"He...he..." She crushed the sheet. "I'm sorry. This happens every time I try to say his name."
Patrick stepped closer to the bed. "Are you protecting someone? Susan thinks De Witt attacked you."
"Larry, no way." She licked her lips. "It was him... he...why can't I say his name? I can hear his voice, deep and threatening. He brought her presents."
"Susan?"
"No... Maybe...I mean his mother. She was here. A patient. Why can't I say his name?"
Patrick stared at the monitor. Susan had received presents but he had thought they were part of a practical joke or something equally nonthreatening. Was there a sinister connection? He shifted from foot to foot. Should he tell Julie that someone had killed Trish Fallon. Something had to shake the name loose.
"Could your attacker have been a former patient? Someone whose name sounds like Bola or Vola?"
"Volunteer." Julie threw the covers back and reached for the side rail. "That's who it was. The volunteer."
"Are you sure?"
"He came out of the fog and grabbed me. I fought and nearly got away but he caught me. I'll never forget the look on his face."
"One hundred percent sure?"
"A thousand. You've got to warn Susan. 'You hurt Mommy.' That's what he said. Susan likes him. She thinks he's nice." Tears rolled down her face.
Patrick felt torn between learning more and dashing to the phone. He should have called Susan before he left the house. "What happened to his mother?"
"She died. During a code. About a year ago." Her eyes widened. "Barbara, Ms. Vernon, Mendoza and Larry were there, too." She grabbed Patrick's hand. "You've got to warn Larry and Susan. You've got to stop Mr. Martin before he hurts them."
Patrick stepped back from the bed. "I'll try." He backed to the door. When Julie heard about Trish Fallon and De Witt, would she blame herself? He pushed past Mr. Gilbert. Susan would help the girl understand she wasn't at fault, but only if he reached her in time to prevent another tragedy.
Several strides took him to the desk. "What's the extension for Five Orthopedics?" As the nurse replied, he tapped the three-digit code. The phone rang once and was answered. "Susan Randall, please."
"She's not here."
Patrick gripped the receiver. "It's not eleven thirty."
"I know but sometimes miracles happen. She finished early."
"How long ago did she leave?"
"Ten minutes or so."
Patrick hung up. How long would it take her to get home? Could he catch her? He had to try.
"Are you all right?" Mr. Gilbert asked.
"Susan's left the hospital. I have to go after her."
"Do you want me to come?"
"No. Call the police. Ask for Greg Davies. Tell him Julie named her attacker as a Mr. Martin, a volunteer on her unit." Patrick gulped a breath. "Tell him to send a man to 1447 Broadway to warn Susan."
"Will do."
"Thanks." Patrick hit the door at a run, barreled down the hall past the security desk. He dashed across the snow-covered parking lot to his car. On almost a single movement, he started the car, fastened his seatbelt and pulled away. The wheels spun on the slick pavement.
A short time later, the CB crackled with an alert for Fred Martin, five foot ten, one hundred and ninety pounds, gray hair. A description of his car and license plate followed. "Be alert. He may be armed."
Patrick erased everything from his thoughts except the road and his fear for Susan. Would he be in time?
As Susan pulled into the driveway, a series of yawns caused her eyes to water. She set the handbrake and slumped in the seat. Exhaustion made her body limp. As she gathered shoes, stethoscope, teapot and purse, she was tempted to leave all but her purse in the car.
She reached for the door and realized Patrick's car wasn't there. A cascade of relief rushed through her thoughts. There would be no need for lengthy explanations about her failure to wait for him to drive her to work. By the time he returned she hoped to be asleep. In the next instant, a perverse need to see and touch him demanded her attention. She shook her head, slung her purse over her shoulder and left the car. She grabbed the other things.
Where was Patrick? Hadn't he said the concert was over before eleven? But that had been when he had planned to pick her up at the hospital. Had he gone to meet her? There was no way he would think she could leave early.
Anticipation of a scene like those Jim had staged when she had failed to follow his instructions tightened her shoulder muscles. She locked the car. Patrick wasn't like Jim. Patrick listened. She tucked her shoes in the crook of her arm and held the teapot against her chest. Snow blew against her face. She looked toward the porch and held in a gasp. Something white gyrated in the wind. She took several steps away from the car.
"Susan." She looked around. Had someone called her name or had it been the wind. "Susan." She turned a half-circle and peered through the falling snow. "Over here." She whirled and nearly dropped the teapot. A dark figure emerged from behind the clump of rhododendrons. He moved across the lawn. Light from the porch illuminated his face.
"Mr. Martin, what are you doing here?"
"I came to see you. I brought you some presents."
His voice held an odd stilted quality with none of the warmth she usually heard when he spoke. A gust of wind whipped snow from the ground and veiled the volunteer. Susan swallowed a gulp of cold air. A tinge of fear crept along her nerves. His gray hair and black jacket blurred. Julie's attacker. Susan pressed against the car. How could she have mistaken him for De Witt? As she sought an escape route, she tried to calm her racing thoughts. He blocked the path to the house.
"What's wrong?" His deep voice held a sinister tone.
"Nothing." With her right hand, she stabbed the keys against the car in hopes of making contact with the lock. She lost her grip on the teapot. It shattered on the ground at her feet. He continued to walk toward her. A scream throbbed against her vocal cords. She couldn't let him know how frightened she was.
"Why did you attack Julie?" She barely recognized the voice as her own.
"She killed Mommy. You were supposed to protect her. She protected you."
A pulse throbbed in her throat. He was insane. Barbara, Mendoza, De Witt. Even Leila had been present at the Code.
"No one killed your mother. We did everything we could." The key flew from her shaking hand.
"She promised she would never leave me. She said they would have to kill her first."
Susan slid along the side of the car. His advanced marched with her retreat.
"She was going to tell everyone how bad I was. We made a bargain. I would be good and she would never leave me. She did. They killed her. They're dead and you have to be like Mommy."
"You're not making any sense." Susan hated the way her voice cracked. Keep him talking until Patrick comes, she thought. "Would you like to come in for coffee so we can talk about your mother's death?"
"Not tonight. I have two presents for you. One is on the porch." He edged closer. "Did you like the gifts? Mommy always did."
"So you were the one who left them."
"Did you know what they were for?"
Susan couldn't force an answer past her trembling lips. On the porch, the nightgown danced like a ghost. She stepped back. The gown continued its macabre gyrations.
"Mommy wore that gown the night she died. Would you put it on for me?"
Susan's hand flew to her mouth. Though she felt she had endured an eternity of terror, she knew only minutes had passed.
He reached into his pocket. "I brought Mommy's bracelet for you."
She saw the glitter of gold in his hand. She moved back and stumbled. Of course. The bracelet Barbara had worn had belonged to Mrs. Martin.
She reached the end of the car. He grabbed her purse. A scream built in her chest until it exploded in a single word. "No!"
To wait for his attack was foolish. He wouldn't listen to anything she said. A memory of his angina arose. Exercise and s
tress could trigger chest pain. She turned and ran up the driveway.
"Stop!"
She stretched her legs in giant strides and was aided by slides along the snowy sidewalk. Her purse banged against her side. Snowflakes fluttered in the air. Christmas lights on houses cast multi-colored patterns on the snow. She clutched the shoes and pressed the bell of the stethoscope against her chest.
"Don't run away. You're just like Mommy. She promised she would never leave me."
His voice sounded loud. In anticipation of being caught, her body tensed. How long could she outrun him? She sped past dark houses and some that were brightly lit. She dashed past lines of cars parked at the curb. She scurried across two side streets that promised no escape because they led up steep hills.
The houses on the fourth block abutted the sidewalk. Lights in the far house on the corner revealed a group of people inside. Though her breath should have been saved for flight, she screamed. Chill air burned her lungs. Pain shot down her shins. A sharp ache stabbed her side. Why didn't one of the people standing near the windows turn and see her? She had to gain someone's attention.
She glanced over her shoulder and saw she had gained ground. She slid to a halt and banged on the door of the corner house. Another glance showed the volunteer had nearly reached her. She hurled one of her shoes at the multi-paned window and then smashed the bell of her stethoscope against the glass. "Help!" she screamed. She tried to hit 911 on her cell but the phone fell from her hand and slid along the snow. There wasn’t time to return for it.
"Now I have you." His voice boomed in her ears.
She turned. Mr. Martin stretched his arms to grab her. She ran. He caught the sleeve of her coat. With a twisting movement, she pulled free. His labored breathing sounded in sync with hers. Tears stung her eyes and lay like crystals on her cheeks. She inhaled and swung her purse. The contact nearly overbalanced her. She swung again. The purse strap slid from her chilled fingers.
* * *
Patrick's car skidded around the corner and barely missed the snow-covered car parked across the street from the house. He steered into the driveway and slid to a halt several yards from Susan's car. His relief was momentary. The house was as dark as it had been when he had left. He jumped from his car and strode to hers.
The shattered teapot caught his attention. Another gift? He picked the card from the snow and saw Julie's name. When he looked up and saw the white garment hanging on the porch, his heart stuttered. "Susan," he cried.
The snow around her car was trampled but he saw no signs of a struggle. Then he fished her keys from the snow. The CB radio in his car crackled. He turned and listened to the message.
"Car 27 proceed to 52 Broadway. EDP breaking windows with white shoes and other objects."
Automatically, Patrick translated the code. "Susan." He dove into his car and closed the door. Pride in Susan's resourcefulness brought a smile. He shifted into reverse and shot out of the driveway. A car loomed in the rearview mirror. He tapped the brakes and blew the horn. The other car swerved and skidded into the snow-covered car that stood across from the driveway.
Damn, Patrick thought. There was no time to argue about the blame. Susan needed him. As he shifted into drive, a man jumped from the other car and ran toward Patrick's. He rolled down the window. "Catch you later. Greg, what are you doing here?"
"Warning Susan Randall."
"She isn't here. Her car is but she's gone."
"Shit, that's Martin's car. Did you check the house? He might have her in there." Greg slid into the passenger's seat.
"I found her keys on the driveway. She's the EDP." He shifted gears and sped down the street.
"I should have listened to you."
A sense of bitterness filled Patrick's thoughts. "Fine time to decide that."
"Look, we had a suspect and the Gilberts wouldn't let us see their daughter."
"You could have insisted. Got a court order."
"When we found Martin's rifle at De Witt's that was the next step. His name was etched on the stock. Can you believe that?" Greg shook his head. "This has been a bizarre case. I even gave Martin the derringer to check out. I bet it was his."
Patrick ran a red light. Susan had been in danger since the first death. "If it makes you feel better, I didn't have the slightest idea who until Julie told me. Susan liked the man."
The flashing dome light of the patrol car caused Patrick to brake. A crowd milled on the sidewalk. Greg touched Patrick's arm. "Sit tight. I'll extract her from the mob and you can take her home."
* * *
He lumbered after Susan. His gloved fingers touched the bleeding spot at the corner of his mouth where her purse had struck him, twice. The dull, yet ever present ache in his chest threatened to bloom into agony. He couldn't quit the chase. As long as he could see her, there was hope. He chuckled. She was headed in the right direction. The dark cliff of the Overlook loomed at the end of the street.
Each breath of cold air, each step, compounded the pain in his chest. An exquisite thrill leaped from his heart and sped down his left arm to jolt his fingertips. After exhaling slowly several times, he reached into his jacket pocket for the nitro bottle. He flipped the lid. One tablet, two and finally a third dissolved beneath his tongue. A wave of near euphoria followed the diminished agony.
The vial tumbled to the snow. While stooping to retrieve it, he remembered the monument situated near the foot of the trail to the Overlook. The circle offered Susan a chance to escape that he couldn't permit her to seize. He forgot the vial and pushed his body forward.
"Susan," he shouted.
She stumbled and fell. Before she scrambled to her feet, he grasped her wrist and pulled her struggling body erect.
"Please," she said.
He smiled and ran his tongue across his lips. Her ruddy cheeks and the audible wheeze in her breathing reminded him of Mommy during one of her attacks. Fear darkened Susan's hazel eyes. He savored the feelings of strength and power that rose in response to her fear.
"You're just like Mommy." He drank the dread mirrored in her staring eyes. Hazel eyes, Susan's eyes, Mommy's eyes. Dark eyes reflecting fear.
* * *
Sit tight, Patrick thought. He tapped an impatient beat on the steering wheel. How could he pretend calmness when Susan was in danger? He scanned the group gathered around the patrol car and failed to find her. He had to move, to act. He jumped from the car.
A dozen voices shouted comments. People pointed in every direction. Patrick stared at the snow-covered walk and saw tracks leading away. He trotted across the side street and nearly fell when he stumbled over a black purse. He picked it up and opened the clasp. Susan's ID from the hospital was the first thing he saw. If Susan's purse was here, where was she?
The trail continued as far as he could see. The Overlook. From this point, there were no side streets and no escape. Patrick wheeled and ran back to his car.
"The Overlook. She's headed there. He must be on her heels." He got in his car and started forward.
In the rearview mirror, he watched Greg and the uniformed officer dive for the patrol car. A siren sounded. Patrick gripped the wheel. Susan would hear and know help was on the way, but so would her pursuer.
As Mr. Martin pulled her up the path to the Overlook, Susan struggled to free herself from his bruising grip. He grasped her wrist so tightly, she feared the bones would break.
In summer, trees and bushes grew along the path. The winter skeletons seemed too thin and too distant to grab. For several seconds, she wondered why she continued to fight. Once they reached the picnic area at the top of the trail, there would be no escape. She felt too tired to run. Her attempt to push him into an angina attack had failed. Had he been lying about his heart condition to gain her sympathy?
"Did you kill Dr. Barclay?" she asked.
"I must have. Who else would want him dead?" He stopped so abruptly she nearly fell. "No, he did. I watched him follow the doctor into the woods."
&nb
sp; "Who?"
"The doctor Mommy didn't like. He's dead. They're all dead. Even Julie."
For a moment, Susan believed him. But news that dreadful would have spread through the hospital like a flu epidemic. "She's not dead."
"She has to be. Mommy told me wishing makes things come true. I've been wishing hard. You shouldn't have saved her when you didn't save Mommy."
The singsong rhythm of his voice chilled her more than the bitter December wind. He yanked her several feet closer to the top of the hill. Susan saw the branches of a bush dangling over the edge of the wall. She grasped them in an attempt to keep from being dragged further.
He jerked her hard enough to break the thin branches. Her arms felt as though he had pulled the bones from the sockets. She screamed. He pushed her so hard she fell on the snow-covered ground. Though she was free, she couldn't move. He pulled her upright and held her in a tight embrace. His chest heaved. A whistling wheeze sounded each time he gulped a breath. Susan felt her grasp on reality slip.
"I killed them. Years and years ago. Daddy yelled at me and he died. Mommy brought me here. It was the best day of my life. They ruined our special place and I made them dead. The boarder came. Mommy didn't need another man 'cause she had me. He left and never came back. Mommy made me promise to be good. She said she would never leave me but she did."
His babble continued until it lost sense and form. Inch by inch, he forced Susan across the picnic area. In an attempt to resist the pressure of his body against hers, she locked her knees.
The wail of a siren halted him. Susan's body sagged. Somewhere, there was an emergency and help was on the way. Not here. For her, there would be no rescue. Unless she found an escape, she would die.
Patrick, she cried silently. When he came home and found her car, he'd be frantic. Though she wanted to shout and plead, she didn't want to feed the pleasure on his face or the hunger in his eyes.
"Will Mommy be proud of you?" she asked. "Won't she think you're a naughty boy?"
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