Fallen (13 page)

There was no beauty to be found through the skewed lenses of his sinful eyes.

Police Description of the Crime Scene (Undated), written by William Davidson

The room in which Miss Donovan resided and was murdered was approximately six by ten feet, street facing, single window shuttered. Miss Donovan’s bed was on the south-facing wall, next to the doorway leading to the interior hallway. Bed was an inexpensive wood frame with a thin mattress. Dressing table and chair on opposite wall, covered with various female toiletries. Chair and small table in center of room, facing bed. An opium pipe, one empty bottle of absinthe, second bottle of absinthe one-third empty, empty glass, and spoon on tray on table.

Miss Donovan’s trunk contained five dresses, two pairs of shoes, three dollars, and various personal effects, including a diamond necklace that is undoubtedly a fake. Trunk was closed, though not locked. Victim was wearing an under-dress and nothing else. There was a pool of blood on the floor next to the bed, blood on the back wall behind the victim’s head, and splattered on nearly every inch of the mattress. For description of the victim, refer to coroner’s report.

Madame Conti and Mr. Thiroux agree nothing was missing from the room or was out of the ordinary.

The following items were collected from the room:

Sara shot out of sleep, stiff and disoriented, instinctively sitting halfway up. She didn’t think she’d been dreaming, but something had ripped her out of sleep, and she realized immediately she was still in Gabriel’s apartment on his couch, and the kitten was no longer on her chest. Panic didn’t even have time to take hold before Sara saw that Angel had just scooted down and was sleeping on the couch at her feet.

Rubbing her eyes, her heart racing from the sudden interruption of REM, she wondered how long she had been dozing. The room was dark, and Gabriel was nowhere around. There was a lamp still on in the far corner, but all the other lights had been turned off. A clock ticked somewhere in the silence of the apartment, and she realized it was still the middle of the night, and there was a blanket over her legs. Gabriel must have left her sleeping and gone to bed.

That was sort of embarrassing. She’d been so sleep-deprived it had actually caught up with her and she’d passed out on his couch. That was actually more than embarrassing when she thought about it. That was scary. Or at least it should be. She should be freaked out that she had fallen asleep on a man’s couch and slept like a rock. Instead, it just seemed to her like maybe there was a reason she’d been able to successfully sleep at Gabriel’s when she couldn’t anywhere else.

What that implied was what was truly scary, not that she’d been asleep and vulnerable.

Spotting her purse on the end table, she pulled out her cell phone. 4:46 a.m. She’d slept for almost three hours. That was impressive for her lately. And she felt pretty good, despite a stiff neck and a dry mouth from the wine she’d had. Going back to sleep would be impossible though. She was wide awake and needed to use the bathroom. Making sure she didn’t disturb the cat, she got up.

She picked her way carefully across the living room, went down the hall, and used the bathroom, wincing at the loud flush of the toilet. She had to pass Gabriel’s bedroom on her return trip to the living room, and his door wasn’t shut. It was too much temptation to not at least glance inside. Between the lamp on in the front room and the moonlight from his window, she could see him, a dark shadow lying on his side on the bed, back to her. The sheet came up to his waist, and his hair fell over his bare shoulders.

Sara recognized that feeling in her chest, in her body, when she looked at him. She was interested in him, not just intellectually, but sexually. There was no obvious reason why it was him as opposed to someone else, but he was the first man in well over a year who had coaxed desire from her. And he wasn’t even trying. He didn’t flirt, had never come on to her. Yet the sight of him in bed, his shoulders taut, moonlight on his lean yet muscular body, had her mouth dry, nipples tingling, inner thighs throbbing.

It wasn’t like her to have such an obvious physical response to a man she barely knew, and she didn’t know what to do with it. She’d never thought of herself as a highly sexual person, but now she wanted sex. Absolutely wanted it. With Gabriel. Wanted his weight pressing down on her, wanted his lips taking hers, wanted his body filling hers, hard heat thrusting inside her while she spread her legs for him. She could practically feel it, craved that moment when he would push against her and her body would give, accept him, and they would be joined together in the blissful escapism of sexual pleasure.

Disturbed at her thoughts, Sara crossed her arms tightly on her chest and commanded herself to stop.

His room was small, and sparse compared to the rest of his apartment, with only the bed and a dresser in it. He hadn’t bothered to pull down the shade on his window, which she found interesting. He either slept through the sun rising, or he used it as an alarm clock. It also fascinated her that she couldn’t hear him breathing. He made no sound at all, and given his angle, she couldn’t even see the rise and fall of his chest. It was utterly silent, and he wasn’t moving.

Maybe he was dead. Not that there was cause for death, since he had been alive and well a mere three hours earlier, but once the idea took root, Sara couldn’t shake it. It was possible. Anything was possible. And he wasn’t making any sound at all. What if she moved around the front of him, and found that he had been stabbed? Throat slit. Blood could be all over the bed, and she wouldn’t be able to see it from where she was. He could be dead, cold, his eyes wide open, glassy and empty.

She knew she had to be overreacting, knew he couldn’t possibly have been murdered while she was sleeping on the couch. But then again, he didn’t lock his doors, and she had been down for the count, sleeping hard and deep. If his throat had been slit, he wouldn’t have made any noise.

Bile rising into her mouth, Sara knew she couldn’t leave the room until she saw for herself that Gabriel was alive and well and fast asleep. Heart pounding, she moved forward, her palms sweaty, her sandals outrageously loud in the silence of the dark. She felt like she was going to throw up as she moved around the foot of his bed, not wanting to touch him, or lean over his back. Touch was too intimate, and she needed to
see
first, to process if the unspeakable had happened. Closing her eyes briefly, she moved between his bed and the window, shuffling so she didn’t trip on anything he had on the floor.

Then bracing herself, she turned and forced herself to look at the front of Gabriel, terrified of finding the worst. Almost sick with relief, she saw that his throat hadn’t been slit. There was no blood anywhere. And he was very much alive, his hand shifting slightly on his pillow.

“Thank God,” she whispered, holding her chest with her right hand. He was fine. Everything was fine. She needed to get a grip, stop seeing danger and death around every corner. And most of all, she needed to get out of his bedroom before he realized she was standing there staring at him.

Stepping back, Sara bumped the radiator. It didn’t make much of a sound, but a glance back at the bed showed Gabriel’s eyes open, blinking at her.

“Sara? What’s the matter?”

“I . . .” She stood there, not sure what to say, how to explain.

“Are you cold? I got out a dry shirt for you. I left it next to your purse. I’ll go get it for you.” He was starting to pull himself to a sitting position, exposing his boxer shorts.

“No, I’m not cold, don’t get up.” Sara was embarrassed by her behavior, by his solicitude. “I was just going to the bathroom and I saw you, and I thought . . . you looked . . .” She felt herself blushing. “I thought you were dead. I was just checking to make sure you were okay.”

“Oh.” His brow furrowed.

Sara stood there, feeling like an idiot.

“Well, I’m okay. Not dead, I promise.” He smiled at her, propped up on his elbow.

“I can see that.” And she was mortified. Yet still afraid. It had been so easy to picture the blood, picture the cuts and lacerations, his still gaze. What did that say about her? “I’m sorry I fell asleep on your couch. I’m not sure what happened. I should go home.”

“Right now?” Gabriel frowned. “Absolutely not. You’re not walking to your car and driving all the way to Kenner. Just sleep here.” He patted the bed next to him. “Come on. Just lay down and we’ll go back to sleep.”

In his bed? That seemed like such a bad idea. Yet so damn tempting. She stood there, indecisive. “I left the kitten on the couch.”

“She’ll be fine there. Come on.” He pulled the sheet back so she could get in. “I can see your fear, Sara. It’s okay to be afraid of the dark after what you’ve been through.”

That kicked her in the gut, made her want to burst into tears. How could he see so clearly what she tried so hard to hide? She was afraid of the dark. Afraid of the unknown, the shadow around every corner, the future. So she kicked off her sandals and climbed onto the bed with Gabriel. She didn’t want to be alone all the time. Her head sank back onto the pillow as he pulled the sheet up over her. The bed was warm from his body heat, and soft. The pillow felt like down. And Gabriel was very masculine next to her, his body close, but not touching.

She stared at the ceiling, not wanting to look at him. Normally she slept on her side, but she wasn’t comfortable with the idea of facing him on the bed. That would be too intimate. But alternatively, turning her back on him seemed rude. So she lay there, eyes wide open, trying to slow her breathing, trying to reach for sleep, knowing it wouldn’t come.

“Relax, Sara,” Gabriel murmured to her. His hand slid into hers and squeezed before letting go. “It’s okay.”

It was. She knew that. Everything was okay. She was okay. Kicked, torn apart, nearly destroyed, but still alive. Still her. And she slept on her side, normally, and she wanted to be normal, so Sara turned up on her left side, facing the window. When Gabriel moved in closer, his fingers stroking the back of her hair, she closed her eyes, sighing softly. It felt so good to be touched, even if it wasn’t sexual. Maybe because it wasn’t sexual. His body, warm and relaxed, brushed against hers, and he yawned right next to her ear, the rush of his breath tickling her skin.

He had taken over half of her pillow, and his hand rested on her hip, heavy and comforting on her denim skirt.

Opening her eyes, she stared out into the courtyard, watching a tree sway back and forth in the moonlight. For the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel the need to yank down the blinds and shut out the night. It was a beautiful view, leaves dancing, shadows shifting and changing, and she was safe inside.

Eyes drifting back shut, Sara fell asleep.

Chapter Seven

Summary of autopsy of Anne Donovan conducted by Dr. Maxwell Raphael on October 7, 1849, at 2 p.m. in the presence of Dr. William Gregory.

Female victim, dead approximately twelve hours, Caucasian, twenty-three years old, with a post-birth cervix, indicating she had given birth to at least one child. Victim had only a small amount of liquid and no food in her stomach at the time of death, indicating she was not intoxicated. Slightly malnourished, but no sign of disease.

Cause of death a seven-inch cut across the neck running from right to left, which severed the larynx, cartilage, surrounding tissue, and carotid artery, resulting in victim hemorrhaging until death. No bruises or signs of restraint anywhere on body, expect for a thumbprint-size bruise to the right of the mouth, above the lip, and two inches from the nose. In addition to neck injury, victim was cut seventeen times in the chest, abdomen, and genital area, most wounds
¹
⁄2 inch in width, with a significant amount of depth. All organs intact and accounted for, though the uterus, bladder, stomach, and left lung all had puncture wounds from injuries. Given the uniformity of the wounds, the single weapon appears to be a straight knife. Death was immediate from the initial neck wound, and other stabs were postmortem.

There are no signs of sexual intercourse.

Death Certificate of Anne Donovan

Be it Remembered, THAT ON THIS DAY, to-wit: the eighth of October in the year of our Lord One Thousand Eight Hundred and Forty-nine and the seventy-sixth year of the Independence of the United States of America. Before me, John Richard Thomas, duly commissioned and Sworn, RECORDER OF BIRTHS AND DEATHS, in and for the PARISH OF ORLEANS, STATE OF LOUISIANA, Personally Appeared, Jonathon Thiroux, a competent witness, residing in this Parish, and doth declared that Anne Donovan, departed this life on the yesterday at approximately one-thirty a.m., aged about twenty-three years.

“What makes sense about this?”

Gabriel turned away from his computer, where he’d been studying the effects of wormwood in absinthe on users, and turned to Sara, sitting on the couch in his office, her legs crossed and tucked under her long skirt. He could see the palpable frustration on her face.

“Why the hell would John Thiroux be the person submitting the info on Anne’s death? If I’m reading this right, he essentially filed her death with the recorder’s office, and the police had nothing to do with it.”

“He was the person to discover her death.” And would never forget it. Gabriel only wished he could remember what the hell had happened before her death. But it was a blank, just a hazy memory of Anne, and pleasure, then floating off into the abyss. Then blood. Death. “That was normal for the time period.”