CHAPTER 6
Laura’s thoughts were filled with chaotic visions
of her future. What would she do with a baby? What did that mean
for her relationship with Byron?
How can I save my baby?
How can I save her from Justice?
Okay, maybe the baby wasn’t a girl, but
in Laura’s family lineage and history, female births outdistanced
male births by a ratio of eight to two. And, for some inexplicable
reason—or maybe just part of her family’s odd and twisted past—the
male children who survived birth tended to die before they reached
adulthood.
So, in Laura’s mind this child, the one
she’d learned of only a few hours earlier, was a girl.
She parked her green Outback, locked
the doors, and stepped into the night air, the wind grabbing at her
with chilly fingers, just as an ambulance screamed into the drive
that led to the ER. She turned from the sound and focused in on the
news crew, their collective heads following the ambulance. She had
seen them as she drove up but hadn’t really thought that they might
approach her. But as they turned from the ambulance’s trajectory,
they looked her way.
Damn.
She thought of Justice . . . and the
news cameras . . . and her own face on television screens across
the region . . . and the chill that ran through her was bone deep.
No. Way.
“Excuse me!” Pauline Kirby herself was
walking so fast Laura’s way, it was almost a run.
It was all Laura could do to stifle her
own urge to race away. She held her ground and watched in
trepidation as Pauline pushed her microphone in front of her nose
and the cameraman’s lights blinded her. Turning her face away, she
said, “I can’t answer your questions.”
“I’m just looking for information on
the unfortunate victims of Justice Turnbull’s horrifying rage, your
security guard, Conrad Weiser, and Dr. Maurice
Zellman.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Laura saw
a figure, shadowed by the cameras, move forward toward her.
“Information on any patient at Ocean Park Hospital is
confidential.” She shifted away. With any luck, they would have no
reason to put her on television.
“But they were brought here by
ambulance, and they’ve been through surgery.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t talk about any of
our patients. I have to go.” She was already giving them her back
and walking away.
“We just want an update on their
conditions!” Pauline called. “Justice Turnbull is still at large.
Do you think he’ll come after them again?”
“No,” a male voice answered, ringing
with authority.
Laura kept moving but saw the newcomer,
Dr. Dolph Loman, white-haired, in his mideighties, the osteopath
who was semiretired and whom Byron had basically replaced, step
into camera range. He was an imposing man with bright blue eyes and
a ramrod straight back, a source of pride to him, though
occasionally, just recently, she’d seen him use a
cane.
She didn’t like him one
bit.
But she was thrilled and relieved that
he’d taken the spotlight from her and she could hurry to the
beckoning ER doors, where the ambulance was just jerking to a stop,
lights flashing, sirens winding down.
Behind her, she heard Pauline ask
Loman, “Can you speak for the patients?”
“I’m Dr. Loman,” he introduced, his
voice fading as Laura put distance between herself and the news
staff. “I’ve been at Ocean Park for nearly fifty years. Nurse
Adderley is correct. Patients’ medical conditions are privileged
and not for mindless television consumption.”
“Adderley?” Pauline’s voice was tinny
and faraway. Laura doubled her pace. “We spoke with Dr. Byron
Adderley earlier.”
“Ocean Park Hospital is an outstanding
institution . . .” Loman’s voice became a mumble behind her. It was
too much information. Too much data. The thought of Pauline
broadcasting any part of it made Laura’s scalp crawl.
A second ambulance, still unseen, was
approaching, its siren wailing. It turned into the drive as Laura
swept through the ER’s sliding doors. Red and white flashing lights
strobed the area as Laura headed toward the ER check-in. As a
nurse, she helped out wherever she was needed, and tonight, with
the injury accident, it was probably going to be the
ER.
A man appeared at her elbow, a tall
man, hovering in a way that made her glance up at him.
“Hi.” His light brown hair was long and
slightly shaggy; a five o’clock shadow darkened a strong, intensely
male jaw. His eyes were hazel; his smile friendly. Too friendly,
she decided instantly. He looked a little familiar and that made
her wary.
He wasn’t Justice, but maybe somebody
she knew. . . .
“I’m Harrison Frost,” he introduced,
sticking out a hand.
She ignored the gesture, instantly
didn’t trust him, though she didn’t yet understand
why.
He let his hand drop. “You handled
Pauline like a pro.” Again the smile, a flash of white teeth, humor
in his eyes. “You often skirt interviews?”
“Who are you?”
“Harrison—”
“I got your name,” she cut in. “I mean,
what are you here for?”
“A story,” he said without
hesitation.
“Ahh . . .” She bent her head and
would’ve pushed past him but he stepped in front of her. “You and
the rest of the crew need to find someone other than me to
interview.”
“I’m not with Channel Seven. Pauline
Kirby doesn’t care who she interviews or what they say as long as
it looks good on TV. You looked good on TV.”
“They won’t put me on, though,” she
said quickly. “I didn’t say anything.”
“They might.”
“No.” Laura was adamant.
“You looked vulnerable. And
pretty.”
“Please . . . don’t try the flattery
angle. Okay?” When he didn’t respond, she added, “Just so we’re
clear.”
“Okay.” He nodded, sizing her up.
“Before Herr Loman showed up, Pauline would have given you your
fifteen minutes of fame and then some. Wouldn’t have mattered what
you said. You can thank the good doctor for rescuing you, because
it seems like that’s what you wanted.” He peered at her closely,
fishing.
“Who are you with?”
“The Seaside
Breeze.”
Now Laura gave him a second, searching
look. “The Breeze?”
He nodded.
“You’re here for the local paper?” She
didn’t bother hiding her skepticism.
“Homicidal maniac Justice Turnbull
escapes the mental hospital, injuring two innocent victims, one of
them his own psychiatrist. That’s a story. And the local paper
wants the story, too.”
“The local paper is written by . . .
well . . . locals.” Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “You’re
something else. And I’ve seen you before.”
“Yeah, probably,” he conceded. “You’re
just starting your shift here? Could we meet
afterward?”
“No.”
“No, you’re not starting your
shift?”
“No, I’m not meeting you afterward.
Please . . .” She held up her hands, asking, make that demanding, a
little personal space. It had been a helluva day already, and she
didn’t need this guy—this reporter—with his
sexy good looks, practiced charm, and endless questions to make the
hours any longer than they already were. “Go away,” she suggested,
irritation tinging her words. “We’re short-staffed, and I’ve been
called in to help. That’s all.”
“So, you’re not working a full
shift.”
“Mr. Frost . . .”
“Maybe I could talk to your husband? I
saw him answering Pauline’s questions earlier.”
Byron. Great. This just got better and
better. Laura didn’t bother to respond again. She was as done with
the media as she was with her ex-husband. Nurse Perez came through
the double doors and, seeing Laura, motioned her
forward.
She didn’t need any more
invitation.
Harrison watched Laura Adderley
practically leap away from him, zeroing in on the older nurse, as
if she were bolting from the gates of hell. He was used to being
brushed off; it went with the job. He wasn’t exactly sure why he’d
targeted the nurse except that he liked the way she looked. Fresh
and somewhat serious, and yes, vulnerable. He’d seen it all when
she’d been caught in Pauline’s cameras, and he’d been impressed by
the way she’d adroitly avoided dealing with the news crew. Score
one for Laura Adderley.
Except if Byron Adderley was her
husband, she’d sure picked a super prick, by the looks of it. Maybe
he was her brother. Or their names were merely a
coincidence.
Oh, yeah right. He’d noticed her tense
when he’d brought up Adderley’s name. They were involved.
Somehow.
Now he watched her round a corner, her
slim curves hidden by her scrubs and a jacket, her dark ponytail
curling slightly and bouncing between her shoulder blades. He’d
seen the crackle of intelligence in her wide blue eyes, noticed a
few tiny freckles bridging her straight nose as she’d glared up at
him.
Could she really be married to that
pompous ass of an orthopedic surgeon?
He followed. More from curiosity about
her than the story.
Now, the ER was a flurry of activity.
Gurneys rattled inside, carrying human bodies. Blood and oxygen
masks and IVs and nurses and doctors, Laura Adderley being one of
them, rushed by in a steady stream. There was moaning, too. And one
lady emitted a gurgling scream that made the hairs on his arms lift
and a couple sitting and waiting clamp closer to each
other.
Harrison had never liked hospitals,
especially emergency rooms. The last time he’d been in one was when
Manny lay dying on a stretcher and Kirsten was touching his
hairline and whispering to him, over and over, “It’s okay. It’s
okay. You’re going to be fine. It’s okay. It’s okay. . .
.”
But it wasn’t going to be okay. It
hadn’t been okay. And though Kirsten and Didi had forged on, moving
to the coast and buying a two-bedroom cottage with a peekaboo view
of blue water, and Kirsten had taken a job at a local tea shop, her
income supplemented by the life insurance, and Didi had found
friends at a local preschool, and everything was just going along
peachy, what with macramé and alfalfa sprouts and green tea, a
whole new life—Harrison couldn’t move on. In the beginning, he’d
even tried to stop Kirsten from leaving before following her to the
coast himself.
But there had been a period when he’d
kept on digging relentlessly regardless of the damage it did to his
career. His persistence and obsession had put him on a collision
course with other newshounds, and he’d found himself in front of
Channel Seven’s cameras, where Pauline asked him the hard
questions.
Why was he so sure it
was murder?
Hadn’t the shooter just
started shooting? In a line outside the
nightclub?
Why was Frost so
certain it was a conspiracy?
Weren’t Bill Koontz and
Manuel Rojas good friends?
Wasn’t Bill Koontz good
friends with a number of Portland politicos?
Could it be that he,
Harrison Frost, simply couldn’t let it go, and being an
investigative journalist, he was digging for a story that wasn’t
there?
Wasn’t he being
punitive, rather than a journalist?
Well . . . no . . . there was a story
there, all right. But it was one of those things he was going to
have to let percolate for a bit. The focus had shifted to him and
his so-called vendetta, and Harrison needed time to pass, and a new
game plan, before he searched into the truth surrounding what had
really happened. He’d been like a bull in a china shop at the time,
uncaring of finesse, and it was only when Kirsten herself asked him
to stop that he ceased his attack on Bill Koontz. They could fire
him and worry about libel, and wring their collective hands, but
they couldn’t completely stop him. When the time was right, he was
going to ferret out the truth. And to hell with them
all.
But for now, he had the entitled
teenaged thieves and the escape of psycho Justice
Turnbull.
Glancing at his watch, he saw it was
closing in on eleven.
Where are you,
Justice? Harrison wondered. What’s your game
plan?
Detective Langdon Stone of the
Tillamook County Sheriff’s Department looked around at the patrol
cars still parked in front of Halo Valley Security Hospital’s
double doors to Side A, as it was called by the staff and patients,
the half of the hospital housing the noncriminal inmates of the
hospital. It was not his favorite place. Never had been. Never
would be. But the fact that the woman he loved was a doctor here
helped him put his own personal demons about the place in
perspective.
They’d been here for hours, the night
falling around them. Half the personnel from the TCSD had raced out
to Halo Valley Security Hospital, about thirty minutes from
downtown Tillamook, forty-five from the town of Deception Bay,
where Justice Turnbull had once lived and which was still home to
the lodge where the Colony women resided. Half of the officers on
duty were now gathered in the parking lot that ran on the back side
of the building, Side B, which housed the real sickos, the
criminals, not the mentally challenged from Side A, who were mostly
benign. The other half of his department was back on the highway,
most turned toward the coast, as no one really believed Justice was
heading inland to Salem and the Willamette Valley.
Two patrol cars other than his Jeep
were still here, and Detective Langdon Stone, who had his own
aversions to Halo Valley, though he was still working on getting
past them, stood outside in the now cold June air along with his
partner, Fred Clausen, and an auburn-haired woman in the TCSD’s
uniform, Savannah “Savvy” Dunbar, who had worked her way up to
detective. A couple of other deputies were there as well,
Burghsmith and Delaney.
Lang muttered, for the fifth time, “Who
the hell thought Justice Turnbull could be moved with one security guard?”
“His primary physician,” Savvy answered
neutrally, for the fifth time.
Lang growled, “Zellman has a God
complex.”
“And it got him a surgery and stay at
Ocean Park,” Burghsmith pointed out.
“I’m gonna talk to him, as soon as he
can talk,” Lang said.
“Whenever that will be,” Clausen
responded.
Lang glanced toward the front doors of
Side A. His fiancée, Dr. Claire Norris, a Side A psychiatrist, had
met them earlier, along with a number of other doctors, orderlies,
and nurses from Side B. Everyone was alarmed. Justice Turnbull was
no minor problem. But there wasn’t much more to do here. The bird
had flown, so to speak.
“Back to HQ?” Delaney
suggested.
“We should all be off duty by now,”
Lang said, looking up at the dark sky.
“I’m not leaving,” Clausen said, and
was met by a chorus of other voices, none of whom had any intention
of waiting till morning to go after their quarry.
Lang said without much conviction,
“Maybe we’ll run across him on the way back to
Tillamook.”
“He can’t be that hard to find,” Savvy
said. “He’s in a hospital van in hospital garb.”
“Where is that van?” Lang
muttered.
“Bet we find it within the hour,” said
Burghsmith. Clausen harrumphed. “Neither of you were around last
time. The guy’s a gold-plated, class A psycho. He wasn’t ever easy
to find. Even if we find him, catching him will be a trick. He’s
wily. And weird.”
And deadly, Lang
thought, but he kept that to himself.
They all knew it, anyway.