this morning after work; I thought you might come by.”
“Ah.” He released her, holding her at arm’s-length. “I wanted to, but with Rachel home . . .”
“I thought she might be here with you tonight,” Joyce said carefully. “I’d like to meet her.”
“You will.” His gaze softened. “I intend to tell her about us, don’t worry.”
“I am worried. What if she doesn’t approve?”
“Rachel is my niece,” he reminded her.
“And your only family. She might not appreciate my coming into your life just when she’s come home.”
“Rachel came home for reasons of her own, not to run my life for me.” Nathan kissed her gently. “And what’s not to like about you? You’re very nearly perfect.”
“Nearly?”
“Perfect.”
The emergency buzzer rang, and Joyce hurried down the hall to answer it, brushing her hair back from her face and hoping the flush would fade from her cheeks. She looked through the peephole; it was Sheriff Scott.
“Dr. Adams in?” he asked when she opened the door, although Nathan’s truck was in sight in the parking lot.
Joyce felt the blush creeping back into her face and avoided his knowing eyes.
“In the lab,” she said, and locked the door behind him, giving him time to get down the hall. Then she went back to the nursing station, her face averted as she passed the lab door.
“Jon,” Nathan said, “this is a surprise.”
Jon smiled faintly and continued walking around the lab, looking at the equipment, running a finger across the counter.
“Nice,” he said, and smiled, facing Nathan.
“I haven’t talked to Rachel; how did your search go?”
Jon withdrew the vial containing the blood sample and handed it to Nathan. “I need to know if this is human blood.”
“You didn’t find him?”
“No.” His eyes continued to take in the room. “But we found a clearing where the brush had been trampled down, and blood all over.”
Nathan had already begun setting up to test the sample, his actions precise, his movements economical. He crossed to a glass enclosed cabinet and unlocked it, searching the shelves for only a second before finding what he wanted.
“So he’s probably dead?”
“Probably.” He leaned against a counter. “You finished the autopsy on Louisa Ann Tyler?”
Nathan stopped his preparations. “That’s peculiar as well.”
Jon waited expectantly.
“She was dead before the car ever left the road.”
Jon straightened. “Dead of . . .”
“A broken neck, but not received in the accident. Someone broke her neck.”
“Her husband?”
Nathan shrugged. “He’s still noncommunicative.”
“So someone killed her, she didn’t break her own neck in a fall, or . . .”
“There are two very distinct bruises at the base of the skull, and along her jaw. Someone came up behind her, put his thumbs on either side of the spinal cord, and snapped her neck.” He paused. “I sent a copy of my report down to your office earlier this evening.”
“Hm? Oh, I haven’t been back to the office, I’ve just come from dropping Rachel off.”
Nathan picked up the phone and began to dial. “I’d better have her lock the doors. If Randy Cruz is dead, that means we have two murders on our hands. And Wendall Tyler, whether or not he killed his wife . . .”
“. . . probably didn’t do both.”
Joyce stood, her fingers on Wendall Tyler’s wrist, her eyes watching the seconds pass by as she counted. His pulse was even and steady, seventy-two beats per minute.
He was breathing easily, the slow rise of his chest just visible in the indirect light from the hall. She replaced his arm by his side and turned to leave.
Behind her, he sat up, his eyes wide, a cry breaking the silence.
She spun, frightened, backing toward the door.
“No! No!” the man screamed, struggling against the bedclothes, his breath ragged, gasping. Then the fear on his face turned to horror, his eyes wider still and fixed upon some distant sight, all hope gone, his
“Ah.” He released her, holding her at arm’s-length. “I wanted to, but with Rachel home . . .”
“I thought she might be here with you tonight,” Joyce said carefully. “I’d like to meet her.”
“You will.” His gaze softened. “I intend to tell her about us, don’t worry.”
“I am worried. What if she doesn’t approve?”
“Rachel is my niece,” he reminded her.
“And your only family. She might not appreciate my coming into your life just when she’s come home.”
“Rachel came home for reasons of her own, not to run my life for me.” Nathan kissed her gently. “And what’s not to like about you? You’re very nearly perfect.”
“Nearly?”
“Perfect.”
The emergency buzzer rang, and Joyce hurried down the hall to answer it, brushing her hair back from her face and hoping the flush would fade from her cheeks. She looked through the peephole; it was Sheriff Scott.
“Dr. Adams in?” he asked when she opened the door, although Nathan’s truck was in sight in the parking lot.
Joyce felt the blush creeping back into her face and avoided his knowing eyes.
“In the lab,” she said, and locked the door behind him, giving him time to get down the hall. Then she went back to the nursing station, her face averted as she passed the lab door.
“Jon,” Nathan said, “this is a surprise.”
Jon smiled faintly and continued walking around the lab, looking at the equipment, running a finger across the counter.
“Nice,” he said, and smiled, facing Nathan.
“I haven’t talked to Rachel; how did your search go?”
Jon withdrew the vial containing the blood sample and handed it to Nathan. “I need to know if this is human blood.”
“You didn’t find him?”
“No.” His eyes continued to take in the room. “But we found a clearing where the brush had been trampled down, and blood all over.”
Nathan had already begun setting up to test the sample, his actions precise, his movements economical. He crossed to a glass enclosed cabinet and unlocked it, searching the shelves for only a second before finding what he wanted.
“So he’s probably dead?”
“Probably.” He leaned against a counter. “You finished the autopsy on Louisa Ann Tyler?”
Nathan stopped his preparations. “That’s peculiar as well.”
Jon waited expectantly.
“She was dead before the car ever left the road.”
Jon straightened. “Dead of . . .”
“A broken neck, but not received in the accident. Someone broke her neck.”
“Her husband?”
Nathan shrugged. “He’s still noncommunicative.”
“So someone killed her, she didn’t break her own neck in a fall, or . . .”
“There are two very distinct bruises at the base of the skull, and along her jaw. Someone came up behind her, put his thumbs on either side of the spinal cord, and snapped her neck.” He paused. “I sent a copy of my report down to your office earlier this evening.”
“Hm? Oh, I haven’t been back to the office, I’ve just come from dropping Rachel off.”
Nathan picked up the phone and began to dial. “I’d better have her lock the doors. If Randy Cruz is dead, that means we have two murders on our hands. And Wendall Tyler, whether or not he killed his wife . . .”
“. . . probably didn’t do both.”
Joyce stood, her fingers on Wendall Tyler’s wrist, her eyes watching the seconds pass by as she counted. His pulse was even and steady, seventy-two beats per minute.
He was breathing easily, the slow rise of his chest just visible in the indirect light from the hall. She replaced his arm by his side and turned to leave.
Behind her, he sat up, his eyes wide, a cry breaking the silence.
She spun, frightened, backing toward the door.
“No! No!” the man screamed, struggling against the bedclothes, his breath ragged, gasping. Then the fear on his face turned to horror, his eyes wider still and fixed upon some distant sight, all hope gone, his
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