THE JACK REACHER FILES: THE GIRL FROM THE WRONG SIDE OF CORDIAL (with Bonus Thriller THE BLOOD NOTEBOOKS)

by Jude Hardin

  “Is she working tonight?” Kei said. “Tomorrow?”

  “She sent me an email. I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but—”

  There was a long pause.

  “She resigned?” Kei said.

  “Yes. Effective immediately. Apparently she doesn’t care about any sort of reference. I’m surprised. She was a really good worker.”

  “I need to find her.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Mr. Thrasher. I tried her cell phone number a few minutes ago, and the call went straight to voicemail. She gets her paycheck through direct deposit, so there’s really no reason for her to come back into the store unless she just wants to.”

  “If she does, would you tell her to call me?”

  “Sure. I can do that. What was your first name again?”

  “Kei. K-E-I. Thanks so much for your help, Ms. Kennington.”

  Kei walked outside, climbed into his car, started the engine. He hadn’t really expected to find Anna at the supermarket, but it was worth a try. Now he felt certain that something was seriously wrong. Anna had cleared out of her residence abruptly, and she’d quit her job abruptly, and she wasn’t answering her phone. And then there was the business with the old man at the hospital, and the shooting in the apartment complex parking lot.

  Kei was convinced that something very bad had happened to Anna, and he suspected that the man in the dark blue suit had something to do with it. The man had given Kei a funny look when the confused old man shouted Anna’s name. Now the man in the dark blue suit was worried that Kei might be a threat—that he might have seen and heard too much. It was just a guess, but it seemed reasonable.

  What didn’t seem likely at all was that Anna had gone to all this trouble just to get away from Kei, even if she’d done a background check. She might have been hesitant to get involved, but she wouldn’t have done all this.

  Kei sat in the grocery store parking lot and thought about what he should do next. The police weren’t going to be of any assistance, unless maybe the next bullet found its mark. Maybe Detective Hollinger would be a little more helpful then.

  Kei wondered how much a private investigator would charge for something like this. Probably way more than he could afford. A former medical colleague had hired a PI to follow her husband around for a few days, and she’d ended up paying the guy over two thousand dollars. There was no way Kei could manage an expense like that. He only had a little over a thousand in the bank, and he couldn’t take out a loan because he didn’t have anything to use as collateral. Which meant that he was pretty much on his own with the investigation.

  He unzipped his gym bag, pulled out his tablet computer, ran a search for nursing homes in the area, got fourteen hits. He called the one located closest to the hospital, and a woman with a very pleasant voice answered. She politely and mechanically stated the name of the institution and her own first name, and then she asked how she might be of assistance today.

  Kei identified himself as Dr. Thrasher.

  “I’m trying to locate a patient,” he said.

  “Name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know the patient’s name?”

  “He would have been admitted to your facility yesterday. Early in the morning, probably, from Amberjack Heights Medical Center. Late seventies or early eighties, cognition issues.”

  “That might describe quite a few of our patients. I’m afraid I can’t—”

  “A man in a dark blue suit was with him at the hospital. Might still be with him. Posing as a grandson, maybe, but I don’t think he’s really a family member.”

  “Sir, if you can’t provide me with the name of the patient, then there’s really no way I can—”

  “Surely you don’t have more than one confused old man accompanied by a much younger man in a dark blue suit. If he’s there, you would know it. If he’s not, just tell me, and I’ll call the next place on my list.”

  “I’m going to transfer you to the nurses’ station, okay? Hold for just one moment, please.”

  There was a click, and then Kei was treated to several minutes of generic orchestra music, interrupted occasionally with an announcement to please stay on the line to speak with a nurse. When the nurse finally answered, Kei told her the same thing he’d told the receptionist.

  “We do have one male patient who came back from the hospital yesterday,” the nurse said. “But there’s nobody with him.”

  “Is he confused?”

  “Very.”

  “What’s his name?” Kei said.

  “Could you tell me the nature of your inquiry, doctor?”

  “I’m trying to send some notes to my office, and I lost the list of patients I made rounds on yesterday. I just need the man’s name so I can look it up in the hospital’s database.”

  “I’m really not supposed to give that kind of information over the phone.”

  “You’re going to make me drive all the way over there?”

  “You can talk to the charge nurse if you want, but I think she’s going to tell you the same thing.”

  “Never mind. Thanks.”

  Kei disconnected. He figured he would face similar challenges over the phone at the other nursing homes, so he decided to visit the facilities in person, one at a time, until he found the man he was looking for.

  7

  Kei stopped at a uniform store, bought a lab coat and a cheap stethoscope.

  Practicing medicine without a license was a serious offense, one that would put him right back inside. And he couldn’t let that happen. The day he was released, he had decided that he would rather die than go back to that place.

  But he really wasn’t going to be practicing medicine. He wasn’t going to write any orders or perform any procedures or even give any advice. He was just going to dress the part and look at some patient records. He could be arrested for those things, too, but he figured he was far less likely to get caught, especially if he was careful.

  It was still a big risk, but he couldn’t think of any other way to get the information he needed. Someone had done something to Anna, and someone was trying to kill him, and he needed to get to the bottom of it.

  He had to.

  The situation just wasn’t going to go away on its own.

  He steered into the parking lot of the nursing home he’d called earlier, found a spot in the very back of the visitor’s section. He didn’t want to park the old Camry where the doctors parked, worried that it would immediately send a red flag to anyone who saw him climb out of it. Faded paint, missing hubcaps, broken windows. It just wasn’t the kind of car a doctor would drive.

  He entered the facility, nodding at the receptionist, moving with firm purpose and direction, trying to exude confidence and a sense of belonging, trying to act as if he owned the place, breathing a sigh of relief when he made it past the front desk without being asked for identification. If the receptionist had stopped him, he probably could have talked his way in, but it was better that he didn’t have to.

  He followed a long hallway, walked past a dining area on the left and a recreation area on the right—THE FUN ROOM, a sign bolted to the wall said. Sofas and armchairs on one end, wooden tables on the other, shelves lined with books and board games. There were several patients hanging around in there, most of them in wheelchairs, some reading or playing games, some having quiet conversations, some simply gazing in the general direction of a large television screen. Contrary to the posted intention of the space, none of them appeared to be having much fun.

  Kei made it to the nurses’ station, looked around, saw nobody. He sat in front of the chart rack and started pulling binders out one at a time, glancing at the patients’ face sheets, quickly eliminating most of them either by gender or age.

  Then he opened the chart for a man named Theodore Cummings. Seventy-eight years old, severe dementia, room 137. The most recent progress note said that Mr. Cummings had been taken to the emergency room for acute head
trauma related to a fall. He’d stayed at the hospital several days, and then he had been discharged and sent back to the nursing home yesterday in the a.m.

  Kei slid the chart back into the rack, got up and followed the signs to the appropriate wing. As he rounded the corner to the hallway for rooms 130-139, he saw a female nurse leaning against the far wall.

  But it wasn’t the nurse he was worried about.

  It was the man she was talking to.

  Ron Filmore. Kei knew him from medical school. They had never been great friends or anything, but they’d made some morning rounds together as students, and they’d been assigned to the same study group in the anatomy lab. Maybe Ron had heard about Kei losing his license, and maybe he hadn’t. It wasn’t exactly front page news, but things like that got around in the medical community, especially among locals. Maybe Ron hadn’t heard about it, but Kei couldn’t afford to take the chance. He eased back around the corner, stood there and listened to the conversation while he considered his next move.

  “You could come out to my lake house sometime,” Ron said to the nurse. “I have a nice dock and a pontoon boat and a couple of jet skis. In fact, I have some friends coming over this weekend. You’re welcome to join us if you want to.”

  “Is it a party or something?” the nurse said.

  “Not really a party. Just me and a married couple I’m friends with. I’ll be all alone if you don’t come.”

  “You won’t be all alone. Your friends will be there.”

  “Well, you know what I mean. Anyway, think about it. I’m going to finish making my rounds, and then I’ll stop by the nurses’ station on my way out.”

  “Okay, I’ll think about it.”

  Kei heard footsteps coming his way. He grabbed the metal clipboard hanging outside the nearest room, pretending to look at the patient’s vital signs as Ron turned the corner, covering as much of his face as possible in an effort to remain unnoticed.

  “Kei Thrasher? Is that you?”

  Kei looked up from the clipboard. Heart pounding, sweat trickling down the center of his back.

  “Do I know you?” Kei said.

  “It’s me. Ron Filmore. We graduated together.”

  “Hey. Long time.”

  “Yeah. How have you been?”

  “Can’t complain.”

  “I thought you went into emergency medicine. You’re seeing patients over here now?”

  “Just one,” Kei said. “As a favor, really. Friend of the family. That kind of thing.”

  “Which patient?”

  “Mr. Cummings. Room one thirty-seven.”

  “This is one twenty-seven,” Ron said, glancing down at the clipboard in Kei’s hand. “The room you’re looking for is toward the end of the hall over here. Want me to show you?”

  “Whoops. No, I can find it. Thanks. Good seeing you, Ron.”

  “Maybe we can get together and catch up sometime. Give me a call.”

  “Okay. I will.”

  Kei put the clipboard back on its hook, turned the corner and hurried on down to 137. He opened the door and walked into the room, saw right away that Mr. Cummings was not the man he was looking for. He wasn’t bald, for one thing.

  “Who are you?” Mr. Cummings said.

  “Sorry. I must have the wrong room.”

  “That’s the problem with you doctors. You just barge in any old time you feel like it. I might have been asleep. Or naked!”

  “Sorry.”

  Kei turned to exit the room.

  Unfortunately, Dr. Ronald Filmore was standing there blocking his way.

  “I just remembered something,” Ron said. “A newspaper article I read a few years ago. Your name was mentioned in connection with—”

  Kei darted toward his former classmate and shouldered into him like a running back on a football field. Ron fell backward, hit the floor hard. Kei turned the corner at the end of the hall, made his way past the nurses’ station, the dining area, THE FUN ROOM.

  “Is something wrong, sir?” the receptionist said as he trotted past the front desk.

  Kei kept running.

  He made it out to his car, climbed in and started the engine and sped away.

  He’d escaped any sort of immediate repercussions, but apparently Ron Filmore had heard about his involvement with a group of physicians a few years ago—the reason for his arrest and conviction and the subsequent revocation of his license to practice medicine.

  Kei had been an ER doctor up in Jacksonville. He loved his work, but he wasn’t making a lot of money. Not compared to some of his friends in other specialties. They were getting rich. Oceanfront property, yachts, Ferraris. Kei wanted those things too. He worked hard, and he felt like he deserved them. He invested some money in a pain clinic down in the southern part of the state, a place that would later be labeled a pill mill. When it all came crumbling down, Kei was named as an accessory. He spent a year of his life behind bars, and the doctors who actually worked at the clinic and wrote the prescriptions were doing ten.

  Apparently Ron Filmore knew about all that. Kei guessed it hadn’t registered at first, but then something clicked and he remembered.

  Ron could make a lot of trouble for Kei if he wanted to.

  A whole lot of trouble.

  And Kei figured he probably would.

  8

  Kei was thinking about calling Ron Filmore and trying to explain everything when he looked in his rearview mirror and noticed that someone was following him. Closely, aggressively, maybe two or three car lengths behind, apparently unconcerned about being discreet. Kei took a right at the next traffic signal and then a left down a side street, just to be sure.

  The vehicle stayed on his tail.

  Kei sped up, ignoring caution signals, whipping around corners, tires screeching and gravel flying. He approached a stop sign at double the speed limit, thought it was a four-way and then saw that it wasn’t as a big yellow school bus snailed into the intersection at about five miles an hour. Kei slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop, expecting the bus to pass on by, but it didn’t. The driver stopped and climbed out and started walking toward Kei’s Camry.

  Kei glanced over at his side mirror, saw that the car following him had pulled into a driveway. Late model four-door sedan, light blue, tinted windows. It backed out and headed off in the opposite direction.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” the bus driver shouted. Mid-forties, overweight, plaid shirt with a button-down collar. He needed a shave and he smelled like the bottom of a laundry hamper.

  “Sorry,” Kei said. “I guess I was going a little too fast.”

  “A little? I’ve got thirty kids on that bus, and it’s my job to see that they get to where they’re going safely. You could have—”

  “I’m really sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  “You better hope it doesn’t.”

  The driver turned around and walked back to his bus. The kids were rowdy now. Making a lot of noise and throwing paper wads at each other. One of the boys in a window seat near the back pressed his face against the glass and stuck his tongue out at Kei. Oh to be nine again, Kei thought. The diesel growled and a ball of black smoke puffed out of the exhaust pipe as the bus lurched forward.

  Kei eased across the intersection, took the next left and drove back up to Main Street and headed toward the storage unit. It was almost time for his medication. Then it would be time to go in and work his shift at the restaurant, but before that he needed to stop in at the sheriff’s department substation and have a word with Detective Hollinger. Kei had proof now. Someone was definitely after him. He hadn’t seen the driver’s face and he didn’t have a license plate number, but at least he could describe the car.

  He started to change lanes to make the turn into the storage facility, saw the blue sedan on the other side of the fence. Whoever had been following him was waiting there in the parking lot.

  Kei gunned it and kept going forward. He looked back, but it didn’t appear as
though the driver of the blue car had seen him. Now he was going to miss the first dose of his medication from the home health nurse, but there was nothing he could do about it. He couldn’t go back to the storage unit. Not now, not ever. Or at least until this whole thing was resolved.

  He drove to the substation, walked inside and asked to speak with Detective Hollinger.

  “He’s not here.”

  The officer sitting at the front desk was probably around fifty years old. Graying hair, mustache, ceramic coffee mug that appeared to have never been washed. His nametag said Cooper.

  “What time do you expect him to be back?” Kei said.

  “I think he’s gone for the day. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Someone’s following me. They’re trying to kill me.”

  Cooper twisted his mustache ponderingly. “When you say they, who exactly are you talking about?” he said.

  “I don’t know. Someone shot at me last night, and now there’s a blue car following me around. I saw it parked where I live.”

  “Has someone threatened you?”

  Before Kei could respond, his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He didn’t recognize the caller ID, decided to go ahead and answer anyway. Maybe Anna had gotten a new phone number. Maybe she’d ditched the old one along with her job and apartment.

  “Hello?” Kei said.

  “Mr. Thrasher. Where are you?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Kim Hutchins. Your nurse for today. I spoke with you earlier. I’m at the address I was given, but it’s a storage facility. Must be some kind of mistake.”

  “It’s not a mistake,” Kei said. “That’s where I live. But I can’t make it back there right now.”

  “But this morning you said—”

  “I know, but I have some things going on. It’s hard to explain. Do you see a light blue four door sedan parked anywhere near you?”

  She laughed. “You just described my car, Mr. Thrasher.”