by Jance, J. A.
“What’s all that noise in the background?” Edie asked.
The small waiting room was jammed with James’s collection of relatives, several of whom were arguing noisily among themselves.
“I’m in a waiting room,” Ali explained. “Another patient came in a little while ago. Several of his family members are here now, too.”
“Are you coming back tonight?” Edie asked.
“I’m not sure,” Ali said. “I’ve reserved a hotel room, but I haven’t checked in yet. I came straight to the hospital instead.”
“But you’ll have a room if you need one,” Edie said, sounding relieved. “I don’t like the idea of your driving up and down the Black Canyon Highway all by yourself at all hours of the day and night. Not after what happened in Camp Verde. There are all kinds of nutcases out and about. I worry about you, you know.”
That’s the real reason for the call, Ali thought. She’s worried.
“I can take care of myself, Mom,” Ali said reassuringly. “I have my Taser.”
Over her husband’s objections, Edie Larson had handed out Taser C2s to everyone for Christmas that year. A previous misadventure with a serial killer had turned Edie Larson into a militant Taser enthusiast. Tasers and accompanying training videos were what had been wrapped and placed under the tree for Ali, Christopher, and Athena to open on Christmas morning. Since Ali’s father was still adamantly opposed to all things Taser, his prettily wrapped box of the same size and shape had contained a lump of coal.
“Good,” Edie said. “I’m glad you have it with you.”
Ali was also carrying her Glock, but she didn’t mention that. Edie was a lot less open-minded when it came to actual handguns.
“Are you staying at a decent place?” Edie continued. “I hope it’s not one of those dodgy hotels your dad is always choosing.”
Ali was relatively sure that her father had never willingly set foot inside a Ritz-Carlton, certainly not as a paying customer, but there was no reason to rub that in.
“No,” Ali told her mother. “It’s a very nice place. I’ll be fine.”
Edie rang off after that, leaving Ali to consider that mothers continue to be mothers no matter how old their children. She was about to go back to reading the article when someone spoke to her. “Ms. Reynolds?”
Ali looked up to find a very tall black man standing in front of her. The name on his badge said Roscoe Bailey, RN, but his tall, thin frame suggested basketball player far more than it did nurse.
“Yes,” Ali answered. “That’s me.”
“Sister Anselm would like a word,” he said. “This way, please.”
It was more a command than a request. Closing her computer, Ali stood and followed him down the hall. She was surprised to find that while she had been reading the article, a security guard—an armed security guard—had been seated on a chair just outside room 814. Sister Anselm stood at the end of the hallway, looking out a window at Camelback Mountain, looming red in the afternoon sun. It was much the same view as from Jake Whitman’s administrative office, but from a higher floor.
The nun glanced away from the window at Ali’s approach. “I’ve always loved the desert,” she said. “For many newcomers, Arizona seems desolate. Not for me. When I see this mountain especially, I know I’m home.”
Ali understood what she meant. During her own years of East Coast exile and while she had lived in California, she had often flown home via Phoenix’s Sky Harbor Airport. She, too, had always searched eagerly out the windows for that first welcoming glimpse of Camelback.
“You wanted to see me?” Ali asked.
“I’d like to talk to you,” Sister Anselm said, “but not here at the hospital. Are you familiar with the area?”
“Pretty much.”
“Do you know where the Ritz-Carlton is?”
Ali smiled. “I have a room there. Why?”
“That makes sense,” Sister Anselm said. “It’s the closest hotel. I often stay there myself when I’m here at Saint Gregory’s. They serve a marvelous afternoon tea in the lobby. My patient is sleeping. I probably have an hour or two before I’m needed again. Would you care to join me for tea?”
At first Ali was taken aback by the news that Sister Anselm also stayed at the Ritz, but then Ali recalled what she had read in the article about the anonymous benefactor who bankrolled Sister Anselm’s mission.
“Of course,” Ali said. “My car is down in the garage. If you’d like a ride—”
“No,” Sister Anselm said at once. “That won’t do. We shouldn’t be seen leaving the hospital together. Too many people nosing about. You go there and get a table. I’ll join you in fifteen minutes or so.”
Ali got the hint. Sister Anselm wanted to speak to her privately, and in a place where their conferring would be less noticeable than it would be on the grounds of the hospital. Besides, the chance to be briefed by Sister Anselm seemed like a good enough reason to abandon her post in the waiting room.
Fifteen minutes later, Ali was checked into the hotel. Her luggage had been taken up to her room, and she was ensconced at a small table for two just to the right of the entrance to the dining room. The room was alive with people having tea, including a noisy corner spot where several tables had been pushed together to accommodate a lively group of Red Hat Ladies.
By the time Sister Anselm entered the lobby, she had ditched the green scrubs in favor of a dark charcoal-gray pantsuit. The pinstriped outfit looked far more like formal business attire than it did a nun’s habit. Ali noticed that as Sister Anselm walked through the lobby she was greeted warmly and by name by both the concierge and the hostess.
Once she was seated at the table, the waitress hurried over. “The usual?” she asked.
Sister Anselm’s seemingly severe features rearranged themselves into a grateful smile. “Yes, please, Cynthia,” she replied. Ali noticed that Sister Anselm recalled the waitress’s name without having to resort to checking her name badge. “That would be wonderful.”
Cynthia turned to Ali. “What can I get you?” she asked.
Ali had yet to study her menu, and the question caught her off guard. “I’ll have what she’s having,” she said, nodding in Sister Anselm’s direction.
“My pleasure,” Cynthia said, backing away.
Once she was gone, Ali turned to face the woman seated across from her. Ali estimated Sister Anselm’s age to be somewhere around seventy. Her skin had the appearance of someone who had spent long hours in the sun. Liver spots dotted the backs of her hands, but there was no hint of arthritis in the long tapered fingers that could have belonged to a concert pianist.
To Ali’s wonderment, despite what must have been a brisk walk in raging afternoon heat, Sister Anselm showed no sign of being overheated. No sweat beaded her brow. Her face wasn’t red. She wasn’t huffing and puffing.
Sister Anselm leaned back in her armchair and studied Ali with the same kind of concentration. Behind gold-framed glasses, her bright blue eyes gleamed with intelligence.
“I suppose you’re a bit baffled by all this cloak-and-dagger business,” she said. “About my not being willing to talk to you at the hospital.”
“I’m sure you have your reasons.”
Sister Anselm smiled and nodded. “Yes, I do,” she said.
Cynthia bustled over with two pots of tea. “You may want to let it steep for a few minutes,” she said. “Your scones and sandwiches will be right up.”
After she left, Sister Anselm dropped three cubes of sugar into her teacup to await the steeping tea. “Nuns aren’t perfect,” she said thoughtfully. “We’re expected to forgive those who trespass against us, and I do my best, but I’m afraid sometimes I come up short in that regard, especially when people overstep. I believe it’s safe to say that Agent Robson brought out the worst in me.”
Ali couldn’t help smiling. “He did the same for me,” she said. “You merely sent him packing; I wanted to smack him. I’ve never quite mastered the art of turning
the other cheek.”
It was Sister Anselm’s turn to smile. She poured her tea and then stirred it carefully, dissolving the sugar.
“I noticed that he claimed his agency, the ATF, is in charge of the investigation,” she said, “as though your department had nothing to do with it.”
“Funniest thing,” Ali replied. “I noticed that as well. I think that would be news to Sheriff Maxwell, too.”
“Which means Mr. Robson is not above adjusting the truth a little when it suits him,” Sister Anselm observed. “But then it wouldn’t do for me to throw stones, since I’m not, either.”
That last admission came as something of a surprise. Ali said nothing.
“Have you ever heard the term ‘HIPAA’?” Sister Anselm asked.
“I’ve heard of it even, though I don’t remember exactly what each letter stands for,” Ali said. “I believe it means that health care providers are prohibited from releasing information on any patient in their care unless they have been given express permission to do so by the patient him- or herself.”
Sister Anselm nodded. “That’s correct. The Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act. It amounts to federally mandated requirements of confidentiality. I suppose some of the time it’s necessary. There are other times when I think of it as so much federally mandated foolishness.”
Sipping her own tea, hot and strong, the way Leland Brooks always served it, Ali wondered where this conversation was going. Cynthia appeared again, carrying a tray covered with scones and freshly made finger sandwiches.
“In other words,” Sister Anselm said thoughtfully after Cynthia left, “by even mentioning any of this to you, I’m in violation of HIPAA. That’s one of the reasons I didn’t want to be seen speaking to you in the hospital. I need some help here, Ms. Reynolds.” She paused long enough to lift a cucumber sandwich from the tray. “I would have asked Agent Robson for assistance if he hadn’t been such an overbearing, unpleasant individual,” she continued. “Now I’m asking you for help instead, and violating federal law in doing so—what you might call doing wrong to do right.”
“What kind of help do you need?” Ali asked.
“Information,” Sister Anselm answered. “My patient is an unidentified woman. Someone tried to murder her by leaving her unconscious and helpless in a burning building. I need to know who she is, but I also need to know who it was who tried to kill her, in case they decide to come back and attempt to finish the job.”
Ali was a little surprised that Sister Anselm had arrived at much the same conclusion she had. Instead of commenting, she simply nodded while Sister Anselm continued.
“Often the patients I deal with turn out to be non-English-speaking illegal immigrants.”
“Like Marta Mendoza?” Ali asked.
“I suppose you’ve read the Sun article, then?” Sister Anselm asked.
“Yes,” Ali answered. “Part of it, anyway.”
“That’s not the case here,” Sister Anselm told her. “This woman speaks English fluently, and she doesn’t appear to be Hispanic, either. I suspect she’s from somewhere around here. The problem is, she has no idea who she is or where she’s from.”
“She has amnesia?” Ali asked.
Sister Anselm nodded. “Telling you, that counts as another HIPAA violation, by the way,” she said, “but you’re correct. She has no memory of the attack, or of anything else, either.”
“She doesn’t know who she is?” Ali asked.
“Or how she got to Camp Verde,” Sister Anselm said. “Her X-rays show that she suffered a vicious blow to the head, probably sometime prior to the fire. Presumably whoever left her there and set the house on fire never expected her to regain consciousness in time to call for help. And they certainly didn’t foresee someone walking into that burning building to save her.”
“Does she remember anything at all?” Ali asked.
“Only the fire. Apparently that’s all she remembers—the fire itself. Nothing before that. Not her name, or where she lived. Nothing.”
“Including who is responsible for her injuries,” Ali added.
“Yes,” Sister Anselm agreed. “She has no idea about that, either, but I do. Women of a certain age aren’t likely to run around naked, not willingly at any rate. I suspect that there’s some malice aforethought at work here. Whoever did it wasn’t just trying to kill her. Her attacker was making a statement by robbing her of her dignity as well as her life, all of which leads me to believe that the perpetrator may be someone quite close to her, a relative or a loved one—using the term loosely, of course.”
“I’m thinking the same thing,” Ali said.
Sister Anselm paused long enough to butter a scone and slather on some strawberry jam. “Good,” she said. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.”
“Is she going to live?”
Sister Anselm’s expression darkened as she bit into her buttered scone. “Do you have any experience with burn patients?”
Ali shook her head. “No,” she admitted.
“Generally speaking, patients with severe burns over fifty percent of their bodies don’t survive.”
“You’re saying she’s going to die?”
“We’re all going to die, Ms. Reynolds,” Sister Anselm said with a smile. “As for the patient, I think it’s likely that she’ll be gone sooner than later. I could be wrong, of course. Miracles do happen occasionally. The point is, she’s alive right now—highly sedated, but alive. Over the next few days, we’ll most likely have to up the dosage of pain medications. Eventually, I suspect her organs will shut down and she’ll be gone.”
“When that happens this will become a murder investigation.”
Sister Anselm nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Indeed it will.”
“You still haven’t mentioned what kind of help you need,” Ali said. “I’ve been trying to work the missing persons angle, but so far I’ve come up empty. If she’s from somewhere here in Arizona, I have yet to find any report that comes close to matching.”
“If you can identify her, that will certainly be useful, but it could also place her in more danger.”
“Because the person who tried to do her harm is likely to show up here, along with everyone else.”
“Correct,” Sister Anselm said. “Whoever did this is going to be very anxious about her condition. They probably already know that she survived the fire, but they won’t want to show up here until after they’ve been officially notified. Showing up too soon would give away the game, but they’ll be desperate for information about her condition. They’ll be worried about whether she has been able to identify her attacker.”
“If this person happens to be a close relative, he or she may very well be granted access to the victim’s room,” Ali said.
“Yes,” Sister Anselm said.
“I can see all that,” Ali added. “I get it, and I’m sure that’s why you posted a security guard at her door before you left the hospital. What I still don’t understand is how I can be of help.”
“I need feet on the ground,” Sister Anselm said. “As I said earlier, it would have made sense to ask Agent Robson for help, but I could see right away that wasn’t going to fly. I doubt he would have been amenable to taking suggestions from me.”
“You think I am?” Ali asked.
“I believe so, yes.”
“You’ve given me confidential information about your patient, information I shouldn’t legally have access to. Why did you do that?” Ali asked. “What makes you think you can trust me?”
“I can, can’t I?” Sister Anselm asked.
“Yes, but—” Ali began.
“Agent Robson’s first priority is solving his case,” Sister Anselm interrupted. “He’s far less concerned about our patient’s welfare. Now tell me what you know about James.”
Our patient? Ali thought, but for a moment Sister Anselm’s request left her baffled. “James who?” she asked aloud.
“The young man in the room next
door, the patient in room eight sixteen.”
Ali thought about that. “Let’s see. He suffered burns over thirty percent of his body. Face, hands, and legs, mostly. He’s in serious condition, not critical.”
“Did you happen to learn about his condition from one of the nurses?” Sister Anselm asked.
“No,” Ali said. “Of course not. From what his relatives said among themselves.”
“Right,” Sister Anselm said. “What else?”
“Let’s see,” Ali said, pausing to remember what had been said. “James is sixteen. He’s the youngest, the baby of the family. He has two older sisters. His mother’s name is Lisa. His father’s name is Max. His parents are divorced. The father gave him a car for his birthday, against his mother’s wishes. He was doing something mechanical on the car without being properly supervised when it caught fire. The accident evidently happened at the father’s house, in the garage.”
“So the mother was unhappy about that?” Sister Anselm asked.
“Very. The father showed up a little while ago, quite a bit later than everyone else. He’s a truck driver and was on his route driving freight to Flagstaff when all this happened. It took him some time to drop off his load and drive back down here. When the father came into the waiting room, the other grandparents gave him hell about the car thing. So did the mother a few minutes later. She had to come out of the room so the father could go in to see his son. It was pretty ugly.”
“Who are all the people out in the waiting room?”
“His parents, both sets of grandparents, various aunts and uncles—mostly on the mother’s side—James’s two older sisters, and a niece and nephew.”
“Did anyone from the family actually speak to you?”
“No,” Ali said. “Not at all. I was working on my computer. They left me completely alone.”
“You see?” Sister Anselm said. “Sitting there with your computer open rendered you completely invisible to everyone else in the room. Although you may have been working on that computer, you were also listening, and not just with your ears, either. I believe you were listening with your heart. It turns out that’s exactly the kind of help I’m looking for. Most of the time I’ll be in the patient’s room. What I want you to do is spend as much time as you can in the waiting room. If you’re there when the patient’s relatives start arriving, my guess is they won’t even notice you. As you’ve just learned about James’s family, what people say to one another when they’re in crisis is likely to be quite unguarded.”