Déjà Dead by Kathy Reichs Page A

body angled forward, barely touching the seat back. One hand lay in her lap, the other was curled into a fist pressed tightly to her lips. Her eyes squinted, the lower lids quivering almost imperceptibly. She seemed to be weighing something in her mind, considering variables and calculating outcomes. The sudden mood swing was unnerving.
    “You must think I’m crazy.” She was totally calm, her voice low and modulated.
    “I’m confused.” I didn’t say what I really thought.
    “Yeah. That’s a kind way to put it.”
    She said it with a self-deprecating laugh, slowly shaking her head. The dreadlocks flopped.
    “I guess I really freaked back there.”
    I waited for her to go on. A car door slammed. The low, melancholy voice of a sax floated from the park. An ambulance whined in the distance. Summer in the city.
    In the dark, I felt, more than saw, Gabby’s focus alter. It was as if she’d taken a road up to me, then veered off at the last minute. Like a lens on automatic, her eyes readjusted to something beyond me, and she seemed to seal herself off again. She was having another session with herself, running through her options, deciding what face to wear.
    “I’ll be okay,” she said, gathering her briefcase and bag, and reaching for the handle. “I really appreciate your coming for me.”
    She’d decided on evasive.
    Maybe it was fatigue, maybe it was the stress of the last few days. Whatever. I lost it.
    “Wait just a minute!” I exploded. “I want to know what’s going on! An hour ago you were talking about someone wanting to kill you! You come sprinting out of that restaurant and across the street, shaking and gasping like the goddamn Night Stalker’s on your tail! You can’t breathe, your hands are jerking like they’re wired for high voltage, and now you’re just going to sail out of here with a ‘Thank you very much for the ride,’ without any explanation?”
    I’d never been so furious with her. My voice had risen, and my breath was coming in short gulps. I could feel a tiny throbbing in my left temple.
    The force of my anger froze her in place. Her eyes went round and cavernous, like those of a doe caught in high beams. A car passed and her face flickered white then red, amplifying the image.
    She held a moment, a catatonic cutout rigid against the summer sky. Then, as if a valve had been released, the tension seemed to drain from her body. She let go of the handle, lowered her briefcase, and settled back into the seat. Again, she turned inward, reconsidering. Perhaps she was deciding where to begin; perhaps she was scouting alternative escape routes. I waited.
    At length, she took a deep breath and her shoulders straightened slightly. She’d settled on a course. As soon as she spoke I knew what she’d determined to do. She would let me in, but only so far. She chose her words carefully, threading a guarded path through the emotional quagmire in her mind. I leaned against the door and braced myself.
    “I’ve been working with some—unusual—people lately.”
    I thought that an understatement, but didn’t say so.
    “No, no. I know that sounds banal. I don’t mean the usual street people. I can handle that.”
    Her choice of words was tortuous.
    “If you know the players, learn the rules and the lingo, you’re fine down there. It’s like anywhere else. You’ve got to observe the local etiquette and not piss people off. It’s pretty simple: Don’t trespass on someone’s else’s patch, don’t screw up a trick, don’t talk to the cops. Except for the hours, it’s not hard to work down there. Besides, the girls know me now. They know I’m no threat.”
    She went mute. I couldn’t tell if she was closing me out again, or if she’d gone back to the shelves to continue her sorting. I decided to nudge.
    “Is one of them threatening you?”
    Ethics had always been important to Gabby, and I suspected she was trying to shield an informant.
    “The girls? No. No. They’re fine.