Final Words (11 page)

The youth stared at Jason with terrified eyes. Spittle
formed on his slack lower lip as he tried to form a coherent sentence but he
was too high or too drunk to speak clearly. Apparently, Jason would have to
haul him to the station and wait for him to come down before he’d give up any
useful information.

“I’m going to have to arrest you, kid,” he said. “You look
like you’re under the influence of some illegal substance.”

Behind him, a foot scuffed the floor. “I don’t think so,
mister.”

Glancing over his shoulder, Jason saw the knife in another
young man’s hand. Adrenaline surged through his blood and he welcomed the burn
of it. Maybe some physical action would use up the extra testosterone that had
built inside him over the past couple of weeks. He sure wasn’t going to spend
it on sex.

“Ready when you are,” he said to the kid with the knife.

“Carrot-top” squirmed against Jason’s grip while the kid
with the knife started forward. A shadowy figure moved in from outside. The
gentle prod of Charlie’s gun against his naked throat stopped the
knife-wielding thug.

“I got tired of waiting in the car.” Charlie frowned at
Jason as he took possession of the knife. “Looks like I got here just in time.”

Disappointed, Jason yanked the redheaded youth away from the
wall. “Can I help it if I got carried away? Let’s all take a ride down to the
station, shall we?”

* * * * *

Emma tied the drawstring of her green scrub pants. Her
nerves sizzled like water in a hot skillet.

What’s going to happen this time?

Tugging a lab coat over her scrubs, she stepped out of the
curtained dressing room. To her surprise, Edgar stood outside.

“I thought you and Skitch might need an extra hand today,”
he said.

Her stomach clenched. “You want to help us?”

“Sitting behind a desk all these years made me pretty rusty
on post mortems. But I got back into it while you were gone.” He grabbed a set
of scrubs off a shelf. “I realized I need to keep in practice.”

She narrowed her eyes and studied his still face. “You’re
not checking up on me?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Why would you send me to a shrink?” She raised one hand
when a guilty flush colored his face. “Never mind. You were right about that.
It helps to have someone to talk to.”

Edgar stepped inside one of the dressing rooms. “I’m glad to
hear that.” The curtain muffled his voice. “You had your second session this
morning, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” Stepping to the scrub sink, she tried not to resent
Edgar’s lack of trust. If their positions were reversed, she would probably
have felt the same as he did. “You don’t have to watch over my shoulder, Edgar.
I promise you I won’t crack up.”

“I don’t expect you will. But I haven’t anything else to do
this afternoon.”

“Why don’t you just take off early?”

“Because I’m taking off tomorrow to go fishing.”

Emma thought about the drowned fisherman.

“I haven’t taken a three-day weekend in a while,” Edgar went
on. “So I’m looking forward to this.”

Emma considered what Paul had suggested about her
subconscious recognizing clues. “That man I autopsied on Monday,” she said
casually. “The drowning victim, Robert Harris. Have you ever heard of him?”

“Robert Harris? Is that who that was?” Garbed in his green
scrubs, Edgar joined her at the sink. “I didn’t realize. I’m still a little
behind on my reports.”

Emma squirted antiseptic soap in her palm and hoped her boss
wouldn’t notice the tremor in her hands. “You
have
heard of him?”

“Harris is a legend among Clear Harbor fishermen. Wins every
fishing tournament along the Gulf coast.” Edgar began to wash his hands too. “The
Sunday magazine even did a cover article on him last winter. I’m sorry to hear
that was him.”

Emma nipped her lower lip. Paul was right. She subscribed to
the
Clear Harbor Gazette
and had probably seen Harris’ photograph on the
Sunday magazine. Her subconscious must have recognized him when he’d shown up
on her autopsy table.

She turned off the water with her elbow, surprised to
realize she was disappointed by the simple explanation. “Ready?”

Edgar nodded, turned off his faucet and then followed Emma
into the autopsy suite.

“Hey, Doc. Hey, Dr. Powell.” Skitch looked at them from
across the draped body at Emma’s station. He didn’t seem surprised by the Chief
Medical Examiner’s presence. “Did you have a nice lunch with Ms. Zamora, Dr.
St. Clair?”

“Yes.” Emma drew near the table. “She sends her best.”

“Really?” Skitch’s eyes widened. “Me? She… To me?”

“Of course.”

“Wow.” Almost dreamily, Skitch drew down the sheet that
covered the body.

Edgar handed Emma a face shield. “Turn on the recorder,
Skitch,” he said, fitting his own shield into place.

“Yes, sir.” Reaching up, Skitch turned on the overhead audio
recorder. Then he read from the red file folder that lay open on the side
table. “The victim is Dennis Turner. Died last night from a gunshot wound to
the back.”

Feeling the weight of Edgar’s gaze as he took a position
beside her, Emma picked up a ruled scalpel with her right hand. Then, facing
the body, she placed her left hand on its chest. “Let’s see what else Mr.
Turner has to say.”

“I have plenty to say, Dr. St. Clair.”

Emma’s heart slammed into her ribs. She looked up from the
corpse to the figure standing near Skitch on the far side of the table.

Tall and lanky, face gaunt and eyes hollow, the young man
settled both hands on his hips and glared at her. His right eye drooped
slightly. “I want everyone to know what that hop-headed little wimp did to me,”
he said. “I want him punished for this!”

Emma looked down at her fingers as they splayed across the
naked chest of the dead man.
It’s my touch
, she realized with some
distant fascination.
That’s what brings out the spirits. They appear only after
I touch the body.

“Doc, you’re looking funny again.”

As her attention shifted toward Skitch, Emma tried to force
her face into an innocent expression. “I’m fine.”

“Emma?” Edgar leaned forward to peer into her eyes.

“I’m fine,” she said again. Her voice sounded, to her
relief, good and strong. She realized too, that while her heart raced, it did
so at a steady pace.

“Well, I ain’t fine!” shouted the shade of Dennis Turner. “I’m
dead! I’m pissed! And I want that little weasel to pay!”

“Victim is a white male.” Emma hoped the image would leave
if she ignored its presence. “There are numerous signs of drug abuse. Along
with what appears to be an exit wound in the upper left chest from a gun shot.”

“That hop-head was a regular customer and I always treated
him fair.” The apparition paced behind Skitch. “But last night he groused about
my prices. When I told him to take it or leave it, he shot me in the back and
stole my whole stash plus all the cash I’d collected that day. Sorry little
bastard!”

“Get his body weight, will you, Skitch?” Emma cleared her
throat. “It looks like he lost a lot of blood.”

“Most of it, I’d say.” Skitch looked down at the weight
dial. “Everybody step back so I can get an accurate reading.”

Stepping back, Emma watched the pacing figure. If the image
wasn’t going to leave her alone, she might as well conduct an experiment on
just how much information it could provide.

“I wonder who killed this guy,” she said quietly.

“I told you.” The figure walked around the table. “The
hop-head’s name is Potter. Craig Potter.”

“The police will figure it out.” Studying the needle tracks
on the corpse’s ankles, Edgar shivered as the spirit passed close behind him. “Is
it just me or is it unusually cold in here today?”

“I was wondering the same thing,” Skitch said as the spirit
passed him. “The air conditioner’s been wonky in here lately. The temperature
seems to go up and down.”

“I wonder where the gun is,” Emma said, watching as the
spirit moved around the table toward her. The temperature in the room did seem
to drop as the faint figure drew closer.

“No telling,” Skitch replied. Kneeling, he peered at the
weight dial. “This thing seems to be stuck.”

“He hid the gun in the back of a moving van,” the spirit
said. “Then he drove the van away. Damn coward!”

Reaching Emma’s side, the shade seemed to grow clumsy, as if
exerting great effort to move. The figure lurched suddenly and one spectral arm
swung toward Emma. A nauseating chill swept her as the translucent limb passed
through her body. As the spirit wobbled away, the chill went too, leaving her
nearly breathless.

“Let me look at it.” Edgar joined Skitch near the weight
dial.

Neither man seemed aware of what she was experiencing. As
they focused on the dial, Emma half turned toward the apparition.

“What moving van?” she whispered.

“You say something, Doc?” Skitch asked just as Turner’s
spirit gasped out, “Stripple Brothers Moving and Storage.”

“Doc?”

Emma looked at her assistant and replied in what she hoped
was a casual tone, “I just asked if you need another hand.”

“No, thanks. I think the dial is just stuck. I bet something’s
wrong with the air conditioner’s thermostat too.” He shivered again. “We
seriously need to fix some things around here.”

“Potter shoved that gun inside the van. Under a pile of
moving pads.” The specter’s chest heaved. “Sometimes he works for the
Stripples. You tell the cops, Dr. St. Clair. You tell ’em.” The shade of Dennis
Turner vanished.

Emma grabbed the edge of the table and steadied herself.
This time she had specifics. Specifics that her subconscious mind could not
have known had the image of Dennis Turner not told her. This time, if the
missing gun was found where the specter had claimed it was, she would know for
certain that ghosts did exist.

But she had to investigate on her own. No way could she
explain her suspicions to the cops. They would want to know where she had
gotten her information and, if she told them the truth, they would call for a
straightjacket.

She didn’t need a straightjacket. She needed to look for
that gun.

Sheets of newspaper drifted across La Salle Street and came
to rest against a padlocked gate. Thistles bordered the rusted chain link fence
surrounding a row of deserted warehouses, the slender weeds dancing in an
evening breeze that swept in from the bay. Other unfenced warehouses appeared
to be locked up tight as Emma drove past them, each one leading her closer to
the main docks of Clear Harbor. Finally, she saw the address she wanted, along
with a sign that read “Stripple Brothers Moving and Storage”.

Parking her SUV a block past the small brick warehouse, she
sat for a moment with one hand pressed against her jittery stomach. Finding the
company in the phone book had supported her theory that her visions were more
than hallucinations and she couldn’t help but wonder if she might see ghosts
here too. Although she’d shaken the terror that contact with Dennis Turner’s
spirit had invoked, she had no desire to repeat the experience. That paralyzing
chill to her body when his spectral arm had passed through her had shaken her
to her core.

Two bobtail trucks sat near the concrete loading dock but
the place appeared to be deserted. Still Emma hesitated. Her father had worked
in the dock area throughout her childhood and teenage years. His office had
been located only a couple of blocks west of La Salle Street and she’d spent
many afternoons there with him after school. He’d explained that most dock
workers were honest folks but there were always a few in a busy harbor town who
had less than pleasant intentions, especially toward little girls. Now, as she
watched the wind chase bits of debris down the empty street, her father’s
warnings echoed through her head.

This isn’t smart, she thought as panic trickled through her.

But along with worry came the images of three dead people.
Amalia Campanero, Robert Harris and Dennis Turner. She had to know if what she’d
seen had been real or hallucination and coincidence.

Opening her car door, she stepped onto a street
spider-veined with tar-repaired cracks. The breeze brushed warm fingers through
her hair, bringing along a tang of salt and fish from the bay. Traffic
whispered in the distance but the warehouse area was silent.

Quietly closing the vehicle door, she tucked her keys in a
pocket of her trousers and started toward the warehouse. Both trucks were
backed up close to the building, leaving just enough room for her to slip
behind them. The rear door of the nearest truck stood open.

Glancing around once more to make sure she was alone, Emma
hoisted herself into the back of the truck. The metal bed creaked as she walked
across it to a pile of heavy furniture mats that smelled of cigarettes and
mildew. Dirt and lint littered their folds but Emma found no gun. Cigarette
butts and crumpled gum wrappers littered the rest of the empty space.
Disappointed, she climbed down and went to check the other truck.

Dusk deepened. Not wanting to hang around that area of town
in the dark, she hurried. The other truck’s rear door was closed but unlocked.
At her touch, the catch squeaked and then rotated over to the right. The door
bobbed open with a rumble that had her glancing around in fear. But no one
appeared to check out the sudden noise so she climbed up into the truck bed.
Deep inside lay another pile of quilted furniture mats. It took even less time
to search through them. Again, there was no gun.

Tossing the last fold away, she stood up and settled her
hands on her hips.
Am I losing my mind after all
, she wondered.

“What are you doin’ in there?”

Emma whirled around. A man stood in the truck opening. As
tall and lanky as Dennis Turner, he held a gun in a hand that trembled. He wore
a faded blue work shirt with the name “Potter” embroidered above the left front
pocket. This was Dennis Turner’s killer.

Elation swept through Emma. “I’m not crazy,” she murmured.

Craig Potter waved his gun. “Get out!”

Elation swelling once more into fear, Emma stepped to the
rear of the truck. Getting out was just what she wanted to do. Get out and get
away.

But as she stepped off the bumper and tensed to run, Potter
grabbed her arm. “What were you doin’ in that truck?”

His touch, his demand, the wildness in his bloodshot eyes,
woke her instinct to fight. Without thinking, she kicked his shin and tried to
wrench her arm free.

Howling in pain, Potter gripped her tighter and raised the
gun as if he meant to hit her with it. Suddenly, a hand clamped over Potter’s
wrist and whirled him around. Emma spun too and slammed into the hard metal
door of the warehouse. The world, dark and dusky, whipped around her. She heard
shouts, then the blast of a gun, followed by muffled silence. In the next
instant, someone turned her back around and she found herself face-to-face with
Jason MacKenzie.

His mouth was moving but in those first moments after the
gunshot, his voice was indistinct, his words a muffled torrent beneath the
sound of silence inside her head. Gradually her hearing returned. She almost
wished it hadn’t.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Jason demanded, running
his hands up and down her arms. His dark eyes burned with a golden light and
worry made his sun-darkened face look harsh.

For a moment longer, she just stood there and let him run
his hands over her. Fear shuddered through her, with something even more
exciting on its heels. Jason had saved her. It was ridiculous but the fact that
he’d physically fought off her assailant to rescue her kicked off a sharp
arousal inside her.

“He could have killed you, Emma!”

Recovering her wits at his words, she pushed his
high-voltage hands away. She needed to catch her breath and stop this electric
string of desire from drawing any tighter inside her. She needed to calm down
and figure out what had happened.

Beyond Jason, Potter lay face down on the ground. A stockier
man bent over him, fixing handcuffs around Potter’s wrists. There was no sign
of blood on Potter. His gun lay on the ground near the stocky man’s feet, smoke
curling faintly from its barrel.

Jason stepped close again but didn’t touch her. “Did he hurt
you?”

“No. Just… He just tugged on my arm.” She rubbed at her
bruised wrist but it was her arms—where Jason had touched—that truly ached. “I’m
all right.”

“So answer me—what the hell are you doing down here?”

“I-I…” Her brain refused to function again as his eyes
burned with suspicion.

“Were you lost?” he demanded.

“Yes.” She latched onto that explanation. “Yes, I was lost.
I was looking for a phone.”

Skepticism narrowed his eyes. “You don’t have a cell phone?”

“I do but…it…the battery is dead.” The lies tasted bitter.

“So could you have been if we hadn’t come along.” He turned
to the other man. “How hard did I hit him, Charlie?”

“Hard enough to put him out.” Charlie, shorter and darker
than Jason, sat back on his heels near the prisoner. A soft accent revealed a
Mexican or South Texas heritage. “He’ll be going to the hospital instead of
downtown. Good thing he’s a lousy shot or you might be going to the hospital
too.”

“Who…” Emma snatched another deep breath and asked the
question they had to be expecting her to ask. “Who is he?”

“Craig Potter. He’s a suspect in a murder case.” Jason
glared at her until she felt certain he could see the lies stamped on her
brain. “I heard you did the autopsy on his victim today.”

“His…victim?” She didn’t have to try hard to make herself
stutter.

“Yeah. Dennis Turner. Gunshot wound to the back.”

“Oh.” She nodded. “Yes. Yes, I think I did work on him.”

Again, lines formed at the outer corners of his eyes. “You
think
?”

“I did. I did work on him. Sorry. I’m a little shaken up.”

“You could have been a lot dead.”

She hugged her arms over her chest. “Stop saying that.”

“It’s the truth.”

The other man stood up, groaning as his knees popped. “Ah,
these old joints of mine. Jason, go to the car and call for an ambulance.
Potter needs a doctor.”

Jason glared at Emma. “At least he doesn’t need a coroner,”
he muttered and then turned and walked away.

Emma slumped against the wall. Now that she was safe, fear
slid away. The elation she’d experienced when she’d realized she hadn’t
imagined the ghost of Dennis Turner—or any of the others—swelled inside her
again. She wasn’t crazy. She hadn’t been hallucinating. Her attacker was Craig
Potter. He’d been on Stripple Brothers property—presumably he drove a van for them—and
he had a gun. Maybe the gun was the murder weapon.

The other detective offered his hand. “Charlie Garcia. It’s
a pleasure to finally meet you, Dr. St. Clair. Our paths have never crossed but
I know your reputation.”

Emma had never heard of him but she hadn’t had to deal with
many of the detectives on the Clear Harbor force. Edgar and Brian had handled
most of that contact.

“Uh, it’s nice to meet you, Detective.”

As Charlie released her hand, Emma looked past him and saw
Jason standing next to an old green Mustang about half a block away. He spoke
into a radio microphone while he glared back at her.

“He’s angry,” Charlie said, following her gaze. “Because he
cares about you.”

A strange little thrill shuddered through her but she
ignored his comment. “What are the two of you doing here?” she asked, hoping to
deflect some attention from herself.

“We were looking for Craig Potter. And Jason was right.” He
gestured toward the unconscious suspect. “It’s a good thing for your sake that
we did come looking for him.”

She inhaled deeply and then slowly released her breath. “Thank
you.”

Charlie tilted his head to one side. “Are you sure you’re
all right, Dr. St. Clair?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m all right.” She felt Jason’s gaze still,
branding her skin. She felt too, that other strange sensation that seared her
from the inside. Closing her hands into fists, she began to back away, toward
her car down the street. “I have to go.”

Charlie took a step after her. “I’m sorry, Dr. St. Clair but
you have to come to the station with us. Potter is a suspect in a murder
investigation so we need a statement from you.”

Emma’s heart tripped. She’d met her quota of lies for the
day and wasn’t sure she could handle any more questions tonight.

“Could I come by the station in the morning?” she asked.

“It’s better to do it while the details are still fresh in
your mind. We can wait for the ambulance together and then I’ll ride with you
to the station.” Charlie smiled gently. “To show you the way since you’re lost.”

“Oh.” Trapped by that particular lie, Emma forced herself to
return his smile. “All right. Thanks.”

* * * * *

Jason pulled away from the curb a few minutes later and fell
in behind the ambulance. Glancing in his rearview mirror, he saw Charlie settle
into the front passenger seat of Emma’s SUV.

Jealousy jolted him. He scowled. He had no reason to feel
jealous. Charlie might flirt outrageously sometimes but he was a married man
who was deeply in love with his own wife.

Besides, Jason decided, Emma means nothing to me. At least,
she shouldn’t.

Still, he wanted to know what she was really doing near the
docks. Charlie would be too much of a gentleman to insist on a straight answer.
Lost. She’d claimed to be lost.

No, she hadn’t claimed it herself. She’d simply confirmed
the answer he’d provided for her.

He snorted. “This town is laid out like a grid,” he
muttered, turning a corner after the ambulance. “No way could she be lost.”

There had to be another reason for her presence here, for
her run-in with Craig Potter. The fact that she had autopsied Potter’s victim
that day was too coincidental. Added to her
hunch
about Amalia Campanero’s
brother, it was all just a little too coincidental for his taste.

He considered how he and Charlie had wound up at the docks.
It hadn’t taken much persuasion to get “Carrot-top”—real name David Ferrell—to
admit who had taken his gun and where that person worked. Luckily for Emma.

Jason glanced in his mirror again. Emma’s car went straight
at the corner he’d just turned. He scowled deeper. Not only had the woman
aroused his suspicions again but she had awakened emotions in him that he didn’t
have time for. She made him want to hold her and protect her and laugh with
her. Because of that he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the truth of how she’d
come to be at the docks with Craig Potter. There were some things, he realized,
that a man just didn’t want to know.

Unfortunately, as a cop, he had to find out.

* * * * *

Sitting beside a desk on the second floor of the police
station, Emma looked at the grimy windows and the dusty floor and tried not to
fidget as she waited for Charlie Garcia to return. This big detectives’ area
was nothing like her nearly sterile work environment. Stacks of paper and the
dust that usually accompanied them stood on every surface. Office paraphernalia
and coffee mugs—some clean, some not—were interspersed among the clutter. Despite
the late evening hour, many people were scattered around the large open room
and paper and files lay everywhere. Telephones rang almost constantly. At least
Charlie Garcia’s desk appeared to be clean and tidy.

Wrapping both hands around a chipped coffee mug, she lifted
it to take a sip. So far Detective Garcia had been too much of a gentleman to
come right out and call her a liar. But she’d seen the doubt in his eyes. He
didn’t quite believe anything she’d told him. Not that she’d dared to tell him
everything.

But that was almost beside the point.
She
was a
believer now. She knew the truth. With a touch of her hand, she could
communicate with the dead. She could hear them. She could question them. She
could use what they told her to solve the mysteries surrounding their deaths.