“Hey, man!” The greeting was distinctly masculine, and Celia’s throat closed up in anticipation of the worst. “Aren’t you that paramedic?”
Remo’s reply was calm and casual—like he wasn’t in any kind of hurry and there was no pressing danger whatsoever. “Guess that depends on what I’m in trouble for.”
The newcomer laughed. “Oh, man. I’m the last guy who’s going to give you trouble. I’m a hospital orderly trying to sneak out for a smoke. Elm Peterson.”
“Remo DeLuca.”
“Good to meet you,” said Elm. “Were you aiming for the elevators?”
“Yeah,” Remo replied, giving the gurney a light shake. “Trying to get this guy where he needs to be.”
“Morgue?”
“You bet. Pretty packed through the regular route. I was looking for a shortcut.”
“Picked the wrong spot for that. You heard about the lockdown?” There was a pause, and Celia pictured Remo nodding in agreement before Elm added, “They shut down all the elevators except the central ones. Trying to limit people from coming and going.”
“Damn,” Remo swore.
“I could give you a hand.”
“A hand?”
“Sure. We could carry your guy down. It’s only a couple of floors, and God knows it’s better than making the poor dude wait.”
Celia tensed even more. He’ll say no. He has to say no. He’ll tell him that dead bodies don’t mind waiting, just like they don’t snore or complain.
But a heartbeat later, Remo was agreeing. “Sure. I’ll take that offer. Help me get the wheels up.”
And another few moments after that, Celia felt her gurney being lifted from the ground, and she squeezed her eyes shut and willed the universe to make her the most realistic fake-dead person ever.
* * *
Remo had almost a decade of practice at being calm on the outside while his insides knotted up with worry. His work made it a necessity. Unflappable exterior was a basic job requirement. But as he and the orderly trucked toward the stairs, the gurney hanging between them and the other man’s mouth running on about some nurse who’d been caught with his pants down, Remo thought he might lose it for the first time if something went wrong.
One wrong bump, one slip of the sheet...
There’d be no reasonable explanation for it if Celia—alive, injured, and still wearing her hospital bracelet—was suddenly exposed, and Elm Peterson wasn’t a man of discretion, Remo was sure. By the time they arrived at the stairwell, the cheerful orderly had already moved on from the pants-less nurse to a story about one of the older admins and his extended bathroom breaks. He wasn’t unpleasant in his recounting, but there was no doubt that the man wouldn’t keep Celia’s presence a secret for long. Remo could practically hear the anecdote already. If it wouldn’t have sounded odd to refuse help, he would’ve simply turned down the other man’s offer.
Can’t be done with this fast enough.
Telling himself it was only a minor setback, he gritted his teeth and forced a laugh as Elm finished with the admin discussion, then switched to talking about some guy his sister was dating.
Thankfully, aside from the orderly’s voice, the only other sound in the stairwell was the bang of their feet on concrete. When they hit the final landing on the basement floor, Remo at last inhaled an easier breath.
“Thanks, Elm,” he said, as they clicked the gurney’s legs back into place, a little surprised by the fact that his voice came out perfectly even. “I owe you one.”
“I’ll put a note in my book,” the orderly joked as he locked the wheels, then stood back and glanced around. “Always creepy quiet down here, isn’t it?”
Remo resisted an urge to tell the guy to just hurry up and leave, and instead replied, “I’d have more questions if there was a lot of noise.”
Elm laughed. “True enough. Help you with anything else?”
“I think I’m good from here.”
“Then I’m off to indulge in my nasty habit. Good luck with your body, man.” He stuck out his hand for a shake, and Remo took it, grateful that the exchange was over.
“See you around, Elm. Thanks again.”
“Any time.”
The moment the other man was out of sight, Remo grabbed the sheet and pulled it down, speaking as he did. “See? That is the reason why everyone owes everyone a favor in this—”
The rest of his sentence didn’t make it out. From behind him—in the general direction of the stairwell they’d just vacated—came the barely discernible echo of feet hitting the floor. He exchanged a look with Celia, then put his finger to his lips and went still, listening. There was no doubt that whoever was on the other end of the sound was headed down toward them.
Not willing to risk that the new arrival might not be as amicable as Elm the orderly, Remo took hold of the gurney and pushed it blindly into the closest room. He just barely managed to grab the handle and quietly press the door shut before an angry slam and an angrier voice filled the air.
“I did exactly what I said I would do,” the unseen man said.
Feet slapped against the floor, and Remo was 99.9 percent sure the guy attached to the voice was pacing as he talked on his phone.
The man went on. “My friend at social services confirmed that not only was no kid matching our description taken in or assessed tonight, but no kid at all was taken in. My friend was adamant.”
Xavier.
He exchanged another glance with Celia. She was sitting up now, her hands tight on the edge of the gurney, her eyes wide with worry. She had her lips parted like she had something important she wanted to say, and Remo wished he could read her mind. After a moment, she just shook her head and turned toward the door, where the angry man was speaking again.
“Yeah, well, she lied. And I bought it, didn’t I? So that’s on me,” he snapped.
Remo saw Celia swallow, and he put the pieces together. The angry talker was the man who’d come to her room and threatened her. And he’d figured out that Xavier wasn’t where she’d told him he was. Bad news, all around.
Remo slid sideways and closed his fingers overtop of Celia’s in silent comfort. She sent him a grateful look, but the way she sucked her lower lip in gave away the fact that her worry hadn’t eased. He wished he could do more. Say a word. Pull her close. Kiss away the obvious fear in her eyes. But out in the hall, the one-sided conversation went on.
“I think they’ve already figured out that my bomb threat was a hoax. Overheard the boss tell one of the guys that they’d probably be able to clear out within the hour,” the man was saying now. “It’s not great, considering that Poller’s gone AWOL.” There was a pause. “How the hell should I know if someone’s helping her?” Another break. “Yeah, yeah. You’re right. I’ll ask around. But in the meantime...it might be worthwhile to launch something official.” A few moments of silence. “No, I mean official official. Missing person’s report or an amber alert for the kid. She won’t be able to hide him if the whole damned city is on the lookout.”
Remo could feel Celia’s whole-body shiver, and he stepped even closer and slung an arm over her shoulder. The man on the other side of the door was arguing now, pointing out how many more resources would be available if they went through the proper channels. Then his words stalled, except for the odd grunt. As if he was listening to a rant on the other end.
The whole thing made Remo frown. Why would this guy and his cohorts want to involve the authorities? How would it be beneficial? And why did his subconscious holler that it was most definitely not for any good reason?
Before he could think about it any further, the conversation started up again, distracting him. Because it was no longer one-sided. A recently familiar voice had joined in. Initiated it, actually, by mistaking the unseen man for Remo himself.
“Hey, man,” said Elm. “I thought you wou
ld’ve done your thing and—oh, hey. Sorry. You’re not Remo.”
“No, I’m not,” agreed the other man. “Were you eavesdropping for long?”
“Uh, what? No, man. No eavesdropping. Just thought you were someone else.”
“Remo.”
“Yeah. Sorry about that.”
“Not a problem,” corrected the other man. “I’m Teller.”
For some reason, the name disclosure made Remo uneasy. He started to turn to gauge Celia’s reaction, wondering if she felt the same, or if the name had been familiar to her, but he didn’t make it as far as looking her way, because the man—Teller—asked a question that made him freeze once more, all of his attention on the conversation.
“Who’s Remo?”
Elm’s response was hesitant—like he was uneasy now, too. “Just a dude who works here.”
“Is he down in the morgue?” Teller asked.
“I’m not sure.”
“You’re not sure, or you don’t want to tell me?”
“I’m not sure,” Elm repeated, now sounding both puzzled and guarded.
“How long ago was he here?” Teller wanted to know.
“A few minutes ago.”
“Any idea where he went?”
“Nah, man. He was just delivering a body. Why all the questions?”
Teller ignored him. “What about anyone else? Were the two of you alone down here?”
“Just him, me, and the stiff.” Elm laughed, and it sounded forced. “This is starting to feel like an interrogation.”
“Is it?” The tone of the simple, two-word reply was somehow neutral and deadly at the same time.
Remo tensed. He had a feeling that something bad was about it happen. Worse than that, he knew he wasn’t going to be able to stop it.
Elm let out another, even more forced laugh. “Sure does. I just don’t know if you’re the good cop or the bad cop.”
“I suspect, if that were the appropriate description, then I would be bad.”
A bang—somehow both muted and amplified at the same time—followed the statement, and the source of the sound was obvious. Out there, in the hall, Teller had shot Elm.
Chapter 11
Celia didn’t know whether she was going to scream, throw up, or just plain keel over. She clapped one of her hands over her mouth to quell the need to do the first two, and held tightly to the gurney in hopes of staving off the need for the third. But she still felt herself sway. Her stomach still churned. And her throat burned as if the terror and shock were trying to force their way out in spite of her efforts.
Elm Peterson is dead. He’s someone’s son. Someone’s brother. Or dad. And he’s dead. Because of me. Because he needed to smoke. Because he helped us. Because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and—
Remo’s whisper cut off the threatening downward spiral. “We have to go.”
Celia looked up. She tried to answer. To move. To respond in any way. But both her body and her brain had other ideas. They kept her immobilized. Physically. And mentally.
Elm Peterson is dead, her mind repeated. Oh, God. He’s dead, and it’s—
“Celia,” Remo said, still under his breath, but his voice was underlined with urgency now. “That guy out there is moving up and down the hall, opening every door. He started on the other side, but he’s going to be here any second. We need to move.”
At last his words got through—if they didn’t vacate the room, Teller and his gun would find them. The man whose name meant nothing, but who she knew had shot her in the past. Who she could picture on the other end of a gun. Who’d just shot Elm Peterson.
Celia grabbed Remo’s elbow and started to pull herself off the gurney. But her reaction came a little too late. Footsteps were already headed in their direction. Terrified, Celia met Remo’s eyes. She saw fear reflected in his gaze, too. But unlike her, he seemed to have retained his ability to plan an escape.
Wordlessly, he slid his hands under her and scooped her up. He cradled her to his chest and strode purposefully across the room. Without stopping, he bent down, grasped the handle on a door Celia hadn’t noticed before, then pushed it open. Just as smoothly, he turned and closed it behind them, then moved on.
Celia hadn’t even truly noted what type of room they’d been hiding in, and their quick pace didn’t let her take much stock of where they were going, either. It flew by. Cold air. Metal furnishings. A door. Then white walls and the scent of disinfectant. Another door. More ascetic decor. With each new space, the pressure of being followed mounted. Teller might not be able to hear them or see them, or even really know they were there, but his pursuit was relentless, anyway. As quiet as they were, the man with the gun and the malicious intent did little to cover his own noise. Celia could hear each door he opened, and his footsteps, too. He was falling a little behind them as he perused the rooms, but unless they found a route out, the man would eventually have them cornered.
And Remo pushed on.
How many adjacent rooms can there be? Celia wondered.
But the question no sooner popped to mind than it got an answer in the form of an office. It was a dead end. As was evidenced by the fact that Remo stopped abruptly, spun, then growled a curse. Unlike the other rooms, this one had only two doors—the one they’d come through, and the one that led out to Teller.
Celia’s gaze raked over the small, untidy space, her mind trying to churn out an idea. How many more moments did they have until the armed man caught up? Just how thorough was he being in his search? Could they attack instead of hiding? And under all her thoughts was concern for her son’s well-being. Would Teller really kill them if it meant maybe never finding Xavier?
Her subconscious tossed out the dark answer to the last question. He won’t kill you. But Remo...
She wanted to dismiss the idea, but it refused to go, and she had to acknowledge that the more seconds ticked by, the more likely it was to become a reality. And as much as facing down a murderer terrified her, she was far more afraid that Remo would lose his life trying to protect her.
“Hide!” she gasped.
Remo stopped abruptly, midway through his second, futile spin. “What?”
Celia swallowed, then whispered her conclusion aloud. “He won’t kill me.”
“He just killed a stranger, and he’s already threatened you once. And that doesn’t even factor in what you told me about the bullet you took when you were pregnant.”
“I know all of that. But this is a whole different situation. Elm didn’t know where my son is. And that’s what Teller wants. He won’t shoot me until he has Xavier.” She inhaled. “But you...”
Remo’s blue eyes darkened. “Even if I were willing, it’s not like there’s anywhere to hide.”
“Under the desk,” Celia said right away.
“I wouldn’t fit under there.” His gaze moved toward the piece of furniture in question, and then his feet followed. “But you will.”
She tried to wriggle out of his grasp. “Me hiding does nothing but put you right in the line of fire.”
Remo’s grip only tightened, and he managed to retain his hold while pushing the chair out of the way and bending down, too.
“That’s not true at all,” he said. “In fact, it’s better if it’s me doing the talking. Because when it comes down to technicalities, I’m the one who knows where Xavier is. Unless you somehow managed to get my mom’s address when I wasn’t looking.”
“I...” Her argument trailed off as the truth of his words sunk in.
He was the one who knew where Xavier was at the moment. And there was no doubt that he’d go with Teller under the guise of revealing that location. He’d compromise his own life for Celia’s son, and nothing could’ve made her appreciate him more. But she still didn’t want him to. Just the thought of it made her throat close up. She needed a solu
tion that would let her have it both ways—keeping Xavier and Remo safe.
Maybe I can negotiate a deal with Teller.
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Remo. “And the answer is no. A man like that doesn’t make deals.”
“There has to be something,” Celia insisted, fighting tears.
“There is.”
“Something other than you leaving with Teller.”
“Celia.”
If he’d been about to say more than her name, he was cut off by the rattle of the door handle. This time, panic didn’t make Celia freeze—it made her act. Grabbing Remo’s arm with enough strength that she surprised herself, she turned and shoved the big man against the underside of the desk. Surprisingly—maybe because he was off balance—he folded into the spot without protest. He almost fit. One of his legs stuck out, but Celia saw an immediate solution. She didn’t waste time wondering if it would work. Instead, she made herself as small as possible, then squeezed into his lap, grabbed his outside knee, then yanked it against her. Remo didn’t fight the process, either. He just grabbed the rolling chair and pulled it in, effectively blocking their position from view of anyone who wasn’t already looking directly at the spot. It wasn’t perfect. But it would do. Because it had to.
Celia would’ve held her breath if she’d been able to, but the space was too cramped to let her do more than suck in the smallest amount of air. She settled for closing her eyes and praying that Teller would opt for a less-than-thorough look around.
Please, please, she thought. Let this go in our favor.
And her prayers seemed to receive an answer. As a light squeak gave away the fact that the door was opening, a cell phone chimed to life. A moment later, the tap of Teller’s feet filled the air at the same time as his voice.
He greeted his caller without preamble. “Still down here, and I’m gonna need a cleanup.”
Celia’s muscles tensed impossibly tighter. The gunman was only a few feet from where they sat huddled. His shoes and calves were visible from their hiding space.
First Responder on Call Page 11
