Courting Death - Carol Stephenson [29]
I made to give him another jab, and he wrapped his hands around mine.
“Are you ever going to forgive me? It’s been over a year, Red. Mistakes happened. You know that. Especially in the heat of an investigation or trial…” His voice trailed off and chagrin flared in his gaze.
I pulled my hand free and wrapped my arms around my middle. “Yes, errors certainly do occur during a trial. And I wasn’t good enough to overcome them. My mistake let a monster walk.”
I tilted my head toward the ceiling. “There’s a new monster in town, and its victims were defenseless and could number in the thousands. Get a new search warrant for that room.”
Without waiting for his answer, I walked down the hallway and didn’t stop until I was outside and as far away in the parking lot as I could get. Finally, I allowed the sickness roiling around inside me to follow its natural course and puked my brains out.
At some point during the racking heaves I became aware of Sam rubbing my back, but I was too far gone to care that he was seeing me in such a vulnerable state. Gradually, the spasms lessened and then stopped.
“Here you go.” Sam offered me a folded red bandana and a bottle of water.
I opened the bottle, then swallowed and spit until the burning, acrid taste was gone from my mouth.
“Thanks.” I swiped the bandana across my face. “I’ll wash it and return it to you.”
He rolled his eyes. “Toss it. I bought it at the dollar store.” Cocking his head, he studied me. “You know, you don’t always have to be so strong. The whole world won’t crash and burn if you’re human.”
I crumpled the bandana. “Funny. Puking my guts out in front of you ranks right up there on my vulnerability chart.”
Sam placed his hands on my shoulders. “Nicole, don’t worry. I’ll get the warrant.”
I lifted a hand to cover his. “You have to stop this operation.”
“Come on, let me get you home so I can get back in there.”
As we returned to his car, I thought about a conversation I’d once had with Carling. On two occasions she had barely escaped death. She had described the sensation of being split in two.
Certainly enough had been written about near death experiences, the separation of body and soul and spirits caught on the physical plane. Did one need to be whole to leave this life? Could what happened here have left people in limbo?
With practiced skill I buried that disturbing thought. I had enough on my hands without worrying about the dead’s souls. All I could do was make sure justice was done for the living.
Chapter Eight
As I had predicted, the media went into a feeding frenzy once word leaked about the funeral home. Anchors vied for clever nicknames for its former director, with “The Bone Harvester” and “The Organ Grinder” prevailing. Reports detailed every legend, urban or otherwise, about the ancient tradition of body snatching.
The press learned about my involvement and descended upon the office in droves. A few reporters came to the house, and for once I counted Mom’s escape into oblivion a good thing. Fortunately, I had long removed the phone in her bedroom after she had made a long distance call to a perfect stranger in Great Britain and talked for over an hour. Now only the phone in the hallway remained connected. All media calls were directed to the firm.
Chaos reigned in the office, but Carling and Kate were high-fiving over all the free publicity when several people called looking for representation.
I kept waiting for another development on the Whitman case. The husband, Brian, called so frequently that I almost cringed when I heard he was on the line. Probably the same reaction Oceanview’s administrator and Dr. Hassenfeld had to my repeated calls for updates on the missing records.
However, the week passed without any contact from the police, the state attorney’s office