In the bedroom.
MacDonald moved down the hall. Framed photos hanging on the walls. Dimitri and Jana in a variety of scenes. A white sand beach. Martinis. Jana in a bikini, Dimitri in blue Speedos, each with tan lines. Here they were eating at a seafood restaurant, holding up king crab legs. Smiling. Brilliant whites. One photo of her waving the camera away while giggling. One of him looking out over the Grand Canyon.
They were Russian immigrants who'd met and married in the U.S., delighting both sets of parents back home, or so Dimitri had claimed in the interrogation room. He'd spent most of the interview with his face in his hands, tears all over his cheeks and palms. He said he'd almost lost her once before in the accident. The string was clipped from the poor guy's spine when he lost her for good.
MacDonald was in the bedroom now. The crime scene cleanup crew had come through, but still there was the faint smell of gauze and blood. Perfume, too. Dimitri said it was one of his wife's favorite things, the only thing on which she'd splurge. The dresser showed an impressive array of small bottles, golden in the evening light. Spritzers, screw tops, silver and crystal. Everything dusted for prints and later cleaned to a shine. The kitchen chair was up against the near wall.
Ghost Mother had come in through the window, leaving a scuff on the siding—a streak of black rubber from a boot's sole. Three murders and that's all they had to work with so far—a scuff of rubber. Neighbors didn't see a thing.
Teasing out hidden clues had always been MacDonald's specialty—at least in the material world. Reading people, on the other hand, was his weakness and he knew it. He was too easily persuaded by a seemingly logical argument or emotional response, too unable to detach himself from empathy and think objectively. It's why he preferred crime scenes over interrogations. Clear everyone out and let him think, let him get a feel for the material, the subtle points others often missed, the secret things.
He opened the window and looked outside. The yard was surrounded by a six-foot-high privacy fence of wooden planks. The team had checked the perimeter and even scraped through the grass for clues but found nothing.
MacDonald now crawled through the window and dropped into the yard. No way Ghost Mother came up the driveway. He had to have come over the backyard fence. MacDonald walked out into the middle of the yard and turned around, looked back at the house. That streak of rubber sole stood out against the white siding. There was an evidence tag next to it. '14.' The crew forgot to grab it.
MacDonald walked toward the fence at the back of the yard. The neighbor's trees were heavy to one side. Spruces. Good for cover. He scaled the fence and landed on the other side among the evergreens. The pine scent was strong. He produced his flashlight and clicked it on. The wood was scuffed along the base of the fence. No black rubber, but it wouldn't have smeared on the wood, only scraped it, as it had. This was where Ghost Mother climbed over.
MacDonald examined the pine-needled ground around his feet. It'd definitely been disturbed, but nothing was left behind.
He emerged from the trees into the neighbor's backyard. A jungle gym with a yellow slide, hanging handles swaying slightly in the wind. There was a gate on the west side of the house, more fence along the east, plus a portable rubber shed. More good cover. A surge of adrenaline shivered MacDonald to know this was the path Ghost Mother had taken.
He went east and sidled along the shed to the fence that faced the street, changed over to chainlink at the corner. There was a small pathway between the houses here, an alley of garbage cans and discarded auto parts. A dark corridor no matter what time of day. The scents of motor oil and rotting trash. He hopped the fence and continued along, stepping sideways to maneuver around the cans.
He appeared beneath the streetlight at the curb.
To get to this point Ghost Mother could have come in from any angle and parked anywhere, had he used a car at all. He could have parked three streets away and hoofed it to this spot, could have used a parking lot a mile away, could have parked right here.
MacDonald turned back and pointed his flashlight beam at the trash in the alley. The auto parts were rusted and leaking oil. He could cite the homeowner on a number of ordinances. The trash can lids were meant to be strapped down with colorful bungee cords. The cord on the first can was hanging loose. He went to the can and lifted the lid. On top of a white kitchen bag there was a Little Caesar's pizza box and some banana peels. He lifted the pizza box lid, revealing the rim of a torn condom inside. Nauseating. He was about to close the trash can but stopped when a thought struck him. He flipped back the pizza box lid to reveal not a torn condom, but a torn latex glove.
18
No one ever mentioned that the nurse's station was shaped like a giant teardrop. Darnell Collins had noted it his first day on the job. He thought it appropriate that visitors were greeted by the tear when they entered the ICU, a subliminal message of what's to come.
The full end of the teardrop faced the elevator doors to receive new patients and visitors, while the thin end terminated in a gap where the nurses filed in and out with paperwork in hand, patient updates, or an endless line of Styrofoam coffee cups to be tossed into the trash. Darnell emptied that same trashcan four times a shift. He mopped the floor once, swept it twice, wiped down the countertops at the top of the hour, checked the recycling bins at the bottom of the hour, and refilled the hand sanitizer dispensers as necessary.
Currently Darnell's mop handle was leaning against the registration counter. He sat at the computer, which was linked to PatiStat—the Health Information Exchange system that allowed medical professionals to share patient information across various hospitals and medical facilities around the world. The system opened up the opportunity for doctors to better understand their patients, having their health history at their fingertips.
All that was required was a username and password.
Dr. Macomb's credentials had been easy enough to steal. Usernames were given out by hospital administration, and their naming convention was a simple pattern—first initial, dot, middle initial (x if there wasn't one), dot, and then last name. In Dr. George Jeffrey Macomb's case this was 'g.j.macomb.' He was an orthopedic surgeon with an outsized ego, which made him an easy target for a man who learned to fly beneath the radar like Darnell Collins. People like Dr. Macomb referred to the hospital's custodial staff as 'the help,' and barely gave them a second glance as they moved through the hospital hallways with their lab coats flowing back like royal robes.
In Darnell's case the effect of such disdain was worse, as the high and mighty Dr. Macomb seemed to prefer not to look upon the physically afflicted unless he planned to fix them.
Figuring out Dr. Macomb's password was a slightly tougher matter, but Darnell was aided by understanding Macomb's biggest weakness—his ego. Combine the Superman tattoo on his left shoulder—the O.R. nurses who helped him scrub down couldn't help but mention it time and again as they poked fun at the surgeon behind his back—with the college lacrosse jersey he often wore to the hospital before donning his scrubs, and you've got Superman52.
Having logged into PatiStat as Dr. Macomb, Darnell had precious few minutes to gain the information he sought. Nurses and doctors flitted from patient room to patient room with the unpredictability of a honeybee from flower to flower. At any moment someone could appear and catch him at the machine.
He performed a quick PatiStat search for recent E.R. trauma.
Hundreds of hits came back.
Darnell narrowed down the search by limiting the location to Metro Detroit, yesterday's date, and 'wound' in the keyword field.
Twenty-seven hits.
Darnell glanced at his surroundings. The registration desk was quiet but for the voices coming from down the hall. A nurse's laughter at some patient's joke; the conjoined twins of comedy and tragedy. He added 'gunshot' to the keyword field.
Four hits.
He added 'multiple' to the keyword field.
One hit.
The surviving off
icer in yesterday's standoff was Leroy Jackson. He was on a breathing unit at the Corktown Medical off Trumbull, condition critical. One of the bullets had gone through his skull. If he lived, there was a significant chance he'd be a vegetable.
This good man, this officer of the law, would be reduced to an invalid, forced to live his remaining days in a helpless state. The newspaper said he had a child, a daughter.
Darnell closed his eyes. He heard the future calls of Leroy Jackson's misery.
"I need a new bedpan!"
"The TV's on the wrong channel!"
"My toes itch!"
The voice changed over to momma's.
"Bring me some orange juice!"
"Where are you, boy?"
"Darnit!"
Leroy Jackson's information was easy enough to remember, but Darnell needed the printout, needed a record for his father's head. He hunched as he clicked the print button, looked around and listened for the printer across the desk to come alive.
His left knee rocketed up and down as he stared at the icon at the bottom of the screen.
One job in the queue.
Someone was coming down the hall. A nurse. Her new shoes squeaked on the floor Darnell had just mopped and dried.
The printer sucked in a sheet of paper.
The nurse's shadow emerged on the floor near the registration desk.
Darnell logged out of PatiStat and closed the window.
The print job was In Progress. 63%.
The nurse continued down the hall toward the registration desk, shoes squawking with increasing irritation. Her entire shadow was in range now, her white shoes, her light blue nurse's scrubs.
Darnell stood and grabbed his mop handle. He moved the bucket away from the computer toward the back of the teardrop, eyes on the print job still displayed on the screen. 78%.
The printer's roller began to spin.
"Hello?" the nurse said.
She had a round face with an undetectable heritage. Could have been Spanish, French, Mexican. Her black hair was pulled up behind her head, revealing the taut tendons and pulsing veins on her neck. Uppity. Darnell nodded curtly in response.
"Is everything okay?" she said. Her eyes moved toward the computer, which would normally show a screensaver of flying toasters—a hack from the early days of PC ownership, brought back and labeled nostalgic—instead it showed the desktop and print queue. 100%.
"You haven't been on that computer, have you?"
"Dr. Macomb was just here," Darnell mumbled, eyes down.
The printer at Darnell's back spat out a sheet. The nurse talked over the sound, her focus on Darnell. "I didn't know he was on shift."
Darnell looked down at his burn-scarred hands on the mop, playing the part of the victim, 'the help.' The nurse looked at his hands, too. He said, "I don't know, miss."
The nurse walked past Darnell into the teardrop, looked more closely at the computer screen. The print job was finished, and the window for the queue had disappeared. "It's just that there's sensitive information on these computers, you know?"
While her back was turned, Darnell slid the paper off the printer and silently dropped it into the empty wringer on his mop bucket.
The nurse turned back to him, smiling condescendingly. "We don't want people checking their email or surfing the web on them, understand?"
"I understand," Darnell said. "It won't happen again."
She glanced at the printer, saw the empty tray, and then returned her gaze to Darnell. "Make sure it doesn't, okay?"
"Okay."
19
Jake pulled into the Buzzed Books parking lot and shut down the engine. Lori's mountain bike was locked to a bike rack out front. She was saving up for a car at the same rate she was saving up for her designer shoes. It was late now. The sky had grown dark and the bookshop's front windows glowed warmly.
Jake checked his phone before going inside. Sally Myers (Brewster) had unfriended him and replied via Facebook Messenger.
My husband says I shouldn't be talking with you, considering... well, you know. I would appreciate it if you'd stop messaging me. But to answer your question, I haven't been able to draw worth a damn since the fifth grade.
Since the day I killed Brody Williams, Jake thought. He could remember doodling on a pad of paper in the courtroom during his trial. He'd been astonished how, seemingly overnight, he could effectively draw anything he laid eyes on. He'd drawn the judge in near perfect detail, members of the jury, and his mother.
He got out of the car, crossed the parking lot, and went inside. The place smelled like lattes and baked goods—the 'buzzed' part of Buzzed Books. There were baristas hard at work on the building's east side, taking orders, pulling stainless steel levers, writing names on the sleeves around paper cups.
Lori wasn't behind the service counter. There was a new girl there, someone Jake had never met. She was a future librarian to be sure—already sporting silver chains dangling from her oversized glasses. Jake read her lips as she spoke.
"Can I help you find something?"
He shook his head and smiled politely, walked past the counter into the bookshelves. He looked down aisle after aisle until he found Lori in the horror section. She was stocking paperback copies of Stephen King's latest, along with some copies from Dan Simmons and Brian Keene. Her pajama bottoms had been replaced by blue jeans. The men's softball shirt was still worn; however it was now under a thin red hoodie that stopped just short of her belt buckle. Her jeans were tight around her legs, but the material hung loosely around her hips. There was a spot where the heavy belt buckle fell away from her waist, creating a hollow between the fabric and her skin. Jake imagined grabbing her jeans by that spot to pull her close. He imagined Lori startled and thrilled by his aggression.
Then he imagined what was likely the truth—someone else was pulling her close by that spot, someone else was startling and thrilling her.
He wanted to run from that store and never see her again, wanted to run out into moving traffic. His hands shook from the quickening. He put them behind his back, felt he must be shining with body heat.
Lori turned in Jake’s direction and smiled. She cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled something toward the front of the store. Likely letting the librarian know she was going on break.
She took Jake’s hand and led him into the break room.
Inside the room there was a Formica table surrounded by three plastic chairs, a glass-fronted vending machine for chips and candy bars, a mini-fridge, and a microwave. It smelled like someone had recently reheated spaghetti. Jake examined the vending machine to see if his ancient bag of Tato Skins was still there. Sure enough. He'd never seen the machine without the 'Please Use Exact Change' light glowing red and intolerant. He had plans to someday buy the Tato Skins if he ever came into the room with the requisite exact change.
Lori sat down on one of the plastic chairs, pulling both ankles underneath her thighs and on to the chair with impossible flexibility. For Jake to pull the same trick both his knees would have to be dislocated. He sat down across from her, feet on the floor.
"You left so quickly this morning," he read from her lips, "I didn't have a chance to ask you."
I'm not the only one who left early this morning, Jake thought, then he chastised himself. Keep ripping off the scabs, dope. Keep the wounds oozing. "Ask me what?"
"This new wish," she said. "It sounds like a big one."
Jake cocked his head. "You never asked about my wishes before."
"Well," she said. "I just..." she reached for his hands, "...I just thought you'd like to share."
Jake pulled back his hands and put them under the table. He gazed at her as he leaned forward until his chest touched the Formica.
Lori offered a weak smile.
"What is this?" Jake said. "What are you doing?"
"I'm not allowed to ask about you? I'm not allowed to know about your life?"
"I'll tell you anything you want," Jake said. "It
's just... why now?"
"It's Preston. I told him about you and-"
"You told him about me?"
"He saw my tattoo," she said. "I told him you did it, and what a wonderful artist you are. He wanted to know more. I told him about your curse."
Jake stood quickly. His chair fell away. A steel leg clipped his calf as it went down. Lori reacted to the sound of the chair crashing against the floor, a sound Jake couldn't hear. Absurdly, his first thought was Russ lying on Lori’s couch, his head in some asshole's lap, happy as the asshole patted him and gave him treats. He imagined Lori sitting across from them, telling tales about the crazy, cursed guy she knows.
Her guarded heart. Its absence was never so apparent as now.
"What’s wrong, JD?" Lori asked.
Jake’s head swam. They’d never agreed that she wouldn’t talk about his curse. He never felt they had to. The rule was unwritten and unspoken, like the rules of any worthwhile relationship.
"Please don't be upset," she said.
Jake wanted to close his eyes on her, wanted to shut her out.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't know you’d get so angry. I won't talk about you anymore. I promise."
"Don't let him touch my dog," Jake said.
"What?"
Jake left the break room and left Buzzed Books. He sucked in big breaths when he got outside. He tugged at his collar with shaky hands. He got into his truck and tried to put the key in the ignition but only managed to scratch up the plastic around the hole.
He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, evenly, seeking calmness.
Listing the things he knew about his father usually helped.
One, the man had been a gypsy.
The Stonefly Series, Book 1 Page 11
