and that what Mel was telling her might in fact be true. “Begin at the beginning,” she said, practical as ever. And so Mel did.
She told her story from A to Z and then retold it as she recalled extra little details, like the scarlet pool of blood under the dead body; the yellow lumps of flesh; the light going out; the way the man had punched her; being forced to drive across the submerged bridge and not knowing if they were going to make it. . . .
“I could
almost
believe you,” Harriet said when she had finished, “except nobody else was found in the wrecked truck. There was no man. And no gun. You were alone. The rescue squad had to use the Jaws of Life to cut you out of there. Look at it this way, Mel,” she added soberly, “you’re lucky to be alive, so forget all this bad-dream stuff. You’re just confused from the concussion.”
“Dammit, I did
not
dream it.” Mel was already out of bed and rummaging in the closet, where her duffel bag, also rescued from the truck, was stashed. Flinging off her hospital gown, she dragged on her underpants and sweats and thrust her feet into her sneakers. She turned to Harriet, who was watching her, her mouth agape. “Okay, let’s go,” she said.
“But
where
are we going? You’re sick, you’re injured, you’re medicated. You only just woke from the concussion. The doctor will kill me if I let you move out of this room. In fact, I’m going to call him right now, this minute. . . .”
“You do that.” Mel was already through the door and running, in a rather wobbly fashion, down the shiny polished linoleum corridor. “I’m checking out of here.”
Grabbing the duffel, Harriet puffed after her. “But
where
are we going?”
Mel half turned. She gave her a withering glance and said, “To the cops of course,” as though there were no other course of action she could be taking.
The medics fought her on it, but Mel checked herself out of that hospital and, with Harriet at the wheel of a rental car, went to police head-quarters.
“I’m sure I needn’t tell you what happened there,” she said now to Marco Camelia.
“They told you you were crazy?”
She leaned closer across the table, looking into his eyes. “Do you think I’m nuts?”
He shrugged. “I think you tell a good story, Miss Zelda.”
Her gaze turned to a glare. “ ‘Melba,’ to you.”
“Oh, excuse me. Miss Melba. So? What did the cops say if they didn’t tell you you were crazy?”
Her shoulders slumped and she stared down at the table with a puzzled frown. “They told me that no one had died in the storm. No bodies had been found. That the area had gotten off lightly, apart from a few road accidents, like mine.
“I told them where I thought the beach house was, that there was definitely a body there. They said they knew the place, it belonged to Ed Vincent, the real estate magnate. Then they did me a big favor and called him. The housekeeper answered. She told them everything was in order, no bodies, no blood, everything was secure. And that though Mr. Vincent usually flew down for the weekend, this time because of the storm he had not. He hadn’t even been there. Nor had she. No one had.”
16
Walking out of the Charleston police station with Harriet, Mel wondered if she really had just dreamed it, if this was truly a figment of her fevered imagination, the dreams of a bad concussion. After all, she had hit a tree head-on. . . .
Back in the rental car, she slumped wearily into her seat, eyes closed—then suddenly the smell of stale tobacco was in her nostrils again— the smell of the killer’s hands. She felt the cold hard steel of the gun at her head, heard him say “Drive . . .” in that faintly guttural accent.
Her eyes popped open again and she sat up. “Dreams don’t make you remember the way things
smelled,
the way they
felt
. I did
not
dream this. I could not have.”
She scrambled her long length out of the tiny car and sprinted around to the driver’s
She told her story from A to Z and then retold it as she recalled extra little details, like the scarlet pool of blood under the dead body; the yellow lumps of flesh; the light going out; the way the man had punched her; being forced to drive across the submerged bridge and not knowing if they were going to make it. . . .
“I could
almost
believe you,” Harriet said when she had finished, “except nobody else was found in the wrecked truck. There was no man. And no gun. You were alone. The rescue squad had to use the Jaws of Life to cut you out of there. Look at it this way, Mel,” she added soberly, “you’re lucky to be alive, so forget all this bad-dream stuff. You’re just confused from the concussion.”
“Dammit, I did
not
dream it.” Mel was already out of bed and rummaging in the closet, where her duffel bag, also rescued from the truck, was stashed. Flinging off her hospital gown, she dragged on her underpants and sweats and thrust her feet into her sneakers. She turned to Harriet, who was watching her, her mouth agape. “Okay, let’s go,” she said.
“But
where
are we going? You’re sick, you’re injured, you’re medicated. You only just woke from the concussion. The doctor will kill me if I let you move out of this room. In fact, I’m going to call him right now, this minute. . . .”
“You do that.” Mel was already through the door and running, in a rather wobbly fashion, down the shiny polished linoleum corridor. “I’m checking out of here.”
Grabbing the duffel, Harriet puffed after her. “But
where
are we going?”
Mel half turned. She gave her a withering glance and said, “To the cops of course,” as though there were no other course of action she could be taking.
The medics fought her on it, but Mel checked herself out of that hospital and, with Harriet at the wheel of a rental car, went to police head-quarters.
“I’m sure I needn’t tell you what happened there,” she said now to Marco Camelia.
“They told you you were crazy?”
She leaned closer across the table, looking into his eyes. “Do you think I’m nuts?”
He shrugged. “I think you tell a good story, Miss Zelda.”
Her gaze turned to a glare. “ ‘Melba,’ to you.”
“Oh, excuse me. Miss Melba. So? What did the cops say if they didn’t tell you you were crazy?”
Her shoulders slumped and she stared down at the table with a puzzled frown. “They told me that no one had died in the storm. No bodies had been found. That the area had gotten off lightly, apart from a few road accidents, like mine.
“I told them where I thought the beach house was, that there was definitely a body there. They said they knew the place, it belonged to Ed Vincent, the real estate magnate. Then they did me a big favor and called him. The housekeeper answered. She told them everything was in order, no bodies, no blood, everything was secure. And that though Mr. Vincent usually flew down for the weekend, this time because of the storm he had not. He hadn’t even been there. Nor had she. No one had.”
16
Walking out of the Charleston police station with Harriet, Mel wondered if she really had just dreamed it, if this was truly a figment of her fevered imagination, the dreams of a bad concussion. After all, she had hit a tree head-on. . . .
Back in the rental car, she slumped wearily into her seat, eyes closed—then suddenly the smell of stale tobacco was in her nostrils again— the smell of the killer’s hands. She felt the cold hard steel of the gun at her head, heard him say “Drive . . .” in that faintly guttural accent.
Her eyes popped open again and she sat up. “Dreams don’t make you remember the way things
smelled,
the way they
felt
. I did
not
dream this. I could not have.”
She scrambled her long length out of the tiny car and sprinted around to the driver’s
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