Danger to self. Danger to others.
A black line at the bottom of the document waited for my signature.
Grievously disabled. Requiring observation . . .
I held the pen and listened to the doctor explain the laws that insisted it was fine to lock up my mother. When the doctor paused, drawing a hand over his thinning white hair, I turned to look at her room, directly across from the circular desk where I stood holding the paperwork.
She was no longer crying out. No longer screaming.
She was silent.
I signed, giving permission for forty-eight hours’ observation—all the time left on the cruise—then handed the paperwork to the doctor.
She lay on the bed, her high cheekbones raw, the blood still wet. Rubber restraints secured her arms. I couldn’t tell if she recognized me. Her eyes were drugged, disoriented.
“I’m sorry.” The words seemed to fracture inside my mouth. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”
Rolling her head across the pillow, she turned away, facing the wall. The room had no window. No view. And I heard no murmurs from her lips.
I had silenced even her prayers.
Two doors down, I stood in the medical clinic’s small lab and called Jack, asking him to bring certain pieces of evidence from the purser’s safe. Then I flicked on the microscope and sat down.
“Sucks, doesn’t it?” Nurse Stephanie stood in the doorway, arms crossed. Her waist seemed impossibly small.
I set the Bible on the counter.
“My mom’s crazy too,” she said. “Half the reason I live on a cruise ship nine months of every year is so I don’t have to see her. The other three months I stay busy avoiding her.”
I looked over at her. “I need the same supplies as last time. Petri dishes, uncoated aspirin, distilled water.”
She stared at me, then unhitched a hip and walked to the cabinets, keying them open and placing the supplies on the stainless steel shelf. When she turned to face me, she pointed two fingers at her eyes, then pointed them at me. “I see you,” she said. “I see you real clearly.”
A shard of irritation bristled up my spine, rising with a force that told me I needed to bat it down, now. Right now.
“Thank you for your help,” I said.
She puckered her lips and sauntered away. I listened to her crepe soles squeak across the vinyl, then come back with the cup of distilled water and uncoated aspirin. She set them on the counter and left, and I snapped on latex gloves, dropping the white tablets into the water. Over at the desk, Nurse Stephanie was greeting someone.
“Welcome back, Big Guy.” She sounded like Marilyn Monroe squeezed into medical whites. “Ready for your shot?”
“Where is she?” Jack asked.
When I looked up, he stood in the doorway holding the evidence bags. “Harmon, the purser told me what happened—is your mom okay?”
“Is that the right evidence?”
He looked down at the bag, as if suddenly remembering it. “Yes, I got the one you said. But what happ—”
“Thanks.” I took the bag from him, removing the test tubes and the notes written on the prescription pad concerning the gray dust and the wood chips found on Milo’s and MJ’s clothing.
“Harmon, is she . . . ?”
I opened the Bible to Micah 6:8 and brushed my gloved fingers into the crease, depositing the brown fragment into the clean petri dish. I did the same with the gray dust from Genesis.
Jack said, “Holy forensics, Batgirl.”
I poured some salicylic acid water into the petri dishes, nuked them in the microwave, then scraped the powdered precipitates into thin sections, slipping them under the microscope. Then I compared them with the samples taken from the clothing and all the while, Jack watched from the doorway.
“You’re going to have to let me in,” he said.
“Okay.” I pushed back from the microscope. “I found some dust in the chapel. It contains wood fragments. It looks like a very strong match to the dust found on Milo’s clothing and the musician’s clothing. That means—”
“Harmon, let me in.”
“I’m trying to. The dust contains a specific heavy metal left behind after the acid dissolved all the softer minerals. It might be trace iron but I can’t pinpoint the chemistry with this equipment. The bottom line is Milo and MJ were both in the chapel and they both—”
“Stop it.”
His eyes were intense, focused. I willed myself to hold their gaze, refusing to look away. I breathed, taking in the bitter scent of the salicylic acid.
“Jack, I’m fine. Really. Can we get back to the evidence?”
At the desk, the phone rang and Nurse Stephanie answered, immediately launching into a lecture. The flu lady, again. The contagious fugitive. “Look, honey, I am not going to help you unless you get your butt in here.”
I turned, bending my head over the microscope and fiddling with the focus.
“Oh really? Well, I’ve got news for you. I can take you by force.”
The minerals scattered across the thin section like stars. Like dust. Then they blurred and my eyes stung.
“Because you’re a danger to other people and the law says we can. We just did it this morning with another nut so don’t think you can—”
I didn’t hear the rest. Standing up, I started packing the evidence back into the bags.
“Harmon, talk to me.”
I placed a hand over my eyes, shielding them from his view, telling myself that the salt and proteins from my tears could contaminate the evidence. “Jack, I’m fine—”
His arms wrapped around me. I pushed him away. He grabbed hold and I shoved him away again. He tightened his grip and the more I struggled against him, the more I felt like my mother, futilely resisting. I turned my face, his chest was there, and my mouth was buried in it. The sob that rose felt as explosive as magma, a thing held down too long, bursting at the surface. I tasted the cotton of his white shirt, smelled the clean warm scent of a man, and another sob came. I felt his hand against my back, pressing, staunching the wound inside.
“Oh, that’s what’s going on.”
I turned my face to the door. Nurse Stephanie wore a knowing expression.
“Great move, honey. The tears work every time.” She gave a smirk, then walked away.
Jack looked down into my eyes. “I’m holding out hope.”
“Pardon?”
“I’m hoping we’ll find out she killed Judy Carpenter.”