driving while intoxicated.
The beam moved back to her. Brett saw blood on her hands, speckles of blood on her torso.
She curled, elbows on knees, and vomited.
He gave her his jacket.
Their drive to the station was lost to her. The shotgun in his car, the crackle of a radio, nothing else. When she found herself sitting hunched against the wall of a cinder-block cell, it was like awakening from a blackout. The policeman stood over her.
Looking away from him, she pulled his jacket to midthigh, saw specks of vomit on her legs.
In his hand was Jamess wallet, opened to his drivers license. Staring from the picture on the laminated card, James looked stiff and frightened.
With terrible vividness, Brett saw the gash in his throat. The cops voice was strangely gentle. I think theres someone hurt out there, needing our help. If we cant find him ...
Bretts eyes filled with tears. Look by the lake, she said dully. Maybe hes there.
Heron Lake? Swallowing, Brett nodded. The cop hurried away. Brett heard footsteps on file, his voice on the telephone. She waited, drained, until the cop returned.
Ill drive you to the hospital, he said.
A blond, bird-faced woman in a state troopers uniform was waiting by the emergency entrance.
The cop holding one arm, the trooper the other, Brett was led through the bleak corridors. She passed beneath the fluorescent lights as if sleepwalking.
At the end of a corridor was an empty room.
The trooper took Brett inside. Brett stood there, staring at the room—an examining table, two chairs, a metal cabinet and sink and mirror.
She felt the young cop pause in the doorway. Is this all right? he asked.
The trooper nodded. For waiting, yes. Until they find something.
The cop hesitated, glancing at Brett, and left.
The trooper closed the door behind them, stood facing Brett. Im sorry, she said, but I need to take that jacket off.
Brett clasped it tighten Why?
Procedures. Without waiting for an answer, she unzipped the jacket and slid it from Bretts shoulders. Brett shivered again. Can I clean up? she asked.
No. Not yet.
Brett stared at her. Taking the handcuffs from her belt, the trooper turned one chair to face the cabinet and in the crisp manner of a schoolteacher said, Sit here, please. I have to cuff you. Suddenly, Brett was angry. Tell me why, danm it. The trooper shot her a level glance. So that you dont touch yourself. For that instant, Brett wanted to call her parents, her grandfather. Then the mirror caught her reflection. Her face was flecked with blood. Brett walked forward, as if drawn to her image. Dried blood speckled her lips, her throat, her breasts. Brett sat in the chair. As she held out her hands; there was blood on her fingertips. Pulling Bretts arms behind her, the trooper cuffed her to the metal chair. A plump nurse came. Silent, she took out a needle and punctured Bretts arm. With an odd detachment, Brett watched the plastic tube fill with her own blood. She hardly felt the needle. The nurse left her with the trooper. How long will I be here? Brett asked. No answer. Time passed. Perhaps minutes, perhaps hours. There was a knock on the door. Brett turned. The trooper opened the door slightly, speaking through the crack to shield Bretts nakedness. What is it? she asked. A male voice, new to Brett. They found him. At Heron Lake.
Is he all right? Brett asked. Whispers now. Closing the door, the trooper handed her some papers. This is a search warrant, she said. For you.
For what? A long, slow look. Hes dead.
Brett began shaking.
Everything changed. Brett stood there, mute, a magnet for strangers. Another female trooper entered, with a Polaroid, took pictures of Bretts face, her throat and torso, her fingertips. A knife in her hand ... A nurse in a scrub suit snipped a piece of Bretts hair and then, kneeling, clipped from her pubic hair.