Sleep No More Page 9

  When she didn’t respond right away, he said, “Unless you have an objection…?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  He opened the plastic box and took her fingerprints without further comment. When he was finished, he handed her a packet holding a towelette.

  He settled back on his end of the couch, silently watching her while she cleaned the ink off her fingers.

  Finally he spoke, “Have you remembered anything more since we last spoke?” There was a cutting edge to the way he said “remembered” that stuck like a thorn in tender skin.

  She sat up straighter, biting her tongue to keep from snapping at him. She managed a calm, “No.” It was true. She hadn’t remembered.

  He didn’t respond for a long moment, just pinned her in place with his glacial stare.

  Finally, he said, “I see.”

  He seemed to be waiting for her to elaborate. She didn’t.

  As he pulled a little flip notebook from his pocket, he said, “We’ve drawn a few conclusions. We were hoping you’d be able to corroborate them.”

  “As I said, I don’t recall anything. But if something you say sparks a memory, I’ll certainly tell you.” Why couldn’t he have stayed away? She’d feel so much more comfortable talking to Sheriff Hughes in his office, coming in on her own, not cornered like this.

  “The accident happened shortly before three a.m. just prior to the 911 call—not near the time when you say you left Jeter’s.” He looked at her with expectation that set her teeth on edge.

  “And you established this how?” She was hungry for solid facts.

  “Kyle Robard was with a friend in town until two-thirty. Left there alone. The medical examiner established a time of death that backs this accident time.”

  Time of death. She thought of that poor boy using the last of his fading strength to call for help and she flushed hot with nausea.

  Trowbridge noticed. “Are you ill?”

  “Who wouldn’t be sick thinking of that poor kid’s death?” She held his gaze, refusing to let him fluster her further.

  He didn’t respond, but made a show of jotting down a note.

  “You say he’d been with a friend. Is it possible that he’d been drinking?” she asked, cringing a little at the naked hope in her voice.

  “We haven’t gotten all of the test results yet.” He looked at her like she was trying to blame the dead. “Do you have any recollection at all of someone else, a third party, at the scene?”

  The question took her by surprise. “No. I didn’t even know about Kyle until you—found him.”

  Deputy Trowbridge went on before she uttered another word. “There must have been someone. Kyle Robard could not have made that 911 call.”

  “But you found his phone with the 911 line still open.”

  “The medical examiner determined that Kyle was killed instantly. So there was either someone else on scene, or you made that call yourself.”

  For a moment Abby sat in stunned silence.

  She looked into the cold hearth and thought back through the events of that night. She remembered waking in the van—dry except for her feet, leaving the vehicle, thrashing out of the swamp. Then the deputy arrived almost immediately. There hadn’t been any time for her to find Kyle Robard and use his cell to call for help, even if she’d known he was there.

  She looked back at Trowbridge. The smug look on his face clenched it. She wasn’t going to give him anything. She’d go to straight to the sheriff with her confession. “I didn’t.”

  “You said you couldn’t remember most of that night. Perhaps you found him, called for help, and don’t recall.”

  “No. I awakened in the van, went to the road, then you arrived. I’m not missing any bits of memory in that area.” At least I don’t think I am. Her memory seemed to be getting foggier, not clearer.

  “You think on it for a while.” His tone was one a person would use on a naughty six-year-old. “You were in shock. There could very well be things missing from your memory after you awakened in the vehicle.”

  She could only imagine his reaction if she admitted she suspected she’d been sleep-driving.

  She said, “Maybe someone stopped, found Kyle, called for help, and left. That makes more sense to me.”

  “It’s possible, but not likely. We’re checking his phone for fingerprints. Perhaps that will solve the mystery.” He raised a brow, as if waiting for her to confess.

  “Perhaps,” she said stiffly.

  “You say you got out of the van and went to the road. Did you return to the van after you exited the vehicle?”

  “No… well, yes. I got out, realized I left my purse and cell phone, climbed back in.”

  “Through the door?”

  “Of course.”

  “It was still open from your initial exiting?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know how the driver’s side window got broken?”

  “No. When I awakened there was glass all over me, so I assume it broke as I drove off the road.”

  He made a note, and then closed his notebook. “You said you lost your purse and cell in the marsh.”

  “I did—after I got them out of the van.”

  He stood. “All right. That’s all for now.”

  “Do you have any idea yet what happened?” She stood and followed him to the door, reaching around him to open it.

  “We’re still working on it.” He put on his hat, then he looked her in the eye. “You’ll be sure and let us know if you have any clearing of your memory, won’t you?”

  “Of course.” She closed the door behind him, turned the deadbolt, and sagged with her back against it. Her tired mind was scrambling her thoughts until she was beginning to doubt herself. Was she forgetting something?

  Who made that 911 call?

  Even if sleepwalking explained her lack of memory, it didn’t answer that question. Could someone have stopped and then just left Kyle’s dead body in the woods? Who could have been so callous?

  Abby looked out the front window, resting her throbbing forehead against the cool glass.

  As Trowbridge’s brake lights brightened at the end of her lane, she suddenly remembered those headlights, fast approaching and making an abrupt U-turn just as the deputy had arrived. With everything that happened afterward, she’d forgotten completely about them.

  Could they somehow be connected?

  She wasn’t about to call Deputy Trowbridge and tell him. She’d save it for the sheriff.

  CHAPTER 9

  This morning, Uncle Father wasn’t in the kitchen making pancakes as usual. And Abby was going to be here soon. Maggie had to be ready.

  She went back upstairs to look for him.

  She heard him whispering prayers. His bedroom door was open. Uncle Father said it was always all right for her to come in if the door was open. But she stopped. He was praying. Praying was private.

  Uncle Father had two crucifixes in his bedroom. One over his bed where everybody had one. And one on the wall beside the closet door.

  Below Jesus-by-the-closet was a little table with two candles. One for Maggie’s mother and one for her daddy.

  That’s where Uncle Father was praying. On his knees. His face was bristly. His eyes were closed. He was rocking back and forth with the music of his words. Maggie couldn’t understand any of them.

  She stood at the doorway waiting for him to notice her. Maybe she should just go away.

  Then she heard him make a little sob sound.

  She went in and got on her knees beside him. She put her arm across his shoulders and bowed her head.

  “Don’t be sad, Uncle Father,” she whispered. “I’ll help you pray.”

  He made a low sound that wasn’t prayer and wasn’t words. He leaned forward and put his forehead on the floor.

  It scared her but she didn’t leave. She even kept her hand on his back.

  She said, “God will help you.”

  He sat up and wiped his cheeks wit
h his hand. He looked at her with a smile and said, “You give me strength, Maggie love.”

  “You better now?” she asked.

  “Yes. Thanks to you.”

  “Good. I’m hungry.”

  He laughed a little. “I didn’t realize it was so late. Let’s go make pancakes, then.”

  They made the pancakes together, but Uncle Father didn’t eat any.

  The doorbell rang.

  “That’s Abby!” Maggie jumped up and put her plate in the sink.

  “Abby?” Uncle Father said. He sounded funny, not quite surprised, but different. Maybe he was still sad. “Why is she here?”

  Maggie sighed. “I told you. We have to make a wedding garland today.”

  “Oh. Yes. I guess I forgot.”

  She kissed his cheek. “Will you be all right without me?”

  “Of course. Now you run along. Don’t keep Abby waiting.”

  “You don’t want to go to the door and see her?”

  “Not this morning. I haven’t even shaved yet.”

  She was so excited her feet wanted to dance. Today she was going to do everything on her own.

  “Okay. Bye.” She hurried out of the kitchen.

  She was so happy that Abby hadn’t had an accident again today.

  This was going to be the best wedding garland ever made.

  Abby sat across the workbench in the carriage house from Maggie, thinking there was no way she would have all of the arrangements ready for the wedding tomorrow. Her exhaustion made it so she had to think and rethink every move; work that normally came naturally now was an act of conscious will.

  Maggie’s chatter had ceased. Her tongue was caught between her lips as her blunt fingers worked wires slowly and meticulously around the flowers and magnolia leaves. Abby was happy for the silence. Her fatigue was making her irritable. She didn’t want to take it out on poor Maggie.

  Abby’s cell phone rang. She’d stopped at the Verizon store to get a new one on her way to pick up Maggie this morning. It felt like having the ability to walk restored after a stint in a wheelchair.

  She looked at the number on the screen. It was Dr. Samuels, the physician who’d taken care of her as long as she’d been alive. She’d left him a message earlier today. He was only practicing part time now, after having retired and unretired twice already. Naturally, he didn’t have office hours on Friday.

  She got up, leaving Maggie to continue working.

  Once she was out of Maggie’s earshot, she answered.

  “What can I do for you, Abby, dear?” Dr. Samuels’s voice sounded thinner, less robust than she remembered. It had been well over a year since she’d spoken him.

  “I think I need to see you,” she said. “I’ve… I’ve been sleepwalking again.” She figured explaining her theory on sleep-driving would be better if delivered in person.

  “You don’t say.” He sounded surprised. “After all this time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm. Losing your mother so suddenly most likely triggered this recurrence.” He paused. “When did it start?”

  “As far as I can tell, Tuesday night.”

  “Most likely you were experiencing it to some extent before that. Have you been continuing your strict bedtime routine? Have you been taking your supplements?”

  Back when he’d treated her for sleepwalking as a child, Dr. Samuels had developed a regimen in an attempt to curb her sleepwalking. It consisted of an unalterable routine for retiring at night: always at the same hour; no TV, no exercise, no reading thirty minutes prior to bed; a hot bath followed by ten minutes of silent meditation (of course at age nine Abby had no idea how to meditate, so just sat with her eyes closed for ten minutes and pretended); a magnesium supplement and a glass of milk immediately prior to lying down.

  Abby couldn’t say with any certainty that it helped. She continued to sleepwalk until she’d passed puberty, although perhaps with less frequency. She’d probably just grown out of her sleep disorder as Dr. Samuels had initially predicted. Still, she had never varied from this routine. It was just one of the reasons she’d never spent an entire night with a man.

  “Yes to both.” She felt hope deflating in her chest. “Aren’t there new drugs or something?”

  “A few. But honestly, I don’t like the side effects.”

  Could they be worse than driving around killing innocent people?

  He went on. “And I haven’t read much that leads me to believe they work in most instances. There is a sleep lab now at the hospital down in Savannah. Maybe we should set you up there for some tests.”

  “I was hoping for something more immediate,” she said.

  “Abby, there just isn’t anything immediate that can be done.”

  “I’ve read about hypnosis—”

  “Oh-ho, I’m sure there’s aplenty out there who’ll take your money. But I don’t put much stock in hypnosis to alter sleepwalking.”

  Tears of frustration pushed for release. “I’d like to see you anyway.”

  “I think that sounds like a good idea. How about Tuesday? You can call and talk to Charlotte on Monday for a specific time. Then we can work on getting you into that sleep lab.”

  “Is there any way I can see you today?”

  “I’m sorry, but that’s just not possible. I’m already at the airport. I won’t be back until late Monday.”

  She closed her eyes and exhaled. “All right. See you Tuesday.”

  God, she couldn’t go without sleep that long. She’d have to figure out some way to make it safe.

  Jason called the Robard house to tell the senator he was on his way to check on Jessica.

  “Jessica is fine,” Ken Robard said. “She doesn’t need you.”

  “Wonderful. I’d like to speak to her.”

  “She’s sleeping.”

  “I’ll stop by then.”

  “No,” Robard said. “You can’t come here. TV reporters are camped out in front of the house. Kyle was supposed to be at school… he came back home to see a girl. We didn’t know anything about it. Reporters are trying to make more out of it than it is. We don’t need more speculation—”

  “My concern is your wife’s welfare. If I can’t come and see her, I’ll send an EMS unit to your house. See what the media makes of that.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “Watch me.”

  “You’re dismissed from her case. I’ll find a new doctor.”

  “Fine. I’m still sending the EMS.”

  Jason heard a huff on the other end.

  “Don’t stop and talk to anyone. You’re coming as a family friend. Is that understood?”

  Jason disconnected the call. If Jessica Robard was “fine” this morning, it’d be a miracle. Sometimes Jason got the impression Ken Robard would have been happier if his wife’s suicide attempt had been successful. A grieving widower played better to the public than a man with a wife suffering from an ongoing mental illness.

  Sheriff Hughes looked across his desk at his young deputy. “What makes you think she’s lying?”

  “The evidence for one.” Trowbridge sounded surprised that the sheriff even asked. “Plus, it’s obvious by her demeanor. She’s hiding something. I don’t buy it for a second that she doesn’t remember anything after nine p.m.”

  The sheriff generally trusted his first impressions; and his said Abby Whitman wasn’t telling them everything, either. Still, Trowbridge in his inexperience wasn’t looking beyond that gut response.

  “What would be the point?” Hughes asked. “Her blood alcohol and drug screen came back clean.”

  “Maybe she knows who the third party is and is protecting him.”

  Hughes thought of the theory the state team had come up with thus far. There was a third vehicle, or at least a third person, either involved in the accident or there immediately after. They’d found footprints near the body that were too large to be Abby Whitman’s. Unfortunately those prints were such a mess it was going to take the lab
a while to tell if they had a shoe tread worth anything.

  Those prints, along with the post-mortem 911 call, were clear indicators of a third party. They also backed Whitman’s accounting of post-accident events; that she had just come out of her vehicle at the time Trowbridge arrived. The question was did she see anyone?

  “It’s possible that she’s protecting someone, I suppose,” Hughes said. “We both know the Robard kid had a need for speed. Maybe he was racing someone at the time—someone who called for help and fled the scene. So maybe it played out just as Ms. Whitman claims.”

  Trowbridge’s eyes clouded with skepticism. Hughes suspected he wanted to be right more than he wanted the truth. He had the intelligence and drive to be a good officer; he just needed to develop a little patience—and a lot of humility.

  Hughes said, “The investigation team says there’s something about the positioning of the two vehicles that doesn’t add up with their initial thoughts. They’re working up some computer re-creations and examining the damage on the motorcycle and the van. Maybe we’ll have more specifics by tomorrow.”

  “What about Senator Robard?” Trowbridge asked.

  Unfortunately, Trowbridge had been in the room when the senator had made his most recent call demanding charges be brought against Abby Whitman.

  Hughes looked at his deputy sharply. “The senator is not your problem. And I don’t want a word of his phone call to pass the walls of this office.”

  Trowbridge had the sense to appear contrite. Truth was, he had trouble keeping work subjects out of his personal conversations. Hughes had called him on it more than once—minor stuff, but it was a bad habit to get into.

  Hughes redirected the conversation. “Did you speak to the priest?”

  Trowbridge nodded. “The prayer card found near the motorcycle was from a funeral at St. Andrew’s on Wednesday. Lucky for us it was a very small funeral. I have a list of about sixteen that the priest remembered; the rest I need to get from the guest registry. The family already has that. I’m headed out this afternoon to start checking them out.” He looked quite satisfied when he added, “Abby Whitman was one of them.”

  “We’ll see if the fingerprint on the card matches hers,” Hughes said.

  “How about those on the cell phone? Do we have any idea how many unidentified prints are on it?”