Blood Trust - Eric van Lustbader [7]
There, in the midst of the Fearington campus, was the naked body of a young male. He was upside down, his ankles and wrists bound and tied to the tree trunks. His skin was a sickening blue-white.
Alli, staring at Billy’s body, felt the familiar steel wall spontaneously spring up, shielding her from trauma. Her unconscious had manufactured this mental wall during her weeklong captivity; it was a defense mechanism over which she had no control. She felt the disassociation, the sense of watching a movie instead of living life. This was happening to another girl, the protagonist of the film. She remained perfectly impassive, watching the film as, frame by frame, it unspooled toward its unknown climax and denouement.
After some time, she became aware that the others had come to a halt and now stood in a semicircle with her roughly in its center. They were all staring at her with the stern demeanor of tribunal judges. Her mind was filled with the ominous rat-tat-tat of military drums, and with a determined effort she put this, too, beyond the barrier of her inner wall.
One of the detectives, a beefy man with the splayed stance of a flatfoot, was directly behind her, and she heard his voice now.
“Well?”
Alli, spellbound in horror, felt her tongue cleaving to the roof of her mouth. She could not utter a word.
“What, no shock, no hysteria, not a tear shed?” Flatfoot said with a voice like an ice floe. “Christ, you’re a cold bitch.” He pressed his fingertips against her shoulder blades, propelling her forward. “Here is William Warren.” He came after her, like a hunter with the fox in his sights. “You knew him, oh, yeah, you did.” His laugh was like the braying of a mule. “You and he did what together behind that big old tree?”
TWO
COMMANDER FELLOWS took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “It’s a beautiful night.” He cocked his head. “That’s a nightingale singing, very peaceful, very romantic.” He turned to her. “This is the spot, isn’t it?”
“What spot?”
The detective’s voice grew quills. “You know what spot, Ms. Carson. This is the trysting spot where you and the victim—”
“William,” Alli said. “He has a name.”
Commander Fellows appeared to have difficulty pulling himself together. He cleared his throat, but said nothing.
Alli was studying the ground at her feet. “Won’t someone have the decency to at least cover him up?”
“This is a crime scene,” one of the Metro detectives said in a weary voice. “Premeditated murder. A capital offense.”
“The ME isn’t here yet,” said Flatfoot. “Nothing gets touched until he’s done his thing.”
Alli could see the lie on his bulldog face as surely as if it were a new scar livid on his cheek. More likely the ME had been ordered to hold off until they could get her here to see the atrocity in all its grisly panoply. Why? Ordered by whom? She racked her brains for answers, but the buzzing inside her head, caused by the pulsing of adrenaline, kept her from thinking clearly.
In the end, she turned to Naomi. “You know me, tell them I couldn’t have committed such a horrible crime.”
Naomi’s partner, a square man with a mole on his chin, said, “We aren’t authorized to get involved.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I was assigned to the FLOTUS and to Alli,” Naomi said. “I have a personal stake in the matter.”
Fellows cleared his throat. “Ms. Carson, I want you to know that I think highly of you—very highly, despite your … despite the traumatic experiences of your … your recent past.”
Fellows was gripping his hands in a link-fingered ball, flexing the fingers back and forth in a rhythm that reminded Alli of crazy Captain Queeq and his stainless steel balls.
“We’ve had a hotly contested internal debate regarding your, er, psychological break. A number of prominent board members feel strongly that the pressures you have been subjected to are a cause for concern and, I must admit, review.”
“What?” Alli said. “I’m