After inserting the needle into the IV’s access port, Toni pushes the plunger. She stands, walks over to the biohazard box mounted on the wall, and drops the syringe in among the rest of the used needles.
In a short while, Alex begins exhibiting the initial symptoms of a toxic dose of calcium gluconate—flushed skin and profuse sweating.
As Toni gets the second syringe from the bedside table, she says, “Alex, when you taught me how to kill someone and make it look like a heart attack, you said that if I was in a hurry—if it was an ‘impatient disposal’—that I could add a second medication.”
Looking at the now-uncapped needle, she says, “This one is potassium phosphate. The calcium and phosphate in the two solutions will interact and form an insoluble bond that creates aggregate anaphylaxis—severe hypertension and right ventricular heart failure.”
Toni inserts the second needle into Alex’s vein. While pressing the plunger, she adds, “You were a good teacher, Alex. Oops. Did I use the past-tense? Sorry about that, but it won’t be long now.” She smiles. “I’m a good student. I remembered what you said. ‘When calcium gluconate and potassium phosphate solutions are mixed together, they form an insoluble precipitant. That’s why they’ve got to be injected separately—to prevent precipitate formation until they’re in the victim’s bloodstream.’”
Toni stands by the bed, listening to Alex’s moans weaken.
The second syringe joins the others in the biohazard box.
Toni walks out the door and is halfway down the corridor when Alex—known until now as Jason—flatlines.
Emma feels like she’s floating out of her body. She looks down on the shell of herself laying prone on a hospital table. Doctors and nurses in surgical masks and scrubs surround her. She hears someone’s shoes make gasping little sucks at the floor when they move. There’s a white sheet propped up over the lower part of my body. It reminds me of one of those temporary tents thrown up at an archeological dig.
She has a fleeting sense of something drifting up from her subconscious, almost within reach, but too fragile to grasp. A faceless man hovers like a specter at the margins of her mind’s eye, refusing to go away.
All heads in the ICU waiting room lift at the call of “Code Blue” over the intercom. Their exhausted faces now fully alert. Everyone’s aware that a patient—possibly their loved one—is having cardiopulmonary arrest and needs immediate resuscitation.
Mick notices a grandmotherly woman across from him fingering her rosary beads, eyes closed, her lips moving silently.
Please, God, don’t let Emma die.
As Toni leaves the hospital, she looks up at the night sky scattered with dense clusters of sparkling stars of every size and intensity and stretches languidly with her arms above her head. An agent from the FBI will be here in the morning. At least he won’t be able to get any information from Alex. She smiles.
I’ve got two more loose ends to tie up—the padre and Emma. She’s probably still in surgery, so my first priority is Father MacCullough. It’s been a long time since I’ve darkened the doors of a church. I’ll swing by St. Barnabas on my way home and acquaint myself with the lay of the land.
Dr. Zimmerman sees Mick before he sees her. She watches him pace the tension-filled room. When he turns toward her, she sees hope fill his face. She also sees shadows under his eyes, a healthy growth of stubble on his face and neck, and spikes in his hair from raking his hands through it.
He rushes over to her. “How’s Emma?”
“I’m happy to tell you that Emma has a good prognosis. The surgeon who removed the bullet and repaired the damage, Dr. Martin Timms, is one of the best thoracic surgeons in the Pacific Northwest. But Emma still has a pneumothorax, a collapsed lung. She also has some broken ribs, both front and back.” Dr. Zimmerman didn’t tell Mick that before they were able to get her stabilized—when her blood pressure was still all over the place—she’d flatlined. They’d lost her.
“Miss Benton is going to be monitored in the ICU for the next few days, maybe even a week, to make sure she doesn’t develop ARDS—acute respiratory distress syndrome. And there’s another thing you should know. The man who shot Miss Benton, Jason Hughes, is dead. He died from a massive heart attack while he was in recovery.”
“Jason Hughes is an alias,” Mick says. “His real name is Alexander Berndt. The FBI will be here in the morning. They’ll want DNA samples from him so they can match them against ten rapes and murders.”
“Oh, my God. I’ll let Dr. Marshall in the hospital morgue know.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it. I’d like to go sit with Emma now,” Mick says. “I won’t say a word. I’ll just sit quietly in a chair.”
Dr. Zimmerman looks into his pleading eyes. “I’m sorry, Mr. McPherson, but there are no visitors, except for clergy, while she’s in recovery.”
A light goes on over one of the patient’s doors, followed by a low ping. A nurse in pink scrubs and white crocks that squeak with every step, approaches Dr. Zimmerman and Mick. “You’re needed on the floor, Dr. Zimmerman.”
“Thank you, Sarah. I’ll be right there.”
Turning to Mick, she says, “If there’s anything else I can do for you, please let me know. I’ve told Emma’s surgical team that her fiancé is in the waiting room or the hospital chapel.” She gives him a pointed look. “And to let you know of any further news.”
“Thank you so much, Dr. Zimmerman. I appreciate your help.”
As Dr. Zimmerman heads to her patient, Mick heads to the chapel on the first floor.
Expecting resistance, when Toni pulls the ornate handle on the door of St. Barnabas, she marvels. It’s true, the doors on Catholic churches are never locked.
As she steps in, she closes her eyes and inhales the incense and beeswax scented air, letting the peace of the place soak into her. After buying three candles—one for Alex, one for Father MacCullough, and one for Emma Benton—she steps into the dark interior of the church.
Turning full circle, she takes in her surroundings. Not surprising, it appears that she’s the only “worshipper” at three o’clock in the morning. At the far end of the vaulted nave, a shrine of Mary is backlit with hundreds of tiny lights. As Toni draws near, she can make out the flesh-tinted face. Even though it’s only plaster, lit from beneath it has an eerily lifelike look.
She takes a seat in the front pew and continues to examine the space, looking for anything that might help her. She checks each direction for doors. Most of them are visible in the dark because current laws mandate a lit exit sign over them making them easy to find in the event of an emergency. Experientially, she knows that many laws are overlooked. Wondering if the church has cut any corners, she gets up and walks the perimeter to verify the location of each door. When she comes upon the confessional booth, she smiles. This is it.
The “booth” looks more like a massive wooden cabinet. The area on the left is where the priest enters, pulls the door shut, and waits. The area on the right side—separated by a wooden partition with a small ornate screen—is where the penitent enters, pulls their door shut, and sits or kneels. Now all I need to do is check the outside perimeter for security cameras, and then find out when Father MacCullough takes confessions.
Mick looks up when Joe enters the small chapel.
“I thought I might find you here. How’s Emma?”
“The good news is, they got the bullet out. The bad news is, she has a collapsed lung and some broken ribs. They’re keeping her in ICU for a few days to monitor her.”
“Speaking of ICU,” Joe says, “Rafferty from the FBI is upstairs in the waiting room.
“I thought he wasn’t coming until morning.”
Joe nods. “He arrived early.” Continuing, he says, “We know that Hughes, or rather, Berndt, is dead. Rafferty wants the three of us to go to the morgue together. Is that okay with you?”
Mick stands then runs a hand down his face; his fingers stop at his chin. “Yes. And then, once I check on Em
ma’s status, I need to go home to shave. I showered but forgot to mow this stubble, and Emma’s parents are due to arrive soon.”
After introductions are made, Rafferty, Bingham, and McPherson fill out the necessary forms, then take the elevator to the small basement morgue.
Dr. Marshall is standing at a steel table in her lab coat and gloves, her hair tucked under a cap, with a female body laid out in front of her, draped from the neck down.
Nodding at the men, she says, “Dr. Zimmerman told me I could expect the FBI. Gentlemen, may I see your identification, please?”
While she checks their identification, Rafferty explains that he’s FBI, Bingham’s a police officer, and McPherson’s a civilian here to ID the body. After they sign in, Dr. Marshall opens a refrigerated body drawer. In it is a sheet-covered corpse.
When the doctor pulls back the sheet, Mick steps forward and looks intently at the face. I’m glad that one evil man, at least, is no longer at large upon this earth.
He turns to Rafferty, Bingham, and Marshall. “This is Jason Hughes. We’ve since learned that’s an alias. His real name is Alexander Berndt.”
A new day greets Mick when he steps out of the hospital. The morning air is moist and cool enough to turn his breath to vapor. In his mind’s eye, he imagines rafts of seagulls rise off the water, making their way in the first misty light with the whale-watching boats bound for the San Juan Islands in the Salish Sea, the Caribbean of the Pacific Northwest.
On the drive home, Mick’s mind takes a one-eighty. He thinks about death. About how close Emma came to it. He thinks about the morgue and Alex Berndt, a.k.a. Jason Hughes. He also thinks about Sam. Sam’s death is as fresh now as it was five years ago when it occurred. Not just the visuals, but the emotional hatchet attached to the mental images as well.
His therapist told him he has “survivor’s guilt.” I survived, and Sam didn’t. Mick was grappling with grief, of course, but it was grief marred by guilt. We flipped a coin to see who would drive. Sam “won.” It could just as easily have been me in the sniper’s scope that day.
Now though, when he shuts his eyes, he hears gunfire, then sees Emma’s body flinch and fall forward onto the ground. Mick processes the gut-wrenching scene in slow motion—over and over again.
Some shrinks might interpret this as being afraid of another significant loss. And they might not be far off the mark.
CHAPTER 26
“When you are describing a shape, or sound, or tint: don’t state the matter plainly, but put it in a hint; and learn to look at all things with a sort of mental squint.”
—LEWIS CARROLL
Hemingway hurls himself—cone head and all—at Mick when he steps through the mudroom door. “I missed you, too,” Mick says. As he strokes Hemingway’s chest and back, the dog whines with pleasure. Mick can’t help but smile.
The top of Niall’s apron-clad body almost fills the space above the Dutch door. “Welcome home. How is Emma?”
Like bookends, Cynthia and Fran appear, one on each side of Niall.
“The surgeon removed the bullet from Emma. She has a collapsed lung and a few broken ribs, but they assured me she has a good prognosis. When I left, she was still in recovery. I’m just going home to shave, then I’ll head back.”
“Her parents will be so glad to hear that news,” Fran says.
“Have you heard from Libby?” Mick asks. “Do you know when they expect to arrive at the hospital?”
Niall wipes his hands on the front of his apron. “She called about ten minutes ago. You must have just missed each other.”
Rubbing a hand over his face, Mick says, “I’m glad to have a chance to shave before I meet Emma’s parents.”
“You are looking a little scruffy,” Niall teases. “Almost as bad as Hemingway.”
“What’s the word on Jason?” Cynthia asks.
“He died. He had a heart attack when he was in recovery. This morning, Joe Bingham, Sean Rafferty, an FBI agent, and I went to the hospital morgue where I identified Alex Berndt, who we know used the alias, Jason Hughes. It’s now a joint federal–Bellingham law enforcement investigation.”
“Why did the FBI get involved?” Niall asks.
“Cynthia was right about the towels in the suitcase. It turns out there are ten unsolved rapes and murders. The trail is geographically disparate. Each one took place in a different state.”
“Crossing state lines, is that the reason for the FBI?” Fran asks.
“That, and because there are over three almost-identical killings, it makes the murderer a serial killer.”
Niall takes in a long breath, then blows it out, giving himself a moment to calm down. “It’s hard to wrap my head around the fact that he was here as our guest. Emma is a fortunate young woman.”
“Yes, she is,” Mick says. “I’m so grateful she’s still alive. One of the things Agent Rafferty told Bingham and me this morning is that rape isn’t about sex. It’s about power and control and humiliation. He also said that serial killers leave certain trademarks. Some they’re aware of. Others they’re not. In this case, the killer—quite possibly Alex Berndt—was methodical, and his methods were informed by his knowledge of anatomy.”
“What do you mean?” Fran asks.
“Trust me, you don’t want to know. But I will say this. They’re getting Berndt’s DNA right now to match against the DNA they collected from the victims.”
Niall shakes the dishtowel. “Enough about that. I know you’re anxious to shave and get back to the hospital. Would you like a quick cup of coffee and a bite to eat before we head out?”
“Yes, please.” Mick smiles. “I was hoping you’d ask.”
Dr. Zimmerman is passing by when Mick, Niall, Cynthia, and Fran step off the elevator on the fourth floor. “You’re just the person I’m looking for,” she says to Mick. Taking him by the arm she leads him down the corridor—like ducklings, the others following behind. “Emma’s parents are here. They filled her surgical team in on her condition—Transverse myelitis. That’s where I come in. It’s one of my areas of practice.”
Stopping outside a closed door, she looks into Mick’s eyes. “This is Emma’s room.” She leans in and whispers conspiratorially. “We’re breaking the rules a bit with the number of visitors she has, but then we all break the rules now and then, don’t we?” she says, pointedly. “I’ll leave you now, but I would like to speak with you later.”
After patting him on the arm, she turns and walks down the hallway.
Am I in some kind of trouble? Mick wonders, as he watches her white lab coat disappear around a corner.
When he pushes the door open, the first thing Mick sees is Emma. She seems heartbreakingly frail amid the array of tubes, racks, and monitors. Because of the incision in her back, she’s propped up in a medical unit that keeps pressure off the dressing. He feels a rush of joy so big it almost stuns him. He realizes his heart is pounding.
Niall, Cynthia, and Fran slip around him into the room. They join the others around the bed.
The second thing Mick notices is that all of the original people surrounding Emma—Libby, Bingham, Rafferty, and a man and woman he suspects are Emma’s parents—are looking at him.
“What?” he asks.
They continue to stare.
In his mind, he quickly goes through a mental checklist. He looks down, his zipper’s closed. He reaches up, his hair is combed. He wipes the front of his teeth with his finger.
They continue to stare.
“What?” he asks again.
“We understand that congratulations are in order,” his sister, Libby, says.
In unison, Niall, Cynthia, and Fran turn to him incredulously, and say, “What?”
Mick feels a flush creep across his cheeks. His ears get hot. Grimacing, he says, “No wonder Dr. Zimmerman wants to speak with me later. I am in trouble.”
Looking directly at Emma now, he says, “I realize that it’s probably too early to ask you to marry me, but it’s no
t too early to tell you that I love you, that I’m in love with you, and that I want to be part of your life.”
Turning to her parents, he says, “Mr. and Mrs. Benton, your daughter means the world to me.”
“Well, that took a lot of guts,” Joe says.
“I’d rather be in a firefight,” Rafferty says.
Niall starts clapping, and the rest chime in.
Eyes glistening, Emma beckons Mick over. “I love you, too,” she manages to whisper.
With a no-nonsense look from Dr. Timms as he checks on Emma, the visitors in her room dwindle down to three—Mick, Rafferty, and Bingham.
Rafferty flashes his badge at the doctor, and says, “The moment we get a statement from Ms. Benton, we’ll leave.” Nodding toward Joe, he says, “This is a joint task force effort, FBI and BPD—Bellingham Police Department.” Suppressing a smile, he turns to Mick. “And this is Sean McPherson, Ms. Benton’s fiancé.”
Joe coughs.
Emma’s wide grin turns into a wince from the pain of the effort.
Dr. Timm’s face shifts from no-nonsense, to a smile. Turning to Emma, he says, “Congratulations. I’ll give you ten more minutes, and then visiting hours are over. You need your rest.” And with that, he leaves the room.
After agent Rafferty tells Emma what he needs to know, he turns on his recorder.
Emma begins. She tells them that Jason bragged to her that she was going to be his eleventh “disposal”—kill. “He said it didn’t matter that he was telling me, because I’d be dead, and the information would die with me.” She lifts a hand up to her throat.
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