A Grant County Collection (82 page)

Downstairs, a door slammed open, and Michael leaned over the railing, watching two women wrangle a gurney inside the foyer. They were wearing dark blue rain jackets, bright yellow letters announcing 'MORGUE' on their backs.

Michael called, 'Up here.'

'How far up?' one of them asked.

'Sixth floor.'

'Mother
fuck,'
she cursed.

Michael grabbed the handrail and pulled himself up the next few stairs, hearing the two women offer up more expletives as they started the climb, the gurney banging against the metal railings like a broken bell. He was one flight away from the top when he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Sweat had glued his shirt to his back, but some sort of sixth sense sent a chill through him.

A flash popped and a camera whirred. Michael stepped carefully around a red stiletto shoe that was flat on the stair, looking as if someone had sat down and slipped it off. The next step up had the perfect outline of a bloody hand gripping the tread. The next stair had another handprint, then another, as someone had crawled up the stairs.

Standing on the landing at the top of the fifth flight was Bill Burgess, a seasoned beat cop who had seen just about every kind of crime Atlanta had to offer. Beside him was a dark pool of coagulating blood, the edges spreading in rivulets that dropped from one step to the next like falling dominoes. Michael read the scene. Someone had stumbled here, struggled to get up, smearing blood as they tried to escape.

Bill was looking down the stairs, away from the blood. His skin was blanched, his lips a thin slash of pink. Michael stopped short, thinking he'd never seen Bill flustered before. This was the man who'd gone out for chicken wings an hour after finding six severed fingers in the Dumpster behind a Chinese restaurant.

The two men did not speak as Michael carefully stepped over the puddle of blood. He kept his hand on the rail, making the turn to the next flight of stairs, thankful for something to hold onto when he saw the scene in front of him.

The woman was partially clothed, her tight red dress cut open like a robe, showing dark cocoa skin and a wisp of black pubic hair that had been shaved into a thin line leading down to her cleft. Her breasts were unnaturally high on her chest, implants holding them up in perfection. One arm was out to her side, the other rested above her head, fingers reaching toward the handrail as if her last thoughts had been to pull herself up. Her right leg was bent at the knee, splayed open, the left jutting at an angle so that he could see straight up her slit.

Michael took another step, blocking out the activity around him, trying to see the woman as her killer would have seen her. Make-up smeared her face, heavy lipstick and rouge applied in dark lines to bring out her features. Her curly black hair was streaked with orange, teased out in all directions. Her body was nice, or nicer than you'd expect from what the needle marks on her arms indicated she was: a woman with a habit she fed between her legs. The bruises on her thighs could have come from her killer or a john who liked it rough. If it was the latter, then she had probably willingly endured it, knowing she'd be able to get more money for the pain, knowing more money meant more pleasure later on when the needle plunged in and that warm feeling spread through her veins.

Her eyes were wide open, staring blankly at the wall. One of her fake eyelashes had come loose, making a third lash under her left eye. Her nose was broken, her cheek shifted off-center where the bones beneath the eye had been shattered. Light reflected against something in her open mouth, and Michael took another step closer, seeing that it was filled to the top with liquid and that the liquid was blood. The light overhead glinted off the red pool like a harvest moon.

Pete Hanson, the medical examiner on call, stood at the top of the stairs talking to Leo Donnelly. Leo was an asshole, always playing the tough cop, joking about everything, laughing too loud and long, but Michael had seen him at the bar one too many times, his hand a constant blur as he slammed back one Scotch after another, trying to get the taste of death out of his mouth.

Leo spotted Michael and cracked a smile, like they were old pals getting together for a good time. He was holding a sealed plastic evidence bag in his hand and he kept tossing it a couple of inches in the air and catching it like he was getting ready to play ball.

Leo said, 'Hell of a night to be on call.'

Michael didn't voice his agreement. 'What happened?'

He kept tossing the bag, weighing it in his hand. 'Doc says she bled to death.'

'Maybe,' Pete corrected. Michael knew the doctor liked Leo about as much as everyone else on the force, which was to say he couldn't stand the bastard. 'I'll know more when I get her on the table.'

'Catch,' Leo said, tossing the evidence bag down to Michael.

Michael saw it in slow motion, the bag sailing through the air end over end like a lopsided football. He caught it before it hit the ground, his fingers wrapping around something thick and obviously wet.

Leo said, 'Something for your cat.'

'What the –' Michael stopped. He knew what it was.

'Lookit his face!' Leo's shotgun laugh echoed off the walls.

Michael could only stare at the bag. He felt blood at the back of his throat, tasted that metallic sting of unexpected fear. The voice that came out of his mouth did not sound like his own – it was more like he was under water, maybe drowning. 'What happened?'

Leo was still laughing, so Pete answered, 'He bit off her tongue.'

ALSO AVAILABLE IN ARROW

Karin Slaughter

When medical examiner Sara Linton and police chief Jeffrey
Tolliver take a trip away from the small town of Heartsdale, it
should be a straightforward weekend at the beach. But they decide
to take a detour via Jeffrey's hometown and things go
violently wrong when Jeffrey's best friend Robert shoots dead an
intruder who breaks into his home. Jeffrey and Sara are first on
the scene and Jeffrey's keen to clear his friend's name, but for
Sara things aren't so simple. And when Jeffrey appears to
change the crime scene, Sara no longer knows who to trust.

Twelve years later, Sara and Jeffrey are caught up in a shockingly
brutal attack which threatens to destroy both their lives.
But they're not random victims. They've been targeted. And it
seems the past is catching up with both of them . . .

Praise for Karin Slaughter

'A great read . . . crime fiction at its finest'
Michael Connelly

'Don't read this alone. Don't read this after dark. But do read it'
Mirror

'With
Blindsighted,
Karin Slaughter left a great many thriller
writers looking anxiously over their shoulders. With Kisscut, she
leaves most of them behind'
John Connolly

Karin
Slaughter

• Title Page
  
• Dedication
  
• Prologue
  
• MONDAY AFTERNOON
  
  • Chapter ONE
    
• THREE DAYS EARLIER
  
  • Chapter TWO
    
• MONDAY EVENING
  
  • Chapter THREE
    
• TUESDAY MORNING
  
  • Chapter FOUR
    
• LENA
  
  • Chapter FIVE
    
• TUESDAY MORNING
  
  • Chapter SIX
    
• LENA
  
  • Chapter SEVEN
    
• TUESDAY AFTERNOON
  
  • Chapter EIGHT
    
• WEDNESDAY MORNING
  
  • Chapter NINE
    
• LENA
  
  • Chapter TEN
    
• WEDNESDAY EVENING
  
  • Chapter ELEVEN
    
• LENA
  
  • Chapter TWELVE
    
• THURSDAY MORNING
  
  • Chapter THIRTEEN
    
• LENA
  
  • Chapter FOURTEEN
    
• THURSDAY MORNING
  
  • Chapter FIFTEEN
    
• LENA
  
  • Chapter SIXTEEN
    
• THURSDAY AFTERNOON
  
  • Chapter SEVENTEEN
    
• LENA
  
  • Chapter EIGHTEEN
    
• THURSDAY EVENING
  
  • Chapter NINETEEN
    
• LENA
  
  • Chapter TWENTY
    
• THURSDAY EVENING
  
  • Chapter TWENTY-ONE
    
• LENA
  
  • Chapter TWENTY-TWO
    
• FRIDAY
  
  • Chapter TWENTY-THREE
    
  • Chapter TWENTY-FOUR
    
  • Chapter TWENTY-FIVE
    
  • Chapter TWENTY-SIX
    
• MONDAY
  
  • Chapter TWENTY-SEVEN
    
  • Chapter TWENTY-EIGHT
    
  • Chapter TWENTY-NINE
    
• Acknowledgements
  
• Extract: Fractured
  
  • PROLOGUE
    
• ALSO AVAILABLE IN ARROW
  
  • Triptych
    
  • Blindsighted
    
  • Kisscut
    
  • A Faint Cold Fear
    
  • Indelible
    
  • Faithless
    

For Susan

What had they given her? What had the needle brought into her veins? She could barely keep her eyes open, but her ears were working almost too well. Under a sharp, piercing ring, she could hear a skip in the car's engine, the
thump-thump
as the tires rolled over uneven terrain. The man sitting beside her in the backseat spoke softly, almost like a lullaby you would sing to a child. There was something calming about his tone, and she found her head dropping down as he talked, only to jerk back up at Lena's curt, cutting responses.

Her shoulders ached from stretching her hands behind her back. Or maybe they didn't ache. Maybe she just thought they should, so her brain sent the message that they did. The ache was dull, a thud that throbbed along with her beating heart. She tried to focus on other things, like the conversation going on around her or where Lena was driving the car. Instead, she found herself spiraling back into her body, cocooning into every new sensation like a newborn rolling into a blanket.

The back of her legs were stinging from the leather, though she did not know why. It was cool out. There was a chill on the back of her neck. She remembered sitting in her father's Chevette on a long trip to Florida. There was no air-conditioning and it was the middle of August. All four windows were rolled down, but nothing would cut the heat. The radio crackled. There was no music, no station they could all agree on. In the front seat, her parents argued over the route, the cost of gas, whether or not they were speeding. Outside of Opelika, her mother told her father to pull over at the general store so they could buy frozen Cokes and orange crackers. They all winced as they moved to get out of the car, the skin on the back of their arms and legs sticking to the seats as if the heat had cooked their bodies to the vinyl.

She felt the car lurch as Lena put the gear into park. The engine was still humming, the soft purr vibrating in her ears.

There was someone else – not in the car, but in the distance. They were on the football field. She recognized the scoreboard, big letters screaming 'GO MUSTANGS!'

Lena had turned around, was watching both of them. Beside her, the man shifted. He tucked the gun into the waistband of his jeans. He was wearing a ski mask, the kind you saw in horror films, where only the eyes and mouth were revealed. That was enough, though. She knew him, could almost say his name if her mouth would only move to let her.

The man said something about being thirsty, and Lena passed him a large Styrofoam cup. The white of the cup was intense, almost blinding. Out of nowhere, she felt a thirst in her throat like never before. The suggestion of water was enough to bring tears to her eyes.

Lena was looking at her, trying to say something without using her voice.

Suddenly, the man slid across the backseat, moved close enough so that she could feel the heat off his body, smell the subtle musk of his aftershave. She felt his hand go around the back of her neck, resting lightly on the nape. His fingers were soft, gentle. She concentrated on his voice, knew that what was being said was important, that she had to listen.

'You gonna leave?' the man asked Lena. 'Or do you want to stay put and hear what I have to say?'

Lena had turned away from them, maybe had her hand on the door handle. She turned back now, saying, 'Tell me.'

'If I had wanted to kill you,' he began, 'you would already be dead. You know that.'

'Yes.'

'Your friend here ...' He said something else, but his words were jumbled together so that by the time they reached her ears, they meant nothing. She could only look at Lena and judge from the other woman's reaction what her own should be.

Fear.
She should be afraid.

'Don't hurt her,' Lena begged. 'She's got children. Her husband—'

'Yeah, it's sad. But you make your choices.'

'You call that a choice?' Lena snapped. There was more, but all that came across was terror. The exchange continued, then she felt a sudden chill come over her. A familiar odor filled the car – heavy, pungent. She knew what it was. She'd smelled it before but her mind could not tell her when or where.

The door opened. The man slid out of the car and stood there, looking at her. He did not look sad or upset. He looked resigned. She had seen that look before. She knew him – knew the cold eyes behind the mask, the wet lips. She had known him all of her life.

What was the smell? She should remember this smell.

He murmured a few words. Something flashed in his hand – a silver cigarette lighter.

She understood now. Panic sent a flood of adrenaline to her brain, cutting through the fog, slashing right to her heart.

Lighter fluid. The cup had contained lighter fluid. He had poured it all over her body. She was soaked – dripping in it.

'No!' Lena screamed, lunging, fingers splayed.

The lighter dropped onto her lap, the flame igniting the liquid, the liquid burning her clothes. There was a horrible keening – it was coming from her own throat as she sat helplessly watching the flames lick up her body. Her arms jerked up, her toes and feet curled in like a baby's. She thought again of that long-ago trip to Florida, the exhausting heat, the sharp, unbearable rip of pain as her flesh cooked to the seat.