rapists.
'That's why hard evidence, carefully collected and preserved, is so important,' he said.
'You've taught me a lot about evidence on this case. Frustrated the hell out of me a few times, though. I can tell you this, when Lawrence walks out of jail, I want to give him that blanket. Think you could hand it over then?'
He laughed. 'Sure.'
We chatted a few more minutes about Lucinda and his boys before I hung up. I was almost tired, until I saw what I looked like after I faced the bathroom mirror. What a wake-up call. I had streaks of dried blood down my neck that had stained my collar, and my lip was still swollen from the storage unit fire. I looked like I'd been in a bar fight.
I began to carefully separate strands of hair looking for the cut, but the blood had clumped and hardened, and I was afraid to probe more for fear of making my head bleed again. This was a job for Kate. In the morning.
Jeff called me early, seven a.m. to be exact, and gave me an update. Olive had been taken into custody for questioning, and after an evaluation by a Health and Human Services caseworker, Sara had been sent to the hospital. If Olive cooperated, she might not be charged as an accessory to murder. Ironically, all three hospitalized people—Thaddeus, Sara and B.J.—were in the same place, though Jeff told me B.J. would be moved to the jail infirmary when his condition improved. If he'd confessed to anything, Jeff hadn't heard. He advised me to call Mark Whitley, a defense lawyer, as soon as Whitley's office opened. Lawrence would need counsel to help get him out of prison.
Even before Kate arrived, I'd decided I needed her assistance with more than just my head wound. I wanted her to go with me to visit Sara Rankin. When Kate arrived with salves and ointments in a little makeup bag, I put in my request. She made some calls and rearranged her schedule to make time this morning.
While my sister carefully washed blood out of my hair, I provided a more detailed, but still modified, version of what happened last night. She didn't need to know how close I'd come to getting myself killed. By the time I was finished with my summary, I discovered I liked the version I told her, the one where I was in complete control from the minute I was taken from that log cabin—playing B.J. for the fool he was.
If Kate didn't believe me, she never let on. She carefully treated the cut once she was done with shampooing and said I'd have a scar, but she didn't think I needed stitches. No problem. One more scar for my collection.
I dressed in lightweight jeans and a yellow camp shirt, not as attractive as Kate's pale blue linen shirt and matching slacks, but comfortable. I was a little sore after the head butting and tackling I'd done last night, but surprisingly not tired.
We left for the hospital with Kate at the wheel. She had to drive, since my car was in police impound. Kate's office is in the Medical Center, and she was the better choice to find the ever-elusive parking place anyway.
We got lucky and found a space on the third floor of the hospital garage, then made our way through throngs of visitors and medical personnel and took the elevator to the neurology floor, where Sara Rankin had been admitted for evaluation. When we arrived at her doorway, a slew of white coats surrounded her bed—doctors' rounds going on, I assumed. We couldn't even see Sara, there were so many of them.
An older black woman with mottled gray hair looked down at a clipboard and said, 'This patient is unusual, suffered a toxemia of pregnancy neurological event, most certainly a stroke, nearly twenty years ago. What's rare is that she may have never had an evaluation or follow-up care. From what her longtime caretaker reported to the police, the patient was in a coma for several months post delivery, has been aphasic and was never rehabbed. We'll be transferring her to a rehabilitation facility after our evaluation is complete. Moving on, ladies and gentlemen...'
The woman looked up from her clipboard as the interns and residents began to file past us. 'You family?' she asked.
'Um, no. But I was hired by family to find this woman.' My eyes were on Sara. She wore one of those awful, hang-off-your-shoulders gowns, and though she was now thirty-five years old, she looked like a terrified child. Her walker was in a corner, far from her reach.
Sara stared at me. Her slack jaw and weakened facial muscles couldn't hide the perceptiveness I saw in those eyes.
'Oh,' the doctor said. 'You're the detective. A police sergeant called and told me you'd be coming. She may not be able to communicate well, but she understands everything you say. Talk to her. She could use some friends.'
The woman then hustled after her pack of interns.
Kate was already at the bedside. She picked up one of Sara's hands and said, 'I'm Dr. Rose, a clinical psychologist. Can my sister and I talk to you, tell you why you've been brought here?'
Sara looked at Kate with questioning eyes, then at me.
'Remember me? You saw me through the window last night. I'm Abby.'
Sara nodded slowly. A yes.
Kate, still holding onto Sara's hand, dragged over a nearby chair using her foot. She sat down. 'Things have happened over the years, Sara. Things you probably know nothing about. My sister knows all of it, though, and we want to tell you what she's learned. Some of what you hear may be very difficult. I'm here to support you through that. If you're not ready, let us know somehow.'
She made a sound then, a combination groan-grunt, almost like she was in pain. She lifted her free hand with effort. Though her hand was limp, I knew she was pointing at me. And then came her first words, slurred but understandable. 'You. Tell.'
'That's why I came,' I said with a smile, pulling over a plastic chair to sit next to Kate. 'Do you remember Lawrence?'
Sara rolled her head left away from us, squeezed her eyes shut for a second. Then she used her hand to make an L and rested the fingers against her heart.
Unexpected tears sprung to my eyes. Kate's tears were already slipping down her cheeks.
'You know he's in prison?' I said.
She nodded.
'And that he's innocent?'
Another nod, stronger this time.
'We'll get him out. We have proof now, but it may take time,' I said.
She closed her eyes, hit her finger-made L against her chest several times.
'There's more,' I said. 'Do you remember your baby?'
She looked at me again. It was Sara's turn for tears now. As they ran down her thin, tired face, she worked hard to speak and finally said, 'Dead.'
'No,' I replied, way too loud for hospital pros to like. 'He's
She stared at me, eyes wide, while Kate grabbed a tissue and wiped Sara's cheeks.
'He's not. He wants to meet you,' I said.
Sara began to shake her head, and Kate clutched her hand tighter, saying, 'It's true. It's real.'
Sara struggled again to speak, each word, it seemed, like climbing a mountain. 'Look... at... me.'
Kate said, 'Are you saying you don't want him to see you like this?'
Sara nodded.
'He's a special young man,' I said. 'And he's the reason we found you. I promise, he wouldn't care if your head was screwed on backwards.'
One side of Sara's mouth turned up in a smile. This time she answered by making a fist, and with effort turned her thumb to the ceiling.
Kate had already advised me not to mention Noreen's death or Pastor Rankin's arrest, so we were grateful when an aide interrupted us to take Sara for a CAT scan. We told her we would be back and left.
Next stop was Thaddeus, and I was relieved to find him in far better shape than when I'd last seen him.
He was sitting in his wheelchair by the window, the roses I'd sent on the bedside stand. 'Going home soon, Abby,' he said. 'Few more stable days is all I need. But you got my heart racing bringing in a woman as good- looking as your friend here.'
'Thaddeus Washington, my sister, Kate Rose,' I said.
