by Chelsea Cain
She turned and looked at him. The bill of her cap shadowed her face. “Yes.”
“Did you ever take Patrick there?” Archie asked.
She nodded. He could see her mouth in the light, a small line. “He went with me a few times,” she said. “He sat in the back, next to the aquariums, and did homework while I talked to the owner. He loved it back there. Something about the light. He always wanted to come.” Her voice trailed off, then she looked at him, her eyes stricken with grief. “That’s where the kidnapper found him? He picked him out? Like he was picking out a pet? He just chose him and took him?”
“He must have followed you home.”
The walkie-talkie in Archie’s hand popped and crackled. “Detective Sheridan?” a voice said.
“I’m here,” Archie said, lifting it to his mouth.
“We found your detective. Flannigan. He managed to make it up a fire escape. He’s fine.”
Archie closed his eyes and exhaled. It made him cough, and he turned his head to his shoulder. His lungs cramped and he fought to catch his breath.
When he’d recovered he looked up to see the Liftons and Eaton staring at him.
“Flannigan’s okay,” Archie said.
Diana Lifton pointed at the blanket over Archie’s shoulder where he’d turned his head when he’d coughed, and where a dark splatter was visible on the gray wool.
“It’s blood,” she said.
CHAPTER
62
Archie’s lung X-ray was displayed brightly on a black flat-screen monitor in the Emanuel emergency room. Dr. Fergus was sitting on a stool. He was tall, and the stool was too short for him, so his knees buckled out at odd, overly acute angles. Fergus typed something up on a keypad with two fingers, stopping every once in a while to hunt for a letter. The stool was on coasters, and Fergus had been rolling it around the same circle since he sat down. Archie wasn’t sure he even knew he was doing it.
The Guard fatigues were deemed too damp, and Archie was now back in hospital hand-me-down finest—purple sweatpants, a golf shirt from some tournament in Indiana, and loafers a size too big. Where was the hospital getting all these clothes? From the morgue?
He examined the X-ray. His lungs looked like someone had stuffed cotton in them and the cotton had settled at the bottom.
Fergus was still typing. “We’re going to gussy up a suite upstairs and name it after you because of all the business you bring us,” he said, not looking up.
“Ha ha,” Archie said.
“You should have called me when the fever started.”
Fergus hit enter on the keyboard, pulled a pad of paper from his lab coat pocket, and scribbled something on it. Then he ripped the prescription off the pad and wheeled around to face Archie, who was sitting in a chair. “I’m putting you on antibiotics,” he said, handing Archie the slip. “These are big league. They’ll probably do the trick.”
“Probably?” Archie said. A coughing fit overcame him, and Archie buried his face in his elbow. When it was over he looked back up, his face hot, eyes watering. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, he could feel the full weight of his exhaustion.
Fergus took his reading glasses off and wiped them with the corner of his white lab coat. “You’ve got bacterial pneumonia,” he said. “Early stages, yet. But given your general condition, it’s not unserious. If you were anyone else, I tell you to stay in bed at home for a few days, but I know you’d ignore me, so I won’t waste my breath.”
He opened a cabinet drawer, pulled out a white surgical mask, and held it out to Archie.
“Is that really necessary?” Archie asked.
“When you’re around sick people, yes. The pneumonia’s not contagious, but the bacteria that’s causing it is. You’re in a hospital filled with people with compromised immune systems, much like yours. Let’s try not to infect all the nice cancer babies, shall we?”
Archie took the mask. “I’ve seen Detective Sobol since I’ve been sick,” he said.
“I think catching your cold is the least of his problems right now,” Fergus said. He leaned forward over his sharp knees and tapped the prescription in Archie’s hand. “Now, get this filled right away, at the pharmacy in the atrium.”
“Thanks again,” Archie said, standing up.
Before he could get out the door, Fergus stopped him. His gruff-doctor demeanor softened. “I’m sorry to hear about the detective you lost tonight,” he said.
“Yeah.”
Fergus swung back to the monitor. “Do us both a favor,” he said. “If you find that you are unable to breathe, or start coughing up more blood, give me a call. And in the meantime don’t jump into any more rivers.”
“I keep forgetting not to do that,” Archie said. He put on his mask and went out the door.
Ngyun was leaning up against the hallway wall waiting for him.
Archie stopped, flustered. He had consoled the family and friends of dozens of victims. Now the words felt cheap. Heil was dead. Archie had been his boss. But Ngyun and Flannigan? They had worked with Heil. Day after day, for over a year. “It was quick,” Archie said.
Ngyun nodded and looked at a spot next to Archie’s head. Then he reached out and offered something he held in his hand. “I thought you might need this.”
It was a cell phone.
“It’s a loaner from the office,” Ngyun said. “I had your number forwarded. They said it’ll take a few hours.”
Archie took the phone. “Thanks,” he said.
“Do you need me to do anything?” Ngyun asked.
Flannigan was home with his family. Dry and warm in his bed.
“Go home,” Archie said.
Ngyun nodded again, still looking at that spot. “Right,” he said. He turned after a moment and took off down the hall. Archie watched him go. He had one more thing he wanted to do before he went to the pharmacy.
* * *
Susan was lying in a bed, hooked up to all sorts of monitors. A nurse was busy typing up notes on the room’s computer. Susan smiled sleepily at Archie.
He stood for a moment in the doorway.
“Flannigan is okay,” he said.
Susan’s eyes opened wider and she gave him a thumbs-up.
He didn’t stay.
“Nice sweatpants,” he heard Susan call.
CHAPTER
63
The pills Fergus had given him came in a blister pack. They were oval and white, and if Archie squinted they looked like Vicodin. He slipped his mask aside, took his first dose, and washed it down with a swig of bottled water. Then he punched the rest out and put them in his pocket.
He missed taking pills.
“What are you thinking about?” Henry asked. He was sitting up in bed, propped up on a pillow. His head was freshly shaved and his scalp gleamed under the hospital lights. Claire had pulled her chair close to the bed and held Henry’s hand.
Archie coughed. “I should get out of here,” he said. He didn’t even know when the last time he slept was.
“I’ll give you a ride,” Claire said.
Anne appeared from the hallway. “I’ll do it,” she said.
Archie looked up at her. “I don’t want to talk.”
“I don’t want you to cough on me,” Anne said. “We both may have to compromise.”
* * *
Anne had rented a convertible red Mustang.
The rain slapping against the ragtop sounded like a flag snapping in a hard wind.
“It’s dark,” Anne said.
“It’s always dark,” said Archie.
The surgical mask was on his lap. They were driving down Martin Luther King, Jr., Boulevard. A news van going too fast passed them at an intersection, heading toward the river.
“Henry looks good,” Anne said.
Archie could see the helicopters in the distance, but he couldn’t hear them. “Heil’s dead.”
Anne looked straight ahead out the windshield. “It wasn’t a trade,” she said.
The glowing towers
of the convention center speared the dark sky.
“He liked watching people die,” Archie said.
“He liked watching people drown,” Anne said, correcting him. “His grandfather drowned at Vanport. The story was probably mythic in his family. The poison provided a way for him to watch people drown on dry land. He justified it as some sort of bent revenge for his grandfather’s death. That’s why he left the Vanport keys on the bodies. He wanted to make a statement, to be understood. You said he knew who Susan was. He probably slipped that key in her bag, hoping that she’d see the connection and write about it. In the end, his grandfather’s story was an excuse. He felt powerless. Killing people made him feel less powerless.”
“How does the boy fit in?” Archie asked.
“We may never know,” Anne said. “But my guess is that the kidnapping was spontaneous. That Carey recognized something in the kid that was vulnerable. He wanted control. Keeping Patrick Lifton in a basement room was no different to him than keeping a fish in a bowl. It gave him the power that he craved. But after a while it wasn’t enough.”
“So he sees Susan’s story about the skeleton, and gets a bee in his bonnet to go on a killing spree?”
Anne raised an eyebrow and sighed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if we found out that he’d been drowning animals since childhood,” she said.
They passed the entrance to I-84, north to Vancouver.
Archie couldn’t stop thinking about the boy. “If the kid did manage to get out of the river, where would he go?”
Anne thought. “Someplace he felt safe.”
Aquarium World was in ruins. The house was cordoned off with crime tape. Patrick’s bridge hideout was underwater.
“Oaks Park,” Archie said.
* * *
“This is ridiculous,” Anne muttered from behind Archie as they tromped through the flooded parking lot.
Archie waved to August and Philip Hughes, who stood with flashlights at the main gate up ahead.
“Thanks for coming,” Archie said. “How bad is it in there?”
“Two feet, at its deepest,” August Hughes said. “She took it pretty well. Most of the rides are above water.”
“Is there power?” Archie asked.
“Yes, sir,” August Hughes said. “We’ve got generators as a backup to the main power line.” He swung open the gate and walked into the park, his flashlight beam bouncing in front of him.
A few moments later the lights came on. The metal grates and intricate workings of the rides were lit up with fluorescent strips and bright multicolored bulbs. But the park remained still. The rides didn’t move.
August Hughes reappeared from around a corner.
“Okay,” Archie said to Anne. “Let’s look around.”
“We can help,” Philip Hughes said. “Dad knows the park better than anybody. He knows the kid.”
The sooner they got the park searched, the sooner they could determine the boy wasn’t there, and the sooner Archie would be able to sleep. “Take the south side,” Archie said. “And stick together.” He looked at Anne. “You’re with me,” he said.
“It’s the middle of the night,” Anne said. “You’re ill.”
“I just have to make sure he isn’t here.”
“Patrick?” Archie called.
“This place gives me the creeps,” Anne said.
Archie called Patrick’s name again. “It’s Detective Sheridan,” he called.
“There,” Anne said.
“What?”
“I saw something move,” Anne said, pointing.
“What?” Archie asked.
“A shadow,” Anne said.
“Was it him?”
“I don’t know,” Anne said. “It was something.”
“Patrick?” Archie called again.
He saw something then, too. A flash of movement. Someone disappearing through a door into one of the rides.
Archie jogged through the water toward the ride, calling the boy’s name.
He stopped at the door.
It wasn’t really a ride. It was some sort of building. Something you walked through. A haunted house.
A shadowy figure lurked just inside the door.
“It’s safe,” Archie said. “You can come out.”
The boy stepped into the light. He was wet and dirty, his face scratched.
“Jesus Christ,” Anne said.
Patrick took a tentative step toward them and then flung himself into Archie’s arms, all cold, wet elbows and knees.
Archie glanced up at the side of the attraction the boy had emerged from. The door was a mouth. Framed by a pair of huge red open lips.
Garishly painted letters spelled out BEAUTY KILLER HOUSE OF HORRORS.
Archie held Patrick Lifton very tightly for a very long time before he pulled out his phone and called the chief. “It’s Archie,” he said. “Call the Liftons. I’ve got him. I’ve got him.”
* * *
Archie was sitting with Patrick in the back of an open ambulance. EMTs had checked the boy’s vitals and put Band-Aids on his scratches. He would still need to go to the hospital, but the EMTs had agreed to wait. Archie saw the patrol car cruise in, lights flashing, going too fast, its tires throwing up water on the pavement. It came to a stop alongside another patrol unit, about five yards from the ambulance. The back door flew open and Diana Lifton exploded from the car. She was wearing pajamas and sneakers and a coat, her hair knotted in a quick ponytail. Daniel Lifton slid out behind her from the same door, dressed in sweat shorts, a worn T-shirt, and slip-on velour slippers worn over white tube socks. They held each other as they approached the ambulance. The rain had slowed to a spit. Lights from the surrounding emergency vehicles split the darkness with flashes of red and blue.
Patrick didn’t see them at first. Archie held him on his lap, wrapped in a blanket, the boy’s head against Archie’s shoulder, his arms hooked around Archie’s neck. Archie could smell his hair, the sweat of his scalp, the mulch of river muck. “Your family’s here,” Archie whispered.
He felt Patrick lift his head, and heard the boy’s mother make a sound somewhere between a laugh and a cry.
“Mama?” Patrick said.
The boy’s arms pulled away from Archie’s neck and the blanket fell aside as Patrick Lifton dove from Archie’s lap into his mother’s arms. There was no hesitation. No moment of confusion or fear. His parents embraced him.
“You’re safe,” Diana Lifton said. She kept repeating it.
Archie got up and walked slowly away, leaving the Liftons to their reunion. The generators were still on and the park below blinked with bright colored lights. The dark cloud cover above had finally split, revealing a slice of stars in the night sky.
“I could hear you wheezing from all the way over there,” Anne said, motioning to where she’d been standing several yards away, on the telephone.
“Calling home?” Archie asked, nodding at the phone in her hand.
“One of my boys totaled the minivan,” Anne said.
“You have a minivan?”
Anne smiled. “Used to.”
“Your boy okay?” Archie asked.
“Until my husband gets done with him,” Anne said.
Archie’s gaze fell on Patrick Lifton. His parents were still on either side of him and were helping to get him back into the ambulance. When he was secure, they got in behind him.
“Will he ever be okay?” Archie asked Anne.
The ambulance doors closed. A patrol unit got in place to escort it. And then the two vehicles pulled away into the rain. “Better than most of us,” Anne said.
CHAPTER
64
Susan had been moved upstairs to a hospital room with a view of the parking garage. The blinds were open and flat winter morning light filled the room.
There was a rose-colored plastic chair in her room, an old-fashioned real live landline, and a bedside table with a plastic cup and a water pitcher that matched the chair. A picture of
Mount Hood hung on the wall. She wondered if people who had views of Mount Hood had pictures of parking garages hanging on their walls.
She counted to ten and then picked up the phone and dialed the number she had written on a hospital pad in front of her. She followed the prompts, entered the credit card information, and was connected to the cruise ship her mother was on.
When the ship’s operator picked up, Susan asked to speak to Bliss Mountain, stressing that it was important, just in case her mother was in the middle of sun salutations when they found her and refused to come to the phone.
Susan imagined a purser walking the ship’s decks carrying a silver tray with a cordless telephone on it.
It didn’t take as long as she thought it would.
“Hello?” her mother’s voice said uncertainly.
“Bliss? It’s me,” Susan said. And then she felt the need to add, “Susan.” She paused, wishing she had prepared more. “I just wanted to let you know what’s going on.” I was clinically dead? I was kidnapped by a serial killer? Again. She settled on: “The river’s flooded.”
“Is Sally okay?” Bliss asked.
“The goat’s fine,” Susan said. “I’m calling to let you know that I drowned.”
Her mother sucked in a breath. “What?”
“I mean, I’m all right now,” Susan said. “I was a hostage. There were these octopuses. And this kid. I tried to save him. And I got caught in the river when the seawall broke, and I went under. My heart stopped. They had to reboot me.”
“A kid with an octopus?”
Was she listening? “Mom, I had to be resuscitated.”
“Where are you?” Bliss asked.
“I’m in the hospital.” Susan fought the urge to add obviously.
“I can’t get off the ship right now,” Bliss said. “The next port is St. Thomas. I can arrange a flight back from there.”
“No, Bliss,” Susan said. “Seriously. You’d never make it.” Her mother was notorious for getting lost in airports. Half the time she got in line for the wrong flight. “And you know you can’t fly through Miami.”
“That was years ago. I’m sure they’ve forgotten about it.”