Still Waters (38 page)

The key was in the lock where she had left it. She turned the key and pulled back on the massive door. Morgan helped her, then stepped around her into the rank darkness as she fiddled with the switch. There was a snapping sound, and the room suddenly flared into light. He squinted at the filthy rumple of sheets on the bed. With horror he realized what he was looking at. He lunged forward, stopped, pulled the sheets gingerly aside, and gazed down at Miranda's tortured body.

Morgan dropped to his knees beside her, reaching tentatively to touch her forehead, which felt clammy and colder than the air. He raised her against his chest and cradled her carefully like a broken thing, examining the fissures of dried blood extending from her mouth in grisly contrast to her taunt and sallow skin. Morgan breathed deeply against her, trying to quell the rising panic, trying to breathe for her, too, as if his own vitality could be passed between them.

“Is she okay?” Jill's voice was tremulous.

There was an interminable silence. Morgan shuddered, holding Miranda close. He leaned down so that his cheek pressed against hers.

“Is she alive?”

Morgan looked up at the girl without pulling away. His eyes glistened. He lowered his gaze, then closed his eyes. Tears appeared at the corners, gathered, slid down his cheeks. He rocked her gently, and a humming dissonance emerged from his lips. The sound of his involuntary keening startled him. Returning his attention to Jill, he said in a low voice, “Get water. A doctor. Ask for Ellen Ravenscroft.”

“Where?” Jill asked, confused.

“Out where the bodies are. She's over there. Hurry, Jill.”

The girl disappeared, and Morgan shifted his grasp on Miranda, lowering her weight back to the bed. Then, still kneeling, he placed one hand on her head and lightly mussed her hair while with the back of his other hand, tentatively, as if afraid he could damage her, he stroked her cheek.

She had to be alive. He knew she was alive despite the room being permeated with the presence of death. Morgan focused wholly on her. She needed his strength; she was strong. He thought of how close he had been over the past few days, relaxed in the den, standing casually outside the door, looking in, seeing nothing.

Morgan spoke softly to her. He thought of how he had let her down, not searching, not finding her, not acting on his concern. He had failed her. Morgan concentrated only on her, urging her to respond, to rise from the depths of her suffering and be with him again. Her skin clung to her skull, her torn lips were an untended wound. He leaned down and placed his own lips on hers and remained like that, breathing her air, breathing for her. Then, from deep within her body, a sound slowly rose to her mouth.

“Morgan … you're smothering me.”

“Oh, my God, Miranda, my God!”

He pulled back. Her eyes opened in the shadows of his body, but as he twisted away to see her, they were battered by the light. She squinted, the lids of her eyes wavering heavily, then she opened them wide.

“Oh, my God!” he repeated.

Her voice scraped against her bloodied mouth. “Morgan …”

Jill came rushing through the door, a mug of water
in her hand. “The doctor's on her way. She's coming. Is Miranda all right? Miranda! Did she speak?”

Jill knelt beside them. Morgan reached to take the mug, but Jill held it away, refusing to release it. Leaning over him, she poured a few drops between Miranda's lips. Miranda struggled to find the girl's eyes, and then the corners of her own eyes crinkled. Her lips made a gesture, but they were crusted and she painfully whispered, “Jill … I'm smiling.”

“I know,” said Jill. She tried to smile back, to fight away tears.

Morgan picked up on the intimations of a complex narrative between girl and woman that their nearly wordless exchange brought to some kind of resolution. He recognized Jill was responsible for Miranda's entombment, but whatever had traumatized the girl to such an extreme had been, through Miranda's ordeal, transformed into a shared experience that bound them together.
All in good time,
he thought.
It will make sense all in good time.

He cradled Miranda while Jill poured her another few drops, knowing instinctively not to give her too much. Miranda coughed dryly, choking, then nodded for more. Jill tilted the mug, and Miranda drank a full mouthful, then fell back into Morgan's arms.

In a voice that seemed to tear at her throat, cracking open her wounded lips so that droplets of fresh blood glistened in the bright light, she murmured, “I was dreaming —”

“For God's sake, don't talk,” Morgan cautioned.

“Underwater dreams …” She took a long, shallow breath, exhaled slowly, releasing all the air from her lungs, then inhaled again, her head lolling back as she tried to bring him into focus.

“Will you … with me?”

“What?”

“Under … water,” she said with throaty deliberation, then breathed deeply through her nose and relaxed, pleased with her effort.

He grinned and rocked her gently against his body.

From the corridor they heard Ellen Ravenscroft calling, “Morgan, are you here? My God, this is a terrible place! Where are you?”

He called back, and they heard her continue to mutter as she approached. “What the hell's going on? I've got bodies out there. This place is a bloody crypt, Morgan. I've got work to do. It's bad enough —” From the door she spotted Miranda. “Oh, my God, Miranda! What happened? What's going on?” Then her voice took on sudden authority. “Morgan, let the poor woman lie back so she can breathe. Here, girl, give me the water!”

Jill and Morgan backed away, but only a little. Ellen quietly examined Miranda, who didn't try to speak at first. After a while, Miranda rasped, “Bedside manners … appalling.”

“I'm used to more passive clients. What do you expect?”

“Sorry,” said Miranda. “I'm … I'm not dead.”

“That's all right, love. You were close enough.” There was silence. Ellen explored Miranda's entire body, not healing from the laying on of hands but drawing life from within. It was a form of magic, Morgan thought. A form of love.

“You'll pull through,” said Ellen at last. “You need fluids, my love, and lots of affection.” She turned to Jill. “Girl, go and —”

“Her name's Jill,” said Morgan.

“My name is Jill,” the girl echoed.

“Sorry, love. I didn't know you were a friend of the family. Go and find the emergency unit. They look like firemen.
Tell them Dr. Ravenscroft needs a saline drip pronto. Tell them I've got a live one.” Ellen leaned over Miranda, and Morgan knelt beside her.

“How the hell did this happen, Morgan? Where the hell were you? Your partner was near enough dead we'll have to cancel the wake.”

“Not funny,” whispered Miranda.

“Coroner humour, my love.”

Miranda gagged and coughed what sounded like a prolonged death rattle, and her eyes rolled back into her skull. She closed her eyes, then opened them with a mischievous glint.

“Cop humour,” she said.

Morgan stepped back. Miranda searched for him, and as Ellen bantered, she reached out, drawing him closer, her hand trembling from the effort. He took her hand in both of his.

“I did it myself,” she said in an unexpectedly strong voice. “I locked myself in. It wasn't your fault, Morgan.”

“Well, you left the key in the door, love,” said Ellen. “That's a hard one to figure.”

“Don't try,” Miranda said, pausing to swallow against the pain in her throat. “Morgan, you got me through this …”

“Where there's lust there's life,” quipped Ellen.

Miranda lay back, too exhausted to respond. Morgan felt emotionally depleted.

“Sorry, Morgan,” Ellen said. “It was dumb scolding you. Nerves. I'm not used to life
and
death, just death. She's going to pull through.”

“Damn right,” murmured Miranda without opening her eyes.

Jill returned with a medic, who was carrying equipment for the saline drip. He went about setting up the stand while Ellen inserted an IV needle into Miranda's forearm. The medic didn't ask what was going on. When he was
finished, he exchanged glances with Ellen to see if she needed anything else, then left without speaking a word.

“Taciturn fellow, but very efficient,” Ellen said.

Once she hooked up the drip and regulated the flow, she pulled the chair close beside the bed and arranged Miranda's hands over her breast, gently resting her own hand over Miranda's. She sent Jill for more water and at intervals poured small amounts through Miranda's lips, which had become swollen, restoring their elasticity and relieving the discomfort a little.

As the deathly pallor of her complexion slowly receded, Miranda imagined she could feel the entire inventory of her internal organs rearranging themselves, one by one, for further use.

After hooking up a second bag of intravenous solution, Ellen said to Morgan, “I've slowed down the drip. I've got to get back out there. It's a miserable scene. Give her a couple of more litres. I'll be back with the talkative guy in a bit, and we'll get her to a hospital. But she's coming around. Everything seems to be functioning. I don't often see this in my line of work — the coming-around part.”

She turned to Miranda. “Bye-bye, love.” Then she looked at Jill. “Thanks, Jill, for your help. We brought her back, didn't we?” As she went through the door, she said to Morgan, “I think you'd be a great partner, Morgan. I really do.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Did you hear that, Miranda? You've got a great partner.”

Miranda muttered something inaudible.

Morgan and Jill stood side by side, watching droplets of saline solution gather and flow through the tubes. Miranda appeared to drift into a peaceful slumber.

Reaching into his pocket, Morgan retrieved the Zippo and handed it to Jill. She took it gingerly as if it were hot. Then, with a practised motion, she flicked it open
and spun the flint wheel into life. A blue-and-orange flame hovered about the wind shield, and she let the fire burn until her fingers were seared. Snapping it closed with a single click, she handed it back to Morgan.

“I don't want it,” she whispered.

He smiled and slipped it into his pocket, flinching as he felt the hot metal against his thigh. They turned again to watch Miranda as the life flowed back through her veins.

In the solitude of their vigil the man and the girl were engaged in shifting moral paradigms. Morgan's sense of responsibility was being subsumed by his relief that Miranda was okay. But still he felt grinding anxiety, perhaps for the women who had died.

Jill was thrilled by Miranda's survival. Guilt faded rapidly, abandoned like remnants of a chrysalis after the release of a butterfly into the world. She felt curiously beautiful and free.

They looked away from the plastic tubes at each other, both a little embarrassed by the closeness they felt through Miranda.

As if roused by their awkwardness, Miranda spoke without opening her eyes. The painful constriction in her throat had eased enough from the intravenous that her words were clearer. “Morgan's going scuba diving with me,” she announced. She exhaled and inhaled in long, deliberate breaths, then appeared to drift off again into sleep.

Morgan surveyed the room. He was appalled at the depravity — to devise such a place was beyond comprehension. Jill tugged on his shoulder. He turned and for the first time focused on the letters scrawled in swathes of dried blood on the wall. Silently, Jill mouthed the words over and over: “I am Miranda Quin.”

Miranda opened her eyes, squinting and blinking against the light. She tried to sit up but fell back and settled deeper against the mattress. Morgan reached for the emptied mug from the table and poured the last few drops between her lips.

“Thank you for finding me, Morgan. I knew you would.”

“Jill found you. She brought me here.”

“You both found me then.”

Miranda felt the fluids flow through her body, filling the empty dry places, displacing the pain. She could almost talk normally, and raised her head enough to peer at herself. “My God, Morgan, I stink.”

“Nice underwear,” he said. “Victoria's Secret?”

Her lips broke into a crooked smile. She looked from him to Jill and back again. “There's a house I want to show you.” She licked blood from her lips. The blood and saliva were soothing. “The house where I grew up. I want to show you both.”

“Don't talk,” said Morgan.

“Jill,” Miranda said.

The girl came closer and knelt beside her, leaning into Morgan for support. “Miranda?”

“Jill, there's someone we want you to meet.”

The girl seemed puzzled.

“You have a grandmother. She'll want to know all about you.”

“I have a grandmother?”

“You were named after her …”

“Go on,” Jill urged.

“Elizabeth Clarke — she's your great-grandmother, really, and she's a lovely old lady.” Miranda settled back into Morgan's embrace, and reaching out, took hold of the girl's hand. “You have a family, Jill. That's a
promise.” She glanced up at her partner.

“Everything okay, Morgan?”

“Everything's okay.”

“For goodness' sake!”

“Yeah, for goodness' sake.”