Fatal Connections

Chapter 24

In my rush to escape the charming atmosphere of The Void, I had made a hasty exit from that neighborhood and drove into one that was unfamiliar. I pulled over again to consult Waze on my phone. I enlarged and shrank the image this way and that, and after sufficient squinting, managed to find a back way to I-95. I knew I was in Baltimore County, so I'd go south on the interstate. Now, if I only knew what day it was. That answer was on my phone, too. Oddly, the radio beat the phone to it, when the DJ announced that it was Two-fer Tuesday.

I cracked open my windows again. I needed the air. I tried to plan my next steps while weaving my way through the back streets. If it was Tuesday, 72 hours had passed since I discovered the Harcourts. Was the autopsy report done? What had forensics found? For all I knew, they might have caught a suspect while I was cooped up in the hospital. And why was Nick unreachable?

Which reminded me. I needed to make sure to identify Nick as an emergency contact on my phone. That was the last time I wanted to wake up anywhere to the sound of my mother's voice.

As I sped down I-95, my cell phone dinged an incoming message. I glanced at the phone and saw that it was a text message from Nick. With nothing but guardrail to my left, I resisted the urge to swerve across three lanes of traffic to pull over and read it. I don't text and drive. It's illegal, and it's crazy anyway. So I took my time making my way toward the right lane and into a visitor center lot where I could stop and read the message. Just knowing that Nick responded inspired me to do the rational thing.

Once I had backed the car into an out-of-the-way spot, I grabbed the phone. Nick had texted: I'm fine. Slept really late. Talk later? I had so many questions—some with potentially complicated answers. In short, this was important enough to merit a real conversation, instead of a frantic exchange of terse, digital phrases. So I texted back: K. And did my best to avoid anticipating the worst.

As I headed toward home, I mentally shuffled through all the variables that had emerged from my inquiries. My talk with Amy had produced a wealth of information, maybe even an overabundance. Which did nothing to get rid of that pounding inside my skull.

Dr. Sharma had prescribed rest, but that wasn't in the cards. As far as pain went, my options were limited to over-the-counter or registering for medicinal cannabis. I had been putting off that last one, even though it was legal in Maryland. I wished the feds would follow suit. And I had too much to do, too much at stake to simply take two weeks off. Besides, lying around bores me silly. Work is my best therapy, as long as I pace myself.

Once I got home, it might make sense for me to sit down and list the names Amy had given me, organizing them as I went and performing a bit of triage on the results.

In the meantime, I zoomed down I-95, listening to an old tune by Simple Minds. In the interest of not getting a speeding ticket, something I couldn't afford in any sense of that word, I kept to the right lane. Cars passed me, some of them like I was standing still. Morons.

But I let go of that thought a nanosecond later, choosing instead to focus on the music and the feel of cool air on my face. I tried to set aside all thoughts of the Harcourts' murder, Nick's talk with the police, Troy Fairchild, the elastic Mr. Adams, my various aches and pains, and instead, speculate about what might be in store for me.