by Tami Hoag
Ellen stifled a sigh. She tried to block everything around her from her mind in order to give Judge Franken her own personal tribute. Brief and to the point. He was a good man, a good judge, he would be missed.
The burial had to be postponed until a good thaw. After the final prayer, and three verses of “Abide with Me,” everyone trooped to the church basement for cake and Jell-O from the Lutheran ladies' auxiliary and conversation that centered not on Judge Franken but on Garrett Wright and the kidnappings. Ellen made one obligatory round of the room and escaped through a little-used side door that let out onto the parking lot.
By the time she made it back to the courthouse, those who had remained behind to conduct business were closing down for the night and for the weekend. Coats were going on, computers and typewriters turning off, pumps going into tote bags while feet were sliding into snow boots.
Quentin Adler stood with briefcase in hand, talking at Martha, their receptionist. “I would have gone to pay my respects, but I'm up to my ears in work,” he stated importantly. “You know, Rudy asked me to take on some of Ellen's cases.”
Ellen rolled her eyes and ducked behind him, heading to Phoebe's desk. Her secretary sat with her woolly poncho across her lap, her expression that of a third-grader who was being made to stay late after school.
“Do I have any messages?” Ellen asked, pretending not to notice the pout.
“Your mail is on your desk. Someone sent you roses. Pete Ecklund wants to cut a deal on Zimmerman. A gazillion reporters called. Agent Wilhelm says toxicology shows traces of Triazolam in Josh Kirkwood's bloodstream,” she recited, thrusting the slips up at Ellen. “Do I have to stay?”
“Got a hot date?” Ellen raised her brows, trying for girlish camaraderie.
“Not anymore.”
“No, you don't have to stay.” Ellen dropped her gaze to the note from Wilhelm and tried not to feel like an evil stepmother. “But we could use your help tomorrow afternoon.”
Ignoring the hefty sigh, she went into her office. Triazolam. She went directly to the bookcase and pulled a reference book that listed virtually every drug, legal and otherwise, known to mankind. Triazolam, better known as Halcion. A central nervous system depressant once commonly prescribed as a sleeping pill, also commonly used in psych wards. She scanned the list of side effects that included memory loss and hallucinations. When withdrawn suddenly, there may be bizarre personality changes (psychosis) and paranoia.
That might have been one explanation for Josh's behavior, she thought. A strong enough dose could have kept Josh in a hypnotic state during his captivity, during which time Wright could have planted anything in his mind—including threats. Taking him abruptly off the drug might have set off a mild psychosis.
She dialed Wilhelm's number and noticed for the first time the bouquet of red roses in an all-purpose green office vase. Brooks was her first thought. The bastard thought he could ease past her guard with flowers and that damned smile. He and Costello had probably had a good chuckle, strategizing about her over drinks. Sandwiching the receiver between her shoulder and ear, she plucked the note card out from between the thorny stems and tore it open.
“Agent Wilhelm.”
“Ellen North here. Thanks for calling about the tox report,” she said. “It might answer some questions for us.”
“I've got people looking into prescriptions for Halcion filled locally,” he said. “We might get lucky. Then again, it might have been filled in Minneapolis where there must be a couple hundred pharmacies.”
“Gotta start somewhere,” Ellen said. “Have you got a report on O'Malley's blood tests? She believed Wright injected her with something while she was unconscious. If we could get a line on both drugs . . .”
The rustle of paper sounded like static over the phone. “Hang on.”
Ellen opened the note card. A folded piece of paper dropped out. The card itself was blank. Odd. Ellen set the card aside and opened the folded paper.
evil comes to SHE who searches for it
search S for SIN
see where we've been
Ellen dropped the note and shot up out of her chair, jumping back from the desk. The telephone receiver clattered down over the drawer fronts and dangled.
“Ms. North? Are you there? Ms. North? Hello?”
search S for Sin . . . see where we've been . . .
“Oh, God,” she whispered, looking wildly around her office. Her sanctuary. The one place in her professional life she felt she had absolute control. Her gaze landed on the filing cabinets.
search S for Sin . . .
Shaking, she jerked the drawer open and flipped through the files. One stood out—cleaner, stiffer, unworn. The word “sin” in bold caps on the tab.
He'd been in her office. The son of a bitch had been in her office.
She lay the file atop the others in the open cabinet and turned the cover back. Staring up at her from the small square of a Polaroid snapshot, blank-eyed and expressionless, was Josh Kirkwood.
CHAPTER 22
The day had seemed to last forever, and yet night fell too soon. The contradiction, Hannah thought, was just a reflection of her own inner turmoil. She had been gone from the hospital longer than two weeks. She couldn't imagine leaving Josh and Lily, and yet she missed her work terribly. She missed the place and the people, her patients, her co-workers, her friends, the normalcy of routine, the drudgery of paperwork. Most of all, she missed who she was at work. The strength of mind and will she wore in that role seemed to have come off with the white lab coat and the fake brass name tag.
She would never have said she defined herself by her job. It wasn't who she was, it was what she did. But without the frame of reference it provided, she felt lost. And with the feeling of loss came guilt. She wasn't only a doctor; she was a mother. Her children needed her. Why could she not define herself in those terms?
The curse of the nineties woman, she thought, struggling for a sense of humor. A futile struggle. The day had held little to laugh about and was only going to get worse.
The weather had forced her to cancel Josh's appointment with Dr. Freeman. A friend from the hospital had called and told her Dr. Lomax was beginning to make noises to the administration about officially naming him temporary director of the ER—a condition he would then fight to make permanent. Director of the ER—the promotion that had passed over his head and landed squarely on Hannah's shoulders just a month ago. She worried that they might actually listen to him, then raked herself over the mental coals for letting anything but Josh's situation take precedence in her mind.
Ellen North had called to tell her they had another piece of physical evidence against Wright, but that Garrett Wright's attorney wanted access to Josh's medical records, a ploy meant to divert attention away from Wright and onto Paul.
And Jay Butler Brooks wanted to write a book about it all.
Hell of a day.
Costello's charge occupied her mind like a big black rat chewing at her nerves. The implication was that Paul had abused Josh—a charge that she had rejected out of hand. Paul would never intentionally hurt his children. He didn't even believe in spanking. And yet how many times lately had she been struck by the horrible sensation that he had become a stranger? He had lied to her, lied to the police, evaded questions and twisted nonanswers into self-righteous outrage.
She remembered too well how Megan O'Malley had questioned her about Paul after Josh's jacket had been found on Ryan's Bay.
“When did you start to notice a change in him? . . . He's been withdrawing more recently? . . . Does he normally ignore his answering machine when you call him at the office at night?”
“Why are you asking me these questions? You can't possibly think Paul had something to do with this.”
“It's just routine. . . . Mother Teresa would need an alibi if she were here. When we catch this guy, his lawyer will probably try to pin it on someone else . . . If he's sleazy enough, he'll ask where you were . . . and wher
e Paul was.”
“I don't know where Paul was. He was gone when I woke up. He said he went out on his own, just driving around town, looking . . .”
She didn't know where he had been that morning or why he hadn't called her back the night Josh went missing or why he had lied to police about once owning a light-colored van. She didn't know why Josh had recoiled from him that night in the hospital.
Another tide of guilt rose into her throat. It wasn't that she believed Paul was capable of any of it, it was that she couldn't be sure he wasn't.
She knew that he was coming to dinner. That he would be there in a matter of minutes.
She had managed to prepare the meal, even though her attention had been fractured. The salad had been tossed. The scent of rosemary chicken and roasting potatoes filled the air.
In the family room Lily was stacking blocks in a precarious tower. Josh had built himself a fort with chairs and footstools and couch cushions, creating a space he could go into and shut everyone else out. Hannah had herded him out of his bedroom every day to prevent him from doing just that—shutting her out, shutting himself in with the memories he refused to share. The fort reminded her he could keep the rest of the world out without walls, with only his silence.
He had spent the better part of the day in his new burrow, with his backpack and his new Think Pad. Hannah had been relieved to see him making use of the notebook. Perhaps memories and feelings would start flowing onto the pages, then spill over and out of him, and he would begin to talk about what he had been through.
Ellen had asked about him, whether or not he seemed to be opening up. Hannah knew it would help the case against Garrett Wright, but there was no pushing Josh, as tempting as it might have been. Dr. Freeman said Josh had to come to it in his own time, that trying to force him to talk about what had happened could trigger a trauma from which he might not recover for months or years. He needed time.
The probable-cause hearing began on Tuesday.
She stepped down from the kitchen into the family room. “Josh, time to get cleaned up for supper. Dad will be here any minute.”
Josh peered up at her from under the couch-cushion roof of his little hut. He had said nothing one way or the other about Paul's intended visit.
Paul had called midmorning. He wanted to see the children, especially Josh. He had always been so proud of Josh, so pleased to have a son. His own father had never taken much interest in his bookish younger son, preferring the company of Paul's older brothers. To have Josh reject him had to hurt unbearably.
“Come on,” she said, lifting the cushion.
Josh slapped his Think Pad shut and clutched it to his chest. Hannah leaned down, brushing a hand over his sandy curls.
“Dad's really looking forward to seeing you,” she said. “He misses you and Lily.”
Josh said nothing. He had yet even to ask why his father was no longer living in the house. His lack of curiosity unnerved her.
Beyond the kitchen a door opened and closed. Paul coming in from the garage. Josh's eyes widened and he bolted like a deer, jumping out of his fort and running for the hall that led to the bathroom and bedrooms. Lily smashed her blocks down and dashed in a mad circle around the living room, squealing, “Daddy! Daddy!”
“I forgot the ice cream,” Paul announced as he stepped into the kitchen. The tone was challenging, defensive. In truth, he hadn't forgotten at all. After Costello's announcement had been splashed all over the news, he hadn't been able to bring himself to go into a store. People would stare at him, think God-knew-what. They would forget all about him putting in hours on the search, making pleas on television. They would think back to the day Mitch Holt had told him to come in to be fingerprinted. They would remember O'Malley ragging about that goddamn van.
Lily scrambled up the steps into the kitchen, her little face wreathed in smiles. “Daddy! Daddy!”
She flung herself at his legs and Paul scooped her up, perching her in the crook of his arm. “Well, at least someone is glad to see me.”
“Don't worry about dessert,” Hannah said. “People are still bringing food to the house. We've got enough brownies to last into the next millennium.”
Lily looped her arms around his neck and lay her head down on his shoulder. “Daddy home. Home, home. My Daddy!”
Paul brushed an absent kiss across her forehead and set her down on the kitchen floor.
“Where's Josh?” He unbuttoned his long wool topcoat and went to hang it in his office.
“He's getting washed up,” she answered, carrying the salad bowl to the table, stepping around Lily, who had seated herself in the middle of the floor, lower lip trembling threateningly.
“Has he said anything?”
“No.”
“What the hell is that psychiatrist doing? Besides charging us a hundred fifty bucks an hour.”
Hannah's eyes flashed impatience as she turned toward the stove. “She's a psychiatrist, not a plumber. She can't just Roto-Rooter out his memory. It's going to take time.”
She bent down to reach for Lily. The baby twisted away from her and began to sob.
“Da-a-d-dy!”
“Meanwhile, Anthony Costello is going to make me out to be some kind of child abuser. Did you hear about that?”
Hannah bit back the remark that burned on the tip of her tongue. Once again Paul had managed to make this about him. What would people think of him? How would this inconvenient delay in Josh's recovery affect him?
“Yes, I heard. Ellen North called.”
“Sure,” Paul sneered. “She can't manage to stop it from happening, but she can handle calling around to dispense the bad news. You know, it really pisses me off that the county attorney isn't handling this himself. What is it with him? We're not important enough for him to bother with? Have we finally stumbled onto someone who doesn't worship the great Dr. Garrison as a goddess?”
“Stop right there, Paul. Just drop it,” she said sharply. “You're here to see the children. We're going to be a family tonight. I don't care what it takes, we're going to at least pretend we haven't grown to hate each other. No sniping. No snide remarks. No poor put-upon Paul.
“Do you understand me? Have I made that clear enough? We're going to be a family tonight,” she declared. “Now, pick up your daughter and pay some attention to her while I go get Josh.”
She turned away from him and her heart stopped. Josh stood at the foot of the steps. Face scrubbed, hair damp, blue eyes wide and somber, backpack clutched to his chest.
Lily let out another wail. Paul abandoned her, turning toward his son instead, a brittle grin stretching across his face like a crack in a plaster wall.
“Hey, Josh. How ya doin', slugger?”
As Paul descended the steps, Josh backpedaled. Hannah watched them, frozen at the kitchen counter. Lily's plaintive squalling stabbed into her brain like an ice pick, but she couldn't bring herself to tend to her daughter. Her gaze was riveted on the scene before her.
“I've missed you, son,” Paul said in a wheedling voice. “Won't you let your ol' dad give you a hug?”
Josh shook his head, taking another step back, his arms tightening around his backpack.
“Paul, don't push it,” Hannah said with gentle desperation. For all the good it would do. Already she knew he wouldn't listen, that he would try too hard and ruin his chance and whatever fragile hope she had held for a normal family evening.
He moved toward Josh, bending over, reaching out. “Josh, come here.”
“No.”
“Josh, please—”
“No.”
“Dammit, Josh, I'm your father! Come here!”
He lunged for Josh's arm. Josh twisted out of reach, dropped to the floor, and scooted inside his furniture fort, dragging his backpack with him. Hannah launched herself into the family room, grabbing Paul's arm, holding him back from pursuit. He looked at her, his face a contorted mask of hurt and disbelief.
“He's my son,” he said in a tortur
ed whisper. “Why is he doing this to me?”
Hannah closed her eyes and put her head on his shoulder, hugging him because it had once been a natural thing to do, apologizing for reasons she didn't fully understand. In the background Lily cried as if her world had come to an end, and Hannah wondered in that moment if it hadn't.
But the moment passed and the doorbell rang, and she pulled herself away from the man who had been her husband. She felt Josh's eyes on her as she crossed the family room, watching her from under the cover of his couch-cushion roof.
Mitch stood on the front step looking tired and apologetic. His brows drew together as he met her gaze, and Hannah could only assume that she looked like hell. “Hannah? Honey, what's wrong? Has something happened?”
She forced what would have to pass for a smile. “Oh, it's just another fun-filled evening at the Kirkwood house. What can I do for you, Mitch?”
“I'm looking for Paul. Is he around?”
“What now?” Paul loomed up behind Hannah, bracing a hand against the door frame, silently barring Mitch's entry. “Have you decided to take up Costello's cause?”
Mitch let the shot bounce off. “We need to have a little talk. Would you mind coming down to my office?”
“Now? Yes, I'd mind that very much. If you have something to say to me, say it here.”
Mitch looked from Paul to Hannah and back. “All right. It's about Dennis Enberg. I need to know what you were doing in his office Wednesday night and whether he was dead or alive when you got there.”
“The clerk at the Blooming Bud says it was a mail order,” Wilhelm said, flipping through his pocket notepad. “No name, no return address, just an order for a dozen red roses, instructions for the note card to be included, and cash—including a tip for the delivery person.”
“And the clerk didn't think that was strange?” Cameron asked.
“She thought it was romantic. A secret admirer.”
“So did I,” Phoebe admitted in a tiny voice. She gave Ellen a guilty glance. “I thought they were from—Well, you know Jay Butler Brooks sends out very strong sexual vibes, and your horoscope is predicting a magnetism thing, and . . .”