Flies buzzed around the one-inch opening where the lid wasn’t quite sealed, like a black mouth with bad breath. A mangy cat meowed shrilly, then ran away with a scavenged bit of something in its mouth. Like vultures waiting for Max to open the container, pigeons cooed along the roof line. Days worth of garbage rotted inside, the odor rising up to the sliver of sun like puffs of smoke. It stung her nostrils, turned her lightheaded, and forced bile into her throat. Someone had used the alley as a urinal, the stink of human piss permeating the narrow lane behind the shop.
But beneath it all was another odor, a pall. A frightening shadow hung in the close air of the alley. It was like nothing she’d ever smelled before. The first whiff of it was deceptive, almost sweet, almost pleasant, until it hit you in the back of the throat with a vengeance. She knew the scent of rotting meat. This was worse. The scent of death, of screaming, of crying pain and loss of control, the body giving up the worst it has to offer. It clung to the hairs of her nostrils. When she opened her mouth to breathe, she tasted it, like rancid compost.
She said she’d never forget the things she saw in the visions. Perhaps that was true. But over time, the images had lost their bite.
But not this. It was no lie, no exaggeration, no flippancy, to say she could never wash away death’s perfume.
The bag of trash slid from her numb hand to land with a plop on the concrete. She could have sworn Cameron’s arms went around her, that he pushed her forward. She widened her stance and dug in. “I have limits, Cameron. There are some things even I can’t do.”
“I know. I understand.” A moment of silence. “Call Witt. Get him over here.”
She thought of the ways Witt had concocted to feed her information and protect her at the same time. She could do no less for him. “He’s been asking too many questions already. If he shows up at this murder scene, if his cop buddies even suspect a connection, his butt is dust. He could get fired.”
“Then open it yourself.”
She had no choice. Except to walk away and let someone else throw out the trash. How easy that would be. How weak. Still, she fought the moment. “Why are you doing this to me?” she whispered, as close to tears as she’d been in all of two years.
“I’m not doing it, my love. Don’t you realize that if I could, I’d open it for you? I’d do anything for you.” His whisper against her ear was like sweet nothings in the dark. Sweet nothings. In the end ...
One step, then two. She stopped. Her eyes watered with the stench. “What if there’s maggots?”
“I love you.”
“What if there’s worms?” She sang softly, “The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out.” She almost choked on the last word.
“I’ll always love you.”
She heard him, but couldn’t answer. Two more steps. One more, and she’d be close enough to touch it. She closed her eyes.
“Forgive me for making you do this, my love.”
Her eyes snapped open. The sun had fled behind a cloud. She shivered and put her hands up to her ears. Even her hair was cold. “I don’t think I can forgive myself if I just let her lie there. Even if I didn’t like her much.”
So tired. She could barely get her legs to cover that small, final distance. But she did, then opened the dumpster.
And started screaming.
Jules stared up at her. Eyes wide, glassy, and very dead.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The sun setting behind her, Max sat in her red Miata with her hands on the wheel. The day had been long, exhausting, and she barely had the energy to drive home. She’d half-hoped, illogical as it was, that Witt would ride in on his white charger to rescue her from Detectives Scagliomotti and Berkowsky.
But he hadn’t; he couldn’t, even if he knew what had happened. She really didn’t want him to. He was probably out looking for Nadine, had most likely already found her and was relieved to discover her alive. By now he’d be cursing Max’s supposed psychic powers. She was cursing them herself, cursing their sudden desertion.
One thought kept pounding against her temples. She should have been able to save Jules. If she’d had a clue. An inkling. Her intuition had failed them both.
Jules. Oh Jesus, Jules. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. She slammed the flat of her hand against the wheel. A gargantuan-sized fist closed around her heart.
Witt’s detective buddies had been merciless, taking down her every word on the spot, with Jules lying dead in the dumpster outside. Neighbors peered from just beyond the yellow crime scene tape, and cops crawled over the alley like the maggots that would soon be crawling over Jules. Flies. So many flies. Human and insect. She shivered now, remembering Jules’s ruined face. No, that sight would never leave her.
Even now at the end of the day, after hours at the police station, with her statement typed and signed, even now she could smell the rot of garbage, human waste, and poor, poor Jules.