Free The Angel of Death by Alane Ferguson Page B

father said, hurrying beside her. He was panting a little, and his face looked flushed. “I hope you aren’t upset with me.”

    “About what?”

    “The crack I made about Justin. About you being too young for him and him being too old for you—which he is, by the way.”

    “Forget it.”

    He fell in step beside her. “After I said it, well, I started thinking. Your mother was much younger than I was when we met—did you know that?”

    “No.”

    “So I thought—when I said that about Justin, you might think I was being hypocritical.”

    “Actually, the only thing I’m thinking is that your timing sucks. This is a morgue, Dad, not a shrink’s office. We can talk later.”

    “Except with you there’s no ‘later.’ You’re going away from me, Cammie. Maybe we should just take a chance and talk, no matter where we are.”

    She stopped then, her hand touching the glass rectangle of the autopsy door. Inside she could see Dr. Moore hunched over the sink. He wore thick rubber gloves, the kind people used to wash dishes with.

    “Cammie? Is it your mother?”

    She turned. Through tight lips she asked, “Why are you doing this? We’ve never talked about Hannah before, and now it’s like you can’t stop bringing her up. I’m walking into an autopsy , Dad. Leave it alone, okay? Leave her alone!”

    Stricken, he said, “I’m sorry. I—a friend told me I should bring it up in natural conversation. About Hannah, I mean, and not make a big deal out of the subject.”

    “Your friend was wrong. I never even think of Hannah anymore. Not ever. Now let’s go in there and do our jobs, okay?”

    She smacked her palm on the swinging door and wondered at the indignation in her voice, at her dramatic flair and her father’s sheepish response. Lying, it seemed, was easy, and it was getting easier all the time. Each falsehood greased the wheel for the next.

    It wasn’t always so. Mammaw had spooned the idea of mortal and venial sins into her along with her baby food, and even now she knew exactly which commandment she was breaking—number eight: Thou shalt not bear false witness. Her grandmother had given her a bracelet where each commandment was a tiny charm. The ten trinkets chimed together with every flick of her wrist, miniature bells reminding her not to sin. But now the bracelet was too small and her questions too great.

    All this Cameryn considered, then dismissed, as she stepped through the portal.

    The Durango autopsy suite was the size of three of her high-school classrooms, but with nothing inside to break the monotony of steel and tile. No plants to add color, no wood to take out the chill—just gleaming surfaces, cold and ready. Three autopsy tables, with their drain plugs to allow seepage of body fluid, were lined up by the sink. In the rear were large, side-by-side stainless-steel doors. She remembered it from her last visit; inside the walk-in refrigerator were brains floating in formaldehyde and pieces of heart and other organs, waiting in liquid formation, like vegetables in a market stand.

    On the other end of the room was a cavernous sink, and next to it puttered Dr. Moore, his back toward them. Intent, he placed one tool, then another, on a cotton towel. Knives, saws, scissors with needle-sharp points, specimen jars—all had been laid out on the cloth in a perfect row, like piano keys. A yellow bucket had been tucked beneath the autopsy table, destined to hold leftover organs, while pruning shears, purchased at Home Depot, lay ready to bite through her teacher’s breastbone and ribs. Justin and Sheriff Jacobs were nowhere to be seen.

    “Well, well, well, if it isn’t our protégé,” Dr. Moore said, turning to face her. “We meet again.” His voice was cordial, but his face betrayed no emotion, and his eyes were hard as they examined her closely.

    “Hello, Dr. Moore.”

    “So, Patrick, you brought her back into the netherworld. ”

    “She’s still my assistant,” her