by Lisa Jackson
As they traveled, he sensed the change . . . the slight shifting of the world . . . the moment when he slid inside himself and let his senses take over, the slipping of this outer skin to open to his true self.
There are many of them. So many.
“You cannot kill them all,” the old woman warned me, and I nearly strangled the life from her right then for not believing in me!
“I can. I will,” I told her.
“God will save them. . . .”
But they do not listen to God. Their master is from the dark realm of hell. Satan is their soul mate. Their lover. Father to their children. Father to them!
I cannot wait to do God’s bidding and fulfill my mission in this world.
First, there are those outside of the walls. One is nearby . . . and near to the old woman as well, who has survived against all odds. It is my duty to end her torment. Dear, dear, mother.
“Hey, man.” Cosmo’s voice sounded liquid and wavy. From a long distance away.
Justice opened his eyes and saw lights ahead as they approached the town of Tillamook. He felt the uneven roll of the Vanagon’s wheels, smelled the familiar scent of cattle from the surrounding dairy farms. Located on the south end of Tillamook Bay, the town was actually inland from the ocean. Still, he was closer, felt more alive, his nerve endings snapping.
“You took a nap, but like with your eyes open. Creepy.” Cosmo glanced his way and grinned.
Justice was glad for the dope, which had obviously slowed down Cosmo’s perception.
“We made it,” Cosmo added. “But I think the tire’s really shot now. I’m gonna have to hit some kind of service station. God, maybe I should call the old lady. It’s kind of a pisser.”
“Don’t call her.”
Cosmo turned the Vanagon south onto Highway 101, the road that ran straight through Tillamook’s gut. Though Justice wanted to head north, he wasn’t quite ready yet.
“Man, are you giving me relationship advice?” Cosmo turned his way again, his Lennon glasses winking in the streetlights.
Justice thought a moment, his skin tingling as he mentally slipped it back on over his naked soul. His camouflage. He already knew he was going to have to kill Cosmo and hide the body so that when his van was discovered, there would be no trace to Justice. Mentally, he ran over what he’d touched. The pump. The left rear tire. The passenger door handle, the toolbox, the hammer . . .
“Keep going,” Justice said as Cosmo glanced toward a service station that looked half-deserted on the south end of town. Its bank of fluorescent lights flickered, and the red stripe painted on the extension over the pumps had dulled and chipped away.
“We ain’t gonna make it much further,” Cosmo said, ignoring him.
They pulled into the service station, and Cosmo rolled down his window under the weird, unsteady lights. After what seemed a millennium the teenager who seemed like the only one on duty stepped out of the office to look at them. “You gettin’ gas?” he yelled, his face screwing up as if he couldn’t see well.
“Gotta patch a tire,” Cosmo yelled back.
“Can’t help ya unless you want gas.”
“Shit.”
“Go on down the road,” Justice said quietly, though his nerves were jumping. “I’ll pump it up again.”
“Might as well get out and pump it up now.”
“No.”
“What’s up, man?” Cosmo gave him a searching look.
Justice wondered if maybe he wasn’t quite as stoned as he’d made out. Either way, it sealed his fate. “Go on down the road,” he said again, and after a moment, and with a shrug, Cosmo pulled onto Highway 101 south and the dark road that cut through the farmland. There were plenty of little nothing roads both east and west of the main highway, lanes really, that wound through fields and brush and the Coast Range foothills, scarcely traveled byways where a vehicle could be hidden indefinitely.
Perfect.
“Just keep driving.” Almost reverently, he fingered the box cutter he’d slipped into his pocket.
“It’s your funeral,” Cosmo said, unaware of the irony in his words.
CHAPTER 5
Harrison drove into the parking lot of Ocean Park Hospital with a sinking heart. The Channel Seven van was parked outside, and Pauline Kirby and her gophers were already setting up for a report on the escapee. He had remembered the psycho’s name—Justice Turnbull—on the drive over and had double-checked with Geena Cho to make sure he was right and she’d reluctantly confirmed.
“You didn’t hear it from me,” she’d said over the wireless connection, “but now you owe me two.”
Bingo. Justice Turnbull was the lunatic who had escaped.
The wind had kicked up and Pauline’s perfectly coiffed hair was trying desperately to escape, but under the security lights for the parking lot a hairstylist was spraying something at her head that worked like industrial glue, as the dark tresses were slicked to her scalp and stayed there.
Harrison had no interest in dealing with Pauline. He wasn’t sure she would recognize him. He would have been safe except for the brouhaha that had developed after he accused Manny’s business partner of being involved in his death. Then the news vultures had descended on one of their own. Him. And Pauline had been in the forefront. Microphones had been thrust at him, and he could recall the way her lips pulled back from her perfectly capped snow-white teeth and the sneer that seemed a brush away from the smile.
Did anyone like her? he wondered as he got out of the Chevy. Maybe you didn’t have to be liked as long as you got ratings. She sure as hell was anywhere there was any kind of story, and she usurped the competition by virtue of being overbearing, in his biased opinion.
The warmth he’d felt earlier at the café table had disappeared completely. He hadn’t bothered with a coat, a mistake at the coast, and now he shivered as he walked, head bent, eyes on the asphalt in front of him as he skirted her entourage.
Her bright eyes spotted him. He could feel it rather than see it. He hoped he looked like a visitor to the hospital, but it was getting later by the minute. Visiting hours were long over.
“Hey,” she called.
Harrison picked up his pace. If he could get inside, he could escape. She didn’t want him for this assignment, anyway. He wasn’t part of it.
But she had a nose for a story, and she was sniffing at him. He might not be part of the Justice Turnbull saga yet, but Pauline wasn’t one to let anything get by her.
She actually took a couple of steps his way as he passed; he could see her in his peripheral vision. But then he was walking through the opening sliding glass doors that led into Ocean Park’s reception area and continuing blindly straight ahead as if he knew where he was going. Normally he wasn’t quite so seat of the pants, but he did not want to deal with Pauline Kirby, who could splash his face across the eleven o’clock news and destroy current and future investigations. He was sick to the back teeth of his own notoriety.
He found himself in a hospital hallway like a thousand other hospital hallways: shining linoleum beneath his feet, fluorescent lighting, a chemical scent that hinted at procedures and pharmaceuticals that left a sense of disquiet in his gut. He didn’t have a clue whom to talk with, who might be in charge. Ocean Park wasn’t a huge hospital; it was only three floors, though its size could be deceptive as it ambled over several acres.
Harrison abruptly turned on his heel and headed back the way he’d come as he realized he’d turned the wrong direction from the ER, which was bound to be where the hub of the action took place. He passed by reception once more, shot a quick glance through the sliding doors just in time to see Pauline moving to just outside, camera lights glaring as she started talking into the mic.
In the ER he encountered a number of people waiting for help: a whimpering child with a slack arm, tight in his mother’s embrace; an older man who was almost tipping out of his wheelchair; a stoic woman who was holding her bleeding right hand in her left, a huge gash o
ffering Harrison a quick glance down to the sinews and muscle that appeared to be barely holding onto her thumb.
He caught up with a nurse who, after directing the woman with the thumb injury to another nurse, had lifted her head to look around. He grabbed her attention. “I’m Harrison Frost with the Seaside Breeze. Is there someone I can talk to about the victims brought from Halo Valley, Ms. Solano?” he asked, reading her name tag.
She was about to tell him to get lost; he could tell. But then her dark eyes sized him up and down, and she seemed less ready to blow him off. “You’re not with Channel Seven?”
He shook his head. “Is that good or bad?”
“Good.” She smiled thinly. “They’re a pain in the gluteus maximus.”
“I even know what that is.”
“We’re kinda busy here,” she said, looking around.
“I won’t be in the way.”
“That’s probably a lie, but c’mon. And, please, whatever you write, keep my name out of it, okay?”
“Sure.” He followed after her as she directed others in the waiting room to where they needed to go or, conversely, assured them they would be seen by a doctor soon. Then she crooked her finger toward Harrison as she moved to a spot just inside the emergency room doors. From this angle they could see the long drive the ambulances took from the highway to the ER.
“What do you want to know? I can’t give out much.”
“What time was it when the ambulance from Halo Valley arrived?”
She hesitated.
“It’ll be on the logs; the nine-one-one call.”
“Okay. It was around eight. Eight thirty maybe?”
“And there were two victims, the van driver and one of the doctors.”
“The van driver was actually one of our security guards. He was assigned to go pick up a patient from Halo Valley and drive him here in the van.”
“But he was attacked at Halo Valley.”
“Yeah.” She seemed to consider that a moment.
“What happened to the van?”
“I don’t know. Probably still there. Conrad sure wasn’t driving it.”
“Conrad?”
“I told you, I can’t give you names,” she backtracked quickly, throwing him a pleading look.
“I imagine Pauline Kirby’s got most of this already,” Harrison reminded. “Her team went to Halo Valley first. She’s bound to have interviewed hospital staff and the sheriff’s department.”
“I guess.”
“I just want to know some other details for my story,” he admitted. “I’m not trying to get you in trouble.”
She shot him a look from under her lashes. “Okay . . .”
“I’ve been told the victims were attacked by one of HV’s inmates. This is the same guy who went on a rampage in this area a couple of years ago, killed some people, some women, actually. Went after his own mother and—”
“Him?” Her face lost all color.
“You remember him?”
“Who doesn’t? He terrorized everybody!” Visibly shaken, she added, “And you newspeople said at the time that he had a thing for the cult women!”
“The cult women,” Harrison repeated, remembering. Yeah, there had been something about that. He needed to get to a computer and log on to the Internet, refresh his mind about what had happened a few years back.
“I know he killed some of ’em.” She paused, frowning and biting the edge of her mouth as she remembered. Now she didn’t seem so worried about speaking with him. “Well, he killed a bunch of people, and they caught him at that motel that’s still boarded up.”
“You recall the name of that motel?”
“It’s . . . I don’t know. They took the sign down. It’s the one that’s boarded up just outside Deception Bay. On the cliff above the water. It was a wreck then, and it’s been closed and boarded up ever since. Like the lighthouse. You know, the one where that psycho lived!”
“Ahh, right. The lighthouse.” Harrison nodded, some of the story coming back to him.
“It’s boarded up, too. Ever since they caught him, it’s been totally off-limits, not that it wasn’t before. But to think he escaped . . .” Fear shined in her eyes. “He’s nuttier than a fruitcake, you know. A real scary dude.”
That much Harrison did remember. “So, how extensive are the injuries to the two men he attacked?”
“Extensive enough. He beat Conrad’s head in, and the doctor got stabbed in the throat with a pen.”
“Was this his doctor? The one he attacked?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are they in surgery now?”
“Recovery.” She moved away from the wall. “Are you going to quote me?” she asked, torn between excitement and trepidation. Fifteen minutes of fame or the loss of her job. “Remember, I said I didn’t want you to use my name.”
With a quick nod, Harrison said, “How about if I just say ‘a source at the hospital’?”
“Yeah, fine—”
The other nurse came back, and spying Nurse Solano, she beelined toward them with her mouth a grim line. “Carlita,” she snapped.
With a last beseeching glance his way, Nurse Solano shifted away.
The new nurse demanded, “Can I help you?”
He read her name tag: Nurse Nina Perez. “I’m Harrison Frost—”
“With Channel Seven?” she interrupted.
“No.”
“I recognize you,” she snapped back, as if he’d lied to her.
“Not from Channel Seven, you don’t.”
“But I—”
Before she could go on any further, a doctor strode from the ER in their direction. In scrubs, his hair rumpled, as if he’d just ripped off his surgical cap, he was tall and lanky, his expression sour. His authoritative manner stopped Nina Perez in mid-syllable. She snapped her jaw shut and turned to him carefully.
“Where’s Laura?” he demanded, running a hand over his hair, trying to tame it.
Nurse Perez visibly bristled. “She left. Her shift was over.”
“Well, get her back here. We’re under siege from the damn media, and we’ve got another ambulance coming in. My shift is over.”
“You’re leaving?”
He didn’t argue.
“Who’s on duty in the ER?” she asked, alarmed.
“Somebody else.” He was weary and self-important, as if he just didn’t give a damn. With an I-don’t-have-to-answer-to-you look of superiority, he headed through the doors.
“Jackass,” Perez breathed, her words barely audible.
“A surgeon?” Harrison guessed idly after the self-important asshole had gone.
He’d memorized his name: Dr. Byron Adderley.
“Orthopedic,” she said, lips flattening. Then, as if she understood she was saying more than she intended, added, “He’s very good at what he does.”
And lets everyone know it, Harrison silently added. “He’s heading toward the front, where Pauline Kirby lies in wait.”
“I think he knows that,” she said tartly, then turned away.
Harrison, deciding the story had just moved, sauntered back toward the front doors to see what was about to take place.
Laura had missed dinner, so she made herself a sandwich. Sliced hard-boiled eggs, pickles, a dab of mayonnaise on wheat bread. She had taken exactly two bites when her cell phone rang. Frowning, she picked it up and saw it was Byron. She didn’t want to answer, but he would just keep calling. The more she ignored him, the more he kept after her. “Yes?” she answered carefully.
“Get back here. What are you doing? All hell’s broken out.”
“I’m eating dinner.”
“There are reporters here. I’m about to talk to Pauline Kirby. Another ambulance is coming. Two-car head-on collision.”
“If the hospital needs me, they’ll call.”
“Damn it, Laura, check in with your radar thing. Don’t wait!” He hung up.
Laura’s “radar thing” was her uncanny
ability to have a sense of danger. It was really an internal alarm that went off when someone was trying to hammer at her brain from the inside. Sometimes it wasn’t him. Sometimes it was another person’s panic that somehow breached her defenses for a millisecond.
She hesitated for a moment, then climbed to her feet, wrapped up her sandwich in plastic wrap, and headed to her car. The hospital called as she turned onto Highway 101.
Dr. Byron Adderley was holding court with Pauline Kirby outside the front doors of Ocean Park Hospital, and it was love/hate at first sight. Harrison went from mild interest to out-and-out enjoyment as Adderley’s responses to Pauline’s questions grew shorter and shorter. He stayed just inside the hospital reception area and watched through the glass front doors.
“We’ve learned that the patient who escaped Halo Valley Security Hospital is Justice Turnbull, from right around these parts.” Pauline moved her handheld mic in an arc to include the area as she looked into the camera, even though she was speaking to Adderley. “Halo Valley Security Hospital,” she repeated. “How do you think that happened?”
“I’m an orthopedic surgeon at Ocean Park Hospital,” Adderley said tightly.
“But surely you have some thoughts on that—as a doctor yourself, who treats the public at large. It must be disconcerting to see how easily one can be ‘taken in’ by someone like Mr. Turnbull.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“I understand that Justice Turnbull was supposed to be on his way here to see one of your internists, but he attacked one of your drivers and stole the Ocean Park van, which has still not been recovered at this time. That victim, the driver, underwent surgery earlier this evening, as did one of Halo Valley’s most prominent doctors, who was Justice Turnbull’s primary physician at Halo Valley, correct?”
“I can’t speak for Halo Valley.” Adderley’s lips were practically turned in on themselves. However he’d thought the interview with Piranha Pauline would go, he wasn’t prepared for reality.
“Can you speak for Ocean Park?” Her smile was meant to appear benign, but nothing about the woman was safe.
“I’ve been with the hospital a little more than a year. It’s an excellent institution.”