Maureen
The lights are still as harsh as he remembers, still that soulless blue-gray color. She holds his hand in a death-grip. Mark can feel the fear rolling off of her in hot waves.
"It might not be her," he suggests, mindful to keep his voice low and gentle.
She nods tightly. "Maybe." But she doesn't seem convinced.
"Well." Mark tries to think. It's hard, because a million thoughts and feelings are whirling inside him at break-neck speed. He pats her arm with his free hand. "Whatever happens, I'll be right here."
"Okay. Thanks." She cuts her eyes over to him. "Mark?"
"Yes?"
"I'm scared."
Mark starts scanning the hallway for the coroner. "Me too."
She's looking the other way and sees the coroner before he does. He hears her gasp and whips his head around. The coroner glances down at his clipboard then back up at the pair. "Ms. Jefferson? Mr. Cohen?"
Joanne falters, too scared to speak, so it's Mark that says, "Yes, that's us."
The man with the clipboard smiles a tight thin smile. "Before I show you the body, I should say … " He pauses. Adjusts his glasses on his nose. This drives Joanne crazy, which Mark can tell because her sharp fingernails dig deep into his knuckles. "The deceased suffered some disfigurement, and it might be very difficult for you both. To identify the body, as well as to view it."
Mark glances at Joanne. She nods, so Mark nods too. They both look through the large pane of glass that separates them from death. With almost excruciating slowness the bed-sheet is removed from the face of the deceased woman. She looks like hamburger. Mark feels stomach acid bubble up into his throat, and he clamps shut his lips and tries to swallow it down. Joanne is still gripping his hand.
"That's not her," she breathes, in a tone of wonder and awe and stark relief.
Finally Mark can't take it and breaks away, stumbles to the nearest trashcan, and vomits up everything he had earlier this morning. This admittedly isn't very much, but it still burns.
From behind him, he hears: "Are you sure?"
"I'm positive. That is not Maureen Johnson."
Mark finishes and wipes his mouth with the back of a trembling hand. He walks back to Joanne. As soon as he's within reach, she throws her arms around his neck, burying her face in his scarf. "It's not her, Mark," she repeats, crying, letting herself slump against him. "It's not her."
He looks again at the dead woman. Joanne's right—but then, Joanne's usually right. Though there's not too much of the woman's face left intact, that face was definitely never Maureen's. He hugs the sobbing woman who's clinging to him and softly thanks the coroner for his time. As they weave their way through the hospital's corridors, heading back to the parking garage, Mark keeps his arm around Joanne's shoulders. He is irrationally afraid that if he lets her go, she'll fall apart on him. Or maybe he'll fall apart on her. "She's alive, and we'll find her," he promises.
"I want to go home," she says in a flat voice. "I need you to drive, though. Don't think I'm up to it at the moment."
If he wasn't already numb from everything, Mark thinks he might have passed out from shock at the question. Joanne asking for something? Letting him drive her gorgeous, expensive car? But he doesn't pass out. He pulls her a little closer and whispers, "Okay."
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Author's Notes: Again, thank you for reading and reviewing. I'm unsure what Collins would do—though obviously I tried to make the last chapter believable and true to Collins' character. Above all I tried to write it so that the characters showed awareness of the moral ambiguities of what they were doing. I didn't want to come across as glib or crass, and hopefully I succeeded.
And yes, in the last chapter, Mark faces his own death.