“Uh…okay…” The girl gave Will a look from the top of her eyes. “Do you wanna wait?”
“I’ll be back.”
Will fought back his annoyance. He’d been trying to connect with Mendes for several days, but they’d been unable to meet for one reason or another. A multiple-car accident was certainly a good enough reason. Will was just anxious to get some solid information on the woman in 434 who may, or may not, be some kind of killing avenger.
He retraced his steps, taking the stairs toward her room. Passing by it, he hazarded a glance inside but the lights were dimmed. He imagined she was sleeping.
He headed on toward the end of the hall, took another flight of stairs to the top floor, then walked the hallway directly above Gemma’s room. Outside the bank of windows facing north was a wall of black cloud. Rain was about to return and deluge them after a few days’ respite. Maybe it would finally penetrate the packed earth that was hard as stone, a result of a parched summer and dry early fall.
He came to a closed door with an empty chair outside. Ralph Smithson had been sent over by the sheriff’s department to guard Edward Letton, but he apparently wasn’t taking his job seriously, which was no surprise. Will knew the guy well and was sure Smithson felt playing babysitter wasn’t up to his level of expertise. Smithson was big and loud and could complain like it was an Olympic sport. He would consider keeping watch over Letton to be beneath him, yet he wouldn’t be happy with a job that required him to expend any energy either. He was one of those guys that needed to be shit-canned like yesterday, but he toadied up to Sheriff Nunce on a regular basis, so Will was stuck with him for now. And Laurelton General was outside the city limits and therefore the county’s problem, so good old Ralph was going to have to suck it up and play bodyguard.
Except he was missing in action from his post.
Silently cursing the man, Will placed a palm against the light oak door and pushed, taking a few quiet steps inside the room. Letton lay beneath the glow of a light attached to the headboard of his bed. His right leg had been broken in three places and he was skinned up like he’d been scraped over a cheese grater. But it was the injury to his skull that had placed him in a coma. Smithson probably figured there was no way the guy was leaving this place on his own power and had decided to check out the lunchroom. Nevertheless, Will didn’t plan on leaving till the guard returned.
Seven minutes later Ralph came hustling down the hall carrying a tray. He’d raided both the cafeteria and some vending machines, as he balanced a heaping helping of some kind of stroganoff with mystery meat, and several bright, plastic bags of Fritos, Doritos, and other Lay’s and Ruffles products.
He jerked as if caught in a nefarious act upon seeing Will. “What’re you doing here?”
“Looking for you,” Will said mildly. “What’s the status on our patient?”
Ralph hesitated, quickly reviewing his options. Will could practically read the questions running behind his bullish forehead: Should I play it safe? Be contrite? Come up with an excuse? Should I bluff my way out? In the end he regarded Will balefully, choosing to go on the attack. “Do I look like a doctor?” he sneered. “The fucker ain’t no patient. He’s a fucking pedophile.”
“I’d ask you where you’ve been but it would be a redundant question.”
“Yeah?” Ralph’s jaw clenched pugnaciously.
“I’d just like you to stick by the door.”
“That’s what I’m doin’, Kemosabe.”
“I want Letton to wake up and explain about that gear in his van.” Will carefully tucked his annoyance behind a stoic facade.
“He’s a sick fucker,” Ralph said, ripping open a bag of Fritos and stuffing a fistful into his mouth. “Hope he dies. Not that I’d do anything to help him along, but if he made a run for it, I’d drop him, man.”
“He’s not going to be running anywhere,” Will pointed out.
“He’s going straight to hell, that’s where. You tell that girl in room 434 she did the world a favor. Almost, anyway. If this fucker lives…” He shook his head and reached in the bag for another hammy fistful.
Will left him to his food and retraced his steps toward the ER. At Gemma’s room, he gave up all pretense of disinterest and peeked inside.
There was no one in the bed.
No one in the room.
Climbing out of bed had been all fine and good, but the dizziness that overwhelmed Gemma made her realize she wasn’t going to be able to hightail it to freedom with any real speed. She was injured, and her body wasn’t eager to move.
“Damn,” she whispered, swaying as she headed toward the bifold closet doors which, when opened, revealed a small, built-in chest of drawers and little else.
She found her clothes in a plastic bag in the top drawer of the chest. They were identified by the number 434 written on the bag in black felt pen. Gemma pulled the items out carefully and gazed in a kind of awe at the blood-soaked T-shirt and ripped jeans. The fabric over one thigh was sliced as if by a knife and Gemma looked down at the thin, superficial wound that ran down her corresponding leg.
Another wave of wooziness grabbed her and she stumbled back to the bed, her clothes squeezed inside her fists. Her head throbbed. It took a lot longer than it should have to remove her hospital nightgown, and when she was undressed her eyes automatically moved to her left hip, where the hipbone did not flare out in the same way as it did on her right. An old injury, with a scar that was shaped somewhat like a dagger. She tried to remember what had happened there but her mind shied away. She sensed she knew, or almost knew, but her mind was locked down.
There was no underwear. No panties. No bra.
Girding her loins, she stuck one leg through the blood-spattered jeans and felt a wave of nausea that almost made her throw up. She slid the other leg inside with more care. When she’d gotten the pants on, she zipped them up and buttoned them, then paused a moment, gathering strength. A rip ran down one leg from thigh to just below the knee. She had more of a mental struggle with herself than a physical one as she dragged the T-shirt over her bandaged head. Dressed, she cautiously moved to the bathroom and, propping herself up against the sink, examined her reflection in the mirror. Her breath whooshed out in a rush of distaste. She turned away from the staring eye and bruised skin and white bandage.
Her insides quivered. God, she looked horrible.
And then she had a flash of the man she’d been chasing. The bastard with his putrid lust for children. But she couldn’t quite remember. Couldn’t quite put it together. She’d wanted to kill him. That, she could recall.
It took her long, long minutes to find her shoes: a pair of sneakers, also blood-spattered, and she put them on over her bare feet. There were no socks in evidence anywhere. By the time she’d accomplished these tasks she was exhausted, and with a sort of miserable dawning realized she had no purse. It wasn’t anywhere in the room, and for the life of her she could not recall what it even looked like.
Which led her to the next unwelcome discovery: she didn’t remember where she lived. She thought hard for a moment, begging her memory to come through, and suddenly it did. She was from Quarry. Quarry, Oregon. And she’d been making herself breakfast…some kind of…oatmeal? Her heart banged against her chest. She couldn’t remember, but she’d just told that detective what she’d eaten. What was it? What was it? Oatmeal and maybe some fruit?
Gemma lifted a shaking hand to her forehead and closed her eye. Her head throbbed. She shouldn’t leave the hospital. She wasn’t well enough. But something told her she had to go. Had to.
A memory shot like a streak behind her eyes:
She was looking out the window and chrysanthemums