by C. J. Lyons
A stray memory filled her vision: her sunglasses—not the ones Micah had given her, her old pair with the lock picks and shims she’d converted their wire stems into. These new sunglasses were just glasses, but still could be useful.
Bending forward, she guided her face over to her right hand. Once she was able to grasp one side of her glasses with her thumb and index finger, she rolled her head to allow the glasses to fall free, clutched between her fingers.
Good start; now to work them to the outer side of her hand where the strap fastened. That took more dexterity than her still-clumsy fingers possessed. Twice she almost dropped the sunglasses, and soon she was huffing with exhaustion.
Still the darkness cloaked her, insinuating its black tendrils into her soul, until she realized she’d already made her choice of who she was. By surviving. By rejoining the living. By fighting to free herself now.
Spirit renewed, she began again, working the glasses into position, painstakingly angling them against the restraints, feeling for the edge where the Velcro layers joined together. Her focus was so intense that she almost convinced herself that she was imagining the sound of footsteps beyond the bathroom’s darkness. But then the whistling began.
Morgan froze. She braced herself as the whistling grew closer and closed her fist over the sunglasses, holding them below the armrest, out of sight, she hoped. The gauze had swollen to fill her mouth, sticking to her tongue and palate, each breath thick with cotton.
The doorknob rattled and opened. “What do we have here?” came a man’s voice from behind her. “You must be our sacrificial lamb.”
She heard the main office door open and the rattle of an empty wheelchair. “Hale, what are you doing here?” John asked. “I told you to stay away, to set up an alibi.”
“Relax, it’s covered. I came in through the back door; I know all the camera blind spots. No one saw me.”
“Guess it’s for the best. I could use another pair of hands, now that we have two of them to deal with.”
“I like the new idea better. Less suspicious having her die trying to save one of your gorks.”
“I wasn’t sure about two accidental deaths and how it would reflect on the clinic, but this one is in the custody of the state, so it’s not like there’s any family to sue us. Wait, she’s coming. Hide in there.”
Morgan’s chair was shoved from behind. A man’s hands—Hale’s, she assumed—squeezed her shoulders briefly, then the bathroom door closed, leaving only a slit of light slashing through the small space. Enough for her to make out Hale’s features in the mirror above the sink.
He looked a lot like his son, right down to the dimple when he smiled. But his smile was nothing like Justin’s innocent grin. Neither was his calculating expression.
“Mrs. Hale, good to see you,” John Lazarus said. “Oh, you brought Justin. I wasn’t expecting—”
Hale spun around and opened the door fully. “Hey, Tiger!”
“Daddy, Daddy!”
“Frank, what are you doing here?”
Morgan kicked her feet against the floor to spin the wheelchair around. She managed to turn it slightly, enough to pivot her head and see out the door.
Justin ran to leap into his father’s arms. His mother’s eyes widened and her arms rose, reaching for her son. “Let him go.”
John Lazarus closed the outer office door, and Mrs. Hale spun to him. “What’s going on? He has no right—”
She stepped forward, enough to see Morgan. Hale laughed and easily blocked her as she lunged for Justin. Then John grabbed her arm and pushed her into the wheelchair he’d parked behind the door.
As he’d done with Morgan, he quickly had her in restraints, then patted her pockets, taking her phone. She whipped her body back and forth, trying to kick him, but he simply stepped out of reach. Yanking the resistance bands from Morgan’s walker, he used them to tie her legs to the footrests.
“Please,” she begged. “Let him go. Don’t hurt him.”
“Mommy?” Justin cried out.
“Hush, baby,” Hale told his son, rocking him on his hip. “We’re just playing a game. It’s a secret game, though. You can’t tell anyone.”
“But Mommy’s crying. She’s hurt.”
John shoved a roll of gauze into Mrs. Hale’s mouth and secured it. Then he pulled a bottle from his desk. “I wasn’t sure if we’d need this. Versed—not only puts them to sleep, makes them forget. But it could show up in a tox screen.”
“I don’t care if they’re awake, but maybe it’d be best if Justin forgets.” Hale turned so Justin faced the wall and couldn’t see his mother or Morgan. “Take your medicine like a good boy, and when you wake up, you and I can play all sorts of games. Everything will be just like the old days, and we’ll have tons of fun. I promise.”
John measured out a dose of the liquid and handed it to Hale, who held it to his son’s mouth. “Go on now, drink it all. That’s my boy.”
He rocked Justin, patting his hair, whistling a tune that sounded familiar although Morgan couldn’t quite place it. She was more focused on her work of loosening the restraints, using their voices as cover for the noise as the Velcro rasped against the frame of the sunglasses. It was slow going, the interlaced layers of Velcro tougher to separate than she’d anticipated.
“It’ll take a few minutes,” John said. “Let me make sure the way to the pool is clear and all the guards are searching the grounds. Then we can get started.”
Mrs. Hale jerked her head up at that and began twisting her body, her face tight with terror.
“Did you hear that?” Hale asked his son. “We’re going swimming.”
“But Mommy doesn’t like the water,” Justin said, his words thick, his head drooping.
“That’s okay. Daddy will take care of Mommy. Once and for all.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
After Andre and Nick left, Jenna and Micah got to work tracking Frank Hale. Well, Jenna got to work. Micah mainly fidgeted, sliding half in, half out of the booth until finally Jenna ordered him a meal, hoping that would occupy his attention.
It did. For about five seconds.
During that time, Jenna learned that Frank Hale had no phone number listed, nor did his ex-wife. Search engines didn’t link him to any employer, just the law firm that was representing him. News accounts of his arrest merely listed him as “Frank Hale, a resident of Fox Chapel.” One of the richest enclaves beyond the Pittsburgh city limits.
Since the case was still open, there were no public records with his identifying information available yet. And nothing in the restricted criminal records databases that she was able to access with her newly minted PI license. Amazing what a check for $17.50 could get you in terms of additional resources, even if it had taken over a month to get her application processed.
She turned next to TLO and Skip Smasher. Unfortunately, Frank Hale wasn’t as uncommon a name as she’d hoped, and there were several in Allegheny County around his age.
“I think I should go back to the clinic,” Micah said, punctuating his words with French fries. “Even if they won’t let me in, I can keep an eye out.”
“Right,” she answered, as she began searching property tax databases. If she had Hale’s address, it would narrow the searches on the other databases. “Because you’ve suddenly developed X-ray vision to see through the walls, so you know if everything is fine or not. Or you want to start your career as a peeping Tom, looking through the windows of little kids’ hospital rooms.”
He huffed out an exhalation. Finished his fries. Slurped his milk. Despite his obvious worry about Morgan, he’d somehow managed to clean his plate. “We can’t just sit here all night.”
“We won’t.” She beckoned him to her side of the table. Pointing to the URL in her browser, she told him, “Use your phone and go here. It lists all the properties in Hale’s name. Read off each address, and I’ll do a database search for phone numbers associated with that address.”
She could e
asily do it all herself, but this way she could be sure he wouldn’t run off on her. Hale had six properties listed. The house his ex-wife and son lived in—she knew that one because it was mentioned in the news reports from when Hale had kidnapped his son. Two commercial properties—both light industrial, so she doubted Hale would camp out at either. The rest were condos, all upscale, scattered throughout the city. She started with those.
The third was the charm, yielding a cell number billed to that address in Hale’s name. Micah looked impressed, although it was really the database that had done the magic. She dialed the number.
“What are you going to say?” he asked. She shushed him with a hand, and put the phone on speaker.
It took a few rings, but Hale picked up. “Hello?”
“Mr. Hale?”
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“Jenna Galloway. We’ve met at Angels of Hope.”
A pause. “I don’t believe so. I’ve never been there—although my wife and son have. What’s this all about?”
“I’m sorry. I misspoke. We didn’t meet face to face at Angels. You see, I’m there most nights. I’ve heard your whistling, and of course I couldn’t help going out into the hall to see who you were. You’ve quite the talent, Mr. Hale.”
“What do you want?” His words were clipped.
“I should tell everyone at Angels about your little nighttime concerts. Although I suppose that might get you in trouble. I understand you’re out on bail, awaiting trial? It would be a shame if the judge revoked that, made you sit in jail for the next year or however long it takes. I’m sure your son would miss you terribly.”
“Hold on.” Another pause, this time with a click as he muted her. Was he discussing things with someone else? Who?
Hale came back on the line. “Where are you? We should discuss this in person.”
“You know the diner at the bottom of the hill from Angels? At the intersection with Route 22? I’m the redhead in the booth by the back wall.”
“That’s a bit out of my way. Why don’t you come here?”
“I prefer someplace public. I’ll wait an hour. Then I leave to call my friends at the district attorney’s office and the Post-Gazette.”
“I’ll be there.” He hung up.
Micah rocked back in his seat, flushed with excitement. “Wow, you were great.”
“Not really. I’m not sure he bought it.”
“Why not?”
“He didn’t make me tell him what I wanted. Or make an offer of his own. He left it all so vague.” She thought about that. “And he didn’t sound worried. More irritated.” She glanced around the diner. Even now, during the dinner rush, it was half empty. “I think it’s time for you to go home.”
“No way. I’m not leaving you alone to face a possible murderer.” He settled back into the booth, arms crossed, feet planted.
“Okay. You can stay. But just until Andre gets here.” She picked up her phone to call him. “And you can’t wait here. I’m supposed to be alone, remember? Sit over there.” She pointed to an empty booth across the aisle. “Don’t watch me or act suspicious. Order some more food.”
“Good, I’m starving.” He moved to the other booth.
Before she could dial Andre, her phone rang. It was him. “Paterson just confessed to turning off the security cameras and letting Hale in at nights to visit his kid,” he said. “And we think someone might have caused that seizure that killed Honey.”
“Hale’s on his way here.”
“To the diner? Why?”
“Because I blackmailed him into coming.”
“Shit. Jenna! We have no idea what he’s capable of.”
“He has no idea what I’m capable of.”
His sigh rattled through the phone. “I’m on my way. Did you call the cops?”
“And tell them what? That I like Hale’s whistling? That he’s coming to a diner open to the public? I bluffed him about violating his bail, but we don’t have anything the cops can take him in for.”
“Then why—” There was the sound of a car door slamming. “You want to provoke him. Get him to do something in public. Jenna, that’s not a good idea.”
“Relax. I can take care of myself.”
“Don’t do anything until I get there.”
“He’s expecting to meet me alone.”
“Fine. Whatever. But just wait for me.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
While Hale and John Lazarus were finishing their preparations, they left Morgan alone in the bathroom, the door half-closed. Fine with her; she was also working on her own prep.
She gave up on the sunglasses for the time being—she couldn’t risk the noise of ripping the Velcro, not with Hale and John so close.
Instead, she worked to slide her hand to the outside of the armrest, the side where the knot anchoring the restraint to the wheelchair’s frame was exposed. Torqueing her body up and as far out of the chair as she could go without toppling it, she stretched her fingers toward the knot.
A phone rang. She slumped back into the chair, chin down as if she’d passed out, just as one of the men opened the door to check on her and then shut it.
The darkness didn’t bother her as she worked by touch, resuming her task. Hale’s voice came through the door, and she realized Jenna had called him. She quickly snuffed the spark of hope the thought brought—it was clear Hale was arranging to meet Jenna somewhere else, which meant Morgan was alone.
Her fingers kept fumbling with the knot—it felt like a simple square or double knot, so all she had to do was loosen the first loop and she could pull free. Try telling that to fingers that had yet to regain their old dexterity.
The darkness became her friend as she visualized the simple motions that only a few weeks ago she could have performed in a matter of seconds, trying to implant the thought onto her wayward muscles.
Hale and John began to argue, but she didn’t let that slow her work. It was a knot a three-year-old could untie. Granted she was working in the dark, upside down, using only the tips of the three fingers she could stretch that far, the other two busy holding onto her sunglasses—she had a plan for them as soon as she freed her hands.
“Galloway? What does she want?” John asked.
“Says she saw me here, and that she’ll tell the judge and get my bail revoked.”
“Pay her off?”
“I’m not sure if that will be good enough. That’s why I want to meet her.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. Not tonight. Stall. After tomorrow it won’t matter anyway.”
“It will if it throws suspicion on us. Maybe I should take care of her.”
Morgan jerked upright. Not at their words—they had no idea, but targeting Jenna and Andre was as good as sealing their doom—but because the knot finally gave, and the sudden release almost threw her and the chair to the ground. She redistributed her weight, freed her other hand, again by loosening the knot instead of risking the noise of the Velcro. By keeping the Velcro wrist straps intact it also preserved the illusion that she was still restrained. Now all she had to do was wait.
“No. We can’t have any more bodies—that will definitely draw suspicion.”
“Let me see what she has. If she’s a threat, I can grab her and stash her someplace until the court case is dismissed and we’re free and clear. Then we can deal with her.”
“I don’t like it. She works for a security firm, and she has friends who are cops and FBI agents. And she and her friends know Morgan. The girl.”
Morgan moved on to the next part of her plan. She couldn’t risk fumbling around in the bathroom, searching for a weapon in the dark, so she made do with the one she had: Micah’s sunglasses. Holding them tight against her lap so she wouldn’t lose them in the dark, she pushed the lenses free of the frames. They weren’t actual glass, more like some kind of acrylic with reflective coating, but as long as they were sharp enough to slice flesh, she didn’t care.
“All the mor
e reason to find a way to shut them up now. We can’t have them squawking about the girl’s death not being an accident. If we have Galloway, we have leverage.”
“All right, but only if it’s absolutely necessary.”
“Exactly. We need to know what she knows. Tonight.”
“First help me get them down to the pool.”
The doorknob rattled, and Morgan slid the now useless sunglass frames beneath her butt to conceal them. She held a lens in each hand, palming them as she rested her hands against the armrests, restraints intact to all appearances unless someone bent low and looked beneath the armrests to the knots.
She wished she’d had a chance to snap the lenses and create sharper edges, but that would need to wait.
She slumped forward, her breathing raspy through the soggy wad of cotton gauze, body motionless. The door opened and unseen hands pulled the wheelchair backward into the office. Through slitted eyes she saw Hale lowering his sleeping son into John’s desk chair.
“Don’t worry, he’ll be fine,” John said from above Morgan. He opened his office door and pushed her into the empty hallway.
“He better be,” Hale snapped, following them with the second wheelchair with his wife.
Justin’s mom was making gagging noises; Morgan could hear her as she still struggled despite both her arms and legs being restrained. The woman would be better off saving her strength for the real fight.
They reached the intersection with the main corridor. It was brightly lit, but there was none of the usual activity: nurses bustling around, aides and therapists shepherding patients, clerks making phone calls and working at the computers.
Morgan turned her head enough to see the doors of her ward—they were shut, the blinds closed over the window. Beyond, Kristyn and the other staff would be watching over their charges, keeping them calm while the clinic security searched for a lost patient.
“I sent security outside to search the grounds,” John told Hale, sounding pleased by his plan. “The cameras are off—I’ll turn them back on once it’s over. I’ve been working glitches into them all week, prepping for this.”