City of Secrets (34 page)

One was the doctor.

Other voice was deep, guttural, unpolished. “It's all set, Doc. You don't got to worry.”

Nasal, whining noise, not the sure surgeon from a few minutes earlier.

“I'm expecting a call from the old man anytime now. We need to get this—this thing solved. I'd planned something—something easy and clean—”

Two more sets of footsteps, two voices, male and female. Whispered “Hush” by Jowls, grunt from the guttural man. Words more clear as the feet approached. Something about the patient in number 114.

Younger male voice spoke. “Good evening, Dr. Gosney.”

“Dr. Richardson.”

So Gosney was the bastard's name. Miranda leaned against the door, breath shallow.

“Number 114 tried to gouge out her eyes with her thumbs. Nurse Hill here arrived in time to prevent it, but I'm not sure if we'll be able to restore her sight. I know you were interested in ordering a lobotomy on the woman.…”

“Yes. Excellent candidate. Not until her injuries heal, of course. We can send her to Toller over at Stockton. He's the most experienced.”

The younger doctor made an agreeable noise. “Well, I'll keep you updated. Someone told me they saw a woman come in through the kitchen—another Jane Doe?”

Nervous chuckle from Gosney. “Another sex case, Dr. Richardson. We do get our share, don't we?”

“Certainly seem to.” Pause, then: “Go on, Hill, change your gown. Can't let the patients see that blood.”

The nurse replied meekly, “Yes, Doctor.”

Footsteps toward the laundry room.

*   *   *

Miranda backed up, and her left hand struck another knob. Closet.

She squeezed through the door and fought her way to the hot, humid corner, behind muslin and wool, uniforms and smocks on thick wooden hangers, smell of mothballs and ammonia threatening to make her sneeze. Held her breath, eyes watering.

The light flicked on, shone pale yellow through the half-inch crack at the bottom of the door. She was in a wardrobe filled with white-and-blue uniforms.

Hill was still in the outer room, grunting as she removed the bloodstained clothing.

Footsteps again.

Closet door flung open.

Look up, lady, not down, don't rummage in the corner, don't spot the black walking shoes, the bulge behind the last row of smocks. White flash, like a gunshot, like a cannon blast, like dust and dirt along the ancient olive groves in the little hut, bombs dropping from German planes, mangled flesh scoring the red Spanish earth with more red, more blood, more life. Goddamn it, Randy, stay where you are, don't run out like a goddamn bunny rabbit …

Miranda closed her eyes. The nurse shut the light, shut the door with a click.

Miranda nearly fell, knees buckling. Grabbed at a hanger, clatter of wood against wood.

Light in the outside room shut off. Hill was gone.

*   *   *

Didn't know how many seconds she shrank back in the corner, holding her breath. Blinked her eyes, still sore from the sudden light. Crept out of the closet, groping with her left hand, right arm cradling the pistol and pressing the purse against her side. Picked up the voices in the hallway again.

Guttural voice. “… never know what hit 'em. Got everything planted during the celebration.” Tone rose a little, boasting. “Won't be no opening ceremony next week. Not after tomorrow.”

“Keep your voice down, Ralph. All right. I'm sure she was bluffing. I still need to wait for Parkinson. Why don't you search for that man she was with … report back to me with any information.”

Grunt. “Office, Doc?”

“327. You never remember.”

She could hear the rough-voiced man grin. “Yeah, but I do the important stuff. Ain't my fault I get the numbers backwards.”

Heavy footsteps strode off down the perpendicular hall, back to the stairs and the kitchen.

Gosney sighed, took a few steps. Probably paused outside the file room door. Steps moved on. She let out another breath.

Miranda straightened up, groped her way back to the closet. Felt on the hangers until she found a loose smock. Set the purse down on her feet and wrapped the jacket around her, too big, but in company colors.

Picked up the purse, tucked it under her arm again, and carefully made her way out of the laundry room and into the hall.

Deep gasp of air, fight the knot of fear in the gut, impulse to run like hell.

She knew what Gosney and Parkinson and the Musketeers were planning.

June 7, a week from tomorrow, was the dedication of the Federal Building, address Government Way on Treasure Island.

Tomorrow, May 30, Memorial Day. They were going to blow it up.

*   *   *

The file room was unnumbered. Gracie still out cold, no sound from behind the door. Miranda glanced down at the Baby Browning in her palm. Made a handy blackjack.

Her legs were starting to shake, and she hurried down the corridor on the other side of the file room, direction of Gosney's footsteps.

Two nurses were walking up from the stairwell, laughing. She was in front of them. Slowed down, normal walk. Held her right arm pressed to her side. They came up the corridor, turned left toward the laundry room.

Breath again, steps quick.

Dr. Satterthwaite. Dr. Douglas. Break room, with lockers. Number 317. Unmarked. Dr. Roland Bennett.

Light under the office door for number 327.

A young male orderly was stomping down the corridor carrying a tray with covered dishes, whistling under his breath. He gave her a curious look, and she met his eyes, smiled, checked her watch, and strode purposefully toward the office door. Held up her hand as if to knock, then dropped it, waiting patiently.

He craned his neck, last glimpse, “Stardust” shrill and out of tune. She counted the footsteps as he walked away, turning left down the hall toward the stairs and kitchen.

Silence again. Except for the voice through Gosney's door. The doctor sounded distressed, voice higher pitched.

“Goddamn it, Hugh, I did what I thought best. I still think we— Yes, yes, I know. I know you've pulled all the strings.… Of course I don't want to see your son endang—” Pause while he listened. “All right.… No—perfectly legal. I can set it up in Petaluma. We've got boys on the force … not ours, Silver Shirts. Uh-huh. All right. No, we can use her real name. She was a whore, for Christ's sake. She'll be on the operating table tomorrow morning and just won't wake up.”

Pause again. Miranda inched closer, looking up and down the hallway.

“It'll go off. Ralph's got everything under control. Show those sonsofbitches who the real Americans are.… Yes, Hugh, I know. I am. I am calming down.… All right. I'll start setting it up with Petaluma. Yes—don't worry. You won't have to pull any strings with this one. Yes. G'bye now.”

Miranda took a deep breath.

Flung the door open.

*   *   *

His mouth gaped like a fish. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead, the full lips and cherubic cheeks flushed and discolored.

She shut the door with her left hand. Slid the safety off and aimed the Baby Browning at his chest with her right.

“Keep your hands on the desk where I can see them.”

He blinked a few times, denial, shock. Slowly splayed the fat, wormy fingers on the polished walnut surface, gray and brown hairs on the backs of his hands pricked upward by nerves.

“How—how did—”

“I want two things from you.”

He swallowed a few times. Nerve was coming back. “And if I don't comply? Shoot me, and you'll be committing yourself here or Tehachapi.”

“You were going to kill me anyway. I'm not afraid to die. Are you?”

Miranda trained the pistol on his chest. One of his hands slid toward the right.

Eyes narrowed, focused. Good soldier, Miranda. Good soldier.

“The bullet's already chambered. Move again and I'll blow your hands and kneecaps off before I get to your head.”

He sucked air in through his teeth, slid the hand back. “What do you want?”

“Medical records on Annie Learner and Pandora Blake. Proof of what you did to them—before you had them murdered.”

Big eyes, bloodshot. He sputtered, “I—I didn't order anyone to be killed. You were the first one—forced to it—”

“First but not last, is that how it works, Doctor? Or don't you think your little ‘bombs bursting in air' exercise is going to hurt anyone?”

Blood flared into his face again, back straight. Wrong tactic, never argue with a fucking fanatic. The Browning was slipping a little in her palm, and she shifted her weight, arms and legs tingling from the pressure, tense and tight.

“We're taking back America for Americans. This country's diseased, sick, needs to be purged before it can be healthy again. Jews, niggers, wops, micks—breed like flies—running the government, squeezing out taxpayers, taking our money. Getting us in a Jew war—Hitler's got the right ideas about how to make a country strong—”

“Like sterilizing the people you object to. And blowing up the Federal Building on Treasure Island.” Her stomach knotted with anger, overriding the fear and pain. Grip tightened on the Browning.

“Get me the goddamn files.”

He rose slowly from the chair, hands in the open. “I have to look inside the file cabinet. Names?”

“Learner and Blake. One was a Jewish girl whose pregnancy you aborted before you sterilized her. The other one was her friend. She wasn't pregnant, and thanks to you, never would be.”

She took two steps forward, gesturing with the small pistol, disgust and fury keeping both gun and voice steady.

“Be careful, Doctor. I'm degenerate enough not to need much excuse.”

He was shaking as he turned his back to her, bent over, and unlocked the middle cabinet.

“When?”

“Around April of last year. Through your hatchet man Gracie up at Nance's. Girls came looking for an escape and wound up in your little recuperation ward at Aalder's, hating themselves. Then they wound up dead.”

He riffled through green and manila hanging folders, sweat from the back of his neck making a ring around the high collar. Fetid smell of fear, clinging like cologne.

“We had nothing to do with that.”

“Maybe. Maybe you had your boss Parkinson get on the phone with the D.A., drop a few hints not to look into it much and pick up a quick fall guy, somebody with a connection to one of the girls, with a bad record and questionable politics.”

He froze, body awkward and stiff. Slowly spun to face her like Annie's music box ballerina, two green folders in his hands.
With a love that's true, always …

He whispered: “I knew you were dangerous. I should have just killed you when I had the chance.”

“Drop the fucking folders on the edge of the desk, Dr. Gosney. And back up.”

Blue irises quivered back and forth, never leaving her face. He stepped backward until he was standing against the still open filing cabinet drawer.

“Very good. Now sit down and call Parkinson. Tell him the bomb plan's already blown.”

Flame lit behind the eye, and he raised his chin. “I'd rather you shoot me.”

She reached out and picked up the two folders, transferring her purse to under her right arm, Browning up and aimed high. Stared at the doctor, stout, sleek, successful, wrapped in a fantasy, American hero. Deciding who was clean enough to live. Killing children not yet born.

Her eyes started to water, and his face blended into that of Father Coughlin and the “Christian Front Boys” on trial in New York. Wavered again, and now he was a Nazi soldier with shaved hair and a laughing mouth, setting a synagogue on fire in 1938, screams, desperate wails, pounding, flailing fists on the wooden doors.

And still it swirled like the merry-go-round on the Gayway, calliope playing the Horst Wessel song, sound of jackboots marching over Spanish soil, sound of German bombs dropping on Guernica. Shriek of women, blood and brains smeared on rags.

Clutching dead husbands. Cradling dead children.

The Browning spit fire and blew a hole in his stomach.

He fell back into his office chair, shock on his face, red swirling from the center of the small wound.

Miranda fled down the hall.

*   *   *

Footsteps. Doors slammed on either side. Somebody hit an alarm.

Headed down the corridor toward the stairway, met three men and two women dressed in uniforms coming straight at her.

She ran up to them, breathless. “Was that on this floor? I was on my way to number 114 when I thought I heard a shot.”

One of the shorter men nodded. “We're checking all the rooms. You see anything unusual, anybody who shouldn't be here?”

She wrinkled her brow as if in thought. “Y-yes, now that I remember. I was coming from the break room around the corner—about half an hour ago—and saw a heavyset woman with braids wandering the halls. Thought she was a visitor.”

He nodded. The other four were already sprinting ahead. “Go on down to the first floor. The alarm will bring security.”

She gave him a brave smile, walked quickly to the landing. Three more staff, a doctor and two nurses, running upstairs.

“Security here yet?”

The nurse brushed past her. “No. We need to go ahead and seal off the floor.”

Miranda nodded. “I'll make sure the kitchen knows. Whoever it is wouldn't dare try the front.”

The middle-aged doctor showed his teeth to her, quick glance at her legs. “Just getting back on duty?”

Mustered a Moderne wriggle, kilowatt smile. “Wouldn't you know it?”

Miranda took two steps at a time down the stairway, folders under her left arm with her purse, Baby Browning damp in the palm of her hand.

*   *   *

She made it through the kitchen quickly, staff there too frightened to speak to her. They huddled near the stove and a block full of butcher knives—just in case.