by Sharon Sala
Afraid that he would be caught, he quickly pushed a chair in front of the door and then dumped all of his tools right beneath an electrical outlet nearby. If anyone tried to come in, the chair would stop their immediate entry, giving him time to get back in place.
Once that was done, he grabbed a couple of the small electronic bugs and slipped them into bundles of bills he pulled from the middle of the stack. As soon as he’d finished, he quickly shut the door and spun the lock, then put the painting back in place.
He was down on his knees with the electrical socket out of the wall when the door swung inward. It did, as he’d expected, thump loudly against the chair.
“What the hell?” he yelped, then pulled the chair aside.
The woman who’d led him into the room entered with an accusing look on her face.
“Why did you block this door?” she snapped.
Pete frowned. “Dang, lady. You scared the shit out of me. And I didn’t block the door…at least not intentionally. I just moved that chair to get to this outlet here.”
The woman glanced down, saw the tools on the floor and the wires dangling from the wall and relaxed.
“Oh. Well. I’m sorry I startled you. I was just checking on your progress.”
“I’m about done. This is my last one,” he said. “If you want to wait around a bit, you can walk me back to the elevator. I wouldn’t mind some pretty company.”
To add insult to injury, Pete winked at her.
The young woman, properly horrified at being hit on by a man older than her father, quickly disappeared.
Pete chuckled as he screwed the plate back into the wall, then left the same way he’d come in. He nodded to the guard, who was talking to a FedEx delivery man, and disappeared out to the street.
As soon as he got in his van, he gave Cat a call.
“Hey, honey, it’s me. I’ve got you taken care of.”
“Any problems?” she asked.
“Not a one.”
She sighed. “I hope this works.”
Pete chuckled, thinking of all that money in the safe. “If he’s a runner, we’ve got him nailed,” Pete said.
“I hope so.” Cat said.
“Trust me,” Pete said. “Are you home?”
“No. I’m lurking around the hospital, trying to get some updates without outing myself.”
“Do you know how to run the tracking programs on these bugs?” he asked.
“Do they register on a laptop?”
“Yes. I have one programmed to the stuff I used, and I’ll lend it to you. I’ll write up the instructions. If you have any problems, you know my number.”
“Where should I meet you to pick it up?”
“I’ll bring it over and get the manager to let me into your apartment.”
“I’ll call her right now and tell her that I sent my laptop out for repair and it’s going to be delivered today. I’ll tell her to let you in.”
“That’ll do it,” Pete said.
“Thank you so much,” Cat said.
“You’re welcome, honey,” he said softly. “And once again, I’m real sorry about Shortcake. I’ll be missin’ her, too.”
Cat lurked around the waiting room on the second floor of the hospital long enough to see Detective Flannery leave. From what she’d learned, he’d been in and out, then back in again, since early this morning. A short while later Presley’s wife also exited his room and took the elevator down. A nurse went into his room with a tray of medicines, then came out. Cat knew she needed to get out of there, too, before someone accused her of stalking, but she wanted to look at Presley one more time, just to reassure herself that she hadn’t misread the situation.
She sat in the waiting room until it became obvious the shift was changing. There would be some confusion with all the coming and going, which should provide her with a fair chance of getting into his room unobserved. Still, she knew there were surveillance cameras in every hall and she knew where they were located. She took down her hair, shaking it out until it was hanging around her face, buttoned up her long coat in order to disguise her shape as best she could, and started down the hall.
Her shoulders were hunched a bit, as if from the cold outside, and she kept her gaze down just enough that her hair automatically fell forward. When she got to Presley’s room, she paused as if checking room numbers, then very quietly slipped inside. There was no sound from her entrance, or from the door slowly swinging shut.
Then it was only Cat and the killer, alone in the dark.
She stood there until her eyes adjusted to the lack of artificial light and slowed her breathing to the point that she could barely hear herself. As she waited for him to make a move, her skin grew clammy with anticipation. A trickle of sweat ran down the middle of her back from the weight of the heavy coat she was wearing, but still she didn’t move.
Mark knew Penny was gone, as was the detective. Even his nurse had left. Only then was he able to relax. He kept his eyes shut and his breathing steady, not wanting another incident with the doctors like before. Sounds came and went in the hall. He heard a call over the hospital intercom for a Dr. Fraser to call ICU.
The quiet in the room seemed to swell around him until every sound he heard was magnified to absurdity. He hiccupped once, and the sound was startling. There was a spot on the back of his neck that was itching, but he didn’t dare scratch. The minutes passed as he continued his charade. Finally, when he was absolutely certain he was alone and there were no sounds of activity anywhere near his door, he dared a small peek, and saw nothing but the darkened room and the shades that had been pulled over the windows. Without thinking, he took a slow, deep breath and let himself relax. As he did, he passed gas and thought nothing of it. No one was there, and anyway, it was a natural body function. A nurse would have thought nothing of it.
He rolled his neck just the least little bit, and started to raise up and plump his pillow. As he did, he turned his head toward the door.
She stepped out of the shadows without warning and moved three steps toward his bed.
“Jesus,” he said weakly, then shrank back against the pillows, his eyes wide with shock.
He tried to see past the long thick mane of hair hanging around her face but could make out only shadowy features. When her shoulders squared up and her hands doubled into fists, he flinched. He didn’t know who she was, but she was damn sure the enemy.
For several long, silent seconds she stood motionless, her gaze fixed and staring at him. Then he saw her lips part, and he found himself holding his breath for a hint of her voice.
“Know this, you double-crossing, lying, son-of-a-bitch. You will never be able to run far enough or hide well enough to get away from me. Before this is over, I will watch you die.”
The soft, raspy voice seemed like a whisper from hell. He felt sick from his head to his toes. He’d battled plenty of powerful people in his time, even bankrupting several, and always without a sliver of conscience complaining. But this was different. He didn’t know who she was or why she kept showing up like this, but he knew there was a connection between her and Marsha Benton.
“Who are you?”
Suddenly he knew she was smiling, because he could see the white of her teeth.
“Your worst nightmare,” she said softly, and without waiting for him to answer, she turned around and slipped out the door.
He wanted to ring for a nurse—or for security. But doing that meant he would have to admit that he’d not only seen someone come into his room, but he’d heard and understood her threat. Cursing the mess he was caught up in, he leaned back and closed his eyes, willing his heart rate to a calm rhythm he didn’t feel.
As he lay there, it became apparent that he had no time left to waste. He had to get out of here—and fast—but how? For now, there was nothing to do but lie and wait for the opportune moment to present itself.
It was three a.m. when a nurse came into Mark Presley’s room to check his vitals and change the
IV bag on the pole. Mark had been dozing, but he woke almost immediately as the lights came on. He stayed motionless as she puttered around, resetting machines and checking hookups on the monitors that continued to register his vital signs. As best as he could judge, she was almost finished when there was a loud crash out in the hall.
Startled, she turned abruptly, and in doing so, knocked over a large bouquet of flowers that were sitting on a small table by the bed.
“Well, shit,” the nurse muttered softly. The vase had shattered, sending water and cut flowers everywhere.
She buzzed the nurses’ desk and was rewarded with a prompt answer. “How can I help you?”
“I don’t know what spilled out in the hall, but when the orderly is through cleaning it up, send him in here. I knocked over a vase of flowers. There’s broken glass, water and flowers all over.”
“He’ll be right there,” the nurse replied.
Mark heard her leave, but within a couple of minutes, the door opened again. Mark could tell from the weight of the footsteps and the length of the stride that a man had entered. He heard the sound of squeaky wheels and guessed it was a mop bucket.
Obviously the orderly.
Unlike the nurse, the orderly made no attempt to hide his disgust and cursed intermittently as he picked up the flowers and broken glass while dragging the squeaky bucket around.
As the orderly worked, Mark lay in wait, like a lion waiting for the kill, and when he sensed the orderly was on the other side of the room, he ventured a quick look.
He saw a man in his late thirties with his back to the bed, slowly cleaning up the mess the nurse had made. Mark noted the man’s neatly clipped dark hair and slim build, and when he suddenly stood up, Mark could tell he was similar to his own height.
Suddenly a wild plan began to take shape. It might take more strength than he had—and an inordinate amount of good luck that he didn’t have—but if everything worked, it could prove to be his ticket out.
He watched the man use a large mop to sop up the water in which he was standing, and suddenly Mark’s decision was made.
Within a few seconds, the orderly, still with his back to Mark, had mopped himself all the way to the guardrails of the bed. Mark rose up, grabbed the man around the neck and gave him a hard backward yank. The unexpected blow combined with the wet floor, and the orderly dropped as if he’d been pole-axed. He hit the floor flat on his back with a sickening thud. His head bounced once and made a sound not unlike that of a ripe melon being dropped.
Mark refused to feel guilty. At this point in his life, it was every man for himself. He pulled the oxygen tubing from around his ears, then unplugged the monitors and began unhooking himself from them by grabbing fistfuls of the wires connected to his body and giving them a yank. He pulled the IV out of his hand, wincing as blood began to spurt, then grabbed a washcloth lying nearby and wrapped it around his hand as tightly as he could. But it was the catheter up his penis that gave him pause. Finally he gritted his teeth and pulled, again, then again, until the tubing suddenly came free, spilling urine out onto the floor.
Pain shot through his body so fast that he doubled over, but he didn’t have time to suffer. At any moment some nurse could come into the room and that would spell the end.
He felt shaky when his feet hit the floor, but there was no time to waste. Without hesitation, he grabbed the orderly’s feet, yanking first at the shoes, then the pants. He was shaking so badly he could barely breathe when he began to put them on.
I can do this, he thought, as he tugged on the orderly’s shirt until he managed to pull it over his head. There was blood all over the back of it from the orderly’s head wound, and it was wet from the spilled water and urine, but it was something better than a hospital gown.
Mark shook out the shirt, then pulled it over his head, finding it a looser fit on him than it had been on the orderly. Now there was nothing left for him to do but get out undetected.
As he turned, his gaze jumping wildly from bed to table to window, he tried to think of how to make this happen. Then he realized he was looking at a cigarette lighter on the floor near the orderly’s hand. It must have been in the man’s shirt pocket and had fallen out when Mark undressed the orderly.
He looked at the lighter again, then at the oxygen tube lying in the middle of the bed where he’d discarded it. In that moment, his last bit of empathy for his fellow man flickered and died. He had his means of escape.
Carefully he stepped over the orderly, dropping his hospital gown on the body as he upped the flow of oxygen still coming through the tube. He stood, listening to the hiss until he was satisfied there was a noticeable amount pouring into the room.
Pure oxygen, the life-giving, body enriching—highly flammable—gas.
He moved toward the door. Then, with his hand on the knob, he flipped open the lighter, opened the door, then looked back.
At that point, everything seemed to happen in slow motion.
He flicked the lighter.
It lit on the first try.
As he tossed it, it flew in a perfect arc toward the middle of his bed.
He was already into the hall and running when the oxygen caught. He didn’t see the deadly tongue of blue flame as it appeared out of nowhere, but he, along with everyone else on the floor, felt the explosion.
It knocked him to his hands and knees, but he didn’t look back. Sprinklers came on overhead, but the flames in his room were still being fed and were too intense to be put out so easily.
People were screaming.
Nurses were shouting orders and running in every direction.
A nurse raced past him to a fire alarm on the wall up ahead, broke the glass and pulled the lever. He knocked her aside on his way to the exit and took the stairs two at a time. His legs felt like rubber as he went stumbling, falling, then got up and did it all over again.
Suddenly he was running through the hallways on the main floor, along with dozens of others who were also on the move. He ran past a door marked employee lounge. Without hesitating, he ducked inside.
Rows of lockers lined the side of one wall. There was a winter parka hanging over the back of a chair. He grabbed it, and as he put it on, he found a set of car keys in the pocket.
Bingo.
The wheels he needed to escape.
The jacket was at least two sizes too large, and he had no idea what vehicle the car keys would fit. All he could do was punch the car alarm on the security key ring and hope he got a quick hit before the guards got suspicious.
The moment the cold air in the parking lot hit his face, he pressed his thumb on the alarm button and held it down as he ran, aiming it wildly from one vehicle to another. Suddenly a horn began to honk—repeatedly and in a frenzied monotone—leading him straight to a mid-sized Chevrolet.
Still in full stride, he silenced the alarm and hit the Unlock button.
It was only after he slipped behind the wheel and tried to put the key in the ignition that he realized how badly he was shaking. He took a slow breath, trying to calm down. It would be the final straw if he got this far, then passed out from exertion and missed his chance to escape.
Finally the key slid into the ignition. The engine started on the first turn, and he thought, as he put the car into gear, that he’d never heard a more beautiful sound.
The way he figured it, even if there was enough left of the orderly to pick up, it would take them days, maybe longer, to realize that it wasn’t Mark Presley who’d died in that room.
By then, he would be gone.
As he turned a corner, he paused and looked back. Flames were shooting out of three windows on the second floor. Fire trucks and police cars with lights flashing and sirens screaming were turning into the hospital parking lot as he drove away.
He shuddered.
It was the only physical reaction he could muster to what he’d done. Above all else, he needed clothes and money. Going home to get clothes and a car was too risky, and he cou
ldn’t use an ATM without alerting everyone to the fact that he was alive and running.
But he did have a plan.
He had clothes and money at the office, and a set of keys to a company car that was parked in the adjoining garage. All he had to do was get inside without being seen. He couldn’t go through the lobby and maintain the deception that he was dead, but there was his personal elevator down on the freight docks that led straight to his office. Normally he used the key on his key ring, but that was at the house. However, he was a man who was always prepared. There was another key hidden on the docks for emergencies. And if ever there was an emergency, this was it.
Eighteen
Cat was physically exhausted by the time she got home. There was another message from Al, who wanted her to call him back, but it was too late to return the call.
The laptop that Pete had promised was on the kitchen counter, along with a sealed envelope. She opened it, read the brief instructions and then booted up the machine. With a couple of key strokes, a map of Dallas appeared on the screen. Another couple of key strokes and a pattern of tiny lights came up, superimposed on the map.
Cat’s eyes narrowed in satisfaction as she realized she was looking at the bugs Pete had left behind. For the moment, none of them were moving, which, if she understood Pete’s instructions, meant they were still right where he’d left them.
The instructions also said that if anything started moving, the map would automatically change to accommodate the movement.
Now that the program was up and running, she was nervous about walking away. What if, while she was taking a bath, something started to happen and she didn’t see it? Still, it was better than nothing, which was exactly what she would have had if not for Pete.
Satisfied that for the time being she had as much control of the situation as she could, she moved around the kitchen, turning up the thermostat in the apartment as she made herself a sandwich. She heated up some leftover coffee, but it tasted bitter, so she poured it down the drain and settled for a can of pop.