Читать книгу Blind Spot - Nancy Bush - Страница 10

The hour-long eleven o’clock meeting started on time and ran an hour and a half late. Everyone Freeson had said would be there was there, along with Dr. Zellman, Dr. Prior, and Dr. Dayton from Side B—Dr. Jean Dayton being the only other woman in the room besides Claire.

The meeting was to decide the fate of Mr. Heyward Marsdon III, at least within the hospital walls. There was a lot of detailed data on his psychological state of mind, garnered over the past six months, and the first hour and a half crawled by with each of the doctors from Side B’s recount. Claire was a little surprised that Dr. Jean Dayton’s views coincided so closely with her own.

“Mr. Marsdon is a paranoid schizophrenic,” she wrapped up in her curiously flat voice. She seemed to have next to no inflection in her tone. “He suffers delusions and hallucinations. Off his meds, he believes there are alien beings trying to kill him. That has not changed in six months, nor is it likely to in the future. I believe he should stay where he is.”

“Dr. Dayton,” Avanti answered smoothly, before Radke, whose face had grown tight and grim at her bald assessment, could try to pour oil on the situation himself. This was the first serious voice of dissent in their plan to move Heyward to Side A. “How often do you see Mr. Marsdon, professionally?”

“Daily,” she stated.

“How often do you see other patients?”

“Daily,” she repeated.

“All of them?”

“Most of them.”

“But isn’t Dr. Prior Mr. Marsdon’s primary psychiatrist? Isn’t he the one who should decide the right course of action?”

“I’m Heyward Marsdon’s primary,” Prior affirmed. He was a short man with a rotund stomach that he liked to rest his clasped hands upon.

Dayton said, “I’m one of Marsdon’s doctors as well.” Her voice took on a stubborn tone. “I think he’s a danger to himself and others. Why don’t you tell them what you said about him last week,” she challenged Dr. Prior.

Prior sat up straight as if hit by a cattle prod.” “What?”

“When you and I were talking about Heyward after our weekly session together.”

“I said he was doing fine,” Prior declared.

“Actually, you said, ‘Thank God he’s on his meds. That’s the only time he’s fine.’”

“We all agree Heyward should stay on his meds,” Avanti broke in. “But when he’s on them, as he is now, he’s in complete control.”

Claire glanced at Heyward’s family, his grandfather, Heyward Marsdon Senior, and his father, Heyward Marsdon Junior. Senior leaned forward, interested in the proceedings, but Junior looked like he was counting the tiny holes in the acoustical tiles on the ceiling.

Senior said in his gravelly voice, “I’ll allow my grandson’s had a few problems. He was overtaken by chemically induced visions that have altered his reality in terrible ways.”

Like killing Melody Stone? Claire felt her skin tingle with shock. He was trying to negate the seriousness of Heyward’s crime.

Dayton stated flatly, “If you’re implying that his medications altered his reality, you are ignoring the facts.”

“Dr. Dayton, we all know what happened.” This time it was Radke speaking. “And we’re not asking that he be released. What we are trying to discern is whether the more restrictive side of the hospital is the right place for Mr. Marsdon.”

“There are some seriously psychologically disturbed criminals on that side,” Marsdon Senior pointed out.

Of which Heyward III is one, Claire thought.

“They’re all treated with respect,” Dr. Zellman felt compelled to put in.

“That goes for all of our patients,” Avanti said. “Side A and Side B.”

“All right,” Radke said, closing his leather-bound notebook and leaning his arms across its smooth, black finish. His glance touched on Claire for a moment, then he looked around the room. The other doctors gazed back at him expectantly. Avanti, whose supercilious attitude was in high gear, had a faint smile on his lips, as if he knew it was already a foregone conclusion that Marsdon would be moved to Side A. He was worse than Freeson, Claire decided. A major leaguer while Freeson was still on a farm team when it came to overinflated ego, impatience, and narcissism.

The Marsdons, Senior and Junior, gave each other a look. Junior crossed his legs, twitched his knife-creased pant legs into place, then stared off into space as if he’d magically transported himself somewhere else. Maybe he had. He sure as hell hadn’t been in the moment once during this meeting.

Radke said, “We’ve all had a chance to discuss the right course of action for Mr. Marsdon, and though initially it seemed prudent to house him in the high-security wing of our hospital, maybe that time has passed. The focus of Mr. Marsdon’s care is, by design, centered on detention in the high-security wing rather than individual treatment of his disease.”

Heyward Marsdon Sr. reacted to “disease” with a jerk of tension. His white hair pulled away from his head in a wavy, Donald Sutherland style and his eyes were as blue and piercing as the actor’s as well. He was heavier; his chest was wide, his cheeks fleshy, his hands meat hooks that looked as if they might have trouble handling the delicacy of a knife and fork. Claire could easily see him picking up a turkey leg in one hand and a pewter stein of ale in the other while hunching over a plate. He had that medieval look about him. She wondered if he’d been a grade school bully.

Marsdon Senior said, “My grandson needs help. Yes. But he is not the villain the media paints him. He does not belong with those vile killers in that part of your hospital.”

“He did take a life,” Dr. Howard Neumann reminded them quietly. He didn’t want to go against the tide, but he had enough honor to want to keep the facts straight, regardless of the amount of money and influence sitting around the table.

Radke, six foot two, long-faced with salt-and-pepper hair and a lean build that made him seem taller than he was, turned his attention to Neumann, who was six inches shorter, stubbier, and tended to fidget. But this time Neumann placed one hand over the other on the table and waited. He wasn’t going to let them forget what had truly happened. Claire could have kissed him.

“We haven’t forgotten, Howard,” Radke said. Then, to Claire, “You haven’t said much, my dear.”

“Everyone knows how I feel. He was remanded to the high-security side of the hospital. Side B,” Claire stated clearly.

“He was remanded to the hospital,” Radke corrected her.

“With the intention that he be monitored twenty-four seven. We don’t do that on Side A to the extent Heyward Marsdon needs.”

“I disagree,” Avanti said vigorously. “Side A has more personnel. More contact with the patients.”

“Side B has contact as well,” Dr. Neumann started, but Marsdon Junior chose that moment to jump in with, “They’re in cages on your high-security side! Only the sickest of the sick should be there.”

Radke said to everyone, though his gaze was stuck on Claire, “It’s up to us to decide the level of his care.”

Dayton tried to get another word in. “It wouldn’t do the hospital any good to have one of the patients hurt themselves or someone else.”

Radke was practically willing Claire to see his side. She had no real authority. They would do what they would do. But if the press got hold of the fact that she didn’t want Heyward III released from Side B, and then something happened, Claire would be on the front lines. The face of the hospital.

They wanted her on board badly.

“When Heyward was admitted to the hospital, it was with the understanding that he would be placed on Side B. That’s why he’s there now,” she said.

“But it wasn’t specifically written that he would have to stay there,” Radke argued.

He was splitting hairs and they both knew it. This was for the Marsdons’ benefit; it had nothing to do with what was best for Heyward III and others around him. “I know what the letter of the law is,” Claire said evenly. “I also know the spirit in which it was made.”

“Honey, what is that supposed to mean?” Heyward Senior frowned at her.

Claire was tired of being a dear and a honey. She met Heyward III’s grandfather’s eyes and said, “Everyone was stunned and horrified by Melody Stone’s death at the hands of your grandson.” Surprised looks abounded from other members of the staff and even Heyward Junior. Nobody, but nobody, talked back to Heyward Senior. “The public wanted him locked away forever. In a dungeon. To rot.”

“Claire…” Radke admonished.

“He needs care. Personal care. Probably more than what he receives at Side B. But he’s delusional and unpredictable and has hallucinations, like Dr. Dayton said. There’s no escaping the fact that he’s dangerous and needs round-the-clock supervision. If you want Heyward to receive one-on-one from Side A personnel, we can go to him on Side B. But I think he should stay there. He shouldn’t be moved.”

Avanti put in, “Side A can offer complete security. We can monitor his meds and the doors are coded and card-keyed. No one gets in or out without their keycard and code.”

“I was overpowered by a paranoid schizophrenic,” Claire reminded him. “Coded doors and keycards are only so effective.”

“My grandson scared you. I understand how you feel,” Marsdon Senior growled softly. His bushy white eyebrows were pulled down over his arctic eyes. “But he’s not a cold-blooded killer like those men in the other rooms over there. You must agree on that, Dr. Norris.”

“Not all of them are cold-blooded killers,” she answered. “Some are delusional and hallucinate as much as Heyward. Some are worse. Some are better.”

“So, what are you saying, Claire?” Radke asked, sounding annoyed.

Well, Emile, I’m saying you need to think in terms of patient care and safety instead of the bottom line. “I’m saying my position hasn’t changed.”

“Dr. Norris, we need you to be on board with this,” Avanti said in a voice that was gently threatening.

More than Dr. Dayton, it was Claire’s vote on the issue that would matter. To the public. To the press.

And the press were going to be here soon to do their story on Cat.

“Only to look good politically,” Claire responded to him. “You can make this decision without me.”

“Dr. Norris has already said that Heyward won’t receive the same level of care on Side B as Side A,” Freeson suddenly popped up. “We all agree in theory.”

“I can speak for myself,” Claire said.

“Well, then speak,” Avanti suggested, looking to the others for support. “Dr. Norris, you don’t think the care on Side B is perfect for Heyward, do you?”

“Perfect? No. But—”

“Then what are we arguing about?” He turned to Radke and spread his hands. “Side B is not the best for Heyward Marsdon the Third. We all agree.”

“That is where the court assigned him,” Claire reminded them. “That’s what they meant.”

“I don’t believe you’re a mind reader.” Avanti’s dark eyes held a hint of warning.

“I don’t believe you’re that obtuse,” she snapped back.

Silence descended on the room, and it was Howard Neumann who rescued the moment by accidentally knocking over his coffee cup and spilling the cooled brown liquid across the table. Apologizing profusely, he mopped up the mess while the rest of them gathered their notes and slid back their chairs.

Despite her strong words, Claire felt the anger that tightened her chest. She wasn’t great with confrontation. She was an analyst, not a political infighter. But they’d backed her into a corner.

Freeson followed her through the door. “Claire, wait.”

“Talk to me later, James. I’m busy.” She kept walking rapidly away from the meeting room.

“I have some hospital business to discuss with you, and I don’t feel like shouting it down the hall!”

“I’ll hold the elevator,” she said through lips that barely moved, then did just that as he took his sweet time joining her, just to let her know who was boss.

“You really like being a fly in the ointment, don’t you?” he complained as the elevator doors closed.

“Oh. I thought I was speaking my mind and letting people know where I stood.”

“Why are you fighting this so hard? It doesn’t help anybody. Not even Heyward.”

“I’m fighting for what I believe. You should try it sometime.”

“You don’t really believe Heyward should be on Side B. I know you don’t.”

“I don’t think he should be on Side A, either. But he was remanded to Side B, no matter what spin anybody wants to put on it.”

“You’re overstepping your bounds,” he said with a shake of his head.

“I’m always overstepping my bounds.” His look of surprise was almost comical. “It’s what you’ve always thought about me,” she said. “Maybe I am a mind reader after all. Avanti was wrong.”

He was staring at her as if she’d grown horns. Figuratively, she supposed she had. Good girl Claire Norris had left the building.

“What happened to your professionalism?” he demanded.

“Is it missing?”

He shook his head. “Channel Seven’s going to be here today. I don’t know whether you should be available or not.”

“Jane Doe’s not my patient. Go ahead and take care of it.”

“There’s something else, too. The police want to interview her, and I’ve allowed it.”

“Cat?”

“Jane Doe, yes.”

Claire was blindsided by this turn of events. “But she’s not awake.”

“They don’t care. Just wanted to let you know not to panic.”

Not to panic. “What good is this going to do?”

He shrugged. “You don’t say no to the police.”

She shook her head, disbelieving. “If you think this is right for the patient, then I guess it is.”

He peered at her hard. “I think there’s an insult in there somewhere.”

“I’d like to be there for Cat’s interview, too, if it’s all right.”

“With the police, but not with Channel Seven…?”

Claire made a sound of annoyance. “For both,” she said, though she really wasn’t looking forward to another round with Pauline Kirby.

The elevator doors opened onto the second floor and Freeson held them back from closing with his hand. Instead of getting out of the car, Claire punched the button for floor one again.

“You’re going back down?” he asked.

“I’m going to check on Cat.”

“Why?”

“Part of the personal patient care we give on Side A.”

“She’s my patient,” he reminded her.

“I haven’t forgotten.”

“I’ll go with you.” He let go of the doors and they whispered shut once more. Claire had had about as much as she could stand of the man, but there was nothing much she could do to get rid of him.

They entered room 113 together. The blond woman stared straight ahead, not acknowledging either of them. The mound of her belly drew Claire’s gaze and she walked up to her and touched her hand lightly.

“Nurse Maria will be on duty tonight. If you need anything, press this.” Claire leaned across the bed, grabbed the remote call button, and laid it beside Cat’s blanketed left leg.

The girl’s eyes shifted. A flicker, side to side. Claire saw it and so did Freeson. He stroked his beard and said, “She’s in there.”

“When are the police coming?”

“Later today, I think. After Pauline Kirby.”

“Make sure I’m called for both, okay?”

“Fine.”

Claire turned away from him, knowing Freeson would do whatever he felt like in the end. He had no compunction in conveniently forgetting promises.

Heading for her office, Claire went back up the elevator, then passed by Glenda, the general receptionist for the medical office building, who was talking into her headset. She motioned for Claire to wait up, so Claire slowed her steps and stopped.

“A package was dropped off for you,” she said, reaching behind the counter. She handed Claire a silvery box from Promise’s Bakery, the size that might hold a two-layer cake.

“Who sent it?”

“Tony brought it.”

Tony was an orderly who was a general errand boy for the hospital.

Claire carried the box to her office, set it on her desk, slid off the top. It was indeed a cake. Fudge frosting. She felt strangely light-headed as she pulled it from its box and stared at it. There was a card but she didn’t have to read it.

She recalled the day Heyward III had asked her what her favorite cake was. She’d told him she preferred pies. Tarts. Something with fruit. They were in session and he was fixated on the idea. Wouldn’t talk about issues he was facing. Didn’t care that she liked pies. Was obsessed with knowing what Claire liked in a cake.

“I guess I’d say chocolate. Fudge, actually. With raspberry filling.” And a glass of red wine, she’d thought, but kept that to herself.

“I’m going to get you one,” he said with sudden vigor, rising from his chair.

“No, Heyward. Not now.”

“Soon,” he said. And then forgot the idea in the next moment.

But here it was….

She didn’t have a knife in her office. Carefully she ran her index finger down the edge of the cake, encountering the raspberry filling between the two layers. Heyward couldn’t have done this on his own. She would bet he’d told his grandfather what she liked, and Heyward Senior sent it to her. The card read, “Wanted to get you your favorite.” It was Heyward III’s writing, but she could visualize his grandfather hovering over him. They wouldn’t trust him with a pen.

A bribe, in its way.

She thought back on the meeting. Had she done enough to make herself heard? It was a moot point; they would do as they liked. They had before. They would again. But this time she’d really wanted to take a strong stand. No hedging. No trying to keep everybody happy. That hadn’t worked. Spectacularly hadn’t worked.

Carefully she carried the cake to the vending machine room. There was a small counter with a sink and a few haphazard chairs. Not really much of a meeting place, but then it was for the medical office staff only. She placed the cake on the counter and washed her frosting-covered finger in the sink. Gazing at the cake for a long moment, she felt her stomach growl.

Tightening her lips, she backed out of the room and headed back to her office for her purse and some change. She returned a few moments later and plunked coins into the vending machine, slamming a palm against a button for peanut M&M’s. Protein. And sugar. If she had a multivitamin it would be a complete meal.

She hoped somebody would enjoy the cake. It just wasn’t going to be her.

Cat was sitting in the other chair as Gibby claimed his, one eye on the lookout for Maribel, but she wasn’t around. Gibby scooted his chair closer to hers and was amazed when she said, clear as a bell, “I need to get out of here.”

“Out of the morning room?”

“Yes. And out the door.” She leaned toward the front of the building, past the desk and the sofas where Big Jenny liked to sit, though Darlene always told her she couldn’t sit there, and to the big glass windows that slid back and forth if you knew what numbers to push. Gibby didn’t know the numbers. He didn’t want to know the numbers. You had to have a square thing, too, or get the lady at the big desk to let you out.

“I’m scared out there,” he admitted, though it was hard. He wanted the blond lady to like him. “Your name is Cat…like cats…and dogs…?”

“Help me.”

“Okay.” She wasn’t looking at him, but she was talking to him. To Gibby. Kinda made him scared, though, ’cause she was asking him to do something. He didn’t know what, but he didn’t think they’d like it.

Gibby glanced around the room. His hands gripped the sides of his chair. Oh! There was Maribel. She was coming his way! “Go ’way,” he told her.

She strolled toward Cat, swiping at him. Gibby bared his teeth and made a face. Maribel stopped in front of Cat and stared at her. Maribel did that all the time.

“She has Zimer’s disease,” Gibby said. “Get outta here.” He flapped his hand at her but Maribel just stared and stared. Cat stared back.

Donald strolled over. “Maribel, is there a problem?”

Gibby threw him a dark look. Donald always acted so smart all the time it made Gibby uncomfortable. Now he wanted to get up and go get Greg, but he wasn’t around. Darlene was there, but he never wanted her. “Go ’way!” he hissed again at Maribel, stomping his foot at her.

“Fuck you,” Maribel said.

“Oh, no,” Donald said, sliding away.

Gibby slapped his hands over his ears. She said that word. She said it to Cat! “Noooo!” Gibby wailed. “You’re mean! You’re not nice!”

“Fuck you and the horse you rode in on,” Cat replied.

Gibby’s eyes widened. His jaw dropped. “Wha’d you…wha’d you…”

“Everything okay here?” It was Greg. Finally. And he was looking from Maribel to Gibby to Cat, but mostly at Gibby.

“She said…that word…”

Greg glanced at Maribel. “What word?”

Gibby pointed to Cat. “She said it, too. You know…that word!”

“The f-word?”

Gibby nodded furiously, his finger shaking as he kept it directed at Cat. “She said, ‘Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.’”

Greg shot a look at Cat and then demanded, “Where did you hear that, Gibby? Who said it?”

“She did!”

“I mean it. Who said it? Maribel?” Greg looked mad. He shook his head and took hold of Maribel’s arm, trying to direct her away from Cat. “Was it Thomas?”

Gibby blinked a couple times and gazed at Thomas McAvoy, who was watching them with laser eyes. “No! He says that, too, but it was Cat!”

“Well, whoever said it, don’t say it again.” Greg was looking at Gibby as if it was all his fault!

Greg tried to move Maribel but she pulled her shoulders in and shrank down. She always did that. After a few moments Greg let go and went over to Thomas McAvoy, whose face looked just like those dead guys on TV. He was scary, too.

“You got me in trouble,” Gibby moaned to Cat. He felt a little like crying.

She was still staring at Maribel, who was pulling at her hair and looking at the floor.

Gibby got up and tried to shove Maribel to one side. Maribel slugged him in the arm and jumped into his chair.

With a howl, Gibby launched himself at her and then Greg reappeared with Darlene and even Donald came back, too.

“Tsk, tsk,” Donald said.

“What is with you, Gibson?” Darlene asked. “Ever since Cat got here, you’re starting trouble.”

“Not me!” Gibby cried.

“He repeated something Thomas said.”

“Maribel said fuck you first!” Gibby screamed.

“Fuck you!” Maribel shrieked right back.

For the second time in two days Gibby was hauled off to his room. He cried all the way, looking back at Cat. He watched her head turn as she examined the front door.

“She’s my friend,” he whimpered. “I need to help her.”

But Greg and Darlene, the witch with a capital B, wouldn’t listen to him.

Pauline Kirby touched at her dark hair, but every strand was held in place by one of the best hair sprays on the market. Super hold. Super expensive. But the best was the best, and Pauline liked the best. Pressing the pad of her little finger to the corner of her mouth, she looked into the hand mirror and tried on a smile. Her makeup was fresh. She looked good.

“Here.” She handed the mirror to a production assistant. A gofer who hurried forward. A new one, she was pretty sure. They all looked the same. She could never remember their names and had given up trying. Long ago, she’d been the one with the eager smile and winning ways, ready to serve the talent in any way she could.

She was long over that, thank God.

Today she stood outside Halo Valley Security Hospital. Concrete and redwood in front, but the back part, the older section, was solid brick. They tried to dress up this new part: there was a portico with concrete pillars, but it still looked industrial, institutional, with maybe just a hint of architectural thought, but it sure as hell didn’t transcend to anything close to beauty.

What a sorry piece of crap, she thought. Past the first roof you could actually see the razor wire that surrounded the grounds of the second brick building, the high-security hospital. No damn laurel hedge could disguise it, though that looked to be the idea. She knew of a couple real crazies who resided there. One of ’em had the gall to write to her now and again. Really filthy stuff. She showed it to her coworkers, pretending to be unaffected. She was a newswoman. A professional. But it gave her a nasty little shiver whenever she thought of that particular monster. If they ever let him out…ever…she was going to call in every favor she’d ever been owed, and there were a number of them, to make sure he was caught and hopefully killed this time.

Coming back to herself, she shook it off. She carried pepper spray. She was safe, even if she had to remember the spray every time she went through that damn security at the airport. Moron TSA agents. Acting like she was some kind of terrorist when they ripped it away and glared at her through stupid, suspicious eyes. Twice she’d been taken to a special room and had to strip down. Sickos. Full-on bull-dyke lesbians getting a thrill to see her in her Victoria’s Secrets.

Fuck ’em all. She was important, and they were miserable larva.

“Hurry up,” she told the production crew at large. “They’re only giving us a few minutes.”

“We’re ready,” Darrell said as he hefted the camera on his shoulder. He, at least, could get the job done.

Pauline led Darrell through the front doors; all she needed was one cameraman for the interview. She’d been granted access, but still needed to bully her way past all the hospital security. To that end, she smiled at the woman at the desk, who pressed some button and opened the doors. She looked slightly alarmed, gazing through the glass doors to the van outside, then back again to Pauline and Darrell as they entered.

“Doctor Freeson invited us,” Pauline said. “He wants to get your Jane Doe’s face on camera, try to find her family members.”

The girl nodded, slowly, like the news was taking a loonngg time climbing up that neuron. “I’ll call him,” she finally said and picked up the receiver.

“We’re only here for a few minutes. We have places to be,” Pauline pressed. She glanced around quickly. Entry room. Straight ahead a main room with tables, a gathering place. Several hallways branching off north and south. Stairs sweeping grandly to an upper gallery and more hallways.

“Dr. Freeson, some newspeople are here…?”

“Pauline Kirby, thank you,” Pauline said tautly.

“Pauline Kirby,” the girl responded dutifully, but the little bitch apparently had no idea who Pauline was.

There was a brief interchange and the girl hung up, eyeing Pauline warily. “Dr. Freeson will be right here.”

“Stat,” Pauline said. “Good.”

They moved away from the desk and Darrell said in her ear, “Play nice.”

“Playing nice is for amateurs.”

“And you’re no amateur.”

Pauline shot him a look but Darrell wisely didn’t respond. They were both diverted by the arrival of Dr. Freeson bustling down the grand staircase. He was a slight man with a Vandyck beard and a fussy style that made Pauline smile internally.

He looked suitably starstruck as he came up to her and stuck out his hand. “Ms. Kirby, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Do you want to do the interview here?” He gestured toward the gathering room.

“Can you take us to see the patient, please?”

“I’m sorry. That’s against hospital pol—”

“Has anyone contacted you about her? Our station received a number of call-ins after our first story, but we didn’t have a good picture, if you recall.”

“I do. I know. That’s why we wanted more exposure.”

“We need a picture. Can’t we just take our cameras to her? We’ll be out in less than ten minutes.”

“I’m sorry.” He shook his head and looked like he really was very sorry. He could see his fifteen minutes of fame blowing to dust.

“Then can you bring her to us?” Pauline motioned to the general area surrounding them.

Dr. Freeson hesitated. Pauline’s upper white teeth bit into her lower lip while she was smiling. A shark’s look. One she’d perfected without even being aware of it. “One quick shot, and then maybe we can go into that room with the chairs and talk with you a while.”

Freeson’s eyes slid a look to Darrell and the television camera he balanced on his shoulder. Bingo, Pauline thought, but she kept her expression pleasantly neutral.

Everything was going swimmingly until a slim brunette in a lab coat with surprisingly good legs entered from one of the hallways. Pauline recognized her vaguely. Someone…oh, yes…the patsy for that throat-slitting by the youngest Marsdon…Heyward Marsdon III or IV. Poor woman. Marsdon was a real psycho if Pauline had ever seen one. Pauline automatically straightened her posture, sensing a battle about to brew.

The woman exchanged a chilly glance with Dr. Freeson. She said, “Lori called me.”

Freeson glared at the receptionist, the hapless Lori, apparently. “I was going to call you,” he stated stiffly. Then to Pauline, “I’ll have one of the nurses see about our Jane Doe.” He walked away abruptly.

Amused, Pauline watched the brunette stare at his retreating back with a grim expression. She then turned toward the news crew duo and said, “Our patient isn’t speaking.”

Pauline nodded. “Not responding to stimuli of any sort. We know. It’s a human interest story. There must be someone out there who’s missing her.”

“I’m Dr. Claire Norris. We’ve met before.” She didn’t extend her hand.

Pauline nodded. “Yes, over the murder here. How are you doing, by the way?”

“Fine. I didn’t like your reporting of the so-called facts at the time. Think you can keep it less lurid this time?”

Pauline felt a tingle of surprise and Darrell made an amused sound that sounded like a half gasp. “One patient slitting another’s throat in front of his doctor is kind of lurid, wouldn’t you say?”

“Today’s patient, the one you say you want to help, has retreated, owing to shock and fear.”

“Someone tried to cut out her baby. I’m sure she is traumatized.” Pauline wanted to hurry this along. She hated wasting time.

“She is.” Dr. Norris was firm. “She’s not talking. She’s recovering slowly.”

“In case you missed it, the point is, we’re trying to help. We want a story and when we have it, maybe we’ll find someone to identify your little mommy in the process. It’s good for all of us. I’m sorry for her. I truly am. But being mad at me for doing my job isn’t helping any of us. Am I coming through?”

“Loud and clear.”

Her tone irked Pauline. She was so calm and cool and there was an itsy-bitsy little judgmental part of her—the stuffy doctor part whereby she had a rod up her ass—that she couldn’t quite hide. “All right, let’s get this little lady teed up and do our thing. We’ll be out in no time. Ah!” She grinned as the blond woman in question was wheeled from the hallway by a mousy-looking aide of some kind. Freeson was hovering behind.

Pauline’s focus changed to the sweet-faced victim in the wheelchair. She was so fragile seeming. Too young to be a mommy, but then, some people just didn’t see the advantage to ending an inconvenient pregnancy. Not that Pauline was pro-abortion. Not that she would admit publicly, anyway, but c’mon! This girl was a child. Barely looked old enough to breed.

She would make absolutely great television.

With an almost imperceptible motion to Darrell, who never needed cuing anyway, she leaned down toward the patient and said, “Jane Doe is no name for someone as special as you, honey. Can you look at me?” The girl’s head was tilted so all you could see was her crown, her eyes downcast.

“Dr. Freeson?” Claire Norris said in a frigid tone.

“Can you just take a picture?” Freeson said anxiously. “A still.”

“Sure. It’d be better if she looked up, though.”

“Maybe she doesn’t want the spotlight.” Norris looked around, as if searching for security.

Pauline touched the girl’s hand. “Hey, there,” she said. “We’re going to help you find your people, but we need a picture, honey. Could you lift your head?”

Freeson shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Pauline gave him her sweetest look. “Maybe you could just put your hand under her chin?”

“Dr. Freeson, if you can’t get them out of here, I will,” Dr. Norris snapped furiously, her feet tap-tapping toward the front desk.

The bitch was was going to ruin the whole thing. “We’ll go,” Pauline said.

“My interview?” Freeson said vaguely as they turned to leave.

“Your little friend kinda took that away from you, honey,” Pauline told him as she turned aside. Darrell followed on her heels. They walked out the door and toward the van, climbed inside. Pauline wasn’t happy as they settled into their seats. She really hated women. They got in the way at every turn.

A gray truck came up the long drive from the highway followed by a sheriff’s Jeep with Winslow County Sheriff’s Department written in white on its black sides. Both Pauline and Darrell examined the newcomers with interest.

“Who called the cavalry?” Pauline murmured, then motioned the driver to wait. “The guy in the black leather jacket. I know him. Who is he?”

“Last week’s booty call?” The driver sniggered, but no one else in the van dared such a one-way ticket to you’re-fired-ville.

Pauline sent him a scathing look, mentally reminded herself to can his sorry ass, then said, “Detective Langford Stone. Or something.” She snapped her fingers a couple of times. “Langdon.”

“The guy whose sister was killed by Marsdon,” Darrell said on a long whistle.

“Kill that engine, moron,” Pauline snapped to the driver. “We’re sticking around.”