Where All the Dead Lie

CHAPTER THREE

When they’d arrived at Baptist, Taylor had watched an older couple get out of a car in the handicap space, two tiny, shriveled beings, male and female, showing up for an appointment. It had made her sad, the parallels between them-old and young, both hurt and looking to be fixed. Taylor knew her odds were better, but she couldn’t help but feel that this was what she had to look forward to. The romantics of growing old with someone were shattered by the realities of the flesh incrementally dying.

But leaving the hospital, she wasn’t feeling as pessimistic. As annoyed as she was, with both Baldwin and the doctor, she couldn’t help but feel buoyed by her appointment. Having a plan of attack was eminently preferable to this constant sitting and waiting.

“Hungry?” Baldwin asked.

She nodded. She was starving. She wrote Prince’s.

“Hot chicken? At 9:00 in the morning?”

Her mouth started to water at the mere thought. When she was coming up on the force, they ate at Prince’s almost every night shift, right around 3:00 a.m. Ridiculously hot fried chicken, full of spices and peppers, a true Nashville delicacy. It brought tears to your eyes. She’d seen more than one tough cop use the spices in the chicken to cover real tears after a particularly nasty night.

Baldwin laughed briefly. “Prince’s it is.” He turned right onto Charlotte. She stared up the hill, wishing she could go straight to the CJC right now, announce herself and jump on the closest case. Commander Huston wouldn’t like it. She’d given strict instructions about Taylor’s time off. Everyone was coddling her, when in truth a little action might shake things loose. She was mentally stable, the wounds were healed, the headaches were manageable, most of the time. She just couldn’t talk. Really, that wasn’t much of a handicap, was it?

Unless no one believed that was all that was wrong with her.

Baldwin was playing with the steering wheel.

“So you’re cool with seeing Willig?”

Taylor nodded, shrugged.

He took his right hand off the wheel, laid it gently on her wrist. “Honey, remember, I’ve been there. I know what it feels like to revisit a nightmare. To feel like I somehow failed, even when it wasn’t my fault.”

She felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes. Solicitousness was bad. She could handle most anything-anger, fear, pain, concern. But pity set her off. She was too strong to be pitied, damn it.

Baldwin just wouldn’t let up. Every word from his mouth was like stepping on hot coals. Her teeth clenched.

“We can talk about it anytime you want. I want to help, Taylor. Let me help you.”

She responded with a deafening sigh.

Leave. Me. Alone.

They drove on in strained silence until they reached the trailer that housed the restaurant. She was hoping that the spices would loosen things up in her throat, like really hot tea. It hadn’t worked yet, but she was willing to try most anything.

Her cell rang as they pulled into the lot. It was Dr. Benedict’s office. She opened the phone and handed it to Baldwin. He uh-huh’d for a second, then looked over at Taylor. “Today at one o’clock with Willig sound good?”

She nodded. The sooner the better.

He hung up and handed the phone back to her. They got out of the car, let the chilled air surround them. There was a stream of warmth coming out of the side door to the trailer. It enveloped her so thoroughly she almost forgot it was winter.

They ordered their chicken-extra hot for her, medium for him-then sat at the picnic table with a bundle of napkins, waiting for their food to be ready.

“Wanna talk?” Baldwin asked softly. She turned to him, his clear green eyes full of empathy, and shut down. He was doing it again, that look of sadness, of compassion. Couldn’t he just yell and scream like a normal man, get pissed at her for giving him the cold shoulder? He was too understanding. Goddamn it.

How about you go first. A little more detail about your son would be nice. How are things in adoption land?

He flinched as if she’d struck him. Perfect. She’d wounded him right back.

Baldwin stared at her for a second, anger boiling beneath the surface, his lips in a thin, forbidding line. Then he took a deep breath and shook his head, refusing the engagement.

He was so damn patient with her, and she was getting really frustrated with him. They needed to have a knock-down, drag-out fight, clear the air, find a way back to themselves. She’d been poking at him, and he’d been unwilling to react, nor to discuss his side of the issue. It just served to make her more upset. She wanted a fight, even if she couldn’t actually yell at him.

She turned her back and watched the steam rise out of a manhole cover, venting thermals from beneath the earth. This was not working. Despite her physical problems and her wild mood swings, hurting Baldwin had become a source of satisfaction for her, and that didn’t bode well for their life together. She twisted her engagement ring around her finger, the Asscher-cut diamonds catching the sun and sparkling onto the dirty gray pavement, a symbol of hope. If she’d just let it be. Get the hell out of her own way and allow things to get back to normal.

Taylor had never been in this situation before. Probably because anytime a relationship started to head south, she’d just ended it cleanly and walked away. No sense in struggling to make it work. But this, this was different. Baldwin was different. She needed to decide what she wanted from him. He needed to do the same. They couldn’t keep dancing around like this, cutting each other from different angles. One of the cuts was going to bleed too much, and then it would be over. And she didn’t think that was what she wanted.

Baldwin handed her a Coke, and she took the opportunity to down a Percocet. Her head was starting to pulse, and she had the whole day in front of her. It would be the first pill of many, she could tell that already.

They ate in silence, then got back in the car and headed home. There was nothing for her to do downtown anyway; her appointment wasn’t until 1:00. He pulled into the drive way, into the garage, entered the house, all without saying a word. Inside, he excused himself to go to his office to get some work done. Taylor was left adrift, feeling annoyed with herself for digging at him, sorry that he wasn’t near her, glad he wasn’t, and confused about what all that meant.

At this rate, she was going to drive herself mad.

She needed to kill some time. She could read, but that would make the headache worse. Exercise, but she’d already done that this morning, before the doctor. She decided to check her email, and was immediately glad that she did.

There was a note from Memphis. Generally a highly diverting event.

James “Memphis” Highsmythe, so dubbed by his classmates at Eton after a trip to Graceland in Tennessee when he was a child, was a friend, a detective inspector with the Metropolitan Police in London. He was also the Viscount Dulsie, and a confirmed rake. He’d worked a case with Baldwin and ended up in Nashville, made a play for Taylor’s affections in Italy, and was a source of annoyance, amusement, and lately, comfort to Taylor. Undeniably a friend who wanted to be more. Much, much more.

The email’s subject line was blank, as usual. Memphis wasn’t one for pith when it wasn’t needed. She clicked it open.

Francesco Stradivari just had a birthday. Can you imagine what it must have been like to have a father whose work was respected the world over? Did you know he forged his father’s signature on a few of the pieces in late 1730’s? Today is also my father’s birthday, and I’ve promised him a night out. I’m catching the train to Edinburgh at four. What sort of brilliance lies ahead for you?

Taylor calculated the time difference. Memphis was six hours ahead of her. He would probably be on the train now. He often wrote to her while traveling. It helped him pass the time.

She hit Reply.

I went to the doctor this morning. Everything is a-okay, just still don’t have any voice to speak of. Pun intended. He offered me a deal: if I see Victoria Willig, the department’s psychologist, then he’ll approve me going back to work on limited duty in a few weeks. I have an appointment with her this afternoon. Where are you taking your father to dinner?

His message came back quickly. She was right, he was on the train.

Open your chat.

She did, and Memphis was there, a default smiley face waiting on her.

Dinner is at The Witchery, of course. The finest meal in Edinburgh. It’s divine. I’d love to take you sometime. We’ll have Beef Wellington and burnt custard for pudding.

That does sound good. But what, no haggis?

Would YOU eat sheep’s stomach stuffed with oats? It’s actually not bad. I simply prefer a more refined meal.

Ugh. No thanks. What else will you do tonight?

That’s it. Father is taking the car back to the estate, and I’m heading back to London on the late train. This case is getting ready to blow up, I can just feel it. I’ll be pulled in by the morning.

Memphis had mentioned the case to her before. Two girls missing, now three, from their London homes. He’d been watching it from afar, wondering what sort of escalation was coming. Taylor knew that feeling. An investigator is only as good as their instincts, and she respected the idea of a hunch.

At least you’ll be calling the shots. Your mother won’t be joining you for dinner?

The Countess? No, she’s in South Africa with my brother. His vineyard is having a wee bit of difficulty, and she offered to go and help.

The Countess is a vintner too?

Her talents know no bounds. Like someone else I’m acquainted with.

Taylor let that slide. She wasn’t feeling terribly talented these days. Not having her own case to work, her own show to run, she just wasn’t herself.

Memphis wrote again.

I’ve been thinking: If you have to see a therapist to get clearance to return to work, why don’t you make plans to visit? One of my dearest friends is a celebrated psychologist. You can stay at the estate, she can drop in for your visits, and you can get a break. Do some outdoors stuff. I know it’s a bit chilly now, but with the proper gear it would be lovely. The house is all done up for Christmas, it’s quite beautiful. My father will be joining my mother in South Africa for the holidays, so there’s no one around. You can have the run of the place. Get away from those pesky reporters who’ve been nagging you. What do you think?

Taylor sat back in her chair, the mouse forgotten in her hand. Scotland. For Christmas. An escape from Nashville, from the condemnation of her loved ones, away from the silence that bound her. She wouldn’t be expected to speak if she were alone. No one to look over her shoulder, check on her every movement, look at her with doubt. No one to talk about her behind her back. She wouldn’t have to keep pretending that she didn’t notice that everyone was acting like she was some ticking time bomb.

And she’d been fodder for the Nashville media yet again. They’d done story after story, broadcast her condition, delved into her past and speculated about her future. She didn’t go a day without at least one interview request. They filled her email box and took up space on her answering machine. What was she supposed to do, go on air and mime what had happened? No thanks.

Taylor? Are you still here?

She wouldn’t be cleared to go back to work for a few weeks anyway. What harm could come of her sneaking away for a bit? If Memphis’s doctor friend would check in with Benedict for her, maybe that would suffice to get him to clear her to go back to work.

But what would that mean to Memphis, if she agreed to come stay on his estate? Memphis was forever pushing, purposefully misinterpreting her intentions. Fending him off wasn’t always as easy as it should be. The constant attention was flattering. Memphis was different than Baldwin. Baldwin loved her, Memphis wanted her. She had no illusions about the difference.

Things with Memphis would be…simpler. Lust was always easier than love.

She realized he was waiting for an answer.

I’m here. Sorry about that. I don’t know, Memphis. I’ve just promised to see the department shrink. Maybe this isn’t the best timing, you know?

Dearest Taylor, you’ll go mad being around the office and not allowed to work. It’s a travesty that they’ve even suggested you suffer this indignity. Why don’t you wait until you can return fully, unencumbered by this little glitch? We can fix you. Heal you. I know it.

She had an idea of what kind of healing Memphis would like to employ. Would that make things better for her, or worse? And were things so off the rails with Baldwin that she was actually tempted to find solace with another man? Not just another man, but Memphis? She shoved that thought away; she didn’t want to go there. Not now. Not after the morning they’d had.

I’m sure Baldwin wouldn’t take kindly to me jetting off to the UK. I’d have to ask him along.

No, no, no. That’s exactly the point. A getaway, a holiday, means being away from everything and everyone.

Including you?

There was a pause on his end this time.

I wouldn’t presume to lurk on your holiday. I’d see you safely ensconced at the estate, introduce you around, maybe give you a tour of the Highlands, then I’d have to return to London for work. Truly, think about it. Relaxation, and being away from your cares, might be just the ticket.

So she really would be alone. That was tempting. So very tempting.

I’ll think about it. Promise. I have to go though, my appointment with the shrink is soon. Have a nice dinner. Wish the Earl Happy Birthday for me. Enjoy the grouse.

How did you know that’s what I’d be ordering?

Just a guess. See ya, Memphis.

Au revoir, ma chere.

The chat window closed and she was left alone, wondering why she was even entertaining the idea of taking Memphis up on his offer. It was a foolhardy, dangerous thing to do. Baldwin wouldn’t agree to it in a million years. But maybe leaving town would help? Distance could make the heart grow fonder.

Or break it cleanly in two.