“Fingers crossed it’s as fantastic as I think it’s going to be.” I pour a sip. “Especially after it opens up. Would you like to do the honors?”
“You first,” he says, and I hold up the glass.
Swirling the wine, I admire its deep ruby legs, getting another noseful.
“By the time I’m done showering, it will be perfect.” I take a sip of Lucy’s birthday treat.
Swishing it around my tongue like a sommelier, savoring the full range of the sensuous terroir . . . detecting blackberries, crushed rocks and flowers as Benton looks on . . . And Lucy does . . . Then I’m seeing two of them . . .
“Whoa, what’s going on . . . ?” The floor is moving. “I feel weird . . . Something wrong . . .” Clumsily setting down the glass, I almost knock it over. “The wine . . . !”
“Aunt Kay . . . ?” Lucy’s voice is far away. “Are you all right . . . ?”
“KAY!” Benton shouts as I gasp for breath.
“My scene case . . . !” I struggle for air, my vision blurring.
CHAPTER 14
THUNDER CRACKS LIKE SHOTGUN blasts, and the moaning wind sounds wounded. Rain beats the roof like angry sticks, splashing and thrashing this place I’m in.
Faster . . . slower . . . harder . . . softer . . . The digital time flares a hellish red in the dark . . .
. . . 8:37 . . .
. . . 8:38 . . .
Minutes twitch past blearily. I don’t know where I am. Is it spring or summer? Winter or fall?
Why do I feel half dead?
As if I’ve been struck by a truck. How can I see when my eyes are shut?
. . . 8:40 . . .
. . . 8:41 . . .
What have I done?
. . . 8:42 . . .
. . . 8:43 . . .
What’s happened to me?
And the clock hovers eerily. Threateningly. Screaming like a Stryker saw grinding through a skull. Water drums into metal sinks, a stretcher dripping blood on tile. Hot bony dust is in the air, the stench of death everywhere. I taste it, smell it . . .
Then gone, not there . . . Just the din of pouring rain . . . The wind howling like a legion of unsettled haunts about to spirit me away . . . While it drifts through my thoughts with queasy disbelief . . . The 1996 Bordeaux. . . . Sniffing, sipping dizzily . . . It’s coming back slowly, disjointedly . . .
You were careless! The voice in my thoughts won’t stop.
I’m under the covers in the upstairs bedroom, my head throbbing. My joints ache like a mother, and I’ve got to get going, should have hours ago. Lightning stutters, illuminating the window shades in the warm humid dark, and I remember the storm as Marino was driving me away from my office in his big pickup truck.
It must be Tuesday morning, the last day of November . . . My car is stranded at my office . . . I’ve missed the staff meeting . . . Won’t make the nine o’clock deposition . . . There’s much to check on in the labs. . . . What about any cases that may have come in during the night . . . ? Does Maggie know where I am . . . ?
“How are we doing?” Benton appears like a spirit, sitting down on the bed, warm and reassuring.
He kisses me good morning, and I can tell he’s in cargo pants, a sweater, wearing his fitness tracker. He has on a chro nograph timepiece with luminous hands and a carbon-fiber strap, and has been up for a while.
“Better?” He rubs my back, and I smell his musky aftershave, the coffee on his breath.
“Better than I deserve.” I prop myself up, grateful to be alive and at the same time furious that I would be so trusting.
You should have been more careful!
“What matters is that you’re still here. All of us couldn’t be more grateful. I am, most of all,” Benton says. “Are you ready for coffee?”
I shake my head no, I couldn’t possibly.
You could have killed everyone!
“But thanks, maybe a little later.” My mouth is as dry as paper. “Water, please.”
He reaches for the bottle on the bedside table, twisting off the cap, my memories of last night shattered and hazy. I feel shame, paranoia, anger simmering around my edges, and I remind myself it’s the aftermath of the drug. My chemistry is shot to hell, and I feel horrible for causing such a problem.
“Well, thank God for your scene case, and that you had the presence of mind to think of it.” Benton’s features are shadowed, his teeth indistinctly white in the near dark.
It’s fortuitous I mentioned the Narcan to him earlier, commenting that I needed to replace what had been in the scene case I carried home from work. He didn’t have to spend precious minutes rooting around. He knew exactly where to look, he says, and it was stupid of me to give all of the doses to Officer Fruge. What if I’d had none at home?