by Tim McBain
Darger gave the phone one last look before tucking it into her pocket.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Chapter 90
The heart monitor chirped. Slow and steady. Special Agent Victor Loshak sprawled on the hospital bed, arms lying awkwardly at his sides, the angle of his neck strangely slack. The tall man looked even longer laid out like that, at least that’s what Deputy Donaldson thought.
The deputy sat beside the bed, a folded up newspaper clutched in his fist before him. He cleared his throat. Swallowed. Cleared his throat again. He couldn’t quite bring himself to speak to the inert man. Not yet. He could only continue to observe him.
Loshak looked stretched out. Bony. And his face looked gaunt and dour. Those clever lines around his eyes and mouth, the ones that made it look like he found the world perpetually amusing, had smoothed out into something somber. Melancholy. His complexion had gone ashy, too. He didn’t look the same man anymore to a degree Donaldson found deeply unsettling. He couldn’t help but think of a body laid out in a coffin. The way they never look quite right.
He cleared his throat one more time, and at last, he spoke.
“I wanted to come by. Let you know what happened in the game — well, some of the games, you know — I heard that, uh, it’s good to read to someone in a comatose state and whatnot, so…”
Donaldson wasn’t certain about that last part. He might have heard that it was good to read to a baby in the womb. He couldn’t remember for sure. Anyway, he figured it wouldn’t hurt.
“Well, the Bengals got smoked. Shocker, right? The final was 37-17. So the over hit, at least.”
Sweeney brought the paper closer to his face, focused on the box score.
“They got outgained 457 yards to 296. Gave up 319 through the air. Secondary got shredded like you said they would. Looking for a bright spot. Jeez. I don’t know. I guess they averaged 4.8 yards per carry. Maybe something to build on there. The rookie running back looked real good.”
Unbeknownst to Sweeney, Dan McAdoo stood in the doorway, looking on as the deputy read the sports page to the comatose agent. He watched the two of them for a long time, saying nothing.
Some hours later, it was Darger watching over Loshak. She stood there for a long, quiet moment. Not saying anything. Just watching the rise and fall of his chest.
The hospital room smelled like a funeral parlor. Sickly sweet. Darger knew it must be all the flowers people had sent. Bouquets and wreath-like displays set on stands dominated one side of the room. She took a couple of arrangements out and dumped them in the big trash bin near the nurse’s station. She knew Loshak wouldn’t mind.
Acute pancreatitis. That’s what the doctor said.
She’d lied and told the nurses she was his partner. At first they thought she’d meant “life partner,” until she explained. She wondered what Loshak would think of that declaration. At the very least, she thought he would have gotten a chuckle out of the life partner thing.
“Has he shown any signs before this?” the doctor asked. “At this stage, there’s a tremendous amount of pain. Decreased appetite, nausea, vomiting. I can’t imagine he would have been completely asymptomatic.”
“Yeah,” she said, nodding. “A week or two ago. He was throwing up a lot.”
She frowned then, thinking back on the precise wording of the doctor.
“At this stage, you said. What does that mean? What stage is he at? How many stages are there?”
The doctor shook his head.
“It’s not exactly like that. But he is very, very sick. It doesn’t surprise me to hear that this has been going on for a while now. There is necrotic tissue present, which has led to bleeding and the beginnings of a systemic infection.”
Violet had a hard time remembering much of what was said after that, other than they were preparing to transfer Loshak to a larger hospital in Columbus in the morning. Even now, hours later, the same cluster of words kept swirling around in her head like the leaves she’d watched dancing in the wind a few days ago.
Necrosis.
Hemorrhage.
Sepsis.
Morbidity.
Surgical intervention.
Coma.
Her phone buzzed. She didn’t have to look to know that it was Cal. She’d turned it back on when Casey left, so he could call her with any updates. He’d tried to convince her to come home with him, but she’d refused.
She pressed the button on top of her phone and the buzzing stopped.
Behind her, a large window showed the street lights reflecting on the wet pavement below. It must have started raining at some point, but she hadn’t noticed when. She turned so she could rest her head on the back of the chair and watch the droplets run down the glass.
By the time Officer Dan McAdoo slipped into Loshak’s hospital room, it was late enough to be past visiting hours. The room was dark, and the hallway was only a little better. Both were lit only by the streetlights pouring through the windows and the half light trickling from the nurse’s station a few doors down.
McAdoo managed to sneak past a cluster of said nurses, unsure if they’d say anything because of his uniform or not. He knew at least some of them would probably be strict, by-the-book types, badge or no badge.
He eased the door shut behind him, careful to be as quiet as he could, and strode into the room, butterflies dancing fluttery jigs in his belly. He scooted the chair toward the bed, cringing at the scrape of the wood on the tile.
He stopped, waited for the nurse to come busting through the door to shut him down. No one came. Not even so much as a dark flutter passing the window into the hall.
He wondered, for a split second, what Novotny would say when he heard about all of this ridiculousness. Then, of course, he remembered that Novotny was dead. That was the hardest part of death for him to accept, he realized. That the person never got to chime in. No final thought. Just nothing. Forever.
He leaned toward Loshak.
“I don’t know if you can understand this, but I feel like I should do something, ya know?” he said. “See, I saw Donaldson reading to you from the sports page, and I liked that. Liked it a lot. I figured I could do the same. I don’t mind it or nothing.”
He flipped through the paper to find what he was looking for.
“I, uh, don’t know if you follow the NBA, but the Cavs have a hell of a team this year.”
Chapter 91
When the ambulance transporting Loshak to Riverside Methodist Hospital in Columbus left the hospital in Athens, Darger was right behind it. But she had to make a stop before she followed.
At the motel, she showered quickly and packed a few things in her bag: a toothbrush, an extra shirt, some clean underwear. She also grabbed her laptop and files.
Downstairs, she made sure that both her and Loshak’s rooms were paid up through the next several days. The last thing she wanted was for Loshak’s room to get turned over, and all of his files chucked.
She sent a quick text to Detective Luck, letting him know she was heading for Columbus, and then she got in her car and headed west on US-33.
The hospital was easy to spot as she drew near. It was a large structure of concrete and mirrored glass, occupying the equivalent of several city blocks.
After she parked her car in the visitor lot, she wandered the halls for some time before she figured out where they’d taken Loshak. A receptionist seated behind a kiosk in a greeting area told her that Loshak was in the Inpatient Surgery Ward on the second floor.
The girl behind the desk at the nurse’s station looked barely old enough to be out of high school, but the ID badge clipped to her chest said “Anita C. — Registered Nurse.”
“I’m looking for Victor Loshak,” Violet said.
“He’s actually being prepped for surgery right now.”
“Oh. That was quick.”
“Are you his daughter?” the nurse asked.
“Yes,” Violet said, figuring one more lie wouldn’t hurt
.
“Well, it’s liable to take a few hours. I’d suggest you take some time for yourself in the meantime.”
“Right,” Violet said.
“I know that’s easier said than done,” the woman said. She slid a small card across the desk. “If you fill this card out, I can make sure you’re contacted once he’s out of surgery.”
Darger filled in her contact information, wondering if she was violating some kind of HPPA law by doing so. Fuck it, she thought and handed the card back.
“Thank you,” she said. The girl smiled.
Darger paced the hospital, meandering wherever she found an unlocked door. Eventually she ended up in a large cafeteria. She didn’t think she was hungry, but when her nose got a whiff of food, her stomach disagreed. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten something that hadn’t come out of a vending machine. Over a day, she thought.
Violet picked up a small salad in a plastic clamshell container and filled a bowl with chicken noodle soup and found a table near a window. She ate in a daze, barely tasting any of it. As she dropped her tray on a conveyor belt for dirty dishes, her purse buzzed.
She almost ignored it, assuming it was Cal, but then she remembered that the nurse had said someone would call when Loshak was out of surgery. Could it have been that fast? She didn’t think she’d been gone from the surgery floor for more than an hour. A small surge of panic hit her when it occurred to her that something might have gone wrong. But when she finally wrestled her phone from her bag, the screen said, “CASEY LUCK.”
“Hey,” she answered.
“I’m pretty sure it’s Columbus,” he said, getting straight to the point. “Are you still up there? At the hospital?”
“Yeah. Loshak’s in surgery right now.”
“Alright. I’m heading up there as we speak. I can pick you up in about an hour.”
“I’ll be here,” she said and hung up. Her heart was racing. She tried to imagine that they might be arresting the killer before Loshak was even out of surgery.
Shit. Loshak. Was she just going to leave him here alone? What if he came out of surgery, and he woke up surrounded by strangers? On the other hand, she tried to imagine not being there when they nailed the son of a bitch. Not seeing his face when he realized that he’d lost his little game.
She considered what Loshak would want, and she knew the answer.
Chapter 92
Luck picked her up near the hospital entrance. His van rolled up to the curb, and she hopped in so fast, he barely had to stop.
“How is he?”
“Still in surgery.”
Her seatbelt whirred as she pulled it across her chest.
“Think positive,” Luck said, reaching out a hand and squeezing her thigh.
“Yeah.”
When they passed the first sign for John Glenn International Airport, Darger felt her heart skip a beat. Could this actually be it? Were they mere minutes away from finding the sick bastard?
“So how’d you narrow it down to Columbus?” Violet said. “I mean, what’d you guys say when you called?”
“I wish you could have seen it,” Luck said, suddenly amused. “You met Betsy, right? The receptionist?”
Violet recalled a brief encounter with an elderly woman with a tight white perm who seemed to hold court behind the desk of the Athens Police Department. She’d witnessed the woman reading the riot act to one of the patrol officers for not cleaning up after himself in the break room. Despite the fact that the officer was probably 6’2” with a gun strapped to his hip and Betsy stood about 5’3” counting her cloud of hair, he had cowered before the tiny woman.
“Seemed like a firecracker.”
Luck laughed.
“That’s putting it mildly. Anyway, I wrote up a little script for her, had her call around and say that someone with a big dark sedan and a Union Parking permit scratched up her car in a parking lot. Witness left a note on her car. You should have heard her. She got really into it.”
“I can imagine,” Darger said with a smile.
“I didn’t know if it would even work, you know? Figured most people would just hang up on her, but she knows how to get what she wants.”
After a beat, he added, “You two would probably get along.”
As they pulled into the parking lot, Luck said, “I called over to Columbus PD before I left. In case he’s here, and we decide we need backup. They’re ready for us.”
“Good thinking,” she said.
The man behind the counter inside the Parking Services building gave them a big smile. A little too big, for Violet’s taste. He had the phony charm of a salesman, and his cleanly shaved head looked shiny up close. She wondered if he oiled it or something.
“Howdy, folks! What can I do for you?”
“We’re looking for someone named Kurt who drives a large dark-colored sedan,” Luck said, sliding off his sunglasses and tucking them inside his jacket.
As he did, Darger saw that the man caught a glimpse of Luck’s holster, his eyes going wide.
“Oh boy. This is about that woman who called? The one who said Kurt hit her car?”
“Is he here?” Luck’s eyes scanned the small building, and Darger did the same.
There was a girl manning the booth connected to the main building. She watched them in between cars rolling through the gates. Beyond that, Violet could see a second, smaller booth, set off by itself in a second lane. She could see the silhouette of someone inside, but couldn’t make out any features, not even if it was a man or woman.
“Well, that’s Kurt Van Ryper who drives a blue Buick, alright. Big ol’ tank. Looks like a cop car. Honestly, I can’t believe he’d do something like that. Scratch up a lady’s car and just take off? That doesn’t sound like him.”
With a pressing look from Luck, the man realized he was rambling and got to the point.
“But no, he’s not here today. I should say, he was scheduled for this morning, but he didn’t show.”
Luck and Darger couldn’t help but exchange an anxious glance.
“Hey,” the man said, squinting at Luck. “Aren’t you the cop who’s been on TV? Down in Athens?”
His eyes went wide, realization hitting him.
“Jeez-o-pete! This isn’t about that serial killer is it?”
Before Luck could answer, Darger interrupted.
“Do you have any kind of employment file we could take a look at? Something with a home address?”
“We do. I suppose technically I should ask for a warrant…”
“Look,” Luck said, leaning in and lowering his voice. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but… Kurt isn’t the one we want. That being said, we have reason to believe he has important information that could lead us to the perpetrator. So the sooner we track Kurt down — and the quieter — the better.”
Darger was impressed. Luck was a better liar than she would have given him credit for. And it was smart to put an emphasis on tracking him down quietly. The last thing they needed was for someone the guy worked with to tip him off.
“Oh. Well,” the man behind the counter seemed to mull it over. “That is a bit different. And now that you mention it, that makes a lot more sense. I mean, Rip— er, uh, Kurt’s a bit of an oddball, but he’s no killer.”
“So,” Darger smiled politely, “the file?”
“Right.”
He took a few steps sideways and beckoned from a doorway leading into an office. They followed, waiting while the man dropped into a chair and wheeled over to a filing cabinet the color of pea soup. He bent over one of the drawers, fingers rifling through folders. There was a whisper of rustling paper as he plucked a file from the steel jaw of the cabinet. Not getting up from the wheelie chair, he scooted over to Luck and handed him the manila folder.
The flaps parted in Luck’s hands like the wings of a bird. Violet held her breath. The file was absurdly plain. Black printed text and blue ballpoint pen on white paper. Nothing remarkable about it at a
ll. And yet in her chest she felt a tremendous sense of awe. It was him. His hand had written those letters. His fingers had held the paper in place as he filled in the spaces.
Name: Kurt Van Ryper
Date of Birth: December 12th, 1987
Followed by his address, his phone number, his social security number.
Darger didn’t need to look at Luck to know he was thinking the same thing. A kind of electric excitement was coming off him in waves.
Gotcha, motherfucker.
Struggling to keep her voice calm, she asked, “You don’t have any kind of photo IDs or anything?”
“No, but there should be a copy of his driver’s license.”
They flipped through the sheets in the folder.
“I don’t see it here.”
“Huh,” the man said. “Let me check the computer.”
His fingers rattled over the keyboard, and he frowned.
“Nope. As I figured, we only went digital with the employee files recently. His original paperwork was just that: paper.”
“The address listed is in Bishopville,” she said. “He doesn’t have a place he stays around here?”
The man rubbed at his shining head.
“So far as I know, what it says is where he lives. Sorry I can’t help any more than that.”
“That’s OK. Thank you for this. We appreciate it.”
Luck brought back the conspiratorial tone.
“And if you could keep this quiet for the time being…”
The man put his palms in the air.
“Absolutely! Say no more, Detectives. My lips are sealed.”
As they climbed back into the van, Darger said, “Nice work with all that he’s-not-the-one-we-really-want stuff.”
Luck shrugged, but she could tell the compliment pleased him.
“So how long before he blabs it over the whole damn airport, you think?”
Darger looked at her watch.
“Half an hour.”
They waited there in the parking lot while Luck called it in. He conferred for a while with Chief Haden and then hung up.
“So apparently the address is for his mom’s house. A Ms. Rhonda Van Ryper.”
