Chapter 8
“Peta agrees about the eyes, said that it would be very unlikely at that time of death to have such rapid change in width,” Byron said as he closed the door behind him and they entered their room from the hallway, “not that she officially said that, mind you, and she did hedge it by saying that the human body is infinitely strange and almost nothing is actually a hard and fast rule.”
“Of course, no records and no promises,” Abigail said, trying to smile but ending up with something closer to a grimace, “and what about the paper?”
“She wants to see it in person to make that call,” Byron replied, “which, considering she didn’t want anything to do with it before, I think she likes you, and you’ve managed to intrigue her.”
This time, Abigail could find the smile. It felt oddly like a personal success to get the eccentric and beautiful medical examiner interested in her theory—not to mention being liked!
Abigail’s phone trilled, it was Cleo calling.
“Hi, Cleo, you’re on speaker,” Abigail said, “what’s up? Heard from Bee?”
“No,” she said, sounding defeated, “not a peep.”
Damn.
“That sucks hun,” Abigail said, “you calling for company?”
“Kinda,” Cleo replied, “any updates?”
Abigail snorted a bitter laugh and recounted the dramatic happenings from the last hour or so, pausing to answer Cleo’s questions, which ranged from expected to slightly unhinged.
When she finally caught Cleo up, Abigail felt exhausted by the story and glanced at her watch. It was way too early in the day to take a nap—or need one.
“Wow,” Cleo said, “that is… Wild. So, you’re convinced, right? Not Jacob?”
“Not Jacob, and I know how paranoid this sounds, but I’m also convinced that it was an intentional cover-up,” she said, noticing how Byron’s head snapped up at her words.
He was paying attention now.
“Cover-up? You haven’t told me you think it’s a cover-up?”
Abigail shrugged. “I kind of only just came to the conclusion—but, like, what are the most easily recognizable features of someone? Their eyes and their mouth. Those were the only photos that look glossy, have a different color cast to them, and the skin…”
It looked like it still had blood in it, Abigail thought but couldn’t bring herself to say.
“Isn’t quite pale enough, you think?” Byron finished for her, bobbing his head from side to side, “Sure, I can see that. You think whoever was making it look like he was dead took the pictures and got the coroner to sub them in?”
“I mean, yeah, that makes sense, right? I’d love to have a chat with Mr. Henry Whittaker.”
“Wait, did you say Whittaker?” Cleo asked suddenly, “Henry Whittaker?”
Byron and Abigail’s eyes met and she could see the spark of curiosity there.
“I did, why?”
“His name!” Cleo said, but her voice sounded far off and slightly garbled, “hang on.”
There was much shuffling and a few banging and crashing sounds before Cleo came back.
“Henry Whitaker, he’s on one of the lists,” Cleo said, “one of the first.”
“The coroner who performed Jacob’s autopsy is on one of the coded lists we found in my father’s secret safe?” Abigail said in disbelief.
“Yeah, twice actually,” Cleo said, “once in the main list, and one with the address 17 King’s Hill Road written next to it.”
“That... that cannot be a coincidence,” Byron said, “I’m a big believer in coincidence—the universe is weird—but that? No, it can’t be.”
“Where’s 17 King’s Hill Road?”
“Town called Rhinebeck, it’s out in Dutchess County,” Byron said, looking up from his phone, where Abigail could see the map he had pulled up.
“How far?”
“About two hours, a hundred miles,” Byron answered.
“Do we have access to a car?” she asked, but he was already switching screens to a text conversation that bore Peta’s name at the top.
“We will do,” he said off-handedly.
“What!? You’re going? It was twenty years ago!” Cleo exclaimed, “Are you sure it’s safe?”
“It’s all we have, Cleo,” Abigail replied, “and now that I know I’m right about Jacob? I can’t ignore this… it’s... too weird. I have to know.”
She could hear her friend swallow hard. Down the phone line, it sounded more like a gulp from an old cartoon, and Abigail was struck with the strangest urge to laugh.
“Okay,” Cleo said, “but you keep your phone on and you text me every hour... or I swear, I’ll call the cops.”
“Agreed,” Abigail said, “I promise.”
***
It turned out that Cleo wanted to be texted more often, like every ten minutes, but Abigail didn’t mind. She could just imagine her friend pacing up and down the hallways, frustrated at being left behind and so distant from everything that was going on. It would have driven Abigail crazy to feel so powerless, so texting Cleo on and off was a small price to pay to keep her calm and in the loop.
What had truly surprised her was how little convincing she’d had to do—none, in fact—for Byron to be on board. He’d been on the phone with Peta for less than five minutes when he announced that she was sending a car for them, and less than an hour later, they had piled into the back of a black town car that was fancier than Abigail had been in since her company had sent her with the Exec Team to Macau.
Nearly two hours later, they were crawling through the beautiful scenery of Rhinebeck.
“This place is stunning,” she commented as they passed into town. Small shops and bustling cafés, with flowering plants in front of them, dotted along the neat streets.
“It’s definitely picturesque,” Byron replied, looking up from his phone and surveying the scene. “Now, it’s pretty unlikely he’s going to still live here, but regardless, we need to be subtle.”
Abigail pursed her lips and gave him a mock glare. “Ohhh, so I shouldn’t butt in before he says hello and ask if faking coroner’s reports was his primary activity or if it was a one-off kind of felony?”
He shook his head, the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth, “Yeah—don’t do that. But also, let’s not...”
Byron glanced at the driver in the mirror who was pointedly looking straight ahead.
“Not be too obvious about our total lack of legitimate reason to be stalking this guy and asking impertinent questions?” she suggested.
“Helpful,” he said, “but yeah...”
His distraction was odd. He hadn’t been this offhand with her since he first returned the photos he had taken off with to show a friend. The connection sparked in her mind, and she wondered if he was still filling that person in on their progress. Did this have something to do with the work he was involved in before he left law enforcement?
She, too, glanced at the driver; it was not the time to ask.
The car pulled away from the main streets and started to wind around some narrower residential streets.
“Excuse me, Sir?” the driver said, “my GPS is giving me mixed results, telling me to loop around, but there is nowhere to do that.”
“It’s all right,” Byron replied, “I can see number thirteen, so it must be around here somewhere. Find somewhere convenient and wait for us?”
“Sure thing,” the driver said with a smile.
Byron seemed twitchy, Abigail noticed. There was something about the way he was looking around—almost nervously. They climbed from the car and it quietly wHooshed away from them, leaving her feeling oddly exposed. the street was quiet, with no one out and about around them or dogs in the front yard. It was a little eerie... or was she just letting Byron’s weird mood get to her?
“This way?” she asked, gesturing towards a mailbox she could see a large green number fifteen painted on.
“Yeah...” Byron said, though he seemed distracted as he looked around.
“You all right?” she asked, concerned.
“Yeah, I’m fine, sorry,” he said, but he did not seem fine or sorry.
They walked silently, and Abigail tried not to obsess over how strange that was in itself. They had shared quiet and even silent moments before and it was rarely awkward, but this felt tense—like they were about to burst into an argument.
She stopped suddenly at number nineteen.
“Uh...” she said, pointing to the mailbox in front of her.
“No mailbox...” he said, turning to survey the houses, “no, wait... no number seventeen.”
They looked at each other, confused expressions on both their faces. His expression, though, was more than confused—it was worried.
“Maybe that? It kind of looks like an extension but it doesn’t actually touch the neighboring house.”
Abigail pointed at the kind of rickety looking building that did not seem like it was stable enough to be two stories high.
“Maybe,” he said, “there’s clearly a path from the road, so...”
As they made their way up the flattened grass towards the door, she felt Byron slow and pull back. Suddenly he stopped about halfway to the door.
“No, not it. I think we should go,” he said, grabbing her arm and tugging her back towards the road.
“What? We came all this way—”
“We don’t want to disturb whoever lives here, it’s rude and it’s probably not even connected to anything—”
“It’s just a question, I’m sure they won’t mind,” Abigail protested, “also, ow, let go of my arm.”
He dropped her elbow. “Sorry, did I hurt you?”
“Hence the ‘ow’...” Abigail said pointedly. It hadn’t hurt a lot, but she didn’t like the action or his sudden shift in demeanor. “What the hell is going on?”
“Nothing,” he said, “I just think we should go.”
He looked serious, and his eyes were pleading with her.
“Okay,” she said, nodding towards the car that was pulling towards them, “looks like he couldn’t find a parking spot anyway—it’s probably all permitted.”
Byron nodded and gestured towards the car, “Yeah, probably. Come on, let’s go get something to eat and head home.”
The town car pulled silently up to the curb and Abigail reached for the door handle before noticing that the window looked different—there was no little silver sticker ringed with stars and bearing the company’s name.
“Uh... By—” she turned to point it out but her words were swallowed up by fear as she saw Byron with his hands up in supplication—just like he had done with the mugger in the subway.
“Turn around slowly, ma’am,” a deep voice said from behind her—not Byron’s voice.
“Okay,” she whispered, her mind flashing back to the gun that had been in the mugger’s pocket.
She tried to catch Byron’s eye as she turned, but he was leveling his glare on whoever was behind them. The man was tall, slender, and wearing a bulky suit jacket that did a good job at concealing the holster on his hip. The holster that, thankfully, still had his gun inside of it, but his hand was resting on it almost casually.
“What brought you here today?” he asked.
Abigail’s eyes flicked to Byron, who opened his mouth to answer.
“Not you, her.”
The guy was smiling but it was an empty smile—his eyes were cold and calculating.
“I... don’t understand,” she said, “what do you want?”
“I want you to answer the question,” he said calmly.
“What’s going on?” Abigail asked quietly, hearing her voice crack. “I don’t understand.”
A flicker of something on his face preceded him, lifting his other hand, the one not on the holster, to his ear.
“All right, go,” he said to the air, then turning his eyes back to her, he continued, “Apologies, ma’am. I’m just doing my job here. Get in the car, please.”
“Not fricken’ likely,” Byron said with a snort, “who the hell are you? Where’s your badge?”
The door of the town car opened and a voice rang out.
“Oh come off your high horse, Byron, and get in.”
Nauseous energy swirled around her stomach as Byron turned and glared into the town car.
“Seriously? You?” he said coldly, “of course it’s you... Abby, it’s fine, get in.”
He slid into the car and she was left standing on the street, nauseous and confused. The man stepped towards her.
“Go on, ma’am, nothing to worry about,” he said.
“That’s not very convincing,” Abigail said as movement in one of the upstairs windows caught her eye.
She felt her mouth open as her brain registered the features of a woman: pale skin and dark hair. The man in front of her snapped his attention to where she was looking, but the face had disappeared.
“All right, I’m getting in!” she said, following Byron’s path into the car.
The house was twenty feet back, and the window was high; she could be jumping to conclusions...
Was she seeing things, or could that have been Bee?