a knife was in fact a broken, jagged bone protruding from the bloody flesh of her leg.
“Get me a tourniquet!” Dupree went down the last two steps.
“Oh, my God!” Amaia exclaimed in horror, unable to tear her eyes away from the wound, unable to understand how the creature could possibly stay erect without howling in pain.
“For fuck’s sake!” Charbou exclaimed behind her and then pleaded, “Make her stop, goddamn it!”
After twisting a length of soaked cloth above the injury, Dupree grabbed her shoulder, forcing her to turn on her axis. She fell against the balustrade. Bull and Amaia kept their pistols on the woman as Dupree shined his light on her from above. Fighting back his disgust, he stretched his gloved hand toward her face. She recoiled.
“I’m not going to hurt you, I just want to see your face,” he said. Amaia heard something in his voice, an emotion that hadn’t been there before.
An obscure muttering burst from her mouth. “I’m . . .”
“She said something,” Amaia cried. “She’s talking!”
They fell silent, trying to catch the thin thread of her voice.
More unintelligible whispering. And again, that whistling intake of breath. “I’m . . . mm . . . mmm . . . dead.”
Charbou threw down a strip of cloth found somewhere, and Bull twisted it around the suspect’s thigh.
Amaia fixed her eyes on Dupree’s face, visible beyond Bull and the woman. “I thought she said . . . that she’s dead.”
Dupree grasped the dangling locks and pushed them, almost threw them, back. Her face was gray, as if rubbed in ash; her skin was stretched so thin over her bones that it looked like parchment about to rip. There was so little flesh on her skull that they could see the shape of her molars through her cheeks. Her lips were dry and cracked, covered by sores that looked like herpes blisters, and her eyes were huge, bulging with the adrenaline of terror, her thin lids without lashes. But the worst was her expression, a gaze that, despite her fear, was vacant and hopeless.
Dupree dropped to his knees and looked deep into her eyes.
“I’m . . . mm . . . mm . . . dead,” the woman said again.
Dupree shined the light into her eyes and saw that her pupils didn’t contract. He raised his voice. “What’s your name? Tell me your name!”
The woman reacted with a strange expression, as if she’d just awakened or had glimpsed some fleeting reality. She raised her head. Then, between those terribly dry, swollen lips, a white tongue appeared, so covered with mold it seemed coated with cream. Her teeth, the color of cork, looked as if they were about to fall from their unstable places in her diseased gums.
Her lips scarcely moved as a harsh gushing sound heavy with phlegm erupted from her throat. “Méeedora.”
The odor from her mouth made Dupree recoil in horror.
“That’s impossible!” yelped Bull. “It can’t be!” He pushed aside the mess of hair that covered the creature’s neck. Her shriveled skin was darkened by a cancerous purple growth, but even so, a tattoo was visible. Elegantly curled letters formed her name. Bull could hardly get the words out. “For Christ’s sake! This is Médora Lirette!”
The woman raised her right hand and placed those five long fingers on Dupree’s chest as he stared at her, not believing his own eyes. “Médora?” he echoed. “Médora Lirette . . .”
The woman replied as if speaking from the grave. Her voice was scarcely audible. “Bazagrá . . . I’m dead, and so are you.”
Dupree’s face lost all color. He gasped as if suddenly deprived of air. He dropped his weapon and with it the lamp he’d been holding on the woman. He raised his own right hand to his chest and grasped her bony claw. He knew he was having a massive heart attack; he was going to say so, but he couldn’t speak. Sweat covered his face. He trembled, shaken by the force of the attack. He fell over backward as if struck by lightning.
43
RETURN
Florida
Brad Nelson poked his fingers under the frames of his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes vigorously. He’d been driving for hours, never stopping, ignoring at least three vehicle prompts to take a break. He couldn’t. And besides, he felt great. It was just that his eyes ached from the intense concentration of night driving.
It had been a long drive, but he wasn’t thinking of the immense distance he’d put behind him. He was remembering that night