Page 3 of A Deeper Darkness
But there was something Donovan had learned from hard experience.
Appearances could be deceiving.
Chapter Two
McLean, Virginia
Susan Donovan
When the doorbell rang, Susan wasn’t surprised. She knew something was wrong. Something had been wrong all afternoon. It began the second the phone rang in Eddie’s pocket, and had chased her the rest of the day—onto the subway, to the car, to their local Jerry’s for the promised pizza, to the driveway, which stood empty, devoid of Eddie’s Audi, to the empty answering machine, dinner, the girls’ baths, story and bed. Chased her like a snapping dog down the stairs, to the kitchen for a glass of wine, and, with that innate sixth sense, to the powder room medicine cabinet for a prophylactic Ativan before following her, snarling, to the couch, where they both waited in the dark.
She paused for a moment, hoping it was a mistake, that a neighborhood kid had run by the house and rang the bell as a prank, but no, there it was again, low and insistent, and the beast that waited with her screamed in silent agony.
The wife of a soldier knows to respect those feelings of dread. She becomes so attuned to the nuance of the night air that she can smell her man’s sweat, even when he’s six thousand miles away, humping it through an explosive-laden desert. A missed email or phone call signals the worst, and silence predominates until the news is spread.
A doorbell. So innocuous. For regular people, the signal of good things, happy things. Packages from the postman and Girl Scouts selling cookies, friends of daughters coming for playdates. But for a soldier’s wife, the doorbell is the harbinger of death. A one-way path to sheer, aching numbness.
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone. Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone.
She took a last sip of the wine and went to the door. Glanced out the glass. Recognized the black uniform of a Metro D.C. beat cop and the rumpled brown suit of a plainclothes detective. A third man joined them, some sort of preacher. He wouldn’t be needed. Susan didn’t believe in the same God she used to. Not after the things Donovan had told her about what men did to one another in the name of freedom, the whispered confidences late in the night, when sweat still glistened on their bodies and tears coursed down his face.
Her hand was on the knob. She realized she had a cut, the thin flesh on the dorsal joint opened just below her ring finger. Blood was seeping from the wound. When had that happened?
She turned the doorknob without taking a breath, knowing it was useless. He was gone. She’d never breath properly again.
“Mrs. Donovan?” The plainclothes detective held up his shield. Gold. A man of rank.
She didn’t speak, merely nodded. God, she was tired. So tired. She only caught bits and pieces of the conversation. She was floating, on her first date with Donovan, him all flashy in his dress uniform, the usher at a friend’s wedding. It was always such a joke to them both that they’d met at a wedding, for Christ’s sake.
“Ma’am, can we come in…”
“I’m sorry to have to tell you…”
“Shot…carjacking…”
“Notification…”
“Identification…”
Amazing how many “-tions” there were in death. Deletion. Cancellation. Subtraction. Consolation. Elaboration. Coordination. Motion. Action. Caution. Cooperation. Reaction. Resignation. Sensation.
“Mrs. Donovan, can we call someone for you?”
She came back then, looked into the earnest, sad eyes of the detective, who said his name was Fletcher.
Susan shook her head, and the blackness consumed her.
Chapter Three
Nashville, Tennessee
Dr. Samantha Owens
Dr. Samantha Owens, head medical examiner for the state of Tennessee, checked her watch, then hurried down the forty-foot brown-carpeted hallway to the prep area for the autopsy suite. As head of Forensic Medical, the suite was her home. A place she knew as intimately as her own body. She had four medical examiners, eight death investigators and six techs on her staff, all handpicked, all excellent. And since her conference call had gone long, she was keeping them waiting.
Sam spent a minimum of four hours a day in the suite, overseeing autopsies, for the most part, though she liked to put herself in the rotation at least once a week to keep her skills sharp. The exceptions were unique or difficult cases, or especially high-profile homicides. Those were always slated for her scalpel. Though she’d never talk about it, Sam was one of the finest forensic pathologists in the country.
She was already dressed in scrubs but stopped before the doors and geared up the rest of the way. Booties, cap, an extra mouth shield. Gloves. The heavy-duty Marigolds that could take a slip of a knife and not get cut, followed by two pairs of regular electric-blue nitrile.
