“Ableman, what are you doing?” The security guard filled the doorway.
Nightmare stood up and quickly tucked loose bedding into the mattress. “Straightening his bed.”
“That’s the nurses’ job,” Randy O’Meara said.
“They’re busy trying to save a life.” Nightmare dropped the bomb and tape back into the laundry cart.
“You were saying something to him,” O’Meara pressed him.
“Praying for him.”
“Didn’t sound like a prayer to me.”
Nightmare slipped past the guard and shoved his cart down the hallway. He made for the stairway.
The guard followed him. “Ableman, what did you put in that cart?”
Nightmare reached the stairway door and abandoned his cart. He hurried through the doorway into the concrete shaft of the stairwell, pressed himself against the wall, and waited.
Damn. He’d given in to weakness, to a desire to taunt his enemy, the mistake of a green recruit. And this was the result. This was always the result when you let yourself go, even for a moment. Now he would have to risk much.
When Randy O’Meara swept through in pursuit, Nightmare leaped at his back. He used the bigger man’s momentum, pushed him forward, and hooked the guard’s ankle with his foot. O’Meara didn’t even have time to call out before he tumbled down the hard, concrete steps. He lay on the next landing, groaning. Nightmare sailed down the stairs, knelt, grasped the guard’s head in the crook of his arm, and gave his neck a powerful twist. He could feel the satisfying snap of bone against his own muscle. Afterward, he quickly mounted the stairs and checked the hallway. The nurses were still working on the Code Blue patient. No one seemed to have noticed him or O’Meara. He glanced back down at the dead man. Something more had to be done to cover the deed, and Nightmare, who was no stranger to tense situations, knew exactly what that was.
chapter
twelve
Bo woke before dawn, as he sometimes did, from a dream of the days with his street family, Egg and Pearl and Otter and Freak. In the dream, they were all in the abandoned school bus, which floated on a river that was sweeping them away. Slowly, the bus was going under. Bo fought the steering wheel, but he could not make it turn toward shore. The dream was no mystery to him. He was still trying to save them. And still failing.
As a gray light crept over the orchards at Wildwood, Bo left his bed and checked in with Nick Pappas, the agent on duty in the Op Center. It had been a quiet night. Bo changed into his sweats and went for a run. He headed to the edge of the orchard along the river bluff and ran the perimeter of the Jorgenson land twice, a total distance of two miles. The grass was covered with dew, and his leather running shoes were soaked by the time he returned to the barn. He took a pair of four-ounce fingerless bag gloves and a black leather heavybag from where he kept them stored in a long bin. He hung the bag from a hook he’d installed long ago in one of the crossbeams.
Along with hay bales and orchard implements, he shared the barn with a plasma cutter, an angle grinder, a heating torch, and several half-formed iron sculptures taken from the studio of Roland Jorgenson when it was converted into the guesthouse. The dusty unfinished pieces and the equipment were among the few reminders left at Wildwood that once a famous artist had been at work there. The sculptures were wild things that gave the feel of monstrous forces barely contained. He didn’t know much about Roland Jorgenson, but there was definitely something about the man’s work that Bo found disturbing. In the bin where he kept his heavybag, Bo had come upon a portfolio containing early sketches for the sculpture Goddess. Accompanying the sketch on one of the pages was a note scribbled in what he guessed was the artist’s hand: For Kathleen. Bo was no judge of art, but he thought the sculpture, if indeed it was supposed to represent Kate Dixon, did her no justice. He’d given the portfolio to Annie Jorgenson and had no idea what had become of it.
He donned the gloves and worked the bag for half an hour before Chris Manning appeared in the doorway, sunlight at his back.
“We just got a call from the sheriff’s office. One of the security guards at the St. Croix Medical Center fell down some stairs last night and broke his neck. Fatal.”
Bo pulled off the gloves and wiped the sweat from his face with his T-shirt, which was itself soaked with sweat. “Who?”
“Guy named Randy O’Meara.”
Bo’s gut twisted hard. “Give me the details.”
Manning explained that at the change of shift, the security guard had not checked in. The other guards did a search and found O’Meara’s body on the stairs.
“Which stairwell?”
“Does it matter?”
“It might. Did anybody see anything?”
“No, but it’s pretty clear what happened. There were some marbles lying on the floor just inside the stairway door. O’Meara must have slipped on them and taken a fall. The marbles came from an aquarium in the ICU. There’s an elderly patient—”
“Mr. Cooper,” Bo interrupted.
“Right. The sheriff’s people checked his room. The sleeve of his robe was soaked and there were some marbles in one of the pockets.”
“Did he admit to anything?”
“According to the sheriff, he claims he doesn’t remember taking the marbles.”
“Have they scheduled an autopsy?”
“Medical examiner’s doing it this morning.”
“You think it’s an accident?”
“Looks like.”
“Just like Tom Jorgenson’s,” Bo said.
Manning looked at his watch. “We’ve got a briefing in twenty minutes. Get a shower. We’ll talk more then.”
Twenty minutes later, Bo sat down at the table in the library of the guesthouse. Manning and his people, Stu Coyote, and the agents on the duty roster for the Op Center that day were all there. Manning began the briefing by explaining the incident at the hospital. He nodded in Bo’s direction, and his lips twitched in a way that was almost a smile. “Agent Thorsen, our own Oliver Stone, has scripted a conspiracy. He believes that the tractor accident wasn’t, in fact, an accident. And I’m guessing he believes that what occurred last night is somehow related to—what is it, Thorsen? An assassination plot?”
“I believe, Chris, that more may be going on than is apparent to us at this time.”
Any hint of a smile left Manning’s face. “Let’s assume for the moment what Agent Thorsen believes is true. This means that whenever the First Lady is in proximity to her father, we all need to be especially vigilant. Is that understood?”
“We should inform the First Lady,” Bo said.
“Absolutely not. No one’s going to mention a thing to her. She has enough to worry about.”
“Additional security for Tom Jorgenson would be appropriate.”
“Not our jurisdiction. Former vice presidents don’t get our protection.”
“Listen, Chris, if there’s even a remote possibility that I might be right—”
“Is there anyone here who feels as Agent Thorsen does?” Manning looked around the table. Not even Stu Coyote rose to Bo’s defense. Manning again addressed Bo. “I’m willing, for the sake of the First Lady’s safety, to grant you some leeway here and to take precautions as far as she’s concerned. But our responsibility ends there. Your responsibility ends there. If you lose your focus on the security here, I will have you removed from this detail. Do you understand? Now, you indicated you sometimes put agents in the orchard to patrol the perimeter.”
“Yes.”
“Do it,” Manning said.
During the rest of the briefing, Bo spoke no more about his concern. Afterward, Stu Coyote pulled him aside. “Sorry, Bo. Manning’s a jerkoff, but he’s right.”
“No,” Bo said. “I may be wrong, but Manning’s not right. Tom Jorgenson needs protection.”
The First Lady and Annie headed to the hospital at 10:00 A.M. Shortly after that, Bo directed Jake Russell to take charge of the Op Center, then he went to see the
Washington County sheriff. Doug Quinn-Gruber repeated what Manning had reported.
“Which stairwell was O’Meara found in?” Bo asked.
“South. Between the third and fourth floors.”
“That means O’Meara fell down the stairs from the fourth floor. That’s where Jorgenson’s room is,” Bo pointed out. “South wing.”
“And geriatrics, where Mr. Cooper is a patient, is on the third floor, south wing. Look, Bo, it all fits. The marbles. Mr. Cooper. Nobody saw anything unusual. And I got a call from the medical examiner a little while ago. O’Meara’s broken neck and other injuries are consistent with a fall down the stairs. Look, if someone were going to kill Tom Jorgenson, why not just kill him? Why kill the guard?”
“I don’t know.”
“Because this is Tom Jorgenson, I’ve been trying to keep an open mind. But there continues to be no concrete evidence of an assault, or even a motive for one. Still, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll put a deputy outside his hospital room, at least until we’re absolutely certain there’s nothing funny going on. How’s that?”
“Fair enough, Doug.”
“Detective Timmons is checking a few other possibilities. If he comes up with anything, I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks.”
Before leaving the sheriff’s office, Bo got an address for Maria Rivera, the head nurse in ICU the night before. She lived in a town house in one of the new subdivisions of Stillwater. Although it was a little past noon when he rang her doorbell, Bo was concerned that, because of her late working hours, she might still be sleeping. He needn’t have worried. When Maria Rivera opened the door, she looked as if she hadn’t been able to sleep at all.
“You’re Secret Service,” she said, squinting at him in the sunlight. She wore a white terry cloth robe, no slippers. Her black hair, streaked with silver, was unbrushed.
“Yes, I spoke with you yesterday afternoon,” Bo said.
“What do you want?”
“To ask a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
She stood aside and let him in.
It was a clean, well-kept home. White carpeting, vacuumed. Nice light-maple furniture. A new sofa, pastel floral design. A crucifix carved of dark wood hung prominently on one wall. Atop a bookcase sat framed photographs of what Bo imagined were children and grandchildren. In the center was a photo of a younger Maria Rivera with a handsome Hispanic man. They were smiling happily.
She saw Bo noticing. “My husband, Carlos. He passed away two years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He is in God’s hands now.”
As Bo had noticed the previous afternoon, she spoke with a slight accent. “I’d like to ask about last night,” he told her.
“I feel terrible. I should have insisted Mr. Cooper be restrained.”
“Did you see Mr. Cooper last night?”
“No. But often we don’t. He’s so quiet, like a cat. For an old man, so quick.”
“He denied taking the marbles?”
“No. He said he didn’t remember. He often claims he doesn’t remember.”
“Claims?”
“Who can say?”
“As nearly as the sheriff’s people can tell, the accident occurred sometime between ten and eleven-thirty P.M. After visiting hours. Did you, or anyone else, notice someone on the floor who shouldn’t have been there?”
“No. I didn’t anyway. And I don’t recall anybody mentioning anything like that.”
“But someone would have noticed?”
“Probably.”
“How about regular staff? Would you have noticed regular hospital staff on the floor?”
“What do you mean?”
“A stranger you would have seen. But someone who should have been there, say for example Randy O’Meara, would you have noticed?”
“Not necessarily. Unless he stopped to talk.”
“Who else?”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Who else comes onto the floor that you might not notice if they were just doing their job? Particularly between ten and eleven-thirty P.M.”
“Let’s see.” She thought a moment. “Orderlies. But usually we’ve requested their help. Housekeeping, although they’re normally finished on the floor by ten. Central Service staff, but only if we’ve ordered supplies. The laundry man. Maintenance, sometimes. Sometimes a doctor. Why are you asking?”
“It’s the nature of the job, Ms. Rivera. I ask a lot of questions, then I sort through answers.”
“You’re responsible for the First Lady’s safety. What does the accident have to do with her?”
“Probably nothing, but we need to be certain, you understand.”
“Yes.”
“Thank you for your time.” He turned back toward the door. As he stepped outside, he offered her his hand in parting and said, “I hope you’re not taking the responsibility for what happened to Randy O’Meara on your shoulders. No one could have predicted it.”
“Everyone says that. Why don’t I believe it?”
She let go of his hand and closed the door.
Dee Johnson, assistant director of human resources for the St. Croix Regional Medical Center, greeted him cordially. “Come in, Agent Thorsen. Please sit down.” She was a tall, handsome woman, a big-boned Scandinavian with a small-town demeanor, open and friendly. “Thorsen,” she said, taking her seat at her desk. “There are lots of Thorsens out where I grew up.”
“Where was that?” Bo asked.
“Blue Earth.”
“No kidding. Ever hear of Harold and Nell Thorsen?”
“Oh, sure. They had that farm out north of town. Took in all those foster kids.”
“I was one of those foster kids.”
“Well, for goodness’ sake. Can you beat that? Foster, you say? But you have the same last name.”
“I changed it legally.”
“Well, what do you know? Did you graduate from Blue Earth High?”
“I sure did.”
“I don’t remember you. But you look like you were probably a few years behind me. Go Cyclones,” she said with a huge smile and a lift of her arms, reminiscent of the cheerleader she probably had been. “What can I do for you?”
“I’d like some information on the hospital staff. You do the hiring for most support services?”
“The initial screening anyway. Then I send the applicants to the department that’s hiring.”
“I’m interested in anyone who may have been hired recently for the shift that would cover the time between ten and eleven-thirty P.M.”
Her face assumed a solemn cast. “The time of Randy O’Meara’s accident.”
“Yes.”
“May I ask why?”
“The First Lady is visiting here on a daily basis. We want to be sure that anything unusual isn’t somehow related to her safety. You understand.”
“Of course.” She accepted it without further question and spent a moment thinking. “We’ve hired two people for evening support service positions in the last six weeks. An orderly and a man for the laundry.”
“Max Ableman.”
“You know him?”
“I met him yesterday. What can you tell me about him?”
“Nothing really. I haven’t had any contact with him since he was hired.”
“Do you have a personnel file for him?”
“I’m sure it’s thin at this point.”
“Do you have his job application?”
“Of course.”
“May I see it?”
“I’ll have my secretary pull it.”
Dee Johnson left the office for a moment. Bo’s cell phone rang.
“Bo, it’s Jake Russell. Manning and Dreamcatcher just returned from the hospital. He’s mad as hell you’re not here. He’s on the phone to Diana Ishimaru right now.”
“Thanks, Jake. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Aside from Manning, is everything else quiet?”
“As a cemetery.”
When he had Ableman’s application, Bo looked it over carefully. Maxwell Frederick Ableman. Born in Duluth on April 1, 1960. Graduated from East High School there. Briefly attended a technical school in Bemidji. Worked for a landscaping firm in Milaca for ten years, then a couple of years as a short-order cook in Brainerd. His last job had been with E.L. Tool & Die in Sandstone, a job he’d left, according to his application, because the company closed.
“Did you check any of his job references?” Bo asked Dee Johnson.
She looked guilty. “The position he applied for is a hard one to fill. The hours are bad, the pay is low, and it requires handling unpleasantly soiled linen. I was just happy to get an applicant.”
“You said you also hired an orderly. What can you tell me about him?”
“Tyrone Posely. He goes to school days at Metropolitan State University and works here nights. He’s married, has one child.”
“All this is verified?”
“Yes, I can vouch for Tyrone.”
“May I have a copy of Max Ableman’s application?”
“I’ll have my secretary make one.” As she stood, she asked, “Should we be concerned about Mr. Ableman?”
“I wouldn’t say that, no. As I indicated, it’s all routine. But I’d appreciate it if, for the time being, you didn’t mention this to anyone.”
When he left the hospital, Bo knew he should get back immediately to Wildwood. However, there was one stop he wanted very much to make.
The address on Ableman’s application was a motor court outside Bayport, a river community just south of Stillwater. The motor court was old, white stucco, shaded by two big oak trees. A few decades earlier, it might have been a decent destination if you wanted to enjoy the river. Now it looked like the kind of place where you went to enjoy a different type of diversion. The sign on the Bayport Court indicated there was a ACANCY. Although it also indicated that rooms were available by the week and month, Bo figured the old place catered to a clientele mostly interested in rooms by the hour. In the office, he asked after Max Ableman and was directed to room number ten. Except for Bo’s Contour, only two vehicles were parked in the potholed lot, a green Chevy pickup, a decade old and covered with dust, and a new, shiny, red Mustang. The pickup was in front of number ten, more or less. Bo noted the plate. The room curtains were drawn. Bo knocked on the door. No one answered. The sound of a television came through the window screen two rooms down, but from number ten, there wasn’t a peep. He tried the knob. The door was locked. He checked his watch. Too early for Ableman to be at work. Bo knocked again, then decided he’d visit the laundry later on, provided Manning hadn’t got him removed from protective detail in the meantime.
The Devil’s Bed Page 8
