Jackson 07 - Where All the Dead Lie (22 page)

Baldwin paced through Amsterdam’s Schiphol airport. His flight to London had been cancelled. Everything into the U.K. was grounded for the foreseeable future.

He alternated trying Taylor’s cell with calls to Memphis. Neither one was picking up, and he was ready to pull his hair out.

He had to get to Scotland. It didn’t matter that the airports were closed. Taylor needed him.

He couldn’t drive, obviously.

It was time to call in the big guns.

He called Atlantic.

“Good job on Julius. Is there something else you need?”

“I need to get to Scotland. Just outside of Edinburgh.”

“Impossible. The airports are closed.”

“Atlantic, it’s an emergency. So help me God, if you don’t get me there, I will go public with your little operation.”

Atlantic chuckled, his laughter cold.

“You’d be dead before you uttered a word, Baldwin. But let’s not go there. I think of you like a son. And since it’s so vital that you reach your destination, get yourself to the following coordinates. And be prepared for a bumpy ride.”

It took Sam hours to clear the crime scene. Marcus, diligent, talented detective that he was, had pinned the wife down in a lie, and was back at Metro, interrogating her. It wasn’t his fault; they were all terribly distracted.

All they knew was that Bowerman planned to run all along, get settled somewhere, then bring his wife and kids. She swore she had no idea who the dead man in her living room was.

They didn’t believe her.

The dead man’s fingerprints registered back to a man named Joseph Trimble. Trimble was homeless, and according to a quick check with the folks at the mission, Trimble had a benefactor, someone he claimed was “helping him back on his feet.” Proving it was Bowerman was a different story.

On the surface, it seemed he’d been setting him up to be the fall guy for the bank robberies. But Marias González had ruined the plan, and Bowerman had been forced to stop her.

It was far from a tidy little scheme. It was unfortunate that they didn’t know where Bowerman was truly headed. The Regretful Robber, at least for the time being, had gotten away.

Sam finally got home at eleven-thirty, only six hours later than she’d been expected. Simon had put the twins down and was waiting for her with an open bottle of wine. Honestly, all she wanted to do was fall into the bed and sleep forever, but she accepted the offering and sat at the kitchen table with him for a few minutes.

“We need a vacation,” he said.

“I couldn’t agree more.” She accepted a glass of wine from him. “Where do you want to go?”

“Somewhere warm.”

“Can you leave the lab?” Simon ran Private Match, which specialized in running DNA samples for a variety of clients, some public, some private. He usually accepted the overload from Metro if they got too bogged down and needed results ASAP.

“Yes. I think you and I need to find ourselves again. Maybe think about getting pregnant?”

He looked so hopeful. She didn’t know how to tell him she wasn’t ready.

That she didn’t know if she’d be ready ever again.

She was saved from answering by the ringing of her cell phone. She glanced at the ID: Taylor. Finally.

“Baby, I need to take this. We’ll talk more later, okay?”

Simon was not happy with her. “Can’t you put this conversation first? Really, Sam. This is important.”

“It’s Taylor. Baldwin and I have both been trying to reach her for hours. Just give me a few minutes, okay?”

Simon stalked off toward their bedroom.
Shit.

But this was something that couldn’t be helped. Taylor needed her.

She answered the phone. “Taylor Bethany Jackson, I have been worried
sick
about you.”

Birds were pecking at her head.

For a moment she thought she was back in Nashville, at the entrance to the Snow White’s house, with those damn birds chirping. She’d felt that way when she woke up in the hospital too, that incessant beeping crowding its way into her head. But this, this wasn’t the same.

She felt empty. Her throat, her head, her arms, everything hurt.

Taylor was afraid to move. She knew she’d been sick last night, very, very sick, that she’d gotten a violent migraine that had left her unable to move. Seeing things. Hearing things.

Feeling things.

She cracked an eyelid.

The world didn’t explode.

She cracked the other. Dragged herself upright. It was morning. There was brightness streaming through the window. It didn’t burn, so that was a good sign.

What happened last night?

She got out of the bed, avoiding a small puddle of what looked like water on the floor between the bed and the window. She went to the bathroom. The pill vials were scattered on the counter. She remembered having the worst migraine of her life and barely managing to get the medicine in her.

She remembered thinking how much better off everyone would be if she’d just end it all.

Then passing back out.

Memphis had come to her again. As had Baldwin. That much she remembered. Her cheeks flamed. It had felt so real. But neither man was here. It was impossible.

Something was not right. Something was very much not right. She felt like she was sick, but didn’t feel ill, not like the flu or a cold. She felt…shattered.

The bathroom window showed her a magical world, a snowstorm that was blowing flakes by the window so hard that it looked like a white sheet had been spread across the glass.

Taylor stripped and got under the shower. Let the hot water work its magic on her sore muscles. Goodness, she hurt from head to toe.

She stayed under the double heads until she was getting wrinkled, then toweled herself off, wrapped her hair in the damp towel and went to the computer.

She needed to talk to someone about all of this. Opened her email. There was a message from Sam. Perfect.

Taylor clicked on the message, shocked to see Sam writing in all caps, like she was yelling at her. The message was abundantly clear:

STOP TAKING THE PILLS!

Out of habit, Taylor looked at the note below it that Sam was responding to. She read a long, rambling diatribe that she’d apparently written in the middle of the night. It was more cogent than she’d felt. She didn’t remember writing it, just the vaguest sense of moving about her room and getting her laptop out. She checked the time stamp. Good grief, she
had
written it last night, in the middle of her hallucinations.

Great. Now she was imagining things and writing letters she couldn’t recall sending. She had gotten sick last night, that much she was sure of. She could taste it in her throat.

She reread the email. It made little sense, but was clear on one thing. She had felt she was losing her mind.

And maybe last night, she was.

But now, in the cold light of day, her body so wretchedly empty, she didn’t think that was the case. She thought Sam had a very good point.

The pills.

Oh, hell. The tea.

Trixie.

Taylor grabbed her phone. She’d turned the ringer off somehow. There were eight missed calls from Sam and four from Baldwin.

She didn’t even bother listening to the messages. If Sam had sent her something wild and crazy in the middle of the night, Taylor would have immediately tried to touch base, and, failing, would have moved on to Sam’s husband, Simon. Since Sam hadn’t reached her, she’d obviously checked with Baldwin, who’d started his own campaign.

No calls from Memphis. Hmm. He obviously hadn’t been pulled into the red alert.

She looked at the clock. It was six in the morning in Scotland, which meant midnight in Nashville. She’d be forgiven if she woke the twins. She dialed Sam’s number. Sam answered on the first ring, her voice ringing with concern.

“Taylor Bethany Jackson, I have been worried
sick
about you. Why did you turn your phone off? Don’t answer that. You better have a damn good reason for freaking me out like this. You scared the living daylights out of me. Losing your mind? You? Where the hell have you been?”

“I…”

“Your voice is gone again? Open a chat right now. And don’t you dare hang up. I’ll wait. Are you okay?”

“No. Give me a minute.” God, it felt like she was swallowing glass. She must have been screaming in her sleep. She drank some water and tried again.

“I’m fine. You said no more pills. How did you know?”

“It’s hardly a secret. Dr. Benedict prescribed you the Percocet and Ativan, plus the Fioricet. After your bad response to the Ambien, I thought maybe you were having a reaction to one of them. You always react backward to meds, remember? And if I know you, you may have been taking too much of the Percocet. Why, what pills are you talking about?”

“Maddee, Dr. James. Memphis’s friend? Gave me melatonin. I was thinking that might be causing a reaction. But Sam, I think I know what’s happening. I think Trixie is poisoning me.”

She heard Sam take a deep breath. “Now, honey—”

“Don’t honey me. I’m dead serious. And very, very sober right now. Trust me. Something is wrong with that woman. She’s always lurking around my door. She’s fed me tea fourteen times a day since I got here. That has to be what’s happening. I bet she thinks I’m trying to replace Evan. She probably loved Evan. Everyone seemed to.”

“Taylor. Listen to yourself. Sweetie, I think we need to get you home.”

“I don’t disagree. I’ve had quite enough of this place.”

“Are you still having hallucinations?”

Taylor looked around the room, waiting for the telltale red wave to start. Nothing. Maybe she’d gotten it all out of her system when she threw up. She pulled the towel off her hair and shook her head. Still nothing, outside of the pounding headache.

“No. I feel better right now. Clearer. The…visions come at weird intervals. I keep seeing red flashes out of the corner of my eye, and get the sense someone’s watching me. Then I see the Pretender, just standing there. Like he’s waiting for me.”

“God, Taylor, I’m sorry. You tried to tell me, and I just assumed…”

“I don’t remember typing that letter.”

“That was one seriously fucked-up email, girl.”

“It’s been a seriously fucked-up few days. Sam? I need to tell you something. Please don’t yell at me, okay?”

Sam answered carefully. “What is it?”

“I think I slept with Memphis.”

The screech that was heard around the world rang through the phone. “What? When?”

In for a penny, in for a pound.

“The night before he left. The night we kissed on the bridge. I thought I had the door barred. There’s always someone creeping around this place. I don’t like the access they have. Hell, they probably have some sort of secret passageway or something. It seems like people can get in my room even if the door’s locked. I hate feeling like I’m not totally alone. At least that I could handle. Anyway, after I went to bed, I had a bad nightmare. Trixie brought me tea, then he came in my room. Things got pretty out of hand.”

“When did you start feeling strange, Taylor?”

“The second night I was here.”

“You said you
think
you slept with him. You mean there’s some doubt in your mind about it?”

Doubt. Yes. She was starting to doubt everything.

“There wasn’t until last night. At the time, it felt awfully real. But it was totally weird. He wasn’t there when I woke up, which felt really odd. Then he acted like nothing had happened at breakfast. Actually left for London without a single word about it, no flirting, no innuendo. Definitely no kiss goodbye. No setting me up for the next time…which doesn’t seem like him, you know?”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“I’ll admit, I was hurt. And embarrassed. But, Sam, what if it didn’t happen at all? What if I hallucinated the whole thing? It would explain the way he was behaving.”

Sam was quiet for a minute. When she spoke again, her voice was gentler, not as angry. “Taylor, that might be wishful thinking. Are you sure you’re not feeling remorseful and just wishing you hadn’t slept with him? ’Cause it’s kind of hard not to know if you’ve had sex.”

“I know that. And yes, I’ve regretted it, every minute of it. It was wrong. If I did it, I shouldn’t have.”

“True.”

“Sam, come on.”

“What do you want me to say, Taylor? I’m not going to condone it. You know he’s not high on my list of favorite people.”

“Trust me, you’ve made that abundantly clear. But listen to the rest before you make up your mind. This is going to sound crazy, all right? Last night, Memphis was here. With me. Again. We were… But so was Baldwin. And Maddee’s husband.”

Sam chuckled. “Jeez, Taylor. Only
you
get to hallucinate a threesome.”

“Foursome, if you’re being accurate,” Taylor mumbled.

“Was it good?”

“The foursome? No, it was creepy.”

“I mean with Memphis.”

Taylor stopped and thought back. Good was an understatement. She knew she needed to tell Sam the whole story if she was going to figure out what was real, and what wasn’t.

“It felt very real, but Sam, I never opened my eyes. I never actually saw him. And after what I dreamed, or hallucinated, last night…parts of it were very familiar. There’s no way we did it, because he’s in London, or was, at any rate. He’s not physically here in the castle.”

“Honey, if you aren’t sure, then yes, you might have hallucinated being with him in the first place. It’s possible to have an erotic fantasy fueled by certain types of drugs—LSD, for example. Maybe you didn’t even kiss him that other time. I think you need to ask him.”

“No, I’m sure about the kiss. But the rest… There’s an embarrassing question. ‘Hullo, Memphis, how are you? Did we sleep together the other night, or did I just imagine the whole thing?’”

Sam had the decency not to laugh. “It’s gotta be done, sugar. For your peace of mind as much as anything. Listen, I have to go, the twins are crying, and Simon is less than pleased with me, and you sound way more coherent. But don’t take any more pills. Stop taking everything. I’m sure you have some Advil. Take eight hundred milligrams if the headache starts, repeat that every six hours. You might have some shakes after a day or so—that’s the Percocet talking. Just gut it out. I know you can. And if there is any way to have blood drawn, so you can see what’s in your system, do it.”

“All right.”

“And Taylor? For God’s sake, watch your back.”