Blind Spot (11 page)

Stone said, “Maybe her deceased companion was her only friend.”

They all silently considered that, their collective gaze on the woman in the bed staring mutely at the opposite wall. In unspoken consensual decision, they moved into the hall and back toward the front of the hospital.

Tanninger asked, “It’s definite that someone tried to cut out her baby?”

“Oh, yes.” Freeson’s steps slowed. “She’s bandaged, but I could still show you the marks.”

Stone swept a hand to forestall him. “We’ve got pictures. Just wanted your take that medically speaking, these wounds weren’t just made in the struggle.”

“They were purposeful,” Claire said.

“They’re knife wounds,” Freeson put in. “She was slashed. Someone meant business.”

“The wounds weren’t deep,” Claire said. “They were—done a bit frantically.”

“What makes you say that?” Stone asked.

They were outside their original meeting room, but no one made a move to enter. Claire drew a breath. “It wasn’t surgery, Mr. Stone. It was hurried. It wasn’t thought out.”

“Whoever did it was clearly trying to get it done before they were caught,” Freeson said frostily.

Tanninger spoke up. “The trucker who found her said the male vic was still alive when he got there. Maybe John Doe intervened and made it impossible for the baby stealer to succeed.”

“Lucky for her,” Stone said. “But it probably cost him his life.”

Freeson started talking about the horror of violence that was such a part of everyday life these days until Stone interrupted with, “What happens when the baby’s born?”

Freeson looked nonplused, like the thought had never occurred to him.

Claire said, “Hopefully, our patient will have recovered enough by then to take care of the child.”

“And if she hasn’t?” Stone wasn’t giving up.

“Social Services will be called,” she answered, the words tasting like ashes on her tongue.

“Think our homicide vic was the baby’s father?” Stone looked at Tanninger, who shrugged and said, “DNA testing will tell. If he isn’t, the father could still be out there.”

“This is forward-tripping, and it isn’t doing us any good,” Claire said. “There’s every indication that our Jane Doe will recover and be able to tell us what we need to know.”

“That would be great,” Stone said. “The question is, when.”

“If there’s any change, you’ll let us know?” Tanninger had turned to Claire, but Freeson jumped in and assured him they would call them immediately as soon as Cat was able to communicate.

A few minutes later, they all headed for the front doors, and Claire, after saying her good-byes, hurried out ahead of the three men. Freeson, however, wasn’t that easy for Claire to shake.

“Claire!” he called after her as she turned the corner for the elevator.

She pressed the button, determined to outpace him, but he got there before the car opened. They stepped inside together.

“That was Melody Stone’s brother!” he declared.

“I’m aware.”

“What the hell was he doing here? He’s no longer a detective, is he?”

“I don’t know. I don’t care.”

“We should talk to Tanninger only. Not Stone. Not good for the hospital. I should alert Radke about this and maybe the Marsdons. Could be trouble.”

“For God’s sake, stop acting so damn guilty all the time. We didn’t do anything wrong. It was a tragedy. A horrible, shocking tragedy. Langdon Stone may have a vendetta against us, but—”

“A vendetta!”

“—it all comes down to the fact that Heyward had a psychotic break and thought his girlfriend and I were some deadly, evil beings. Heyward still doesn’t get it, from what I’ve heard. Calls for me. Calls for Melody. It’s…
awful.
Awful. And Stone may want some kind of revenge, blaming us for his sister’s death. Okay. It’s transference. He wants his sister back. We all get it. But don’t make it worse by running scared!”

“I’m not running scared!”

“Yeah?”

“It’s your name on the release form, Claire.”

It felt like she’d been slapped. Again. “Oh. Thanks so much.”

“I only mean, we’re all in this together.”

“No. You have your own cabal. I’m on my own. I always have been.”

“That’s the kind of talk that pisses everybody off!” Freeson declared with a shake of his head. “You’re not a team player. You don’t have the hospital’s best interests at heart.”

“I have my patients’ best interests at heart,” she shot back, stalking off the elevator car as soon as the doors whispered open.

“We all have to work together!” Freeson called after her.

But she’d already forgotten him. Her mind’s eye was full of the sights and sounds of Langdon Stone. He hated her. Blamed her. Had undoubtedly taken Cat’s case as a means to extract some sort of retribution.

Fine. Bring it on. She was tired of being everybody’s whipping girl.

God, she was a frozen bitch, Lang thought, his eyes on the slim legs of the good doctor Norris as she broke away from them. Figured. This whole place was a frigid tomb. Gave him the heebie-jeebies but good. He couldn’t wait to be outside and suck in some non-antiseptic-scented air. Why couldn’t Jane Doe be anywhere else but here? It felt a little like Melody’s ghost was hovering nearby. He definitely felt hidden eyes, and since he’d been accused by an ex-girlfriend or two of not being very imaginative, he wondered if he was changing, maybe not for the better. His subconscious was definitely trying to tell him something.

“What do you think?” Tanninger asked, his gaze on the retreating form of Dr. Freeson, who was trying to hail Claire Norris.

“I think we’re going to get more out of the file than from Jane Doe herself. At least for now.”

“How’s that going?”

“I called the trucker, Denny Ewell. He said he’d be happy to meet with me, but I’ve got a feeling I’m not going to learn much. Maybe I’ll have more luck with the stolen car’s owner.”

The plates had been run on the vehicle left at the crime scene, the one they believed to be driven by John and Jane Doe. It was registered to a Tillamook County farmer by the name of Tim Rooney who, when called, ranted that the damn thing had been stolen and when would he get it back? Lang was going to meet with him in person and see if he could learn anything further.

“I hope Jane Doe comes back in time for the baby’s birth,” Stone remarked.

Tanninger nodded. “That doctor…Norris. She’s the one who was treating Marsdon.” He spoke neutrally, but he’d clearly gotten the scope of what was going on.

“She’s the one.”

“This case is going to throw you in with her. Still want it?”

Lang was silent, absorbing. Finally, he growled, “Yeah. I got a problem with her and this hospital, though. Doc Freeson can sing its praises to the skies, but it doesn’t change anything.”

“A personal problem?”

“That’s about right.”

“That why you took this case?”

Lang shook his head. “Coincidence. This one’s just the first one my partner interested me in.”

“Coincidence,” Tanninger repeated, making a face as if it tasted bad. “Don’t go all cowboy on me and try to do it alone. Detective Gillette will be back, and she can take over.”

Lang immediately wanted to squelch that idea, but he was the outsider, so he nodded in agreement. He and Will headed out the doors to the portico together and ran directly into Pauline Kirby and her cameraman.

“Detective Stone,” she said, wearing her best smile. “Following up on the Marsdon case? Anything you can talk about?”

“There is no Marsdon case,” Lang said after a moment of quiet. “He’s incarcerated.”

“You were against him coming to Halo Valley, as I recall. You wanted him in prison.”

“I thought you reported news, Ms. Kirby. This is ancient history.”

“You’re making a visit here. That’s news. Are you checking up on Mr. Marsdon, seeing if you can change the situation?”

Will said, “I’ll talk to you later,” and with a faint smile, left Lang with the barracuda. Kirby seemed like she wanted to stop Tanninger, but she was ill equipped to trap them both. Lang was ready to walk, too.

“Did you speak with Dr. Norris about him?” Pauline asked.

That did it. He was done. He turned away from her, and with a last look across the building to the bank of windows on the opposite side and a view of the locked-down section of the hospital, Lang shook off Pauline Kirby and his heebie-jeebies over Halo Valley. The heavily secured side of the hospital was blocked mostly by a laurel hedge, but you got the idea. Heyward Marsdon III was there. His sister’s killer. He hoped the man was in a straightjacket in a five-by-five white, padded room, but with the Marsdon money, he probably had a pool table and cable TV at his disposal. A private masseuse. Private bathroom. Private everything.

Sick bastard.

“Detective Stone!” Pauline called to his retreating back as he headed to his truck.

He ignored her, throwing the Dodge into reverse. As he left, his eyes scanned the manicured grounds and facade of this, the benign side of the hospital. A wind was blowing the trees, exposing the yellowy underside of the birch leaves. The firs waved thick arms at him and rain dashed across the windshield. Behind the first building he could see the green and brown hills in the distance, above the roof of the locked-down side of the hospital.

“Rot in hell,” he muttered, throwing the truck into gear.

He had no compassion for his sister’s killer. Whatever demons Marsdon possessed had taken over and ended Melody’s life. He didn’t have to care. He didn’t have to feel mercy. He wanted her back and it wasn’t going to happen, so now all he wanted was justice.

In his rearview, he thought Pauline might be giving him the finger.

At six o’clock, Claire walked her last patient to the door, then grabbed her purse and coat, locked everything up, and left her office. She carried her raincoat over her arm as she strode across the gallery, down the front steps, and toward the hallway to 113. The morning room was mostly empty right now, but Darlene was on duty. She, too, was on Claire’s side, and now she plodded up to her.

“Checking on Cat?” she asked.

“Thought I’d pop a head in on my way out.”

“That was the brother, wasn’t it? The cop?” Darlene threw a glance toward the front of the building, through the sliding glass doors to the portico, parking lot, and waving fir limbs beyond.

“Ex-cop,” Claire said. “Melody Stone’s brother, yes.”

“What’s he doing here?”

“Working with the Winslow County Sheriff’s Department, apparently. Some kind of liaison.”

“Like a deputy?” Darlene asked.

“I didn’t ask specifics.”

She couldn’t wait to go home to her bungalow. The coziness was calling to her. Maybe Dinah would be home. Or, even better, she wanted to wrap herself in a blanket, go out to the deck, stare toward the ocean, and simply shut her brain down.

“He was hot,” Darlene added as Alison suddenly stepped into the hall ahead of them from one of the rooms. Cat’s room, Claire realized, as Alison said, “Dr. Norris? Cat’s trying to say something!”

Darlene and Claire picked up their pace as the aide ducked back in the room, her mop of curly hair bouncing. Claire entered and saw that Cat was lying inert on the bed, staring straight ahead, just the same as she’d left her earlier. She gave Alison a questioning look. “She was moving,” the aide insisted.

“Moving how?” Claire asked.

“I don’t know…like in distress…?”

And then, as if on cue, Cat slowly lifted a hand and plucked at her hospital gown. Her blue eyes were open wide, staring ahead to some tableau only she could see. It was eerie, and Claire heard Darlene and Alison both sweep in their breath. She, too, was suspended. As they watched, Cat clawed up her hospital gown and ran her hand over her bandaged wounds. Then she curled her fingers, lifted her hand as if holding a knife, and sliced across her stretched skin.

Alison emitted a little blurp of fear, her curly mop shivering a bit. She turned to Claire with scared eyes. “She knows someone cut her! Who would do such a thing?”

Darlene stepped forward and put her hand over the patient’s. The agitated motion ceased and Cat closed her eyes and sank back into the pillows as if exhausted.

A monster,
Claire thought.
That’s who.

Rita Feather Hawkings thought of herself as a good person.

She was good-looking, thirty-seven, voluptuous, and an LPN, licensed practical nurse. She had a good job and a boyfriend who loved her. Had loved her…although not now. Swallowing, Rita put that aside for the moment.

She was currently driving up the long, tree-lined drive toward Ocean Park Hospital, her place of employment, her rusted Chevy Malibu buffeted by winds off the ocean, winds that screamed up the drive and hammered at the hospital’s front doors. Those trees were gnarled and stunted, their leaves hanging on by the grace of God. Ocean Park was an unassuming one-story building, but it was a general hospital that took care of the needs of the people who lived along a fifty-plus mile stretch of the Oregon coast and eastward toward the Willamette Valley.

Rita barely noticed. She pulled into an empty spot in the employee lot to the south side and snarled at the sight of her sensible shoes. She wore three-inch heels off duty. Black heels. Like her hair. Rita was over half Native American, but there was no way of telling for sure because Rita’s mother was a mixture, a mutt, the product of a whoring father whose father was a whoremonger before him.

Rita’s Aunt Angela was a whore as well. But she was dead now, and Rita’s mother was the only one of her family still alive. Rita’s father was in jail, or so she was told, but she’d never known him anyway, so it didn’t matter.

Rita’s mother was a religious fanatic. A combination of Christianity mixed with Native American religious beliefs and folklore. Delores Feather Hawkings had warned Rita long and loud against the path that had led to Aunt Angela’s demise.

“She whored her way to death. Men. Sex. That’s how she died. That’s why she burned! Don’t you become like her, Rita. Don’t you walk that path.”

Rita ignored her mother as much as possible. She slept with lots of men, as often as possible. But she was no whore. There was no exchange of money, though there hadn’t been much love, either. Except for her boyfriend, but…no…she wouldn’t think of tragedy.

Sighing, she plodded toward the hospital’s front doors. Thirty-seven-year-old Rita, who looked twenty-seven, had wanted a baby since she could remember how to think. When she was young, she played with dolls that looked like babies. Carried them with her everywhere. When she learned what it took to have a baby, she started sleeping around. Yes, she knew they said she was going the way of her aunt. Yes, she was playing with fire, hoping to get burned.

But it was not to be. Rita never became pregnant. All these crippling teenage pregnancies tearing families apart, and nothing for her. Nothing! Oh, the gods were against her. It just wasn’t fair.

Before her slide into fanaticism, her mother had insisted that her daughter find a career. Rita had dutifully taken courses in the health care field and had thrown herself into several heated affairs with older doctors. She lied about birth control. She made certain she had sex on the most fertile days of her cycle. She ritualistically laid out corn and rice and drew her own blood, making a kind of fertility stew that she’d learned from her mother’s folklore.

But nothing worked.

As she grew older, Rita became convinced her mistake was in choosing older, more financially established males. It had seemed the smart thing to do, but it had absolutely prevented her from becoming pregnant. Now she was the ultimate “cougar.” She needed younger men’s virility. She suspected older males were what had been the problem. It was not her. It was not.

As she entered the hospital, the receptionist threw her a look. Rita knew it was because she purposely kept the top three buttons of her blouse undone and allowed a hearty view of cleavage. She lamented the fact that she would have to change into her uniform and went into the employee bathroom with a feeling of defeat. Changing into teal scrubs, she examined her body. Round, but not fat. Soft, but not doughy. Motherly, in a womanly way, without being matronly.

Crossing her hands over her abdomen, she closed her eyes for a moment and prayed to God, to the Heavenly Spirit, to the Fertility Goddess.

Hanging up her street clothes in a locker, she dropped her purse, then turned the combination lock. She walked directly to the lunchroom as she was twenty minutes early for her shift, sat down in one of the formed-plastic chairs at a Formica-topped table, and contemplated the babies that should have been hers.

The first was beautiful Selene. She’d had her for only a matter of hours before that bitch of a so-called friend, Vonda, had snatched her away and looked at Rita as if she were some kind of monster. Vonda had left Deception Bay and never returned and Rita lost Selene before she really had a chance to be a mother.

The second was Brian. He’d been abandoned in a stroller at the Big Ten strip mall and Rita had saved him. The police had been involved that time, and though Rita explained that she was saving Brian, there had been a terrible wrangle that had only gotten straightened out when Brian’s so-called mother, what was her name…oh, yeah, Linda, a drug and alcohol abuser, backed off and said she might have been mistaken on Rita’s intent.

They were all so wrong about her!

And then…and then…a real boyfriend…the perfect father!

Her fingers trembled as she reached into the pocket of her uniform and felt the newspaper clipping within. She was about to pull it out when Jake Tontor strolled in. Rita removed her hand, feeling a little thrill in her center at his lean, dark good looks, skinny ponytail, and lion’s prowl.

He walked past the vending machine and picked up one of the oatmeal raisin cookies from a paper plate. A gift from one of the staff do-gooders who occasionally brought doughnuts, muffins, or homemade cookies.

Rita was about to tell him that the cookie was stale, at least four days old, but didn’t get a chance because Carlita Solano slipped inside the room as if she’d been following him and said, “It’s a small world, y’know? A really small world. Things happen and all of a sudden you think, ‘Wow, I know her!’”

Jake actively ignored Carlita, which made Rita smile. She looked him over. He was around twenty-three with long, black hair tied at his nape. His skin was dark and reddish; he could have been a member of her mother’s tribe. Maybe he was. It
was
a small world.

Carlita got herself a Coke from the vending machine and said, “That girl’s on the news again. The one in the coma.”

“The blond good-looking one?” Jake asked, suddenly in the conversation.

“Yeah, I think I know where she’s from. I mean, she looks like all the rest of them.”

“Who are you talking about?”

“The cult! Those women that live at that lodge. You hardly ever see them and I’ve never seen this one before, but she looks like the rest of ’em. And they found her at that rest stop. Maybe she was driving from Deception Bay and heading toward Portland, trying to get away or something.”

Rita’s brain was rushing, fizzing, her ears buzzing. She hadn’t seen the news. She hadn’t seen
her
!

“She was in a wheelchair and kind of looking down.”

“Well, then how do you know?” Jake was skeptical, losing interest.

“That’s
why
I know. Just the side of her head, y’know?”

“Her profile.”

“Yes! It reminded me of them. Especially that one that used to work at the market years ago. Did you ever see her?”

“No. I thought you said they were in a cult.”

“They let that one out. Jesus, what was her name? And she was at the Drift In Market for a while. I wanted to ask her what it was like living in a cult, but I was a kid and never did.”

Rita wanted to clap her hands over her ears and scream.

“But that’s not this coma girl,” Jake said.

“No, no. This is another one.”

“You should call the police. They want to know who she is.”

“Yeah, but somebody killed the guy she was with. He could still be out there.”

“Call anonymously, then,” Jake said, sprawling into a chair at a table far away from Carlita. She didn’t take the hint and dropped into the seat across from him.

“I don’t want to talk to the police. The sheriff’s department arrested my brother ’cause they thought he was in a gang! That bastard Clausen is out for him.”

“I heard he was dealing dope.”

“You heard wrong! I’m an RN. He did something like that, I’d kill him.”

“Don’t let the patients hear you say that,” Jake drawled.

Rita gulped long breaths and reached into her pocket for the clipping, spreading it on the table with trembling fingers. She couldn’t listen to them anymore. Couldn’t…listen…Her attention narrowed, tunneled, zeroed in on the well-creased newspaper clipping. She’d actually found the clipping in this very lunchroom. Wasn’t one to take the paper herself.

She’d been debating what to do.

UNIDENTIFIED MAN SLAIN. PREGNANT COMPANION ATTACKED WITH KNIFE
.

Rafe,
she thought, her chest aching.
Rafe!

The article was old. She’d found it in the lunchroom and ripped it out. Had spent the last week wondering and worrying, sick at heart.

Rafe. And that Tasha bitch. Pregnant. With Rafe’s baby! Oh, it should have been hers. Would have been if Tasha hadn’t come between them. Her baby.

Hers and Rafe’s.

Rafe…her lover…

The emotions that ripped through Rita’s soul made her shiver all over and she had to tuck the clipping away before she shredded it by mistake. Climbing to her feet, she scooped up and crumpled the wrapper from the vending machine crackers someone had neglected to throw in the trash. Her fingers clenched hard enough to send a pain message along her nerves, but her brain simply wasn’t receiving.

Her baby.

Should have been hers.

Hers and Rafe’s.

Carlita threw Rita a look as she headed out of the lunchroom. Rita Feather Hawkings was weird. A licensed practical nurse, but not a very good one. On the other hand, Carlita was a very good RN. A great RN, she believed. And a warm person, where Rita was, well, kind of sexy in a dirty way, yet cold, sort of.

But she was pretty, Carlita could grudgingly concede. In a freaky, cold, stalker kind of way. Or something. Hard to really determine.

Having worn out her story about the cult girl, Carlita sought to regain Jake’s attention. “You ever notice Rita’s eyes? That woman has no soul.”

“Everyone’s got a soul.”

“Not everyone.”

“Don’t tell my mama that. She’s very big on the soul.”

“I don’t think she’s normal,” Carlita said. “She’s like a robot, but she can go all whup-ass on you so fast. One of Dr. Loman’s patients complained about her and she got in some serious trouble over it. And she made one of Dr. Harris’s patients cry, the other day.”

“Harris is an oncologist. His patients have cancer. They probably cry all the time.”

“Are you defending her?”

Jake yawned and tossed an empty Gatorade bottle that had been idling on the counter for days into the trash. “Two points,” he said automatically. Then, “I think I’m related to her.”

“To Rita? How?”

“Some distant cousin, or something. Her aunt, I think, was like the town whore. Disgraced everybody. Y’know, the bones they found at that house that burned a few years ago? That was her, I think.”

“Wow.”

He shook his head. “They’re all whacked. I gotta get outta this town.”

This was Jake’s mantra, and it used to bother Carlita, who had no intention of leaving this section of the coast. She lived in Deception Bay, a little town just south of the hospital, and she had visions of making a home there with someone special. She wanted to settle down. Have a few kids. Live on sex, wine, and love. Jake was definitely on her radar. He was too good-looking not to be.

“Where would you go?” she asked him.

“Alaska,” Jake said after a moment of thought, though Carlita suspected it was all an act. He liked saying he was leaving. Made him feel self-important. Her brother was like that, and he was still in Deception Bay working at a bar called Davey Jones’s Locker, which was a lowlife hole, all dusty fishing nets and tarnished copper diving bells and beer-soaked carpet. But Jake…he was doing so much better than Alonzo. Jake had a career path.

Still, they both shared the need to bring the attention on themselves with macho bullshit. It was just one of those annoying things you had to put up with when you were dealing with men, and Carlita liked to think she was good at dealing with men.

“Alaska, huh,” she said, sucking on the straw stuck in her Coke can. “Damn cold. Frigid. Like tundra or something.”

“Yeah, well.” He shoved back his chair and got up to leave.

Carlita tossed her drink in the trash and hurried after him, but Jake just strode on down the hall, his ponytail swinging in tandem with his hips. Rita Feather Hawkings was standing in the hall like she’d forgotten where she was going. She watched Jake cruise by, then turned her dead eyes on Carlita.

“Jake looks like my boyfriend,” Rita said.

“You have a boyfriend?” Carlita said in surprise. “Who looks like Jake? Tell me another one!”

She laughed long and hard.

Rita didn’t like Carlita Solano at all. Carlita was dark, like Rita, not like that blond bitch who’d stolen Rafe, but she was just as evil. She was just the same. Those women…those ones who always took the good ones. Always, always, always. “We’re getting married,” Rita stated flatly.

Carlita barked out a laugh and smoothed her long, sleek hair. She was athletic-club slim to Rita’s curves. Rita had a sudden mental image of herself: a serious face above a good body that was maybe getting just a little heavier than it should. She would have to diet, and smile like a flirt, so that when she saw Rafe again he would notice how good she looked.

A shiver fluttered under her skin. Rafe was
dead,
she remembered with a sob of pain. And that bitch had Rita’s baby inside her. She’d stolen Rafe from Rita, and Rita’s baby, too.

“What’s your boyfriend do?” Carlita asked. Rita didn’t answer and Carlita pressed, “You got a picture of him?”

Rita walked away, the newspaper clipping burning into her skin. “Rafe…Rafe…” she murmured brokenly. What was she going to do without him? Without his baby? Her thoughts were all jumbled. She couldn’t really sort through them. It was just so painful, and it was
her fault.
That blond bitch!