Live To Tell Part 26

Despite D.D.'s big words, she and her team departed shortly after five a.m. The four of them had been up for thirty-six hours. Given the location of the crime scene and the sheer number of people to now question, they faced a grueling stretch of days. Might as well grab four or five hours of sleep before returning to the trenches.

As the crime-scene guru, Alex had spent the evening working in radiology. Unfortunately, the room had yielded scant physical evidence-no blood, no signs of struggle, no unexplained scuffs, dents, debris. They had the hangman's knot from the rope, and that was about it.

Neil, who'd taken a break from flirting with the ME in order to interview every janitor in the joint, reported similar results. Yes, a janitor had caught sight of a small figure in green surgical scrubs rounding a corner. Yes, the janitor happened to notice she was trailing a rope behind her. Yes, he happened to think that was odd. No, he didn't pursue the matter; he had other work to do.

Cameras would've been great, except, as Phil learned from security, the hospital used them mostly for the main-level entrances and exits, plus maternity. Radiology didn't make the cut.

Which left them with a crime scene that, four hours later, might or might not be a crime scene.

D.D. arranged for a fresh homicide squad to take over canva.s.sing for witnesses. She also got the hospital to agree to a twenty-four-hour security guard for the psych ward. Then she made it down to the hospital lobby before her shoulders sagged and her steps faltered from fatigue.

She took a minute in the parking lot stairwell, pinching the bridge of her nose and waiting for the worst of it to pa.s.s. She didn't care what anyone said-the death of a kid never got any easier, and the second it did, she was quitting her job. Apparently, she didn't have to retire just yet.

The night had sucked. She wanted to go home, take a long hot shower, then pa.s.s out on top of her bed.

Instead, her pager went off. She checked the number. Couldn't place it. Then, given the early-morning hour and sheer curiosity, she entered the number on her cell phone and pressed Send.

"I'm worried about you." A man's voice immediately filled her ear.

"Who is this?"

"Andrew Lightfoot."

"How'd you get this number?"

"You gave it to me, on your card."

D.D. paused, searched her mental banks, and remembered that at the end of the interview, she'd handed Andrew Lightfoot her business card. Routine protocol-she'd already forgotten all about it.

"Little early to be calling, don't you think?" She leaned against the stairwell wall, giving the conversation her full attention.

"I knew you were up. I dreamed of you."

Lotta things D.D. could say to that. Given her s.h.i.+tty night, and her instinctive distrust of anyone who called himself a spiritual guru, she didn't. "Why're you calling, Lightfoot?"

"Please call me Andrew."

"Please tell me why you're calling."

Hesitation. She found that interesting.

"There's something wrong," he said at last. "I don't know how to explain it. At least not in terms you would understand."

"A disturbance in the fabric of the cosmos?" she asked dryly.

"Exactly."

I'll be d.a.m.ned. "You talk," D.D. decided. "I'll listen."

"The negative energies are building. When I visited the interplanes earlier tonight, I found entire pockets of dark, roiling rage. I could feel a hum, like a vibration of great evil. The light had fled. I've never seen so many shadows."

"The negative forces are winning the war?"

"Tonight, I would say yes."

"Has that happened before?"

"I've never encountered such a thing. Sometimes, when I'm leading group meditation, I'll stumble across a particularly malevolent force. But the collective strength of the group, the exponential power of the light, enables me to confront such negativity and force it back into its small and insignificant s.p.a.ce. Tonight ... it's as if the inverse has happened. Dark calling to dark. Feeding, growing, exploding. Alone and unprepared, there was nothing I could do."

"You got your a.s.s kicked on the spiritual superhighway?"

"I wouldn't laugh about this, D.D."

"And I don't have jurisdiction over evil energies. What the h.e.l.l do you want from me?"

Andrew's voice changed. "You're tired. You've suffered tonight. I apologize."

Instantly, she was on edge. "What do you know of my suffering?"

"I'm a healer. I can feel it. Your aura, bright white when we first met, has turned to blue. You're not comfortable with blue. You do better with red, though I prefer white."

D.D. pinched the bridge of her nose again. "Why are you calling, Andrew?"

"Something is coming."

"Evil wants to take over the universe."

"Evil always wants to take over the universe. I'm telling you that this time, it's winning."

"How?"

"It has a purpose, I think. The purpose has given it power."

"What's its purpose?"

"It wants something."

"All right," she said wearily. "What does it want?"

No immediate answer. Maybe Andrew had gone back to the interplanes. In the silence, it occurred to her to ask: "How's Tika doing?"

"Tika?" Andrew echoed back. Good answer.

"Danielle Burton thought you knew her," D.D. fished again. "You know, from the Boston psych ward."

"She's angry with me."

"Tika?"

"Danielle. I want her to heal more than she wants to heal. Forgiving is hard work. It's easier for her to hate me."

"So you two know each other. Spend much time on the psych ward, Andrew?"

"Don't be angry with Danielle," he continued. "Without the children, she would be lost. Without their love, the darkness would consume her completely."

"Why do you say that, Andrew?"

"Her story to tell."

"But you want her to heal. Tell me, and I'll help."

"Do you think I'm stupid?" he said abruptly, and there was an edge to his voice she hadn't heard before. "I lived in your world, Sergeant Warren, playing hardball with the best of them. I know a skeptic when I meet her. And I recognize bulls.h.i.+t when it's shoveled at me. You're a cop. You have no interest in healing. Your job is to judge. And you are extremely good at your job."

In spite of herself, D.D. felt her hackles rising. "Hey, now-"

"She hurts," he continued. "I feel Danielle's pain and it calls to me, only because it's so unnecessary. But not everyone wants to heal. I accept her choice, just as I accept that you will never truly believe what I say until it's too late."

"Too late?"

"Something's coming. It's powerful. It has purpose."

"Tell me what you want, Andrew."

"I want you to be careful, Sergeant Warren. Spirits don't want something. They always want someone."

Andrew clicked off the phone. Apparently, she'd p.i.s.sed him off enough. Which was just as well, given that he'd confused her enough.

Negative energies, forces of evil, dark tidings.

D.D. thought of tonight's scene, a nine-year-old girl's forlorn body, swaying from a noose. D.D. didn't need to be policing the spiritual interplanes. She had her hands full enough on this one.

She finally made it down the stairwell. She pushed open the heavy door, worked her away across the nearly empty s.p.a.ce. She decided there was no sound quite as lonely as a single set of footsteps echoing through a vacant parking garage.

She was tired. She did hurt. Lightfoot had been right about some things.

She rounded a broad support pillar and discovered Alex Wilson waiting beside her vehicle. She stopped walking. They eyed each other. He had shadows under his eyes. Stubble across his cheeks. Wrinkles in his once crisp white dress s.h.i.+rt.

"Before ... I was wrong," D.D. said.

"Yeah?"

"Sometimes, I do need a man to take care of me."

He nodded. "That's okay; sometimes, I do need a woman to stroke my ego."

"You look like h.e.l.l," she told him.

"Compliment enough for me. Come on. I'll drive you home."

She followed him to his car, leaving her vehicle to be retrieved later.

He drove the first five minutes in silence. It gave her a chance to lean her head against the warm window gla.s.s and close her eyes. Morning would be coming. Maybe it was already here. She could open her eyes and look for the sun, but she wasn't ready yet. She needed this moment, dark and contained, inside herself.

"Andrew Lightfoot called," she said presently, eyes still shut.

"What did he want?"

"To warn me that something wicked this way comes."

"Can it fas.h.i.+on a noose and does it have an address?"

D.D. opened her eyes, sat up. "Excellent questions, if only I'd thought to ask them." She sighed, rearranged herself in the seat. "I dropped Tika Solis's name, but he didn't bite. He definitely knows nurse Danielle, however. He requested that we not be too hard on her. Healing's not for everyone."

"Easy for a healer to say. Means he can charge twice his going rate."

"Ah, but it's a gift...."

Alex finally smiled. He drove toward the North End. "Homicide or suicide?" he asked at last.

"You're the expert; you tell me."

"Lack of physical evidence," he said.

"Yeah, I got that message. Crime scene has nothing, janitor saw nothing. Sucky all the way around."

"No, I mean lack of physical evidence. As in no latent prints. As in door handle, office chair, light switch-none of them bore prints small enough to be a nine-year-old's. Tricky, if you think about it-a girl opening a door, turning on the light, setting up a chair, yet never leaving behind a single fingerprint."

"f.u.c.k," D.D. said, a world of exhaustion behind that one word.

Alex reached over, squeezed her shoulder. "Not what you were expecting this evening-from executing routine search warrants to processing a dead body."

"Not what I was expecting," D.D. agreed. Alex's hand returned to the steering wheel; she felt its loss. "I don't ... I mean ... h.e.l.l. One moment I'm on a date, next I'm at a house with five dead bodies. And that leads to another house with six dead, which leads us to a psych ward where a nine-year-old child escapes and hangs herself while we're on the property. What are the odds of that?"

"A date?" Alex asked.

"Nothing serious. Never even made it through the entree," she a.s.sured him.

"You gonna try again?"

"Nah. Bachelor number one's kind of faded by the wayside."

"Good to know. Please continue."

"So we got five dead, plus six dead, plus one hanged. They're connected somehow. Gotta be connected. Only thing that makes sense, except, of course, none of it makes sense. How do you go from two family annihilations to one hanged child?"

Alex didn't say anything, just touched her shoulder again.

"f.u.c.k," D.D. muttered, and turned to stare out the window, where the morning sun was staining the sky.