the woman’s frozen body shone back at him bluish white, her flesh waxen. She was on her side. Head down. Knees and arms curled in. Like the tuck position divers squeeze into after they leap from their boards. Yet even in this position there was something familiar about her.
He flipped on the Maglite and suddenly found himself looking at a body he knew better than his own. Sandy. His faithless bitch of an ex-wife. The one who’d walked out not only on their failed marriage but also on their only child. How many times had he silently wished her dead? Now, somehow, she was. Dead. Frozen. Stuffed in a trunk. What in hell was she doing here? It made no sense.
He moved the beam to the thick waves of dark hair covering her face. It was longer than he remembered, but he hadn’t seen her in a while. He knew he shouldn’t touch any part of her body, not even the hair, until Terri got here. Too bad. Jacobi had his pictures, and there was no way he wasn’t going to look. He felt around in his pockets for the plastic ballpoint he was sure was there. Grasping it by one end, he slid it under her hair, wondering briefly if, like her limbs, the hair would be frozen stiff. It wasn’t. He lifted it off her face, squatted down, and shined the light in. Couldn’t see much, but it was enough. The curve of her lip. The tilt of her nose. Worst of all, one lifeless blue eye staring out. Still mocking him even in death.
‘McCabe, are you alright?’
Maggie’s voice. He didn’t answer. Just raised his left hand and waved her off. The rational side of his brain told him the body couldn’t be Sandy. But if not Sandy, who or what was it? Some kind of delusion? Brought on by what? Too much booze? Too much emotion? Maybe he was going nuts. In his dreams he’d seen her dead often enough. In some of those dreams he even killed her himself. But always with a gun. Never like this. Never without marks. Never left her to freeze in the trunk of a car. Not even a BMW. Though, to be sure, Sandy would rather be found in a Beemer than a Ford.
He wondered again about calling Richard Wolfe, the psychiatrist. Maybe it was time. He’d first seen Wolfe a little over a year ago, right after the end of the Lucas Kane affair, after Casey’s first one-on-one encounter with her mother in more than three years. It was Kyra who urged him to go. He’d been getting the shakes and having trouble sleeping, and when he did sleep, his sleep was disturbed by violent nightmares that more often than not included Sandy. Kyra thought he might be having a nervous breakdown. Wolfe told him no, it wasn’t a breakdown. Just the aftermath of a high level of stress combined with anxiety about Casey and Sandy getting together again. He prescribed Xanax, which seemed to help, and though Wolfe recommended continuing therapy, either with him or someone else, McCabe decided that was that. He wouldn’t take it any further.
‘McCabe. You feeling okay?’
‘Yeah. Fine.’
‘You don’t look fine.’ Maggie was directly behind him. If he moved too fast he’d knock her right in the water. Once again, he felt her hand on his shoulder. ‘Can you talk to me?’ She was using her gentle voice. So effective in interrogations. All the bad guys fell for it. ‘McCabe?’
He didn’t answer. Instead, he examined the body one more time, finishing up by running the Maglite along her leg, searching for the small mole on the outside of her knee that should have been there. It wasn’t. At least not where he could see it.
No, this wasn’t Sandy. He was sure of it now. Just someone who looked like her. To prove it, even to the doubting little voice that inhabited his brain, he took out his cell and punched in her number in New York. It rang. Once. Twice. Four times. Hello. You’ve reached the Ingrams. Sandy and Peter. Please leave a message, and we’ll get back to you as soon as we can.
‘Sandy, it’s me. McCabe. Call back as soon as you can. It’s important.’ Then, as an
He flipped on the Maglite and suddenly found himself looking at a body he knew better than his own. Sandy. His faithless bitch of an ex-wife. The one who’d walked out not only on their failed marriage but also on their only child. How many times had he silently wished her dead? Now, somehow, she was. Dead. Frozen. Stuffed in a trunk. What in hell was she doing here? It made no sense.
He moved the beam to the thick waves of dark hair covering her face. It was longer than he remembered, but he hadn’t seen her in a while. He knew he shouldn’t touch any part of her body, not even the hair, until Terri got here. Too bad. Jacobi had his pictures, and there was no way he wasn’t going to look. He felt around in his pockets for the plastic ballpoint he was sure was there. Grasping it by one end, he slid it under her hair, wondering briefly if, like her limbs, the hair would be frozen stiff. It wasn’t. He lifted it off her face, squatted down, and shined the light in. Couldn’t see much, but it was enough. The curve of her lip. The tilt of her nose. Worst of all, one lifeless blue eye staring out. Still mocking him even in death.
‘McCabe, are you alright?’
Maggie’s voice. He didn’t answer. Just raised his left hand and waved her off. The rational side of his brain told him the body couldn’t be Sandy. But if not Sandy, who or what was it? Some kind of delusion? Brought on by what? Too much booze? Too much emotion? Maybe he was going nuts. In his dreams he’d seen her dead often enough. In some of those dreams he even killed her himself. But always with a gun. Never like this. Never without marks. Never left her to freeze in the trunk of a car. Not even a BMW. Though, to be sure, Sandy would rather be found in a Beemer than a Ford.
He wondered again about calling Richard Wolfe, the psychiatrist. Maybe it was time. He’d first seen Wolfe a little over a year ago, right after the end of the Lucas Kane affair, after Casey’s first one-on-one encounter with her mother in more than three years. It was Kyra who urged him to go. He’d been getting the shakes and having trouble sleeping, and when he did sleep, his sleep was disturbed by violent nightmares that more often than not included Sandy. Kyra thought he might be having a nervous breakdown. Wolfe told him no, it wasn’t a breakdown. Just the aftermath of a high level of stress combined with anxiety about Casey and Sandy getting together again. He prescribed Xanax, which seemed to help, and though Wolfe recommended continuing therapy, either with him or someone else, McCabe decided that was that. He wouldn’t take it any further.
‘McCabe. You feeling okay?’
‘Yeah. Fine.’
‘You don’t look fine.’ Maggie was directly behind him. If he moved too fast he’d knock her right in the water. Once again, he felt her hand on his shoulder. ‘Can you talk to me?’ She was using her gentle voice. So effective in interrogations. All the bad guys fell for it. ‘McCabe?’
He didn’t answer. Instead, he examined the body one more time, finishing up by running the Maglite along her leg, searching for the small mole on the outside of her knee that should have been there. It wasn’t. At least not where he could see it.
No, this wasn’t Sandy. He was sure of it now. Just someone who looked like her. To prove it, even to the doubting little voice that inhabited his brain, he took out his cell and punched in her number in New York. It rang. Once. Twice. Four times. Hello. You’ve reached the Ingrams. Sandy and Peter. Please leave a message, and we’ll get back to you as soon as we can.
‘Sandy, it’s me. McCabe. Call back as soon as you can. It’s important.’ Then, as an
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