“Only the good father here is a registered care-giver for the Davis girl,” she muttered, pressing her full mouth into a frown. “You shouldn’t even be on this floor, lover-boy.” Behind me, Lil made a choking sound.
I just ignored her—it wasn’t the time.
Father Frank tightened his hand on the nurse’s shoulder, gently but insistently capturing her attention.
“This is important,” he said. He met her eyes, pouring all his commanding charisma into his voice. “Have you ever seen that doctor here before? Halley was in here because people broke into her house. They were trying to kidnap her. Can you understand why we’re worried?”
“They switch guys out nightly, Father,” she objected, but it lacked her previously strident conviction.
“Did he give you a name? Could you maybe check to see if he’s working?” he persisted. Power threaded through his voice, exerting subtle but inexorable pressure.
“We know who took her,” Lil muttered angrily to herself. “We know why. No point waiting around for security and more delays.” So saying, she pushed her way past me into Halley’s room. I was confused for a minute—but then she marched right back out with her jacket gripped in one hand. “You were going to forget it again,” she said, shooting me a look. Then she strode back to the end of the hall, the heels of her boots sharp against the tiles.
She hit the door to the stairwell with enough force that it banged echoingly against the inside wall.
“Hey!” Hildy called after her.
Father Frank never took his hand from the woman’s shoulder. “Would you please check?”
“Fine,” she said. The obdurate tension across the nurse’s back sagged toward exhaustion. “If it will get you all to settle down.” Pointing at me with the air of an overworked kindergarten teacher, she added, “And don’t think I don’t remember you from before. Both you and your girlfriend. You’re coming back to the desk with me so I can keep an eye on you, Mister.”
Two uniformed members of the hospital’s security staff stepped from the elevator as we walked back to the nurses’ station. The older of the two—a bald guy built like a beer keg with legs—gave me a once-over, his bushy brows beetling over his glasses. He chewed the edges of a walrus mustache that looked inspired by Wilford Brimley.
Shooting a questioning glance toward the nurse, he touched a can of mace clipped to his belt. His partner was a tall, gangly kid who hadn’t yet outgrown his pimples. His oversized hands were big enough to palm a basketball and then some. The kid ambled up to me with an affable grin on his face.
“That’s a nice jacket, sir,” he said. “Can I ask you to take it off?”
“Not yet, Rodney.” Hildy held up a hand. “I’m checking something.”
Rodney—who looked like a strong wind might topple him regardless of his height—backed off a step.
Nurse Hildy sorted through the papers on her desk, making a small sound of triumph when she located a pad emblazoned with the logo of a drug company. A phone number and name were scrawled across the top sheet in bold strokes of blue ink. She bent to her computer, typing with quiet rapidity. Rodney and his partner kept their eyes on me and Father Frank, angling themselves between us and the elevators.
Hildy paused, then her typing grew a little more frenetic. She added something further, hitting the enter key hard enough that her keyboard shifted. Her dark eyes flicked to the security guards, and she motioned Beer Keg over, speaking with him in hushed tones. Father Frank wearily rubbed his face, wincing when his fingers snagged the tape above his brow.
“Didn’t find him, did you?” I asked. I thought dismally of Lil’s trust charm—the damned thing had worked too well.
Nurse Hildy lifted her scowl my way, then turned her back, practically in a huddle with Beer Keg. Rodney started to look worried. The walkie on his belt crackled and a woman’s voice—brisk and authoritative—snapped off something about officers and the parking garage. I almost felt bad for the kid and his stumpy friend. It was a tough night to work security at this hospital.
“Hey, Rodney,” I said. “Is Officer Roarke on site?” From Remy, I knew he had to be—though asking for him was a gamble on my part. I’d left Roarke pretty pissed off the other night. Rodney ogled me like he expected Roarke to turn out to be my parole officer.
“You’re going to want to get him up here,” I said. “He’s been working this case.” At the kid’s stupefied look, I said, “Don’t act so shocked. Not all the good guys wear white hats. Just humor me and call for him on that walkie, OK? Tell him Westland’s asking for him.”
Rodney shifted his gaze toward Captain Beer Keg, clearly hoping for direction, but he and Hildy were still hunched together, exchanging rapid whispers.
“Come on, kid,” I urged. “You’re in for a long shift, either way.”
Father Frank moved to brace his shoulders against the nearest wall, letting his head tip back as he rested his eyes. I wondered what kind of toll the voice trick took on him. I didn’t think he’d slept since yesterday.
Long shifts all around tonight.
Rodney’s lips twitched and I could practically see the numbers scrolling above his head as he calculated the odds of getting chewed out if he made a decision and it turned out to be the wrong one. He tried catching Beer Keg’s attention one last time, then, with a hangdog look, walked to the far side of the elevators and murmured into his radio.
“Roarke, really?” the padre murmured without opening his eyes. “You two didn’t seem all that friendly back at Tammy’s house.”
I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to lip-read Rodney, but the angle was all wrong.
“Yeah,” I sighed. “That was a… misunderstanding. We have a mutual acquaintance. Hopefully he’ll forgive me if I apologize.”
Father Frank snorted, eyeing me from under one lid. “In other words, you really pissed him off.” His eye slid shut again, and he exhaled a long, slow breath. “Shouldn’t you be asking for that other guy?” He batted the air fretfully with one hand as he searched for a name. “You know the one I’m talking about—the Korean kid.”
“Bobby Park,” I supplied.
The priest’s chin dipped severely downward in a nod, then he rolled his head back against the wall. I worried that he might fall asleep right there. Anchored to my power or not, his body had seen nearly seventy years of wear and tear, and the news of Halley’s abduction had settled over him like a crushing weight.
“That’s a problem right now, padre,” I said, scrubbing a hand along my jaw. “Bobby’s partner has one of the Gibburim riding around in his head, and if that guy learns about Halley—”
“Gibburim?” His head snapped up. “When did they get involved?”
A starkness settled across his face, hardening all the lines. In the sallow lights glimmering from the ceiling of the children’s ward, his skin looked more like weathered wood than living flesh. The cuts and bruises he’d sustained in the fight to protect Halley stood out in livid relief.
“You know about them?” I asked.
His lips twisted downward. His answer was one curt word. “Vietnam.” A rush of questions leapt to my lips, all vying to tumble out first—but the padre caught my eye, jerking his chin in the direction of the elevators.
Rodney strode back in our direction, a completely different expression settling over his long features—not respect, exactly, but at least not outright suspicion.
“They say he’ll be right up.”
I nodded, then gestured to Father Frank. “I don’t imagine you’d let my friend here go scare up a cup of coffee or something? He’s been keeping watch at the girl’s bedside most of the night.” The old priest had settled back against the wall, ostensibly resting his eyes again—though tension now ratcheted through his arms from shoulder to tightly clenched fist.
“Hawkins,” Beer Keg called from the other side of the nurses’ station.
“Yes, sir.” Rodney straightened like the guy was a drill sergeant. Hildy hovered over
her computer, checking and re-checking the screen. She looked sick.
“I need you to run down to HQ and take care of a few things for me,” Beer Keg said. His unibrow bristled over his glasses, and he frowned so deeply his mouth disappeared under his Wilford Brimley mustache.
“Yes, sir,” Rodney repeated. His eyes cut back to the padre and me. He ducked his head apologetically, saying, “Uh, sir, can I let the priest here get some coffee?”
Beer Keg dipped his head in a brusque gesture. “Don’t leave the building,” he said to the padre.
Eager to carry out his orders, the kid rushed to the elevator—somewhat uselessly, as the car was still all the way down in the lobby. Father Frank pushed off the wall.
“Zack, did you want coffee—or something else?”
I angled away from the security guard. “If you see Lil down there, she has my car keys,” I said. “And see if she wants anything.”
“I’m not buying her coffee, too,” he replied.
“She always takes care of herself,” I reminded him. “Just check in with her, OK?” The padre didn’t look thrilled about it, but he nodded anyway. I hoped to hell he knew we weren’t actually talking about coffee.
He strode to the elevators, Rodney shifting awkwardly beside him. The right carriage dinged a moment later, disgorging Officer Roarke. The thick-necked ginger didn’t look like he’d gotten much sleep in the past forty-eight hours, any more than the padre had—but, considering Remy’s off-hand comment in the parking garage, maybe the young officer’s washed-out pallor resulted from something more than exhaustion.
Halley’s insight about blood crawled from my hindbrain, and as soon as I cracked open the door to that line of thinking, I slammed it right the hell shut. What Remy did on his own time with his people wasn’t worth contemplating—at least, not if I planned on looking either Roarke or Remy in the eye without feeling seriously weird.
“Westland,” Roarke sighed. The name on his lips was both accusation and curse.
“Good to see you, too, Jimmy,” I said with all the fake cheer I could muster. “I get the feeling it’s a busy night, so I won’t take up much of your time.”
He chuffed unhappily through his nose. Stepping some distance away from Nurse Hildy and Captain Beer Keg, I gestured for Roarke to come closer. From the way he scowled at me, you’d have thought I’d just asked Officer McMountain to retrieve a donut from a bear trap.
But Remy must have had words with him, because, despite the veins standing out against his temples, he lumbered over my way.
“What do you want?” he grunted.
I met his glare evenly. “Look, I know we got off to a bad start,” I said in low tones. “I was an asshole. I’m sorry.”
He blinked lucid green eyes that seemed a little too small in his big, square face, working his mouth around words that would not come. If I had pulled an Acme Anvil out of thin air and dropped it on his head, he couldn’t have looked more stunned. After staring for a little while, he settled back into a scowl, clenching his jaw till I heard something pop.
“Just tell me what you want.”
“Dr. Alan Kramer came into this hospital and abducted Halley Davis,” I said in low and rapid tones. The words hit McMountain like another anvil. “And yeah, I mean that Dr. Alan Kramer—the one from Bobby and Garrett’s investigation. Do you have any idea where he might have taken her?”
His scowl deepened.
“What’s he want with that kid?”
“It’ll take more time than we’ve got to explain it,” I answered. “Do you know where he’d take her? Even a guess is more than I have at this point.”
He shook his head, and I could almost hear the grinding of his internal gears as he debated pressing me for more answers. He kept his voice low, half the words a mere rumble in his chest.
“The guy’s a ghost. We got his face plastered all over. Lots of reports, no results. Park could tell you that. Why don’t you bother him?”
“I can’t. If Garrett learns Kramer has an interest in the girl, he’ll hunt Halley down and kill her.”
“Just a damned minute…” Roarke replied, huffing. His voice carried. Nervously, I glanced over to the nurses’ station. Beer Keg was on his walkie. Hildy was on the phone. Both were far too intent on their own conversations to pay any attention to ours. Even so, I lowered my own voice to barely a hiss.
“It isn’t only Garrett running around in that head.”
Roarke’s lips flattened into a pale line. We leaned our heads together as we spoke, close enough that I got a noseful of his cologne. I’d smelled it before—on Remy. I almost checked his throat for teeth marks. Instead, I focused on his shoes.
Remy’s business, I told myself. Don’t need to know. Don’t want to.
“That’s a hell of an accusation,” he muttered.
“It is,” I allowed, “but he hasn’t been acting right lately, has he?”
Roarke huffed again, less a sound of anger than one of resignation. “Park’s outside right now, tearing his hair because his partner didn’t show for this call. Garrett’s not answering his phone, either. A month ago, he’d be first on the scene, no matter what else he had going on. So, yeah.”
“Dammit,” I breathed.
The big officer straightened, stepping away from our impromptu conference. He still didn’t look thrilled with me, but I’d started to think Roarke had the male equivalent of “resting bitch face”—although it came across more as “resting Hulk-smash face.” He rolled his neck, stretching, and the Kevlar of his vest creaked beneath the stiff polyester of his uniform.
“I want to say you’re wrong,” he grumbled, “but it explains a lot.”
“How so?” I asked.
Roarke’s eyes cut to Captain Beer Keg, who was off his walkie now and looking expectantly our way. He took the eye contact as approval, and started heading over. Roarke lifted a giant-sized mitt and gestured him off.
“I got this,” he assured the guy. Turning back to me, he said, “Elevator.”
We got in. I took one back corner, Roarke took the other. He hooked his blunt thumbs into his service belt, planting his feet wide.
“I still don’t like you,” the officer said.
“And here I was afraid we might hug.”
He shot me a glare through short lashes the color of rusty straw. I should have kept my damned mouth shut—we didn’t have much private time in this makeshift office. I was about to choke out another apology, when Roarke started back up.
“We’ve been investigating these weird incidents—animal sacrifice, ritual stuff,” he explained.
“I saw some reports on the news sites,” I answered. “Wasn’t sure how much was exaggerated.”
“Resting Hulk-smash face” got smashier, though for once, his ire didn’t seem directed at me. The no-neck officer wasn’t even looking in my direction. He grunted through his nose as the elevator whispered between floors.
“It’s worse.” I waited, but he clammed up as the elevator came to a stop at one of the floors. We both watched the doors expectantly as they slid open. No one stood in the hall beyond.
McMountain and I both reached for the CLOSE DOORS button at the same time—he with his right hand, I with my left. We brushed shoulders, jerking back as if we’d bumped against an electric fence. While we were still scowling awkwardly, the doors closed on their own.
Roarke cleared his throat, settling back to his side of the elevator. “Another thing we been keeping out of the news—every time we track down the perpetrators, someone gets to them first.”
“And by ‘gets to them,’ you mean kills them, don’t you?” I pressed. One of Remy’s statements back in the parking garage made more sense now. He’d mentioned the dead woman outside of Lake View, and I’d been so fixated on that being my fault, I’d glossed over his mention of bodies—plural. She hadn’t been the only one found out there, and I’d let her buddy get away.
“So far, all indigents and vagrants,” Roarke answered. F
or a moment, I marveled that McMountain even knew what an indigent was. If he caught my incredulous look, he ignored it, continuing, “I found something at one of the scenes that made me think it was a cop, gone all Batman or something. I mentioned my theory to Garrett. Next day, the evidence disappeared from the lock-up.”
Big words, and now a Batman reference. Maybe McMountain had more than a slab of beef between his ears. I still didn’t see us trading stories over a beer any time soon.
“You knew it was Garrett?” I asked.
A shrug rolled like a seismic event. “Didn’t make sense,” he said. “He’s a stand-up officer. Too good. He’s not the kind who breaks the rules.”
As opposed to Roarke, who regularly bent them for his Nephilim master.
Or Bobby, for that matter, I thought disconcertedly.
“So you didn’t confront him,” I ventured.
He shook his head.
The terrible sights imprinted on the Kramer home replayed across my mental movie screen with excruciating clarity. That hadn’t been Garrett, exactly, but he had the same asshole riding shotgun in his head. Malphael could rant all he wanted about justice, but he wasn’t one of the good guys.
“Probably for the best,” I murmured.
With a faint rattle of machinery, the elevator settled at the end of its run.
“I know it’s asking a lot,” I said urgently, “but, seriously, try to keep as much as you can about the abduction under wraps, and for fuck’s sake don’t tell—”
The chime sounded, and the doors slid open. Bobby Park, his glossy black hair sticking up from the wind, caught sight of me and stopped mid-sentence with Lydia Potts.
“Bobby!” I cried, turning the name I’d been about to say into a greeting. I even managed to smile.
Beside me, Roarke stood silent as a gargoyle.
43
Bobby blinked once as he processed my uncharacteristic exuberance. Lydia flicked wintry blue eyes between her partner and me. Long strands of her bright blonde hair had worked loose from her ponytail, making her look like some windswept Valkyrie. Whatever she picked up on in our body language, it didn’t make her happy.
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