Nothing Sacred (FBI Agent Dan Hammer Series Book 1) (11 page)

“These are unusual circumstances. They merit everything we can muster. I haven’t slept yet, either.”

Marjorie turned her back on Dan. “Oh, so that’s why you look like shit.”

“Will you need me for anything else?” A muffled groan came from the other side of the room. Dan hoped it was coming from Ben.

“Put the body in 102. You can leave then. Thanks, Ben.” Gone were the niceties. Out the nonexistent windows.

Dan realized he was cold. Freezing, actually. How low did they keep the temperature in this room? He shivered from the subnormal temperature or maybe just pure exhaustion. He leaned back up against the counter and massaged his arms. Circulation techniques.

“Come on, Dan. Follow me to the office. I need a cigarette. It’s warmer in there. You’re turning purple.”

“I
need
your help, Marjorie. More than just a report or a determination on a death certificate. I need this information entered into the computer ASAP. Later this morning, hopefully.”

VICAP (Violent Criminal Apprehension Program) was a computer program designed by the Behavioral Science Unit at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia. Upon entering specific information about a violent crime, a comparative analysis could be made available, immediately almost, to other police agencies across the country that, online, could alert authorities whenever a serious crime was committed of a similar nature. Dan felt this dead girl and Angie Kessler warranted consideration. A violent act. A violent crime. Luckily, Charleston had recently installed the VICAP terminal. Dan was one of the fortunate candidates who volunteered to take the trip to Quantico and undergo the three week training program on proper data entry procedures.

Then again, Marjorie was right. Maybe he was getting overly excited about the prospects of being involved in something bigger than the usual local misdemeanors that blew through Charleston on a regular, more boring basis.

“What? You want the FBI involved?” Marjorie pulled a pack of cigarettes from her scrub gown and lit up, exhaling a long plume of smoke toward the NO SMOKING sign.

“I want to finish what we started.”

She choked on some smoke. “There was a time, Dan, I would have longed to hear those words come from your mouth. Now, you’re a little late.” She ran some water into the sink, lowered her head and took a sip. “But, let’s not get into that right now.” She looked in Ben’s direction. He’d been busy, securing Jane Doe’s body into the refrigerator. He returned to the room wiping his hands with a paper towel. He stood awkwardly in the doorway, staring down at his feet, fiddling with his large, clean hands.

“Dr. Dunlap, is there anything else you’ll be needing?”

“Moral support. Stick around.” Marjorie’s deadpan was stunning.

“Play fair.” Dan intercepted. “We’re both on your side.”

“What do you mean, play fair? I am playing fair. Don’t you think I understand your concern? It’s commendable. Really. But there’s nothing more I can do right now.”

“Whoever is responsible for these grotesque killings…”

“Killings? One killing. Done weeks ago.”

“… is probably plotting his next move, right now, as we speak.”

Marjorie pulled her scrub sleeve up and checked the time. “At five thirty in the morning? I doubt it. I really, really doubt it.”

Dan hated when she patronized him. What he despised more was her ability to level him. In seconds, Marjorie could make him feel like an insecure Altar Boy, caught with his pants down and running nude up and down the church aisle during service. Dan had reached his tipping point. That was it. “Enough, Marjorie.” Dan had met his limit. Even
he
had one. He caught the gray of her eyes at point blank range and communicated that “don’t fuck with me” look. She knew the look. She’d seen it before. Meanwhile, the extremes of Marjorie’s emotions both baffled and intrigued him. One minute she was enraged, on the verge of a breakdown, and the next she was detached, emotionally removed, taking pot shots at a killer.

She took another deep drag from her cigarette, exhaling as she talked in a molasses-thick, phony Southern accent. “Aren’t you being a bit overeager about all this? I mean, really Dan. This isn’t a Hollywood movie. It’s not like Hannibal Lecter is on the prowl, terrorizing our quaint little seaside town of Charleston.”

“Somebody sure is.” Dan reached for a clean pack of sterile gloves. He ripped open the package. Un procedure-like. He pulled out the contents. Each glove had its own protective wrapping. Opening it like a book, he offered them to Marjorie. “Now, can we finish this autopsy?”

Marjorie walked toward him. Reluctantly. She flipped her cigarette into the metal sink. It sizzled and died. One at a time, she slipped her hands into the appropriate glove. Light powder floated to the floor. Hopefully, so would her ego. “Say ‘please.’”

“Pretty please. With a cherry on top.”

She approached the metal examining table that once held the body of Jane Doe. Ben took a deep sigh, already aware of what his next chore would be. “Well, you heard the man, Benny.”

The room fell quiet, except for the constant hum of the frigid air conditioner pumping glacial air into the room. Ben retrieved the body, rolled it back into the room on a gurney and hoisted it up onto the table.

Marjorie stood to the side of the body. She slowly unfolded the white sheet covering Jane Doe. Adjusting her surgical mask over her face, she reached for another scalpel from the metal pushcart and positioned herself at the head of the table. She began the autopsy by making the customary Y incision. Dan assumed his usual stance against the counter.

“You owe me for this one, Hammer.”

Dan nodded in agreement. Or victory.

With a click, she turned on her pocket recorder.

Dan’s kind of girl.

m
atch

Outside Dakar

Senegal, Africa

1981

13

Lifeless.

The terrain is abandoned. Daylight falls earlier out here, far from the hectic pace of the City. Gray shadows whisper to one another. They frighten me as I crouch lower to the grou
nd and hold my mother’s hand.

The giant branches of the cottonsilk tree sway back and forth. They bow playfully, enticing me to run outdoors, climb up into their large thick limbs and take cover. They seduce me into reaching my ruddy hands and feet around their immense trunks and shimmy my small body all the way to the top. There, I can see the world. There, I can play God. Scream if I want to. I can cry out, loud and clear, far across the deserted land. Maybe then, somebody will hear me. Maybe then somebody will see me. Save me. Save us.

I hear a noise in the distance. Through the haze of dust and heat, the horizon holds a sky soaked with blood. I feel it is an omen.

A cloud of noisy smoke appears against the horizontal plain and approaches our small hut. I stand up. I cup my hand and squint through the small circle. Perhaps my prayers have been answered. Perhaps it is Papa coming to rescue us. Or, is it them? No, it wouldn’t be them. They would come on foot, not by a white man’s engine.

I examine my mother. I look closely at her dry, chafed hands. I inspect each line and indentation. I compare hers to mine. A trace of color remains on her short, bitten nails. Pink, the color of life.

She is wearing her Batik gown. It was her request. In happier times, she wore it. For celebrations. Festivals. Sewn in our native colors, the gown is threaded in lavender, purple and orange. Now, it is all that remains of her past. Beautiful and alive, the colors dance, full of Spirit and electricity, while all around her nose and mouth flies are abuzz.

Flies understand death. Like vultures.

I wipe my mother’s cracked lips with warm, milky water. It was all I could find. Yesterday, when the tribesman left us, they did not supply us with food or water. I wonder if it is my mother’s fate to die in my arms. I must stop thinking thoughts like this. Mother is alive. She is safe, even if her eyes are closed. They’ve been shut for most of the day now. Little beats of pulse pump weakly beneath the fragile skin. Her breath is short and shallow. I monitor her chest carefully, the rise and fall of her breathing. Each time she breathes, I count secretly to myself. Every so often she stops. Then, my heart beats faster. My hands begin to sweat. I grow nervous and anxious. Don’t leave me alone. I do not want to die. Not out here. Not like this. I stand tall beside her. I try not to smell the strong odor coming from her bony body. In desperation, I try holding her. My tears fall heavy upon her face. I wipe them off. Quickly. How selfish of me to need comfort. I fear I am a horrible child. A dreadful mistake. That this entire situation is all my fault. Then, as if by some Divine intervention, Mother breathes again, her chest rises, and the colors of her gown dance and sing. I am saved.

My Mother’s keeper...

The screeching of brakes, and the purr of an engine running without movement. Then footsteps, heavy and fast, walking in my direction. If it is Papa, how did he know where to find us? So far from the city. So far from Dakar. So far from England. Wasn’t that their wish? To never allow anybody to find us. To punish us. To make us suffer. Like the others. I huddle my body behind the wooden slat, scrunched low in the dusty corner and wait. Large black ants carry weight a hundred times their size across the dirt floor.

Footsteps grow closer.

I lean to the side of the window and peek out.

It is Papa. I remember the pictures. The ones Mother showed me. The ones she kept buried, hidden deep in her travel case under her bed. The ones she was never allowed to display. To anybody. And the letters… the beautiful handwritten letters on lovely paper.

“Our secret,” she whispered. “Our bond. Our blood.”

Blonde wavy hair blowing in the wind. Just like the yellowed photographs. Only now, his hair is shorter. I watch Papa shield his face against the sand. The squall. I try picking her up. I wrap my skinny arms around her wasted torso, but her body is too rigid, too hard. I will take her to safety myself, if I have to. Now, Papa is here. Papa will help. I know it. Mother will be fine.

Mother lifts her head in my direction. She opens her mouth to speak. She is in extreme discomfort.

I am doing the best I can to stop the flies. I am trying, Mother. She does not want to be seen like this. She does not want Papa seeing her in this way. Not with flies buzzing around her face. I understand. I touch her brow with a piece of my shirt soaked in the cloudy water. Her body is a volcano of fever. A fine mist of sweat erupts on her forehead. My Mother’s skin, once so beautiful, and so clear, the color of java and cocoa beans all mixed together. Now it hangs on her body like loose wallpaper, pale and ghostly. I am sure Papa will remember how Mama used to look. I will ask him, later, when we are all safe.

I run to the open doorway. I scream out to my Papa. “Please, hurry. It is almost too late.” My voice knows no boundaries of pain. Papa is coming. Like a beautiful white angel, Papa arrives to transport my Mother and me to safety. I sprint back to the table. I trip over the clay pot filled with the milky water.

Mother grabs my arm. Forcefully. She takes my wrist and pulls me close to her. Her eyes open. She stares deep into my soul. She opens her mouth to speak. Her breath is stale and sour. My eyes grow soft.

“Mama, help is on the way. Papa is here.”

She does not waver. She does not go weak. Her fingers turn white from the force of her grip around my forearm.

“What is it? What are you trying to tell me?”

Papa’s voice calls out. Loudly. “Let’s go, child.”

I face my Father.

Behind me, a release.

In panic, I turn back to my Mother. Her eyes focus on Papa. And not with love as one would expect. Not with love or forgiveness. Mother’s eyes burn with heat. Hate.

I wait for her chest to rise. I count the beats. I wait for the lavender, purple and orange colors to dance. To sing. But they don’t.

One, two, three…

They have stopped dancing. I stop counting. I reach up and gently close Mother’s eyelids.

“Now!” Papa shouts, this time louder, urgency rattles in his voice.

Papa, my beautiful white angel.

Purple clouds hover, momentarily hiding the setting sun. A cool breeze rustles across the red dirt floor. I catch a chill. Goosebumps break out like a wild rash all over my legs and arms.

Mother…

She passes by me in Spirit. Past Papa, past the cottonsilk tree, past the whispering shadows, past her tortured past and flies free. Full of freedom and fierce independence. Out and over the abandoned terrain she soars, high above the parched, cracked land, higher still than the carrion circling overhead, waiting impatiently to feed upon her dead body.

Her final quest, to chase after the fiery sunset.

My omen is prophetic.

I am a Prophet, even at my young age.

Mother’s body lies empty. Still. Silent. Past Papa, past the doorway, I peer into a sky soaked with blood, and in that frozen moment, I too take flight. A part of me becomes one with the land, my land. Lifeless. Part of me dies with my Mother.

My Mother’s keeper…

“Take me, Papa,” I say without feeling. Emotion is something detached now. Something removed. As distant and as out of reach as the horizon. I cradle my small hand in his large fist. Papa pulls me outside toward his white man’s engine.

I never look back.

In all the confusion, I forget to cry…