by C. J. Lyons
Hale made a grunt of acknowledgement. “Good to know my money’s well spent.”
They turned down the hall to the hydrotherapy room. “Absolutely. Your money will save a lot of lives.”
Morgan blinked at the man’s sincerity. Was the entire Lazarus family insane? First the older brother’s god-complex, and now the younger’s Machiavellian delusions. The more she met families other than her own, the more she realized that maybe her father’s sick, twisted tendencies hadn’t been as unique as he’d believed.
The smell of chlorine greeted their strange procession as soon as they entered the therapy wing. Morgan slunk down further in her chair, hoping to hide the shudder that overtook her when John stopped to open the double doors leading into the pool area. Once Hale left, then she could take John down, and save Justin and his mother.
He wheeled her across the tile to the deep side of the pool. Was he going to send her into the water now? She heaved in a breath but with the gag in place, it came nowhere near to filling her lungs. She could do this. She had to.
Her father’s laughter said otherwise. You can’t run from the Wolf, little Fish. Can’t hide from who you are, the girl I created.
John pushed her to the pool’s edge, so close her feet and legs extended out over the water, which rippled in the overhead lights as if happy to see her.
“Wait,” Hale said. “Not yet. Let me get going first. So I have an alibi.”
“They can’t be that precise with time of death, but you’re right. It’s probably best if you make sure you get clear without anyone seeing you before this happens.”
Hale parked his wife beside Morgan. He grabbed her hair, yanking it hard enough to raise her face, and then kissed her forehead. “This time next year, I’ll be living in your house, spending your money, and Justin won’t even remember what you look like. Think on that, bitch.”
Hale left. Morgan worked the two lenses between her fingers, trying to assess the best way to get out of the chair without falling in. That would ruin everything.
Before she could make her move, John grabbed one of the spindles of resistance bands hanging on the wall, measured a long length of the rubber ribbon—the black one, hardest to stretch—cut it with a pair of shears attached to the rack, and returned.
He moved Mrs. Hale’s chair so that it was flush against the back of Morgan’s. Then he pushed against Mrs. Hale’s chair until the small front wheels of Morgan’s bumped over the edge of the pool and the larger wheels were balanced on the lip. Finally, he tilted Mrs. Hale’s chair up until it was leaning against the back of Morgan’s chair, leaving Morgan suspended over the water and wrapped the band around both women’s chests and their chairs, binding them together.
“Either of you make a move and you both go in,” he told them. “Hang tight, and I’ll be back.”
His footsteps sounded dull against the tile, and then the door shut behind him. Morgan carefully freed her hands, each movement shuddering through the wheelchair, rocking it forward. Behind her, Mrs. Hale gasped in protest.
Morgan’s feet were too far away from the edge for her to push the chairs back. Instead, she edged both hands, both still wrapped in their Velcro restraints, the ties hanging free, outward and down to the brakes. No, they’d never be enough to hold both her and Mrs. Hale. She felt for the large wheel; she could feel it swaying against the edge with every movement, every breath either of them made.
Closing her hands and gripping the wheel as tightly as she could, she tried to push her chair in reverse. All she needed was a few inches, just far enough to let her feet gain purchase on the pool’s deck. No go. Their combined weight was too much for her to move.
Inching forward, she swung her feet in, her toes stretching, grasping for solid ground.
There! One foot hit the wall. But even as she fought to gain purchase, the movement was enough to disturb the precarious balance, and she felt her chair tipping forward.
She flung herself back, pulling her legs up to her chest. Her breath came hard, sucking air through the spit-soaked gag now impossible. The chair teetered for a long second and then stabilized. Gingerly, she reached up, tore the tape from her face, and choked out the wad of cotton gauze.
Finally able to take a deep breath, she reassessed. The only way to save Justin’s mom was to separate the two chairs by cutting the band that bound them together. But that meant Morgan would end up in the water.
She clutched at the two lenses, trying hard not to look down at the water. It surrounded her, its reflection glinting from every surface, beckoning her with greedy arms.
It’s not that deep, she told herself, as she braced one of the lenses against the chair’s arm and pushed, snapping it into two pieces, each with a sharp edge. All she had to do was make it to the other side where the ladder was. She could do that. Absolutely.
John had wrapped the resistance band beneath her arms and over her sternum, tight enough that it was hard to take a deep breath. It was about four inches wide but thin, no thicker than a deflated balloon. The rubber would be hard to slice across, even if she could stretch it far enough to wedge the piece of lens below it. She’d have to pierce it, and use the hole and the weakness in the band’s integrity to work her makeshift shiv through the rubber.
Shoving the second lens and the other half of the broken one into her bra for safekeeping, she held the remaining shard with both hands and positioned it over her sternum. The bright blue piece of lens shivered with the water’s reflection, vibrating as her heart beneath it fluttered.
Don’t think about the water. You can do this. She wished she felt as confident as the fakey-fake voice in her head tried to sound. She pressed down on the shard, so hard it punctured the band and bit into her skin.
Using her breastbone as a cutting board, she angled the blade down, not cutting so much as tearing through the rubber, slitting it apart.
Her hands flew free as the lower edge parted, the movement tilting her chair forward over the water. Before she could take a breath, the small ribbon remaining at the top stretched and tore against the weight leveraged against it. Her chair toppled over, plunging her into the water.
She tried to take a final gasp of air but it was too late. All she swallowed was water. The entire world became water.
Water choking, grasping, slipping Morgan beneath the weight of the chair, pinning her against the bottom of the pool.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
As Jenna waited for Frank Hale, she used the time to skim through all the articles and background research on him and his wife that she could find. She found a lot more than she had time to read, so focused on the recent events that had brought tragedy to the Hale family: their divorce, the custody fight, and Hale’s subsequent kidnapping of his son resulting in a high-speed chase and the crash that had caused Justin’s head injury.
Both parents blamed the other. Mrs. Hale insisted that her ex knew about the change in the custody schedule and had taken Justin illegally. Frank Hale was equally adamant that his wife was framing him, that he had no idea the men trying to “run him off the road” were police, and that he had been protecting his son from what he thought was a carjacking. The judge eventually sided with the mother, granting her sole custody until Hale’s criminal case was decided.
She found a record of the TRO from the judge forbidding Hale from visiting his son at Angels after he’d created a disturbance at the rehab center.
All in all, Hale had good reason to be desperate to see his son—even to the point of bribing Paterson to give him access. But she couldn’t figure out how or why he’d have anything to do with Honey’s death.
The diner’s door opened with a cascade of chiming cowbells. She glanced up. Hale. Closing her laptop, she edged a glance at Micah. He played his part, studiously slurping a milkshake while studying the dessert menu.
Hale must have done his homework as well—easy to do, since Jenna had been in the paper after Clinton Caine’s death—because he strode directly to her table.
He eyed the other customers suspiciously. “Let’s talk outside.”
“This is fine.” She gestured to the seat across from her.
He slid in, his back to the door and the rest of the diner. Good thing because the door opened and Andre entered. He took a seat at the counter where he could watch Jenna and Hale. Jenna relaxed. Now that she had backup she knew she could count on, she slipped into her role of extortionist with gusto.
“Where’d you learn to whistle like that?” she asked. “You’re really good. Very distinctive.”
He frowned. “Get to the point. What do you want? Money?”
“Nothing so crass. I want to know what else is going on at Angels. Starting with the death of the girl last night.”
That startled him. “Death? Who died? I don’t know—”
“You were there, Mr. Hale. Skulking around—”
“It’s the only time I can see my son! It’s not my fault my bitch of an ex-wife—” He stopped himself. “Look, I don’t know anything. I can’t help you. So this discussion is over.”
He slid toward the aisle. She laid a hand on his to stop him.
“Your arrangement with Dr. Paterson. What did you give her in return for helping you see your son?”
“I offered to help fund the clinic expenses. It seems they’re failing, ready to go under. She told me that the HMOs don’t pay their patients’ bills—some of them owe the clinic millions of dollars. But it’s cheaper for the insurance companies to pay the state a fine for nonpayment than to actually pay for the care the doctors and nurses have provided. What are they going to do, turn kids away? And some of their long-term patients have already gone through their lifetime caps, so there’s no more money coming in anyway. I even offered to help manage their finances—look what I’ve done with the trust fund my dad left me, I’m really good at finding opportunities in the market. And that’s when she introduced me to John Lazarus, their chief administrator.”
“And what did he have to say?”
“He’s a smart guy. Not as business savvy as me—that’s why they’re in the state they are—but dedicated to keeping things running, no matter the cost. He even figured a way to trim some dead wood—his words, not mine.”
Funny how he was falling all over himself to make sure she knew what a great guy John Lazarus was. She’d have thought he’d be more impressed by the doctors who helped his son regain his functions. So typical; it was all about the bottom line and maximizing profits. “Did he say exactly how he was going to do that?”
Hale shook his head and glanced at his watch. “No. Sorry. I’ve got to go now—I’m meeting with my attorney to prepare for tomorrow’s hearing.” He slid out of the booth and stood. “So we’re good, right?”
She was about to let him go—after all, she really had nothing to use as leverage other than his nighttime visits—when she saw Andre answer his phone.
He spoke for a moment and then joined them, blocking Hale’s path. “That was Nick. Angels is on lockdown. No one can get in. A security guy told them it’s because a patient is missing.”
“Which patient?” Micah asked, standing up to take a position on the other side of Hale.
“Morgan. Has she called again?”
“No.” He pulled his phone and tried it. “No answer.”
“Why won’t Lazarus let Nick in to check for himself?” Jenna asked. She was listening but also wondering why Hale was suddenly squirming like a little boy in line for the bathroom. He knew something, she was sure.
“Nick says the building is totally locked down. No one’s key codes work, not even the security guys’ or Paterson’s master keys.”
“If you’ll excuse me,” Hale said. “I really need to leave.”
Andre eyed him, obviously also not liking what he saw. “You got here pretty fast, Mr. Hale. Where were you coming from?”
“What’s it matter? I have nothing to do with a missing girl. It’s not my fault. Now, let me pass.”
“Would it interest you to know that your son is also missing?” Andre said, nodding to his phone. “When Nick spoke to the therapist taking care of Justin and Morgan’s ward during the lockdown, she said Justin wasn’t there either.”
“Aren’t you worried about your son, Mr. Hale?” Jenna asked.
He had to turn his head to look at each of them in turn. “Justin’s fine. He’s with—” He swallowed, regrouped. “I mean, his mother is there tonight. I’m sure she’s with him.”
Andre gestured to the seat Hale had just vacated. “Have a seat, Mr. Hale. We’ll wait with you until we’re sure your son is okay. Wouldn’t want a worried parent to be alone in a time of need.”
Hale blustered for a moment and then collapsed back into his seat. Andre slid his bulk in beside the man, blocking any escape.
Jenna gestured for Andre’s phone. “Nick? I’m not sure what’s going on, but it involves Hale’s son and maybe his wife as well. I think you should break down the door or a window or whatever. We need to get inside and see what’s going on.”
Micah jerked his head up at that. “I’m heading back up there, and you can’t stop me.”
“I’m not even going to try,” Jenna told him, grabbing her bag and keys. “C’mon kid, I’m driving.” She glanced at Andre and Hale. Hale had gone so pale the fluorescent lights made his skin glow yellow. “You two all right here?”
“Oh, yeah,” Andre said. “We’re going to take our time. Get acquainted. Talk about everything Frank here knows about what’s going on at Angels.” He bared his teeth and raised the corners of his mouth, but he wasn’t smiling.
Hale cringed and pulled away to the far corner of the booth. They sat in silence, giving him a moment to consider his options. A guy like him, always taking the easy way out, Jenna figured it wouldn’t take long for him to see that his best chance at avoiding jail time was to help them.
She was right. Less than a minute later, Hale shrugged and said, “Okay, okay. I’ll tell you everything. It was John’s idea, not mine. I had no idea he was going to kill the girl.”
Micah and Jenna pivoted back to the booth. “What girl? Morgan?”
“No, the girl last night. But yeah, he’s going to kill her as well—she’s the girl with the black curls, uses the walker, wears sunglasses all the time, even inside? He’s going to drown her, make it look like an accident. But I’m here with you guys, you’re my witnesses. I had nothing to do with—”
He sputtered to a stop as Andre yanked him out of the booth. They all ran out of the diner, heading toward Jenna’s Tahoe. Andre got back on the phone with Nick. “It’s John Lazarus. He’s got Morgan. You’d better hurry.”
Chapter Thirty
As Morgan hit the bottom of the pool, a thin ribbon of blood spiraled up from her chest, swirling in the turquoise water as it passed through her gaze and danced toward the sparkling surface above. Part of her knew she should be following the blood, pushing free of the wheelchair, kicking toward the air. But most of her was just tired, cold, and content to remain in the dark, free from fear or worry about anyone else getting hurt.
Why not? She’d done her job; played the hero. Literally dove into the abyss of her fear. The words formed in her mind and then swam away, just like the bubbles escaping her mouth, taking with them her last air.
She wished it were courage or something like it that had propelled her to act. Not even primal survival instinct—she wasn’t afraid to die. Been there, done that, she giggled.
None of that kick-started her body, heaving the weight of the chair off, planting her feet against the sandpapery floor of the pool and pushing up as if she were leaping for the moon.
Rather, it was the thought of her father. His smug expression, his callous laugh at the thought of her dying a victim, helpless…worse, surrendering, going down without a fight. Oh, how he’d love that. There was nothing he enjoyed more than breaking a person, shattering their will. How many times had he broken Morgan? Too many to count.
She emerged back into the
air with a gasp that sounded like the distant echo of a wolf’s howl. Or maybe it was the roar in her ears as she hauled in one breath after another.
Her legs kicked, her arms flailed, until somehow she reached the ladder on the other side of the pool. With rubbery arms she climbed it and turned to where Justin’s mom waited, still trapped in her chair.
Only to see John Lazarus enter, Justin in his arms and a pistol in his hand aimed at the boy.
“You really are a pain in the ass,” he told Morgan. “Stay right there or I’ll shoot the kid.”
At his words, Mrs. Hale struggled so hard her chair bounced against the pool deck. John pointed the gun at her. “You too. Stay still and he’ll be fine.”
The air slapped at Morgan, water sluiced from her hair, dripping down her shivering body, and she’d never felt so alive. Every breath sparked diamond bright and almost as sharp as the shard she still clutched. She watched John with a predator’s gaze and realized that had been her mistake all along: trying to be a hero, thinking if she wished for it long enough, she could magically become one.
She was no hero. No victim, either, not again. Never again.
The piece of lens cut into her palm, spilling a wayward drop of blood. Faking a cough, she pressed her other hand against her chest and bent over, snaking out the second shard. Two weapons were always better than one.
The thought of a predator. A Wolf.
Can’t run from the Wolf, her father had said. He’d meant that as a warning, but Morgan realized it was also a challenge. To her. To be who she was always meant to be. It didn’t mean becoming a mindless, merciless sadist like her father. It meant being smarter, stronger than her prey. Being ruthless, relentless.
Willing to do whatever it took, even shed blood. Willing to kill. Willing to do the one thing men like John Lazarus and her father were afraid to do: die.
“You won’t hurt him,” she told John, as she marched around the pool toward him. “Shoot Justin and you’ll never make it out of here alive.”
