CHAPTER 23
The dry toast Laura consumed in the late morning
had carried her through lunchtime, but she still felt distinctly
off and ended up taking an early dinner break, where she was able
to handle a bowl of chicken soup, French bread, and a small green
salad from the cafeteria. Still, she felt a little dizzy with the
thoughts that plagued her throughout her rounds. She was pregnant
and Byron suspected the truth. She’d thrown out a challenge to
Justice Turnbull, and the psychotic killer was planning to attack
her. She was feeling her way through a new and unexpected
acquaintanceship with Harrison Frost that felt like it could turn
into something more.
Where did that ridiculous thought
spring from? A single kiss—two, counting the buzz she’d brushed
across his cheek—did not a relationship make! She barely knew the
guy, had met him just the other day, at the start of all this
madness.
Oh, Lord, then why did it seem like an
eternity?
Her world had been turned upside down
since Justice’s escape on Friday night, and it was only
Sunday.
Conversation buzzed, the ice dispenser
clunked, and bored-looking cafeteria people waited while the staff
and visitors hemmed and hawed over their choices. The smells of
garlic and marinara sauce and day-old clam chowder reached her
nostrils. Conversation flowed around her, but she barely noticed.
She was stacking her lunch tray and turning to leave when Carlita
Solano entered with one of the orderlies and headed toward the soda
stand. As she passed, Laura heard Carlita say, “I’m not making this
up! I know one of the nurses at Seagull Pointe. The police are
trying to keep it under wraps, like they always do until every last
living relative is contacted, but Jessica said they think that
psycho killed his equally psycho mother! It’ll be on the news soon
enough!”
The psycho could be only one person.
Laura’s heart began beating a wild, adrenaline-fueled tattoo. She
had to force her hands to remain steady as she set her tray
down.
“Seriously?” the orderly said. “Wow.”
He added dryly, “Great care over there, huh?”
Laura couldn’t stand it. “I’m sorry,”
she said. “I couldn’t help but overhear. Are you talking about
Justice Turnbull? And his mother?” In her mind’s eye she caught a
quick image of Madeline as a younger woman . . . pretty and unsure,
in a floral dress, standing near a shabby row of rooms in an old
motel, her hair windblown, the hem of the dress floating around her
calves as the sea, far below the motel perched on the cliff, roared
and crashed on the rocky shore. She had sad eyes, Laura remembered,
eyes that were dark with secrets. . . .
“That’s right.” Carlita turned in
Laura’s direction. She looked happy that someone was finally
listening to her with the right amount of interest. “And there’s
some other woman, too,” she said eagerly. “He smothered them both.
Or strangled them. Anyway, they’re both dead now.”
“They’d better beef up security over
there. It just doesn’t look good when patients are murdered.” The
orderly’s attempt at humor fell flat as he finished at the soda
machine and the cola hissed and foamed over the ice in his
cup.
“Who’s the other woman?” Laura asked
through a dry throat. Oh, God, not one of her sisters! Surely
Catherine wouldn’t let any of them out of the gates. . . .
But there are ways to escape the walls of Siren
Song. You know this. So do the others. Her sisters’ faces
came to mind: Isadora or Cassandra or Lillibeth or—
“Probably some relative,” Carlita said
with a dismissive “who cares?” shrug. “Isn’t that who he tried to
kill before? I think I saw that on the news when he went nuts
before and targeted those women at Siren Song.”
Because you called him.
That’s why he went on his rampage! You should never have listened
to Harrison. . . .
She caught herself up short. She
couldn’t blame Harrison. She was the one who had mentally
challenged Justice, dared him, sent him into a rage. If there was
anyone to blame, it was she.
Her insides turned to
water.
Had she made a mistake?
One that had cost two women their
lives?
Hadn’t Harrison told her to go to the
police?
But with what? A telepathic
message?
She imagined how the detectives would
have shared a look when she’d tried to explain about her
connection, her mental conversation with the escaped mental
patient.
“You okay?” Carlita asked and Laura
snapped out of it.
“Yeah,” she said, trying not to sound
uncertain, even though “okay” was far from how she was
feeling.
Carlita’s friend had grabbed a lid and
straw and had moved farther into the cafeteria, so Carlita hurried
to catch up to him. Laura’s heart twisted. Guilt burrowed deep into
her soul, and she gently touched her abdomen, reminding herself of
the baby growing within her.
Oh, Lord, what a mess.
She left the cafeteria on leaden feet
as she walked back toward the first floor nurses’ station. Who was
the unknown woman? Someone she knew? Again, she thought of her
sisters; they were the most likely victims. Hadn’t he said he would
kill them all?
She paused in the hallway and
concentrated.
No, she told herself. It wasn’t someone
from Siren Song. She would know. If not from instinct, then someone
from the Colony would have tracked her down and delivered the news.
Catherine would know if any of her charges had gone
missing.
Still, two people were dead. At
Justice’s hand.
Maddie and someone else . . . an
unknown victim.
“Bastard,” she growled under her breath
as she thought of him. “Murdering, soulless bastard.”
“Hey? You talkin’ to me?” a patient
pushing an IV stand demanded. Balding, his hospital gown draping
off one shoulder, he glared at her as he passed.
“Sorry. No.” Her head began to pound.
She was still on break, so she turned toward the staff room and,
once inside, blindly navigated to an isolated table at the back of
the room. Lost in thought, she barely noticed two nurses huddled
together over a crossword puzzle, and another watching the news
while dunking her tea bag into a steaming cup. Laura stared at the
screen as the facade of Seagull Pointe came into view and a
reporter gave a few more details than Carlita had of the
tragedy.
Did Harrison know what had happened at
the nursing home . . . ? Surely he did. He worked at a newspaper,
for crying out loud. Funny how her thoughts kept running to
him.
When the story on the television
flipped to a fire at an old sawmill, she’d had enough. Pushing back
her chair, she walked out of the room and hurried to the bank of
lockers where the staff kept their personal belongings. Twisting
open her combination lock, she grabbed her cell and dialed
Harrison’s number, without hesitation this time, aware how much
she’d come to depend on him in such a short period of
time.
He didn’t answer and she was instantly
deflated. She planned to just hang up, but then changed her mind
and left a message. “Hey, it’s me. You probably heard what happened
at Seagull Pointe. I think Justice may have killed Madeline. Maybe
another woman, too.” She paused, filled with emotion suddenly.
Fear. Need. Anger. “Call me,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound as
desperate as she felt.
The Sands of Thyme Bakery wasn’t doing
much of a business in the late afternoon, though the smells of
cinnamon and coffee lingered and the glass cases held a few loaves
of bread and overlooked muffins, left after the morning and noon
rush. Only a few customers were scattered amongst the small tables,
each nursing a cup and picking at the crumbs on their
plates.
Harrison found his sister leaning on
her elbows at the counter and reading the morning
paper.
“You’ve been busy,” she said, looking
up from his article in the Breeze.
“The Breeze
isn’t the Ledger.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not really about the
paper. It’s about the story,” she said, quoting him. “This Deadly
Sinners story is the kind of thing that gets picked up. A bunch of
privileged teens burglarizing their friends’ homes.” When he didn’t
immediately respond, she gave him a long look. “Aha. I get it.
Someone’s already trying to yank this story from you, maybe steal a
little of your thunder.”
She was needling him, one eyebrow
lifting. “Who? Not that jerk who was always breathing down your
neck.”
“That guy was at the Ledger. No, it’s Channel Seven.”
“Pauline Kirby?” Kirstin guessed,
sounding appalled. “Lord, she’s a witch with a capital B.”
“Down, tiger,” Harrison warned, though
he knew how she felt. Channel Seven’s reporting on Manny’s death
had not been a warm and fuzzy experience for any of them. In fact
Pauline’s team had shone their camera lights directly on Kirsten’s
face and captured the glittering track of her tears for all to see.
The other stations weren’t much better, but Kirsten had a real
thing against Pauline, which Harrison appreciated.
“She’s not my favorite, either,” he
said now.
His sister’s eyes slit, and he guessed
she was remembering how callously she was treated by the press.
“They’re all the same.”
“Reporters?”
“Yes,” she shot back. Then, after a
moment, her lips twisted wryly. “You’re just as bad as the rest of
them.”
He smiled back, fleetingly; then his
tone changed. “I should’ve been there more for you after it
happened. I was too . . . single-minded.”
She waved that aside with a brisk snap
of her hand. “You wanted to prove Manny had been murdered. I wanted
you to, too. But it’s all water under the bridge now.”
She sounded so final, it surprised him
a bit. “You think it was just a case of his being in the wrong
place at the wrong time now?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Kirstin glanced
toward the door as two of the patrons left their table and made
their way outside, the bell over the door tinkling. “I don’t know
if I’ll ever know. What I do know is it’s over and I have to move
on.” She touched the back of Harrison’s hand. “Sad, I know, but
true.” Then she let out a long sigh and retrieved her fingers while
a customer ordered a coffee to go. With a smile, Kirsten took his
money, gave him a smile and a cup, and pointed him in the direction
of the freestanding thermoses.
Harrison gazed at his sister, realizing
for the first time how he was the only one still hanging on to
Manny’s death, the only one who couldn’t let go.
As if reading his mind, she said, “I’ve
got Didi to think about. All this dwelling on the past isn’t good
for her. I don’t want this dark cloud of suspicion hanging around
us all the time. I’ve got a new life with my daughter and our dog.
And we’re happy to have you in it, too, of course,” she added,
again reaching a hand across the counter to catch his. “It’s just .
. . every time you and I are together, one way or another, we’re
either talking about or thinking about Manny’s death. I’m not
saying I want to forget him. Lord, no. I want to remember him. Like he was. Like it was between us before
all the really bad stuff started.”
“You want me to give up the
investigation completely?” he asked, surprised.
“That’s not what I’m saying. Do what
you have to do. Just . . . let’s . . . not make it all that you and
I are about anymore, okay?”
“I didn’t know I was doing
that.”
“We were doing
that. Both of us. Even when it seemed like we weren’t.” She stared
at him with eyes far older than her age.
Harrison took it in, realized she was
right. He’d been too immersed in his own need for revenge to really
pay attention to what Kirsten was thinking. But then, he still
believed in Koontz’s duplicity. “I’m not going to give up unless
you tell me to.”
“I wouldn’t want you to. Let’s just not
have a postmortem on everything, okay?”
“Okay.”
“That said, I think this story could launch you back into the bigger pond
again.” She retrieved her hand and, with one finger, tapped on the
paper with his article.
“You think the Ledger will have me back?” he asked dryly as one of the
customers placed his empty cup and plate in a tub before flipping
up the hood of his jacket and stepping outside.
She cocked her head. “I’m pretty sure
you’re done with them. But yeah. They’ll want you back. Especially
if you follow up the Deadly Sinners with the Justice Turnbull
story.”
“Did I say I was on that
story?”
“Oh, please. Of course you
are.”
The bell over the door jingled again as
a new customer entered the shop. Harrison held up a hand in
good-bye to his sister and headed out. His cell phone beeped at him
as he was crossing to his car, and he realized he’d missed a call
somehow. Before he could ring back his voice mail, however, the
phone buzzed in his hand. Glancing at the caller ID, he saw it was
the Breeze. Buddy. “Yeah?” he growled as
soon as he’d snapped it on.
“I didn’t give them the number,” Buddy
stated before Harrison could say anything else. “I promise. But
they’re right here. And they’re planning to film in front of West
Coast High and they’d like to see you.”
“They’re right there in front of you,
at the paper?”
“You got it.”
“Is Pauline there, or is it just
production?”
“Production.”
“I’m not anywhere near you. I’m in
Deception Bay. Don’t tell them that. Tell Pauline to call me and
I’ll . . . I don’t know . . . give her a quote, or something.
Better yet, have her call the public information officer at the
sheriff’s office. That’s what she’s paid for.”
“But—”
“Oh, hell. Give her my cell number.
Give ’em all my number.” Clicking off, he climbed into the Impala,
irked. He was going to have to hand out his digits to every Tom,
Dick, and Harry, because Kirsten was right: his days of being
banished to a small town were nearing an end. He was headed for the
big game, which had been his plan all along, right? And if he was
going there, he needed people to be able to reach him.
And then, as if already knowing he was
changing his protocol, his cell phone buzzed at him
again.
Without looking at the caller ID, he
answered, “Frost.”
“Hi, there,” Geena Cho said. “Got a
minute?”
“Geena, for you . . .
always.”
She snorted at his bullshit, then said,
“You know what happened at Seagull Pointe?”
“No.”
“Where the hell have you been? Hiding
under a rock?”
“Something like that,” he hedged,
realizing he hadn’t been near a television all day.
“And you call yourself a reporter?” she
joked. Then, before he could answer, her voice lowered. “So get
this. It looks like Justice killed his mama, Mad Maddie. And some
other lady, too, who was just found in a wheelchair, apparently,
half dead. They transferred her to a bed and she later died. We’re
putting her picture on the evening news because she’s unidentified
at this time. They’re keeping Maddie’s death under wraps as long as
they can. Don’t want to cause a panic about Justice, but they’re
pretty sure he’s the doer.”
Harrison’s heart nose-dived. “Where did
you say this happened? Seagull Pointe?” he asked, more convinced
than ever that somehow Laura had reached him, taunted him,
challenged him. His throat tightened at the thought, and he was
sick that she, along with the two people already murdered, was in
the psycho’s sights.
“You got it. And you owe me a drink
tonight at Davy Jones’s. I’ll be there around eight. Don’t tell
anyone I told you. . . .” And she was gone.
“Son of a bitch,” he said into the
phone. Switching on the ignition he was about to throw his Chevy
into gear when he remembered to check his phone log and the call
he’d missed. He recognized the number as Laura’s. His heartbeat
ramped into overdrive. “Damn.” He hadn’t expected her to phone him
from work, and he listened tensely to her message.
Justice may have killed
Madeline. . . . Call me. . . .
So, she’d already learned that Justice
had possibly murdered his mother. But at least she was alive. Safe.
Or had been when she’d called.
Quickly, he pressed in her number, then
waited impatiently while the phone rang and rang and rang. Swearing
under his breath, he debated on leaving her back a response on
voice mail, then instead decided on “Got your message. Call me
back.”
“Damn it all to hell.” He snapped on
the radio, finding an all-news station, then revved out of the
Sands of Thyme’s lot. He considered driving straight to Seagull
Pointe, but he would really like to talk to Laura first. Make sure
she was all right. He called again as he hit the highway and, like
before, was sent directly to her voice mail. Swearing, he hit the
gas, pushed the speed limit.
He knew she was working, that she
didn’t have her cell on her. That was undoubtedly the reason she
wasn’t picking up.
Still . . . his mind wheeled to
unconscionable images—Justice Turnbull, the icy-eyed psychotic with
his need to kill, and the victims. His own mother. An unknown woman
and the others . . . oh, Jesus! He punched the accelerator and
headed straight to Ocean Park, taking the curves on 101 a little
too quickly, the cliffs and dark forest racing by on the eastern
shoulder of the road, the sea shrouded by fog stretching to the
west. The hospital was on his way to Seagull Pointe, and he
intended to stop. If only for a few minutes. He needed to see
Laura, to witness for himself that she was okay.
Despite getting hung up behind a
logging truck mounded with a heavy load of fir, he pulled into the
lot at Ocean Park within half an hour. He parked what seemed a mile
from the front doors, as the place was full of vehicles. Jogging,
he made his way through the vehicles and into the building, where
he didn’t bother with the reception desk, entering purposely and
heading straight for the elevators. Ocean Park was only three
stories high, but he wasn’t sure which floor Laura worked on and he
would rather discover where that was on his own than reveal his
intent to the beady-eyed, suspicious woman manning the
desk.
In the end he found that Laura worked
mainly on the first floor, and he wound his way back to her nurses’
station, only to learn that she was busy with a patient. A petite
woman with spiked hair and too much mascara asked him if he would
care to wait in one of the two molded plastic chairs set against
the wall. Unhappily, he planted himself on the edge of the first
chair, taking out his phone to check the time. Five p.m. He’d
really wanted to get to Seagull Pointe before the dinner hour. He
hoped to interview as many people as possible about both Madeline
Turnbull’s death and the unidentified woman left in a wheelchair.
That was headline news in itself. Who was she? Did her condition
have anything to do with Justice Turnbull?
“Harrison.”
Laura’s voice sounded from down the
hall, and he looked over to see her walking his way. Her hair was
pulled into a ponytail. The earpiece of a stethoscope peeked out of
the pocket of her scrubs, and a look of worry darkened the even
features of her face.
Relief washed over him and he shot to
his feet. God, it was good to see her.
She was near enough not to shout when
she said, “What are you doing here?”
“I got your message. Called you back,
but you didn’t pick up.”
“I know. I’m on duty.” She glanced
around and seemed to notice the teenager slouched in one of the
nearby chairs. He appeared to be asleep, his iPhone tethered to his
ears as he listened to music. Nonetheless, Laura shepherded
Harrison away from the cluster of uncomfortable
chairs.
“I knew you were working, but I just
didn’t know if you . . . needed me. You told me to call you, and
when I couldn’t get through . . .” He left the thought unfinished,
thinking about how she’d challenged Justice. “I just wanted to make
sure everything was okay.”
“Everything’s fine.” She glanced around
again, very aware of others’ listening ears. As if on cue, an older
nurse appeared from the south hallway, one Harrison recognized from
Friday night. Perez, he remembered as she approached, a frown
deepening across her face as her gaze fell on him.
“You’re that reporter,” she said, her
dark eyes moving from him to Laura.
“I’m following up on the victims of
Justice Turnbull’s attack,” Harrison said to shift the spotlight
from Laura.
“One of them was released earlier
today,” Laura answered, giving him a grateful look, which Perez
didn’t see.
“I’m assuming that would be Dr.
Zellman, as he had the less critical injuries?” Harrison
asked.
“I really can’t give out any patient
information,” Laura said, and he caught the warning in her
eyes.
Nurse Perez jumped in. “Mr . . . .
?”
“Frost,” Harrison supplied. “Harrison
Frost with the Seaside Breeze.”
“Frost,” she repeated. “If you have
questions, there’s a protocol. Talking to our nursing staff isn’t
the way it’s done.” She shot Laura a warning glance.
Harrison nodded. “All right. I’ll check
with the front desk and have them connect me with your media
liaison.”
“Good,” Perez said with a bite. She
looked Harrison up and down, clearly wondering at his easy
capitulation.
He sketched a good-bye to both Nurse
Perez and Laura, keeping up appearances, but his jaw was rock hard
on his way back to his Chevy. Perez’s attitude bugged the hell out
of him, but he reminded himself that Laura was healthy and safe.
That was all he really cared about here, at Ocean Park. As he was
getting into his vehicle, his cell rang and it was
Laura.
“I only have a second,” she said. “I’m
off around eight tonight.”
“I’ve got a meeting with a woman from
the TCSD at the same time,” he said. “I’ll come by your place
afterward.” He made it a statement, but he was waiting for an
answer. “Make sure Nurse Ratchet isn’t with you.”
“Nurse Rat . . . Oh, I get it. Funny,”
she muttered, and he thought there might be relief in her tone.
“Trust me, Perez slash Ratchet is not invited.”
“Good.”
“See you.”
“Looking forward to it, Lorelei,” he
said, meaning it.
“Only my family calls me that,” she
told him again.
“I know.”
“Okay,” she said after a moment and
then hung up.
Lang checked the clock in his Jeep:
5:15 p.m. He was driving back from the crime scene site, where he’d
met with Deputy Delaney and viewed the dead male body that had
attracted the carrion birds. He and Delaney had ended up hanging
around a lot longer than either of them wanted while the CSI team
swarmed over the scene and the ME finally arrived and examined the
body before it was sent to the morgue.
“Busy day for Gilmore,” Delaney had
said, referring to the medical examiner. “First the body at the
nursing home and now this guy.”
Lang had nodded. “I’m going to check in
at the department and then call it a day.”
“You and me both,” Delaney had said,
giving a last look around, his nose wrinkling in
distaste.
Lang drove straight to the TCSD without
encountering too much traffic and caught O’Halloran as the sheriff
was getting ready to leave. “The would-be wife’s on her way from
Salem to see if the body belongs to James Cosmo Danielson, her
significant other,” O’Halloran informed him as they stood on the
worn wood floor of the hallway outside the sheriff’s
office.
“Did our Jane Doe’s picture hit the
news?” Lang asked.
“Uh-huh. Got her photo and Turnbull’s
posted about everywhere we can think of.”
“Okay. I’ve got a little paperwork to
finish. Then I’m outta here. Unless there’s anything more to do
tonight?”
O’Halloran sighed and shook his head.
“Nope.”
“Nothing from the cars watching the
lighthouse or the motel?”
“We’re having to move around and answer
other calls, you know,” the sheriff said, a bit defensively. “We’re
short staffed already and stretched thin with this Turnbull
business and the Tyler Mill fire, along with everything else, but
we’re still patrolling regularly. Somebody’ll find
him.”
Lang had fallen in step beside the
sheriff as the older man headed for the back door. They could see
through a window to the back lot and together watched as a beat-up
Ford Focus dragging its back fender suddenly careened through the
mud puddles of the parking lot and came to an abrupt halt outside
the back door.
“Who’s this?” O’Halloran
muttered.
“Don’t know.”
A woman jumped out of the Ford, her
long brown hair a mass of tangles, a baby in one arm and a toddler
stuck to her leg like a burr, holding on to her around a tie-dyed
dress of olive green, brown, and burnt orange that looked as if it
could use a good cleaning.
“Glad I’m leaving,” the sheriff
muttered.
“Me, too,” Lang said.
As she was obviously headed for the
back door, they both retraced their footsteps into the hallway,
giving her room. Then she burst inside, her face red and puffy, her
eyes wild, still balancing both of her kids. The back door was used
almost exclusively by the members of the sheriff’s department, and
when she entered, May Johnson steamed over to bar her from
entering.
“Ma’am, you are not allowed through
here,” Johnson told her sternly.
“I’ve got my sister’s car!” the woman
wailed. “I have to see him! I have to see Cosmo! Oh,
God.”
“The would-be wife,” Lang realized in
an aside to O’Halloran. He felt instant sympathy for her. She was
frantic and then there were the little kids. . . .
“Ahh.” The sheriff nodded.
“Ma’am . . .” Officer Johnson had on
her deepest scowl.
Which cut no ice with the newcomer, who
screeched hysterically, “Where is he? Where’s my man? Oh, God. Oh,
please, please, God, where’s my beautiful man!” And then she
collapsed on the floor along with her children, and for once May
Johnson looked perplexed and at a complete loss.