The Immortals (17 page)

Nashville
7:00 p.m.

T
he hospital corridor was too bright, glaring and overly white to Taylor's tired eyes. She was heading to Brittany Carson's room first, then planned to sit down with Juri Edvin. His surgery had gone well—he was out of Recovery. Ready to be grilled. She was going to have answers before she left this hospital, no matter what it took.

Vanderbilt University Medical Center was always busy, packed with people young and old, in varying degrees of sickness. She'd been here many times—visiting the psychiatric ward to interrogate suspects deemed too violent or too insane to be booked into the regular system; attending to vicious wounds in the emergency room; even riding along on LifeFlight from a scene once, a desperate and frenetic evening that ended in tragedy despite their best efforts. It always smelled the same, bitter and astringent, overlaid with the sickly sweet smell of premature rot that emanated from the most dire cases. She hated hospitals.

Visiting hours were specific and militant in the Intensive Care Unit, but her badge allowed her access. A nurse manning the station shook her head, hurriedly explained the girl
wasn't doing well, then went back to the multitudes of patients who could be helped.

Taylor took a deep breath, stepped through the doors. She wanted a chance to, well, do something. To say goodbye to a girl she'd never known. She stopped in front of Brittany Carson's room in the ICU. A patrol was seated three feet away. She motioned to the badge on her belt; he nodded and went back to his
Sports Illustrated.

She looked through the glass wall at the girl, dwarfed by the machines keeping her alive. Tubes snaked into her mouth, the ventilator helping her breathe hissing with purpose. It didn't know its work was for naught—it reliably pumped, over and over and over, oxygenating the girl's lungs, forcing air into dead, gray flesh.

A voice sounded in Taylor's ear, sour and worn.

“She's brain-dead.”

Taylor turned. Brittany Carson's mother, Elissa, was still wearing her red blouse. Suspicious dark streaks leaked across her breast and shoulders. Her highlighted hair, crumpled from her constant worrying, lay flat against her small head. Her eyes were dry. There would be time for crying after.

“I'm sorry,” Taylor said.

“I'm sorry, too. She's a delightful girl, the light of my life. Since her father left, it's just been the two of us against the world. We'd had a conversation about this once. She read a story about a little girl who received a heart from a car-crash victim and declared on the spot that she wanted to be a donor.” She looked into the room, swiped a finger under her eyes, gave Taylor a bittersweet smile. “I've just signed the organ donation forms. If I have to lose her, at least a few others may find life through her sacrifice. God works in mysterious ways, as they say.”

“Yes, ma'am, He certainly does.”

Taylor watched her trace a hand along the glass, caressing the shape of her daughter's face in the air.

“I'll miss her so much.”

Taylor bit back unexpected tears. The horror of what Elissa Carson must be going through, the strength she showed, all humbled Taylor. She doubted she'd be as forgiving if it were her own daughter being forced to respirate, the beating heart inside withered and slow, limbs like broken sticks under the white sheets, all because of the whim of evil.

“When?” she asked, not knowing what else to say.

“Within the hour, they tell me. They're making notifications to the various transplant teams. They have to keep her like this until they're ready to start the harvest. Then we'll turn the machines off and let her go.”

Dear God. Taylor couldn't stand this. She must find this killer, must give Brittany Carson justice. It was all she could do. She turned and embraced the woman, unsure of her own voice. Carson squeezed her hard around the waist, a silent sob shaking her, then stepped back, hand to her mouth.

“Find him,” she commanded, then fled down the hallway.

Taylor looked back at the dying girl, waxy in the harsh hospital lights.

“I will,” she whispered.

 

Juri Edvin was on the surgical floor. Taylor fought the fury that drove each step she took as she walked to his room. She tried to force the anger away—she had no proof. She needed hard evidence. But her gut was telling her Edvin had a role in Brittany's demise, and damned if she was going to let him get away with it. Whether he'd given Brittany the drugs, carved the pentacle in her stomach or simply stood by, watching from a perch outside as she fought for breath, he'd been there as she struggled. Taylor knew that in her bones. She wanted to nail his scrawny ass to the wall.

A young doctor, brown-haired and obviously tired, was emerging from Edvin's room, stethoscope draped like a stole across his shoulders, a chart in one hand and a beeper in the other. His nametag read S. Pearson.

He wasn't watching his way and collided with Taylor. She grasped his arms to steady him.

“Doctor, sorry. Lieutenant Jackson, Metro Homicide.”

The doctor gave her a casual glance. “He can't talk to you. He's just had a serious surgery. He's sedated.” He started to walk away, she grasped his right arm tighter.

“Is he awake enough, Doctor? Because the girl he may have killed is being prepared for the transplant teams upstairs. I'd like to have a go at him, just in case. I'd like to see some justice done, for Brittany Carson, and for the seven other children.”

Pearson stopped then, looked her in the eye. “I heard she wasn't doing well. The decision's been made, then?”

“Yes. I just talked with her mother.”

“Ah. Well, I can't promise anything for you with Mr. Edvin. He's had a trauma, and the medications are going to make him incoherent. But try if you like. Unfortunately, I'll have to leave you. I've just been called back into surgery. Don't push him too hard—I don't need him going into shock.”

She released him, and he hustled away. She had the strangest sensation—people fleeing from her in these bright corridors, as if she were the cause of the agonies within. She shrugged it off, signaled to the patrol guarding Edvin's room.

“Have you seen the parents?”

He flicked the edge of his magazine in annoyance—the interruptions were impeding his relaxation time. “They're getting coffee. They asked to speak with whoever wanted to question their son before you talk to him. I guess you're nominated.”

“Where are they?”

He pointed down the hall. A door labeled Family Room was on the left, just past the nurses' station. She thanked him, went down the hall and entered the room. She saw a television, a couple of couches, numerous chairs and a refreshment table with coffee and tea in labeled urns, a small basket of peppermints. Two empty wrappers sat nearby, curled in on themselves.

A man and woman stood a few feet apart from one another, staring at the television. It was on Channel 50, the cable version of the local CBS affiliate. Taylor tuned out when she heard her name from the tinny speakers.

“Mr. and Mrs. Edvin?”

They turned and faced her. Both had short blond hair and square black glasses—so similar that Taylor immediately thought them brother and sister rather than husband and wife.

“We have no comment,” the man said, turning his back to Taylor. His arm snaked around his wife, pulling her closer.

“Sir, I'm not a reporter. Lieutenant Jackson, Homicide. I need to speak with you about your son.”

The wife snapped at Taylor. “About what? Your people are the ones who put him in here. He nearly died, and you want us to let you talk to him?”

“Now, now,
mijn beste.
Juri said he ran, that's why they chased him. I apologize for my wife, Lieutenant. She is very upset by the incident.” His English was accented, the broad, flat Scandinavian vowels pronounced.

“I'm sorry about that. Juri did run, refused to stop. We had no choice but to send the dog after him. Has he told you why we were chasing him?”

“He says you thought he was someone else,” Mr. Edvin said.

“That's not exactly true. He was present at the scene of a homicide. He claims to have been trick-or-treating, but he was miles from home, with no costume.” She had to be careful. The Edvins looked like they were softening, and she didn't want to lay it on them all at once and lose her chance to speak to the kid without a lawyer telling him to clam up.

“I need to ask him a few questions. If he hasn't done anything wrong, then it shouldn't be a big deal, and you'll receive a full apology from me and from the department.”

“And if he has done something?” Mrs. Edvin's accent was stronger than her husband's. “Will you send him away?”

“That depends, ma'am. Why don't we cross that bridge when we get to it? Is Juri a good kid? Has he been giving you any trouble?”

“Oh, no,” she said quickly, but her eyes were clouded. The edge of her left eye was the tiniest bit yellow—a fading bruise. Taylor glanced at Mr. Edvin. His face was screwed into a frown. She could see the pulse at the base of his jaw jumping. He looked like a rabbit about to bolt, the whites of his eyes showing as he calculated the distance to safety.

So that's how it was.

“I know how hard it can be,” Taylor said softly. “Being afraid of your own son is terrible. Will you tell me more?”

The Edvins' eyes met, and they seemed to shrink a little bit. They sat down on the closest couch heavily, all of a piece, sudden and breathless.

“We just don't know what to do with him anymore,” Mrs. Edvin wailed. “He was never like this before. He's always been such a sweet boy. We move to the United States when he is ten, and he changes. He sneaks out. I find marijuana in his gym bag last year. He is never coming home at night. And now he is seeing some little
wijfje
who glares at me when she comes over. They go into his room and he blocks the door. When I tried to stop them last week, he hit me. He has not been home since.”

“Did you report him missing?”

They shook their heads. “He's done this before,” Mr. Edvin said. “We think moving back to Finland is a good idea, but he raised such a fuss we must back away. He says he'll kill us in our sleep before he lets us take him. We lock our door at night, afraid he means to murder us. We don't know what happened to our boy.”

“Do you know his friend's name?”

“He calls her Ember. We don't know her whole name. She brings him the makeup, and they dress like ghouls and run around downtown. We have no more control of him than we do the wind.”

That was as apt a description of a troubled young man as she'd ever heard.

“Will you allow me to question him?” Technically, she didn't need their permission, but parents usually lawyered up their kids the moment they realized they were in real trouble. She held her breath—she thought she had them, but she never knew. The Edvins looked at one another. She could see the conversation going on in their silent gazes. Finally, Mr. Edvin pulled away from his wife.

“Yes. You may talk to him. We would like to be there, too.”

“Okay. But I may need to ask you to step out if he won't talk to me with you in the room. Let's go.”

She led them back to their son's room. The patrol stood when he saw them barreling down on him. Taylor motioned for him to join them.

“Come in and witness for me, okay?”

The patrol set down his magazine, silent as the grave. She'd met him before, once or twice, a man named Rob, quietly suspicious of his female fellow officers, but efficient and solid. He opened the door for them. Taylor let the Edvins go first.

Juri Edvin's eyes were open, glazed, but he recognized Taylor. With no place to go, he shrugged and turned his head to face the window. If he saw his parents, he gave no indication at all.

“Juri, we need to talk,” Taylor said, pulling a chair closer to the bed. She was damned tired, and the idea of sitting was most welcome. She hoped it would disarm the boy too, looming over him would remind him of her authority. If they were eye to eye, he might relax a bit. The chair screeched on the linoleum floor, the shriek making a chill run up Taylor's spine.

“So talk,” Edvin said, still facing away. He sounded groggy, but coherent enough.

“You are quite the little smart-ass, aren't you? Okay then, I'll talk. Tell me why they call you Thorn.”

She had him. His eyes popped open, the whites flaring. He started to struggle, quickly realized he had no strength and nowhere to go. He collapsed back against the pillow.

“So you're the dealer, huh? I've heard all about you. Why'd you kill them, Juri?”

“I didn't kill anyone,” he said, hot tears starting to course down his face. “I have no reason to kill anyone. Mama. Papa. Help me!”

Juri had obviously never heard the tale of the boy who cried wolf. Taylor was impressed by the Edvins—they stood their ground. His father set his shoulders a little straighter.

“You must tell the lieutenant what she needs to know, Juri. If you have done something wrong, you must answer for it. We've always tried to teach you that.”

“Oh, fuck off, you freaks.”

Mrs. Edvin began to cry. Taylor barely resisted the urge to slap the boy. She turned to them.

“Maybe it would be better if we talked without you for now.”

Mr. Edvin met her eyes, bleak and hopeless. “Maybe.”

Juri became incensed. “You can't just leave me with the cops. What kind of parents are you? You're supposed to love me, and you throw me to the wolves instead? Thanks a whole hell of a lot.”

Taylor popped out of her chair and grabbed ahold of Mr. Edvin before he could cross the room and strike his son. She propelled them toward the door.

“Go,” she said. “I'll come find you when we're done here.”

The two left, the soles of their sneakers the only noise to compete with Juri's snuffled whimpers.