The Sisterhood - Michael Palmer [75]
For a time Dockerty seemed unable to speak. Finally he shook his head. “David Shelton, I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Charlotte Thomas.”
The words fell on David like hammers. An uncomfortable, high-pitched buzzing noise began swelling in his head. He tried to shake the sound loose as the tall policeman read him his rights from a frayed, cardboard card. The man’s words seemed jumbled and slurred. David watched, a detached observer, as uniformed arms reached out and handcuffed his wrists behind him. Dockerty’s apology for having to use the restraints was nearly lost in the mounting buzz.
David was disoriented, frightened almost beyond functioning. He tried to pull away. Without a flicker of expression, the patrolman tightened his grip.
Bewildered and mortified, Lauren backed away as David, needing support to stand, was led out the door.
Dockerty moved to follow, then turned to her. “He’s going to need a lawyer, Miss Nichols,” he said grimly. “If I were you, I’d make sure it was a damn good one.” With a nod, he headed down the corridor.
The wind had died off, but a cold, heavy rain was still falling. Dockerty threw a windbreaker around David’s shoulders and zipped it up the front. Even so, by the time they dragged him the short distance to the squad car he was soaked to the skin. Through bizarre, disconnected scenes, David watched the events of his own arrest. The eerie blue light, a strobe atop the squad car … tiny, perfect diamond shapes in the metal screen … pedestrians bundled against the downpour, frozen through the screen and the front windshield. David saw them all in stop-action. A grotesque slide show.
The station house … the lights … the uniforms. Then it was the voices. “Empty your pockets …” “… son, can you hear me? Son? …” “… here’s his wallet. Get the shit you need from his license …” “Give me your right hand, thumb first …” “Over here, stand over here …” “… the other hand now …” “Look, fella, it’s just a number. Let it hang there …” “Face straight ahead … now turn … no, this way, this way …” “Three’s empty. Put him in there …”
Next it was the noises. Scraping of metal on metal … a loud clang—the elevator?—no, not here. Can’t be the elevator … music … from where? … where is the music coming from? … More voices … “… here, boss, over here …” “… a light, I need another light. My fucking cigarette’s soggy …” “When the fuck’s dinner? Don’t we even get fed here? …”
Finally, the wide, blurry bands … up and down in front of him. Gradually the blurs narrowed and darkened.… Bars! They were bars!
Again the buzzing crescendo. Images of other bars, other screens exploded through his mind.
“No! Please, God, no!” he screamed. He whirled and dropped to his knees by the toilet, retching uncontrollably into water already murky with disinfectant.
Barely aware of the bile singeing his nose and throat, David crawled across the stone floor and pulled himself onto a metal-framed cot. He descended into a cold, unnatural sleep long before his sobs had faded.
CHAPTER XV
“Time to move out, son. There’s some Listerine in this cup. Splash some cold water on your face and swish this stuff around in your mouth for a minute. It’ll help you wake up.”
David worked his eyes open a crack. His first sight of the morning was the same as his last the night before. Bars. This time the narrow blue and white bars of the sweat-stained pillow beneath his face.
The officer was a plethoric man, fifty or so, with a belly that hung several inches over his belt. He leaned against the doorframe of the cell and watched patiently while David pulled himself up and wiped sooty sleep from his eyes. “Are you able to talk, son?” he asked.
David nodded, squinted at the man, then took the mouthwash. The officer seemed in no great hurry, so David took a minute to stretch the ache from the muscles in his neck and back, trying at the same time to get some sense of himself. For the moment, at least, the terror and confusion of the past night were gone. In their place was a strange