Marshall nodded. "If you think you could."
I stepped toward him, unaware of how I moved because it all seemed like someone else's bad dream. Vernell was dead?
My mind flashed on Vernell holding Sheila and dancing around the delivery room in the seconds after she was born, smiling, tears rolling down his thin cheeks. Then I saw him out in the backyard at our first house, holding a green garden hose up in the air, his thumb over the nozzle. The water shot up, arcing and falling down around him and three-year-old Sheila, and they laughed and laughed as the sun hit the water and created a rainbow.
Not Vernell. Not that Vernell.
I didn't say a word to Jack. I forgot about him. I couldn't hold more than Vernell in my head. I didn't realize he'd let go of my arm or that Marshall had taken it, until Marshall was helping me into his unmarked squad car. What I was aware of was the growing pain in my chest, the way my heart brimmed with a sadness so utterly deep that it filled my lungs and took my breath away. Vernell.
Marshall stuck a blue light up on the roof and took off. It takes fifteen minutes to cross town and hit the airport. Marshall made it in less than ten. We didn't speak. I stared out the passenger-side window, wishing it would rain, and surprised that it didn't. Somehow rain would've been appropriate. Mama used to say rain was how God washed away his disappointment. I just knew it would take more than my tears to grieve for Vernell.
We raced across lonely Bryan Boulevard, streaking from one streetlight to the next, passing through gray-white spots of light that became a strobe of pain-filled awareness.
When we pulled up into the airport and took the turn to extended-stay parking, the dark night was suddenly filled with explosions of blue flashing lights. The entire deck was sealed off, with officers directing cars away and sealing off the crime scene area. My heart was beating in my throat and I was aware of not being able to catch my breath.
Weathers paused briefly, rolled down his window, and spoke to the patrol officer. I didn't listen. I was staring straight ahead at Vernell's shiny white pickup. They had set giant lamps up beside the truck and several technicians seemed to be hovering, along with a blonde in a flappy black trenchcoat. She looked over at our car, pushed a frizzy lock of hair out of her eyes and motioned impatiently.
Marshall Weathers slapped the car into drive and pulled neatly to the side, away from the crime scene tape, just on the shadowy edge of the parking deck.
"Okay, Maggie," he said, his voice soft, "wait here. I want to check it out first. I'll come back and get you when we're ready."
He pushed the door open and stepped out into the light. I sat there, numbly watching him take twenty steps before something in me churned and I was out of the car, following him. I had to know. I had to know now, when he knew, before another minute passed.
Weathers had reached the blonde. Her dark eyes flashed from his face to mine, frowning as she clocked an intruder. She jerked her head in my direction. Weathers whipped around and started toward me.
"Maggie, you need to wait."
"No I don't."
"Detective, who is this?" She was a tall, thickset woman who wore stockings and running shoes. I caught a glimpse of a paisley polyester shirt-dress peaking out from the all-business black trenchcoat. She'd missed a button at the collar, making her neckline look loose and rumpled. I figured she was that ambiguous age between forty-five and sixty. Her hands were big, clutching a metal clipboard.
"I'm Maggie Reid," I said, sticking out my hand, forcing her to acknowledge me. "That's my ex-husband's truck you're examining."
She took my hand and softened. I revised her age downward as I stepped close enough to realize she was tired, not old.
"I'm Kay Edwards," she said, "medical examiner for Guilford County."
"I want to see him," I said. I didn't feel anything but cold inside. My feelings had retreated to a box, contained for later.
Kay Edwards looked past me to Marshall Weathers. He moved his head to the left, as if he were passing the decision on to her.
"All right, Mrs. Reid," she said, and I didn't correct her. "If you can walk up to the truck without touching him or anything else, we'll go."
Marshall stepped toward me, standing close, hovering. I held my head up, took a deep breath, and started toward the truck. If I prayed, it wasn't conscious. Instead, I probably did what I always do when I'm in a fix: summon Mama and her strength.
The technicians backed away. Vernell's passenger-side door hung open, the seat pulled up and away to reveal a pair of legs, curled up and shoved down behind the seats in the tiny rear cab. Vernell's workboots, untied. Vernell's blue twill workpants, the ones he wore when he wanted to prove to his employees that he was still just good ol' Vernell.
My body went still as the medical examiner led me closer, pulling a white sheet away from the upper half of the body.
"Is this your husband, Mrs. Reid?" she asked.
"Yes," I whispered, a sob catching in my throat. There was blood everywhere. Blood and stuff I don't want to mention. Someone had shot Vernell at point-blank range, must have, the back half of his head was missing and his face was almost unrecognizable. His skin was a waxy yellow and he looked dirty. I forced myself to examine him. I was making him dead in my mind, making myself accept the reality by studying him dead. Then I saw it.
"Maybe it is," I said, my voice rasping out like a stranger's. "Except, Vernell has a mustache and it's missing."
Of course, my brain was telling me that mustaches don't disappear, but I couldn't quite put it together that a body in Vernell's clothing, minus a mustache, could possibly not be Vernell.
"Does your husband have any identifying marks on his body?" Dr. Edwards asked.
"Just the eagle tattoo on his chest," I said.
Edwards leaned into the backseat of the cab and gently unbuttoned the man's shirt. She motioned me closer. I stepped in and peered over her shoulder. I sighed, turned, and threw up, right there on the concrete.
Chapter Six
Cops have a way of taking care of you and backing off, all at the same time. When I threw up, Marshall Weathers whipped a square of white handkerchief from his pocket, handed it to me, and went right into his interrogation.
"You have no idea who that is?" he asked. "You've never seen him before? Think. Never?"
Cameras were flashing again, zooming in on the victim's naked chest. He didn't so much as have one curly hair on it, and there was definitely no tattoo. I was awash with relief and horror. Who was this man and where was Vernell? Furthermore, why was he wearing Vernell's clothes? Was Vernell wearing his?
Dr. Edwards pulled Marshall aside, talking in a low, urgent undertone that I couldn't quite catch. They seemed to have forgotten me, so I sidled closer.
"That would put the time of death somewhere between twenty-four and thirty-six hours ago," I heard her say. Weathers muttered something to which Dr. Edwards replied, "Maybe a thirty-eight. I don't know yet."
If another officer hadn't walked up, I might've gone home with more information, but as soon as the officer arrived, they noticed me.
"Maggie, I'm sorry," Weathers said. "I'll have someone take you back. I'll catch up with you later." I was in the way. "Will Sheila be home when you get in?" His way of seeing where I'd be and when.
"No, she's staying with a friend for the night. She won't be home until after school tomorrow."
"Well," he said slowly, "I'll catch up with you if I need to. I've got to get back to this here." He nodded toward the truck. Sixteen minutes later I was standing on Jack's loading dock, dumped without a backward glance by a tall, bald-headed cop who seemed to spend more time on his cell phone talking to his girlfriend than he did listening to his radio calls.