Free Killer Image (An Allison Campbell Mystery) by Wendy Tyson Page B

elevator to his tenth floor apartment, twisted the key in the lock, and opened the front door.
    Like always, that step from the outside world to the inside of his home was a shock to his system. First the smells: Lysol and the faint scent of urine and wisps of the spice-scented candles the nurses lit to hide both. Then the overwhelming warmth. Jamie had trouble regulating his body temperature and Vaughn needed to keep the thermostat set at seventy-five-degrees all year round. Then the sounds, so familiar to him now that he had to stop and listen for them: the gentle, life-supporting whir of the monitors and machines that helped Jamie function; the hum of the computer that ran all day because it was the only way Jamie could communicate; and finally, the lights. Night lights, overhead lights, fluorescents. Jamie would still wake up in a panic in the middle of the night, wondering why he couldn’t walk or talk or crap on his own, his eyes rolling around and bulging from his head till Vaughn was afraid they would hemorrhage.  Light was the only way to reassure. No, it’s not a nightmare, my brother. At least not one you can simply wake up from.
    Vaughn took off his coat, hung it in the living room closet and tiptoed toward Jamie’s room. He could still smell Mia’s citrusy scent on his skin, feel her arms around his neck. It was hard to leave that bed for cold spring air and the long drive home. What he wouldn’t have given to wake up there—arms tangled in her hair, early morning love-making followed by fresh eggs and bacon and the sound of her damn rooster crowing. He could only imagine, though, for he’d never stayed.
    He heard a rustling and froze mid-step. A second later, a pretty face peeked around the corner of Jamie’s bedroom. Long, straight black hair. Short, curvy body. Sleep creases on her forehead. He saw a flash of embarrassment cross Angela’s pretty features, then she smiled.
    “Good night for him,” she said.
    “Will you stay?”
    “Who’s coming in the morning?”
    “Mrs. Tildman.”
    Angela smiled again. Mrs. T was everyone’s favorite. She put the kitchen to use and made soups and biscuits, homemade things he could store in his freezer to ward off chilly nights. She straightened blankets and plumped pillows and cleaned the oven. All the things he liked to believe his mama would have done had she lived. But best of all, she read books. To Jamie. They both loved mystery novels, and around his bed stood stacks of Elizabeth George, P.D. James, and Agatha Christie. The warmth and energy in her voice brought those characters to life. Jamie adored her. Vaughn wanted to pay her a premium to keep her there, but the woman would hear nothing of it. My hourly rate is all , she’d tell him. I need to eat. But beyond that, I just like that boy’s company.
    Angela took a step toward the spare bedroom. “I’ll stay till Mrs. T gets here. Don’t worry. Leave early if you have to.”
    Vaughn gave her a grateful smile and watched her close the bedroom door. He finished his trek to his brother’s room and stood in the doorway. Jamie’s blankets were pulled taut over his thin form, and Vaughn could see the slight indentation where Angela’s head had rested next to Jamie’s arm. Jamie was asleep. His eyes fluttered, restless even now.
    The computer mouth stick hung just inches from his mouth in case he woke up and needed to say something. His words would show up flat, black against white, on the screen that stood just a foot away. Jamie wanted it that way. After the incident, Jamie never regained full use of his voice. The computer could speak the words, too, but they came out tinny and robotic-sounding, and Jamie said it was a reminder that he was mute as a dead parrot.
    Vaughn obliged. Vaughn always obliged. How could he not when he’d taken up the yoke of Jamie’s life—college and a real job and putting his brains to something other than creative drug deals—after Jamie had been paralyzed by the