Nowhere Safe (22 page)

“I do.” Marginally. But that wasn’t going to stop her from getting to Jake.

 

 

The hospital was quieter when September arrived and she was able to show her ID and be directed to a waiting area on the second floor where she was told the doctor on duty would find her. She was a little taken aback when it turned out to be Dr. Denby, the authoritative physician who’d run afoul of Gretchen on a case earlier in the summer. But then, September told herself, she’d been at Laurelton General enough times in the past week that it would be a surprise if she didn’t run into someone she recognized now.

Denby said, “It’s Detective . . . ?”

“Rafferty,” she reminded him, standing up to hold out her identification. The officious doctor with the slight build and blond, close-shaved beard leaned forward. His gaze scanned her ID but he kept his hands to himself. She wondered if it was because she looked ill. Based on the dispensers of hand sanitizer that were tacked on the walls, she thought it might just be standard policy to touch visitors as little as possible in order to keep the germ transfer down.

“Ah, yes. I remember you.” His eyes moved past her, as if he expected Gretchen to appear.

“Detective Sandler isn’t with me.” September answered the unspoken question and he looked somewhat relieved.

“You’re here to see about Mr. Westerly,” he guessed.

“Yes. How is he?”

“He hasn’t regained consciousness yet, so you won’t be able to interview him.”

September felt her legs quiver. She wanted to appear strong, but she was definitely feeling weak. “Has his family been alerted?”

“His parents are with him now. And his brother, I believe.”

“Could you bring me up to date on his condition?”

He gestured for her to sit back down and September practically fell into the chair. Dr. Denby had resented them the last time they were there, but they’d been asking to interview a patient who was recovering from surgery and the doctor had been adamantly against the interview. This time he just laid out the medical facts without September having to go through the same rigmarole, the upshot being that Jake had actually gone through the windshield and into the wall. He’d apparently thrown up his arms to protect himself and both of them were broken, one at the wrist, the other at the elbow. The elbow injury was going to require surgery. There were lacerations on both arms and his face, but what the medical staff was watching the closest was the head injury Jake had sustained upon impact, the one that had created a swelling in his brain and was a direct cause of his unconsciousness.

September listened quietly, combating the spots before her eyes with long, deep breaths. She wasn’t sure if her reaction was because of the virus or the feeling of helplessness that invaded her at the long list of Jake’s injuries. Probably a combination of both.

She noticed Denby kept talking about “if ” he regained consciousness, not “when,” and the distinction made anxiety swell inside her like a rising balloon. She spent several long minutes internally tamping down her fears, not speaking, and finally Denby got to his feet again, ready to move on.

“Thank you, Dr. Denby,” she managed to tell him.

He nodded curtly and turned away, then stopped and glanced back as if he’d forgotten something. September was trying to keep him from guessing the extent of her fears and she just wanted him to get a move on before she lost professionalism entirely and went into hyperventilation or worse.

“Detective, if you wish to speak to Mrs. Cheever, I let her know that her daughter’s body has already been taken to the hospital morgue. I’m sure she’s already there.”

Loni Cheever died when her chest was crushed by the steering wheel and her ribs punctured her lungs and heart. She might have survived if she and Jake had been found sooner, but too much time passed before her car was discovered by a couple taking an after dinner walk.

September didn’t go to find Marilyn Cheever. She wasn’t the crash investigator no matter what impression she’d given Denby. She was at the hospital in a personal capacity and that was all, and since she couldn’t help Jake, and maybe could harm him, she didn’t go into his room, either. Instead, she spent the rest of Sunday back at his house, recovering, calling the hospital and the doctor every hour, making a complete pest of herself, but unable to stop doing it. She needed to know that Jake was going to be all right, that he wouldn’t suffer the same fate as Loni. She was out of control and out of her mind with worry.

Late in the day she put a call in to Jake’s parents. The Westerlys were holding it together—just. They told her Jake’s arm surgery was scheduled for later in the week. Everyone was just waiting to see when he would wake up. She called Colin next and was told more of the same, then spent the next few hours fielding calls from her own family as they each heard the news. She told them, “Thanks for calling. No, there’s no change. I’ll let you know when there is,” too many times to count.

It was one of the longest days on record.

The only respite from her worries about Jake were her conversations with Wes, who’d managed to stay at the department for a couple of hours before throwing in the towel and going home, too. With Maharis’s help, he kept the department running—sort of—and even got some work done.

“Gloria del Courte called you back,” Wes told her the first time they spoke. “The one Ballonni’s wife thought was hot for him.”

“Yes, I know,” she said impatiently. “What did she say?”

“That she was
not
hot for him. Actually, she thought he was kind of skeevy.”

“In what way?”

“Del Courte thinks she caught him with some child porn pictures. Wasn’t sure, because he swept them up before she could get a good look. It was after that, though, that he kinda came on to her, like he was trying to deflect, make her think he found her attractive, that kind of thing.”

“She thinks it was his way of covering up.”

“Yup. Like he was interested in her, a grown woman, not little girls.”

For just an instant an image of Jake, throwing up his arms, the wall rushing toward him, ran across the screen of her mind. She squeezed her eyes closed to shut it down. She couldn’t think about him. Couldn’t. “Do you think . . . that . . . Ballonni may have hinted about his ‘attraction’ to del Courte to his wife? Maybe saying things about how great one of his coworkers was, how nice, how much he liked her?”

“Talking her up, you mean?”

“Yeah. Like that.”

“Better to let the wife think you’re interested in another woman,” Wes said.

“Exactly.” September swallowed against a dry throat. With difficulty, she was keeping her wandering mind on the case. “Janet saw that television show, about autoerotic asphyxiation. She put that together with her husband and del Courte and thought his being tied to the pole was sexual.”

“You don’t think she suspects, then, about his possible interest in young girls.”

“Uh-uh,” September said.

She ended the phone call by asking Wes to follow up on Shannon Kraxberger by finding the Kraxberger’s new address, but when Wes called back he said he was still working on it, but he was about to head home.

Just before he hung up on their last call, he said, “Your brother located Bill Quade. I don’t know what he said to him, but Bill just gave up his brother. Said he’s back in Oregon, somewhere on the coast. Even coughed up an address.”

“Way to go, Auggie.” September infused some enthusiasm into her voice with an effort.

“You sure you’re okay?” Wes asked. “This bug is a nasty motherfucker.”

Best day of my life.
A guy she’d dated briefly would answer any question like Wes’s with that answer. She wanted to say it now just to prove that she was her old self, but she couldn’t quite manage it. Instead, she said, “Maharis said Stefan’s van is being checked out. Ask him to call me if anything comes out of that.”

“Won’t be for a while yet.”

“Is he there?”

“Working on that missing person case. Said he was going to Gulliver’s later.”

Fast losing focus, September let Wes go. She went into the kitchen and looked into Jake’s refrigerator, hoping for anything that looked appealing. Not a damn thing.

Monday morning she got up, went through her morning ablutions like an automaton, then headed to the hospital. Still no change in Jake’s condition. This time she dared to go into his room, but she hung back in the doorway, not touching anything, in case she was still contagious. She was glad to look into his face but was struck silent by the paleness of his skin beneath his dark beard growth, and the IV drip that seemed so fragile a lifeline to his return to health.

She felt weak as she left, and she forced herself to stop at the small coffee counter and pick up a cup of tea and a bran muffin, which she ate in the car before she headed to work.

She arrived at the department ahead of time but Lieutenant D’Annibal was already there. He looked a little peaked himself, but he was all business.

“Bring me up to date on the Harmak case,” he ordered her.

With Wes not in yet, D’Annibal was looking to September for answers. Or, maybe he knew how much she’d been involved already against his direct orders. Diffidently, she reminded him, “I’m on the Ballonni case.”

He just waved her into his office and she entered and sat down in one of the chairs across the desk from him. She decided to cut through all the protocol bullshit and immediately launched in about the case from start to finish.

By the time she was through Wes had arrived and so had Maharis. George was still out.

D’Annibal walked out of his office and September followed. “This damn virus has decimated this department,” the lieutenant grumbled. “Cleaning crews went through here last night doing an extra-thorough scrub.” He turned to Blake Maharis. “Thanks for helping out.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I’d like you to stick around for a while.”

Blake brightened. “I’d like to, sir.”

D’Annibal asked him, “Where are you on that missing person case?”

“I went to Gulliver’s, the bar where Gillian Palmiter’s roommate dropped her off last Thursday. The staff told me to check with a bartender named Mark Newsome. He’s the main man on Wenches Night, which is every Thursday.”

“Wenches Night?” he asked, then dismissed it with a hand.

“I’ve called his cell, but he hasn’t picked up yet,” Maharis added.

“I know Mark,” September put in. “Sandler and I interviewed him on our last case.” Do Unto Others was the case where she and Jake had reconnected and her thoughts automatically turned to him. She’d listened to his last message to her over and over again. Sometimes she worried that it would be his ultimate last message, but
no
. She
could not
think that way.

She realized she’d missed some things while her mind went on its journey of fear. Maharis was saying, “. . . names and numbers of Jilly’s boyfriends. Got through to one of them, who was out of town last week, and a phone message into another. There might be some more. She was . . . playing the field.”

September thought about Gulliver’s, remembering the interview she and Gretchen had conducted. “Wait a minute. The Mark I remember was a waiter, not a bartender. One of those workout guys. Not exactly the brightest bulb in the fixture.”

“Doesn’t sound like the same guy. This Mark’s a bartender,” Maharis said again.

“Nine, follow up with Maharis, whatever the case,” D’Annibal said. Then he turned to Wes. “Nine briefed me on the Harmak/Ballonni case and I want you on it full time. Find this vigilante and shut her down.”

September’s chest immediately tightened. “And what do you have for me?”

“I learned this morning that Pauline Kirby’s been calling for you,” the lieutenant responded. “If you’re feeling ready, take the interview. We want to get the word out that we’re looking for a woman. See what shakes out after you mention that’s what your stepbrother revealed before he died.”

Ex-stepbrother.
“Can I meet with some other reporter?” she asked.

“Pauline seems to feel she has a relationship with you.”

September bit back her feelings on the subject and said instead, “When I’m done with the interview, I still want to be on the case.”

“You’ll both be working with Wes,” he said to September and Maharis, which made Blake happy and September worry that she was being subtly pushed out either because of her relationship with Stefan, or because she was sick with worry over Jake.

When D’Annibal retreated to his office, and Maharis was seated at Gretchen’s desk, she looked over at Wes, who was looking back. She silently signaled him to meet her in the break room.

Once they were both there, she said, “What the hell’s going on?”

“I’m thinking D’Annibal’s just trying to ease up on you,” Wes said.

“You think I need that?”

“You want the truth?”

She stared into his dark, liquid eyes and saw soberness and compassion. Immediately, fear welled up in her chest.
Jake . . .
Eyes burning, she turned away and said hoarsely, “See you after the interview. . . .”

 

 

Graham was struggling through the first periods of the day. He taught social studies, as a rule, but with cutbacks he’d been assigned a class of remedial math that was a last-gasp attempt to get the lower IQs of the school to actually learn something before they were moved on to junior high. Most of the students were male with a sprinkling of girls who wore too much makeup and had dull eyes and smart mouths.

After he got through that hell, it was lunchtime, and he wanted nothing more than to go outside and watch the lower grades at recess, though it was still raining like a sonofabitch and no one would be out there. With the blasted weather, he was forced to sit inside with the rest of the faculty at reserved tables. He bought himself a crappy turkey sandwich from a vending machine and a Diet Coke, then made his way to the reserved table, wishing he could avoid the admiring look on Mrs. Pearce’s face. Pearce was a widow and even older than Daria. God.

But that girl with the rosebud lips was in her class and he found himself dreaming about her in a way that was thoroughly X-rated. No, he reminded himself.
No.

He tried to shut down his mind, knowing what he felt would be misconstrued. He didn’t want to hurt her. God, no. He just would like to get to know her a little. Just a little.

By the time he got to sixth period, he thought he’d gotten himself under control, but this was the class with Molly and he could feel his anticipation rising in spite of himself.

And there was Molly, seated in the back, sweet and lovely, mostly ignored by the rest of the class, which was filled with rowdy jocks and simpering sycophantic
women—
they just couldn’t be called girls with those huge racks and loud, braying laughter.

He had a difficult time keeping his mind on any kind of lecture, so he had them open their textbooks and work on the questions at the end of the chapter on the Renaissance, a period of rebirth after the Dark Ages. His favorite author and statesman from the Renaissance was Machiavelli, whose actions and thoughts had coined the term
Machiavellian
, which was still in general use today and described in Wikipedia as
the employment of cunning or duplicity in statecraft or in general conduct.

Duplicity . . . showing one side while another was underneath. He had to live a duplicitous life himself, didn’t he? What a sad comment on society that he’d never be able to reveal his true, loving self. So what if his desire ran to younger girls. Was that really so wrong?

But even as that thought crossed his mind, fear pushed it away. He had crossed a line with Jilly there was no coming back from. Murder was a real crime. One which could send him away for the rest of his life, if he wasn’t careful.

A thrill shot through him as his mind touched on Jilly again, the way her skull had crumpled in. He could get hard just remembering that one moment.

Wrangling his thoughts back with an effort, he cruised around the room, stopping behind Molly’s desk. She was diligently writing down the answers to the questions, and he stared down at the shining hair lying like silk on the back of her head. He thought about laying a hand on her crown but had to hold himself back. His heart was slamming into his rib cage. Such a lovely girl.

And then he saw that she’d been texting on her phone. Leaning down, he whispered in her ear, “No cell phones in the classroom, remember?”