Incarnate Page 5

  “I’d rather plunge my face in a bucket of steaming pig shit, thank you,” Darren said. “I’ve been working here since I was sixteen years old. When I arrive in hell they will be serving Barn Bacon Doubles.” He paused, and looked her up and down. “But you can buy me a drink next door if you want.”

  “Sounds like a plan!” Kim’s face hurt from holding the fake grin, but after the scene in the hospital earlier, she’d do whatever it took to get some answers.

  Darren whipped off his greasy apron and flung it on the seat of the booth. “Candace!” he yelled, and an acne-speckled teen peered out over the cash register. “Finish cleaning up this booth and you can take your break when I get back. I’ve got to do an interview.”

  Kim raced to keep up with him as he headed out the door. “It’s not exactly an interview—”

  “Yeah, I know, I just have to say that. Corporate’s up my ass right now. I have to justify every fucking piss break, so we’ll just pretend you came in to apply for a job, okay?”

  Kim pretended to mull it over. “You know, I’m almost tempted. I mean, no more eighteen-hour shifts, free food—”

  “Plus, you get me as your boss,” Darren said, smiling at her so wide that she could see a missing molar in the back of his mouth. They walked through the parking lot to the shack next door. A flickering neon sign proclaimed OLD BEE ON TAP, along with an outline of a go-go dancer whose glowing purple breasts appeared to shimmy as her nipples blinked off and on. “Or are you as crazy as the rest of the girls I meet? I sure do seem to be able to pick ’em.”

  Kim declined to answer, as her eyes adjusted to the dark, dank interior of the bar. A couple of guys in leather vests and flannel shirts sized her up over their beers. One of them had what looked like lunch stuck in his beard, and the other had gathered what little remained of his hair into a greasy ponytail.

  Darren hoisted his thin frame up onto a barstool with practiced ease and patted the one next to him in invitation. Even here, Kim could smell the faint scent of grease wafting from him. She pulled a twenty from her purse and laid it on the bar.

  “Keep ’em coming,” she said to the bartender, a woman in her hard-miles fifties wearing a tight T-shirt emblazoned with the phrase Eatin’ Ain’t Cheatin’. Her hair was dyed an unnatural yellow and braided like the girl on the Swiss Miss box. “Wine cooler for me and whatever the gentleman is having.”

  “Wine cooler?” the woman asked, clearly affronted. “You fuckin’ with me?”

  “Well . . .” Kim hesitated. She was technically off the clock, but seeing as she was investigating her patient’s case, she had thought it prudent to remain as sober as possible. “What else do you have that is low in alcohol?”

  The woman gave her a look, then fished under the counter, coming up with a couple of bottles that she slammed on the bar: 7Up and something called a Blue Hawaiian malt beverage. “We don’t keep much on hand for lightweights,” she snapped. “You can mix it yourself.” She wiped her hands on her jeans and disappeared behind the swinging doors.

  “Now you’ve offended her,” Darren observed, sliding off the stool and around to the other side of the bar, where he drew himself an enormous beer with a respectable head and then poured the 7Up and malt into a large mug, where they bubbled like a science experiment. “Are you a recovering alcoholic?”

  “No, and I’m pretty sure the ‘recovering’ thing means you don’t drink any alcohol, not even the shitty kind.” She glanced around. “Are you part owner of this place or something?”

  He waggled an eyebrow at her. “Just a friend of the bartender . . . with benefits.”

  Kim tried to wrap her mind around that thought—then attempted to mentally backpedal from the horrifying image of those pigtails bouncing with carnal abandon. Darren made himself comfortable on the stool again and took a deep, long drink, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He let out a low burp and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “So, I guess you want to hear about Scarlett.”

  “Well, I’d like to hear your side of what happened, yes.”

  He shrugged. “Not much to tell. I’m minding my own business, prepping the cheese for the night shift—you have to peel every damn slice off its little wax paper square, it’s a real pain in the ass—when all of a sudden, bam, my face is on fuckin’ fire.”

  “Could you be a little more specific?” Kim interjected. “This will go better if we dispense with the hyperbole.”

  “Dis-what with the who?” He blinked. “I’m telling you the God’s honest truth here, Doc. She picked up that fry basket and hauled off on me for no reason at all. I mean, check out the security tape, it’ll totally prove it. I gave it to the police and everything—can’t imagine why she hasn’t been arrested by now. I ought to sue her after all. Or her old man.”

  “She’s nineteen,” Scarlett pointed out. “An adult. So I don’t think you can go after him, and I’m guessing she hasn’t exactly amassed a fortune working for you.”

  “Whatever,” Darren muttered. “I’ve still got to live with scars on my face, man. My face was, like, an asset, and what she did, I mean . . . somebody ought to pay.”

  “Listen, Darren, is there any chance that you were making, shall we say, unwelcome advances?”

  “Unwelcome?” he echoed. “I mean, you said it yourself, she’s nineteen. Legal in all fifty states.”

  “Hmm,” Kim said, the picture clarifying in her mind. “So you might have made comments or suggestions of a sexual nature . . . ?”

  Darren raised his eyebrows and smiled, but before he could expound, the bartender came back through the swinging doors, wiping some white residue off the tip of her nose. She glared at Kim, who made the quick assumption that the woman wasn’t eating powdered doughnuts in the back room.

  “Okay, well, I got to scoot,” Kim said before the woman could suggest a duel for Darren’s affections. “Real nice talking to you.”

  The woman snatched up the twenty and stuffed it in her jeans pocket. “Don’t let the door hit you in the ass, honey.”

  As Kim started up her car, she reflected on what she’d learned. It sounded like Scarlett had good reason for defending herself from Darren, given his insinuations. But if Scarlett herself didn’t remember, did that mean it was a protective alternate personality, trying to keep Scarlett safe? Could that be Isabel—or were there more alters hiding inside Scarlett, ones that Kim hadn’t met yet?

  * * *

  KIM WAS STANDING IN her tiny kitchen surveying the contents of a take-out container doubtfully, trying to remember exactly when she’d stashed the remains of the pad thai in the fridge, when there was a knock on the door. She hastily ran a hand through her hair and pulled her tank top down to cover the slice of midriff above her ancient, sagging flannel pants before opening the door.

  “Oh,” she said in relief, seeing it was only her boss.

  “Oh?” Kyle echoed, pushing past her into the living room. “Not ‘How was your day, honey?’ That’s okay, I’ll go ahead and tell you anyway. My day was just great until Graver called me upstairs to chew me out for opening a case on a patient who didn’t even admit herself first.”

  “You mean Scarlett Hascall.”

  “Bingo! You nailed it—oh, shit, that looks bad,” he said, his tone suddenly changing when he saw the bandage around her hand. It was spotted with blood from when Kim had unwisely used that hand to wrestle with her car door, thereby reopening the cuts. “Nelson told me you cut yourself, but she made it sound like a scratch.”

  “It was. Seriously, it’s nothing,” she said, warding him off.

  “I wouldn’t call it ‘nothing’ when a patient attacks you in my office,” he said. “When I got up there, the coffee table was gone, the place smelled like a cheap car air freshener, and one of the nurses said something about Scarlett Hascall being taken out in restraints.”

  “That’s not true,” Kim said, rolling her eyes for show as she tried to figure out how to spin this one. “It was a minor accident. Tripped over the coffee table, need
ed a Band-Aid. Which, sorry, I’ll replace your table—but hey, at least they got the stains out of the carpet, right?” She felt a little bad about lying to Kyle, but then, she didn’t want his concern for her to get in the way of what was best for Scarlett.

  “Forget the table, maintenance is bringing me a new one. And let me guess, you were only trying to ‘help,’ ” Kyle said sarcastically. Then he sighed. “Never mind. Just let me take a look, okay?”

  Kim allowed him to peel back the bandage, feeling the tension drain out of her at his familiar, gentle touch. As he checked the wound, his free hand squeezed her shoulder, kneading the muscles.

  “Mmmm. You missed your calling, seriously,” she said, relaxing further. “You ought to work in one of those reflexology spas, you know, with the foot diagram in the window? It’s only thirty bucks an hour, but I bet you’d make hella tips.”

  “Right,” Kyle said stonily, letting go of her arm after peeling the bandage all the way off. “You need a new bandage. Tell you what, how about you get me your med kit and then you can explain exactly what you and Ms. Hascall discussed in my office while I fix you up.”

  Kim wasn’t surprised that Kyle saw right through her lies from earlier—his own ethical switch was permanently set to overdrive. She fetched supplies from the bathroom and submitted to his ministrations while she outlined her theory in the broadest strokes possible. It felt good to have someone caring for her, something she allowed only very rarely. Kim tried to ignore the psychologist voice in her head, the one that was concerned that Kim could essentially count on one hand the number of people she’d ever allowed to get this close to her.

  When Kim mentioned DID, Kyle paused in the middle of tearing open an antiseptic wipe. “Come on, Kim. Please tell me you’re not still pushing that.”

  “Just hear me out,” she said, tearing herself out of her introspection. “Typically, alternate personalities are created to help dissociate from the real world. But what about an alter who claims to be another real, living person?”

  “That’s—”

  “Sure, some sufferers say they’re Joan of Arc, Jesus, Elvis, whatever—but why would Scarlett claim to be a missing girl? Why Isabel Wilcox? That tickles,” she added, as Kyle dabbed gently at the edges of her cuts.

  “Whoever cleaned this needs to get their eyes checked,” Kyle scowled. “There’s a sliver—”

  “Ow!”

  Kim plowed on as Kyle teased out the glass fragment, determined to make him at least consider her hypothesis. “Isabel’s missing-person pictures are plastered on every street corner, so I’m not surprised she imprinted that name—”

  “Hold still, damn it.”

  “Or maybe it’s not Scarlett. Maybe it’s a mischievous alter—pretending to be Isabel.”

  “Or maybe you need to consider your new patient isn’t really split. Maybe she’s faking it. Munchausen syndrome.” He showed her his fingertip triumphantly, the tiny sliver sparkling on the tip. “Factitious disorder.”

  “Okay. But for what purpose?”

  “To get attention. You said her mom left the family when she was still an adolescent, right?”

  “No. Her symptoms started years before that. There’s something else . . . something I’m missing.”

  Kyle applied the fresh bandage with the same expert efficiency and took the other to the kitchen to throw it out. As he returned, he paused in front of a frame leaning against the wall, one of several Kim hadn’t yet decided where to hang. It held a photo taken in her first year of medical school. Kim was clearly drunk, and clearly partying with the Foo Fighters.

  “Seriously, Kim? I thought you said you made that up about Dave Grohl. You were too busy reading Robert Frost, remember?”

  “I’m just full of surprises,” she said lightly, though he couldn’t possibly know how very true that was. As his scowl deepened, she added, “What? You don’t have a past?”

  Kyle shrugged. He picked up her hand again and ran his fingers along the edge of the bandage, pressing it securely to her skin—and igniting all kinds of sensations in the process. “You really should have had stitches, you know.”

  Kim just wished he’d stop talking and simply keep doing more of what he was doing. “I’ll heal.”

  Kyle gave her a probing look, his fingers lightly touching the faint lines on her inner arms. “Maybe, maybe not. But then, what’s one more scar—”

  “I said I was fine.” Kim tried to pull away, but his grip on her arms was too firm. This, she thought wryly. This is why I avoid closeness.

  Kyle was still studying her. “Kim,” he said finally, his voice heavy, lacing her fingers through his, “I think I should assign the Hascall case to someone else.”

  “Do I submit my resignation letter to you or the board?” She tried her best to look serious, but Kyle wasn’t biting. She doubled down. “I’ve always wanted to try my hand as a pastry chef.”

  Kyle shook his head. “Nice try. But I’m reassigning the girl.”

  “What? Why?” Kim swallowed, trying to keep her voice steady.

  “You’ve had one session with her, and you already need stitches? Come on, I’m concerned.”

  “Don’t—don’t make this about us. Please.” The words were out before she could stop herself.

  Kyle’s expression hardened and he released her hand. “It’s not about us. You’re my resident. I’m responsible for what happens to you. And you know you’re under a microscope right now. We both are.”

  Kim spun away, walking over to the kitchen where she fiddled with a wineglass, wishing she had something other than old beer in the fridge. “It was an accident, like I told you. Trust me, I can handle her. Whether you agree with me or not, I can help this girl. Don’t take that away from her.” She rubbed her hands together, missing the warmth of his touch in spite of herself. “And don’t take it away from me.”

  She glanced up and saw him watching her intently.

  “Kim . . .”

  “Come on, Kyle, please. Please. I know . . . I know I haven’t made your life easy.”

  “You can say that again.” He dropped his eyes, and Kim walked back over to him, wanting to make things right the only way she knew how.

  “But I’ve made it . . . interesting, right? At least a little?” She hesitantly lifted her uninjured hand to his cheek, combed her fingers through his hair.

  The corner of his mouth twitched. Kim knew he was trying to resist—and that he wouldn’t be able to, not for much longer.

  “I do appreciate you,” she murmured softly, dropping her hand to trace circles on his chest. “And if you’ll just take a break from giving me the third degree, I think I can prove it.”

  “I know I’m going to regret this,” Kyle sighed as he pulled her in for a kiss.

  Not if I can help it, Kim thought. Because what they both needed—what she needed, anyway—was to simply lose herself for a while, to give in to the sensations of his touch and forget, if only for a moment, the darkness that stalked her patients during the day and colored her dreams at night.

  SIX

  “So, Starla,” Zack said, relaxing as much as possible into the uncomfortable plastic chair. They were crowded into Interview Room 1, which was actually the only interview room that the Jarvis Police Department could lay claim to, and which also served as the photocopy room and the staff lounge. Currently it was redolent with the aromas of leftover curry that Phil Taktuq had had for lunch.

  Zack was focusing intently on the young woman’s nostrils so as to avoid staring at her twin lip piercings, studded with what looked like tiny silver fangs. “You say you left the club at—”

  “It’s Starlatta, actually,” she interrupted him. She had a distracting lisp, perhaps the result of the fangs. Zack realized then that the elaborate script tattoo scrolling across her collarbones spelled out her name, giving him, in effect, a cheat sheet.

  “Starlatta. Right, sorry,” Zack said. “You and Cherise left the club at approximately two fifteen in the morning,
and you say Brad was still there?”

  “Yup,” Cherise said, bobbing her head, which made her magenta bangs flop over her eyes. She shifted in her chair, and then uncrossed her legs and recrossed them, managing to make the everyday action look lurid. “He was definitely still there.”

  “Doing what, exactly?” Zack always had trouble at this kind of interview—girls like Starlatta and Cherise made him uncomfortable, despite his training. Distracted by his discomfort, he always struggled to break through, to get anything real out of them. Holt, of course, thought it was funny. Damn him.

  “Dancing,” Cherise said, at the very same time Starlatta said, “Talking.” Starlatta was the more assertive of the two, and she gave Cherise a withering glare.

  “Talking while he was dancing?” Cherise said meekly. “To, like, this blond girl. I think.”

  Zack pressed his thumbs to his temples, a hopeless attempt to stave off the headache that was threatening to overtake him. He couldn’t tell what was making it worse, the completely unhelpful interview, or the cheap perfume they both were wearing.

  “See, here’s the thing,” he said, willing himself to remain patient. “I’ve reviewed the video feed from that night. I’ve got you two there from eleven until around two thirty, just like you said, give or take a few bathroom breaks.” Six of them, to be precise, ranging from seven minutes—when they might actually have been using the bathroom for its intended purpose—to a highly suspect thirty-four, when they’d disappeared down the staff corridor with a waiter. “But Brad just simply wasn’t there. I ran it forward, backward, slo-mo—zeroed in on every male in the place. And unless he was wearing a cloak of invisibility, I’m afraid you’re not going to convince me he was ever there.”

  The girls stared at him like twin sphinxes, making Zack realize that even the most accessible literary allusions were probably beyond these two. Hopefully he hadn’t just lost them. “So,” he said, switching tactics, “let’s chalk that one up to getting our dates crossed, and focus on your relationship with Isabel Wilcox instead.”