K.J. Emrick - Darcy Sweet 12 - Death at the Wheel (7 page)

“Don’t pick up any of the tools, now,” Mustache Man winked at her. 
“Wouldn’t want you to nick the ends of those pretty little fingers.”

Fighting the urge to slap that look off his face, Darcy just smiled instead and waited for the two of them to be gone down the hallway.  Then she turned quickly to the metal storage drawers, examining the name on each.

It didn’t take her long.  Most of the nine drawers didn’t have bodies in them.  Three had white index cards slid into bracket slots on their front with a name, date of birth, and case number typed on them.  The last one over was Jarred Perrigon’s.

Darcy yanked hard on the pull lever that should have opened the drawer.  It moved back and forth, but that was all.  The square door panel stayed locked in place.

Oh, no.  This was not good.  She had seen the keyholes on the levers on each of the doors but she had hoped against hope that they weren’t actually locked.  No such luck.  Now what?

She needed to have physical contact with the body if she was going to see or hear anything that
Jarred’s spirit knew.  It wasn’t like she could just call on him from here.  There was a technique to reach out to the other side in search of an individual person, basically concentrating on someone in particular and waiting for your conscience to be drawn to them.  She could try that, but again it was a matter of time.  She’d done some callings like that where it took hours to reach through to the right person, and sometimes she ended up talking to someone else entirely.  Once she’d carried on an entire conversation with a ghost that covered every topic from fried pickles to Persian rugs and everything in between before she realized she had the wrong person.

There wasn’t that kind of time.  If she was going to find anything out she needed to do it now.  Before the autopsy tomorrow, and before anything else bad happened.  She wouldn’t have another chance.

There was just no way to get into that drawer.  She looked around the morgue office for a set of keys, on the sink top, in the few cabinets that she could open, even near the deck of cards the two morgue aids had left behind.  No luck.  No keys, no way to unlock the drawer, no way to contact Jarred’s ghost.

Unless…

Feeling really, really stupid for even considering this, Darcy went back over to the drawer that was holding Jarred Perrigon.  And then she knocked.

“Hello?  Jarred?  Jarred, can you hear me?”

Nothing.

Just in case
Jarred’s spirit was sleeping or whatever, she knocked again, louder.  “Hello?  Can I, uh, talk to you?”

Around her in the room, the lights dimmed.  There was an electrical fizzing noise as the fluorescent lights began to turn a murky purple in their bulbs and Darcy felt herself tense.  This was it!

“The electricity’s always a little funny down here,” a deep voice rumbled from behind her. 

Spinning around, Darcy prepared herself to meet
Jarred’s ghost.

And saw a tall, stocky doctor standing there instead.  His black skin was a stark contrast against his white physician’s coat.  A stethoscope lay around the back
of  his neck.  His head was shaved bald and his smile was bright and cheerful.

Definitely not a ghost.

“Gotta flick the switch a few times,” he said to her, reaching over to the wall just inside the door and wiggling the light switch.  As he did, the lights came back up and the electrical buzzing ended.  “There we go.  All good.”

“Oh,” Darcy said, realizing that she was cornered, feeling foolish for thinking that knocking on a dead man’s refrigerated drawer in the morgue would get her an audience with his ghost. 
Stupid.  Had this guy heard her?  “Uh, thanks,” she said.  “I thought maybe it was something I did.”

“Nah.
  What could a pretty woman like yourself do to make the lights go all dim like that?”  He stopped in front of her, his smile still in place.  “Hi.  I’m Doctor Johnson.  I’ve been Chief of Pathology here for two years, and I can’t say that I remember ever seeing you before.  You new here?”

“Yes,” Darcy said, hoping the same lie that had gotten her past the morgue assistants would get her past the doctor.  “I’m new. 
Just started today.  I’m sorry, I know I probably shouldn’t be in here but the registration desk needed the morgue assistants for something and I came down here to get them.”

“Intercom wasn’t working?” he asked innocently.

“I guess not?” Darcy noticed the hint of question in her voice and tried to get ahold of herself.  “Anyway, one of the guys offered to show me around the place when he got back, so I was going to wait.  I’ve never been in a morgue before.”

Jon had commented to her before that she could be such a good liar when she wanted to.  Right now, she not only wanted to be a good liar, she had to be a good one.  If she was going to get a look at
Jarred’s corpse, then she needed to keep up this act.  At least until Mustache Man and his sidekick came back.

“Well, I tell you what,” Doctor Johnson said, taking out a pair of rubber gloves from a pocket and sliding them onto his big hands.  “You’re in luck.  I need to take some notes on a car accident victim who came in today in preparation for his autopsy tomorrow.  Why don’t you stay and watch?”

Darcy’s mouth fell open.  Maybe she did have good luck after all.  “Would that be all right?” she asked.

“Sure. 
Can’t exactly hurt him now.  He’s dead.”  The doctor chuckled at his joke and Darcy did too, mostly from nerves.  As gallows humor went she’d heard better.

On Doctor Johnson’s belt was one of those round disk key holders with a zip line that his keys hung from.  They made a little
zip
noise as he pulled them out and fit a small key into the lock on the drawer lever.  Then he opened the square door and pulled out a sliding shelf.  On the shelf was a body, draped in a white cloth.  His head and shoulders were left exposed.  The man had a tangled mess of dark brown hair and a pudgy face that had been badly beaten up by the car crash.

Jarred
Perrigon.

“Now,” Doctor Johnson said, “let’s begin.  You have any stomach issues? 
You squeamish?”

Hardly, Darcy thought.  “No.  No, I’m fine.”

She smiled for him, and he got started.

On her side of the body,
Jarred’s hand had slipped out from under the edge of the cloth.  It was at waist height, and all she had to do was let her hand accidentally touch his like this and then concentrate…

Flashes.
  Images.  Running by her so fast that she could barely concentrate on any one of them before they were gone again.  A lot of them were memories of a pretty woman with hair dyed deeply red.  Lindsay.  Jarred’s memories of Lindsay.  Lindsay laughing.  Lindsay in a revealing bathing suit diving into water that slid off her tanned skin like liquid silver.  Lindsay playing the guitar.  Watching TV.  Crying, because she wanted so badly to reconnect with her mother but didn’t know how.

Then there were other memories that she knew were from today.  Driving the car, seeing the “Welcome to Misty Hollow” sign at the edge of town, turning to talk to Lindsay and tell her she was doing the right thing, that he—Jarred—would be there to support her when the time came. 
Lindsay’s perfect smile.

The glint of sunlight off the wedding band she wore around her neck.

There was physical pain involved with taking a dead man’s memories like this.  The part of Darcy that was still her felt like it was being immersed in burning hot slivers of metal that spiked into her skin.  This was a method of last resort, something she never ever did unless she had to.  A communication would have been much better.  Next time, she was definitely going to do a communication.

Darcy tried to ask questions, tried to insert her own thoughts into those of
Jarred’s dead-but-not-departed spirit.  Why was he so focused on Lindsay?  He was just the friend.  They had borrowed his car to get them to Misty Hollow, was all.  Wasn’t that what Alan had told Jon?

She lost her grip on who Jon was and who she was as she slipped into the images again. 
Jarred looked behind them in the rearview mirror.  Darcy saw what he did. A red car was speeding up behind them.  So fast.  So fast.  Something was definitely wrong.  Take this turn here.  Down this street.  The car’s still there.  It’s following us.  It’s speeding up, oh God help us it’s speeding up! 
Lindsay get your phone out and call 911.  This isn’t right.  What?  No, now.  I don’t know if we have time to get to the police station.  The way this guy is driving…  Hey, wait, don’t we know him?  Isn’t that the guy you used to date?

Then the world exploded around them.  The car hit them.  Rammed them from behind and smashed into them and then there was pain everywhere and darkness slowly covered his thoughts as he died.

The last thing he ever saw in this life was Lindsay’s face.

Darcy pulled her hand back.  It was freezing, the skin dry and red, like it had been touching a chunk of dry ice instead of a dead man’s hand.  She was suddenly herself again, standing in the morgue with Doctor Johnson, her eyes focusing slowly.  The sensation of
Jarred’s memories being funneled into her from his waxy skin had been intense.  No wonder Jarred hadn’t moved on yet.  There was so much still holding him here.

“You okay?” Doctor Johnson asked her, scrunching up his brow into heavy wrinkles.  “You look kind of pale.  I haven’t even removed the sheet yet.”

“I, uh…I have to go.”  She’d seen what Jarred had to show her.  Now it was time for her to lie her way out before she got caught here.  “Um.  Thanks for offering to show me this but I guess I’m not ready for it after all.  Another time, maybe?”

He nodded, still smiling, his eyes staying on her as she backed toward the door.  Did he know she wasn’t really an employee here at the hospital?  Was he going to tell anyone?  She made it to the door, and then out into the hall, but she didn’t let go of the breath she had been holding until she had closed the door behind her.  She’d made it.  It had worked.

Down at the end of the hall the elevator dinged softly.

Well.  She’d almost made it.

Beside her was a table with square metal legs, boxes piled heavily on its fake wooden top.  Underneath, in the gloom of the basement, shadows collected thick and dark.  Darcy hoped it was enough.  She dove under just as the elevator doors were opening and pushed herself as far in as she could on her hands and knees.  The voices of the two morgue assistants sounded unnaturally loud to her ears as she tried to blend into the stockpile of stuff around her.

“I’m telling you, she’s up to something,” the guy with the glasses said.  “We should report this.”

“Nah, she just made a mistake,” Mustache Man said.  “So there was no body waiting for us to move.  So what?  Besides, you want to tell anyone we got tricked into leaving the morgue unattended?  You’ll see.  After our shift I’m gonna find her and ask her out.”

As if, Darcy thought to herself.  She watched their legs moving past her hiding spot, never slowing, never stopping.  When she heard them reach the morgue, she chanced a quick look, and saw them both enter and close the door.

She raced for the elevator and pressed the button repeatedly, hoping it hadn’t already gotten called to another floor.  When the doors slid open she jumped in, pushing the close door button, pushing all of the upper floor buttons, not caring which one she went to as long as she got out of here.

As the elevator rose with her in it and no screaming men in blue disposable scrubs and mustaches and glasses came running after her, Darcy allowed herself to relax.    That had been way too close.

It had been worth it.  She’d learned something vital to solving this mystery.  She had to contact Jon and let him know.

More importantly, she had to find Rosie and get her safely away from here.

“Isn’t that the guy you used to date?”

That’s what Jarred had said to Lindsay just before he died.  He had looked back in the rearview mirror and clearly seen the driver of the other car.  The guy Lindsay used to date.

Wilson and Lindsay used to date.  A long time ago.  Now, Lindsay was trying to move on with her life.  It looked like Wilson didn’t want that to happen.

Just like Darcy had thought.

The trouble with Darcy’s gifts was simple and complex all at the same time.  It came down to one fact.  She couldn’t tell anyone how she knew the things she knew.  If she told anyone that a ghost had talked to her, then they usually shut her out or smiled kindly and then ignored her.  She always had to find proof to back up what she had to say if she wanted people to believe her.

Maybe Jon could find some hard facts about Wilson, now that they knew where to look.

The elevator stopped on the first floor, and Darcy waited for them to close and lift her up to the second.  Darcy had asked Wilson to tell Rosie to wait for her at the front door to the hospital.  Somehow she doubted Wilson had passed that message along.  She had to get up to the ICU room.  No doubt she’d find Rosie there with her daughter, and her daughter’s husband.

And her daughter’s attacker.

Apparently in the last twenty minutes or so the ICU nurses had done a shift change.  Now a slim brunette sat at the desk as Darcy came through the swinging metal doors.  This nurse wore colorful scrubs with cartoon turtles riding motorcycles, and she was painting her nails pink as she sat watching the monitor screens.  “Hey,” she said to Darcy.  “What can I do for you?”

The other nurse hadn’t been about to let Darcy anywhere near Lindsay’s room by herself.  This nurse seemed a lot more lenient.  Darcy figured it was worth giving it another try.

“I’m here to see Lindsay Weaver.  Well, I guess her name would be Lindsay Harlow now, wouldn’t it.  Do you know if her mother is in her room?”

The nurse snapped a chewing gum bubble as she scanned the monitors.  “It looks like she is.  There’s a woman and a man in there with Lindsay, anyway.  Hey, did you hear the good news?  Lindsay woke up again.  Her husband is going to take her home.”

Darcy wasn’t sure she’d heard that correctly.  “Excuse me?  How can he take her home?  Did she regain her memory?  Did the doctors clear her?”

“Oh, I’m afraid I can’t comment on a patient’s private medical issues,” the nurse said in a very nasally voice.  “But her leaving is against medical advice.  I can tell you that.   Hey, maybe you can try to talk her out of it?  She really should stay the night with us at least.”

Of the places where Lindsay might be safe from Wilson, Darcy figured the hospital would be one of the best.  She had planned on the doctors insisting on Lindsay staying a day or two at the least.  She hadn’t figured on Alan wanting to take her out so quickly.

Alan
and Rosie would be in danger themselves, if they stood between Wilson and Lindsay.  Darcy would have to get them away and get Jon to arrange police protection for Lindsay.  But first, she’d have to convince Alan to let Lindsay stay longer.

She couldn’t tell
Alan why he should let Lindsay stay.  A ghost told me to do it just wouldn’t work.  She could try to convince him and Rosie that it would be best for Lindsay, though.  Hopefully it would work.

The nurse waved to her with her fingers as Darcy went down to room 2-C.  The door was open this time, and she could hear the argument going on even before she went in.

“You can’t just take her,” Rosie said, hushed but insistent.  “She needs to be in a hospital!”

“I’m her husband,” Darcy heard
Alan saying.  “I have to do what’s best for her.”

Three sets of eyes swung in Darcy’s direction as she entered the room.  Lindsay was sitting up in bed, her arm cast out of its sling and resting in her lap
now, her hair combed and neatly in place.  She smiled faintly at Darcy but there was a hesitation in it.  “Hello.  I’m sorry, I know you were here before but do I know you?”

Darcy came over to the side of the bed, noticing how
Alan stood up as she did, getting protectively closer to his wife.  The ring on its chain around his neck swung out of his shirt.  “You don’t know me,” Darcy told Lindsay.  “I’m a friend of your mom’s.”

“Oh.  Good,” Lindsay said, honestly relieved.  “I can’t remember, well, anything.  I don’t know what’s real.”

Alan took his wife’s hand.  “All you need to remember, is that I’m your husband, and I’m going to take good care of you.  Just keep telling yourself that.”

“Darcy, he’s taking my Lindsay away again,” Rosie broke in, pointing at
Alan accusingly from where she sat.  “She can’t leave.  Not yet.”

“Mom.”
  The word sounded strange on Lindsay’s lips.  It was like she wasn’t sure if she was saying it right, or wasn’t convinced Rosie was her mother.  “I know you’re scared.  So am I.  But I think I need to be with my husband now.  Isn’t that what wives do?”

The question wasn’t rhetorical.  Lindsay was actually asking if that was what she should do.  Her face screwed up and it looked painful for her to think about it.  Darcy’s heart went out to her.  To be unable to remember your friends, your family, even your mother.  Or, even what the word mother meant.

“If you ask me,” Darcy told her, “I think you should stay here.  You’re safe here.  Plus, Alan can stay with you while you recover from your injuries and from the amnesia.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling them,” Rosie said.

“No,” Alan argued.  “We have to get out of this town and back home to our lives.  Coming here has already caused Lindsay too much pain.”

“She needs to get better,
Alan.”  Darcy tried to find the words to convince him.  “Someone tried to hurt her.  He’s still out there.  The police haven’t been able to find him or even learn who he was.  Lindsay needs to stay somewhere safe.”

That was enough of the truth for now, Darcy figured.

Alan leaned closer to her, his voice dropping lower.  “She needs to be with her husband.”

Darcy looked away from the turmoil in his green eyes.  It was something she could almost feel, in a physical way, pushing against her.  She lowered her gaze as she tried to come up with something else to say, some other argument to make, and her eyes fell on his wedding band, hanging suspended on its necklace.

His wedding band.

Cold prickles spread across her skin.  She had to get to Jon.  She had to find Wilson Barton, and warn Jon.

It might be the only way to save Lindsay’s life.

“Rosie, why don’t you stay with Lindsay?” Darcy said, already heading for the door.  If nothing else, Rosie arguing with
Alan would delay him leaving with Lindsay.  “I need to talk to Jon.  Is that all right?”

Rosie gave Darcy
a you-can’t-leave-now look.  It seemed that she had counted on Darcy’s support in convincing Lindsay to stay in the hospital.  Darcy came back for just a moment to lean down and hug Rosie and whisper in her ear, “It’s important.  You’ll have to trust me.”

Then she was out of the room and heading for the elevators once again.

***

How could she have been so stupid?

That was the question Darcy asked herself over and over as she hurried out of the ICU.  She needed to find a phone and call Jon, right now, but she knew she couldn’t do it from the second floor.  There was too much chance that Wilson would wander back into the ICU to check on Lindsay.  She had to get this information to Jon first.

The proof she had so desperately been looking for had been right there in front of her the whole time.  If only she’d opened her eyes!  Worse, Jarred had given her all the clues she needed down in the morgue.  More than just the brief
glance at the other driver or the clue that Lindsay used to date the killer.  He’d shown her exactly what she needed to see, and she had missed that, too.

Now she had enough to prove who the killer was, and the parts she didn’t know for fact she could guess at.  The story all made sense.  She just had to get to Jon before
Alan put Lindsay back in danger by taking her out of the safe confines of St. John Camilus Hospital.

The elevator was taking forever, or that’s what it felt like in her panic to get help, so Darcy decided to take the stairs down to the first floor where she knew the admissions desk had a courtesy phone for people to use.  She had never regretted not owning a cell phone more in her life than she did in that moment. 
Creepy long-distance ghosts or no.

The stairway was a cold, functional space of concrete steps and red and white pipes snaking their way up the walls.  Every step she made echoed.

Just like the steps of whoever was coming upstairs toward her from the lower landing.  She turned the corner at the landing to find a familiar face looking back at her in surprise.

It was Detective Wilson Barton.

Darcy couldn’t slow herself from her headlong dash down the stairs and they collided with enough force to knock them both off their feet.  He grabbed her arm to keep her from falling and grabbed the metal railing with his other hand to steady himself and Darcy let out a shriek that echoed up and down the stairwell.

“Darcy!” he said, still holding her arm in an iron grip.  “Calm down!  You’ll have the whole hospital in here!  What’s the matter with you?”

Getting her balance back she planted her palm against his chest, hard, and pushed away from him.  “I know who killed Jarred Perrigon in the car accident.  Now, get away from me!  I have to—”

“Wait, what did you say?”  Wilson blocked her way down the stairs and she almost cried out again, ready to do whatever it took to get past him and get to a phone where she could call Jon for help.  His face was dark and his tone was demanding.  “How can you know that?”

She stopped, meeting his eyes with a look that should have told him how serious she was.  He held his ground, though, and Darcy realized she would have to lay all her cards on the table.  “There were only two people in Jarred’s car, Wilson.  Lindsay, and her husband.”

He blinked at her.  “How do you know there were only two people in Lindsay’s car?  How could you possibly know that?  What are you saying?”

This was the clue she had missed from Jarred’s memories.  He had shown her, albeit in a choppy and disorganized way, what had happened in the moments leading up to the accident.  Jarred had been driving.  His attention kept going to Lindsay in the front passenger seat.

But when he finally noticed the other car was chasing them down through the streets of Misty Hollow, Jarred had looked in the rearview mirror.  He had shown the memory to Darcy.  In the rearview mirror, Jarred had seen a clear view of the car following them.  There was nothing to block that view.

There was no one in the backseat.  It was just him, and Lindsay, in the car.

Lindsay,
and her husband.

Detective Wilson Barton wasn’t the missing driver. 
Alan Harlow was.

“Lindsay’s in danger, Will.  We have to call Jon and we have to get Lindsay out of that hospital room.”

“In danger?” he repeated, confused.  “From who?  You mean from her mother?  Rosie would never hurt—”

“What?  No! 
Of course not from Rosie.  Think, Will!  Alan is pretending to be Lindsay’s husband.  He was the driver of the second car.”

His jaw dropped.  “What?”

Darcy clenched her fists in frustration.  She did not have time to explain everything she knew or how she knew it.  She didn’t have time to explain how Alan had inserted himself into the accident scene to make it look like he had been riding with Lindsay and Jarred.  To explain that Alan had stayed so close to Lindsay not out of dedication or love but because he needed to make sure when she woke up she wouldn’t identify him as the man who had caused the crash.  He was afraid she would know it was him, and he was prepared to take care of her if she did.

Darcy did not have time to explain how she now understood that
Alan had once dated Lindsay, and had never gotten over her, and was just crazy enough to do anything to get her back.  Even ramming into her car in the middle of Main Street.  Even pretending to be her husband by stealing the wedding ring necklace from around dead Jarred’s neck.

And, she did not have time to explain that
Alan was trying to steal Lindsay away now that she had amnesia because he saw his chance to reprogram her memories and make her believe that he was her husband, not the dead Jarred Perrigon.

Once he had Lindsay away from the hospital and away from everyone who knew them, he could take them somewhere no one would find them. 
Ever.

Darcy didn’t have time to explain any of this to Wilson, or to tell him how truly psychotic
Alan Harlow was.  Psychotic enough to be dangerous.  She didn’t have time to explain any of that.

All she had time for were cold, hard facts.

So she told Wilson about the clue she had just found.  “I got close enough in Lindsay’s hospital room just now to see the inscription on the inside of the wedding ring Alan is wearing.  It’s not his.  The inscription says ‘Lindsay and Jarred.’  Not Alan.  He isn’t her husband.  He’s trying to pass himself off as Lindsay’s husband, and he’s trying to get her out of the hospital now and take her away and I’m pretty sure if he does that we’ll never see her again so we have to get help!”