I tried to tell him I was up to something with my eyes, and he probably read it, along with my disgust and remorse for something I hadn't even done. He was way better at reading me than I was at reading him, which is ironic when you think about it.
I went out of the room into the hallway, and up one level to get a signal. Then I called the main desk. Someone answered, and I said, “Page Dr. Carmichael. It’s urgent.” They put me on hold.
I ran back down the stairs. By the time I was at the cutting room doors, I was distracted from my guilt trip, and also aware I needed to exercise once in a while. Billie Carmichael was hurrying out the double doors to answer the fake call on the nearest in-house phone. She breezed past me, saying, “Be right back.” Then she hit the stairs with effortless speed. The nearest landline was right at the top.
I disconnected and rushed back into the room and over to Dwayne Clark on the table, and I slammed the door on my sickening feelings by focusing on the immediate need. “Get over here and help me roll him.”
Mason grabbed a pair of gloves, struggled his big hands into them, and rolled the guy up onto his side. I grabbed a glove too, snapped it on and reached for his butt cheek. Mason looked horrified.
I lifted the guy’s cheek, adjusting the overhead light with my free hand. “Look. Right there. That’s where I injected him in the dream or whatever.”
Elf steps pitter-pattered just outside the door.
“Put him back, put him back,” I whisper-shouted.
Mason dropped the guy, yanked off his gloves, and stuffed them into a red bin. I remembered I was still wearing one and put that hand behind my back as Billie Carmichael came into the room.
“No one on the phone,” she said. “Probably the widow again. Anyway, back to the victim. There are bruises on his back.” She tapped the tablet that was on a nearby stand, bringing up some photos of the corpse–a far more efficient method than rolling him over like we’d done. “You can clearly see the two round bruises on his back. Made before he died, but I’m damned if I know how.”
“Looks like someone was kneeling on him,” Mason said.
Her brows rose, and she looked at him like she’d just realized he was the one true Santa.
I sent him a death-glare for taking credit for my shit while still trying to peel off the glove behind my back. I was not having any luck.
“Let us know when you get the tox screen back,” Mason said.
“I’ll text you,” she promised, looking at the body, then frowning, and looking at us again. He hadn’t landed in precisely the same position, and the light wasn’t pointing where it had been, either.
The glove I’d been tugging on for a full minute came off my hand suddenly, and made a loud snap.
“We have to run,” Mason said. “Thanks, Billie.” He grabbed me by the hand, and tugged me behind him out of the room.
At the top of the stairs, he said, “The garotte. Kneeling on his back. The injection site. You got a lot of detail in that dream, Rache.” We stepped out into the late morning sunshine and fresh air.
“Too much. It’s creepy.”
We got into his car. He reached across the space between us, smoothed back my hair, then cradled my head in his big hand. “I wish it wasn’t. But it’s gonna be okay.”
The tension in me dissolved just because he touched me and told me it was going to be okay. Did I have it bad, or what?
So when was the idiot going to pop the big question?
My God, you are gagging me.
I’m gagging myself, Inner Bitch. Can’t be helped.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m good. I mean, it’s what I do, right? It’s my gift.”
“And your curse.”
“Thanks, Mr. Monk.” He got the reference, which made us both smile. “Can we look around for Gary now?”
“The kids–”
“Josh was picked up shortly after we left. Today’s was the Hershey Park thing.”
“Chuckie’s birthday trip. Right.”
“And Jeremy’s spending his Sunday reconnecting with his high school friends. I told him it was okay. Because we have to share him whether we like it or not. Like grownups.”
He made a face at me.
“The dogs will be okay for a couple more hours,” I said. “Let’s check the shelters for Gary.”
“While I drive,” he said, “Find a psychiatrist named Dr. Guthrie. Maybe she’ll talk to me.”
“To us,” I corrected.
“To me,” he said. “You don’t have the equipment.”
“A dick?” I asked, widening my eyes at him.
“A badge.” All fake-shocked at my gutter brain. God, I loved him.
Mason sat in Dr. Melissa Guthrie’s waiting room. The receptionist was behind glass. There were a fish tank and a patient in the waiting room with him. The patient was a brunette about forty with worry lines around her eyes. They’d exchanged a nod. He’d thrown in a smile. She hadn’t reciprocated.
Once she’d found Guthrie’s office address, Rachel had dropped him off and headed out to check the shelters. Mason didn’t like it, but you couldn’t really argue with her once she’d made up her mind. And she’d made up her mind.
A closed door opened, a woman leaned out and said, “You can come in Detective Brown. Gloria, I’ll only be ten minutes. Okay?”
The worried brunette nodded.
Mason wished Rachel was there to tell him how pissed off she was. “It won’t even take ten minutes,” he told her as he got up, even though it might.
Dr. Guthrie reminded Mason of his mother. She had the same lean frame, dignified manner, and chic white-silver hair. His mom’s was shorter and not as curly. Mason flashed his badge and said, “I need to talk to you about Gary Conklin.”
“You can talk to me about anyone you want. I can’t talk back.” She tipped her head to one side. “So? Talk.”
“My um…significant other is Rachel de Luca.”
“Oooh.” The sound she made spoke volumes. Mason had no doubt what the psychiatrist thought of self-help gurus like Rachel. "I've read her."
Non-committal as hell. “Gary is a fan," he said.
"Several of my clients are fans."
"Well this one showed up at our home yesterday, in Whitney Point. Said he walked there from Binghamton.”
“Oh, my.” She lifted her silver brows. “Well, I’m concerned too, then. But Detective, let me ease your mind. I don’t think Gary’s dangerous. I really don’t. He’s a sweet young man.”
“Thank you for that.”
“I’m fond of him.”
“We got him a room for the night, but he was gone this morning. Do you think you could check in on him?”
“If you know where he is, of course I will.”
“We're working on that right now. I got the feeling he was off his meds. Can you tell me when you last saw him?"
"I'm afraid not." She took a card off her desk and handed it to him. “Let me know when you find him.”
He took the card and headed out, texting Rachel on his way to the elevator. “Any luck?”