The Girl and the Hunt (Emma Griffin FBI Mystery Book 6)

by A J Rivers

  “He was here,” I insist. “I watched him walk through Greg's room. Is he alright? Has anyone checked on him?”

  “He's fine. As soon as we heard from you, we called and had them put the floor on lockdown. The nurses went in and checked him completely, but there doesn’t seem to be any changes.”

  I pull out my phone and turn the screen toward her.

  "Shit," Eric murmurs.

  I use my finger to back up the stream to the point the man came into the room. They watch for a few seconds before I can't take the anger anymore and whip around to face the desk.

  "I want to know how the hell something like this happens," I demand. "There is supposed to be someone with him at all times. No visitors. How do you let something like this happen?"

  "Emma, I called Jones and Calmati. They said the hospital called and released them from their posts for today," Eric tells me.

  "Did they say who it supposedly was?" I ask.

  "No."

  I'm seething. I take a few deep breaths, struggling to bring myself under control.

  "Where is his room?"

  She leads me down the hall and to a closed door. A piece of paper slipped into a flimsy frame on the front of the door has Greg's name written. Like he's just moving into his college dorm and the RA wanted to welcome him. I have the compulsion to yank down the piece of paper involved and crumple it into a ball, but I stop myself. Instead, I open the door and step inside.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  My breath catches as I walk into the room and see Greg for the first time. I've been watching him on the stream, but that wasn't enough to give me a full picture of his real condition. I don't know what I was expecting, but what I see lying in that bed is brutal. Eric steps up beside me and places his hand on my lower back.

  “You don't have to,” he says. “I know it's really hard to see him like this.”

  I straighten my spine and shake my head.

  “I'm fine,” I tell him.

  I step away from his touch and walk to the side of the bed. Greg’s almost unrecognizable. If I didn't have absolute confirmation of it, I would probably struggle to see the features I know. It's been two years since I saw him, but it's not the years that have taken the face I was so familiar with. He's swollen and discolored. The bones of his face are broken in several places. Bandages wrapped around his head conceal most of his hair and stretch down over one eye. Tubes and wires create a web around him, connecting him to the machines functioning for him.

  He's just sleeping. It's the first thought that flutters through my head, but I instantly push it away. In the logical part of my brain, I know that's not true. They've pumped him full of medication to keep him unconscious so his body can piece itself back together. Being awake would be too much of a strain. Would threaten to tip the delicate balance of his survival to the wrong side. So they have to sedate him, keeping him in a constant state of deep sleep just so he can stay alive.

  One arm rests on top of the blanket draped over him, and I see stars sticking out from beneath the cuff of his long sleeve. Bellamy steps up beside me and stands silently until I'm ready to talk.

  “How does he compare to when he was first found?” I ask.

  “Some ways better. Some ways worse,” she says.

  I understand completely. The most traumatic injuries look the least severe when they first happen. Their intensity is only revealed over time. I can imagine much of the damage done to him occurred very soon before he was dumped in my front yard. That means the full effect of those injuries weren't yet apparent and are only now surfacing.

  Paying attention to the angle of the bed, I turn around and let my eyes sweep over the seams connecting the walls to the ceiling. The view of the stream narrows down where the camera could be positioned, but I can't see it.

  “Where's the camera?” I ask. “Where is it?”

  “I don't see one,” Bellamy says.

  “Let me look,” Eric offers.

  Technology is his area of expertise, so I trust him to know better than I do what to look for. While he starts examining the room, I turn back to look at Greg. Emotions course through me, but I'm not sure what they are or what to do with them.

  “You know,” I comment to Bellamy. “I've thought about what it would be like to see him again so many times.”

  “I know you have,” she says, her voice soft and comforting.

  “I've tried to imagine different scenarios. What it would be like if he had just voluntarily walked away because he decided he wanted a different life. What it would be like if he did something horrible and was taken away because of it. What it would be like if something horrible happened to him. I tried to figure out how I would feel and what I would think when I was looking at him again.”

  “Is it like you thought?” she asks.

  “No,” I admit.

  She draws in a breath and lets it out in a tremulous ribbon as she stares down at Greg. They were never close. It wasn't that they didn't get along or disliked each other. They just never particularly meshed or found any common ground. Bellamy thought he was insufferably boring, and Greg thought she was flaky and disconnected. Neither one of them were completely accurate in their evaluations of the other, but it kept them from forming any type of real friendship.

  But now I can see a strange change has come over Bellamy. She's looking at him. Not just with a sense of duty and responsibility like I would expect, but with compassion and sadness. His attack has clearly been hard on her. She’s trying to process not just the brutality of it, but the currently unknown explanation behind it. This wasn't just a random assault, or even a targeted onslaught that happened and was over. Greg has been gone for two years. We don't know how or why he was taken, and we're only just beginning to know what he went through.

  “What are his injuries?” I ask.

  “Emma,” she says cautiously like she's warning me against myself.

  “Bellamy. I don't need you to protect me. Not from this. What are his injuries?”

  “I'll ask a doctor to bring in his chart,” she says.

  She walks out of the room, and Eric comes over to me.

  “I think I might see where the camera is, but I need a ladder. Are you going to be alright in here by yourself for a minute?” he asks.

  “Stop,” I sigh in frustration.

  “Stop what?” he asks.

  “You know what I'm talking about. Stop looking at me like that. Stop talking to me like that. You can't shield me. That doesn't help. I'm here because I need to be. Because the waste of breath and flesh who did this didn't start with Greg, and he's not going to stop with him. You know that as well as I do. You also know the only reason this happened to Greg is because of his association with me. Trying to insulate me from the reality of this will only make it harder for me to stop it from happening again. Now go get your damn ladder," I say.

  Eric gives a single nod as he backs away.

  “Understood,” he says.

  When he's gone, I walk around to the other side of the bed and sit in one of the two chairs pulled up near Greg’s head.

  “Mind if I sit?” I ask. As if he could hear me.

  After a second, I sit, staying at the very edge of the cushion. "You know, that's one of the first things you corrected me on? You corrected me on a lot of things. Let's be honest; you correct everybody on a lot of things. But the one I remember from when we’d barely met was when you came into my office and just stood there. I was in the middle of doing something; I don't remember exactly what. But I only looked up when you came into the office, then looked down again, so I didn't realize you were just standing there for probably a full minute. I glanced up at the chair, and you weren't sitting. So, I looked at you, and you were just standing there, your hands clasped in front of you. And I asked why you weren't sitting down.

  “I meant it as a way of telling you to go ahead and sit. But you took it as a literal question. You told me I didn't invite you to sit down. So I said I didn't need to
. That you could just come in and sit. Do you remember what you told me? You said it was rude and presumptive to go into somebody's private space and sit down without a chair being offered or asking first. You never know when someone has already assigned their seats or their time. When you do that, you are assuming you're welcome and that the chair, and the time, is openly available to you."

  I pull myself up a little straighter and pull my eyebrows together, deepening my voice to mimic Greg. "Just because a chair is empty doesn't mean it's available. A person who wishes to speak with you for only a moment will have you stand, a person with more time will ask you to sit. Never take a seat from someone only offering space to stand."

  Eric's voice overlaps with mine for the last few words. I look up to see him coming into the room, carrying a stepladder. He offers me a sad smile.

  “That was one of his favorites,” he says. “I think a lot of the time, he wanted to just take the chairs out of his office and dole them out when he saw fit.”

  An orderly comes into the room, and my body tenses. I recognized him as the one I saw in the video stream. He comes to the edge of the bed, and I stare directly into his face. He looks back at me without flinching.

  “You were here earlier,” I say.

  “Yes,” he nods. “I work a twelve-hour shift today. I've been here for a few, and I'll be here for a few more.”

  “What's your name?”

  “Martin,” he says.

  “He was here the day they brought Greg in, too,” Eric tells me from his perch on the stepladder.

  “How long have you worked here?” I ask.

  “Five years,” Martin says. “Almost six, I guess.”

  “Here it is,” Eric says, climbing down from the ladder with a tiny black object in his palm.

  “Can I get you anything?” Martin asks. “A drink or a snack? I hear you drove in from a long way.”

  “A drink would be great, thanks,” I say, closing my eyes to chase away the suspicions.

  “It was set in among the black marks on the ceiling tiles,” Eric explains. “That's why it was almost impossible to see.”

  I take the camera from him and turn it over in my hand, looking at it.

  “It's so tiny,” I say.

  “A lot of them are these days. People have cameras in the caps of their pens,” he tells me.

  “That inspires a sense of security,” I note sarcastically.

  “What do you want me to do with it?” he asks.

  What I really want to do with the camera is throw it on the floor and smash it. But I don't.

  "Put it back," I say, handing it back to him.

  "What?" Eric asks.

  "Put it back," I repeat. "Put it exactly where you found it."

  Martin comes back with a tray holding a glass of icy soda, a can containing the rest, and a plate of cookies. He sets it down on the table beside Greg's bed.

  "If you need anything else, let me know," he says. "Agent Martinez, do you want me to take that ladder for you?"

  Eric holds it out for him, and he takes it before walking toward the door.

  "Martin?" I call.

  He turns around.

  "Yes, Agent Griffin?"

  "I need a pillow and some blankets. I'll be staying here tonight," I tell him.

  "Be right back," he says.

  "You don't have to do that," Eric says.

  "Yes, I do," I reply, taking a sip of the drink. I haven’t realized how thirsty I am until the sweet cold touches my tongue. I take a deep breath. Eric's still standing there with the camera, and I lift my eyebrows in expectation. "Go ahead. Put the camera back."

  "Whoever sent that link has access to the stream from this camera. He'll be able to see you. He's already been here. He could come back."

  "Let him come," I say.

  "Emma…"

  "Let him come."

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  "Who is he, Emma?” Bellamy asks late that night.

  It was a relief to discover I had actually packed a cohesive selection of clothes. I've already changed into pajamas. Around us, the floor of the hospital is quiet except for the soft beeping of machines. All the lights have been lowered, and a set of pillows and blankets wait for me on the sofa up against the wall beside Greg's bed. Eric went home a couple of hours ago, but Bellamy has lingered. I don't know if it's because she wants to spend time with me after we haven't seen each other in so long, or if she's afraid.

  I would understand if she is. I know the risk I'm placing on myself by having the camera still in place. I could have had Eric disable it and bring it to the Bureau for evidence. But I want it there. I want every moment of this room captured, including me being there. Catch Me sent the link and is obviously close by. I saw the man who took Greg and who has been following me around come into the room and get ominously close to Greg. I don't know why he was there or what he was doing other than checking in on his handiwork. Like I said to Eric, let him come.

  She turns to look at me.

  “You said he's not your father,” she says.

  “He's not,” I confirm.

  “I saw the picture,” she says.

  “You also saw the scar. You told me you did.”

  “I did,” she says. “But I don't understand what that means.”

  “Yes, you do, B. You know my father's scar. You remember me telling you about it happening. It was before we met, but I told you the story.”

  “There was a glass beer bottle in the yard behind your grandparents’ house in Sherwood. He hit it with a lawnmower and it broke,” she says.

  “Yes,” I nod. “And the glass cut his face next to his eye. So close if he had turned his head just the tiniest bit, it could have blinded him. It was a deep cut, and he had a bandage over it for weeks. I was used to that scar. It was just part of my father's face. But I know by the way people looked at him how obvious it was. Not grotesque or terrifying or anything, but it was definitely there. No one looking at him in the face would miss it. It's also not the kind of scar that would disappear. Not even after ten years. In that picture, you can see very clearly there is no scar beside that man's eye. You already know the information sent to me from Iowa. The certificate the midwife filled out. From the moment I saw it, I thought something was wrong."

  “He's your father's brother,” she says. “His twin.”

  “Yes. A twin I never knew existed. And I don't know where he came from now. But I do know he's capable of doing something like this. And if that's true, I highly doubt he wants to just stop by and get to know me.”

  “But why is he doing this?” Bellamy asks. “Why would he be completely invisible for your entire life, then suddenly show up and lurk around on the edge of your existence rather than just getting in touch with you? Even if it would seem incredibly strange to talk to you, it would be a lot less strange than everything he's been doing.”

  “You're not going to get an argument on that out of me. But I'm really tired of him. I'm tired of all of it,” I sigh.

  “Do you want me to stay here with you tonight?” she asks. “I've gotten pretty used to sleeping curled up in these chairs.”

  “No,” I shake my head. “You deserve to go home and sleep in a real bed. I'll be fine here.”

  “Are you sure?” she asks.

  “The floor is still on lockdown. All I'm going to do is curl up on the couch and sleep. I'll see you tomorrow.”

  She looks reluctant, but finally, she hugs me and walks out of the room, pulling the door closed behind her. I take a few more moments to stand next to Greg's bed, listening to the sound of the machines and his breath.

  “I'm sorry,” I whisper to him softly. “For all of it. For everything.”

  Lying down on the couch, I pull the blankets over me. I can feel the camera on me, but I force myself to ignore it and finally fall asleep.

  I wake up to Eric and Martin both already in the room.

  “Well, this is a new awkwardness I've never experienced,” I mutter,
sitting up and stretching my arms over my head. “Good morning, guys.”

  “Good morning,” Martin says. “I brought breakfast for you if you're hungry.”

  I glance to where he's pointing and see a food tray covered with a pink plastic lid alongside a glass of juice wrapped in cling film. The plate looks exactly like something he would bring to one of the patients on the floor.

  “He takes good care of us,” Eric winks.

  “I appreciate it,” I say. I watch him move around Greg's bed, taking vitals and adjusting things. “What are you doing?”

  “Just checking in on him. The nurses will come in shortly to do a more thorough check. Anything else you need?”

  "Do you mind me asking a couple of questions?" I ask.

  "No, go ahead," he nods.

  I glance down at my pale green pajamas.

  "Would you be more comfortable if I wasn't in pajamas?" I ask.

  He laughs. "Dealing with people in pajamas is kind of my thing."

  "Okay. Have you gotten familiar with the agents who have been sitting with Greg since he got here?" I ask.

  "Yes," he says. "There's a specific list, and all of us on the floor were introduced to each of them before their first shift. The floor hasn't been on lockdown like it is now, but we were given pretty clear instructions about who was allowed in this room."

  "How about the rest of the floor? Are people allowed to visit the patients in those rooms?

  “Yes, but we are pretty familiar with the friends and family of those patients as well. This is a longer-term floor. We don't get a lot of turnover.”

  “Yesterday you said you were doing a twelve-hour shift. But now you're here again, bright and early in the morning. Does that happen a lot?” I ask.

  “Sometimes,” he shrugs. “We are short on staff pretty often. Especially this time of year with it being cold and flu season. People get sick; the hospital doesn't want them to come to work. People on these floors tend to be pretty vulnerable, as you can imagine. We had three go down this week with respiratory infections. When that happens, everybody has to do what they can to pick up the slack. Sometimes that means camping out on the cots in the break room for a few hours in between shifts.”