Authors: Teri Thackston
“How are things?” She forced brightness into her voice. “Have
you heard from anyone else in the family lately?”
“I talked to Aunt Gracie yesterday,” her mother replied. “She
sends her love to you and promised to mail you a box of her famous chocolate
chip cookies.”
“So expect a box of crumbs in a few days,” her father added
with a chuckle. “Gracie’s cookies don’t travel well.”
“I’ll look for it,” Emma said. “How about Cousin Mitch? Wasn’t
he planning a business trip to Texas soon?”
“I think he did that while you were up here, Punkin. But I
haven’t talked to Mitch in several weeks,” her father admitted. “I should call
him and find out how his mother is doing.”
“Oh, yeah.” Her heart thumped as her father gave her the
opening she’d hoped for. “Aunt Victoria hasn’t been doing well, has she?”
“She’s getting on toward ninety so that’s no surprise. But
she has her imaginary friends to keep her company.”
Emma took a deep breath and tried to keep her tone casual. “She’s
been talking to invisible people for years, hasn’t she?”
“For as long as I can remember,” her mother said.
“Since I was a kid. For such a sharp woman, my aunt can be
as nutty as a—oh, shoot,” her father interrupted himself. “There’s the other
line. Can we call you back, Punkin? I’m expecting a call from one of my
search-and-rescue buddies. We’re planning a training session for next weekend.”
“Sure, Dad.” Disappointed, Emma closed her eyes. “I’ll talk
to you both later.”
“Love you,” they both said and then rang off.
Emma turned off her cell phone. She pressed her fingertips
against her temple. She hadn’t learned anything reassuring. Everyone believed
that Great-Aunt Victoria was crazy. Mental illness could be hereditary which
meant that she could be crazy too.
“Headache?”
Leaping out of her chair, Emma whipped around.
Edgar Powell frowned from the doorway. “Emma?”
“Edgar.” She pressed a hand over her pounding heart. Her
chest had gone tight again, making her ribs ache. “You startled me. I…guess I
was lost in thought.”
“Deeply lost, I’d say. May I come in?”
“Of course.” Emma straightened her posture, taking the
strain off her ribs. “You’re here late. I wasn’t expecting anyone to still be
around.”
He studied her face as he lowered himself into the chair in
front of her desk. “Mr. Reid was right.”
“Skitch?” Emma picked up a pencil and twiddled it through
her fingers. “Right about what?”
“You’re edgy.”
“I’m fine.”
“The hell you are.” He flushed at his own words. “Sorry but
you’re not fine, Emma. Skitch told me about this morning. He said you were
clammy and shaking as if you had the flu.”
“I was lightheaded, that’s all. I haven’t been eating well
lately.” She poked the pencil at the half-eaten protein bar lying on her desk. “I
feel better now.”
“Dizziness, tremors, lack of appetite. I can look at you and
see you’re not well. If there’s any blood in your body it must all be in your
feet. There’s certainly none in your face.”
She didn’t doubt it. She’d felt the blood drain out of her
as soon as she’d seen that dead fisherman standing in front of her in the
autopsy suite. But she couldn’t tell Edgar about the incident. He would put her
on immediate and indefinite medical leave. She didn’t want to stay at home
alone, day after day, talking to people who didn’t exist. Talking to ghosts.
“I know you don’t believe this is psychological but I want
you to see someone, Emma.” Sympathy tempered the determination in his face. “I
don’t want you working on any patients until you’ve been cleared by a
professional.”
Blood rushed back into her face, hot and fast. “Don’t do
this to me, Edgar.”
“It’s done.” He rose. Lines around his mouth and eyes
revealed how difficult this step was for him to take. “If you won’t take care
of yourself, then I’ll see that someone else does. I need an Associate Medical
Examiner who won’t faint every time she sees an autopsy patient on her table.”
Emma gripped the edge of her desk. “I never fainted.”
“Only because Skitch had enough sense to make you sit down.”
He jabbed a blunt finger in her direction. “Find yourself a psychiatrist or I’ll
find one for you.”
Before she could protest again, Edgar turned and walked out
of the office. Emma heard a surprised warning in a familiar female voice and
then Edgar muttered an apology and kept walking. Seconds later, Marta stepped
through the doorway.
“Something’s going on,” she said, her dark eyes on guard,
her hands rising to settle on her hips. “What’s up?”
“Oh, he’s just…” As tears pricked her own eyes, Emma dropped
back into her chair. “He’s just being unreasonable.”
“Chief Medical Examiner Edgar Powell? Unreasonable? No way.”
Marta took the chair Edgar had vacated and leaned both elbows on the desk. “What’s
wrong, Emma?”
“Nothing is wrong. I just have a lot of reports to go
through.” Picking up a file, Emma opened it and used it as a shield for her
warm face. A second passed and then she heard her office door click shut.
Hesitantly, she peered over the top of the folder.
Marta had risen to close the door. Wearing that patient
expression that had worn down many criminals over the years, she sat back down,
crossed her long legs and waited.
Shutting the folder, Emma slapped it down on her desk. “I am
fine
. I wish people would just take me at my word.”
Marta settled deeper into the chair. “That’s difficult to do
when your face is the color of a vine-ripened tomato and your hands are shaking
like a plucked guitar string.”
“Edgar said I was pale.”
“That must have been before he ticked you off. Come on. Tell
me what else he said.”
“He thinks I came back to work too early.”
Marta smoothed the hem of her skirt. “Why would he think
that?”
“Because I got a bit lightheaded during an autopsy.”
“What happened? Did you fall face first into someone’s open
chest cavity?”
“Marta!”
“Sorry. A little grisly humor to lighten the situation.”
Clasping her hands around one knee, Marta smiled encouragingly. “What happened,
sweetie?”
Gazing into her friend’s sympathetic eyes, Emma nearly told
her again what was happening. But the story sounded crazy enough inside her
head. If Marta heard it, she would probably side with Edgar because she cared
even more than he did.
“I told you.” Emma picked at a thread on her skirt. “I just
got a little dizzy.”
“Were you alone?”
“No. Skitch was there. He sat me down until it passed and
then we continued with the procedure.”
“Who were you working on?”
“That fisherman who was found in Trinity Bay.”
“Ah. Was it a homicide?”
Emma remembered the words uttered by what had to have been a
hallucination and almost shook her head. The “hallucination’s” story had
matched the evidence from the body. “I don’t know yet. It looks like he may
have slipped and hit his head on the side of the boat and then fallen into the
water.”
Doubt darkened Marta’s eyes. “We thought it might have been
a robbery since he had no wallet on him.”
“Maybe his wallet fell overboard when he did,” Emma
suggested, unable to explain what she’d heard. “Maybe it slipped out of his
pants pocket and sank to the bottom of the bay.”
“Maybe.”
Not wanting to return to the topic of her emotional health,
Emma said, “I heard Jaime Campanero recanted his confession.”
Marta frowned. “News travels fast.”
“Detective MacKenzie dropped by.” Emma ignored the curious
lift of her friend’s eyebrows. “Does Campanero have an alibi for the time of
the murder?”
“He does but the guys he claims he was with aren’t exactly
upstanding citizens. Campanero insists that he’s innocent and hasn’t seen his
sister in at least two years.”
“He’s lying.” Emma lowered her eyes when Marta’s gaze went
sharp. Then, composing herself, she looked up again. “I mean, he must be lying,
right?”
“I’m sure of it.” Uncrossing her legs, Marta leaned forward
again and rested her clasped hands on top of Emma’s desk. “Let’s get back to
our original subject. Edgar wants you to see someone. I agree with him, Emma.”
“Please don’t start.”
“I will start.” Marta’s worried eyes took any sting out of
her words. “I know a good psychiatrist. I work with him a lot. He’s very
perceptive and an excellent listener. I’ve even dumped my own troubles on him a
few times.”
The thought of telling anyone about her recent incidents
tied a knot in Emma’s stomach. But Edgar had been serious about her seeing a
counselor. “I guess I could talk to him. Once.”
“I’ll call you with his number when I get back to my office.
Now, why don’t we grab some dinner?” Marta gestured toward the protein bar on
Emma’s desk. “Maybe you need some good old-fashioned carbs.”
Emma sighed. If only that was all it was.
Tuesday morning, Emma stepped into the office suite
belonging to Dr. Paul Sanders. Immediately, scents of leather and magnolia
enveloped her. Late morning sunlight winked off the mullioned glass doors of
mahogany bookcases that lined the walls of the reception area. The glass also
caught the reflection of a petite, middle-aged woman in a pale blue suit of
Irish linen. The woman rose from behind a gleaming mahogany desk, welcome
twinkling in her gray eyes.
“You must be Dr. St. Clair.” She approached Emma with her
right hand extended. “I’m Pamela Ives, Dr. Sanders’ administrative assistant.”
“It’s nice to meet you.” Emma shook Pamela’s hand, her
nerves soothed instantly by the woman’s cool fingers. She reminded Emma of Hailey,
the administrative assistant at the ME’s office. The women shared a comforting
and capable demeanor.
“Dr. Sanders is expecting you,” Pamela said, releasing Emma’s
hand. “Come on in.”
As she followed Pamela to a door marked “Private”, Emma’s
nerves kicked up again. She wondered if she would be brave enough to tell this
man about her hallucinations. Deep down she knew that if she wanted help, she’d
have to tell him everything. But even to a psychiatrist, she didn’t want to
sound nuts.
“Dr. Sanders, this is Emma St. Clair.” Pamela stood aside at
the open inner door and gestured for Emma to enter the office.
“Dr. St. Clair, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” The man’s
voice flowed smoothly through the air and his eyes gleamed with a warmth that
struck Emma as trustworthy.
At least two dozen years Emma’s senior, Paul Sanders wore
his middle-age well. He had straight, broad shoulders and his eyes were a pale
shade of blue. He wore what she would have expected a psychiatrist to wear—dark
trousers, a pale shirt with a tweed jacket and a modest tie. The man obviously knew
how to dress for his role, offering a sense of familiarity and comfort to his
patients.
“Marta Zamora has mentioned your name many times,” he said.
As Pamela left them alone, he drew Emma toward a pair of
leather wingback chairs positioned at one end of the room. Floor-to-ceiling
windows spanned the wall behind the chairs, overlooking a small garden.
Ligustrums, thick with white flowers and honeybees, separated the azaleas and
smaller shrubs from the parking lot beyond them but Emma could just see the
hoods of cars glinting through the dark green leaves.
“I take it the two of you have been friends for a long time?”
he asked, still referring to Marta.
“We grew up here together,” Emma explained. “I moved back to
Clear Harbor after I left my husband.”
“She mentioned that you had recently divorced.” He gestured
toward one of the chairs and then settled into the other. “I’m sorry to hear
that.”
“Thank you.” She wondered what else Marta had told him. “She
said that you do evaluations of suspects for the courts. That’s how you know
each other.”
“I provide a preliminary opinion upon occasion. If I find a
suspect’s fitness to stand trial questionable, he or she may be referred to a
hospital for a more studied evaluation.” Leaning back in his chair, he folded
his hands together. His fingers were long and thick, comforting in their
appearance of strength. “So what can I do for you, Dr. St. Clair?”
She took a moment to breathe. “I guess first I should thank
you for seeing me on such short notice.”
“You’re more than welcome. Now, please, tell me how I can
help you. And take your time.”
Clearing her throat, she eased into the story. “Well, as I
told your administrative assistant over the phone, I had an accident a couple
of months ago.”
“Marta mentioned it.” He picked up a black, leather-bound
notebook that lay on the small table between them. “It was a hit-and-run?”
“That’s right. A friend—a colleague of mine—was killed and I
was badly injured. In fact…” She pressed her thumbs into the leather strap of
her purse. “I actually died in the emergency room and had to be resuscitated.”
Lines furrowed his brow as he opened the notebook and took
out a gold pen. “How traumatic. I trust your assailant was apprehended.”
“Not yet.”
He began to jot down notes. “That’s too bad. The police are
investigating?”
“Yes but they’re making little progress.” She dismissed an
encroaching thought of Jason and the jolt of sexual hunger that came with it.
She couldn’t afford to be distracted now if she was going to get anything out
of this session. “Apparently there were no useful clues at the scene and no
witnesses.”
“That’s unfortunate.” He lifted his gaze to her. “I take it
you were on fairly strong painkillers during your recovery.”
“Up until a few weeks ago.” Uncomfortable beneath his steady
regard, she looked down at the mangled purse strap between her fingers. “I’ve
recovered from my physical injuries, Dr. Sanders but I’ve had some experiences
lately that make me wonder about my mental wellbeing. There’s a history in my
family… Not a history, exactly but one of my great-aunts… Well, she hears
voices and I’m afraid…”
When she hesitated again, he put aside his notepad and
leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his empty hands
together. “I doubt very much that you’re losing your mind, Dr. St. Clair.” A
gentle smile curled his lips. “Listen, why don’t we dispense with titles? You
call me Paul and I’ll call you Emma.”
She nodded and forced her fingers to free her purse strap. “That
sounds fine.”
“Good.” He sat back, crossed one leg over the other and
settled more comfortably in his chair. “Rest assured, Emma, that traumatic
physical events such as you experienced can spark a host of emotional issues.
Whatever you may be experiencing now is most likely a natural reaction to your
trauma.”
“I know that’s supposed to make me feel better but—”
“Just tell me in your own words what’s been happening.”
“All right.” Emma took another quick, deep breath, looked
him straight in the eye and said, “I’ve been seeing ghosts.”
* * * * *
Jason dropped onto his rumpled bed and scooped up the pair
of clean socks he’d tossed there before his shower. A salty breeze fluttered
through the open French doors that led from the bedroom to the deck. But the fresh
scent did nothing to improve his physical state. He’d woken late with a
pounding headache and a fist-sized knot in his gut. The hit-and-run case had
not only hit a brick wall but had lodged inside it. At the rate he and Charlie
were progressing, they’d never find out who had killed Brian and injured Emma.
Scowling, Jason yanked on his socks and then stood up. His
gaze fell on the picture of his sister that he kept beside his bed. Rose’s grin
beamed out of her fair face as she stood on the deck of a small fishing boat
she’d rented one weekend. A redfish dangled from her hand. Larger than the
limit allowed, that fish had been photographed, measured and documented every
which way before going back into the Gulf waters. Jason could still hear his
sister’s laughing boast as she’d released it—“Thank God for cameras, ’cause no
one is gonna believe this fish story!”
One month later, Rose was dead. She’d been striding across
the lawn of Jason’s apartment complex when a car leapt the curb and slammed
into her. To this day, nearly two years later, Jason swore he could still see
the gouge marks in that lawn whenever he drove past it.
He drove past it every day.
That salty breeze swept through the French doors again, this
time carrying with it the scent of roses from the garden. He imagined he could
hear his sister’s sobs on the whisper of that breeze. He’d caused those
blinding tears. Every last one of them. Their argument had been ugly and Jason
lamented every day that he’d never been able to apologize for his part in it.
At the time, he’d wanted to sell the beach house instead of
drowning themselves in debt for a place that needed major roof and plumbing
repairs. But Rose had been appalled at the idea of selling their parents’ home
and they’d argued bitterly about it. She’d accused him of being heartless and
too wrapped up in his own social life to care about her.
From there the argument had become really personal.
Jason had learned how little attention he’d been paying to his
younger sister. She’d been picking up men in bars, engaging in sexual liaisons
with strangers. Stunned by her confession, he’d warned her of the dangers she
risked. But she’d condemned him for the same behavior, accusing him of being
too involved in his own sexual escapades to notice her. Still grieving for the
loss of their parents in a boating accident two years earlier, she’d turned to
strangers for comfort when her brother had proven unavailable. Jason had cursed
himself for being blind to his sister’s depression but it was too late to
appease her and she’d stormed out of his apartment in tears.
Less than a minute later, she was dead.
Ironically, her life insurance money had paid off the
mortgage and funded the renovations on the beach house. Since then, Jason had
devoted himself to his sister’s garden and to finding her killer. The roses had
thrived but the case had gone stone cold. Jason had given up his social life
completely and sex… Well, except for a few one-night stands there were just
more important things to do.
Grabbing his boots, Jason tugged them on. It might be too
late to find out who had killed Rose but he was determined that he would find
out who had run down Brian. If Emma gained some benefit from his findings, good
for her. But he wanted to solve the case for Brian’s sake. Brian was the
priority.
Justice for Emma was strictly icing on the cake.
That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
* * * * *
“Interesting.” Paul Sanders regarded Emma over the tips of
his steepled fingers. “Very interesting.”
“So. Am I crazy?” she asked.
He smiled. “No. You’re not crazy.”
“What else could it be? Did I really see two ghosts?”
“Do you believe in ghosts?”
“Do you?”
“I’ve never seen one.” He spread his hands slightly. “I’ve
never seen an astronaut, either but I believe in them.”
Emma’s head began to hurt. “So you
do
believe in
ghosts?”
That gentle smile returned. “What I believe isn’t important.
It’s what you believe that matters.”
She pressed fingertips against her aching temples. “Pardon
me, Paul but that sounds like psychiatric mumbo-jumbo.”
He smiled again, sheepishly now. “Sorry.”
Lowering her hands to her lap, she tried to ignore the
throbbing in her head. “I’m a scientist. I deal with death, often violent
death, every day. But I deal with it on a factual basis. Ghosts are something
beyond fact and science.”
He dropped his hands onto the arms of his chair. “For now,
why don’t we go with the theory that stress and lack of sleep have created
scenarios in your mind to allow you to deal with your trauma? These visions
aren’t harming you in any physical way. Psychologically, I think you just need
reassurance. You’re already taking anti-anxiety medication.”
“Could the medication cause hallucinations?”
“No. And the first incident occurred before you went on that
drug. Let’s give it a little longer to achieve its full effect. In the
meantime, I’d like to get together with you again in a couple of days. How
about Thursday at this same time?”
“All right.” Taking in a deep breath, she realized that her
stomach was no longer jumping. “I have to admit that I do feel better after
just talking it out. It’s nice to hear from a professional that I’m not crazy.”
“I think you’re just experiencing deeper stress than you
realize. Your job, the accident, your divorce… All of that adds up to a heavy
load.” Rising, Paul gestured toward the door. “Do you communicate with your
ex-husband at all?”
Gathering her purse, Emma rose too. “Not since last week. He
came to my office and tried to pressure me to come back to him. I threatened to
have Security throw him out.”
“Good for you.”
She sighed as she settled her mangled purse strap on her
shoulder. “As angry as I am at him, I do miss having him around. He was my best
friend for a long time. I could tell him anything. I think I could even tell
him about this.”
“You were together in the most intimate of relationships.
You had dreams together, made plans, built a life. Losing that is like losing a
loved one to a sickness or an accident.” Paul placed a reassuring hand on her
shoulder. “You’re still recovering from your injuries. And you’re going through
a mourning process for your marriage and for Brian. Embrace that process. Let
it have its time.”
“I’m trying.”
He squeezed her shoulder before lowering his hand to his
side. “Why don’t you take another week off from work? Give yourself a few days
to rest. Spend some time at the beach.”
Jason MacKenzie lives at the beach.
Quickly, she shook her head before those gleaming eyes of
his could invade her thoughts again. “We’re short-handed and I’d go stir-crazy
with nothing to do. It was hard enough for me to spend those weeks just resting
at my folks’ place.”
“I understand. I’m only happy when I’m busy, myself. But if
you insist on working, I suggest you stick to paperwork for at least another
couple of weeks. Until we talk it out a little more, don’t force yourself into
a situation you’re not ready to face.” Reaching the door, he opened it and led
Emma into the reception area. “Pamela, make Dr. St. Clair an appointment for
Thursday morning at eleven, will you?”
“Yes, sir. Can I bring you anything for lunch, Dr. Sanders?”
Pamela drew her appointment book toward her. “I can pick something up on the
way back from my noon workout.”
“No, thanks. I have some errands to run and I’ll grab
something while I’m out.”
Emma offered her hand to Paul. “Thank you again for seeing
me so quickly.”