An Unquiet Grave - P.J. Parrish Louis Kincaid

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men were kept up on four.”

      The large room on the third floor was sectioned off by pillars, small barred windows every ten feet or so. In the dim light, Louis could count twenty metal beds, their white paint peeling, the bare springs cobwebbed and corroded. At each footboard sat a small metal locker. Off in one corner, there was a jumble of wood rocking chairs. The floors were littered with beer cans, garbage, and a couple of old striped mattresses.

      “Seen enough?” Alice asked.

      He said nothing, and Alice turned away from him. He knew the tour was over and he closed the door to the ward. The bang echoed through the hollow halls. Alice led him down a back stairwell and they emerged into a dark hallway. Louis was disoriented and headed toward what he thought was the exit. But it was just another plain metal door with PASSAGE 12 painted on it. There was no doorknob, no handle of any kind.

      “This way, Mr. Kincaid,” Alice called out.

      Back in the lobby, Alice held the door for him, and he stepped back into the cold air.

      He turned to look at her as she locked the building. “Thank you,” he said.

      “I hope you’re able to help Mr. Lawrence.”

      “I need to know what happened to her here,” Louis said. “And where her remains might be now. I need to see her records.”

      Alice’s face scrunched slightly as she stared into the gray sky.

      “Please,” Louis said. “He doesn’t even know how she died.”

      “I’m sorry, Mr. Kincaid. I just can’t.”

      He nodded, and they started back to the main building. It was just before noon now, but the day had not warmed up at all. The wind was stiff from the west, the leaves skipping furiously at their feet. Alice was pulling on gloves when Louis heard someone call out. He paused.

      “Did you hear that?” Louis asked.

      “Hear what?”

      Louis took a step toward the trees behind E Building. The wind was coming through the branches, and he strained to hear, but there was nothing.

      Alice came up to him. “People always think they hear voices out here,” she said.

      He looked to her. “It was real.”

      They waited a few seconds, listening, but when nothing else came, they both started down the path. But the cry came again. It sounded human, but wounded. Tearful. Scared.

      “I heard that,” Alice said.

      Louis spun and started to the woods, but he stopped suddenly. A man . . . his tall form slowly taking shape as he emerged from the deep shadows. He was struggling to walk. And he was carrying something long and limp.

      Louis took another step.

      A body . . . he was carrying a body. A woman.

      As Charlie Oberon staggered closer into the light, everything came into focus. His bloody sweatshirt. A woman’s lifeless, naked body, Charlie’s long fingers pressed into her thighs. Arms, hanging limp, shreds of dark, wet leaves stuck to them. Her hair . . . long, blond, and thick with blood.

      “She won’t wake up,” Charlie cried. “She won’t wake up.”

      Louis broke into a run toward him.

      CHAPTER 9

      Louis reached for his gun, but he didn’t have it. It was in the glove box of the Impala. He had no cuffs either. And he had no idea what he was looking at.

      Charlie was motionless now, his face slick with sweat despite the cold, and his arms were trembling under the weight of the woman.

      The woman was naked, her skin a pasty blue gray with splotches of red, small bits of leaves and twigs stuck to it. Caked blood streaked her blond hair.

      “Set her down,” Louis said.

      Charlie’s eyes filled with tears.

      Louder and sharper. “Set her down. Now.”

      Charlie looked behind Louis at Alice, his eyes begging her for some sort of help. Louis motioned Alice forward, and as she stepped up next to him he could hear her quickened breaths.

      “Talk to him, Miss Cooper,” Louis said. “But don’t get too close.”

      When she did not speak, he snuck a glance. Her hand was at her lips, her powdered skin colorless.

      “Talk to him.”

      “Charlie,” Alice managed, “put Rebecca down.”

      “She won’t wake up,” Charlie said. “She’s cold. She’s cold.”

      “Put her down, Charlie,” Alice said again.

      Her voice was stronger now, her gaze steady on Charlie. And she took a step closer, then another. Louis started to reach for her, but she moved away from him.

      “Charlie,” she said, “put Rebecca down, please. Carefully.”

      Charlie dropped to one knee, easing the woman to the grass. She fell toward Louis, arms limp, head cocked to the side.

      Bruises. On her face and shoulders. Raw, red marks around her wrists, ankles, and neck.

      Louis forced his eyes away from the woman to Charlie. He had not moved, his head hanging low, arms at his sides. He was staring at her as if she were a broken toy he knew he could not fix.

      “Charlie, back away from her,” Louis said.

      Charlie didn’t seem to hear at first. Then he took a few steps backward, then a few more, finally collapsing on the ground about fifteen feet behind the body. He drew his legs in and crossed his arms over his belly, still staring vacantly.

      Alice edged closer. Louis caught her arm. “Go call the police,” he said.

      Alice hesitated, her head jerking from Charlie to the dead woman and back to Louis. Her makeup was streaked with tear lines, and she looked scared.

      “Go call the police,” Louis repeated. “Now.”

      Alice ran across the grass. Louis eased toward Charlie. Charlie was still frozen, huddled into himself. Louis knelt near the body.

      Her eyes were open, brown glassy pools. Her neck looked crushed, the skin reddish purple, deep finger marks clearly visible. He knew she was dead, but still he held a finger to her neck, then her wrist. But there was nothing. She was cold to the touch.

      He looked at Charlie. “Did you kill her?”

      “She won’t wake up.”

      “Did you hurt her?”

      Charlie looked up at Louis, his face drawn tight, his eyes pained. Louis had no idea what was wrong with Charlie mentally or how he comprehended the world, women, life or death, or anything else. And he didn’t know how to talk to him.

      “Charlie, where did she go to sleep?” Louis asked.

      Charlie pointed back to the trees.

      Louis rose. “Will you take me there?”

      Charlie didn’t move, his gaze drifting back to the body. Louis took his arm, urging him to his feet. When he stood, Louis tapped his shoulder to make sure he had Charlie’s attention.

      “Take me to where she fell asleep.”

      Charlie turned slowly. His sweatshirt was unzipped, half off his bony shoulders, but he didn’t pull it up. He walked slowly into the brush, then the trees, careful to hold the branches back for Louis.

      Louis kept glancing behind him, afraid he’d lose the way back to E Building, but he didn’t want to stop. If there was a crime scene out here somewhere, he wanted to see it. And maybe preserve it.

      The trees were thick

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