both filthy.”
“I’m okay, Morgan. I’m okay. Let’s get cleaned up here.”
Morgan turned on the shower and in a surreal, almost balletic sequence of movements, he and Miranda got the young woman into the streaming water, where Miranda, still in her pajamas, stripped off the woman’s soiled clothes and handed them out to Morgan, who tossed them in the tub and then went for a bathrobe, which they wrapped around the young woman, who appeared conscious of what they were doing but did nothing to assist. He took her into the bedroom and spread her out on top of the sheets, noticing there was still residue around her wrists, possibly from duct tape, then he returned to assist Miranda, who was tangled trying to get out of her drenched moose-grazing flannel pajamas. He helped her into and out of the shower then towelled her off before wrapping her in a clean white beach towel and leading her into the bedroom to sit on the edge of the bed beside her erstwhile companion.
“Why are you here?” said Miranda ingenuously, implying it was a pleasant thing to have him drop in, but a bit of an intrusion.
“I wanted to talk about wine. When I called, there was no answer — who is this? She obviously needs help? So do you —”
“And you’re here, Morgan. She came to me, I’m the help she was looking for. We’ll help each other, Morgan. How can I help you? You want to know about wine? You’re the expert, but I’ll tell you what I can.”
“Miranda …”
“She came to me, Morgan, because she needs me. Philip sent her.”
“Philip!”
“I know he’s dead. I’m not confused. But she’s a link between him and the man who killed us, killed him.”
“How do you know?”
“Statistics. Logic. How often does a discombobulated blond turn up at your door, how often does a corpse turn up in your bed? Both extremely unlikely. The chances of these two events happening in the same week to the same person, astronomically unlikely. Ergo, it’s magic, or there’s a causal connection.”
“We’ve got to call Spivak, see what he can make of her. We’ve got to get her to a doctor. Does she talk?”
“Call Ellen Ravenscroft.”
“What?”
“Call Ellen Ravenscroft, she’s a doctor.
“She’s a coroner, this woman’s alive —”
“Morgan, are you with me on this? She came to me. Not to the police, not to the hospital, she came to me.”
Morgan reached out and felt her forehead. Miranda leaned against the pressure of his hand. He stood up, and bending over her, he lowered her back onto the bed beside her new friend, who had closed her eyes and seemed to be asleep. Miranda closed her eyes as well and drifted off as he watched her.
He wandered out into the living room and down the hallway. The floor was sticky with drying urine. He got a sponge-mop from the kitchen, dampened it with a little water and some vinegar from under the sink, and cleaned the floor from the hall through to the bathroom. He put the mop away after rinsing it and stood in the bedroom doorway, surveying the strange scene of the two women asleep on the bed.
He started back to the living room, then turned and taking a light blanket from the back of a chair, he covered the sleeping women, tucking the blanket close around them as if they might catch a chill, even though the night air was seasonably balmy. Through an open window he could hear the ambient hush of the city.
When the security door buzzed, he let Ravenscroft in without checking to see who it was. She had been surprisingly cheerful when his call wakened her. He met her at the door.
“Thanks,” he said softly.
“You’re welcome,” she said. “Where is she? And there’s no point in whispering, we’ll have to wake her up anyway.”
Ellen walked into the bedroom and flicked on the overhead. “My God!” she said. “There are two of them?”
Morgan had not told her about the stranger. He had said Miranda seemed to be suffering from post-trauma shock and had asked for Ellen by name.
Miranda stirred, and without opening her eyes mumbled, “Hello, Ellen Ravenscroft.”
“Hello, Miranda Quin. And who are we in bed with this time?”
Miranda’s eyes flashed open. She glared at the medical examiner, then shut them again and smiled. “She’s my friend.”
“And what’s your friend’s name?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can your friend talk? I think she’s awake. Are you awake, Miranda’s friend?”
The woman’s blue eyes flickered then stayed open, clear but expressionless. Ellen pulled back the blanket and scowled at the strange array of bathrobe and towel covering the two women.
“I gather this was your doing,” she said to Morgan.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Very gentlemanly, Morgan. Very modest. But perhaps a sheet would have been enough. It’s sweltering under there. You go on out to the living room and I’ll see what I can do with these two. Come on, love,” she said to Miranda. “We’ll start with you. Up you get.”
As Morgan left the room, the M.E. was struggling to get Miranda mobile. From the living room he could hear thumping and bumping but could not imagine what, exactly, was going on.
After a surprisingly short time, Miranda and Ellen emerged from the bedroom with the stranger between them. Ellen had dressed both in baggy sweatshirts and pajama bottoms. Morgan got up and Ellen helped the two women to the sofa, where they sat side by side, both looking dazed as if they had just woken from a long sleep.
“I’ve checked them over,” said Ellen, addressing Morgan as if the women were not there. “Miranda’s fine. I mean physically. They both are. I think we might try a tranquillizer.”
“I don’t do tranquillizers,” Miranda snapped.
“But then again, perhaps we won’t try a tranquillizer,” said Ellen, pausing, “on either of them. Goldilocks here is in deep shock. She may have been sedated, but everything’s working fine. I’d feel better getting her to a hospital —”
“No hospital,” said Miranda.
“— or not. I don’t think she’s in any danger. I don’t think either of them are.”
“I think we’re both in danger,” said Miranda.
“If someone was trying to kill you — ” said Morgan.
“— we’d be dead.”
“Did you check her bag?” Ellen asked.
“No,” said Morgan. “What bag?”
“In
