Stone’s eyebrows rose, and he thrust a hand through his hair, spiking the short, thick strands. He hadn’t heard from Naomi in years. Why now? he wondered.
“Well, they’re both going to have to wait,” he muttered, and reached across his desk for the coffee cup on the other side of a stack of files.
“There’s no coffee,” Chang said.
On his way to the break room, Stone stopped, then pivoted. The frown between his eyebrows deepened as Chang added, “Because there’s no power, remember?”
Stone’s expletive was brief and to the point. He glanced down at the half inch of yesterday’s coffee coating the bottom of his cup, considered his jangled nerves and tossed it back like a dose of bad medicine.
Chang shuddered and looked away so that no one would see him gag. For a cop, he had a remarkably weak stomach.
Stone dropped his jacket on the back of his chair as he headed for Frank Sanderson’s office. He knocked once, then went in without waiting for an invitation.
The chief looked up, took one look at the drawn expression on his detective’s face, as well as his blood-splattered clothing, and frowned.
“Were you hurt?”
Stone looked down, only now realizing how he must look. “No, it’s someone else’s blood.”
“Then, go home and get some sleep. Come back when you can think straight.”
Stone’s right eyebrow arched. “Why, mother, I didn’t know you cared.”
“Shut the hell up and do what I said,” Sanderson ordered. “This blackout isn’t over yet.”
Stone’s attitude shifted. “Sorry,” he said quietly. “But it was one hellacious night.”
Aware that his men had worked without routines or orders, filling in where they were needed most, Sanderson asked, “Where were you?”
“Vanderbilt Memorial.”
Sanderson thought of Olivia Stuart. She’d died there last night. God knows how many others had followed her exit. Glancing at the blood splatters on Stone’s shirt, he repeated himself. “Do what I said.”
Stone’s shoulders slumped under the weight of exhaustion. “Yes, sir.”
He shut the door quietly behind him and picked up his jacket on the way out of the precinct. His stomach growled—more from hunger than the cold, stale coffee he’d tossed down moments earlier. And he kept remembering the blood in Jessica Hanson’s hair and then, later, the lost, frightened expression on her face as they’d wheeled her away. He wanted—no—needed to know if she was all right. And as soon as he got a couple of hours’ sleep he would go back to the hospital and see for himself.
Chapter Two
Jessica watched with a wary eye as the nurse who was accompanying Dr. Noah Howell on his rounds removed the IV from her hand.
“Just take it easy when you get home,” Noah said as he signed off on Jessica’s chart.
Jessica glanced at the dim, flickering light in the hallway. Since she’d been admitted, she’d spent most of her time sleeping and was still confused about the time that had actually passed.
“Is the power still off?”
He nodded. The last few hours had been chaotic, and it would seem there was no end in sight.
“Yes, we’re still operating on generators, although I’m told that the crews are out in full force, but the mudslides keep knocking new poles down. I’m sure it won’t be long before power is restored. For now, all you need is a bed.”
Briefly fingering the small white patch of gauze above her right eyebrow, she winced. “That and a new head of hair.”
“We didn’t cut away all that much,” Noah said.
Jessica tried to smile. “That’s easy for you to say.”
He smiled and patted her on the knee. “It’s not so bad. And it will grow back. You’ll see.”
She sighed. “Sorry. I don’t usually whine. After all, what’s a little missing hair compared to everything else that’s been happening.”
The smile disappeared from Noah Howell’s face as he thought back. Olivia Stuart. No matter how hard they’d tried, it hadn’t been enough to save her, and somehow, that still surprised him. Just before she died, she’d whispered the word “coal.” Soon afterward, they’d lost her. Masking his weariness, he tried to focus his concerns on the patient before him.
“You have the instructions the nurse gave you. I’ll see you back in my office in a few days to remove the stitches, okay?”
A few days. What else, Jessica wondered, could happen between now and then? She nodded. “Okay.” Then she added, “These phones aren’t working, I don’t have my cell, and I need to call my sister so she can come get me and take me home.”
Dr. Howell handed her his phone. “Use this.”
The line was busy. “I’ll have to try again after I get dressed.”
Moments later, she was alone. She glanced at the clock. It was close to five p.m. She thought of going home to a house without power, without refrigeration—possibly without a means of communication since her phone was still on her desk at work. She looked down at the wad she’d made of the covers and tugged at the neck of the hospital gown she was wearing. While the aspect of those discomforts was disheartening, the idea of crawling into her own nightgown—and into her own bed—was enough to make it all worthwhile.
She sat up and looked out the window. On the surface, everything about Grand Springs seemed the same. The lush green of the majestic mountains marking the skyline of the city were capped by low, overhanging clouds, but for now, the rain had stopped. The sky was dark and overcast. Night would come early.
Dusk was near. Normally, streetlights would be coming on and people would be closing down businesses and hurrying home for the evening meal. But not tonight. The streets were eerily empty, and the lack of vehicles on the roadways seemed an ominous sign of impending doom.
Suddenly, she wanted to be home. To find the familiar within her own house before dark. Throwing back the covers, she got out of bed and went to the closet. Brenda had brought her clean clothes as well as the discount flowers. At least she wouldn’t have to go home in torn and bloody clothing.
But getting dressed wasn’t as simple as she’d expected it to be. Every time she leaned down, the room started to spin and she was forced to grab onto the bed to keep from falling. It took all she had just to put on her underwear and jeans, and by then she was in a cold sweat. Barefoot and clutching a T-shirt to her chest, she staggered to a nearby chair, where she sat staring at the tennis shoes still in her closet. They were less than a yard away and it might as well have been a mile. Hating this feeling of helplessness, she closed her eyes and leaned her head against the wall.
“Bug breath.”
It was a fair comment on her condition, as well as her state of mind.
* * *
This time when Stone entered Vanderbilt Memorial, he went in the front door and took the stairs on the right to the third floor. He came out of the stairwell, his long stride carrying him down the hall with single-minded intent. Under the weak glow of the generator-powered lighting, the shadows beneath his eyes seemed darker, the strain lines at the corners of his mouth deeper, and the sun-bleached highlights in his hair gleamed like wheat in a noonday sun. His expression was grim. It was what his friends called his “cop face.” But all he needed was some more rest. And that would come, after he’d seen for himself that Jessie was really all right. He’d tried to talk himself out of this trip