The Grave Soul (3 page)

“Want to take off your coat?”

“Why do I have my coat on?”

“Here,” said the woman, handing her a water glass and two pills. “These will help.”

Jane downed them gratefully.

“How's your memory this morning?”

“Not great.”

“Tell me what you remember about last night.”

Swinging her legs out of bed, Jane sat up, pressing a hand to her ribs. She'd hoped that after a few hours of sleep, her mind would be clearer. “Riding in the cab of a semi. Knocking on Cordelia's front door. Lying down in here. That's about it.”

“And who are you?”

“Jane. I own a restaurant.”

“Last name.”

She shrugged.

“Lawless. Jane Lawless. I'd like to examine you again. I'm concerned that you may have a concussion.”

“Now?”

“Well, yes, briefly. And then, after you're dressed, I'd like you to come over to Abbott Northwestern, where I can run a more sophisticated battery of tests.” She rose and stepped over to the windows to open the blinds. Early morning light flooded into the room. Moving back to Jane, she leaned in close to examine her facial bruises. “Boy, somebody sure did a number on you. You said last night that your vision was blurry. Any light sensitivity? Double vision?”

“No.”

“Are you dizzy? Do you have a headache?”

“Bad, throbbing headache. And yes, I think I was pretty dizzy last night.”

Julia held up several fingers. “How many fingers to you see?”

“Three.”

“Good.” Sitting down on the bed, she held a penlight up to Jane's eyes. “Look to your left. To your right.”

Jane did as she was told. “What do you see?”

“The world in miniature.”

“Huh?”

“What year is it? Who's the president? What city are we in? Where do you live?”

“Slow down.”

She touched Jane's nose. “I don't think it's broken. How's the pain in your side this morning?”

“I'm pretty bruised all over, but that hurts the worst.”

“You may have a bruised or fractured rib. Who did this to you?”

“Don't know.”

“No memory at all?”

“None,” said Jane.

“And … you have no memory of who I am?”

“You said you were a friend.”

Julia arched an eyebrow. She was about to say something, but stopped herself.

“What?”

“We were … more than friends.”

“We were?”

“Lovers. For several years.”

Another puzzle piece fell into place. “It ended?”

“Badly.”

“Why?”

“Because I lied to you one too many times. Because you couldn't trust me.”

What a strange situation this was. As far as Jane knew, she was meeting Julia for the first time.

“I'm not always a good person,” added Julia. “I want to be, but I also want … what I want.”

“Sounds fairly human. Why not lie to me now? You could tell me whatever you want and I wouldn't know the difference.”

“Good point. Let's try this one on for size. You still love me, Jane. The passion we felt for each other never died. You do your best to deny it, but you can't bring yourself to let go entirely.”

“Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“But you could be lying.”

“I could be.”

“You like to play games, don't you?”

Julia smiled.

Even in the shape she was in, Jane could hardly deny that she found Julia attractive. “I don't think I have the energy for this conversation.”

Cordelia poked her head inside the door. “Is she harassing you, Janey? Just say the word and I'll give her the boot.”

“Good morning to you, too, Cordelia.” Julia rose from the bed. “Jane's agreed to let me run some tests. I thought I'd drive over to Abbott Northwestern and get everything set up.” Looking back down at Jane, she said, “If you want to shower, that's fine. You might want to eat something. Painkillers can be hard on the stomach.” She picked up the orange plastic bottle from the dresser. Reading the front, she said, “Who's Kevin Adler?”

“One of the Adler brothers,” said Cordelia.

“That may be axiomatic,” replied Julia, “but it tells me nothing.”

“He owns a bar in New Dresden, Wisconsin. We'll talk about it later.”

“Fine.” She checked her watch. “If you could bring Jane to the hospital at nine, I'll have everything all arranged.” As she passed Cordelia, she repeated, “Nine sharp.”

“Yeah, right,” said Cordelia. “Like doctors are always so big on punctuality.”

*   *   *

Jane felt ridiculous wearing the pink angora scarf, gloves, and hat Cordelia demanded she don before going outside. “I'm not sick,” said Jane.

“I'll be the judge of that,” responded Cordelia.

Even with her memory problems, Jane knew she wasn't a pink sort of person.

“Now,” said Cordelia, straightening Jane's hat, “I'll go out to the garage, get the car, and bring it around to the front.”

“Where's Hattie?”

“Still in bed. So's Bolger. You remember Bolger, yes?”

“Hattie's nanny?”

“Bingo. You're making progress. Even the cats are still asleep. It was a late night for everyone.” She swept toward the door. “Oh, hey, bring my purse when you come out. It's hanging on that ladder-back chair under the stairs.” She pointed, twirled, and left.

Even with the painkillers, Jane hurt pretty much everywhere a person could hurt. It took her a full minute to walk over and get the purse, and another full minute to return to the door. She felt fragile, unstable, like she could shatter if she moved too fast. Hearing a loud “Moo” come from inside Cordelia's bag, Jane opened it and found that her friend's cell phone was making the noise. It mooed several more times before she decided to click it on. “Hello?” she said, holding it to her ear.

“Cordelia?” It was a man's voice.

“No, she's not here right now. Can I take a message?”

“Jane? Is that you?”

“Who's this?”

“My God, it
is
you. I called you a dozen times last night. I figured I'd try Cordelia this morning, thinking she might know where you were, why you weren't answering your phone. It's Guthrie. You left me a message yesterday. Said you'd call later in the day, that you had something to tell me. Is Kira okay? Did you talk to her?”

Jane had no idea what he was talking about. “Guthrie? Guthrie … Hewitt?”

“Yeah. Absolutely.”

“I was in an accident last night. My memory's a little foggy.”

“What kind of accident?”

“Just give me a few more details.”

“You've been in New Dresden. New Dresden,
Wisconsin
. I hired you.”

“Hired me? To do what?”

“Are you kidding me?” He was beginning to sound angry. “You're a licensed P.I. I came to you because I knew you—I used to be a waiter at your restaurant. I hired you to look into the death—the murder—of my girlfriend's mother.”

“Is that Kira?”

“Kira Adler, right.”

There was that name again. “The Adler brothers,” she whispered.

“Finally. Jeez, you had me worried there for a minute. So what did you find out? I've been going crazy. There's something sick about that town. It swallows people whole.”

Jane eased down on a bench by the door. Rubbing her temple, she closed her eyes. “Look, Guthrie—” Crazy, tilted images began to burst inside her head. She felt suddenly dizzy. Dizzy and nauseous. Outside, a car horn honked.

“Jane? Are you there? Are you okay?”

“Not really,” she said. Unable to sit upright, she found herself slipping onto the floor in a weird sort of slow motion. The cell phone dropped from her pink glove onto the oriental carpet. She was spinning—spinning and falling through stutter flashes of light, like an old black-and-white movie reel flickering into the final frames. She watched the front door open and heard Cordelia scream. And then everything just … stopped.

 

PART TWO: SIX WEEKS EARLIER—LATE NOVEMBER

“The truth.” Dumbledore sighed. “It is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with great caution.”

—J. K. ROWLING,
HARRY POTTER AND THE SORCERER'S STONE

 

5

Guthrie Hewitt woke to the sound of his girlfriend thrashing around in bed next to him. The sun leaked in around the edges of the plantation shutters, though since the alarm hadn't gone off, he knew it was still early. He wrestled his way out of a tangle of blankets just as an arm connected with his face.

“Whoa,” he said, loud enough to startle Kira awake. “Come on, babe. This early morning mayhem is getting out of hand.”

She blinked her eyes open. “What? What happened? Did I say something? My god, did I hurt you?”

His usual move was to lean over and kiss her, but this morning he'd finally had it with her nightmares. “Yeah, you did. You beaned me in the face with your arm.”

“Oh, honey, I'm sorry. It's stress. My classes. Maybe I should sleep on the couch.”

“You think that's a good solution?”

“Well—”

He turned over, propped his elbow against a pillow and played with her golden hair, tucking several delicate blond wisps behind her ear. “It's the same nightmare, right? The one about your mother?”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“Hey, you're shivering.” He pulled her close and whispered, “It was just a dream. You're awake now. Safe with me.” Kissing her cheek, he added, “I wish you'd tell me more about it? Maybe I can help.”

“It's just too crazy.”

All that Kira would ever say about the nightmare was that she'd had it ever since she was a child. Kira had grown up in New Dresden, Wisconsin, which was where most of her family still lived. It was a town of approximately three thousand, 180 or so miles northeast of the Twin Cities. The fall after she'd graduated from high school, she'd moved to Minneapolis to attend the University of Minnesota's School of Nursing. She went home fairly often the first year, but as time went on, especially after she met Guthrie during the summer between her freshman and sophomore years, her visits became less frequent.

On the day before she was supposed to pack up her car for a Fourth of July trip, the nightmare had hit with such force that it had taken three shots of vodka and a lengthy back rub before she calmed down enough to spend the rest of the night watching TV in the living room. The next morning, Guthrie had found her sitting on the couch, sobbing. That was when she finally explained that the nightmare was about her mother.

All Guthrie knew about Delia Adler was what Kira had told him on their second date. When Kira was five years old, Delia had fallen off the back deck of their house, which was perched over a steep ravine. At the time, there'd been some talk about the possibility of suicide, but because she hadn't left a note and no one really believed she was depressed, the family assumed it was simply a tragic accident. The temperature that December day was apparently well below zero. She wasn't found for many hours, and by the time she was located, her body was frozen solid. Kira had gone off to school that morning excited to continue her work on the Christmas gifts she was making for her parents and sister. When she returned to the house on the bus that afternoon, she found it filled with family—and a police officer. Gracie, her older sister, was perched on the couch, watching TV and ignoring the commotion.

Kira had cancelled last summer's Fourth of July trip back home. This Thanksgiving, however, her family, especially her grandmother, wasn't going to be put off. When Kira asked to bring Guthrie along, her grandmother had hesitated at first, but finally agreed that it was about time they met.

“Babe,” said Guthrie, kissing Kira's hair, wishing he could do something to help her. “Seems to me that when you're about to go home, the nightmare gets worse. I think that's the stressor.”

She bit her lip, looked away. “Maybe.”

“We don't have to go tomorrow. We could make up an excuse.”

“I promised them, Guthrie. They all want to meet you. And I miss them. I really do.”

“Then … when we get back home, maybe you should see someone. A sleep doctor. A therapist.”

She slipped her arm around his waist. Resting her head against his chest, she grew silent. Finally, she said, “If I tell you what the dream is about, will you promise not to think I'm totally crazy?”

“Of course, I promise,” he said, assuming that she was simply being her overly dramatic self.

Hesitating, she drew back so she could look him in the eyes. “Okay. Please understand—this is hard for me.” She took a ragged breath, then said, “The setting for the dream is always different. It takes place in a mall, or outside in a field. Once it happened in a tree house. Another time on a beach. But one thing never changes. In the dream—the nightmare—my mother is strangled.”

“Kira—”

“I know. Let me finish. There's always a bright light behind her and it gets in my eyes, makes it hard for me to see. All I know is that someone has their hands around her throat and is choking her. The worst part is, I can't do a thing to help her. I can't move. Can't cry out. I'm frozen, and all I can do is watch.”

“But you said your mother's death was an accident.”

“No doubt in anyone's mind. Nobody was even home that morning, which includes me, so there's no way I could have seen what's in the nightmare.”

“But if there's any truth in it, your mother was murdered.”

Climbing out from under the covers, Kira turned her back to him and sat on the edge of the bed. In a voice barely above a whisper, she continued, “In the final moment of the nightmare, the murderer turns and comes for me. That's when, mercifully, I usually wake up.”