Stranded (5 page)

MERCY REGIONAL HEALTH CENTER

MANHATTAN, KANSAS

Noah awoke to white walls and machines humming. He startled so violently he ripped a needle from the back of his hand and beeping erupted above his head. He crawled over the bed rail in one easy, frantic move but when his feet touched the floor pain shot through his body. That’s when he noticed swaddled gauze at the ends of his legs. They looked like enormous stumps and for a brief moment he panicked.

Oh my God, did they amputate my feet?

A nurse hurried into the room and her motion made him jump.

Fight or flight
.

The instinct still raw inside him.

“Stop. You’ll hurt yourself.”

She was small and quick and amazingly strong as she grabbed him by the shoulders. In seconds he was cradled back down into the pillows. Before he could protest and try again, he felt a wave of nausea.

“I’m gonna throw up.”

She didn’t flinch. Instead she helped him sit forward and placed a plastic wash basin on his lap.

There was nothing left in his stomach to vomit. His dry gags scraped his sore throat and his jaw ached. When he was finished, the nurse eased him back down and pulled the covers up over him. The flimsy hospital gown stuck to his sweat-drenched body and he started shivering so badly he was certain he must be having some sort of convulsion.

He felt the prick of a needle before he could fight it. Warm liquid flooded his veins. His body almost immediately began to relax. He melted deeper into the pillows as his head began to swim. His heartbeat quieted but his chest still hurt.

His eyes darted at every sound and every movement in the room. Blurry green and red lights flashed on equipment he didn’t recognize. A face appeared at the door. Another peered down over the bed at him—the nurse. Only now he was seeing three of her.

Eyelids heavy. Don’t close them
.

He didn’t want to see Ethan’s face again.

It felt like only minutes later when Noah opened his eyes. This time his mother’s face hovered over the bed and he blinked hard, trying to clear her from his view.

“Oh look, Carl, he’s waking up.”

Noah’s head swiveled to find his father standing by the window. Another man was with him. Noah jerked up, eyes popping wide open before he realized he didn’t recognize the other man.

“I’m sure there’s an explanation for everything,” he heard his father tell the stranger. Neither seemed as pleased or as excited as Noah’s mother was that he was waking up.

“I hope so.”

His father turned to Noah but stayed by the window as the other man came closer. His mother stepped aside and her smile went away, too.

“Noah, I’m Lieutenant Detective Lopez with the Riley County Police Department.”

Noah could hear a slight accent and he glanced at his father. The man was shorter than Noah’s dad. His face was lean, skin a bit weathered, his button-down shirt tight where his arm and chest muscles bulged.

“Do you know where you are, son?”

Noah’s eyes darted to his father again to see if he would object to this man addressing him as “son.” His father didn’t move, didn’t shift, just stared at him, waiting for Noah’s answer.

“Hospital,” Noah managed to say.

“Do you remember how you got here?”

Noah looked at his mother. She smiled but it was forced and nervous, a twitch at the corner of her lips.

He shook his head.

“Do you remember what happened last night?”

When Noah didn’t answer, Detective Lopez prompted, “At the rest area?”

He didn’t want to remember.

Don’t tell. Don’t tell. I promised I wouldn’t tell
.

Noah shook his head again, but his heart started racing.

“Do you remember being on the road last night? Stopping at the rest area?”

He shook his head. This time too quickly. He could see the detective didn’t believe him.

“When they brought you here you were covered in blood.”

His eyes darted to his father to be met with a hard stare. His mother’s smile was gone for good now. Her hand covered her
mouth. Brow furrowed. It wasn’t just concern. There was something else.

“It was a lot of blood,” Detective Lopez continued, “too much for the injuries you sustained.”

Noah heard it now plainly. Suspicion. Could the detective hear his heart banging against his rib cage?

So much blood. Ethan’s blood.

“Ethan,” he said, but it was barely a whisper.

“Your friend, Ethan. That’s right,” Detective Lopez said more gently now, coaxing Noah.

Can’t tell. Don’t tell
.

But Noah slipped and said, “He’s still out there.”

By the look on his parents’ faces and Detective Lopez’s, Noah realized they thought he meant Ethan, when he really meant the madman. He was still out there and he’d know if Noah told. He’d know and he’d come back and do to Noah what he had done to Ethan.

CHAPTER 8

Maggie watched from behind the thick shrubs. Behind her, beyond the bushes and trees, was a freshly plowed field. The scent of lilacs and dirt surrounded her. At least it would be difficult for anyone to sneak up from the opposite direction. The afternoon shadows made it difficult to see inside the windows of the house.

She saw Tully stop to talk to the sheriff. Somehow he managed to keep the man from turning to look back at the farmhouse. In fact, even after Tully disappeared behind the barn, the group continued on as if nothing had changed.

She checked her watch and waited to give Tully enough time to get in place. Five minutes felt like twenty and the entire time she kept her eyes on the windows. There was no movement. Not even the hint of a curtain swaying. The fabric looked thin enough for someone to see through. But all Maggie could make out was a veil of gray and black.

She glanced at her watch.

Time’s up
.

Maggie searched the ground and found a rock as big as her fist. She picked it up in her left hand. Her right already held her Smith & Wesson. It was the revolver she had trained on, opting out when the bureau went to Glocks. Only six bullets, but she had
never needed more and her Smith & Wesson had never jammed. Now she clutched the grip. She kept the muzzle down, trigger finger ready. In three steps she was close enough. She pulled back and threw despite thinking how wrong it felt to shatter glass without provocation.

Then she hunched down. She shoved her back against the side of the house. Not directly beneath the broken window but close enough that glass crunched under her mud-caked shoes. She steadied her breath. Birds had quieted. Even the breeze paused.

Maggie’s pulse pounded and she strained to hear inside the house.

Something shuffled. Footsteps? There was a click. The hammer of a gun being pulled back? Or a door latch engaging? Had someone come into the room? Or left? It was killing her not to stand up and glance inside.

Come on, Tully, where are you?

Finally she heard the crack. Another crack followed by the sound of wood splintering. Then a crash.

“FBI. Step out where I can see you.”

Maggie shot up. Glanced through the broken window. A bedroom. Shattered glass on a paisley comforter. The window was too high for her to climb through. She hurried along the front of the house. She could hear Tully shouting again as he made his way inside.

Slouched down under the windows, she made her way to the other side of the house until she found the door Tully had kicked in.

She paused. Listened.

“Tully?”

No answer.

Damn it
.

She stopped outside the doorway, her back against the house.
Readjusted her grip on her gun. Then she ducked low and spun around into the house.

Sunlight filled the first room. Furniture covered with white drop cloths reminded her eerily of a crime scene, white covers over bloated bodies.

“Bathroom at the end of the hallway,” Tully called out.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m good. Check the front rooms. I didn’t get to those.”

She made a careful sweep, pulled off several of the larger covers. Dust filled the air but she was relieved no one was hiding underneath. After she examined every corner and closet she made her way back down the hall.

She found Tully standing in the doorway, his Glock at his side but his finger still ready at the trigger. He shifted just enough for Maggie to see the intruder. The woman looked about forty, long dirty-blond hair, mascara-smudged raccoon eyes. She was dressed only in pink panties and a tight midriff T-shirt that hugged her emaciated figure, highlighting the lines of her rib cage.

“Who the hell do you people think you are?” she asked, swiping greasy strands of hair out of her face.

The gesture provided a better look at her pale face, which was covered in acne and sores. Several were bleeding, as if she had just scratched them open moments ago.

“She was more concerned about flushing something down the toilet,” Tully said to Maggie without taking his eyes off the woman, “than she was about someone breaking in here.”

“Can’t a gal go to the bathroom without an audience?”

Then the woman laughed, a smoker’s dry rasp, and Maggie got a glimpse of blackened teeth, a couple of gaps with only rotted nibs. It was enough for Maggie to start examining the woman’s arms and legs. There were more sores on her forearms but Maggie
couldn’t see any needle marks. She tried to remember what she knew about methamphetamine users. Were they dangerous? Psychotic? They didn’t always inject it. The crystals or “crank” were smoked. The powdered form could be snorted or eaten.

Maggie glanced across the hall into the bedroom behind her, the one with the paisley bedspread. She saw dirty white sneakers, a pair of jeans, and other clothes left in a pile on the floor where they had been taken off. Beside them was a huge leather shoulder bag surrounded by trash, mostly candy bar wrappers and soda cans.

On the dresser was an assortment of candles, melted down to different sizes. A hint of white powder blended with dust. An obvious swipe had been made quickly and recklessly through the middle. Also on the dresser top were dollar bills wadded up and discarded like trash. Maybe not dollars, Maggie realized when she noticed Benjamin Franklin on one not crushed as tightly.

“How ’bout you tell us who you are,” Tully said. “And what you’re doing here?”

“This is my place.”

“Of course, it’s your place,” Tully told her. “I really like the decor. White sheets go with everything.”

“Just ask the owners. They’ll tell you they gave me permission to stay here anytime I want.”

Maggie noticed that the woman didn’t seem to be fearful, not paying attention to either Tully’s or Maggie’s weapon.

“Is that so?” a man, accompanied by Sheriff Uniss, said from down the hallway.

The man wore a suede jacket, blue jeans, and a ball cap. He stood as tall as the sheriff but was in better shape, lean, maybe in his early to mid-thirties. Black glasses framed probing black eyes but his face was friendly.

“Agent Tully, Agent O’Dell,” the sheriff said. “This here’s Howard Elliott. He’s the executor of this property. In other words, the most recent owner. Do you recognize this woman, Mr. Elliott?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Miss,” Uniss said in a polite tone, “there hasn’t been anyone living here for almost ten years. If you knew the owner, what was her name?”

The woman snorted another laugh. “If she’s been gone for ten years how the hell would I remember her name?”

The men just stared. Maggie caught herself feeling sorry for her.

“Maybe we should start with
your
name.”

But now she seemed to be thinking, her eyes scrunched, the lines of her forehead making her look older than Maggie’s earlier assessment.

“Helen.”

“Your name’s Helen?” Tully asked.

“No, asshole. Mine’s Lily. The woman who lived here. I stayed here when I was a girl. When I was thirteen. She fostered me. She was very kind.”

All eyes looked to Mr. Elliott for confirmation.

“Helen and her husband did take in a lot of kids,” he admitted. “In fact, I was one of them.”