by Sarah Andre
Lock froze along with the entire waiting room of injured and bleeding. Then the split second passed, and the victims bellowed as one for attention. Two doctors handing off a chart surged forward, shouting and waving the media off. The admissions coordinator yelled over her shoulder for someone named Sharon, her voice shrill with panic.
Without another thought, Lock tightened his grip on Jordan and spun in the opposite direction, bolting left out of the waiting room and hauling ass down the corridor into the bowels of the hospital.
At the first intersection he impulsively took a right, the next a left, winding around open-mouthed staff and dazed patients littering the way. He blew by the shouts of surprise and orders to halt. Around the next bend, a lone nurse stood at the crescent nursing station studying a chart so intently he eased to a fast walk and slipped by. Every open door they passed looked occupied. Eventually they came upon a short, dead-end hallway, and he slowed in frustration, scanning the hospital signage on either side.
“What’s the plan?” Jordan asked, cocking an eyebrow.
“I don’t know,” he panted. “I was hoping it’d come to me during the run.”
“Why didn’t you head out the first emergency exit we passed? We’d be at South General by now instead of lost in this maze.”
Christ! All rational thought had flown when he saw that camera back there.
“Might have set off alarms. This place is in such chaos, all we need is an empty room. The docs won’t pay any attention to admission forms and insurance.”
He set her down gently on a nearby gurney, then tore off his cap and yanked at his scarf. This place was such a circus no one would pay any attention to his face. Sweat streamed down his body.
She pointed to a sign listing the departments next to a pair of elevators. “X-ray is two floors up. Let’s head there.”
He lifted her, and she pressed the button. Once they got to the third floor, the noise and mayhem seemed worlds away.
“Look.” He nodded up ahead where patients in wheelchairs lined the left side of the hall. A tech in brown scrubs wheeled a boy in front through double doors marked Radiology. “Damn, how are we going to get you through this line?”
“Lock?”
He swiveled at the hushed tone. “Clutch! I didn’t know you worked here.”
“I thought that was you. What’s with the scruffy hair and beard, dude? You look homeless.”
Lock grinned, his mood suddenly lighter than helium. “My disguise. I needed to disappear for a while.”
“Yeah, I heard about the USSA ultimatum.”
“It blows.”
Clutch glanced at Jordan and smiled, although the lines on his face looked strained. “So you’ve taken up rescuing maidens? The team will never believe it.”
“We need help—Jordan Sinclair, this is a friend of mine, Dr. Drew Clutchfield. Jordan was in a car accident last night, and she’s getting worse.”
“We’re not accepting any more patients.” Even while the sentence sounded automatic and his tone apologetic, Clutch peered closely into her eyes. His lips tightened, and out came the penlight, which he flicked into her pupils. He took her pulse.
Lock stood still and held his breath. He was hot, hungry, and exhausted. A part of him wanted to hand her off to Clutch, while another uncomfortable side wanted to keep her protectively encircled in his arms until she got well. And what if she could help him?
No, she was in his life to collect information and write an article or spew on talk shows. He wasn’t going to start trusting her just because some deep voice on a cell phone told him to.
“Listen.” Clutch clicked the pen light off and slipped it back into his chest pocket. “My office is the last door on the left. There’s a cot in there you can use. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“I can’t thank you enough, man. If you ever need anything…”
“Actually I do.” Clutch grabbed a stack of charts. “This bus accident has sent us out of control. I’ll examine Jordan, if you help downstairs. Ask for Sharon Shields, she’s the director of admissions. I know she can find something for you to do.”
“There’s media down there, Clutch. It’s pandemonium.”
But Clutch was already heading into another room. Lock stared helplessly after him.
“How do you know that doctor?”
He glanced down at her and began walking again. “One of the docs on the team. Goes everywhere with us, World Cup, World Championships, Olympics. Last time I saw him was in A’re.”
“Sweden? The World Cup last year?”
Of course she’d know. Her boss said she’d followed Vannini’s career. Lock wished he’d gotten that PI’s name, but asking Jordan was out of the question. He didn’t want her to know they’d spoken. Or that he now knew she was a fucking reporter. “You know your skiing?” he asked casually.
“I follow it.”
He swung into the office, placed her on the cot, and unzipped her jacket. Her body heat hit him like a furnace blast. “And me?” Did she follow his career like she followed Vannini’s?
“You won gold in the downhill and Super G. And you’re the only American besides Bode Miller to win in all five Alpine disciplines.”
“Yeah, and I did it first.” Inwardly he grimaced. That really came out vain.
“I know.” She gave him a shy smile. “And Sweden was the last time you competed.”
Whether as a reporter or a PI assistant, she’d done her homework thoroughly before skidding into his life. Was that good or bad?
“Don’t worry, dawg, I won’t ask for your autograph.” Her eyes glinted with humor.
“What?”
“You’re looking like you want to escape a crazed fan.”
“Are you?”
“I am a hundred percent not.”
He winked to let her know she hadn’t hurt his feelings and headed for the door.
“Wait, where are you going?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“What happened that night, Lock?”
He let a few heartbeats go by, amazed she could be this ill and still keep at him like her life depended on it. He glanced over his shoulder. “Guess you better get a seat in court like everyone else, kiddo.”
“Wait a minute.”
He turned and leaned a shoulder against the doorframe. She clung white-knuckled to the side of the cot, face beet-red. Her big, help-me eyes looked neon from here, and he hated that he was just a powerless schmuck standing around watching her hurt like this. It sealed his decision, God help him. He adjusted the scarf around his chin, loosely, but enough to obscure the lower half of his face.
“I’ll be down in admissions like Clutch asked.”
“You can’t be serious! The media’s still there. You have some kind of deathly allergy to them, remember?”
Them. Spotting her lies amused him now that he held all the cards.
He shoved the sweaty cap low on his brow, trying to muster some adrenalin for what lay ahead. “You got a call from your boss after you passed out. He convinced me to listen to your theory. I’m not saying I’ll cooperate, but… If I have to hand out juice boxes so you can get better? I can butch up for that.”
“You have my phone?” Her expression mirrored the one she wore when they’d entered the hospital—sheer terror. She actually tried to get off the cot.
“Christ, Jordan, sit down! Your phone’s dead. I’ll give it to you later.”
“Dude.” Clutch appeared from behind and squeezed past. “You going downstairs?”
“I need my phone—” she panted, reaching out her hand.
“Yeah, I was just leaving.” Lock gave a final tug on the scarf.
“Wait, Lock, please don’t go…”
As he walked down the hall, he heard Clutch giving instructions in a low voice and Jordan still wailing about her damn phone. He pushed the elevator button when Leo’s Dragnet theme ringtone sounded in his pocket. Caller ID: Home. “Yeah?”
“Thank God
I finally got through,” Leo said.
“She’ll be fine. We’re at the hospital.”
“No, when the electricity came back on I Googled her name. She’s a freelance reporter!”
“I already know that.”
“Oh.” A short pause. “Then I Googled several spellings of Jesselynn Clair.”
Christ, Jordan. More secrets? A second wind kick-started somewhere deep inside. All senses riveted into focus, like crouching at the starting gate.
“And?” he asked.
“She shot her father.”
Ignoring the opening elevator, Lock swiveled around and banged through the stairway exit door. “Holy shit!” He slumped onto the first concrete step. “She’s a murderer?”
“Attempted murder. She was sixteen. Alabama police arrived on a disturbance call from a neighbor and found her dad shot twice with his own gun. Both mother and daughter were missing. The father barely survived, but when he came to, he fingered his daughter as the shooter.”
“So if the little minx is found,”—Lock’s voice echoed back at him in the stairwell—“she faces prison.” Just like me.
“There’s no statute of limitations on attempted murder in Alabama. I looked that up too.”
Alabama. That explained the Southern accent when she’d been out of it. Crafty, her boss called her. If that meant devious little liar, he’d agree. And after uncovering three of her secrets this afternoon, he had to wonder: how many were left?
“Listen, Leo. Print out everything you can find. It’ll be my insurance if she publishes a sordid little piece about her time in the cabin.”
“You know she’s not paparazzi.”
“They all are. She’ll sell me out faster than I can ski. I need those printouts.”
Then the PI’s deep voice echoed in his head. You just make sure she gets well. She’s all you need.
“I gotta go, I don’t know when I’ll be home.”
“Okay.”
“And Leo? Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For… Never mind. Just thanks.”
Lock hung up and pocketed the phone, which rustled the pretzel bags. Food!
He ripped open a bag with his teeth and poured in as many sticks as his mouth could hold, chewing furiously as he descended the flights of stairs. His immediate agenda: avoid the media if they still hung in the waiting room, hand out juice, get back upstairs to Jordan, and pick her brain about his case. She probably knew as much as he did about that night. And now he had something huge on her.
Attempted murder. He shook his head, revising his opinion of her yet again. Why had he ever considered her vulnerable? It took guts of steel for a sixteen-year-old to unload a gun into her own dad. What the hell triggered that? And what to make of her? Had she lied about who she was to get an article with the minimum of effort, or because she ran from the law?
And why, damn it, with all this shit raining down on him, did he spend so much time thinking about her?
He eased open the heavy door and glanced around the ground level hallway. Staff milled about with several patients in wheelchairs or gurneys, but it was nothing like the bedlam earlier. He slipped into the activity, following signs to the admissions area.
When he got to the enormous room, the media was nowhere in sight, and the chaos seemed more subdued. He studied the staff, wondering how to get juice boxes, when a small boy against the far wall drew his attention. He looked about eight—red-haired and freckled, tears streaming down his face.
“But I’m so hungry,” he sobbed to his father, who barely registered the drama, his attention focused on his other side where he held an ice pack to his elder son’s head.
The remaining pretzels and water bottles felt like lead in Lock’s inner pockets as he watched the little boy’s face screw into another sob. Aw, hell.
Just as he made a bee-line for the boy, he heard the whoosh of the entrance doors and winced at the bright glare of the video camera light.
“This is Annie Sawyer, Channel Eleven News,” she said into the mic. “Earlier this hour we were escorted out, but after a few calls to the hospital administrator, we’ve been given permission to conduct some interviews.”
“And here we go,” Lock muttered, shifting farther into his scarf.
Chapter Ten
“Updating the segment we broke on our six o’clock broadcast. We’re standing in the emergency room at Franklin Memorial which, as you can see, is crowded to capacity.”
The camera panned the other side of the room while the reporter paused for dramatic effect. As the lens began to angle his way, Lock ducked his head, opening the bag of pretzels and handing them to the little boy. The reporter began speaking again just as Leo’s cellphone boomed out the Dragnet theme again. Hyperaware of nearby glances, he quickly dug the phone out. “What now?” he answered, his voice barely audible.
“Thought you’d want to know I’m watching you on TV.”
“No shit, Sherlock. Oops, sorry,” he said to the boy.
“Okay, the camera just focused on a woman with a baby.” Leo exhaled a shaky sigh. “Duck your head and get to the exit.”
“Can’t.”
“What?”
“A doctor asked me to help out.”
“Who are you, and what’ve you done with my brother?”
“I’ve figured out—”
“Can I have your autograph, mister?” the boy piped up loudly. Much too loudly. Lock froze as a hush came over the room.
“The camera just swung right to you,” Leo murmured. “Do not turn around.”
Lock inhaled sharply. The boy repeated his request, tugging on his jacket. Lock tried to shush him, but out of the corner of his eye he could see even the father turning from the kid on the other side.
Lock’s grip on the phone was slick with sweat. Even though his heart pounded a deafening drumbeat in his ears, he heard Annie making her way through the crowd toward him. She kept up that inane chatter into the microphone, excitement growing in her voice.
“You’re finished,” Leo said in his ear, followed by a sound of disbelief. “After ten goddamn months of shielding you from the world, it came down to this. A favor for a doctor?”
“And what have we here?” Annie thrust the microphone in the little boy’s face. Lock shifted again, his back solidly to her and her cameraman. He scratched his ear to block his profile.
“That’s Lock and Load.” The boy pointed proudly, little legs pumping. “He gave me this.” He held up the pretzel bag.
“Shit,” Leo whispered into the phone. “How could he possibly know?”
Lock ignored his brother’s question and lowered the cell phone. He should have hung up, but for some reason keeping the thread of connection with Leo was vital, so he just stuck the open cell in his pocket and squared his shoulders.
The entire waiting room had fallen silent. If his career was going down, it’d end on his terms. Which meant Lock, the guy scared shitless that he’d killed Tiffany van der Kellen, needed to disappear. But Lock and Load, who thought life was a joke and sped by death at eighty miles an hour with a twinkle in his eye? Lock and Load didn’t give a shit what anybody thought. He couldn’t care less the nation had already judged him and found him guilty.
He pivoted slowly, yanked down his scarf, and plastered on his playboy grin, the effort hurting his cheeks. As if in stereo, the waiting room burst into shocked murmuring, which he ignored. He dragged off his cap and shoved it in his pocket, his knuckles bumping the cell phone. Leo. He touched the phone one last time then withdrew his hand, looked straight at the lens, and winked.
“Why, it is Lock Roane,” Annie sputtered, sounding beside herself at this coup. She turned to the lens and added, “In a Channel Eleven exclusive!”
In the background, people elbowed and pushed to get closer to the scene, someone even jostled the cameraman. A voice to his left yelled, “Why’d you kill her, Lock!”
It took all his will to prevent his carefree grin from slippi
ng as he ignored the guy. He maintained a casual stance, pretending this was just another post-race interview in front of a throng of fans.
“I’ve got time for a question or two, Annie. Shoot.”
She leaned closer and garlic breath wafted his way. “Your murder trial starts next week, and you’ve entered a not-guilty plea. What exactly is your strategy, given all the evidence against you?”
“My strategy? Not to crash and burn.” He cocked an eyebrow into the lens, wondering if Leo had just slapped his forehead so hard he’d given himself a brain injury.
“You face a life sentence. How do you feel about that?”
He sobered and focused on her face, switching to the stare he’d perfected over the years. The one that made a woman feel like his entire universe revolved solely around her. Her reaction would help him stall for time.
“It’s messed up, Annie. I didn’t kill Tiffany.” He heard the false ring in his voice which alarmed him. Not because anyone else heard it—Lock and Load’s façade always sounded artificial. But that he couldn’t even say it aloud with conviction shook him. He had to get out of here before the mask slipped.
As expected, Annie blinked up at him in a dazed kind of way.
“I believe you, Lock!” The cameraman swung to catch the last of the little boy’s fervent statement.
“Thanks, little dude.”
“But…where’ve you been all these months? Why are you here tonight?”
“Stopped by to visit some friends.” He nodded to the little boy, who beamed. “But now I gotta bounce.” He plastered on a look of regret, saluted the lens, and pushed toward the exit.
Annie and her cameraman followed him out of the ER, questions streaming unrelentingly at his back. He headed for Old Sam’s pickup, picturing the old man watching this on his sister’s sofa and suddenly seeing his truck in the shot. Knowing Sam, he’d yak every customer’s ear off for years to come about his truck’s role in the infamous Lock and Load ambush.
As he opened the dinged and dented door, Annie called out shrilly, “Wait. What do you have to say to all your small fans out there? The children of America who saw you as a mentor.”
Goddamn reporters and their go-for-the-jugular questions! He paused and grit his teeth against the impulsive, obscene-laced answer filling his mouth. This was her job, and his words would no doubt be broadcast around the globe. He turned back and grinned into the lens. “Stay off drugs, stay in school, and always be cool.” To make sure he pissed off the talking heads, he flashed the international surfer signal, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “And if you live in Colorado, stay indoors until this blizzard passes.”
