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“Huh? How could you . . .” His eyes widened, and he took a step back. “Oh Jesus. The driver was decapitated. You . . . did you—”
“No! I-I didn’t kill him. I wasn’t a zombie then. And Herbert was already dead. That’s what I was told.” I hugged my arms around myself and looked away from the horror in his eyes. “I was fucked up bad that night, dying even before the crash. Herbert had roofied my drink but didn’t realize I was already high . . . I think when I started having trouble breathing, he came out here to dump my body.”
Nick didn’t speak for several seconds. When he finally did, his voice was brittle. “He intended to rape you?”
I let out a short, humorless laugh. “That’s usually the next step after you roofie someone.” A shiver crawled down my spine. “I don’t remember most of that night. But I woke up in the emergency room without a scratch on me, and with a note saying I had a job waiting at the morgue.” I dared a look at him, but his expression was unreadable. “Forgot you didn’t know any of this.” I sighed. “I mean, you found out the hard way what I am. But not how. Or why.”
Nick remained still and silent for several agonizing seconds, then he glanced toward the highway as the sound of an approaching car reached us. “State Police are here,” he said, tone betraying nothing of his thoughts. “You should be able to take the body in a few.”
“Right.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say, so I returned to the van and busied myself with getting the body bag unfolded just right.
• • •
By the time the State Trooper gave me the go-ahead to remove the body, I’d perfectly spread out the body bag, organized the loose change in the console, and regained my composure.
Nick and I transferred Spencer Leigh into the bag, then Trooper Hoang helped us carry it to the highway where the gurney waited. While Nick and Hoang conferred, I wheeled the gurney to the van, teeth clenched
as the cracked and pitted asphalt sent jangling vibrations through the stretcher.
Blagojevic was on his phone in his cruiser. Connor glanced up from his notes as I drew close then leaped to open the back of the van for me. He was even nice enough to help me load up the gurney, though I didn’t really need the assistance since it was designed to be pushed right into the van, with the legs folding up neatly beneath it. But I had a feeling hefting a dead body for me was Connor’s way of flirting.
“Thanks for the help,” I said then stifled a gasp at how pale he looked despite his sunburn. “Dude, are you okay?”
Sweat covered his oily face. His throat worked as he swallowed. “Feel weird all of a sudden.” His hand trembled as he pressed it to his stomach. “Must’ve eaten something . . .” His eyes rolled up, and his knees buckled.
“Shit!” I dove forward barely in time to keep his head from smacking the pavement. A shudder passed through him, and he began to convulse. “Nick!” I shrieked then tore off my jacket and stuffed it under Connor’s head.
Blagojevic bailed out of his car. “Oh fuck!”
“Ambulance left maybe ten minutes ago,” I gasped. “See if you can get them back!”
“Got it.” He keyed up his radio then barked stuff about officer down and paramedics.
Connor jerked beneath my hands, face impossibly pale, with frothy spit oozing from the corner of his mouth. I rolled him to his left side into recovery position.
Nick sprinted up, tugging on a fresh pair of gloves, and dropped to his knees beside Connor. Hoang followed, speaking urgently on his cell phone.
“What do we do?” I asked.
“We keep him from hurting himself,” Nick said tersely as he checked Connor’s pulse.
Blagojevic lowered his radio. “ETA two minutes on the ambulance.”
“How the hell could they—never mind,” Nick muttered. “Doesn’t matter as long as they get here fast. Good job using the jacket to cushion his head, Angel. What happened?”
“He helped me get the gurney into the van but all of a sudden looked pale. And was sweating buckets. Then bam, he dropped.” I shook my head. “How can he be a cop if he has epilepsy?”
“I don’t think he does, but that’s not the only cause of seizures.” Nick exhaled as Connor stopped convulsing. “His pulse is slow. Really slow.”
Blagojevic shifted from foot to foot in consternation. “I spent all damn day with him yesterday and the day before. He was fine.”
“Maybe it’s from the sun,” I said. “Bad burn and more sun today?”
“Could be,” Nick said. “Get his shirt open and a sleeve rolled up. Paramedics will probably want to start a line.”
I didn’t bother fumbling with buttons and simply ripped Connor’s shirt wide open and the front of his ballistic vest off, revealing a fish-belly-pale chest. I tore his sleeve along the seam to his bicep—and exposed a four-inch square of gauze taped onto his forearm. A tiny spot of old blood stained one side where a scratch extended beyond the edge of the bandage. Cold dread filled my gut as I stared down at the tiny line of scabs. No. There’s no way.
I peeled the gauze up, heart pounding at the sight of three deep scratches trailing from a pair of ugly bruises. Nick glanced over and breathed a curse.
