Snake Skin

by CJ Lyons

  Ambulance? Fainted? Megan had never, ever fainted before. Everything was most certainly not all right.

  Her jaw muscles clamped down hard, grinding her molars together. Lucy hit the speed dial for Nick's phone but there was no answer. She started to leave a message but instead hung up. She had no message, she had no answers—only questions.

  Fletcher was still there, making no excuses for eavesdropping. Lucy really didn't care. "I need to get back to the office anyway, I'll drop you at Three Rivers."

  Lucy snatched the keys from him. "I'm driving."

  Lucy had long ago grown used to the feeling that someone was jabbing ice picks in her ears. Anytime there was a tough case, the constant pain lancing through her head and neck was the price she paid.

  Nick had tried hypnosis, her dentist had tried a bite guard (which she had promptly lost), and she had tried popping Advils like they were M&M's, all without relief.

  Now her anonymous tormentor had taken a sledgehammer to those ice picks and was pounding the hell out of them, creating a roar of tympani echoing through her brain.

  On top of it all, Fletcher was talking. Hoping to distract herself from the shifting images of Megan slumped on the floor, strapped to an ambulance, crying for her mother as strangers poked and prodded her, Lucy stretched her mouth into a yawn, popping her jaw joints, and allowing Fletcher's voice to cut through the white noise of pain.

  "My mom was in a hospital for a while," he was saying. "Don't worry, she's doing fine now, but the doctors and nurses, they're really good. I'm sure they'll take really good care of your daughter. What's her name?"

  "Megan." Megan with her smile like sunshine and her sudden flashes of scarily sophisticated humor and her freckles that looked just like her father's. "She's been sick. I never should have left her." Lucy's grip on the steering wheel tightened and she clamped her jaws shut.

  "You had work to do," he said self-righteously as if repeating a mantra. "Important work. I mean, what if those perverts had gotten their hands on a real kid? Four years old? I just can't understand anyone interested in sex with a baby like that."

  "Our job isn't to understand them." She changed lanes, cutting off a little old lady hunched over the wheel of a Buick and cursed the fact that the surveillance vehicle had no lights or siren.

  "But you do. Understand them, I mean."

  She shot a glare at Fletcher. He ignored it, pivoting his body to face her from the passenger seat, fumbling with a small netbook computer plugged into the cigarette lighter. He carried the damn thing with him everywhere, but she'd just now noticed that it was a personal computer, not one of the ICE ones. Way he clutched it, Lucy wondered if he spent his downtime surfing for porn. Hoped it was legit—she was in no mood to arrest someone on her own team.

  She almost laughed at the thought. Nick would have told her she was trying to deflect her anxiety or accuse her of carrying her cop-paranoia too far. Both would be true.

  "You know how they think, what they want, what they're going to do next," Fletcher continued. "How do you do that?"

  Then why had she been caught by surprise twice in two days? Dammit, how had she fucked up so badly?

  "Believe me, that's not the same as understanding them." Lucy spotted an opening in traffic and swerved into it. "I don't give a shit why they do what they do, all I want to know is what patterns they'll follow so I can stop them before they hurt someone."

  His head was genuflecting as if she had quoted scripture. "But they follow patterns for a reason, don't they? I mean, I can understand why a full-grown man would feel attracted to a younger woman, happens all the time. But why a little girl or boy?"

  In her mind she was ticking off things she'd have to delegate if Megan was seriously ill. Hated herself even for thinking that way, for assuming the worst. Wasn't that like asking for it to happen? But she was the boss, she couldn't just drop everything. Lives depended on her team working at peak efficiency. Lives like Ashley Yeager's.

  Walden or Taylor would call her if anything broke. Right now all they could do was keep working the street and the cyber angle.

  Which left her with a fifteen-minute drive and too many worst-case scenarios to dwell on. So instead, she answered Fletcher's question.

  "It doesn't matter if you call it an illness or a perversion or a compulsion," she told the eager specialist. "You have to think in terms of the victims."

  "But those guys, back in the hotel, they weren't like serial killers or crazy people you see in the movies. I mean the ones without the gun. They didn't think of the little girl as a victim. They weren't trying to hurt her."

  "They didn't think of her at all—other than as an object to gratify their needs. If they did hurt her, they'd wouldn't feel guilt or shame. But they would feel remorse."

  "Remorse? Why?"

  "They'd be upset because their object wouldn't be available to them anymore. They'd be forced to rely on the second best thing—their memories and fantasies. That's the real trick to catching the worst of these guys. They're all driven to experience the real thing."

  He hummed a fragment of an old Coke jingle. Ain't nothing like the real thing, baby. "So to catch them you give them what they want."

  "Exactly." She steered the van onto the Squirrel Hill exit and cursed at the backup at the red light. While they waited, she flipped her phone open, called Nick. Still no answer. Then she tried Walden. "Hey, anything shaking loose on Ashley Yeager?"

  "No and no. Lots of calls to the hotline overnight. The Staties and Sheriffs haven't found any worth our following up. We found the first bus driver but he didn't remember her at all, no surprise. Haven't found any other drivers or evidence that she took another bus."

  "She had a plan. No way East Liberty was her final destination before she just happened to end up at the Tastee Treet."

  "I know," he sounded as exasperated as she was. "She could have walked to another bus stop, caught a ride with someone, who knows."

  "It's not important. We know she ended up at the Tastee Treet. Any luck with Noreen's car?"

  "No joy."

  "What about Tardiff?" She didn't like the idea of the photographer floating in the breeze, an unknown quantity.

  "Well now, there's an interesting story there. He called the missus this morning."

  "And?"

  "And he's actually here in Pittsburgh. They didn't talk much, Melissa shushed him and got him off the line quick, but Taylor tracked him. He's been staying in a Shadyside executive rental for the past week."

  "You bring him in?"

  "Wasn't there. I have Burroughs' guys working on it."

  "Don't let him drop through the cracks."

  She inched forward in traffic, coming alongside a girl who looked like Megan riding in the back seat of an Explorer. The tympani returned, threatening to jar her brain loose. Dammit, she needed a break. Ashley needed a break. And so did Megan. Please Lord...

  "I'm not sure how long I might be held up. Megan fainted at church and she's at the hospital."

  There was a pause as if Walden started to say something then changed his mind. "She gonna be all right?"

  "I don't know yet. But call me if you guys hear anything. Just because I'm out of the office doesn't mean I'm out of the game."

  "Relax, boss. We've got everything covered. Burroughs is coming in and the H-Tech guys have been working all night. Taylor thinks they might be close to something."

  Traffic surged forward. "Call me. I mean it, Walden. Call me if anything breaks."

  She hung up and concentrated on driving. Sunday morning deli-connoisseurs snarled traffic on Murray Avenue before she made it to Negley.

  "Want me to go help them with Ashley's computer?" Fletcher asked. "These transcriptions can wait until tomorrow."

  "No," she said sharply, remembering his goof yesterday. "Thanks, but I don't want to risk any hotshot lawyer giving me grief about chain of custody or evidence tampering. You drop me off and head back to the office, get everything documented and sec
ured."

  "Sure, you're the boss," he said, but his tone reminded her of Megan's favorite pouty whine. When she stole a glance at him, he was settled back in his seat, staring out the passenger window, his face a blank.

  Whatever. She stopped herself from rolling her eyes and channeling Megan. Having a pre-teen in the house must be contagious. But she didn't have time to worry about bruised egos. She had a helluva lot bigger things to worry about.

  The brightly colored sign for Three Rivers Medical Center appeared and she turned into the main driveway. She threw the SUV into Park and grabbed her purse, her grip tight and sweaty. She didn't even bother to say goodbye to Fletcher as she sprinted into the building, its cheerful colors greeting her as if she'd entered another world. No amount of paint or chirpy Disney music could disguise the hospital from what it really was. As soon as she took her first breath inside the lobby, she could smell the truth.

  This was a place of death.

  Ashley's legs jerked as if to stop her from falling. Her stomach kept tumbling in free-fall as her pounding heart followed. She flailed her hands out, hit something metal and grabbed onto it.

  She was so dizzy she could barely raise her head. Slowly, memories began to connect together. She'd been running away, following Bobby's plan, they were going to escape together.

  But Bobby wasn't here. It was just her and the rotting corpses of whoever or whatever stinking up the air.

  She licked her lips, they were rough as caked sand. The rest of her also felt gritty, dried sweat chafing with every movement. Water, where was her water? She inched her hands through the darkness, the knowledge that the bucket might be gone raising a wave of acid up her throat.

  She laughed. A frail and hollow noise that echoed through the space. Guess she wasn't ready to die after all. Her fingers brushed the bucket at her side. She raised it to drink, careful not to waste any.

  Nothing came.

  She rubbed her hand down the side. Dry. A little moisture remained at the bottom, not enough to do more than coat her finger.

  Gone. It was all gone.

  Every muscle in her body felt braided with pain, stretched beyond endurance. Her left ankle worse of all, now swollen, it pulsed beneath the cable that restrained her—since she was blind here, she had gouged it without her usual precision and expertise.

  All for nothing. Gingerly she stretched, listening to joints crack and groan like an old woman's. How long? How long had she been here? How long before he returned?

  How long before he started?

  Because if her silent yet stinky companions were any gauge, the worse was yet to come.

  Her eyes burned with tears but none came. When she wiped them only small grains of salty residue rubbed against her finger. Despite her thirst, she still had to pee. She resigned herself to the arduous task of searching for the commode.

  Better now than wetting herself when he got started. Maybe she was going to die, but she'd be damned if she'd humiliate herself for his pleasure.

  If things got too bad, she'd just float away again. Go to her quiet place.

  If she was lucky, she'd never return.

  Chapter 22

  Sunday 9:44am

  There was a line at the information desk, so Lucy didn't wait. She jogged down the hallway, following the signs labeled "Pediatric Emergency Department" only to find another desk and another line.

  More people waited here, clustered in small groups punctuated by crying babies, snuffling toddlers and coughing adolescents. An open doorway beckoned from behind a nurse sitting at the desk, beyond it light gleamed from white tiled walls as men and women in scrubs and lab coats hustled between rooms.

  Lucy strode past the busy receptionist and nurse, not realizing until her momentum carried her over the threshold that the doorway was equipped with a metal detector. Alarms blared, babies screamed, and two lumbering guards came running down the hall to intercept her.

  "Step against the wall, ma'am," one guard said, blocking her passage as the other approached her warily from her side.

  Lucy reacted with a cop's instinct, pivoting to shield her weapon and keep her gun hand free. Her jacket fell back, exposing the .32 that she'd holstered on her hip after the take down earlier.

  "Gun!" the second guard screeched, his voice so high pitched that it, coupled with his bulk and pock-marked face, made Lucy think: steroid abuser. He fumbled at his holster, actually drawing his gun and pointing it at her.

  "Calm down," she shouted over the claxons and the sound of footsteps and screams as the waiting room emptied, women and children fleeing. "I'm on the job. If someone would turn off the damn alarm."

  Neither guard seemed to hear her, now both had their guns drawn and pointed at her, their stances wide-based, their faces creased with worry and sweat. The second one's hand was shaking so badly and he was blinking so fast Lucy thought he might burst into tears.

  She hated to tell the rent-a-cops, but they were both too close and standing face on, offering her big-time easy targets if she was someone looking to do harm.

  Instead, she raised her hands in surrender, one hand on the top of her head, the other pulling her jacket open by her lapel. "Go ahead and take it, but for God's sake be careful. There's one in the chamber."

  They hesitated and exchanged looks, neither wanting to approach the oh-so terrifying 5-5, 130 pound menace to society. The alarms died and they stood at an impasse in the empty hallway.

  "I'm FBI," Lucy said in a calm voice she hoped would overcome her appearance. She'd forgotten that she still wore the tight jeans and trailer trash makeup. "My daughter was brought here by ambulance and they called me off a case. My credentials are in my purse along with my service weapon."

  She shrugged, allowing her purse to fall to the floor. Both guards jumped at the noise.

  For an instance Lucy thought they would shoot her. Her pulse stuttered and sweat dripped between her breasts. A young doctor poked his head out from an exam room, pulled it back in again even faster.

  Lucy kicked the bag to the first guard. "Please, I just want to see my daughter. Her name is Megan Callahan. I'm Supervisory Special Agent Lucy Guardino. My husband is Nick Callahan. She was brought here by ambulance—"

  As she spoke the guard warily crouched and rummaged through her bag, first bringing out her Glock and then her credentials. He flipped them open and finally nodded.

  "She's telling the truth," he said, holstering his gun. Lucy let her breath out as the second guard, the twitchy one, followed suit.

  "Sorry about that," she said, trying her best to keep her anger from her voice. The first guard handed her her credentials and purse. "I've never been here before, I was just so worried about Megan."

  "Yeah, well, next time you should follow the rules, lady," the second guard said, his voice still in the soprano range. "Just 'cause you're FBI doesn't make you special."

  "We'll need to lock both weapons in the vault while you're here," the first one said, extending a hand and gesturing to the .32. Lucy removed it and handed it over. She felt naked, couldn't remember the last time outside of her home that she'd walked around unarmed. "If you come with me, I'll find out where your daughter is and get you a receipt."

  Lucy meekly followed, irritated by the additional delay. From the hostile stares greeting her from the exam rooms as well as from the staff and patients trickling back into the waiting room, she decided it wouldn't do any good to protest.

  Luckily the guard actually seemed to know what he was doing when it came to paperwork. He locked both guns in a small safe behind the security desk in the main office, printed her a visitor's badge and found Megan in the computer. "She's been admitted," he told her. "Fourth floor, room 402."

  "Thanks," she told him as she clipped the badge on. "I'm sorry about earlier."

  "Most excitement we've had around here in years. Hope your daughter is all right."

  Lucy rode alone in the elevator, a steel box that moved haltingly as if afraid to startle anyone with e
xcessive speed. She slumped against the rear corner, swamped by the adrenalin rush of being held at gunpoint twice today combined with fear for Megan and guilt that she hadn't been with her. A cold sweat slicked her skin, making her healthy tan appear sallow in the overhead fluorescent light and her headache had locked her jaws tight.

  Breathe, that's what Nick was always telling her. Just breathe. Easy to say but not so easy to do when your lungs felt wrapped tight in duct tape and your heart was pounding so hard it gagged your throat.

  Being in a hospital wasn't helping. Too many memories of when she was Megan's age—she'd practically lived in her father's room while her mother was at work that summer. The nurses turned a blind eye as she'd roamed the halls, fetching newspapers and magazines for her father and other patients who made quick use of her mobility. And of course there were the countless trips to the market across the street. Their little secret, her father had said, a twinkle in his eye that made Lucy feel grown up and reckless and brave.

  Her stomach lurched as the elevator halted and the doors opened. "Fourth floor, pediatrics," a disembodied voice told her.

  She stumbled out, planted one hand against the wall and straightened. Breathed in, breathed out, pressing her palm flat against her stomach to force the air out, trying in vain to exhale her fears with it. Megan needed her. No time for memories or weakness.

  When she found room 402 the bed was empty. Nick sat in a recliner beside the window, idly thumbing the remote for the overhead TV. Lucy paused in the doorway, watching, gauging. Nick was always calm, so it was no surprise to see him sitting instead of pacing like Lucy would be. But he was definitely worried—hence the mindless channel surfing.

  "I got here as fast as I could," she said. He looked up, dropped the remote so that it dangled by the cord connecting it to the big hospital bed. "Where's Megan? What did the doctors say? Is she going to be all right?"