Haunted Humans Part 8

"Boy," said Rae. "Some fun." She told the person on the other end to check with Dr. Kabukin to get a twenty on Morgan Hesch, and hung up.

D.J. twisted her nightgown. "Is Afra still alive?"

"Not dead, but still critical. Still comatose. One of the other tenants heard a shot and came down and interrupted the attack."

"A shot? Did they find the bullet?" I hope she killed him! D.J. thought.

"Yeah. Lodged in a wall. It may have nicked him; the lab results aren't in on all the blood yet."

"He didn't leave a trail, huh?"

"If he did, the paramedics messed it up getting in and getting her out of there."

"Oh, G.o.d." Still clutching at her nightgown, D.J. sat on her unmade bed.

A loud knock at the door made her jump, her heart pumping.

Rae picked up her gun and went to the door. Standing to one side, she said, "Who's there?"

"Mitch.e.l.l," said a woman's voice.

Rae opened the door and let in a short, older woman. "My relief," she said to D.J. "D.J., this is Detective Mitch.e.l.l."

"You're leaving?" D.J. said, then hated herself for sounding so despairing.

"It's my day with the kid, and I have two weeks' worth of laundry to do," Rae said. "Don't worry. Livvy will take care of you."

D.J. stood up. Business mode, she thought, and held out her hand. "I'm sure she will. Nice to meet you, Detective."

Mitch.e.l.l had a firm handshake and a no-nonsense face.

Rae dressed. "Downtown I'll keep you posted on Mrs. Griffin's progress." Rae picked up a paper sack of her things, shook hands with D.J., and ducked out the door.

Sunday after Rae left was pure h.e.l.l. By six p.m. D.J. wanted to strangle Mitch.e.l.l, who was close-mouthed and mean and seemed to resent looking after D.J.D.J. said, "Come on. You can at least tell me if Morgan's alive or dead."

After fifteen minutes of silence, Mitch.e.l.l sighed. "They picked him up. He's all right. They've got him in protective custody down at the jail."

"Couldn't he come here?"

"Jail's for his own protection. He's crazy as a bedbug."

Crazy? D.J. felt blank. Then she remembered how Timmy liked to sneak up behind the divider at the office, then leap up with a loud boo and revel in her screams. How sometimes Mishka just sat and sobbed, not even knowing what to do with the tissues D.J. offered her. How Shadow, sounding like an old radio show, was p.r.o.ne to making dark and esoteric p.r.o.nouncements that didn't make sense once you dissected them. How even Clift could get on her nerves if he watched her too closely and commented on her every move, a.n.a.lyzing the way she bit a pencil or scratched her nose.

That had been before she started talking to him, though. Once they began having conversations, her belief in his craziness had evaporated.

She sighed. She guessed she should just be happy that he was safe, and that the police and the FBI were taking this seriously. After another block of television-filled, conversation-empty time, D.J. said, "Could I go to jail?"

"There's no television in the cells, the beds aren't comfortable, and the food's much worse, but hey, if that's your pleasure, I cantake you in."

"I'll pack."

FIVE.

Morgan had stubble. He looked pale, sad, and confused. The door to his cell was locked.

"Oh, Morgan!" D.J. said. She turned on Mitch.e.l.l. "How come he's locked up? He's not a suspect! . . . Is he?"

"No. Like I told you before, it's for his own protection. If you heard the way he was talking . . . "

"Doro, what are you doing here?" Gary said. "I thought they had you farmed out someplace."

"Yeah, they did, but I'd rather be with you. I was going nuts wondering if you were all right."

"'Course I'm all right. I don't think it's a good idea, your being here. Chase is canny. He could get in here somehow and get you."

"Oh, yeah, Loon? Just how?" asked Mitch.e.l.l.

"Pose as an informant, a delivery boy, even an officer; get pulled in for something simple like disturbing the peace; if he dyed his hair, accessorized with a mustache, eyebrows, teeth, changed his clothes, he could slip right past you people. You've got other things on your minds."

Mitch.e.l.l's jaw dropped for a brief second before she closed her mouth. D.J. felt delighted.

D.J. said, "I'm not good at sitting around a room with nothing to do and no one to talk to. Officer Mitch.e.l.l was with me as a guard, but she's not very friendly. I thought you'd be much more entertaining."

"Undoubtedly," said Clift.

"I could come with you to wherever it was you were," Gary said.

"Officer Mitch.e.l.l doesn't think so. She says she couldn't keep you under control. How come you convinced everybody here you were crazy?"

"Morgan doesn't coordinate well when he's wakened from a sound sleep," said one of the women, the one with the Southern accent. "I had to do the initial talking, and for some reason that spooked them." Morgan's face smiled. It was another new expression, self-contained and narrow. It reminded D.J. of a cat.

"Are you Valerie or Elaine?" D.J. asked.

"Valerie, sugar."

"Hi."

"Hi, honey."

"Glad to meet you," D.J. said, and Morgan got up and came to the bars, staring into her eyes. His own had a touch of green in them now. She studied them so she would know Valerie again by something other than her voice. She held out her hand. Morgan's lashes fluttered down, then opened again as he took her hand. The little cat smile widened into something friendly.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, hon," said Valerie. She kissed D.J.'s hand, then looked confused.

D.J. squeezed Morgan's hand. She thought about her talk with Dr. Bollings.

"Morgan, what if I'm bad for you?"