[Georgia 01] Genesis (aka Undone) Read online

  "Jude!" Henry yelled, one arm shooting out in front of Judith's chest as he wrenched the steering wheel to the left, trying to avoid the poor creature. Judith thought, oddly, about how the movies were right. Everything slowed down, time inching by so that each second seemed to take an eternity. She felt Henry's strong arm bolt across her breasts, the seatbelt biting into her hip bones. Her head jerked, slamming into the door as the car swerved. The windshield cracked as the animal bounced against the glass, then hit the roof of the car, then the trunk. It wasn't until the car shuddered to a stop, spinning a full 180 degrees on the road, that the sounds caught up with Judith: the crack, thunk, thunk, all overlaid with a high-pitched screaming that she realized was coming from her own mouth. She must have been in shock, because Henry had to yell at her several times, "Judith! Judith!" before she stopped screaming.

  Henry's hand was tight on her arm, sending pain up her shoulder. She rubbed the back of his hand, saying, "I'm all right. I'm all right." Her glasses were askew, her vision off-kilter. She put her fingers to the side of her head, feeling a sticky wetness. When she took away her hand, she saw blood.

  "It must've been a deer or . . ." Henry put his hand to his mouth, stopping his words. He looked calm but for the telltale up and down of his chest as he tried to catch his breath. The airbag had deployed. A fine, white powder covered his face.

  Her breath caught as she looked ahead. Blood had spattered the windshield like a sudden, violent rain.

  Henry pushed open the door but did not get out. Judith took off her glasses to wipe her eyes. The lenses were both broken, the bottom part of her bifocal on the right side missing. She saw that the glasses were shaking, and realized that the tremor came from her own hands. Henry got out of the car, and she made herself put on her glasses and follow him.

  The creature was on the road, legs moving. Judith's head ached where it had smacked into the door. Blood was in her eyes. That was the only explanation she had for the fact that the animal—surely a deer—appeared to have the shapely white legs of a woman.

  "Oh, dear God," Henry whispered. "It's—Judith—it's—"

  Judith heard a car behind her. Wheels screeched against asphalt. Doors opened and closed. Two men joined them on the road, one running toward the animal.

  He screamed, "Call 9-1-1!" kneeling down beside the body. Judith stepped closer, then closer yet. The legs moved again—the perfect legs of a woman. She was completely nude. Bruises blackened her inner thighs—dark bruises. Old bruises. Dried blood caked around her legs. A burgundy film seemed to cover her torso, a rip at her side showing white bone. Judith glanced at her face. The nose was askance. The eyes were swollen, lips chapped and split. Blood matted the woman's dark hair and pooled around her head as if in a halo.

  Judith stepped closer, unable to stop herself—suddenly a voyeur, after a lifetime of politely looking away. Glass crunched beneath her feet, and the woman's eyes shot open in panic. She stared somewhere past Judith, a dull lifelessness to her gaze. Just as suddenly, her eyelids fluttered closed, but Judith could not suppress the shudder that went through her body. It was as if someone had walked over her grave.

  "Dear Lord," Henry mumbled, almost in prayer. Judith turned to find her husband gripping his hand to his chest. His knuckles were white. He stared at the woman, looking as if he might be ill. "How did this happen?" he whispered, horror twisting his face. "How in God's name did this happen?"

  DAY ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  SARA LINTON LEANED BACK IN HER CHAIR, MUMBLING A SOFT "yes, Mama" into her cell phone. She wondered briefly if there would ever come a point in time when this felt normal again, when a phone call with her mother brought her happiness the way it used to instead of feeling like it was dragging a piece of her heart out of her chest.

  "Baby," Cathy soothed. "It's all right. You're taking care of yourself, and that's all Daddy and I need to know."

  Sara felt tears sting her eyes. This would hardly be the first time she had cried in the doctors' lounge at Grady Hospital, but she was sick of crying—sick of feeling, really. Wasn't that the reason she had left her family, left her life, in rural Georgia, and moved to Atlanta— so that she would no longer have the constant reminder of what had come before?

  "Promise me you'll try to go to church next week."

  Sara mumbled something that might sound like a promise. Her mother was no fool, and they both knew that the possibility of Sara ending up on a pew this Easter Sunday was highly unlikely, but Cathy didn't press.

  Sara looked at the stack of charts in front of her. She was at the end of her shift and needed to call in her dictation. "Mama, I'm sorry, but I need to go."

  Cathy exacted a promise of another phone call next week, then rang off. Sara kept her cell phone in her hand for a few minutes, looking at the faded numbers, her thumb tracing the seven and five, dialing out a familiar number but not sending through the call. She dropped the phone into her pocket and felt the letter brush against the back of her hand.

  The Letter. She thought of it as its own entity.

  Sara normally checked her mail after work so she didn't have to drag it around with her, but one morning, for some unknown reason, she had checked her mail as she was heading out. A cold sweat had come over her as she recognized the return address on the plain white envelope. She had tucked the unopened envelope into the pocket of her lab coat as she left for work, thinking she would read it at lunch. Lunch had come and gone, and the letter had remained unopened, traveling back home, then out to work again the next day. Months passed, and the letter went everywhere with Sara, sometimes in her coat, sometimes in her purse to the grocery store or on errands. It became a talisman, and often, she would reach her hand in her pocket and touch it, just to remind herself that it was there.

  Over time, the corners of the sealed envelope had become dog-eared and the Grant County postmark had started to fade. Every day pushed Sara farther away from opening it and discovering what the woman who had killed her husband could possibly have to say.

  "Dr. Linton?" Mary Schroder, one of the nurses, knocked on the door. She spoke in the practiced code of the ER. "We've got a P-O-P-T-A female, thirty-three, weak and thready."

  Sara glanced at the charts, then her watch. A thirty-three-year old woman who had passed out prior to admission was a puzzle that would take time to solve. It was almost seven o'clock. Sara's shift was over in ten minutes. "Can Krakauer take her?"

  "Krakauer did take her," Mary countered. "He ordered a CMP, then went to get coffee with the new bimbo." She was obviously perturbed by this, and added, "The patient's a cop."

  Mary was married to a cop; hardly shocking considering she had worked in the emergency room at Grady Hospital for almost twenty years. Even without that, it was understood at every hospital in the world that anyone in law enforcement got the best and quickest treatment. Apparently, Otto Krakauer hadn't gotten the memo.

  Sara relented. "How long did she lose consciousness?"

  "She says about a minute." Mary shook her head, because patients were hardly the most honest reporters when it came to their health. "She doesn't look right."

  That last part was what got Sara out of her chair. Grady was the only Level One trauma center in the region, as well as one of the few remaining public hospitals in Georgia. The nurses at Grady saw car wrecks, shootings, stabbings, overdoses, and any number of crimes against humanity on an almost daily basis. They had a practiced eye for spotting serious problems. And, of course, cops usually didn't admit themselves to the hospital unless they were at death's door.

  Sara skimmed the woman's chart as she walked through the emergency department. Otto Krakauer hadn't done more than take a medical history and order the usual bloodwork, which told Sara there was no obvious diagnosis. Faith Mitchell was an otherwise healthy thirty-three-year-old woman with no previous conditions and no recent trauma. Her test results would hopefully give them a better idea about what was going on.

  Sara mumbled an apology as s
he bumped into a gurney in the hallway. As usual, the rooms were overflowing and patients were stacked in the halls, some in beds, some sitting in wheelchairs, all looking more miserable than they probably had when they'd first arrived for treatment. Most of them had probably come here right after work because they couldn't afford to miss a day's wages. They saw Sara's white coat and called to her, but she ignored them as she read through the chart.

  Mary said, "I'll catch up with you. She's in three," before letting herself get pulled away by an elderly woman on a stretcher.

  Sara knocked on the open door of exam room 3—privacy: another perk afforded cops. A petite blonde woman was sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed and clearly irritated. Mary was good at her job, but a blind person could see that Faith Mitchell was unwell. She was as pale as the sheet on the bed; even from a distance, her skin looked clammy.

  Her husband did not seem to be helping matters as he paced the room. He was an attractive man, well over six feet, with sandy blond hair cut close to his head. A jagged scar ran down the side of his face, probably from a childhood accident where his jaw slid across the asphalt under his bicycle or along the hard-packed dirt to home base. He was thin and lean, probably a runner, and his three-piece suit showed the broad chest and shoulders of someone who spent a lot of time in the gym.

  He stopped pacing, his gaze going from Sara to his wife and back again. "Where's the other doctor?"

  "He got called away on an emergency." She walked to the sink and washed her hands, saying, "I'm Dr. Linton. Can you catch me up to speed here? What happened?"

  "She passed out," the man said, nervously twisting his wedding ring around his finger. He seemed to realize he was coming off as a bit frantic, and moderated his tone. "She's never passed out before."

  Faith Mitchell seemed aggravated by his concern. "I'm fine," she insisted, then told Sara, "It's the same thing I said to the other doctor. I feel like I've been coming down with a cold. That's all."

  Sara pressed her fingers to Faith's wrist, checking her pulse. "How are you feeling now?"

  She glanced at her husband. "Annoyed."

  Sara smiled, shining her penlight into Faith's eyes, checking her throat, running through the usual physical exam and finding nothing alarming. She agreed with Krakauer's initial evaluation: Faith was probably a little dehydrated. Her heart sounded good, though, and it didn't seem like she'd suffered from a seizure. "Did you hit your head when you fell?"

  She started to answer, but the man interjected, "It was in the parking lot. Her head hit the pavement."

  Sara asked the woman, "Any other problems?"

  Faith answered, "Just a few headaches." She seemed to be holding something back, even as she revealed, "I haven't really eaten today. I was feeling a little sick to my stomach this morning. And yesterday morning."

  Sara opened one of the drawers for a neuro-hammer to check reflexes, only to find nothing there. "Have you had any recent weight loss or gain?"

  Faith said "No" just as her husband said "Yes."

  The man looked contrite, but tried, "I think it looks good on you."

  Faith took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Sara studied the man again, thinking he was probably an accountant or lawyer. His head was turned toward his wife, and Sara noticed another, lighter scar lining his upper lip—obviously not a surgical incision. The skin had been sewn together crookedly, so that the scar running vertically between his lip and nose was slightly uneven. He had probably boxed in college, or maybe just been hit in the head one too many times, because he obviously didn't seem to know that the only way out of a hole was to stop digging. "Faith, I think the extra weight looks great on you. You could stand to gain—"

  She shut him up with a look.

  "All right." Sara flipped open the chart, writing down some orders. "We'll need to do an X-ray of your skull and I'd like to do a few more tests. Don't worry, we can use the blood samples from earlier, so there won't be any more needles for now." She scribbled a notation and checked some boxes before looking up at Faith. "I promise we'll rush this as much as we can, but you can see we've got a pretty full house today. X-ray's backed up at least an hour. I'll do what I can to push it through, but you might want to get a book or magazine while you wait."

  Faith didn't respond, but something in her demeanor changed. She glanced at her husband, then back at Sara. "Do you need me to sign that?" She indicated the chart.

  There was nothing to sign, but Sara handed her the chart anyway. Faith wrote something on the bottom of the page and gave it back. Sara read the words I'm pregnant.

  Sara nodded as she crossed through the X-ray order. Obviously, Faith hadn't yet told her husband, but there was a different set of questions Sara needed to ask now, and she couldn't do so without giving away the news. "When's the last time you had a pap smear?"

  Faith seemed to understand. "Last year."

  "Let's take care of that while you're here." Sara told the man, "You can wait outside."

  "Oh." He seemed surprised, even as he nodded. "All right." He told his wife, "I'll be in the waiting room if you need me."

  "Okay." Faith watched him leave, her shoulders visibly slumping in relief as the door closed. She asked Sara, "Do you mind if I lie down?"

  "Of course not." Sara helped her get comfortable on the bed, thinking Faith looked younger than her thirty-three years. She still had the bearing of a cop, though—that no-nonsense, don't-bullshit-me squareness to her shoulders. Her lawyer-husband seemed like an odd match, but Sara had seen stranger combinations.

  She asked the woman, "How far along are you?"

  "About nine weeks."

  Sara put this in her notes as she asked, "Is that a guess or have you seen a doctor?"

  "I took an over-the-counter test." She changed that. "Actually, I took three over-the-counter tests. I'm never late."

  Sara added a pregnancy test to the orders. "What about this weight gain?"

  "Ten pounds," Faith admitted. "I've kind of gone a little crazy with the eating since I found out."

  In Sara's experience, ten pounds usually meant fifteen. "Do you have any other children?"

  "One—Jeremy—eighteen."

  Sara made the notation in the chart, mumbling, "Lucky you. Heading into the terrible twos."

  "More like terrible twenties. My son is eighteen years old."

  Sara did a double take, flipping back through Faith's history.

  "Let me do the math for you," Faith offered. "I got pregnant when I was fourteen. I had Jeremy when I was fifteen."

  Not much surprised Sara anymore, but Faith Mitchell had managed to do it. "Were there any complications with your first pregnancy?"

  "Other than being fodder for a Lifetime movie?" She shook her head. "No problems at all."

  "Okay," Sara answered, putting down the chart, giving Faith her full attention. "Let's talk about what happened tonight."

  "I was walking to the car, I felt a little dizzy, and the next thing I know, Will's driving me here."

  "Dizzy like the room spinning or dizzy as in light-headed?"

  She thought about the question before replying. "Light-headed."

  "Any flashes of light or unusual tastes in your mouth?"

  "No."

  "Will's your husband?"

  She actually guffawed. "God, no." She choked on an incredulous laugh. "Will's my partner—Will Trent."

  "Is Detective Trent here so I can talk to him?"

  "Special Agent. You already did. He just left."

  Sara was sure she was missing something. "The man who was just in here is a cop?"

  She laughed. "It's the suit. You're not the first person to think he's an undertaker."

  "I thought lawyer," Sara admitted, thinking she had never met anyone who looked less like a police officer in her life.

  "I'll have to tell him you thought he was a lawyer. He'll be pleased you took him for an educated man."

  For the first time, Sara noticed the woman was not wearing a weddin
g ring. "So, the father is . . ."

  "In and out of the picture." Faith didn't seem embarrassed by the information, though Sara supposed that there wasn't much that could embarrass you after having a child at fifteen. "I'd prefer Will didn't know," Faith said. "He's very—" She stopped mid-sentence. She closed her eyes, pressed her lips together. A sheen of sweat had broken out on her forehead.

  Sara pressed her fingers to Faith's wrist again. "What's happening here?"

  Faith clenched her jaw, not answering.

  Sara had been vomited on enough to know the warning signs. She went to the sink to wet a paper towel, telling Faith, "Take a deep breath and let it out slowly."

  Faith did as she was told, her lips trembling.

  "Have you been irritable lately?"

  Despite her condition, Faith tried for levity. "More than usual?" She put her hand to her stomach, suddenly serious. "Yes. Nervous. Annoyed." She swallowed. "I get a buzzing in my head, like there are bees in my brain."

  Sara pressed the cold paper towel to the woman's forehead. "Any nausea?"

  "In the mornings," Faith managed. "I thought it was morning sickness, but . . ."

  "What about the headaches?"

  "They're pretty bad, mostly in the afternoon."

  "Have you been unusually thirsty? Urinating a lot?"

  "Yes. No. I don't know." She managed to open her eyes, asking, "So, what is it—the flu or brain cancer or what?"

  Sara sat on the edge of the bed and took the woman's hand.

  "Oh, God, is it that bad?" Before Sara could answer, she said, "Doctors and cops only sit down when it's bad news."

  Sara wondered how she had missed this revelation. In all her years with Jeffrey Tolliver, she'd thought she had figured out every one of his tics, but this one had passed her by. She told Faith, "I was married to a cop for fifteen years. I never noticed, but you're right—my husband always sat down when there was bad news."

  "I've been a cop for fifteen years," Faith responded. "Did he cheat on you or turn into an alcoholic?"

  Sara felt a lump in her throat. "He was killed three and a half years ago."