by Nancy Bush
“From Side B to Side A.”
“We would sincerely like you to be on board with this, but it’s already been decided.”
Claire absorbed the information, not really surprised.
“The room will be locked. He will only go in and out with supervision. His meds are monitored.”
“Did the Marsdons pull out their checkbook before or after you gave them the good news? I’m guessing before.”
Avanti tried on a smile. “You really are a ballbusting bitch, Claire.”
She smiled right back. “This time you get a thank-you.”
“How did you become a psychiatrist?”
“An understanding of human nature. An ability to generally know a lie from the truth. The realization that manipulators never stop manipulating, even when—maybe especially when—they purport to be your friend.”
He held Claire’s gaze. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“Try having a knife held to your throat. If you get past the fear, there’s a clarity that follows. Kind of like knowing your place in the world. I have less need to bend and conform.”
“That can work against you.”
“I could lose my job, but even so, I’m a better doctor now.”
“The Marsdons are coming here this evening. They have a scheduled meeting with Heyward, who’s been asking for you.”
Claire regarded him warily. “What are you asking?”
Avanti hesitated. This hadn’t gone even remotely the way he’d expected it to. “Could you make that meeting?”
“After hours, you want me to go with you and the Marsdons to Side B? To see Heyward?”
“Yes.”
She shook her head. “You forget, the Marsdons specifically asked for me to be taken off Heyward’s case. That request is the reason I haven’t seen Heyward since his incarceration.”
“Not the only reason.”
Claire understood psychological warfare very well. Avanti was trying to bully her into doing as he wished. “You think I’m afraid to meet with him?”
“Yes,” he admitted. “It would be a natural reaction.”
“Wait. You’re saying the Marsdons now want me to be there?”
Avanti got to his feet and straightened his lab coat, holding on to the lapels with both hands, gazing down at Claire in a superior way. She stood, too, resting the tips of her fingers on her desktop. A duel at noon in the hot sun. “They don’t want you anywhere near him, but they need you. You’re the fly in the ointment, Claire. You know it, and I know it.”
“They’re afraid I’ll go to the courts. Raise a stink. Try to get Heyward’s room assignment nailed down to Side B. Foil their plans.”
“He attacked you. You could probably get whatever you wanted, if you decided to go that route.”
“You don’t think I’ll do it?”
“On the contrary, I think it’s very possible you will,” he said. “Before that happens, you should see Heyward for yourself.”
“Tonight.”
“Yes.”
When she didn’t immediately answer, he dropped his stance and moved toward the door. “You’re a good doctor, Claire,” he said, a hand on the knob. “Maybe a great one. You want what’s best for Heyward even though you’re scared of him. You understand he’s sick. You know his intent was never to hurt you or Melody Stone. You know you should help him, regardless of what you think of his family.”
He hesitated, glancing back at Claire. She was regarding him soberly, struck by his words though she didn’t want to be. He seemed to be waiting for her response.
“When is this transfer to take place?” she asked.
“Kind of depends on what happens tonight.”
“You mean, it’s predicated on how I feel about Heyward? That’s why I need to be there?”
“Your opinion matters, Claire. But it won’t alter the decision.”
“So, basically, this transfer is imminent.”
“It’ll be soon,” he agreed. “The Marsdons want to be here for that as well.”
“Of course they do. They want to do everything for Halo Valley.”
“They just want what’s best for their son.”
“They want what they think is best for their son,” she said. “Whether it is or not is another matter. One the hospital should really look at.”
“Your feelings have been well documented.”
“Yes. Theirs, too.”
“So will you be there?”
Would she? Claire felt the same suffocating feeling she’d experienced when everyone at the hospital seemed to close her out. “I’ll be there,” she finally said. “It’ll give me a chance to thank them for the chocolate cake.”
The door shut behind him with a soft click and Claire sank into her chair, feeling the leaching of adrenaline throughout her whole body.
The rain would just not let up. Not. Let. Up.
Lang’s wipers were working overtime, slapping water away in splashes without much success.
He had half a mind to give up for the day. It was closing on six o’clock and the light was starting to fade. If he drove up 101 and turned onto 26, it would still be an hour and a half or more home in perfect weather conditions. If he cut east toward Halo Valley he could be there in forty minutes, well, except for the blasted rain. Then it would be another hour and a half east to Salem and north to the greater Portland area on I-5.
He didn’t want to see Claire Norris. Not the least because he found her attractive. Something about her control. And those legs. And a slim face with doe eyes that were filled with suspicion, at least when they were trained on him.
If he forgot Halo Valley and went north he could maybe stop at the Foothillers’ residential community and learn something about Cade Worster, maybe even find him. He could potentially learn the name of their murder victim and his pregnant companion. Tanninger had said he could wait to visit Halo Valley until tomorrow. Hell, he could leave it entirely, as this was a volunteer position on his part, more or less.
Or he could go to a bar, order an Irish coffee, and wait for the storm to pass.
He was currently heading north on 101, but had barely left the Tillamook city limits. He was driving slowly, partly because of the rain, partly from indecision. Growling under his breath, he turned the Dodge around and nosed the truck toward the two-lane state road that led east to the Willamette Valley and Salem, the state’s capital city, the same highway that, about a third of the way to Salem, held the turnoff for Halo Valley Security Hospital.
Might as well get the least palatable task off his list first.
He drove fifteen miles under the speed limit because the road was awash with mud-filled water with more pouring over his car as if some gleeful god had tipped a blimp-sized bucket over. By the time he reached the turnoff for Halo Valley, he was sorry he’d chosen this task today. He wanted to be home. Under the hot needle spray of his own shower. Then maybe a Scotch, maybe not. But definitely a face plant in his bed.
He drove down the long entrance lane and past the main hospital parking lot, which was surprisingly full, circled to the left of the portico, and found a spot at the far end of the medical office building, which was attached at the north end of the main building. Wishing for an umbrella, something he never did, Lang climbed once more into the soaking rain and jogged through standing water on the asphalt to the medical office building’s side door, up about six concrete steps and through a door that warned it was locked from seven P.M. until six A.M.
His boots squished as he walked down a long, gray-carpeted hallway toward a central desk, a semicircular affair made from blond wood with a young man wearing a white shirt, green tie, and Dockers seated on a swivel chair behind it.
“Can I help you?” he asked, eyeing Lang’s dripping jacket.
He had no identification. No credentials. “Detective Langdon Stone,” he said, the lie too easy on his tongue. He sensed now that he’d never left. Not really. Not where it counted. Law enforcement was who he
was; maybe all he had left. “I’m here to see Dr. Norris.”
He frowned. “She may have gone home for the day.”
“She called the Winslow County Sheriff’s Department, and they sent me.”
“Oh.” He reached for the phone and punched in a number. After waiting through enough rings to convince even Lang that she wasn’t in, he hung up and shook his head. “Not in her office.”
“Can you page her through the hospital from here?”
“I can call the hospital front desk,” he said, his fingers already on the phone again. After a brief conversation with someone at the other end, he nodded and pointed farther down the hallway, ostensibly toward the juncture with the hospital. “Go to the elevators at the end of the hall,” he said to Lang. “Punch floor two, which leads to the skyway and the gallery level of the hospital. Turn right, follow the hallway, and go down the stairs to the front reception desk. They don’t think Dr. Norris has left yet.”
“Is that the only way to access the hospital directly from the medical offices?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And what about the other hospital building? Where they house the criminally insane?”
“Ummm…” He was uncomfortable, but said, “Second floor is also the access to the other half of Halo Valley. It’s guarded. It’s really safe.”
The kid acted like Lang was going to write up a safety violation. Following his directions, Lang found the elevator, pushed two, exited onto a hallway that branched to the right, and saw a sign for the hospital. To the left there was another desk, and curiosity made him head there first. It was a duplicate of the one on the first floor, unmanned at the moment, but he could see this was the nerve center for the medical offices. Downstairs was more a security center. Here was where the appointments were booked, the insurance information taken. There was even a roped-off waiting area that patients were advised to stand back from. The HIPAA requirement to keep medical records private.
Lang then headed to the hospital. He saw the corridor branch that undoubtedly led to the locked-down half, but he ignored it for now. He didn’t want to think about Heyward Marsdon III or his sister. He was here on a completely different case, and it was best if he kept it that way.
Walking across the gallery, Lang felt oddly uncomfortable, looking down on the main entry, taking the curving stairs to the lower floor, feeling a little like a debutante at her coming-out party. A few people glanced up and stared, and for a moment he wondered if he had a scarlet letter on his forehead, but then realized his soaked clothing and wet hair were the cause of interest.
“Can I help you?” the receptionist called.
“Dr. Norris, please,” Lang said, approaching the desk.
A very large woman teetered from one foot to the other as she lumbered toward him. “You look like someone threw you in the river!” she declared.
“C’mon, Jenny.” A woman wearing a salmon-colored uniform, one of the nurses or aides, guided her back toward the main room. Lang looked over and saw their Jane Doe, Cat, seated in a chair in front of the television.
And Dr. Claire Norris was also in the room, her attention taken by a man in a tan turtleneck, deep brown jacket, and slacks. They seemed to be conferring. Claire had removed her lab coat and a raincoat was tossed over her arm. She was definitely on her way out.
“I see her,” Lang told the receptionist, who smiled and nodded. He walked to meet Claire and her male companion.
As soon as she saw him, he saw her tense. Then she stepped forward in greeting, hand outstretched. “You got my message?” she said. Her handshake was firm and she withdrew her hand immediately.
“Tanninger gave it to me.” He glanced questioningly at the man.
“This is Donald Inman,” she said. “Donald, this is Detective Stone.”
“Not a detective at the moment,” he said, shaking the other man’s hand next. “But that’s changing.”
“Good to meet you,” Donald said. “Are you here about Cat? Our Jane Doe?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going back to the Portland P.D.?” she asked.
“It looks like Tillamook County Sheriff’s Department.”
Lang couldn’t decipher the strange look that crossed her face as Inman said, “Such a horrible crime. Basically, an attempted emergency C-section to the victim when there’s no emergency. A lot of complications could occur.”
“I thought the question was whether that was even the intent,” Lang said.
“That is the question,” Claire agreed. “I didn’t really expect the police to come out here again. I just wanted to pose the idea, in case it helped the case in any way.”
“She’s lucky to be alive.” Inman gave Cat a studied look.
The television was set to a game show. Several faces were turned toward its screen, but Lang didn’t think anyone was really paying attention. At that moment a woman suddenly jumped up and said, “Change the channel! Change the channel!”
The rallying cry took up and the heavyset nurse that Lang had met before brought forth a remote only she had access to, apparently, and switched to the news.
And there was Pauline Kirby in all her glory, with a downcast Cat sitting front and center in her wheelchair, her blond crown centered in the camera’s lens.
Pauline’s voice-over was full of treacly sorrow. “…little more than a child herself. The authorities have no idea who’s responsible for this horrifyingly malicious attack. If you have any information about this woman who is unable to even tell us her name, please call the station. She needs your help. Her unborn child needs your help.”
The camera moved in and gave the profile of Cat’s face that had been seen on an earlier broadcast as well.
“It’s Cat! It’s Cat!” A young man leapt from his chair and pointed at the silent girl who’d been seated beside him. “It’s you! It’s you!” he told her.
The nurse who’d herded the heavyset woman back now turned to the young man. “Gibby, that’s enough. We all saw the broadcast.” She pushed the remote and the TV screen went blank.
“But she’s here! She’s here! We should tell them! She’s here!”
“They know she’s here. They’re trying to find her family.”
“Excuse me,” Claire said, and Donald Inman fell in beside her as they joined the group. Lang followed a couple of paces behind, watching. The blond girl in question hadn’t so much as twitched.
The young man, whose face was full of earnest worry, leaned into the girl. “Cat!” he yelled loudly, as if that would wake her up. “You’re right here! At the hospital with me!”
Lang flicked a look from him to the girl. Her fingers flexed ever so slightly on the chair arms.
“She moves her limbs,” Claire said, anticipating the question.
Donald turned to Lang. “She’s in a twilight state. Neither fully present nor fully asleep. Claire, I think we should have a consult.”
“Cat!” Gibby yelled into her face.
“Not right now, Donald,” Claire said tautly, moving to Gibby. “She can hear you without yelling, Gibby. We need to use our inside voice, remember?”
Lang glanced at Donald, wondering what his function at the hospital was, then turned his attention to Claire, who’d placed herself between Gibby and Cat.
“But she’s here,” Gibby said, sounding wounded and confused.
“Her people are out there. We hope they’re watching the news, too. We want to know more about her.”
“Like what?”
“Like her name.”
“It’s Cat.”
“Gibby, you know that’s just the name we call her.”
“Everybody hasta have a name.” Gibby glanced around anxiously. “Why don’t she have a name?”
“She does. We just don’t know what it is.”
Gibby seemed to be working himself up to a full-fledged panic attack. “She wants to leave. She wants me to help her out the door!” He waved toward the front glass doors.
�
��No, Gibby.” Claire was firm. “She needs to stay.”
“She told me! She told me! She said, ‘Help me! Help me! Help me! Help me!’”
From the back hallway came two burly-looking men. Lang recognized the muscle when he saw it and stepped out of the way. After a brief skirmish the orderlies took a protesting Gibby away from the main room, his cries diminishing slowly as he was hauled farther and farther away.
“Controlled chaos,” Lang observed.
She shot him a dark look. “Gibby has made an attachment to Cat and he’s become protective of her.”
Donald said, “Bradford Gibson—Gibby—suffers from mental retardation. He’s a permanent resident at Halo Valley.”
“Yeah?” Lang looked the guy over. His hair was sandy brown, smoothly combed, and he had a sensitive mouth. He looked a little like a college professor. An aesthete of some sort. A pipe would have completed the look.
The heavyset woman had wandered over and now stood to Lang’s right. He glanced at her and she smiled shyly.
“Go on, Big Jenny,” Donald said curtly. To Lang, in an aside, “The mind of a two-year-old, the hormones of a horny thirteen-year-old slut.”
“Donald.” Claire’s voice was sharp.
As Lang watched, she took Donald’s arm and led him to the other side of the room, sat him at a table with a crossword puzzle. An older man stood by the window, mumbling and looking out to the razor wire–crowned wall above the locked-down side.
When Claire returned, Lang nodded toward Donald and observed dryly, “Hard to tell the inmates from the staff.”
“Donald was in the mental health field. He believes he’s a therapist.”
“But he’s a patient now.”
She nodded stiffly.
Lang wasn’t sure whether to be appalled or amused. “So, this is how you professionally treat him? By buying into his delusion?”
“We continually remind him of reality,” Claire said with a bite in her voice.
“But it’s just easier to let him wander around and act like he’s a doctor.”
“Even if we had the staff to tag after him and remind him every waking hour that he is not a therapist, he wouldn’t be able to hear it without digressing into a state of anxiety and fear and acting out. There’s a fine balance, Detective.”