Blind Spot (25 page)

“Weirdness?” Claire asked.

“A lot of interbreeding in that family, through the years. Strange things develop. And there was this shaman that Sarah slept with.”

“That’s lore, Dad. Not fact.”

He waved a hand at Dinah. “Unverified facts are still facts.”

Claire was beginning to see that Herm Smythe’s supposed book about the Colony might be more fiction than truth.

A nurse entered the room and looked apologetic. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know Herm still had visitors.”

Herm yawned again and Claire said, “We were just leaving.”

“Don’t go!” he implored.

“I’ll be back later, Dad,” Dinah said, and then she and Claire were in the hall. “Did any of that help?”

“I don’t know,” Claire said honestly. “I’ll talk about it to Cat, see if she reacts to anything. Maybe a little history of the Colony might jar something loose.”

“You might want to leave out the part about my father being a swordsman in his day,” Dinah said, her lips quirking.

“There will undoubtedly be a few remarks that I’ll edit,” Claire assured her.

In the moment after Tasha recognized Rita and her intention to kidnap her from the hospital, there was a chance she could get away. That she could win. Turn the tables on her. A single moment were she tensed, ready to leap away.

But Rita Feather Hawkings, Rafe’s ex-girlfriend, was strong, determined, and mean. She grabbed for Tasha, who stumbled backward, would have fallen if Rita’s arms hadn’t caught her and dragged her to her feet.

The knife was against her neck. Tasha still had the wounds on her shoulder and back from Rita’s first attack.

And in her moment’s hesitation, Tasha lost.

“I won’t let you take my baby,” Tasha said, eyes closed, body tense.

“You want to get out of here. I’m taking you out of here.” She pushed her into the wheelchair. “If you fight me, I’ll have to stop you.”

Kill you.
That’s what she meant.

“You have my baby,” she stated flatly.

Tasha understood fully the complexity of Rita’s problems. Rafe had mentioned her. Tasha had seen her standing outside the bars of Siren Song, eyes burning, hands bent into claws, breathing fury at both her and Rafe.

She had to fight Rita but knew she would lose.

But if Rita could get her outside these walls…?

“I won’t fight you,” she said.

And with that Rita led her to the side door, using her keycard and punching in a code, and then they were into the raging, wind-tossed night where rain and wet leaves flew around her and Tasha greeted them with growing excitement.

And felt a gut-twisting contraction, as hard as anything she’d ever experienced.

Lang drove all the way back to his house outside Portland through a black night full of flying leaves, small limbs, and slamming rain. He made a quick stop at a fast-food restaurant for three crunchy tacos and a cola, and when he entered the house, he set down the cola, threw off his jacket, then headed straight to the refrigerator for a beer. Lost in thought, he munched down the tacos and drank the beer, not remembering much of either.

A lot of information had been gleaned and discussed in one day. A lot of miles traveled. A lot of surprising moments, not the least being his own attitude around, and interest in, Dr. Claire Norris.

He’d been a jerk in some ways. Reminded himself of how he’d been with women in his youth.
His youth.
Weren’t those embarrassing high school and college days behind him? Good God, he’d said some dumb things.

He should be furious with her over the hospital’s arrogance in moving Heyward Marsdon from the lockdown side of their facility. He was furious.

But it wasn’t really her fault.

Melody’s death wasn’t her fault.

Nothing was her fault.

“God. Damn. It.”

Annoyed with himself, he fell back onto the couch and raked his hands through his hair. Was he doing the right thing? Moving to Tillamook? Leaving the Portland area and all the bad and sad memories? Leaving his friends, too?

Was he wandering around in this investigation that really wasn’t his own because he was paralyzed by indecision? Afraid of commitment?

But no. He’d committed to O’Halloran and the TCSD. He just hadn’t pulled the trigger about coming on board. Why? he asked himself now. Why, why, why?

There was no answer. He was in a self-imposed limbo. The same limbo he’d wallowed in since Melody’s death, and maybe even before…

Grimacing, he thought about his last year with the Portland P.D. He’d done his job. Had even had moments of brilliance. He’d enjoyed being partnered with Curtis, whom he considered one of his closest friends.

But…

He’d been itching for something, some kind of change. In his personal life. Something meaningful. A direction. A plan.

A woman.

And then Melody died and his focus shifted. Sharply and completely. All he could think about was revenge and justice, not necessarily in that order. He’d wanted Heyward Marsdon to hurt. He wouldn’t have cared if the man died. A part of him wanted him scrubbed from the planet.

And he wanted the damn supercilious Marsdon family to hurt like he hurt. He wanted to be the one to
make them hurt.

And the lovely Dr. Claire Norris with her shining dark hair, serious eyes, careful words, and deep trauma was someone else he could focus his anger and frustration on. Even though she was a victim, too. Of both Heyward III and the damn, miserable hospital bureaucrats who worshipped funding over all else.

This case, which Trey had asked him to take, had undoubtedly conspired with Drano for him to take, along with the willing cooperation of Sheriff Nunce and Detective Will Tanninger of Winslow County…this case had thrown him right back into direct contact with Halo Valley Security Hospital and the woman who’d treated the man who’d killed his sister.

Was that karma? Bad luck? An opportunity to finally deal with his own unresolved emotions?

He jumped off the couch and headed to the refrigerator for another beer, except the refrigerator was empty. Hanging on the door, he stared into the empty shelving under the bright bulb. No food. No clothes, really, either. He was packed up and gone. This was just a side trip, a zigzag, a lateral move away from the path he’d chosen. A respite. A retreat.

A run away…from Claire Norris.

He closed the refrigerator door.

“I like her,” he said aloud to the empty room, then shuddered. Jesus, he was an idiot.

Before he could descend further into self-flagellation, he headed for the bathroom and a hot, or maybe a more deserved cold, shower.

Tasha was in Rita’s car, and Rita was driving fast down black highways with dim light from the lamps on the front of the car. Headlights. With barely enough illumination to make out the broken white lines in the middle of the road.

Tasha didn’t know how to drive. Her trip with Rafe had been one of two other car rides she’d even experienced in her life. That night she’d buried her head against him, almost afraid to look out to the road. It made her feel kind of queasy.

But tonight she was focused. Watching. Every nerve fiber on alert. Like the funny feel after an electric storm. The lifting of the hairs on her arms.

She felt the wave of another contraction begin. She wished she could time them. She knew she had to time them. But they were no more than five minutes apart. Was that close? Was birth imminent? She didn’t know.

She closed her eyes, retreating into a distant world. But she had to stay alert. Had to stay in front of the blackness that wanted to come for her.

Her body was making up its own timetable about when this girl child would come into the world. She knew it was a girl. It was always a girl with them, wasn’t it? Except for Nathaniel. And he’d been sick. Worse than Lillibeth, by far, even before her accident. He wasn’t meant to survive. Tasha had known that early on.

“What’s wrong?” Rita asked sharply.

She couldn’t tell her about the contractions. Couldn’t let her know. Had to hide it if she could. “Keep your eyes on the road, bitch,” she said through gritted teeth.

She felt rather than saw Rita’s surprise. It was always that way. No one expected a girl with angelic looks to be so harsh. Oh, she knew what she looked like. She knew the effect she had on strangers, though Catherine had done her best to keep Tasha hidden away, locked up, imprisoned.

“You fooled Rafe, but you don’t fool me,” Rita said.

“They’ll look in on me. They’ll know I’m gone.”

“You were leaving anyway. Or trying to. It’s no different.”

“They’ll come find me.”

“They’re going to realize that you killed Rafe,” Rita said as if it were complete fact. “They’re going to figure it out.”

“You killed Rafe,” Tasha said.

“I loved Rafe. And you took him from me. Forever.” Her voice was toneless, emotionless.

The edges of the dark curtain were coming closer.
No…not yet…

Tasha fought the blackness, nearly paralyzed with fear. Sinking into her seat, she squinched her eyes closed, gripping her hands together as another wave of pain squeezed her from the inside out.

The phone call woke Lang from a light sleep. He’d gone to bed early from the simple fact that he had no TV at his house any longer and there had been nothing to do. He was mildly surprised that he’d actually fallen into slumber. Groping around, he found his cell on the floor beside his bed, the only piece of furniture still in his bedroom. Had to move the damn thing soon and finish the move. Needed a little better weather before he strapped it onto his pickup, and he didn’t feel like paying some moving guy a minor fortune for the honor of the duty.

“Stone,” he rasped.

“It’s Claire Norris.” She sounded slightly panicked. “I’m sorry to bother you. Cat’s gone. Jane Doe!”

Her voice washed over him, strong and full of emotion. It took a moment for him to hear her words. “Gone. How?”

“Maria, one of the night nurses from Side A, just called me. She went to check on Cat and her room was empty. Cat left her hospital gown but took her shoes. I was going to get her clothes but I haven’t yet. I don’t know what she’s wearing, where she could be. There’s been an all-out search of the hospital, but no one can find her.”

Lang blinked several times, trying to get his brain in gear. “Okay, slow down. Could she get past the doors to the medical offices?”

“I don’t see how,” she said, then, “I called Dr. Freeson, who already knew about Cat’s disappearance because Maria phoned him first. And Avanti was on call, so I’m playing catch-up. Freeson said they’d apparently looked everywhere. Even checked Side B, but she would have been seen on the monitors, and anyway, I don’t see how she could get past any door. She doesn’t have a keycard. She doesn’t know the code.”

“Did anyone come in to see her?” He was out of bed, searching for his clothes in the dark. “If she’s really gone, someone had to help her.”

“No one’s been to see her. She doesn’t have visitors.”

“Claire, consider this. Could she have been faking all this time?”

“No.” She was positive. Then, “At least not in the beginning. She was out of it.”

“What about now?” he pressed.

“She’s been reactive. You saw. And able to walk. She just hasn’t spoken to anyone yet.” She inhaled sharply suddenly.

“What?” he demanded.

“Well, Gibby—Bradford Gibson, one of the patients—says she talks to him. But Gibby thinks everyone talks to him and that’s not necessarily true.”

“You’re on your way to the hospital?” He looked around for a clock but the room was pitch black. His watch was on the bathroom counter, so he stumbled into the bathroom and flicked on the light. 10:30
P.M
.

“I should be there in thirty minutes.”

He should have stayed at the coast. “It’ll take me two hours to get there,” he said, pissed all over again that he hadn’t completely moved to Tillamook, where he would be forty-five minutes from the hospital on the outside.

“I called you just to let you know. Because of the investigation. But there’s no need for you to come to the hospital tonight.”

“I’m coming. If she’s up and moving around, maybe she’s able to talk more than we’ve thought.”

“She’s got to be on the premises. I just…wanted you to know.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Thank you,” she said humbly.

He snapped the cell phone shut, stubbed his toe on the edge of the bathroom door in his hurry, swore violently, and hopped back into the bedroom to find the rest of his clothes and boots.

Rita parked the car in her mother’s driveway. Delores would be asleep, and if she wasn’t, Rita had sedatives that would take care of that matter. She couldn’t bear the thought of her mother’s nagging. She had important matters to deal with.

Tasha’s eyes were closed, her whole body clenched. She was breathing shakily and moaning. At first Rita thought it was an act, which infuriated her, but now that they were stopped and she could look at her, she thought maybe Tasha was really in labor.

The baby was coming!

She couldn’t leave her in the car while she dealt with Delores. She didn’t trust that Tasha wouldn’t run away, although how far she would get in her condition, Rita couldn’t say. Not far.

Rita hurried around the back of the car to the passenger door, her hair wet and straggling in the rain. She yanked open the door and pulled Tasha out by sheer willpower and strength. The girl dropped to her knees in a mud puddle but Rita prevailed, arms under hers, dragging her toward the short flight of wooden steps that led to the back door. She banged inside, smacking her elbow. Tasha groaned and jerked, but she was only half-conscious. Good.

“Rita? What are you doing?” her mother called from the bedroom.

Rita manhandled Tasha to the couch, a sagging affair with worn cushions and arms. Tasha was soaked to the skin and pale in the faint light thrown from the windows of the nearest house, the only light available as the community didn’t have streetlights.

A sorry place to live. A sorry place to be. Rita Feather Hawkings and her child were going to run far away from here. They had to.

She felt a pang for the job she’d briefly enjoyed, but it was nothing. Nothing!

She was going to have a baby. Hers and Rafe’s!

“Rita!”

Tasha’s eyes moved behind closed lids. She was trying to wake up.

Rita hesitated briefly, then scurried to the kitchen. Quickly, she poured a glass of water and shook out a tumble of pills from the bottle she kept inside a high cupboard. One sedative normally did the trick, but two would guarantee Delores would remain under longer. Deeper.

She took three. A gamble. But worth it. Hurriedly, she crushed the tablet on a small plate with the back of the spoon. Then she slid the powdery dust into the glass, stirring it quickly with the spoon.

“Rita! Stop ignoring me at once!”

A quick look in on Tasha. She was writhing on the couch.

“Rita!”

“Coming, Mother,” she called, racewalking down the hallway, balancing the glass.

“What are you doing? Why are you banging around, making so much noise? Who’s here? Did you bring someone home with you? You’re late!”

Delores was in bed. She was ambulatory, though she walked very slowly and precisely, but she chose to stay in bed and let Rita wait on her if she could. Now she glared at her daughter as Rita handed her the glass. Delores took the drink and threw it onto the floor. “What are you trying to do?” she yelled.

Rita stared at the dripping liquid spreading on the thread-bare carpet. “Mother!”

“I don’t want a drink. Do you know how late it is? I haven’t had dinner yet!”

Rita couldn’t think. Could not think. Her brain whirled and whirled, but no thoughts evolved. “What about Sharon?” she finally asked, referring to the woman who lived down the end of the block and helped out when Rita’s hours prevented her from getting her mother’s meals ready. This dependency of Delores’s was new and growing bigger, a yawning, sucking hole of quicksand that Rita was determined to escape.

“Sharon has a family. Like you do. She can’t be here every minute. Where have you been?”

“The hospital. My new job.” Rita stumbled back toward the kitchen and the pills. She would force them down her mother’s throat if she had to.

Her hands shook. She poured out three more tablets. Shook out a fourth. For a long moment she looked at all the tablets in the bottle. Her mother wanted dinner. There was nothing in the house except canned goods.

“I’m making you soup,” she called loudly.

“I don’t want soup!”

Cold fury ran through Rita’s veins as she turned on the only working electric burner, grabbed a can of chicken noodle soup from the cupboard they used to store their meager supplies and a saucepan from its place on the dish rack where Sharon had left it. Then she yanked out a handheld can opener from the drawer, furiously turned the handle until it was open, and dumped the contents into the pan.

Soup was what her mother was going to get.

She crushed four tablets and added them into the mix. Maybe she should make it five?

As if coming out of a trance, Rita suddenly realized she hadn’t heard Tasha moaning.

She stumbled into the living room and to her disbelief realized the blond bitch was gone!
Gone!

How?
She’d been unconscious. In labor.

Hadn’t she?

Rita raced outside and glanced around, shielding her eyes to the rain. There was blackness all around. And wind and flying leaves and small sticks.

“You can’t hide!” she screamed into the night, lurching around the corner of the house.

Tasha bent over, hidden behind a stack of fir chunks three houses away, her hand clamped over her mouth. The contractions were still coming, but they weren’t as intense as she’d led Rita to believe. What she’d thought were labor pains had lessened. She was beginning to think that maybe this wasn’t the baby coming immediately. Maybe it was false labor. Or her body’s reaction to extreme fear.

Whatever it was, she was capable of movement. Escape.

She could find help.

She knew where she was. She’d listened hard to Rafe’s loose accounts of his life and how he knew Rita Feather Hawkings. They lived in the same community. A small town in the foothills of the mountains, not all that far from the lodge. She also knew, probably far more than he did, that his community had been founded by Native Americans. The people in the foothills served Tasha’s ancestors at the lodge and the town of Deception Bay. Rafe was half Native American, and Tasha thought she might be distantly, distantly related to him. She’d stumbled upon the fact that a member of her family had once had a torrid affair with an Indian shaman. Catherine denied that fact as fable, but Tasha knew Catherine would do anything to keep Tasha and her sisters from knowing anything about their past, and Tasha hoped it wasn’t the shaman who’d scared her as a child.

But Rafe was no longer here. Rafe. Innocent, trusting father of her child.

Rain ran down Tasha’s face and she brushed water from her eyes and off her nose.

And then she saw Rita rush into the road, whose shallow ruts were rapidly filling with water, the scattered gravel nearly flooded. She was staggering in the downpour, her head whipping from side to side. Fearing detection, Tasha folded herself even farther behind the woodpile and pressed herself to the concrete basement wall of the adjoining house.

She wished she’d had time to get a knife from the hospital.

She had to get away from Rita.

Had to save herself and her baby.

But how?

And who? Who could help?

Rita threw herself forward, half-running into the rain, and Tasha, peering from behind the woodpile, soaked to the skin, suddenly knew where she could hide.

All she had to do now was find the place.

Why did you call him?
Claire asked herself.
Why? What do you want from him?

She wheeled the Passat into the nearest spot to the hospital portico, wheels sliding in the standing water. At the corner of the building one of the drainpipes was dumping a torrent of water onto the saturated ground.

She wanted to thunk her palm to her own forehead. She was losing it. She found him attractive, too attractive. Hadn’t wanted to see him leave earlier.

But it was professional suicide to bring him to Halo Valley, right into the snake pit with Freeson and Avanti.

“Damn,” she muttered fervently, jumping out of the car. She flipped up the hood of her raincoat, holding the two sides close with one hand, not bothering with the zipper. Hurriedly, she ran through the rain to the portico, pulling out her keycard and punching in the code. Lori was long gone from her desk but there were floor lights illuminating the rug and dimmed overhead can lights keeping the place from total darkness.

Avanti, Freeson, Maria, and Greg were standing in a tight circle in the foyer. They waited for her to enter, then waved her toward the meeting room, heading that way themselves before she’d actually crossed the hospital threshold. She hurried across the carpet and caught up to them as Avanti pressed the button and flooded the meeting room with light.

“She has to be here,” Claire said, before anyone could speak.

“She can’t be gone,” Avanti agreed. He looked bedraggled and kind of rumpled, far from his usual sleek, in control self, but then the weather was horrendous.

Freeson said, “Well, she’s nowhere. Explain that.” He seemed to expect an answer from Claire.

“You’ve checked all the rooms?” She turned to Maria, who looked half-panicked.

“She wasn’t in her room,” the nurse said, shaking her head. “She left her hospital gown.”

“She’s naked?” Freeson looked scandalized.

“Tell me what happened,” Claire said, ignoring him.

“I was making sure everyone was in their room before I turned on the alarm,” Maria said. “It was about nine. But when I got to Cat’s room, it was empty.”

“What about Marsdon?” Claire asked.

Avanti said flatly, “His door was, and is, locked. He’s inside. This has nothing to do with him.”

“His room was checked?”

“Yes.” Avanti was positive.

“About half of the rooms were checked before it was lights out,” Freeson said. “Marsdon’s was one, even though it’s always locked.”

Claire nodded. Although most of the patients could come and go as they pleased during the day, the rooms were equipped with alarm locks at night, which kept patients from wandering the halls but also alerted the staff that they were trying to get out, which could mean they needed help. Maribel, for instance, could never remember to press the lighted button on the call buttons that were located in both her bedroom and bathroom. If she needed something, she banged against the door until someone came to her aid.

“She was definitely gone by nine
P.M
.,” Freeson said.

“Naked,” Avanti reminded.

“Someone would have noticed if she didn’t have clothes,” Claire said. “She had to have been dressed.”

She then asked which rooms still needed to be checked and Freeson swept a hand toward the north hall.

“So you haven’t checked Gibby’s room yet?” Claire asked.