Psychobyte (29 page)

Kurt left. Mitch passed me the glass. I took a few sips and hoped it stayed down.

“How’d you know to bring ginger ale?”

“Mom. She swears by flat ginger ale. That and lemon ginger tea.”

“Clever woman.”

“You should rest. Kurt
might
know what he’s talking about.” Mitch grinned and indicated the bed. “Lie down.”

I wanted to but the ginger ale wanted out. Heat rose. Saliva rushed into my mouth. Before I could move toward the bathroom, I’d puked into my hands.

Lovely.

Ginger ale ran through my fingers and onto the carpet. A towel appeared. Mitch cleaned my hands and sat me on the edge of the bed. “Maybe that shot would be a good idea.”

“No.” I watched him mop up the frothy mess from the carpet.

He put the towel in the laundry basket in the bathroom and came back with a cold, wet face cloth.

“Here,” he said, wiping my brow and face. “How’s that?”

“Nice. Thank you. I think I might lie down for a little bit.”

“Good idea. Maybe try slower sips of ginger ale in a few minutes. I’ll fetch a bucket. Just in case.”

“Thanks again.”

Mitch grinned. “Don’t mention it. Be right back.”

I knew he’d tell Kurt I’d vomited. I also knew I needed to drink but I couldn’t face it.

I reached over the side of the bed and picked up the phone. Remembering Lee’s number took me a few attempts but I got it right eventually. He answered on the first ring.

“It’s me. I’m home, sick. There’s something hinky about the case. Can you have another look at the financials of Mallory Stevens? She’s using two aliases. Sharron Stevens and Thelma Gardner. Phoebe supposedly lived with someone called Thelma. Find out where. Also, get Sandra to set up a meeting with her bank manager for me … tomorrow’s good.”

“Everything okay?” Lee asked.

“Sure. See what you can find out.”

“You were looking into her, yeah?”

“Yeah, I was. Something doesn’t make sense. Need fresh eyes. You’re it. What’d you do with Rosanne?”

“Interviewed her. My opinion is she meant to get the scoop on this story. Not liking the secretiveness regarding her son.”

“And?”

“Turned her loose. I’d hate to be her and have to face your father after what she did.”

“That could be punishment enough,” I replied. “Not.”

“Take it easy, Chicky.”

Renewed vomiting pre-empted my next call; luckily I still had the washcloth. I cleaned up the mess and threw the cloth at the bathroom door. It was going so well.

I tried again and got Sam on the phone. I let him know I wouldn’t be going back in and asked him to re-interview Mallory Stevens and find out where she left her car on Thursday night and to keep me informed. He filled me in on Charles Locke senior and told me a manager from O’Hare Security had dropped off an employment file. Locke had been employed as a surveillance technician and also installed some of the equipment on occasion. I asked Sam to get records of work carried out by O’Hare Security on any of our victim’s homes.

Phone calls made. Work sorted.

I put the phone back into its cradle and lay down. I don’t know what I expected; maybe that lying down would be an instant cure. Not. Nor was ginger ale.

Mitch came in with a blue bucket. He placed it next to the bed. Within arm’s reach.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked, sitting by me.

“No. Thank you.” I leaned back on the pillows and tried not to think. Mitch entwined his fingers with mine. “Mitch?”

“Yep.”

“I’m not sick.”

“Honey, you really are,” he smiled.

“Nah-uh. I’m not.”

His eyes sought mine. “Ellie?”

I swallowed saliva but couldn’t swallow fast enough. I let Mitch’s hand go and grabbed the bucket.

Bye-bye ginger ale.

“I’m not sick.”

“This from the woman who can’t stop throwing up,” Mitch said. “You want to rethink that?”

“Nope. Bathroom cupboard, go see.”

He frowned and went into the bathroom. I heard the cupboard open and close. He came back holding a white stick by the very tip of one end.

“You peed on this, right?”

“Not on the outside. It’s got a cap on it. You’re quite safe,” I replied.

“It’s also got two blue lines.”Kurt’s voice came from the doorway where he leaned on the frame, “That’s a positive result.”

He straightened up and walked into the room. “You couldn’t have told me?”

“Not before I told Mitch,” I replied.

Mitch stood in the middle of the room staring at the two blue lines.

“How?” Mitch said as a smile settled on his lips. “And wow. Not what I expected from today.”

“Maybe Holly’s grandma was right, nature is cunning,” I said and that was all I had, nothing else made sense.

Kurt chuckled. “She’s right. Trust me. I learned a long time ago that somethings are meant to be regardless of our interventions.”

“Meanwhile, let me give you something so you don’t feel ill all the time,” Kurt said.

“Something safe,” I replied.

“Of course. Undo your jeans and pull them down a bit.”

Mitch hadn’t moved. Kurt walked around him.

“Why?” I asked, unzipping.

“Humor me.” He moved a little closer and rubbed his hands together. “Sorry, might be cold. I want to feel your tummy.” He pressed quite hard on my lower abdomen. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” I tried not to wince. “Uncomfortable.”

“When was your last period?”

“Seven and a half weeks ago.”

He pressed again; it felt like his fingers had pressed right through to my spine. He stopped.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. Very sure. Why?”

“I’ll tell you in a minute.” From his bag, he took a vial and a syringe. “Roll onto your left hip.”

A cold, a stinging sensation followed, then cold again.

“That should help, it might also make you sleepy.”

“Thanks.” I rolled back and pulled my jeans up properly. “Tell me why you questioned my dates?”

“Because I can feel your uterus above your pelvic bone by about two inches.”

“And?”

“An ultrasound would be a good idea. Have you seen an OBGYN yet?”

I stared at him. “Not yet. Should I be worried?”

“No. You might be further along than you think. I’ll get an ultrasound scheduled soon. I know a guy. He’s the head of the Obstetric Department at Inova Fairfax. I can get you an appointment with him.”

“That would be good, thanks.”

Mitch sat down next to me on the bed. “We’re pregnant?”

“Technically just me, but yeah, we are.”

He smiled. I don’t know what I expected but I don’t think it was a smile.

“What now?”

“I don’t know.”

Kurt packed up his bag. “I’ll leave you two to talk. Yell if you need me.”

“Thanks,” I replied.

Mitch nodded. “I’ll need a bit of time to catch up …”

I waited to see if he was mad or mention the fact I hadn’t said anything and had blocked this from his radar. I’d done nothing but think about this for the last two weeks … well, this and the wedding.

“This wasn’t something on either of our life plans, so … we need to think and talk and figure this out together,” I said, surprised at how grown up I sounded.

Mitch chewed his lip and looked at me. His hand found mine. “No wonder you’ve been so distracted for the last few weeks. I knew it wasn’t all work and the wedding. Hasn’t been easy for you, has it?”

“No, it hasn’t.”

“I wish you’d confided in me from the start.” He kissed my forehead.

Safe. I sighed. “Me too. I just needed time to get my head around this, you know?”

“That’s understandable.”

“And because there could’ve been a natural resolution.” That was still a possibility.

“And to be able to support you, if that were the case, I’d need knowledge.” His fingers squeezed mine. “El, I’m not going anywhere. This is about us.”

He had me there.

“I should have told you.”

“This is your first and last warning, almost-Mrs. Iverson … there better not be a next time.”

I laughed at his attempt at sternness. “Fair enough.”

“And I should’ve noticed.” His smile faded a little. “That’s why you blocked me.”

I swallowed hard. Hate being caught out and not pleased at all about blocking him. Would’ve been easier and less stressful to tell him outright in the beginning.

“Partly.”

“Now we know … how do you feel? Up to a chat about the changing future?”

“Not really.”

“Me neither. Shuffle over. Let me get in there.” Mitch crawled up beside me and pulled me into his arms. My head rested comfortably on his shoulder. “Don’t throw up on me,” he said, kissing the top of my head.

“We’re okay?” I asked as I curled into him.

“Of course,” Mitch said. “We’re great.”

“You are more than I deserve, Mitchell Iverson.”

I knew he smiled when he said, “We’re having a baby.” And held me close. “Still feel sick?”

“Not so much. Kurt’s magic shot worked.” My eyes closed. The absence of nausea and the relief that Mitch knew, left me feeling both relieved and tired all at once.

Demons

I watched from the car as Mitch ran across the parking lot and disappeared through the door to Safeway. My smile reflected from the car window as I waited. It was Tuesday. Five days before our wedding and I felt okay.

A phone call distracted me from my vigil. Kurt.

“Conway?”

“Yep.”

“Everything all right?”

“Yeah. I’m on my way to work.”

Pretty sure a hamster running on a wheel filled the silence at his end.

“We have another death.”

“I’m twenty minutes away.”

“About that … you’ve got an appointment this morning with my pal Jeremy Johansen.”

“And he is?”

“The doctor I mentioned yesterday. The appointment is at ten.”

My watch said half-eight.

“Where’s his office?”

Mitch opened the car door and angled in behind the wheel. He reached over and dropped a box of crystallized ginger in my lap. I smiled at him and mouthed ‘thank you.’

“Kurt? Where do I need to be?” I hoped he’d say D.C.

“Falls Church.”

Damn.

“Where’s the latest crime scene?”

“Reston.”

That wouldn’t work. “Are you in the office now?”

“Yes.”

“Wait for me. I’m coming to you.” I hung up.

Mitch’s hand rested on the ignition. “Problem?”

“Scheduling conflict,” I replied. “How flexible are you this morning?”

He took his hand off the ignition and turned to face me. “Kurt got you an appointment with the specialist?”

“Uh huh, at ten in Falls Church.”

Mitch took his phone from the cradle on the dash and made a call. I tuned out, my mind flipping between another death and thoughts of the specialist appointment. The hum of Mitch’s voice stopped and I glanced up at him. He placed the phone back in the cradle and said, “I’ll need to work late tonight but I’ve cleared my morning.”

“Thank you.”

I hadn’t expected him to come with me, and that he wanted to, meant everything. Okay, we’d both be working late.

“I need to go to the office before we go to Falls Church.”

He nodded and turned the key.

I zoned out almost as soon as the engine started. Words danced around me. A few took form and dropped into my lap. A poem?

Before I could consciously stop it, the rest of the poem manifested. My brain whirred: the odds of it being a random poem about a scent ‒ nil. For a few seconds, every victim inhabited me at once.

Someone spoke. I had no idea who; apart from Phoebe, I didn’t know any of their voices. But I knew it was one of the victims.

“A simple scent dragged me back to hell. Lighting incense brought a tale to tell. A flash went off in my disturbed brain. Throwing me back into turmoil again.” Her voice faded into the vortex of faces that inhabited my mind.

Lines of another poem appeared on a whiteboard written by an ethereal hand. Chance swinging through the door drew my attention away from the emerging words. He grinned and stood next to me, facing the whiteboard.

His arm draped around my shoulders. “What are we doing?”

“Reading. One of the victims, I think, wrote a poem.”

“How many of them were poets, El?”

“Just one as far as I know, but two wrote fiction. Jane Daughtry was the poet.”

“Jane was FBI?”

I nodded. “This might be something then,” I said. The ethereal hand vanished taking the white board marker with it. Revealing a poem. Chance and I read aloud.

He stepped back and I read it twice more.

“Chance, she knew the killer …”

“Looks that way.”

“We were looking at self-help groups or therapy groups because their houses were almost OCD clean.”

“And now?”

“I think it’s more than Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I think it’s a symptom of abuse. Control. They clean to regain control over their lives or part of their lives.” I couldn’t prove that either, but it felt right. Deep in my bones it just felt like it.

“And Jane?”

“The intended victim all along. She knew one of the Unsubs. What if one of them had abused her in the past …” Thoughts collided and reformed as new ideas. “She could also be an anomaly. A neat freak with no history of psychological damage.” I needed to look into that. Whatever drew me back to Jane was important.

“Is that unusual, killing the intended victim early and then carrying on killing?”

“Every nutjob is different.”