Unseen

by Nancy Bush

  “In the hospital?”

  He sidestepped that one. “Have you remembered anything else about what happened to you?”

  “No.”

  “Who dropped you off at the hospital?”

  “No.”

  He was still fishing around, thinking she’d done it. For a wild second she thought about spinning him some alibi that she’d been with Macie all day that day. Macie would cover for her. But another part of her—a less self-preservative side—wanted to take credit for her actions. “I’m having enough trouble just remembering my day-to-day life. I hope you’re spending as much time on Letton. Checking out his house. Grilling him. That girl might not have been his first victim.”

  “We’re being very thorough where Mr. Letton is concerned,” he assured her.

  “And his wife? You got her under lock and key? That woman’s certifiable.” But then who was she to call the kettle black?

  “How’s your head?” he asked.

  “Less purple and green. Kind of brownish, actually.”

  “Pain?”

  “Some,” she admitted. “What are you really after, detective?”

  “Would it be all right if I interviewed you again? I’ve got some more questions.”

  Bullshit, Gemma thought. There were no more questions. He wanted to run over the same material again, see if her story had changed. And since her story hadn’t changed, she said, “I’m starting work at LuLu’s next week. You could stop by there.”

  “LuLu’s?”

  “The diner in town.” She explained how Macie had leased the place from her parents and now was her tenant. “She needs some extra help, so I told her I’d fill in for a while. The peach cobbler alone is worth the trip.”

  “Okay.” He sounded reluctant, but she hadn’t given him any other choice.

  “See you next week,” she said, and pressed the disconnect button on the phone before he could say anything else.

  That was two people she’d invited to the restaurant, Tim and Detective Tanninger. Macie should give her a raise, she thought with amusement. Maybe once she knew what her pay rate was, she could ask for an increase. Hah!

  Gemma looked out the window and saw the late afternoon shadows creeping across the ground. She felt incredibly tired, the weight of figuring out who she was pressing down on her. Heaving a sigh, she trudged upstairs, walked to her room, slipping onto her bed. Dealing with Detective Tanninger seemed to zap her spirit in ways she didn’t completely understand.

  For a few minutes she ran over her life as she knew it before the accident. She had two classifications, Before and After the accident. After was pretty clear, but Before was still a jigsaw of memories with missing pieces.

  What she knew was:

  Before the accident she’d been living quietly at her parents’, now her, farm. She’d spent a lot of time bobbing and weaving to avoid giving psychic readings to Jean LaPorte’s clients, who were a tenacious bunch, to say the least. Jean herself had been gone about a year. Before Jean’s death Gemma had been somewhat complicit in her dealings with those same desperate seekers and had helped her mother tell them fairy tales. She’d also helped Macie out at the diner. Had preferred that job to being her mother’s apprentice psychic. Since Jean’s death Gemma had been doing…what…? That piece was still unclear.

  If she thought back a few years earlier, she remembered following Nate to the ends of the earth, from military base to military base, planning, dreaming of, a future that included the two of them.

  Nate, however, had ruined that idea many times over. He was a self-described commitment-phobe and had proven it by the series of women he flirted with and slept with. He’d denied he’d ever slept with any of them but Gemma had known. She’d seen it in her mind. She’d made the mistake of describing one of his trysts right down to the color of the girl’s shoes and had spooked him enough that he’d forgotten about his own guilt. And he’d accused her of seeing other men. Of being involved with one in particular, though Gemma had vigorously denied it.

  Nate’s guilt was also superseded by Gemma’s weirdness, and the relationship had ended abruptly. They’d been on the east coast and Gemma had gathered together the remains of her self-respect and enough cash to make her way back to Quarry.

  How many years ago had that been? Two? Three? Longer? Gemma wasn’t entirely sure. Her father had still been alive at the time. He’d welcomed her with open arms and Jean had welcomed her with her own agenda.

  Fast forward to now: Gemma alone. Living in her parents’ house. Fending off Jean’s believers. Chasing after pedophiles and do-badders of every kind…

  “Gotta get to the diner. Then gotta find a real life,” she told her reflection in the hall mirror. The glass was wavy and distorted, an antique her mother had acquired in payment from one of the ladies who had little in the way of real cash. Her distorted image looked back at her, both a good and evil reflection of the same face.

  The guy just was not going to die. He was going to linger. And after lingering he might even get better. This, Lucky could just not have.

  She stuffed her hair under the knit cap and stared at her reflection in the old mirror. A sense of time passing filled her head. Seconds ticking by. She had to kill him. There was no other answer.

  She’d dressed in baggy denim jeans; a black nylon jacket that zipped up to her chin; used, men’s Nike’s; and the ear-buds of a few-generations-old iPod pressed into her ears. Foundation covered most of the remaining bruises, and she’d darkened her eyes with mascara and eyeliner and smudged the black color beneath her eyes, giving her the pale, wasted appearance associated with drug addicts. Her hazel eyes stared back at her. If she didn’t smile, she looked like someone to avoid.

  Not exactly the dress of someone who hoped to fly under the radar, sneak into the hospital and find her way to Edward Letton’s room undetected. But one thing she knew was that drawing attention to herself could work in the reverse sometimes. Everyone remembered the clothes and the hardness; no one really remembered the person.

  She had a gym bag containing scrubs. If she had to, she would change, but nurses, aides, and hospital personnel knew each other more than people thought. A stranger in scrubs was like a red light, so the only way that would work was if no one who worked with the staff saw her. The scrubs were for the fifth floor only.

  It was early evening. Dinnertime. Much later and it got too quiet. Better to have some distractions. Some noise. Maybe even a diversion?

  Lucky had to think about that. What she wanted was to sail into Letton’s room and end his miserable life. Pulling the plugs wouldn’t be enough. Alarms would sound at the nurses’ station or somewhere and they would all rally round to save his miserable ass. She would like to smother him with a pillow. Simple and clean. Except that when his body went into distress it would also send off alarms that would alert the staff.

  She possessed a handgun. She’d stolen it from her car-jacking friend and kept it in the glove box of whatever stolen vehicle was in her possession at the time. But bringing it into a hospital was not going to work. Especially considering her disguise.

  She would have to improvise. It would have to be quick. A weapon to smash him over the head with. Kapow! One shot.

  But could she do it? Could she? Following him to the soccer field had been easy. And as soon as he tried to approach his victim, she’d been committed. No problem. She also knew she could defend herself if someone attacked her. She’d certainly wrapped Ezekiel’s neck with the lamp cord without a qualm. And then there was that first kill…

  But to physically attack him while Letton lay sleeping…or immobilized with his eyes open…unable to defend himself…well, she just wasn’t as sure. She’d committed violence. She’d been responsible for several deaths, but she’d either been attacked first or had stepped in to save someone who was about to be attacked.

  She wanted to think of herself differently. Wanted to be a stone killer. Someone with no conscience and no remorse. Unfortunately, she
hadn’t evolved to that point yet.

  Still…Edward Letton had to die.

  Lucky drove to the hospital in the rattletrap truck she’d appropriated. She parked halfway down one row, beneath a large maple whose orange leaves were shriveling and falling off. As she climbed out of the truck an amazingly large, red leaf sashayed down on the stiff breeze, landing on her hood. Lucky stared at it a moment, then dragged herself back to the task at hand.

  She grabbed her gym bag from the passenger seat. Looking up, she saw an elderly couple edging toward the front doors. The woman was using a walker, carefully negotiating each step, but the older guy kept his eyes on Lucky. She knew what he was thinking. She looked like a thug. To alleviate his fears, she cocked her head to the imaginary music playing from her iPod and started moving to the beat. Bobbing her head and closing her eyes, she was in the zone. When she opened one eye a slit, he’d turned back to his infirm wife and eased her over the curb and through the sliding glass doors.

  Lucky rounded the building and chose a side access door that was still unlocked. After a certain time she suspected they locked everything down but the ER. She wouldn’t be around that long. She found the stairs and headed upstairs until she saw the guard outside the room, then headed to a different hallway.

  She walked quickly forward, assessing. Restrooms for guests were down the right hallway, marked with a little blue sign that stuck out from the wall about a foot below the ceiling. She boogied her way along as there were people in the halls. They all gave her curious looks and then moved on.

  The restrooms were close enough to Letton’s room to work, but the guard was outside the door, planted stolidly in a chair. As she dipped inside the restroom the guard’s head was turned the other way. She caught sight of the bag of Doritos sticking from his pocket just before his head swiveled back her way, but she was safely inside by then.

  And she was alone in the restroom. Good. She headed into a cubicle and stripped and changed into her light blue scrubs. She’d also put cleansing cream in her bag and she rubbed it all over her face, listening for anyone entering, but no one did.

  Hurriedly, she stepped from the cubicle and rinsed her face in the sink, scrubbing off the makeup until her face was fresh and pink. Now the bruises were visible, faintly coloring her skin an ugly red-brown shade. She put on her pair of rosy-lensed glasses. In the scrubs she looked wholesome and innocuous. She tried on a smile and was rewarded with a friendly, guileless face. Again, good. She reapplied the foundation over her bruises, then finger-combed her hair until it lay faintly poofy against her scalp, but its straightness was legendary and that wouldn’t last long.

  The gym bag…if she stuffed it in the garbage can the police would find it after Letton’s death was discovered. They would learn that the hip-hop dude/girl was a disguise.

  There were acoustic tiles overhead. Lucky returned to her cubicle, stood on the seat of the toilet and reached above, sliding a tile out with the tips of her fingers. It took her three tries to toss the bag out of sight, and then an inordinate amount of time to replace the tile. She’d just hopped onto the floor when someone burst into the bathroom, a woman in a hurry, who strong-armed open the cubicle next to Lucky and sat down as if her bladder were about to burst.

  Lucky eased out of the cubicle and bathroom, heart skittering. This was where she could not run into trouble, this was where another hospital employee could wonder who she was. Drawing a breath, she sauntered down the hall toward Letton’s room. The guard saw her coming and he straightened, looking slightly guilty. She could see he was still chewing on something and trying to disguise it.

  “Aw, honey, you jes keep on eatin’.” She flapped a hand at him and smiled. “The vending machines are better’n the cafeteria, huh. I know, I know. Though sometimes they kin really put on a nice special. Last week the chipped beef on toast was somethin’.”

  “Yeah?” The guard hitched up his pants, eyeing her appreciatively. “The meat loaf was good, too.”

  “Mmmhmm.”

  “The vending machines are closer, though,” he said a bit longingly.

  “Don’t you got someone to cover for you?”

  “Just lunch,” he grumbled.

  Lucky cruised on by, looking back at him through her glasses. “Want me to pick somethin’ up for ya?”

  “Nah.” He grinned at her as she walked toward the end of the hall. Just before she turned the corner, he said, “Hey.”

  Bingo. Lucky smiled to herself. She glanced back at him inquiringly.

  “You got a minute? The vending machines are close, and if you were here…?”

  Lucky pretended to consider. “I gotta coupla minutes, but no more.”

  “I’m like the wind,” he said, and was already gallumphing down the hallway.

  Lucky returned to the guard’s abandoned post, feeling her blood rushing through her veins. She was alone in the hall. Alone…

  Carefully she pushed open the door to Letton’s room. She moved in quietly, feeling unusually alert, alive. Maybe a pillow was the answer. If she were quick enough. If she had enough time to escape.

  She eased into the softly lit room. He lay on the bed, eyes open. Her heart jerked. He was awake!

  But then she realized he was not really awake. He was in some kind of altered state. A coma.

  She moved to the head of the bed, hovering over him, gazing hard into the bastard’s flat stare. He was definitely out.

  Her hand reached for the pillow but she hesitated. She wanted to strangle him. Make him pay. Squeeze the life from him. Make him suffer like so many men had made her.

  She knew without being told that he was dying.

  Edward Letton would not be leaving the hospital, despite Laurelton General’s best efforts. He was on his way out of this world. Soon to be gone.

  A part of her felt relief that she wouldn’t have to kill him. Another part longed to snuff the fucker out.

  She left in a controlled hurry, retracing her steps to the women’s room. To her consternation someone was in her cubicle. Looking up, she could see the acoustic tile hadn’t quite fallen back into place. From her angle she could see the edge of the strap of her bag.

  For a brief moment she wondered if she should just chance it. Walk through the hospital lah-di-dah, no one noticing another aide in scrubs. They got away with it all the time on television.

  But this was Laurelton General. A small hospital where everybody knew everybody.

  Her heart pounded, blood singing through her veins. She hadn’t done anything. Letton was still alive. But she sensed a mounting urgency to get away quickly. She turned to the door just as the occupant of her cubicle flushed the toilet. As the woman left the stall Lucky scurried to another, closing the door before she could be seen. She waited, counting seconds, as the woman slowly went through her ablutions and took her time leaving the bathroom. Quickly, Lucky entered her cubicle and climbed onto the toilet. She was reaching upward when she heard the door open again and she sank back into a crouch, heart pounding. The new person went straight to the sink and started washing her hands. She heaved several huge sighs, as if life were wearing her down, then yanked a paper towel free of its holder.

  Lucky closed her eyes and waited and waited. Finally, after another few excruciating minutes, the woman left. Quick as a cat, Lucky jumped up, slid back the acoustic tile and jerked on her bag. It tumbled into her arms. She changed rapidly and redressed in her disguise, tucking away the scrubs. She didn’t bother with the makeup, just yanked the knit cap over her hair.

  A lot of work for nothing.

  Sticking the earplugs in her ears she be-bopped out of the place, head ducked low in her baseball cap. People would remember her, but it wouldn’t matter. Once again she’d been lucky.

  It was her nature.

  “What do you think it means? The cigarette burns?” Barb asked.

  She’d asked him the same thing twice a day since they’d found the body. Will gave her his stock answer—a shrug—and glanced at
the clock. After six. Time to go home.

  “Maybe it’s nothing,” she mused. “He likes to burn things. Maybe he’s just bored.”

  He got to his feet and headed for his jacket, which was in the back room. Sometimes Barb just liked to hear herself talk. His mind was full of thoughts of the still unidentified dead body they’d found at the airstrip. He was also thinking about Edward Letton and felt as if he should go to the hospital and look in on him.

  “Is it something I said?” Barb appeared in the doorway of the staff room. He could feel the negative energy and glanced back to meet her snapping black eyes. Will realized with a sense of inevitability that this was it. The showdown. When he least wanted it. He was going to be forced to address the issue that had been simmering between them. “You’ve hardly said five words to me the past week,” she accused.

  “We’ve talked about our cases.” Will started to shrug into his jacket, then changed his mind. It was still unseasonably warm outside.

  “That’s not what I mean. You’ve shut me down. You’ve done it on purpose.”

  They were alone; everyone else had already left. Barb appeared to have specifically chosen a time when other ears weren’t listening. Will supposed he should be grateful for her discretion but he felt both annoyed and half-relieved. He wanted this thing between them to be resolved and over. But the way she was standing in the doorway made it impossible for him to leave without practically pushing her aside.

  “Well, go ahead,” he said, turning to face her.

  “Go ahead?” She tilted her head warily.

  “Say what you want to say. You’ve been working up to this for months.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” She was affronted. He’d preempted her first strike.

  “We shouldn’t have even tried dating. In our jobs, business and pleasure don’t mix.”

  “Bullshit, Tanninger.” Her face turned red.

  His temper started a slow simmer. He was stuck in this thing now. He wished he could just leave while she had a tantrum, flung herself around and screamed names at him. Get out of the drama.