Death Watch

by Elizabeth Forrest

  Carter said, “I may have to kill you, after all.” He tossed the crust back into the pizza box.

  “I’ll keep your secret if you let me help you finish the story.”

  Carter grew silent. Dolan, busy with the machine, didn’t notice at first. Then he became aware and turned around slowly.

  “I’m not looking for a byline or anything,” he added awkwardly. “I just want to do the gofering and watch you work. Like an apprentice or something.”

  “Indentured servant.”

  “Right. Like that.”

  Carter looked at the spotty young man. Had such earnestness ever oozed from his pores? Such eagerness shone in his eyes? Had he ever been that young and itching to work on a paper?

  He vaguely remembered that he had.

  In a strange way, Dolan was doing for his career what McKenzie Smith had been doing to his libido. Like the Phoenix, he was rising—being pulled—from the ashes. He hid his emotion behind the tea bottle and muttered. “Just don’t get in the way.”

  “No, sir!”

  Carter got up and left the room, the fax machine still humming away. He did not return until he heard it stop, then begin again to transmit those pages in its memory. Dolan looked up expectantly.

  “Collate the pages,” Carter told him. “We’ve got some work to do.”

  “What are we doing?”

  “We’re looking at Mr. Blue.”

  “It’s going to take a while,” Dolan responded. “We’ve got over thirty-two legal-sized pages.”

  Carter checked his watch. Still no word from Joyce. He didn’t want to go to Mount Mercy until he knew he could bring Mac back with him. To go in without Joyce would tip his hand to Susan Craig that he suspected her. Of what, exactly, he couldn’t prove yet, but if she were doing anything, anything at all, she could spook. He didn’t want that. Better to stay here, cool, and work the files until he heard from Joyce. Besides, Franklin and Sofer were waiting to hear from him. “I’ve got time,” he said to Dolan.

  Even if every instinct he’d ever honed as a reporter told him otherwise.

  The traffic on the freeway crawled. Joyce watched her dashboard clock. Finally, she got out her cell phone to dial Carter to have him meet her at the hospital, but the phone did nothing. No lights, nothing. Dead as a used firecracker after the Fourth of July. “Da-amn,” she said and tossed the useless phone onto the passenger seat. There was an adapter somewhere—maybe even in the glove compartment—and wouldn’t she look like somethin’ weaving in and out of traffic while she tried to fish it out and hook it up? That would be too foolish to even begin to think about.

  She wrapped her hands about the steering wheel, trying not to think about what she’d seen in the morgue. Her court appearance had been, thankfully, postponed, so there was no harm, no foul there—but that fool of an attorney could have called her earlier and told her that. She would have marched into that courtroom and found herself in the middle of a whole other problem if she hadn’t dropped in the viewing room. Come to think of it, she owed that attorney an earful, yes, she did. Her time was just as valuable as his.

  “Lawyers,” Joyce snorted to herself, and changed lanes to avoid one who was talking on a car phone which worked. “See that, uh-huh,” she said to the dead instrument on her car seat. “That one works.”

  She looked out over the crawling traffic. If she was lucky, she’d be at Mount Mercy by six and before her hair turned gray.

  Joyce Tompkins believed she made her own luck. “Girl,” she told herself. “Get to it.” She put the accelerator down and the turn signal on.

  There was a young man at the reception desk of the psych ward. He looked unhappy to be there, and kept jumping every time someone bumped the locked doors from the other side, which happened two or three times while Joyce signed in. He wore expensive, trendy clothes and had his hair designer cut, and she guessed that he was at the desk because he owed some community service work to one of the judges Joyce appeared before regularly. He’d probably been caught using some designer drugs or flyin’ the silver highway recreationally.

  She smiled widely at him as she pushed the guest register back. “Relax, son,” she said. “They’re just pulling your chain.”

  He flinched again and stretched a sensitive hand over the release buzzer. “You won’t let anyone come through.”

  “Honey, I was married to a Raiders fullback. Do I look like anyone can get by me if I don’t want them to?”

  He opened his mouth to say something, shut it, and then pushed the door buzzer.

  Joyce swept through before anyone could do anything else. She looked back at him through the screen-reinforced view window. He looked just as nervous as the doors swung into position and locked shut. That boy was going to think a bit before he got himself into any more trouble.

  A young woman and an older woman, both in the half-pajama, half-hospital outfit that was standard issue on the ward, looked at her and laughed.

  The young one said, “He’s kinda cute.”

  Joyce laughed gently, answering, “Yes, he is, but he’s awful nervous.”

  They both giggled as she walked by them. She went straight to the nurses’ station and told them what paperwork to pull, found no problems, and went on to McKenzie Smith’s room. It was almost dinnertime, and she could hear the rattling of the food tray carts and smell the odor of something—meat loaf and potatoes— from down the hallway.

  She stuck her head in the room. A still, silent form lay under the sheets, food tray untouched, TV on, but silent, flickering forms mouthing news that could not be heard. Joyce hesitated, sensing something not quite right, unaware of what it might be. Had Mac given up hope? She gathered her energy and bustled in.

  “Your forty-eight hours are up. It’s time to go home, and let me tell you, I’ve got the meter running.”

  Mac turned her head. Joyce smiled genuinely. “Oh, honey, you clean up nice.” She’d obviously showered, changed pajamas, and had her hair shampooed and brushed. There was no response. Joyce wasn’t even sure whether the young woman had recognized her.

  She sat on the edge of the bed. She reached out and took Mac’s hand, the one which had been so bruised, and traced it lightly, the colors faded into yellows and greens instead of the deep purples and reds. Joyce thought of her dead ex-husband, the one who’d played pro ball. What he would have given to have been such a quick healer!

  McKenzie had obviously been given medication that would calm and quiet her. Joyce could leave instructions, as an advocate, that she was not to be medicated anymore, that she was no longer a patient, and would be released as soon as she was able. But she hated to leave without her tonight. Mac had depended on her. Carter, too. If only she could have made it here earlier....

  She threaded her fingers through McKenzie’s. “Things will be all right.”

  The fingers wiggled within her grasp, the tiniest of movements, but the first sign that McKenzie had even noticed she was there.

  McKenzie closed her eyes slowly and opened them again, like shuttering a window and then releasing it. “I’m lost,” she murmured, licked chapped lips, and added, “I’ve lost my way. Joyce ... my father died. I was there, and he ... he died.”

  Joyce patted the hand she held. “Oh, honey. I’m so sorry. But that means you’ve got to come with me. Jack Trebolt won’t leave you as a witness. Can you get on your feet? I can’t take you with me if I can’t get you on your feet.”

  “Where’s ... Carter?”

  “Waiting for us to call. But the best thing to do is get you out of here first.”

  McKenzie seemed to wince at the mention of his name. Joyce caught hold of Mac’s chin. “If you want to go with me, you’ve got to get serious. Motivate that butt, girl, or I’ll have to leave you here to sleep it off.”

  Mac’s attention wandered in spite of Joyce’s firm grip on her chin. Joyce looked too, to see what held her attention.

  The six o’clock news appeared to be trying to cover Graciela’s and
Donnie’s murders. She’d heard it on the radio. There wasn’t much known. Joyce could barely hear the whispering voices at the volume Mac had the set. Mac didn’t seem to need to hear the words, though.

  There was a blurry, ill-lit few feet of film of which the news team seemed awfully proud. The video camera wavered, showing what appeared to be cave drawings from—Joyce gagged suddenly. These were drawn on the walls from the murder scene, and she could see, even with the poor lighting, that they must have been drawn in blood.

  Mac said, “Sun, moon, stars....” She broke down and began to sob. She cried as if her heart had been shattered. Joyce gathered her in, felt the slim shoulders shake within her embrace, listened to her voice grow raw.

  She knew. How could she know? Joyce couldn’t ask the question, but something uneasy burned in her chest. Finally, she pulled Mac away from her.

  “Mac, we have to go.”

  McKenzie nodded jerkily. “I have to—go.” She tried to sit up in the bed. She swung her feet over with all the coordination of a sleep-drunk toddler, and looked up through a veil of golden hair. “Can you help me get dressed?”

  Joyce sighed. “I don’t think I have much choice.” She stood up, thinking that Carter would have paid to be in her place at the moment.

  Susan picked at a Cobb salad from the cafeteria, speakerphone on, retrieving her messages. Nothing seemed of much importance until Jennifer Lee from the office came on the line.

  Susan listened and quickly flicked off the speakerphone. Why had the newspaper been trying to access CyberImago R & D? How had they even known there was an R & D to turn a hacker loose on?

  Was Carter Wyndall involved? He did not seem to have remembered her, from past or present, the last few times they’d been face-to-face. But the coincidence was too convenient. If he was bird-dogging a story on either John Nelson or McKenzie Smith, he was too close to her.

  She slammed a fist on the desk. She would be naive and unprepared if she thought he wasn’t. Jennifer had dismissed it as a quirk, surmising that the newspaper had probably been trying to send a fax to the wrong modem, or download a file from a wrong number. She reported that nothing appeared to have gotten through.

  Susan felt her forehead grow tight and narrow. She doubted that they would tell her much of anything different, knowing how strict she was with secrecy and control.

  Jennifer didn’t know what kind of software they made in the back room and, to their credit, only two others did. A programmer and an animator. The others were blissfully unaware that their efforts were spliced, diced, and edited to obtain the end result Susan desired. She uncurled her fist and checked her hand carefully to ensure that she had not damaged her nails.

  She waved them in front of her face, long, slender, elegant artificial nails to replace the ones she always kept bitten to the quick. Perfectionists did that. But they didn’t have to suffer the consequences of their actions.

  Susan stood up. Another session or two with McKenzie Smith and not only would the girl be ready to interface the master imprint, but she would handle whatever Carter Wyndall dished out.

  She decided to check on Mac one last time.

  Joyce had gotten the better part of a hot cup of coffee down McKenzie’s gullet. The effects were ... well, it had always been said that if you gave a drunk enough coffee, what you had was a wide-awake drunk. McKenzie held her eyes open in exaggeration and focused on Joyce.

  “I think I can stand now.”

  “Sweet Jesus, I hope so, because I can’t waltz you out of here. They’ll stop us before we get out those double doors.” Joyce stood up and backed away.

  McKenzie got to her feet, holding onto the swing-out tray table. It wobbled, she wobbled. She wore jeans, a size too big for her slender hips, and a short-sleeved blouse which hugged her sculpted torso. Joyce eyed her slippered feet.

  “One step at a time,” she muttered.

  “I’m trying. I can’t ... I can’t feel them.”

  The analogy to a drunk was more appropriate than Joyce would have liked. “Sure you can,” she coaxed. “Just slide ’em a little bit. Like skating.”

  McKenzie had been resting her bottom on the bed’s edge. She now stood fully erect and took a deep breath. “Okay.”

  She shuffled halfway across the room, Joyce backing up like a mother urging her toddler to take her first steps. As they crossed, Mac began to smile.

  It was a beautiful expression. Joyce dusted her hands off.

  “Girl, we’re gettin’ out of here.” She hooked the door open. “Let’s go.”

  There was no traffic in the ward. Everyone was eating. At the nurses’ station, the charge nurse handed her the forms and nodded absently. Joyce ran her eyes over the forms as she kept a hand hooked around McKenzie’s elbow, guiding her down the hall. Everything was in order, including Officer Pete Moreno’s call to release her.

  Joyce felt a glow of satisfaction.

  McKenzie halted at the locked doors. “What do I do?” “Knock on the window. He’s supposed to look up and identify me.” Joyce moved to the window, still looking at the release forms.

  McKenzie rapped gently.

  “He’s not looking.”

  “He will. He’s new at this.” Joyce folded back the sheet. Everyone’s signature was in place. There was no way Mac was coming back if she didn’t want to.

  Now all they had to do was keep her out of harm’s way from Jack Trebolt.

  “Joyce, he’s not going to look. And my knees ... I think my knees are folding up....”

  Joyce hit the doors with the flat of her hand. They rattled against the dead bolt.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Joyce swung around. McKenzie made a small sound, and leaned against her. Dr. Susan Craig, mouth shrunken and angry, faced them in the corridor.

  “Where do you think you’re going with my patient?”

  That small noise came from Mac again. It sounded like a whimper.

  Joyce smoothed out the forms in her hand. “Voluntary confinement is lifted, and everything else is in order.” She gave the doctor a warm smile. “There’s nothing wrong with Mac, and I can situate her better elsewhere.”

  The doctor’s jaw worked. “What about the assault?”

  “Moreno agrees that Trebolt is in the area and should be apprehended.”

  “Well, then.” Craig’s icy blue eyes looked to McKenzie. “Everything appears to be working out.” She looked at the forms again. “Good luck to you. Joyce, I’ll see you later this week, undoubtedly.” She turned and left.

  Joyce felt as though she had passed by an iceberg. She turned around. McKenzie’s face looked chalk white. Joyce pulled her foot back and booted the door.

  Angry words from the psych ward reception desk could be heard all the way down the corridor to the hallowed confines of the chapel. Jack lifted his head from his copy of Penthouse and listened. The air thundered with attitude. He heard a black woman give someone sarcasm that could blister the skin, and then a soft, hesitant voice he thought he knew. He dropped the magazine.

  He crept to the niche which allowed him to see the corridor without being seen.

  The black woman stalked by, McKenzie leaning heavily on her arm. She looked pale, but good. His chest tightened immediately and he bit down hard to keep quiet. What were they doing with his wife now?

  “First, we’ll get you all settled in that shelter I told you about, and then we’ll call Carter. After that, we’ll sit down and figure out what to do, you and I.”

  He knew that Carter well. He’d checked up on him. Jack didn’t like the sound of what he heard at all. Babe, you didn’t run near hard and fast enough if you thought you were gonna outrun me.

  “Sounds like you’re good at making plans,” McKenzie whispered.

  “Oh, I am. Don’t you doubt it.”

  Eyes hard, Jack watched them pass. Trailing after, not too close, he followed. He was good at planning, too.

  Chapter 33

  They barreled out
of the hospital and dashed across the parking lot until they reached Joyce’s car, and then they collapsed upon it, laughing like maniacs. McKenzie hugged the hood of the car, her face flushed.

  “God,” Joyce said when she’d caught her breath. “I feel like we just got caught toilet papering someone’s house.”

  McKenzie turned her head, putting her cheek to the cool metal of the car. “Caffeine and adrenaline. What a rush.” She laughed again, shakily. “I feel like I’m on Cops. ”

  “You look like it, girl.” Joyce rattled through her purse for her car keys.