I galloped across the parking lot as he got out of his car.

“Hutch!” I called, relieved to see him. Then I surprised him, not to mention myself, by throwing my arms around his neck.

“Hey, hey, Micky, it’s okay,” he said, enfolding me in his arms.

“Well, it’s good to see someone besides murderers and chickens,” I said, letting go and recovering my composure.

Hutch nodded sympathetically, then gave me a good look up and down.

“Jesus F. Christ, Micky, you look like a Quarter prostitute after a long night,” he commented.

“Thanks, Hutch. I forget one of the basic rules of etiquette. Always carry a change of clothes in case some maniac decides to abduct you. You’ll want to look good when the police show up.”

He shook his head at my levity, then he got serious.

“What happened?” he asked.

Halfway through my story the local police arrived and I had to start all over again.

“Can you take us there?” one of them asked when I’d finished.

I agreed to try and got in Hutch’s car. It was hard to reconstruct my earlier flight in reverse. I made a few wrong turns, leading us down roads that became unfamiliar and we had to backtrack several times.

But we finally came to the driveway where I had caught my ride.

“Straight on from here. It’ll be on the left,” I instructed Hutch.

The building was well hidden in the trees, its presence marked only by a rutted, overgrown dirt driveway.

No cars, no sign that he was still here. But no proof that he was gone either. He could be lurking anywhere in the surrounding woods.

Hutch got out. I quickly followed, unwilling to let him get very far from me.

“This ain’t rightly our jurisdiction,” the older of the cops said. “We prob’ly need to call in the parish folks.”

At Hutch’s nod, the younger cop got on the radio and called in reinforcements. But they stayed around. This was probably the most exciting thing that had happened out here in years. Probably just me and my damned red dress was pretty interesting.

“You check the first floor and I’ll do the second?” Hutch suggested. “Don’t want to lose him waiting for the sheriff.”

They unholstered their guns, ready to do their duty.

“Why don’t you stay in the car?” Hutch said to me as I started following him up the stairs.

“You have a gun, your car doesn’t,” I replied.

Hutch was careful entering the room, but there was no need; no one was there.

It appeared that Frankenstein had left in a hurry. All his jolly little medical toys were still scattered about. I shuddered at the sight of them, then tried to stop myself from thinking what he had planned to do to me. And had done to four other women.

The local cops came up the stairs. Downstairs was a garage and storage room. No one was there either.

Two cars pulled in, their sides reading West Felicity Parish Sheriff’s Department. Introductions were made after they came upstairs. I received several rather direct stares, but I didn’t care. Better they look at me alive than at me dead.

It was nice to have Hutch with his NOPD credentials to lend credence to my story. He and his fellow law officers were discussing procedure. The sheriff wondered if he should call the FBI and Hutch argued for calling the detectives assigned to solving the abortion murders.

My eyes began to glaze over as they continued discussing arcane police procedure. I was tired. My chemically induced nap had been about as restful as being knocked out for open heart surgery. Unfortunately, I had destroyed the only chair in the room.

Hutch finally talked them into calling O’Connor and his team. I looked at my watch. It was too late in the morning for me to get any pleasure out of his being summoned.

The rain had cleared, replaced by hazy sunshine. The day was becoming hot and sultry. Flies were buzzing in through the tattered remains of the screen door.

Hutch and Sheriff Whoever were making a preliminary survey, with one of the deputies taking notes on things they pointed out. Like the bloodstained sheet.

There was a large steamer trunk back in one corner. I sat down on it. They could complain about my leaving my ass print all over the place if they didn’t like it.

I wanted to go home, take a shower, turn on my air conditioner as high as it would go, and crawl into bed. And call Cordelia to explain why I hadn’t met her last night.

I could feel sweat forming under my armpits, the earlier rain turning into oppressive humidity. A fly started buzzing around my head. I was too hot and tired to swat at it. Several other flies joined it. Then they landed on the trunk.

“Hutch,” I called, standing up.

“Yeah?” he inquired, ambling over to me.

“This trunk,” I said. “This maniac’s been carting bodies around.”

“Good thing you’re not in it,” he commented.

Hutch knelt in front of it and, using a handkerchief, fumbled with the latch. It wasn’t locked and opened easily. He swung the lid up.

The trunk wasn’t empty.

I turned and walked away, wanting to get out of the building.

I ran when I got to the stairs, just making it to the weeds as I felt the burning in my throat. I knelt retching under the hot sun.

We’d found Betty Peterson.

“You all right, ma’am?” one of the young deputies asked. He handed me a glass of water.

I rinsed my mouth and spat out the water.

“I knew her,” I said.

I rinsed my mouth again with the remaining water, then shakily stood up, assisted by the deputy. He held my elbow as I stumbled over to Hutch’s car. I wasn’t going back upstairs.

The deputy got me another cup of water and then went back upstairs, leaving me to sit in the car.

The shoulder that I had landed on hurt painfully. I started to rub it gingerly and noticed that there was dried blood on my back.

More cars pulled in. O’Connor was in one of them. I hastily wiped away the sweat that was dripping down my nose.

He walked over to me.

“Betty Peterson’s dead,” I accused him.

“I’m sorry,” he replied, then he walked away.

He returned immediately and handed me a cold soda. I held it against my forehead, feeling the coolness seep into my skin.

“Let’s go talk in my car,” he said, opening my door.

“Why?”

“Because I’m going to squander the taxpayer’s money and keep the air conditioner running.”

He led the way to his car. After we got in and he had turned on the air conditioner, I told him what had happened.

“You okay?” he asked when I finished.

“Yeah, I’m okay. I’m not stuffed in any goddamn trunk,” I retorted angrily.

“You want to see a doctor about that shoulder?”

“I’m okay,” I replied. “You need to search Betty Peterson’s place.”

He grunted and got out, leaving the engine and the air conditioner running.

I sat for a while, then started to nod out, until jarred awake by the thought that I was alone down here in the parking lot. That kept my eyes open.

After about an hour or so Hutch and O’Connor appeared.

“Miss Knight, would you be willing to go with Detective Mackenzie to headquarters?” O’Connor asked.

“Must I?” I replied.

“We’d like to get a sketch,” O’Connor explained. “And I have some questions.”

I nodded. It made sense to me, much as my exhausted body wanted otherwise.

O’Connor turned off his engine and I got out. Hutch handed me my shoes and handbag. They had been checked for fingerprints.

“By the way,” O’Connor asked, “where’s Sergeant Ranson?”

“Wherever those who are smart enough not to answer their phone early Sunday morning hang out,” I replied.

He grunted and headed back to the building.

“Lucky her,” Hutch said as we got in his car.

“Sorry, Hutch,” I apologized. “It’s what you get for being a big guy with a gun.”

He started the car. “S’all right, El Micko,” he answered, pulling out. “The occasion warranted it.”

It took a lot longer to drive back to New Orleans than it had for Hutch to get out here. Going the speed limit and late-afternoon traffic were the main causes. Stopping and getting ice cream for lunch also contributed.

Hutch offered to hang around while I did the sketch, but I chased him off. This was supposed to be his day off. Millie might like his company for a few hours of it.

O’Connor showed up as I was finishing with the police artist. He motioned me to come with him.

“Just a few questions,” he responded to the look I gave him. Admittedly, my looks matched my story, but so far I was the only person to have seen Frankenstein. That wasn’t good enough for O’connor.

I told him what Betty had told me. “That’s why she died,” I said. “She knew Cordelia never performed an abortion on Victoria Williams and that her file had no business being in that file drawer. She had to realize it was put there to frame Cordelia. And she wasn’t willing to cover it up.”

“So you say.” O’Connor shrugged.

“I say?” I retorted. “Betty Peterson told—”

“The dead Betty Peterson told you, huh? How convenient that she gave you, and only you, evidence to clear the estimable Dr. James.”

“Goddamn it! Would I do this to myself?” I shouted, pointing at my shoulder.

“People have done strange things,” O’Connor replied.

“Fuck you! You shit, get off Cordelia being the murderer.”

“I’ll get off it when I got proof—courtroom-solid evidence—that says she didn’t do it. Right now I don’t know that you’re not crazy enough to try and fake something like this to protect her.”

“I fucking can’t believe this…”

“The more you talk like that, the more I think it’s possible.”

“Fuck you,” I muttered, too exhausted to fight anymore.

O’Connor called out, “Shirley, can you take Miss Knight home?” Then he grunted and started to reach for the phone. I followed Shirley out to a patrol car.

“Hey, do I get a flashing light and all?” I asked as we got into the patrol car.

“If you want,” Shirley answered. “How come we don’t see you at Gertie’s anymore?”

“Too busy tripping over dead bodies,” I answered. “But tell the gang I said hi.”

“Will do.”

Shirley dropped me off and waited until I was safely inside before driving off.

I stumbled up the stairs; three flights never seemed so long. My phone started ringing just as I put my key in the lock. It kept ringing while I got the door open and groped for a light. My answering machine kicked in. I turned it off and picked up the receiver.

It was Joanne. “Mick, are you all right?”

“Sure, I’m fucking fine,” I replied, flopping down on the couch. “Just fucking fine.”

“Are you drunk?” she asked.

I realized I was so tired I was starting to slur my words.

“No, Joanne, I’m not,” I answered, putting an effort into enunciation.

“Cordelia called here and said that the two of you were supposed to meet and you hadn’t showed up. Where the hell have you been?”

“Joanne, I’m exhausted,” I replied tersely.

“Sleep it off, Mick,” she said shortly.

“I’m not drunk, goddamn it!” I shouted.

Joanne was silent.

“I’m sorry. It’s really been a long day,” I apologized, suddenly too tired to even be angry anymore. “Betty Peterson’s dead. I almost had an abortion…now O’Connor suspects me…”

“Start from the beginning,” Joanne instructed.

I did. I told Joanne the whole story. She listened without interrupting.

“Do you want me to come over?” she offered when I had finished. She also offered to come get me if I wanted to stay with them. I declined both offers.

“Call me. Anytime. Alex is A. E. Sayers,” she told me. “I mean it.”

“I know. I’m sorry I yelled at you. Thanks, Joanne.”

“I’m sorry, too. Get some sleep.”

I hung up and finally, finally, finally took off that red dress.

There were a number of messages on my machine. The first three were from Cordelia. Two asking where I was and the third to say she was going to sleep. Then Danny and Joanne looking for me and a number of hang-ups.

I had tried calling Cordelia several times. Once at the ice cream stand and twice while at the police station. Her machine had always answered and I hadn’t left a message. I wasn’t going to tell her about Betty Peterson via answering machine.

I dialed her number again. She was probably asleep by now, I thought, looking at my watch. Her machine picked up on the first ring.

“Hi,” I said, hoping she would answer. “This is Micky.” Then I blanked. I couldn’t think of anything else to say. “Uh…I’m…” I stammered. “It’s a long story. I’m sorry,” I finished inadequately. I hung on for a moment longer, but couldn’t come up with anything else and she didn’t answer her phone. I put down the receiver. Danny had obviously told her that my disappearing was no cause for alarm, I had done it a number of times to her.

I forced myself to take a very quick shower and did a cursory survey of the damage. My left shoulder was badly bruised and scraped. I also had major bruises all down my arm where I’d hit the stairs. There were other bruises and scrapes on my legs. Then I looked at my face. One cheek had a black-and-blue thumbprint, the other four finger marks. It must have been a struggle for him to have kept that cloth over my mouth.

My shoulder stung under the hot water. When I had washed off the blood, I noticed I had splinters in it. I made a few attempts to remove them, but I don’t think it’s quite possible to remove a splinter from your own shoulder, at least not these. Maybe I could talk Cordelia into doing it tomorrow. If she would speak to me long enough to hear my explanation.

I fell asleep immediately, but found that any noise, the air-conditioner, the cat, would wake me. I finally got up and got my gun and put it on the nightstand next to my bed.

Chapter 18

When I woke up, my shoulder was stiff and throbbing, the splinter wounds red and infected. I took another shower, not trusting the quick one last night to have done an adequate job. Not as dirty as I had gotten. Then I got dressed, gingerly putting on a shirt over my raw shoulder. Even though I knew it would hurt, I slid on my shoulder holster. I put on the lightest jacket I owned, but had to exchange it for a heavier one since it did nothing to disguise my wearing a gun.

I drove to the clinic. Someone had to tell them that Betty Peterson was dead. But it wasn’t me. I found Bernie crying on Elly’s shoulder when I arrived.

“You know?” I asked somberly.

Elly nodded. Bernie lifted her head and wiped away her tears.

“Micky?” she asked, then just shook her head uncomprehendingly.

“I’m sorry, Bernie,” I answered.

“Go wash your face,” Elly said gently. “We’ll talk later.”

Bernie nodded and headed down the hallway to the bathroom.

“Danny called about ten minutes ago to tell me,” Elly said. “She didn’t have any details. Just another goddamned botched abortion,” she added, suddenly angry. “Not Betty Peterson. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“No, it doesn’t,” I agreed. “I can tell you what happened.”

“Let’s go in here.” She led me to an empty examining room. She sighed, then said, “I don’t suppose I need to tell you that you’re on Cordelia’s shit list. And mine, though not so high. I did not enjoy listening to Danny spending fort-five minutes explaining to Cordelia why she shouldn’t worry about your disappearing act.”

“It’s a long story,” I replied.

“So I…Micky, what happened to your face?”

“Part of the long story. How are you with splinters?”

“Splinters? Where?”

“Left shoulder.”

“Take your shirt off,” Elly instructed.

“Don’t let Danny hear you say that,” I said.

She gave me a wry smile. She raised an eyebrow when she saw my gun. And more than an eyebrow when she saw my back. “You have bruises all down your spine. Lie down.”