she'd shown earlier had ebbed from her face, accentuating the dark circles under her eyes. "Form's done. Now it wil be up to the sheriff."
Though NCIC is operational 24/7, year-round, only members of federal, state, and local law enforcement can input data.
"Gulet wil shoot it through right away?"
Emma raised both hands in a "who knows" gesture. Puling a chair from the wal, she dropped and leaned her elbows on her thighs.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
Emma shrugged. "Sometimes it just seems so hopeless."
I waited.
"Gulett's not going to slap this case with a priority sticker. And when he does enter our guy into the system, what are the chances we'l get a hit? To submit a missing adult into the database under the new regs, the person's got to be disabled, a disaster victim, abducted or kidnapped, endangered—"
"What does that mean?"
"Missing in the company of another under circumstances suggesting his or her physical safety is in danger."
"So a lot of MP's never get entered? Our guy may not have made it into the computer when he vanished?"
"The thinking is that most missing adults take off on their own. Husbands skipping town with their mistresses. Smothered wives looking for something more. Deadbeats cutting out on debt."
"The runaway bride." I referred to a case wrung dry in a recent media frenzy.
"It's head cases like that one that nurture the mind-set." Emma threw out her feet and leaned back. "But it's true. The vast majority of missing adults are people just trying to escape their lives. There's no law against that, and entering them al overloads the system."
Emma closed her eyes and tipped her head back against the wal.
"I doubt this guy simply went missing," I said, turning back to the gurney. "Take a look at this."
I was lining up the vertebrae when I heard movement, then a heart-stopping crack.
I whipped around.
Emma lay crumpled on the tile floor.
8
EMMA HAD LANDED ON THE CROWN OF HER HEAD. HER BACK was humped and her neck and limbs were in-kinked like the legs of a sun-fried spider.
I rushed over and pressed two fingers to her throat. The pulse was steady, but weak.
"Emma!"
She didn't respond.
Lowering Emma, I gently eased her cheek to the tile. Then I bolted to the corridor.
"Help! I need medical help!"
A door opened and a face appeared.
"Emma Rousseau's colapsed. Cal the ER."
The brows rocketed and the mouth went round.
"Now!"
The face withdrew. I raced back to Emma. Seconds later two paramedics blasted into the room. They fired questions as they loaded Emma onto a gurney.
"What happened?"
"She colapsed."
"Did you move her?"
"I roled her to clear the windpipe."
"Medical problems?"
I blinked and looked at him.
"Was she taking medication?"
I felt helpless. I hadn't a clue.
"Out of the way, please."
I heard the whine of rubber wheels on tile. A soft squeaking.
Then the autopsy room door clicked shut.
===OO=OOO=OO===
Emma's eyes were closed. A tube ran from her left arm to an IV bag above her head. The tube was taped with white adhesive. Its color was little different from that of Emma's skin.
This woman had always been a firestorm of energy, a force of nature. Not now. In her hospital bed she looked smal and fragile.
I tiptoed across the cubicle and took my friend's hand.
Emma's eyes opened.
"I'm sorry, Tempe."
Her words surprised me. Wasn't it I who should be apologizing? Wasn't it I who had ignored the signs of distress?
"Rest, Emma. We'l talk later."
"Non-Hodgkin's lymphoma."
"What?" Reflex. Denial. I knew what Emma was saying.
"I have non-Hodgkin's lymphoma. NHL. And I'm not talking hockey." Weak smile.
"How long?" Something cold started to congeal in my chest.
"Awhile."
"How long is awhile?"
"A couple of years."
"What type?" Stupid. I knew next to nothing about lymphoma.
"Nothing exotic. Diffuse large B-cel lymphoma." Rote, as though she'd heard or read the words a thousand times. Dear God, she probably had.
I swalowed hard. "You're in treatment?"
Emma
Though NCIC is operational 24/7, year-round, only members of federal, state, and local law enforcement can input data.
"Gulet wil shoot it through right away?"
Emma raised both hands in a "who knows" gesture. Puling a chair from the wal, she dropped and leaned her elbows on her thighs.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
Emma shrugged. "Sometimes it just seems so hopeless."
I waited.
"Gulett's not going to slap this case with a priority sticker. And when he does enter our guy into the system, what are the chances we'l get a hit? To submit a missing adult into the database under the new regs, the person's got to be disabled, a disaster victim, abducted or kidnapped, endangered—"
"What does that mean?"
"Missing in the company of another under circumstances suggesting his or her physical safety is in danger."
"So a lot of MP's never get entered? Our guy may not have made it into the computer when he vanished?"
"The thinking is that most missing adults take off on their own. Husbands skipping town with their mistresses. Smothered wives looking for something more. Deadbeats cutting out on debt."
"The runaway bride." I referred to a case wrung dry in a recent media frenzy.
"It's head cases like that one that nurture the mind-set." Emma threw out her feet and leaned back. "But it's true. The vast majority of missing adults are people just trying to escape their lives. There's no law against that, and entering them al overloads the system."
Emma closed her eyes and tipped her head back against the wal.
"I doubt this guy simply went missing," I said, turning back to the gurney. "Take a look at this."
I was lining up the vertebrae when I heard movement, then a heart-stopping crack.
I whipped around.
Emma lay crumpled on the tile floor.
8
EMMA HAD LANDED ON THE CROWN OF HER HEAD. HER BACK was humped and her neck and limbs were in-kinked like the legs of a sun-fried spider.
I rushed over and pressed two fingers to her throat. The pulse was steady, but weak.
"Emma!"
She didn't respond.
Lowering Emma, I gently eased her cheek to the tile. Then I bolted to the corridor.
"Help! I need medical help!"
A door opened and a face appeared.
"Emma Rousseau's colapsed. Cal the ER."
The brows rocketed and the mouth went round.
"Now!"
The face withdrew. I raced back to Emma. Seconds later two paramedics blasted into the room. They fired questions as they loaded Emma onto a gurney.
"What happened?"
"She colapsed."
"Did you move her?"
"I roled her to clear the windpipe."
"Medical problems?"
I blinked and looked at him.
"Was she taking medication?"
I felt helpless. I hadn't a clue.
"Out of the way, please."
I heard the whine of rubber wheels on tile. A soft squeaking.
Then the autopsy room door clicked shut.
===OO=OOO=OO===
Emma's eyes were closed. A tube ran from her left arm to an IV bag above her head. The tube was taped with white adhesive. Its color was little different from that of Emma's skin.
This woman had always been a firestorm of energy, a force of nature. Not now. In her hospital bed she looked smal and fragile.
I tiptoed across the cubicle and took my friend's hand.
Emma's eyes opened.
"I'm sorry, Tempe."
Her words surprised me. Wasn't it I who should be apologizing? Wasn't it I who had ignored the signs of distress?
"Rest, Emma. We'l talk later."
"Non-Hodgkin's lymphoma."
"What?" Reflex. Denial. I knew what Emma was saying.
"I have non-Hodgkin's lymphoma. NHL. And I'm not talking hockey." Weak smile.
"How long?" Something cold started to congeal in my chest.
"Awhile."
"How long is awhile?"
"A couple of years."
"What type?" Stupid. I knew next to nothing about lymphoma.
"Nothing exotic. Diffuse large B-cel lymphoma." Rote, as though she'd heard or read the words a thousand times. Dear God, she probably had.
I swalowed hard. "You're in treatment?"
Emma
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