You have to wake up so you can tell the story.
But this is so nice. It’s like sleeping, only better.
You can’t just stay this way. All your muscles will atrophy and your body will feed on itself until you look like a petrified cadaver.
Gross.
And you know your mouth is hanging open, don’t you? You’re drooling.
You’re such a bitch, M.
I love you too.
Gina’s mouth began working first, opening and trying to close. So dry. Parched. She needed a drink. No one noticed. The nurses were busy. One had checked on her not that long ago. They wouldn’t look in on her for another fifteen or twenty minutes unless one of her monitors went off.
That was all right. She was already tired from the effort of moving her mouth. She would rest awhile and try again later.
Open your eyes, G.
What? I’m trying to rest. Go away.
You’re done resting. You have to open your eyes.
They’re stuck shut.
You have to open your eyes. There’s so much for you to see.
Like what?
You’ll see.
See what?
You’ll see when you open your eyes.
You’re so annoying.
Her eyelids weighed a thousand pounds. Gina tried to lift them. They were like stone weights. Maybe they had coins on them. She had seen that in an old Western movie—when someone was dead, the undertaker put coins on the corpse’s eyelids to keep them shut.
Maybe she was dead after all.
But if she was dead, how could her heart start beating faster? It wouldn’t beat at all.
She must not be dead.
She tried harder to open her eyes. A little wedge of blurred colors appeared. But that was the best she could do for now. She would try again later.
Promise me, G.
I promise, M.
90
The weather system that had settled rain and fog over the area for the last several days had moved out, leaving the air crystal clean and the sky a sparkling, brilliant blue. The drive out to the Bordain ranch was like being in a video for a luxury car—except that they were in the usual ordinary Ford from the SO fleet of unmarked units.
This road, lined with spreading oak trees and white board fences, was where Bordain Motor Cars shot their commercials for the Mercedes dealership: a beautiful silver sedan slinking around the curves of the road, Darren Bordain leaning against the white board fence looking elegant and wealthy, telling all viewers they deserved a Mercedes.
The Bordains’ shaggy red imported cattle grazed in the emerald green grass along the edge of the blue reservoir. As Mendez turned in at the gate and they rolled down the driveway, exotic-looking chickens of all colors with fantastic plumes atop their heads clucked and squawked as they pecked at the ground beneath the lush pepper trees.
Milo Bordain, in a huge straw hat and loose gardening clothes, was tending her roses, looking calm and relaxed. Not what Mendez had expected from her, considering the circumstances. She barely looked up at them from her work.
“Of course I knew all about it,” she said, snipping the huge wilted head of a salmon-colored rose from its stem. “I’m not a fool, Cal. I know how the world works. I know men.”
“And you were fine paying blackmail to Marissa Fordham?”
“I never considered it blackmail. I considered it an investment. It wasn’t as if Marissa didn’t have something to contribute to the world. She was an amazing artist.”
“Who happened to have your son’s illegitimate child,” Mendez said.
She glanced at him like he was an annoying horsefly buzzing around her.
“I’ve told you Haley is like a grandchild to me.”
“Because she is your grandchild.”
“Now that her birth certificate has surfaced, I’ve already spoken with our attorney about beginning adoption proceedings. The records will remained sealed, of course. It isn’t necessary for the entire world to know the circumstances of Haley’s birth.”
“That news could hurt Darren’s political future,” Dixon said.
Milo Bordain laughed. “If I told you how many very powerful political figures in this state have a love child or two on the side, you would be embarrassed at your naïveté, Cal.”
“But how many have gay lovers?” Mendez asked.
For once, she spoke directly to him. Now the claws came out. “My son is not gay,” she snapped, “and if you persist in this line of investigation, my husband and I will sue you personally and the sheriff’s office for slander and defamation of character.”
“You would rather believe that Darren murdered Marissa than that he prefers male company?”
“Darren didn’t murder Marissa. He had no reason to. Marissa had no reason to blackmail anyone. She was very well taken care of.”
“I heard she was getting tired of being controlled by you,” Mendez said. “That maybe she was over being the daughter you never had.”
“That’s nonsense. Marissa was an artist. Artists have their fits. She may not have always appreciated my guidance, but she certainly appreciated the results,” she said. “I introduced her to all the right people, exposed her work to an audience she would never have had access to on her own.”
“And rubbed her face in it every chance you got, I’m sure,” Mendez said.
Milo Bordain looked at Dixon, irritated. “Why do you continue to allow him to upset me, Cal?”
“That’s his job.”
His answer didn’t please her. She should have been the queen of something, Mendez thought. Back in the day when monarchs could order people’s heads cut off—like Marissa Fordham’s.
“Maybe you were the one who got tired of her,” he suggested. “She was rebellious. She didn’t show proper appreciation for all you did for her. She knew all the Bordain secrets.”
“That’s absurd!” she said, tears springing to her eyes. She turned to Dixon. “I loved Marissa!”
“Not enough to let her marry your son,” Mendez pressed.
“Marissa had no interest in getting married! She had her art, she had Haley. She was happy with her life! I’m devastated by what happened to her!” she went on. “I don’t know who killed her, but it certainly wasn’t me or my husband or my son!
“Are you forgetting that I’ve been threatened too?” she asked. “Someone sent me that—that—box in the mail! Someone tried to run me off the road! What are you doing about that? Anything?”
“We’ll pursue it if we get a lead,” Dixon said. “There’s nothing we can do right now.”
“You’ll do something when I’m dead on the floor,” she snapped. “That’s a great comfort to me! And I heard that Kemmer girl was found not far from here. This killer is lurking out here and you’re wasting precious time accusing people who had no reason to be involved—”
Mendez’s pager interrupted the tirade. He excused himself and went back to the car to radio in. When he got the message, he ran back, dismissing Milo Bordain from his mind.
“We have to go,” he said to Dixon. “Gina Kemmer is conscious.”
91
“She’s drifting in and out,” Hicks said as they met at the elevators near the ICU. “She fights for it, she’s with it for a few seconds, and then she goes back under.”
“Has she said anything?” Dixon asked.