14 - J. T. Ellison [9]
A quick check of her e-mail and in-box showed nothing that couldn’t wait until the morning. She debated for a moment. Read through the case files now, or go home and get some sleep. The thought of a warm bed, a warm body lying next to her, was too compelling. Taylor grabbed the murder book and headed out.
The drive home was eerie. The night air crackled with an icy breeze. Snow billowed from the sky; she felt like she was driving through clouds. There were few cars out and about, and the lack of traffic made Taylor lonely. She hadn’t had time to clear her head since the Snow White case had popped. Two months of dead girls, anticipation, setbacks, false leads. The thrill of the hunt.
The thought sobered her. The girl they’d placed in a body bag last night and carted away to be cut open didn’t enjoy the thrill of being hunted.
The gash in the girl’s neck flooded Taylor’s mind and she nearly missed her exit off the highway. Without thinking, she hit her brakes hard, and the wet, sloppy snow declined to help. She had to manhandle the truck until the wheels caught again. She regained control and took the exit, her heart beating hard. The near miss woke her up. Adrenaline coursed through her body. Her mind refused to cooperate, to calm itself. The murder scene popped back into her head, and she went down the exact path she was trying to avoid—thinking about the case. She was so lost in thought that when she stopped, she realized she’d driven to her old house. The cabin.
Shaking her head, she laughed at her distraction. It was only natural—they’d moved just a few weeks ago, still had boxes in the cabin to be transferred to the new house. She groaned at the thought of dealing with more boxes, put the car into Reverse without getting out. The cabin didn’t look large enough to hold very much, but when push came to shove and Taylor had finally started packing, the accumulations of her life seemed to explode exponentially.
As she pulled away from her old life, the phone rang. She clicked the speakerphone on. Sam’s ebullient voice spilled from the speaker.
“It’s the same stuff.”
“Jesus, you’re there late. Why do you sound so happy? That means he’s definitely killed a fourth.”
“I’ve got enough to run it through LCMS. I’ll get an idea of what this is, finally.” Liquid chromatography mass spectrometry had failed them in the earlier cases. At least now they’d have an idea of what they were dealing with.
“That’s great, Sam. Don’t stay up too late.”
As she got back on the right road, the gaping wound in Janesicle’s neck wormed its way to the surface.
John Baldwin was relatively content. He’d closed his last case, his field office was under the control of a surrogate acting director. No orders to take over the Snow White case had come. He had nothing official to do but get married. His most pressing concern at the moment was Taylor.
A fire was roaring in the fireplace, and Taylor stood five feet from him, a cup of hot chocolate held tightly, trying to force the numbness away. She’d come home with her hands practically blue. He considered her profile as she looked out the window, a study in concentration. She was miles away. A rare southern blizzard surrounded them. Snow continued to plummet from the sky, piling onto the Japanese maple bushes in the front yard so rapidly that they bent like old men.
Despite the late hour, a disembodied male voice spoke, deep and languorous.
“Listen to the following statements. How would you respond? Buon giorno, signora. Lei parla l’inglese?