all concerned. This made me even more curious who she thought her mystery employer was, and what he or she was looking for.
I set us up with glasses of diet cola, napkins, plates, knives, and forks while Mom clicked through the science channels on television, looking for something to watch while we ate. She settled upon
Mystery Diagnosis.
Lately she'd become quite the television watcher. She'd done a complete one-eighty from a few years ago, when she'd vowed TV would lead to the ruin of our culture. Cell phones, social networking, and other portable gadgets had recently taken its place as the bane of her existence.
Mom had the mystery illness solved before the first commercial break.
Katie strolled in just as we were digging into our food. “What's this? Mexican? Smells so good.” She inhaled. “Where's mine?”
“I asked you if you wanted some, but you didn't answer.”
“Of course, I answered. I told you I wanted a beef-and-bean burrito, with extra sour cream.” Katie glared at me. Then her squinty, mean eyes slid south, to my full dinner plate and the beef-and-bean burrito sitting in the middle of it. “Why would you order one for yourself, but not for me?”
“I ... uh ...” I looked down at the delicious meal on my plate, cursed under my breath, and vowed to find a way to get my roommate in to see a doctor if she kept acting so strangely. “Mom?”
“I thought I heard her ask for the burrito dinner.” Mom chewed, then nodded. “Yes, I'm pretty sure that's what I heard.”
Of course, the schizophrenic who regularly heard voices would say that.
With my mouth full of saliva, at the mere thought of digging into that plate full of Mexican heaven, I handed the dish to Katie and stood. “My mistake. You can take mine. I'll dig up a little something in the kitchen.”
“Thank you.” Katie settled next to Mom and plunged her fork into what should have been my Mexican rice and beans, smothered in sour cream. It was probably for the better. My jeans were getting a little snug in the thighs.
In the kitchen, I found a jar of olives in the refrigerator and a box of stale Cheez-Its in the cupboard. After that piddly dinner, my jeans would be fitting better by morning. I choked down the old crackers and tried to convince myself they were yummy, while Mom and Katie stuffed themselves full of beef, cheese, and rice. A little while later, Mom left, hauling what was left of her meal in a little foam box. Katie wandered off to her room without so much as a “good night.” I decided I'd wait until tomorrow to ask her about the DNA sample, and placed it in the freezer for safekeeping. After getting the weather report—we were in for a deluge tonight—I took a trash bag and roll of duct tape out to the car to close up the gaping window. Once that minor task was finished, I decided to go to bed. When I was asleep, I wouldn't feel hungry.
All we know is still infinitely less than all that remains unknown.
—William Harvey
12
“Don't hide from me. You can't hide anymore. I'll find you.”
It was back again. She could tell. As always the warmth, the life, had been sucked from the room. Her eyelids squeezed tightly, she concentrated on breathing slowly, evenly, and silently prayed for it to leave.
Don't move. What does it want?
“Where are you, my little mouse? Come out of your hole. I have a nice treat for you.”
The stench of death seeped through the blanket covering her face. Her throat constricted.
Don't gag.
Something poked through the blanket, piercing the skin of her upper arm. She fought the urge to flinch.
“Ahhh, there you are, little mouse.”
The blanket slid down her body. Goose bumps prickled over her arms and shoulders. A draft so cold, it burned drifted across her body. She opened her eyes and looked up, toward the voice and—
 
 
“Wake up, Sloan!”
I jerked up. My eyes darted around the dark room. My hand smacked against my breastbone, as if it could still my racing heart. “What? What!”
“It's me, Katie.”
“Katie.” I took a breath. Another one. I still felt shaky and foggy-headed. “Oh.”
“Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you.”
“It's okay. What's wrong?”
“I don't know. I feel ... strange. My head. It's not working right. Can't think.”
“What do you want me to do? Is it another migraine?” I asked.
“No. I don't think so.”
“Were you inhaling fumes today? Did you take too many pills for your migraine?”
“I ... I don't know. I can't remember.” Her voice rose with every word. “I can't remember what I did today, Sloan. Why can't I remember?” Katie grabbed me. She shook me. She squeezed my arms. And I saw stars as my brain splatted against the inside of my skull.
“Katie! Stop!” I broke out of her grip and scuttled out of her reach.
“Everything's a blank,” she said. “I don't remember.”
I glanced at the clock. It was just after midnight. “I'm going to take you to the hospital, okay?” On hands and knees, I crawled to the opposite side of the bed. Katie mumbled while I tied on a pair of tennis shoes and stumbled into the bathroom. Squinting against the glaring light, I finger-combed my hair. “Let's go.”
Katie clung to my arm as we hurried out to my car dodging fat raindrops. I put her in the backseat, afraid there was still some glass on the front, and sped down flooded streets to the closest emergency room.
Hours later, the rain had stopped. And my soggy clothes and hair were dry. I drove Katie home, now doped up on Xanax. The diagnosis: anxiety. The doctors had found nothing medically wrong. I caught a few more hours of sleep before dragging myself to the shower. Katie was still asleep when I headed out to work. Mom's car was in the lot. She waved at me. I waved back and strolled to her car.
“I'm making a coffee stop on the way to Quantico. Do you want something?” I asked.
“Sure. I'll take a bagel and some black coffee.” Mom scowled. “You look terrible, Sloan. You need to take better care of yourself.”
“I'm trying, Mom. I really am. I have a lot going on right now.” Hoping JT wouldn't notice the bags under my eyes were now big enough to hide a small child, I scurried to my car and settled in for the drive. At the bagel shop, I bought our bagels and coffees, delivered Mom's to her car, and chugged half of mine before I pulled out of the lot. I noticed Mom didn't try to follow me all the way to the FBI Academy. Because the building is located on a military base, only people with a military ID were permitted. She did, however, give me a little wave good-bye.
I hurried into the office, my breakfast in my hands, my laptop bag slung over one shoulder. Inside, I headed straight for my desk. JT, I noticed, was already at work, pecking at his laptop's keyboard. I chomped on my bagel as I set up my computer.
“Did you think I was lying?” he asked, standing behind me no more than a minute later.
“I don't know what you're talking about. Lying about what?” Did he think I suspected him of breaking my car window? Or was he referring to turning me in to the chief?
“When I said I'd put in for you to take a medical leave, I meant it.”
Aha. “But I'm not sick.” I donned my best pity-me look, normally reserved for police officers who've pulled me over, and turned to face him. “And I went to bed early. I swear I did.” I didn't mention the fact that I didn't stay in bed. “I believed you. Absolutely.”
He squinted at me. His jaw clenched ever so slightly. “You're lying.”
“No, I'm not. You can call my mother and ask her. She was at my place last night. I'll give you her number.”
“That won't be necessary.” He leaned closer, and I panicked just a little, knowing the deep bruiselike circles would be that much more obvious up close and personal. There was only so much the inch-thick layer of concealer I'd caked on could do. “We roll in five minutes.”
“Okay.” I stuffed a piece of bagel in my mouth and washed it down with the last of my coffee. “I'll be ready.”
Thankfully, he said nothing more, just walked stiffly back to his cubicle. I skimmed my e-mails and shut down my computer. I stuffed it back in the case and stood just as JT was heading my way again.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Yep.” I fell into step beside him. “Where are we going?”
“To interview a witness who claims she saw Patty Yates get into some kind of altercation the morning of her death.”
“Hmm, okay. The morning she died? Couldn't be the killer. He or
she,
” I said, putting intentional emphasis on the feminine, “would've had to inject the pathogen several days earlier.”
JT poked the down button, calling the elevator. “Maybe
he
was watching her, waiting for her to collapse, like we talked about. And maybe Patty Yates recognized him and tried to get away? Remember, the saliva samples?”
“I guess I could see that.”
 
 
The trip to Baltimore was fraught with tension after that point. Ever since the trip to the emergency room, JT had been acting a little differently toward me. It was a subtle difference, but pronounced enough for me to notice. I wasn't convinced he was concerned about my sleep deprivation. “JT, you know I wasn't the one who clobbered you over the head and threw you in the Dumpster, right?”
“Of course. Why would you ask me that?”
Now I felt a little stupid. “Because you've been acting differently toward me since that day.” Then another possibility came to mind. “If you're worried about what you said at the hospital—”
“I'm not.” He glanced over his shoulder to check for traffic before changing lanes. His gaze flicked to me for a second, then jerked back.
“What's going on, then? Will you tell me?”
“Nothing's going on.” His jaw clenched. He was lying. About what? His gaze zigzagged between me and the road a couple of times.”Everything's fine, Sloan.”
“If everything's fine, why'd you black out your computer screen when I came to talk to you the other night?”
He shrugged. “I always do that. I hate it when people read over my shoulder.”
“I see.” I didn't, of course, but there was no use trying to drag the truth out of JT. He wasn't going to spill. At least, not without the help of another bonk on the head.
“What does it matter, anyway? I told you what I'd found.”
I didn't say a word the rest of the drive. Neither did JT. It was painful, sitting in that small space, the tension so thick I could taste it. It was a lot like being on a bad date. But I survived. Bad dates are my forte. I just lost myself in my thoughts, and occasionally looked behind us to see if Mom was following. Before I knew it, we were pulling up in front of yet another suburban Colonial. I dug a notebook and pen out of my laptop case and followed JT up to the house.
No sign of Mom. Evidently, she didn't feel the need to follow me when I was riding with an agent.
He knocked. We waited. No answer. He knocked again.
“Are we here too early? It is Sunday.” I checked my watch. It was a little before nine. “Or maybe your witness has gone to church?”
“No, she said she'd be home.” He knocked a third time, harder.
We waited some more. I stepped off the porch to get a better angle on the front window. It looked dark inside. A lace curtain fluttered. “I think I see someone.” An orange tabby cat walked along the window ledge, tail sticking straight up. “Cancel that, it's only the cat.”
A second later, the front door's lock rattled. The door inched open. JT introduced himself through the two-inch crack between the door and the frame. By the time I'd made it back on the porch, he was inside the house.
“Mrs. Ester, this is Sloan Skye.”
I offered my hand. “Mrs. Ester.”
Mrs. Ester, who could very well be older than God, took my hand in a delicate grip and gave it a little shake. Her hand, heavily wrinkled and veined, was fragile and soft. “Miss Skye.” She turned eyes the shade of a winter sky toward JT. “I saw the whole thing. I was on my way to the store to pick up a few things, and I saw her fighting with another woman.”
“Where did you see this?”
“Just down the road.” The woman pointed a finger toward the west. “On the side of the Dempsters' house. I can show you.” The woman took a wobbly step toward a door to the left, which probably led to the garage. “I need to get my scooter, though.”
“We can go in a minute.” JT jotted a few notes. So did I.
Mrs. Ester opened the door and hit a button, powering up the automatic garage door opener. I peered into the garage and immediately realized there was no car. I hadn't seen one on the street either.
“I don't drive anymore. Failed the eye exam three times. I think the test is rigged so folks like me can't drive.” Mrs. Ester took a faltering step down. “My son, the little bastard, took my car so I couldn't drive it after I got caught driving without a license six months ago. I showed him. I wrote him outta my will. Everything I have is going to The Critter Connection. They rescue abandoned guinea pigs.” I rushed to her aid, supporting her down the second concrete step and the short walk to her electric cart. “If you'd be so kind as to unplug me.” She motioned to the rear of the cart.
“Sure.” I yanked the plug.
“I don't need no license to drive this thing, but it's a pain in the ass when it's raining. And snow and ice? It gets stuck in a two-inch drift. I'm going to be housebound from December till March, unless we get a midwinter thaw.” Mrs. Ester's little cart hummed as she drove it at a snail's pace out into the morning. JT and I followed. She stopped the cart a couple of houses down and pointed at the area between two identical Colonials. “They were there.”
“Between the houses?”
“No, farther back. Almost at the fence.”
JT and I looked at each other.
Granted, these properties were hardly sprawling, but if Mrs. Ester was correct, she'd been watching the exchange from a distance of no less than seventy feet. She'd failed the eye exam and lost her driver's license. How reliable could her testimony be?
“What did you see?” I asked.
“I saw the first woman jump over the fence. She cleared it in one leap.”
I looked at the fence. Chain link. Taller than the average residential fence. I estimated six feet. Probably because the property on the other side was a school. I didn't know any woman, or man for that matter, who could leap over a six-foot anything.
“Are you certain she
jumped
? Maybe she climbed?” I suggested, growing more skeptical by the second. Did we have another Miss Zumwalt on our hands?
“No, I'm sure.” Mrs. Ester nodded. “She just hopped right over it. Never seen anything like it.”
“What time was this?” JT asked, hiding his thoughts on the witness's reliability, or lack thereof, very well.
“It was early. A little after seven.”
“And you were out that early?”
“I needed some milk for my tea. And cat food. Nibbles gets nasty if he doesn't have his breakfast.”
“Don't we all?” I joked. JT didn't laugh. Neither did Mrs. Ester. “So what happened after the woman ‘hopped over' the fence?”

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