Page 42 of Half the Summer's Night
He laughs, lifts his hands. “You’re right, you’re right. Just not used to that kind of shit around here.” He unlocks the back of the truck, pulls out the stretcher. “Good news, though. This one’s not bad. Probably an accident, but the cops wanted to be sure. You know. After—” He tilts his head sideways. Toward downtown Rosado, I guess.
“They were found on Pier Fourteen?” I’m changing the subject because I don’t want to hear anything more about Olivia Pearce.
“Yep. Usual story.” Hector drags out the stretcher and drops it on the cement driveway with a clank. The body bag jostles a little on the frame. “Poor guy drank too much, fell, broke his neck on the rocks. Seems open and closed to me.”
As soon as Hector saysbroke his neck, my whole body goes rigid. Despite the sweltering heat and glaring sun, goosebumps rise on my arms.
“Broke his neck?” I ask lightly. “Didn’t drown?”
Hector grins at me. “Well, I mean, that’s really for you to figure out, isn’t it? But yeah, guy’s neck is broken for sure. You ready for him?”
I nod and step aside so Hector can roll the body into the hallway. I trail behind him, my heart pounding.
Think of it as a test, Abilene.
And suddenly, I realize what my killer meant when he said that. In my haze, I had just assumed he was going to get rid of the body completely. Dismember it, weigh it down, throw it in the ocean. Because surely someone like him, someone whohas killed so many times, knows that it’s better for a body to disappear than to be found.
But no. I see it now. He’s roping me in. Making me participate in our shared cover-up.
I swallow down a surge of bile as I follow Hector into the autopsy room. He looks over at me expectantly.
“On the examining table there.” I manage to keep my voice calm as he does the transfer. Manage to keep my hands steady when I sign off that the delivery’s complete on his tablet.
“Good luck,” he says. “See you around, Abi.”
I nod, force myself to smile. My heart feels like it’s going to explode, it’s beating so fast.
I suddenly wish I had some way of contacting him, my killer. It’s not fair that he knows who I am, but I don’t know who he is.
As if fairness has anything to do with this.
I stand in the doorway of the autopsy room and wait until I hear the entrance door slide and lock back into place, until I know Hector is gone for good. Then I close the examination door behind me and stare at the body bag on my counter.
It won’t be him, I think, walking over to it with slow, trembling steps.It will be someone else.
I draw the zipper down, my breath tight in my throat. Just enough to see the face.
I gasp and jerk my hand away, my adrenaline spiking. Because of course it’s him. Olivia’s killer.
I suck down a deep breath of air and force myself to pull the zipper down further. There’s no sign of the stocking that my killer shoved into his mouth, and his shirt and gloves are gone, too. Still wearing his black black trousers, which are wet and heavy from the saltwater. No shoes.
I play back what Hector told me, that the victim had been drinking. How did he know that? There must have been evidence at the scene. Liquor bottles or some such. I’m sure there’s areport waiting in my email, and if not, I can ask for it. But I don’t move. I just stare down at the body of Olivia’s murderer, nothing but cold meat in a half-open body bag.
This feels like a challenge, like my killer is drawing me deeper and deeper into his world. A challenge, or an invitation.
I snap on my gloves and work the body bag away from the corpse, my thoughts tumbling over each other. It’s standard, in cases like this, to order a tox report. But I already know that it won’t show the level of intoxication they’re expecting.
He wants me to fake it, I think with a sudden, violent jolt. That’s the test.
I drag the body bag away and let it float down to the floor. Then my eyes settle on the ID tag dangling from the corpse’s toe. I pick it up, flip it over.John Doe.Of course, Lorraine mentioned that in her message, didn’t she? I usually run the John Does through the database to see if I can find a match.
And suddenly, my killer’s test feels more like a gift. A chance to find out who the hell murdered Olivia Pearce.
I stumble backward, feeling dizzy. The corpse of my attacker lies unmoving on the table, his head still twisted sideways, his body bloated and pale from being in the water overnight.
A gift,I think numbly.What if this is supposed to be a gift?
What exactly does that say about me?
