Okay, after a review from Tora, I feel the need to remind you all of the story's location on the timeline. This happens within the first season, shortly after the episode "Dead Men Tell Long Tales". I started writing it before the season was over, though I didn't start posting until after the season ended.
Thank you to my reviewers and new followers. Credit for the lack of spelling errors and missing words goes to my beta, KayValo87.
Okay, so I've been pretty good about keeping at least three chapters ahead of the current chapter, but I'm falling behind. I'm working on Chapter 11, so I hope to stay ahead until the end, but I might fall behind and end up with a late posting. Fortunately, I do have the rest of the story plotted out. I promise that it will have an end and it will not be abandoned.
Chapter 9
Meredith could feel their eyes on her while she ate. More than at Agatha's place, every bite felt impossible, all the borrowed time she was living on weighing in the roast and mashed potatoes in her mouth. But the detective's eyes were boring into her. When Abe had told her that he was going to invite a police detective over for dinner, she hadn't honestly known what to expect. She was secretly glad that the older man had insisted that they put off the topic of her survival off until the meal was inside them.
But she could tell they were finding it hard not to ask the questions. She certainly hadn't told Abe everything—just enough to get her to the police without running into a psychiatrist first. She spoke up a few times, living in the promise of polite conversation to the end of the meal. But even Henry was staring at her without really looking, a look she knew because she had mastered it while living with US marshals who didn't always bother to conceal their weapons. She would watch as Marshal O'Neil's coat flapped back, revealing the side arm tucked in a shoulder holster.
Above all else, this meal could not continue indefinitely.
"I believe I'm finished," Meredith announced. "And perhaps I am ready to answer your questions."
She somehow managed to say it with far more confidence than she felt. Her knees shook as she stood up from the table and carried her plate to the sink. Weeks of glancing over her shoulder had turned into the ability to feel that the detective was approaching her without actually looking back.
"Shall we go into the living room to talk?" Detective Martinez asked, putting her dirty dishes in the sink as well.
"Yes." Her voice was steadier than she expected it to be. Maybe I can tell the truth this time…
The living room was a cozy corner near the stairs with a couch and a couple overstuffed chairs. It was surrounded by cloudy windows, though Meredith noted the distinct lack of pictures. In a way, it was like her apartment before it had blown up; she had few family members to immortalize in picture frames and few friends to pose drunk with her. When she thought about it, she was the perfect kind of person to go into Witness protection. She didn't have any loose ends to keep her anywhere in particular.
"Can you tell me what happened?" the detective asked, sitting down on the couch across from the younger woman.
"It's a bit complicated."
Jo smiled. "It's my job to sort everything out. You just need to tell me whatever happened."
No, it's a little more complicated than that. "We left the apartment where we'd been staying for several weeks awaiting the trial at about four in the morning. I hadn't been sleeping very well lately, and Marshal O'Neil told me that I would have a chance to sleep after we made it to the courthouse. We were driving along the East River when Maya—I mean, Marshal Valdez—yells and suddenly the vehicle was in the water."
Meredith realized that her breathing was coming in gasps only when the homicide detective put her hand on the girl's arm. Slowly, she started taking deeper and deeper breaths to calm her fluttering heart down.
"You can take as long as you need."
"No, it's okay," Meredith's breath hitched on a lump in her throat as she uttered the lie. "I don't remember much else—just waking up in a park dripping wet around dawn. I think I might have blacked out or something."
She caught the questioning look from Abe as he was clearing the table. Apparently he knew that she was omitting certain details from the story, specifically that she was naked when she woke up. Agatha must have mentioned it.
"You don't know how you got out of the car or who it was that hit you?"
"All I remember before waking up in the park is thinking that Mikhail Volkov would go free because I was about to die." Perhaps her voice was too firm, but that one detail held her with such weight compared to the hazy recollections of the crash itself. That moment of blind panic when the only thought in her mind was that a murderer would be free to kill again, that moment was carved into the back of her skull and branded on the insides of her eyelids.
"Why didn't you come in immediately? It's been almost two days. We thought you might have been kidnapped and killed."
Although she had been expecting this question, Meredith had yet to figure out an answer for it. "I don't know. I think I just needed time. I mean, I survived something that the Mythbusters say is damn near impossible. And I didn't understand what was going on or why. I still don't."
"Are you still going to testify?"
"Yes." That was really the only thing about the past few days that she was certain of. No matter what happened, she was going to get to that trial and put that bastard away for life.
"I feel I should warn you: the FBI are involved in this case too. They might ask you some of the same questions. Can you tell me where you've been for the past couple days?"
Meredith straightened, her spine going rigid at the thought of putting Agatha in danger. "Do I need to tell you? I don't want to get her in trouble. She didn't kidnap me or anything; she was just taking care of me. She doesn't even know who I really am."
"Okay, we can probably leave her out of all this." An expression Meredith couldn't read crossed the NYPD detective's face. "Were you hurt in the crash?"
Here it is. This is where all my lies are going to come back and bite me in the ass. "I thought I remembered hitting my head, but when I woke up on the shore, it didn't hurt."
The scars around her left leg started itching, as if punishing her for the lie of omission she was committing by not bringing them into the conversation. But it looked more like a contact rash than scarring, as if she had hives rather than a leg that had been crushed and quickly mended through magic or science fiction.
"I guess the only question that needs answered now is what to do." Jo buried a hand in her hair and fluffed it. "We could go to the station now, but that would mean putting you back in protective custody right away, and it didn't turn out so well the last time. For now, I think we need to keep this as contained as we can. Where were you going to stay tonight?"
"Here. Agatha asked Abe if it was alright because her granddaughter didn't like me."
It looked as if Detective Martinez was weighing her options as she lapsed into silence. Meredith could almost hear the argument that was taking place in the other woman's head.
"There's dessert if anyone wants it," Abe called from the kitchen.
Meredith stood, but looked to Jo before going anywhere. The detective waved her on towards the kitchen, lost in her own thoughts.
Dr. Morgan was already there, accepting a piece of cherry pie from Abe. "Ah, Ms. Keegan. I was hoping I might get a chance to speak with you." He set his pie down on the table before continuing. "I am primarily a medical examiner, but I am also a certified doctor, and I wonder if I might examine you for any injuries you might have sustained in the collision."
Meredith nodded. She knew the request was more of a formality than a request because if he really wanted to check for injuries, there were probably certain protocols he could invoke to coerce her. It was nice that he was actually asking though, which was probably more than she would have gotten from an ER doctor.
I wonder if he'll be able to tell that I actually died in the car and was somehow brought back to life. She pushed the thought down, assuring herself that the only mark on her, without extensive testing he probably couldn't do here, was the scarring on her leg. That was the only overt souvenir from an early morning dive into the East River.
"If you'll just make yourself comfortable…" His voice trailed off as he retrieved a medical bag. An actual medical bag like the ones doctors would carry with them when making house calls, a practice that had gone much out of fashion decades ago. The bag was well worn, an antique possibly, like many of the other curiosities in the shop. But unlike the desk and cabinets and bureaus on the street level floor, this bag was actually being used.
He drew a stethoscope from the bag, then a blood pressure cuff. As she followed his instructions—"Take a deep breath. Good. Now another. Excellent…"—it was starting to feel like a mundane checkup. Sometimes he would mutter things to himself that she couldn't quite decipher. He took out a mercury thermometer next and had her place it beneath her tongue. A small hammer for testing reflexes appeared from the depths of the bag, as well as the strange tool used for examining ears.
Meredith realized the exact moment that Dr. Morgan caught sight of the scars. He was testing the reflexes in her legs and, although there didn't appear to be anything wrong with them, he noticed the slightly raised scars wrapping around her left ankle and up her leg.
He glanced up at her, then back down at her leg. "May I look at this?" he asked, ever polite.
Meredith nodded. She had been expecting him to notice it soon, but she still felt guilty because the scar was the mark telling her that she should have stayed dead.
"Do you remember how you got this? It looks fairly recent."
As she shook her head, she was convinced that the doctor could read the lie in her eyes.
"Meredith?" Detective Martinez appeared in the kitchen. "I think you should come over and stay at my place.
I thought that was what she was considering. It made sense that a key witness in a murder trial would only bring danger to the people she was staying with, and the NYPD detective was obviously far more willing to shoulder the risk than to allow Abe and Henry to bear it.
"For someone who went through a traumatic accident, you seem to be in perfect health. I wish you more good health, and luck in trial."
A few minutes later, Meredith was climbing into the detective's car carrying the tote bag she had packed at Agatha's earlier that day.
"Is that all you have?"
"Yeah. Murderers don't tend to care if you have things of sentimental value." Meredith was surprised by the bitterness in her own voice. "Everything else I had is either at the apartment where I stayed with the marshals or blown to high heaven when they tried to get some things from my actual apartment. They booby trapped it hoping to catch me."
"I'm sorry."
Meredith sat back and stared out the window, watching the neighborhood pass by. It wasn't the detective's fault that any of this was happening to her; it was Mikhail Volkov's fault. And with luck, he would be out of the picture soon.
Reviews are always welcome. I would also welcome any readers who were referred to my story by some of my followers. (Hint, hint.)
