Secrets to the Grave

91

“She’s drifting in and out,” Hicks said as they met at the elevators near the ICU. “She fights for it, she’s with it for a few seconds, and then she goes back under.”

“Has she said anything?” Dixon asked.

“Not that makes any sense. She mumbles when she’s out. Stuff like ‘stop it, go away, leave me alone.’”

“I wonder who she’s talking to?” Mendez asked. “Her assailant? She hasn’t mentioned a name?”

“No.”

“Is her family here?” Dixon asked.

“They left to go have lunch.”

She looked like hell. The rat bites had scabbed over and the bruises were in full bloom. Somehow Mendez figured she would have thought she looked pretty good compared to the alternative. She should have been dead. The shot that had been meant to kill her had passed through her shoulder doing the least amount of damage possible. She had been plucky enough to survive on garbage and tenacious enough to get herself up a ladder with only two good limbs.

Vince was sitting beside her, waiting. He had done most of the talking the day they had interviewed her. His voice was strong and distinctive. If Gina was going to connect with any of them, it would be with him.

“How’s Anne?” Dixon asked.

“Sore, tired, upset,” he said.

“That kid’s just bad,” Mendez said. “My mother would say he’s the son of the devil.”

“I don’t think even the devil would claim him,” Vince said. “Twelve years old and he’s done. He’s broken. What are we supposed to do with him?”

“Lock him up and throw away the key,” Dixon said. “How’s the little girl? She was there.”

“Seeing Dennis trying to stab Anne scared her pretty badly. On the upside for us, it seemed to shake loose some memories. Still no name for the killer, but she’s closer to having access to it in her mind—if it’s in there.”

Gina Kemmer stirred and mumbled, “Knock it off.”

Vince leaned closer to her. “Are you talking to us, Gina? It’s Vince Leone. Do you remember me? I came to your house a couple of days ago.”

Kemmer stirred and whimpered.

“Can you open your eyes and talk to us, Gina?”

“No,” she said, her voice small and weak.

“Sure you can,” Vince said. “You crawled out of a well with one arm and one leg. If you can do that, you can open your eyes and talk to us. Come on. You can do it. You have to fight for it, Gina.”

“No, Ma-ris-sa. Stop.”

Vince bobbed his eyebrows. “Is my voice getting higher?”

Mendez laughed. “If she thinks you’re Marissa, she must be hallucinating.”

“Hey, you’ve never seen me in a skirt.”

“Ay, yi, yi, I could go blind just thinking about that,” Mendez said.

“Come on, Gina,” Vince said. “You’re missing all the fun here. Open your eyes and talk to us.”

Mendez thought he could see her struggling to follow Vince’s instructions. Her brow knitted. A frown curved her mouth.

“Thatta girl,” Vince said. “You’re almost with us, Gina. Come on.”

She lifted her eyelids as if they weighed a hundred pounds apiece.

“Hey, there she is!” Vince said. “These are a bunch of ugly mugs to wake up to, huh?”

She parted her lips as if they had been stuck together. Mendez took a glass of water from the bed table and slipped the straw between her lips. She drew on it enough to get a little bit of moisture.

“You’ve had a rough few days,” Vince said. “Do you remember?”

She nodded slightly.

“Do you remember that someone shot you, Gina?”

She nodded again. Just that much effort was wearing her out. Her respiration had picked up a beat and seemed a bit labored.

“Do you remember who that was, Gina?” Vince asked.

She nodded again, then visibly worked at gathering her energy to say the name.

“Mark.”