by Kathy Reichs
“Maybe—”
The line beeped to indicate an incoming call. “Hold on.” Without waiting for Hull’s consent, I clicked over. It was neither Ryan nor Slidell.
Any pretense at calm was now abandoned. “Mary Louise never came home. It’s almost eight. Something has to be wrong. Oh my God! You see these things on the news, but oh my God!” Yvonne Marcus was frantic. “I’ve called everyone I can think of. Her teachers. Her friends. No one has seen her since school dismissal at three-thirty. My husband is out looking, but—”
“Mrs. Marcus—”
“What do I do? Shall I call the police?”
“Does Mary Louise ride a bus?”
“No, no. She attends Myers Park Traditional. It’s right up the block, so I allow her to walk.”
Directly past Sharon Hall.
I felt the tiny hairs rise on the back of my neck. Sensed my hand gripping the phone too tightly.
“I’m sure she’s fine.” Controlled. “But just to be safe, phone 911. I’ll also make some calls.”
“Oh my God!”
“It will be all right.”
“I should go out and—”
“No. Stay home. Be there when Mary Louise returns.”
As I reconnected with Hull, a terrible medley of images spewed from my neurons.
A gangly girl who loved fashion and hats.
Movement in the shadows of an enormous magnolia.
A photo of myself measuring a skull.
Why hadn’t I picked up the phone? Why hadn’t I returned the child’s call? How could I have been so selfish?
“McGee may have taken another child.”
“Are you serious?”
“Mary Louise Marcus left school four hours ago on foot. Still hasn’t arrived at her house.”
“The kid got any issues?”
“No.”
“Not likely a runaway?”
“No.”
“She fit the profile?”
“Yes.” Fourteen. Fair. Long brown hair center-parted and braided.
I heard Hull suck in a long breath. Then, “If it is McGee, you think she’s taunting us? Snubbing her nose at authority?”
“I think this time it’s personal.” I swallowed. “And I think I know where she is.”
A light drizzle was falling. I had the wipers on high. Not for the rain. To match the cadence of my heart.
I called Slidell. Rolled to voicemail. Of course.
Screw Slidell.
I called the MP division. Got a guy named Zoeller whom I’d heard was a dolt but didn’t know personally.
“Yep. Yvonne Marcus. Called twenty minutes ago to report her daughter missing.”
“And?”
“Who’d you say this is?”
I explained again.
“The two fought. The kid’s probably catching a flick to teach Mama a lesson.”
“I think this child could be in danger.”
“Aren’t they all.”
“What did you just say?”
Faux-patient sigh. “The kid’s only been out of pocket a few hours. There are regs. We follow every hunch, abuse the system, eventually, it loses its punch.”
“I have an address I want you to check.”
“Sure.” Zoeller could have sounded more bored, but only after a pitcher of tranqs. “I’m outta here, but I’ll pass it on.”
“When can you activate an AMBER Alert?”
“When an abduction is confirmed and adequate descriptive information has been obtained.” Rote.
“And you’re starting the process now.” Glacial.
“Look, it just came through we got a 10-91 with a 10-33.”
A domestic disturbance with an officer down. Shit. Now I’d never get him to help me look for Mary Louise.
“I will call you back.”
“I’ll look forward to that.” Zoeller disconnected.
I tried Barrow.
Salter.
Had the whole damn world gone AWOL?
As I barreled up Queens, my mind whirled in search of benign explanations for Mary Louise’s nonappearance. Found dozens. All bullshit.
I continued through to Providence, cut right onto Laurel, and shot across Randolph. At Vail, I sat paralyzed, palms damp on the wheel. Left or right? Where? Where would she go?
A horn brrped behind me.
Dick that he was, Zoeller was correct on one point. A false tip could divert critical resources and personnel up a blind alley.
The horn again. Longer. Less polite.
Decision.
I turned left, fired north, circled the block, then winged into the drive leading to the Mercy ER.
Four blue and whites sat under the portico, angled like guppies at feeding time. Something looked off. What? The careless parking? No. The cop shooting that Zoeller had mentioned. Of course they’d been abandoned in haste.
An ambulance sat with its back doors open. Two unmarked sedans. Vans from every TV station in town.
Officer down. Dead? The story would be on all channels at eleven, in all morning papers in skyscraper font. But before that, it would appear in cyberspace, attracting every assignment editor not yet clued in. The media would slather all night.
The CMPD would focus on avenging one of its own.
No one would give a rat’s ass about my “hunch.”
I looked around. Slidell’s Taurus was nowhere in sight.
I was on my own.
I slammed the gearshift into park and killed the engine. Sprinted up the walk and through the doors, pulse running faster than my feet.
I expected chaos. EMTs shouting vitals. Doctors bellowing orders. Nurses scurrying for equipment or meds.
Not so. The scene was tense but subdued.
The usual supplicants occupied waiting room chairs. The bleeders, the coughers, the junkies, the drunks.
Uniformed officers stood talking in clumps. Men in dark jackets and loosened ties who I assumed were detectives. I knew none.
A few eyes tracked me as I hurried to the front desk, worried, hard with anger. I spoke to no one. Didn’t interrupt their vigil.
When I posed my question, the woman looked up. Maybe surprised. Maybe annoyed. I couldn’t tell. She wore glasses that covered half her face. Her name tag said T. Santos.
Knowing I had no authority, I flashed my MCME security card. Fast.
Santos bounced a glance off the photo, my features. She was about to speak when a man shuffled over reeking of BO and booze.
“Mr. Harker, you will have to wait your turn.”
Harker coughed into a hankie that was stained and wet with phlegm.
Santos pointed Harker to the waiting room. Looked at me and jammed a thumb over her shoulder.
I hurried in the direction indicated, mind scrambling, eyes scanning. Hoping. Fearing. Could Mary Louise actually be here? Where Alice Hamilton claimed her prey? Outside in the backseat of a car? The trunk?
Please, God. No.
My flesh felt tight on my bones. On my lungs. I worked to keep my breathing even.
As out front, the treatment area was relatively calm. A patient sat in a wheelchair by a wall. A CNA went by with a cart, its rubber wheels humming on the tile. Somewhere out of sight, a phone rang.
Staff passed with X-rays, with trays of specimen tubes, with stethoscopes looped sideways around their necks. All in scrubs. All efficient. All indifferent to my presence.
The only crisis was occurring at a curtained cubicle, third in the right-hand row of curtained cubicles. A CMPD uniform stood guard outside. Sounds filtered through the white polyester: taut voices, the rattle of metal, the rhythmic beeping of a machine.
I felt sorrow for the person behind the partition. A man or woman gunned down while helping a distraught wife or girlfriend, maybe her kids. I said a silent prayer.
But I had to find Mary Louise’s abductor. Or determine that I was wrong.
Feeling like a trespasser, I began parting fabric, searching for a face.
&nbs
p; Behind the first curtain lay a child in a Spider-Man suit, forehead stitched and smeared with blood. A woman with mascara-streaked cheeks held tight to his hand.
Behind the second, a bare-chested man breathed oxygen through a clear plastic mask.
When I neared the third cubicle, the guard raised a palm. Behind him, a hastily positioned cart created a wedge-shaped opening into the enclosure.
As I veered left to cross to the other row, I glanced through the wedge.
Saw equipment. Bloody clothing. Masked doctors and nurses.
The patient on his gurney, face gray, lids closed and translucently blue.
I froze in place.
CHAPTER 41
I STOOD PARALYZED. Staring at Beau Tinker.
The death-mask face. The blood-soaked shirt.
Suddenly, the cruisers made sense. Blue and whites, yes. But some SBI, not CMPD.
For a moment I saw only a terrible whiteness. In it, a name in bold black letters.
I’ll see that yank-off in hell before I bring him back in.
I took a step toward the guard. He spread his feet and shook his head. Stay back.
Beyond the parted curtain, the doctor’s head snapped up. Muffled words came through his mask. “Keep everyone away.”
I felt a buzzing inside my skull. Placed a palm on the wall to steady myself.
Was that why Slidell wasn’t answering my calls? Where was he? What had he done?
Seconds ticked by.
A moth brushed my hair. Looped back.
I spun.
Ellis Yoder stood behind me. Doughy and freckled. Like some hideous apparition summoned by my fear.
Close. Too close.
I swatted Yoder’s hand from my shoulder.
“The gunshot patient in there.” Tipping my head toward Tinker. “What’s the story?”
“You work with that psycho detective.”
“What happened to that man?”
“Tell the jerk to lay off.”
“That patient is a field agent with the SBI. How was he shot?”
Yoder just stared.
A hundredth of a second slipped by. A tenth.
I grabbed Yoder’s arm, hard. “I know you’re a snoop.” Vise-gripping the flabby flesh. “What’s the word, gossip boy?”
“You people are all nuts.” Yoder tried to turn. I yanked him back.
“How. Was. He. Shot?” I hissed.
“You’re hurting me.”
“Call a nurse.” My fingers clamped tighter.
“All I heard is another cop did it.”
My mouth went dry. I swallowed.
Another tick of the clock.
Forget Slidell. Mary Louise needs you.
With my free hand, I yanked the picture of Tawny McGee from my pocket and held it up. “Point me to her.”
Yoder glanced at the image. “She’s not here.”
Dear God, I’m right.
“Santos at the front desk says otherwise.”
“Santos is clueless what goes on back here.”
“You’re sure?” Clutching the paper so hard it crumpled.
“I told you—” Whiny.
My nails dug deep into the mushy biceps.
“I’m sure.”
I could hear my breath in the quiet of the car. Blood pounding in my ears.
I sat a moment studying the scene. The algae-coated brick. The rusty fences and awnings. The stunted concrete slabs.
Nothing moved but the rain. Which was falling harder now, drumming a tattoo on the car hood and roof.
I got out and scurried under the towering trees. Pushed into the lobby.
Not a single magazine lay on the tile.
Ring her bell? A neighbor’s? Think!
No time.
I hurried outside and across the soggy lawn. Threw a leg over the railing and dropped onto the patio. Squatted and put my face to the milky glass.
Light seeped from a hallway running from the back of the apartment, feeble, barely penetrating the gloom. I could make out the silhouettes of a sofa, chair, and TV stenciled in the darkness cramming the room.
I reached up and tried the door. To my surprise, its latch disengaged, and it hopped a few inches across the track. The sound was like thunder cracking in the stillness. I froze.
Wheels whooshed wetly on the street at my back. A dog barked. Its owner whistled and the animal went quiet.
From the apartment’s interior, an ocean of silence.
Was Mary Louise in there? Was my quarry? Did her twisted ritual involve some prelude that was buying us time? How long would it last? Was the child already dead?
Wait for Hull? I’d given her the address, but she wasn’t here yet.
Move!
Pushing with both palms, I eased the door six inches more. Waited, senses alert to the tiniest nuance. Then, still crouching, I scuttled inside.
Like an animal seeking cover, I darted into a corner. Blinked to adjust my eyes. Listened.
Nothing but the hum of a motor. The hammering of my heart.
I rose and pressed my back to a wall. Slid to the hallway and peeked around the corner.
Two yards ahead, a bathroom, empty and dark. The light was coming from a door on the left.
My adrenaline-stoked brain flashed a rational thought. I had no weapon. No way to defend myself should she be armed.
Heart banging, I backtracked through the living room and into the kitchen. A window above the sink oozed a fuzzy peach quadrangle onto the porcelain. Streetlight. Odd, but some tangle of cells made note.
The first drawer held towels, the second a jumble of cooking utensils. I cautiously rifled among them.
Bingo. A paring knife.
Ever so gently, I teased it free and set it on the counter.
Carefully digging out my phone, I tried to text Hull.
My fingers refused to obey my cortex. They felt numb. As though deadened by cold or anesthesia.
Shake it off!
Breath in.
Breath out.
I managed to key three words. An address. Hit send. Pocketed the phone. Then, blade angled backward and down, I tiptoe-ran back to the hall.
Light slivered the jamb and across the bottommost edge of the door. Yellow, steady. A low-wattage bulb, not a candle.
Shrinking inside my own skin as much as I could, I began inching forward. Two steps. I paused, straining for signs of another presence.
Only the hum of the refrigerator and the drumbeat of rain.
Three steps.
Three more.
Tightening my grip on the knife, I closed the final two feet. Stepped to the side of the door and pressed my back to the wall.
Every nerve a heated wire, I extended my free arm and pushed with a back-turned palm. No theatrical Hitchcock sound-effect creak. Just a noiseless re-angling of the door on its hinges. A slo-mo reveal of the room. I scanned the contents.
A twin bed, all done up in pink. A dresser with a ballerina princess lamp. A rocker stuffed with animals and dolls. A desk. Above it, a bulletin board layered with photos, news clippings, and memorabilia.
It looked like the room of a teenage girl.
My eyes probed the blackness in the corners and under the dresser and desk. The edges of bed skirt. A door I assumed gave on to a closet.
I listened for breathing. The soft whisper of fabric.
Heard nothing. The room was empty.
My gaze reversed. Swept more slowly. Came to rest on the bulletin board.
My brain did a cerebral cinematic zoom.
My chest tightened.
No! I was mistaken. It was a trick of the meager lighting.
I shook my head. As if that would help.
Front teeth pressing hard on my lower lip, I crossed to the board and stared at the photo.
Anique Pomerleau gazed up from her barrel, eyes blank, blond hair wrapping her skull like a shroud.
I took an involuntary step backward. Maybe to distance myself from the evil I sensed. Maybe to
avoid contaminating the scene.
A box sat dead center on the desktop. Old, carved, the knob on its cover darkened by the touch of many hands. Or the touch of just one.
Careful to avoid contact, I inserted the tip of the knife into the narrow space surrounding the lid. Levered up. Then, fast as lightning, I caught the lid’s underside and flipped it free.
The box was full. Too full to disclose what lay in its depths. But one object sent blood surging into my head.
The uppermost item was a ballet slipper. In size and color, a perfect match for the one found in Hamet Ajax’s trunk. Lizzie Nance’s.
The slipper rested atop two photos. Me in a lab coat measuring a skull. Me entering the annex at Sharon Hall. My home.
My thoughts began racing. Emotions. Fear. Rage. Mostly rage.
Where was Slidell?
Where was Hull?
I closed my eyes. Felt heat at the backs of my lids.
No tears! Get more help! Find Mary Louise!
Using my iPhone, I shot two pics. Then, no longer concerned about stealth, I raced back to the kitchen, set the knife on the counter, yanked off my jacket, and wrapped it around my hand. Deep breath. I opened the freezer.
Popsicles. Fish sticks. Bagels. Lasagna.
Ziplocs containing hair and flesh. Vials of blood-red ice.
My stomach did something gymnastic. A bitter taste filled my mouth. I pivoted and took two shaky steps. Steadied myself on the sink with a jacket-swaddled hand.
When the nausea passed, I raised my eyes to the window. Saw a rain-blurred distortion of my face.
Beyond the glass, a streetlight, not five feet distant. Power lines crisscrossed its misty glow, casting spiderweb shadows on a patch of gravel below.
On a striped bucket hat with a tassel on top.
CHAPTER 42
THE SHOCK MORPHED into a bloodlust of which I would have thought myself incapable. A savage hatred I’d never experienced.
I wanted the bitch.
And I knew where to find her.
The picture in the box.
Was it a mistake? Or a plea to end the insanity? Perhaps bait to lure me into a deadly trap?
I didn’t care. I knew she’d gone to find me. I texted Hull again.
At the wheel, minutes after leaving the apartment on Dotger, I winged onto a narrow street shooting behind Sharon Hall. At ten P.M. the block was still as a tomb.