No Immunity

window down with her feet, she realized the truth. This window never was opened.
    Her arms were tiring. She didn’t have time to ponder. Kicking in the glass would be so simple. And so stupid.
    She swung her feet to the far wall and, splayed out flat, she inched her way down toward the window. Her shoulders burned, her hamstrings cramped, and she had to jam her legs to keep from dropping facefirst into the pit. The stink of decay filled her nose, and she had to breathe through her clenched teeth. She felt the top of the window, grasped it so hard her fingers throbbed, and swung her feet down to the window ledge.
    The putty on the top window crumbled at her touch. The pane moved. She wedged her fingers around it, gripping the glass between fingers and palm, vibrating the pane till it came loose.
    Her arm was shaking. She couldn’t feel her feet. Gripping the glass harder, she lowered it as far as she could and dropped it into the carpet of decay at the well bottom. She slid through the window and into the mortuary, and stood, ignoring her screaming wrists and ankles, listening for the sheriff’s voice, for doors opening softly, for muffled footsteps. But the only sound was her own constricted breathing.
    The reek of formaldehyde confirmed that it was the embalming room she was in. Even in the dark she could make out the table on which the dead woman had lain hours earlier. It was empty now. The woman’s body would be stored in the fridge at the far end of the room.
    She scanned the countertops, but of course there was nothing like a flashlight. She stood still once more, holding her breath. No telltale breathing or hiss of official whispers outside. That was as good a sign as she was likely to get, and it meant nothing. She switched on the ceiling light and waited.
    The switch was red. Her hands, she saw, were covered in blood and soot. Her scraped palms stung. Oh, God, an open wound. She grabbed the antiseptic she’d used earlier and poured it on her hands straight. Her skin was still burning as she yanked open a drawer and pulled on latex gloves.
    The fridge door was heavy; she braced her feet and pulled.
    The gurney was empty. The body was gone. The freezer air wafted out and wrapped the icy smell of death around her.
    A door creaked. She eased the freezer shut and stood still, listening. Above were noises she hadn’t heard before—crunching, swishing. Feet? Or was it just the wind? She couldn’t tell over the drumming of her heart.
    She gave her head another sharp shake. She couldn’t come up empty here; she had to have some proof of the woman she saw, the carefully groomed woman. She pulled open drawers, eyed boxes of insurance forms, boxes of pens.
    The creaking of boards stopped her. It was coming from the back of the building. She stiffened. Wind? More like feet, cold feet on the back porch. Waiting for the go-ahead to charge inside.
    She yanked open cabinets and saw brown bottles, white bottles, clear and opaque bottles, syringes. Nothing unexpected.
    The back porch creaked. No gust of wind would do that. If there was a sheriff at the back, there’d be a deputy at the front. She emptied the wastebasket onto the counter. Nothing there but slightly stained cotton swabs and a bottle of nail polish remover. The bottle was almost full. The stains were the same unusual color of pale peach as the dead woman had been wearing. That didn’t prove anything, never would. But it made her wonder why someone had gone to the trouble of removing nail polish from a dead woman’s toes.
    A loud snap came from the back of the building.
    She eyed the window. Too late.

CHAPTER 24

    The Weasel pressed himself into the wall. He could stand a long time without moving. He watched the gold Jeep charge down the street and the doc’s BMW take off after him. He hadn’t figured the doc for being in this deep. But her he could deal with later. He moved out of the shadows and strode around to the door and gave it three hard bangs. “Housing Authority! Open up!”
    Feet scuffled inside.
    “Lady, I’m already working on my own time. It doesn’t put me in a good mood. Don’t make me madder than I am already. Open the door!”
    He heard the chain rattle before the door eased open an inch, then he pushed hard and was inside. The woman looked like a rag. But not bleached out. No. Hot, feverish, blotchy red. Hair stringy, damp, clumped to her head. Eyes wild. Touch her on the arm and he could push her over. Her nightgown hung