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Since I didn’t know what I was dealing with yet, I left the gurney and body bag in the van and trekked up the highway past Nick’s Hyundai and two Sheriff’s Office cruisers. Up ahead, a gnarled oak tree hunkered twenty feet or so from the shoulder, bark gouged with old scars. Forty feet beyond the oak, a black Camaro rested upside-down like a dead insect. Halfway between the tree and car, Nick stood beside a human-shaped lump in the grass, clipboard in hand.
An odd sense of déjà vu tugged at me as I trudged toward him. There was something familiar about this area, but I couldn’t put my finger on it for the life of me. Didn’t help that I’d never been to this part of the highway. Then again, it was a desolate stretch of cracked pavement in the middle of nowhere, and there were at least a thousand similar settings in St. Edwards Parish.
A rake-thin deputy with a familiar, sunburned face rolled a measuring wheel down the centerline. He stopped at a faint skid mark and wrote something in a pocket notebook, then gave me a chin lift and smile. “Hey, Angel. Are you stalking me?”
“Hey, Connor. If I was, you’d never know it.” I gestured toward the wrecked car. “Don’t the State Troopers handle accidents on state highways?”
“They do, but they’re dealing with an overturned chicken truck west of Longville. The Troop asked the Sheriff’s Office if we’d work it until someone can break free. Since I usually do the accident reconstruction for our jurisdiction, the Captain had me come out.”
I nodded sagely. “Makes sense. Who’s with you?”
“Blag.” Connor hooked a thumb behind him. “He’s taking pictures at the other end.”
It took me a second to realize he was referring to Blagojevic. “How the hell do you pronounce his name? And . . .” I stopped and peered at the oily sheen covering his sunburn. “What do you have all over your face?”
He chuckled. “I think it’s Blah-goy-yah-vich, but my rule is I don’t gotta learn any newbie’s name until they’ve been here six months. And it’s coconut oil.” He pointed at his face. “My mom swears by it for sunburns. Next time, though, I’m bringing my own damn sunscreen!”
“Could’ve been worse,” I said, expression serious. “You might’ve been wearing a speedo out there.”
“Yeah, at least I only got burned bad on my face and neck.”
“No, I meant it would be worse for everyone else if you’d been wearing a speedo.” I danced back as Connor swung a mock-punch at me.
“Good thing you’re cute,” he growled.
“Aw, I’d kiss you, but I’m afraid I’d slide right off.”
He winked. “You can owe me.”
I blew him a kiss then continued to where Nick crouched in the wildflowers. As I got closer, the lump resolved into the badly mangled body of a white male. Blood stained the ground, but not a big pool of it—most likely because his entire torso had been crushed, instantly stopping his heart.
“Spencer Leigh. Thirty-four years old.” Nick tapped a driver’s license on his clipboard. His jawline bore a shadow of purple from where Douglas Horton had clipped him.
My gaze lingered on the bruise then shifted away. “Is he the only fatality?”
“So far.” His mouth thinned as he straightened. “The driver has multiple compound fractures and a tenuous airway. He’s being airlifted to Baton Rouge—the closest level-one trauma center.”
I took in the deep gouges in the turf. “What happened?”
Nick sighed and lifted his chin toward the mangled vehicle. “Connor says it looks like the driver took the turn way too fast, overcorrected, and flipped three times. Neither occupant was wearing a seatbelt. The passenger here was ejected and crushed by the vehicle. Driver got bounced around inside.” He scowled as he looked down the road. “This is a bad curve. It’s supposed to be marked, but an accident a couple of years ago took out the signs, and they’ve never been replaced.” He returned his attention to his notes. “That was a fatality, too.”
My entire body went cold, as if I’d been dunked in ice water.
Glass and twisted metal. Dark blood and jagged white bone. Grey brains.
And hunger. So much hunger.
My heart began to pound. That oak. The curve. I knew this place. I knew it because I’d been here before. A year and eight months ago.
I worked spit into a mouth gone dry. “That fatality was Herbert Singleton,” I said, amazed I could keep my voice steady. “He died the day before I started working at the morgue. You told me you’d autopsied two, and neither one had a head.”
“Damn, I’d forgotten all about that.” Nick glanced up with a slight smile. “You have a really good memory.” His smile faded as he registered my stricken expression. “What’s wrong?”
I swallowed. “That was the night I . . .”
His forehead puckered. “The night you what? Angel?”
“Nick.” I took a shaking breath. “I was in that car. With Herbert.”
