Tess felt the panic seeping into her system as the last bit of light turned everything into shadows. She tried to ignore the little voice in the back of her mind that kept telling her to crawl out of this tomb, to run as far away as possible. It didn’t matter what direction or where she ended up, at least she would be out of this hell pit, this grave of mutilated bones and lost souls.
She sat next to the woman named Rachel, close enough to hear her ragged breathing. Soon she wouldn’t be able to see, but she had made certain the blanket covered her. The woman would not spend another cold night exposed to the elements.
Tess wasn’t sure why she had returned. Why hadn’t she just left for good? She knew it would be best for Rachel if she went for help. But after an afternoon of roaming the endless woods, she knew help was not close by. She had barely found her way back, trying to leave herself a trail of pinecones. Now she wondered if it had been a mistake to come back. If by doing so, she might be guaranteeing her own death. But for some reason, she couldn’t bring herself to leave this woman. She wasn’t certain whether she was being gallant or just selfish, because she couldn’t bear to spend an entire night out here alone.
Tess had managed to bring back a shoeful of water, using the broken-heeled leather pump she had unearthed. Rachel had to be incredibly thirsty, yet she drank little, most of it dribbling out of her cut and swollen lips and trickling down her bruised chin.
She had said little since uttering her name. Sometimes she answered Tess’s questions with a simple yes or no. Most of the time she remained silent as though breathing took all her effort. And Tess had noticed that the woman’s breathing had become more raspy, more labored. She had a fever and her muscles went into spasms for long periods racking her entire body, no matter what Tess tried to do to help her.
After hours of analyzing the area, and examining every possible rock step, dirt ledge and sturdy root, Tess had resigned herself to the fact that she could not pull or carry or drag Rachel out. And no amount of rest would cure or repair the damage already done to her body.
Tess leaned her head against the dirt wall, no longer caring that pieces crumbled inside her collar and down her back. She closed her eyes and tried to think of something or somewhere pleasant. A difficult task, considering her empty reservoir of pleasant experiences. Without much effort, Will Finley came to mind. His face, his body, his hands, his voice were all so easily retrieved from her memory bank. He had touched her so gently, so lovingly, despite his urgency and his insatiable passion. It was as though he genuinely felt something deeper than pleasure. And he seemed so intent on pleasing her, as though it truly mattered that she feel what he was feeling.
In all her many experiences with men and sex, she had never thought to associate sex with love. Oh sure, she knew that was the way it was supposed to be, but it had certainly never been a part of her experiences. Even with Daniel, she felt nothing remotely close to love. But she had never expected to—she had never promised or lied to herself that it would ever happen.
She didn’t know Will Finley, so how was it possible to feel something remotely close to love? He was a stranger, a one-night stand. How could that be any different than any of the many johns she had serviced? Yet, even here—especially here—she couldn’t lie to herself. Will Finley and their one night together had been different. She wouldn’t turn it into something cheap and dirty. Not when it could be the closest she may ever get to feeling real love. And not now, when she needed it most. So she tried to remember. She remembered his soft lips, his gentle exploring hands, his hard body, his whispers, his energy, his warmth.
It worked for a short while, carrying her away from the smell of decay and the feel of mud. She thought perhaps she might even sleep. Then suddenly Tess noticed how quiet it was. She held her breath and listened. When the realization came, it swept over her like ice water being injected into her veins. The panic rushed through her, squeezing her heart. Her breathing resumed in quick bursts, frantic gasps. Her body began shaking uncontrollably, and she wrapped her arms tightly around herself, rocking back and forth.
“Oh dear God. Oh God, no,” she mumbled over and over like a madwoman. When she could get her body to keep still for a moment, she listened again, straining over the pounding of her heart, straining to hear, willing the truth to be untrue. It was no use. The silence couldn’t lie. She knew Rachel was dead.
Tess curled into the damp corner and then allowed herself to do something she hadn’t done since she was a child. She cried out loud, releasing years of welled-up sobs and letting them rack her entire body in hysterical convulsions over which she had absolutely no control. The sound pierced the silent darkness. At first she didn’t recognize it as something coming out of her, coming up from some deep well inside herself. But there was no stopping, no confining it. And so, she surrendered herself to it.
CHAPTER 56
Maggie watched from across the metal table as Dr. Holmes sliced into the woman’s chest, making a precise Y incision that curved under the woman’s breasts. Though she had gowned up, her gloved hands ready, she restrained herself from taking part. Instead, she waited for his permission, participating only when asked, trying to confine her impatience when things took too long. She reminded herself that she should be grateful the medical examiner had agreed to do the autopsy on a Saturday night rather than waiting for Monday morning.
He had allowed her to do the busywork; helping insert the body block, scraping behind the woman’s nails, taking the external mea-surements and then the samples of hair, saliva and body fluids. Maggie couldn’t stop thinking that Hannah had put up the fight of her life. Bruises covered her body, the one to her hip and thigh suggesting she had fallen down some stairs in the process.
Now, as Maggie watched Dr. Holmes, she found herself going through the woman’s brutal murder, step by step, from the telltale signs her body telegraphed. Hannah had scratched and clawed as Jessica had, only Hannah managed to get pieces of Stucky under her nails. Why had her death not been simple and swift? Why wasn’t he able to tie her up, rape her and slit her throat as he had with Jessica and Rita? Had Stucky not been prepared for this challenge?
Maggie wanted to shove her sleeves up. The plastic apron was making her sweat. God, it was hot. Why wasn’t there better ventilation?
The county morgue was larger than she had expected, with dingy gray walls and the overpowering scent of Lysol. The counters were a dull yellow Formica rather than stainless steel. The overhead fluorescent lighting unit hung low over the table, almost brushing the tops of their heads when they stood up straight. Dr. Holmes was not much taller than Maggie, but she noticed he had grown accustomed to the light fixture, ducking automatically each time he came underneath it.
Her forensic and premed background had allowed her to perform many autopsies on her own and assist in plenty of others. Maybe it was her exhaustion or perhaps it was simply the stress of this case, but for some reason she was having difficulty disconnecting from the body on the metal table in front of her. Her face felt hot from the hovering light. The windowless room was threatening to suffocate her, though a hidden fan circulated the stale air in the room. She resisted the urge to swipe at the strands of hair that stuck to her damp forehead. The tension in her neck had spread to her shoulders, and was now knotting its way down to take control of her lower back.
Ever since she had recognized the woman, Maggie couldn’t help feeling responsible for her death. Had she simply not asked for help in choosing a bottle of wine, the woman would still be alive. Maggie knew the thoughts were counterproductive. They were exactly what Stucky wanted her to be thinking, to be feeling. But she couldn’t shut them off. She couldn’t stop the growing hysteria that gnawed at her insides, the exploding anger that whispered promises of revenge. She couldn’t control the brewing desire of wanting to put a bullet between Albert Stucky’s eyes. This anger, this need for revenge was beginning to scare her more than anything Albert Stucky could do to her.
“She hasn’t been dead for very long,” Dr. Holmes said, his voice bringing her mind back to where it needed to be. “Internal temperature indicates less than twenty-four hours.”
Maggie knew this already, but also realized he was saying this for the tape recorder on the stand next to them, and not for her benefit.
“There appears to be no signs of livor mortis, so she was definitely murdered somewhere else and moved within the span of two or three hours.” Again, he said this in a matter-of-fact tone for the recorder.
Maggie appreciated his casual manner, his conversational style. She had worked with other M.E.’s whose hushed reverence or clinically cold methods acted as a constant reminder of the brutality and violence that had
