by Lisa Jackson
“Meaning?”
“That . . . the care here is first rate,” he stumbled.
“Dr. Adderley, the truth is, if Justice Turnbull had made it to your hospital earlier today, it doesn’t matter whether the hospital’s first rate or not. You would have ended up with a determined killer inside your walls.” She turned from him and regarded the camera lens with a serious expression. “That’s what we’re all wondering here. Are we safe? Can we be safe? It wasn’t that long ago that Justice Turnbull went on a killing rampage in this area of our fair state, and the Tillamook County Sheriff’s Department chose to keep silent about it until it was over. And now, forewarned, what can we do to prevent the same terrifying situation from arising? How can we keep ourselves safe?” She turned back to Adderley, who was trying to sidle away. “Will the hospital be taking extra precautions tonight?”
“I can’t speak for the administration.”
With a quick movement of her hand under camera range, she cut the taping. “Didn’t you just tell me you could speak for Ocean Park?” she demanded, glaring at Adderley.
“How was I to know you would make this a circus sideshow?” he spit back. “You call this reporting? It’s inflammatory and pointless!”
“Why do I get the feeling you wanted to see your pretty mug on camera until the tough questions started, Doctor?”
Adderley marched away, and Harrison strolled outside and past Pauline’s decamping group. She saw him again and frowned. This time, he let her get a good look.
“You’re the scourge of the Portland Ledger,” she said with a snap of her fingers. “Frost.”
“Kirby,” he responded.
“What are you doing here? Sniffing for another story? You could just make one up again.”
“You’re doing fine on your own in that regard,” he said with a half smile.
“Yeah. Well.” She shrugged. “The real story was at Halo Valley. We’re just following up, and that asshole acted like he was the boss. What I’d really like is someone with a soul who might look good on camera, and who could offer up some real information, or at the very least, an opinion.”
Pauline’s cameraman suddenly stepped forward and leaned toward her ear. “Wanna grab her?” he suggested.
Harrison turned, and they both noticed the slim, dark-haired woman in the uniform who had just locked her vehicle and was heading toward them through the pools of radiance from the sodium-vapor lights, her steps slowing as she saw the TV crew. She seemed undecided.
“She’s gonna boge out and go toward the ER,” the cameraman said.
“Not if I can help it!” Pauline was already on the hunt again, her mic held in front of her like an AK-47. “Turn your goddamn camera back on, Darrell!”
CHAPTER 6
Laura’s thoughts were filled with chaotic visions of her future. What would she do with a baby? What did that mean for her relationship with Byron?
How can I save my baby? How can I save her from Justice?
Okay, maybe the baby wasn’t a girl, but in Laura’s family lineage and history, female births outdistanced male births by a ratio of eight to two. And, for some inexplicable reason—or maybe just part of her family’s odd and twisted past—the male children who survived birth tended to die before they reached adulthood.
So, in Laura’s mind this child, the one she’d learned of only a few hours earlier, was a girl.
She parked her green Outback, locked the doors, and stepped into the night air, the wind grabbing at her with chilly fingers, just as an ambulance screamed into the drive that led to the ER. She turned from the sound and focused in on the news crew, their collective heads following the ambulance. She had seen them as she drove up but hadn’t really thought that they might approach her. But as they turned from the ambulance’s trajectory, they looked her way.
Damn.
She thought of Justice . . . and the news cameras . . . and her own face on television screens across the region . . . and the chill that ran through her was bone deep. No. Way.
“Excuse me!” Pauline Kirby herself was walking so fast Laura’s way, it was almost a run.
It was all Laura could do to stifle her own urge to race away. She held her ground and watched in trepidation as Pauline pushed her microphone in front of her nose and the cameraman’s lights blinded her. Turning her face away, she said, “I can’t answer your questions.”
“I’m just looking for information on the unfortunate victims of Justice Turnbull’s horrifying rage, your security guard, Conrad Weiser, and Dr. Maurice Zellman.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Laura saw a figure, shadowed by the cameras, move forward toward her. “Information on any patient at Ocean Park Hospital is confidential.” She shifted away. With any luck, they would have no reason to put her on television.
“But they were brought here by ambulance, and they’ve been through surgery.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t talk about any of our patients. I have to go.” She was already giving them her back and walking away.
“We just want an update on their conditions!” Pauline called. “Justice Turnbull is still at large. Do you think he’ll come after them again?”
“No,” a male voice answered, ringing with authority.
Laura kept moving but saw the newcomer, Dr. Dolph Loman, white-haired, in his mideighties, the osteopath who was semiretired and whom Byron had basically replaced, step into camera range. He was an imposing man with bright blue eyes and a ramrod straight back, a source of pride to him, though occasionally, just recently, she’d seen him use a cane.
She didn’t like him one bit.
But she was thrilled and relieved that he’d taken the spotlight from her and she could hurry to the beckoning ER doors, where the ambulance was just jerking to a stop, lights flashing, sirens winding down.
Behind her, she heard Pauline ask Loman, “Can you speak for the patients?”
“I’m Dr. Loman,” he introduced, his voice fading as Laura put distance between herself and the news staff. “I’ve been at Ocean Park for nearly fifty years. Nurse Adderley is correct. Patients’ medical conditions are privileged and not for mindless television consumption.”
“Adderley?” Pauline’s voice was tinny and faraway. Laura doubled her pace. “We spoke with Dr. Byron Adderley earlier.”
“Ocean Park Hospital is an outstanding institution . . .” Loman’s voice became a mumble behind her. It was too much information. Too much data. The thought of Pauline broadcasting any part of it made Laura’s scalp crawl.
A second ambulance, still unseen, was approaching, its siren wailing. It turned into the drive as Laura swept through the ER’s sliding doors. Red and white flashing lights strobed the area as Laura headed toward the ER check-in. As a nurse, she helped out wherever she was needed, and tonight, with the injury accident, it was probably going to be the ER.
A man appeared at her elbow, a tall man, hovering in a way that made her glance up at him.
“Hi.” His light brown hair was long and slightly shaggy; a five o’clock shadow darkened a strong, intensely male jaw. His eyes were hazel; his smile friendly. Too friendly, she decided instantly. He looked a little familiar and that made her wary.
He wasn’t Justice, but maybe somebody she knew. . . .
“I’m Harrison Frost,” he introduced, sticking out a hand.
She ignored the gesture, instantly didn’t trust him, though she didn’t yet understand why.
He let his hand drop. “You handled Pauline like a pro.” Again the smile, a flash of white teeth, humor in his eyes. “You often skirt interviews?”
“Who are you?”
“Harrison—”
“I got your name,” she cut in. “I mean, what are you here for?”
“A story,” he said without hesitation.
“Ahh . . .” She bent her head and would’ve pushed past him but he stepped in front of her. “You and the rest of the crew need to find someone other than me to interview.”
�
��I’m not with Channel Seven. Pauline Kirby doesn’t care who she interviews or what they say as long as it looks good on TV. You looked good on TV.”
“They won’t put me on, though,” she said quickly. “I didn’t say anything.”
“They might.”
“No.” Laura was adamant.
“You looked vulnerable. And pretty.”
“Please . . . don’t try the flattery angle. Okay?” When he didn’t respond, she added, “Just so we’re clear.”
“Okay.” He nodded, sizing her up. “Before Herr Loman showed up, Pauline would have given you your fifteen minutes of fame and then some. Wouldn’t have mattered what you said. You can thank the good doctor for rescuing you, because it seems like that’s what you wanted.” He peered at her closely, fishing.
“Who are you with?”
“The Seaside Breeze.”
Now Laura gave him a second, searching look. “The Breeze?”
He nodded.
“You’re here for the local paper?” She didn’t bother hiding her skepticism.
“Homicidal maniac Justice Turnbull escapes the mental hospital, injuring two innocent victims, one of them his own psychiatrist. That’s a story. And the local paper wants the story, too.”
“The local paper is written by . . . well . . . locals.” Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “You’re something else. And I’ve seen you before.”
“Yeah, probably,” he conceded. “You’re just starting your shift here? Could we meet afterward?”
“No.”
“No, you’re not starting your shift?”
“No, I’m not meeting you afterward. Please . . .” She held up her hands, asking, make that demanding, a little personal space. It had been a helluva day already, and she didn’t need this guy—this reporter—with his sexy good looks, practiced charm, and endless questions to make the hours any longer than they already were. “Go away,” she suggested, irritation tinging her words. “We’re short-staffed, and I’ve been called in to help. That’s all.”
“So, you’re not working a full shift.”
“Mr. Frost . . .”
“Maybe I could talk to your husband? I saw him answering Pauline’s questions earlier.”
Byron. Great. This just got better and better. Laura didn’t bother to respond again. She was as done with the media as she was with her ex-husband. Nurse Perez came through the double doors and, seeing Laura, motioned her forward.
She didn’t need any more invitation.
Harrison watched Laura Adderley practically leap away from him, zeroing in on the older nurse, as if she were bolting from the gates of hell. He was used to being brushed off; it went with the job. He wasn’t exactly sure why he’d targeted the nurse except that he liked the way she looked. Fresh and somewhat serious, and yes, vulnerable. He’d seen it all when she’d been caught in Pauline’s cameras, and he’d been impressed by the way she’d adroitly avoided dealing with the news crew. Score one for Laura Adderley.
Except if Byron Adderley was her husband, she’d sure picked a super prick, by the looks of it. Maybe he was her brother. Or their names were merely a coincidence.
Oh, yeah right. He’d noticed her tense when he’d brought up Adderley’s name. They were involved. Somehow.
Now he watched her round a corner, her slim curves hidden by her scrubs and a jacket, her dark ponytail curling slightly and bouncing between her shoulder blades. He’d seen the crackle of intelligence in her wide blue eyes, noticed a few tiny freckles bridging her straight nose as she’d glared up at him.
Could she really be married to that pompous ass of an orthopedic surgeon?
He followed. More from curiosity about her than the story.
Now, the ER was a flurry of activity. Gurneys rattled inside, carrying human bodies. Blood and oxygen masks and IVs and nurses and doctors, Laura Adderley being one of them, rushed by in a steady stream. There was moaning, too. And one lady emitted a gurgling scream that made the hairs on his arms lift and a couple sitting and waiting clamp closer to each other.
Harrison had never liked hospitals, especially emergency rooms. The last time he’d been in one was when Manny lay dying on a stretcher and Kirsten was touching his hairline and whispering to him, over and over, “It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re going to be fine. It’s okay. It’s okay. . . .”
But it wasn’t going to be okay. It hadn’t been okay. And though Kirsten and Didi had forged on, moving to the coast and buying a two-bedroom cottage with a peekaboo view of blue water, and Kirsten had taken a job at a local tea shop, her income supplemented by the life insurance, and Didi had found friends at a local preschool, and everything was just going along peachy, what with macramé and alfalfa sprouts and green tea, a whole new life—Harrison couldn’t move on. In the beginning, he’d even tried to stop Kirsten from leaving before following her to the coast himself.
But there had been a period when he’d kept on digging relentlessly regardless of the damage it did to his career. His persistence and obsession had put him on a collision course with other newshounds, and he’d found himself in front of Channel Seven’s cameras, where Pauline asked him the hard questions.
Why was he so sure it was murder?
Hadn’t the shooter just started shooting? In a line outside the nightclub?
Why was Frost so certain it was a conspiracy?
Weren’t Bill Koontz and Manuel Rojas good friends?
Wasn’t Bill Koontz good friends with a number of Portland politicos?
Could it be that he, Harrison Frost, simply couldn’t let it go, and being an investigative journalist, he was digging for a story that wasn’t there?
Wasn’t he being punitive, rather than a journalist?
Well . . . no . . . there was a story there, all right. But it was one of those things he was going to have to let percolate for a bit. The focus had shifted to him and his so-called vendetta, and Harrison needed time to pass, and a new game plan, before he searched into the truth surrounding what had really happened. He’d been like a bull in a china shop at the time, uncaring of finesse, and it was only when Kirsten herself asked him to stop that he ceased his attack on Bill Koontz. They could fire him and worry about libel, and wring their collective hands, but they couldn’t completely stop him. When the time was right, he was going to ferret out the truth. And to hell with them all.
But for now, he had the entitled teenaged thieves and the escape of psycho Justice Turnbull.
Glancing at his watch, he saw it was closing in on eleven.
Where are you, Justice? Harrison wondered. What’s your game plan?
Detective Langdon Stone of the Tillamook County Sheriff’s Department looked around at the patrol cars still parked in front of Halo Valley Security Hospital’s double doors to Side A, as it was called by the staff and patients, the half of the hospital housing the noncriminal inmates of the hospital. It was not his favorite place. Never had been. Never would be. But the fact that the woman he loved was a doctor here helped him put his own personal demons about the place in perspective.
They’d been here for hours, the night falling around them. Half the personnel from the TCSD had raced out to Halo Valley Security Hospital, about thirty minutes from downtown Tillamook, forty-five from the town of Deception Bay, where Justice Turnbull had once lived and which was still home to the lodge where the Colony women resided. Half of the officers on duty were now gathered in the parking lot that ran on the back side of the building, Side B, which housed the real sickos, the criminals, not the mentally challenged from Side A, who were mostly benign. The other half of his department was back on the highway, most turned toward the coast, as no one really believed Justice was heading inland to Salem and the Willamette Valley.
Two patrol cars other than his Jeep were still here, and Detective Langdon Stone, who had his own aversions to Halo Valley, though he was still working on getting past them, stood outside in the now cold June air along with his partner, Fred Clausen, and an auburn-haired wo
man in the TCSD’s uniform, Savannah “Savvy” Dunbar, who had worked her way up to detective. A couple of other deputies were there as well, Burghsmith and Delaney.
Lang muttered, for the fifth time, “Who the hell thought Justice Turnbull could be moved with one security guard?”
“His primary physician,” Savvy answered neutrally, for the fifth time.
Lang growled, “Zellman has a God complex.”
“And it got him a surgery and stay at Ocean Park,” Burghsmith pointed out.
“I’m gonna talk to him, as soon as he can talk,” Lang said.
“Whenever that will be,” Clausen responded.
Lang glanced toward the front doors of Side A. His fiancée, Dr. Claire Norris, a Side A psychiatrist, had met them earlier, along with a number of other doctors, orderlies, and nurses from Side B. Everyone was alarmed. Justice Turnbull was no minor problem. But there wasn’t much more to do here. The bird had flown, so to speak.
“Back to HQ?” Delaney suggested.
“We should all be off duty by now,” Lang said, looking up at the dark sky.
“I’m not leaving,” Clausen said, and was met by a chorus of other voices, none of whom had any intention of waiting till morning to go after their quarry.
Lang said without much conviction, “Maybe we’ll run across him on the way back to Tillamook.”
“He can’t be that hard to find,” Savvy said. “He’s in a hospital van in hospital garb.”
“Where is that van?” Lang muttered.
“Bet we find it within the hour,” said Burghsmith. Clausen harrumphed. “Neither of you were around last time. The guy’s a gold-plated, class A psycho. He wasn’t ever easy to find. Even if we find him, catching him will be a trick. He’s wily. And weird.”
And deadly, Lang thought, but he kept that to himself.
They all knew it, anyway.
CHAPTER 7
The sun was rising in the east, its ascent reflecting upon the western horizon in pinks and golds. The dawning colors made it almost appear like it was rising in the west, a blazing orb about to burst into the skies above the Pacific. It was a lie, a trick, a phenomenon Justice had missed for over two years, and now he stared at it hungrily. The sea . . . the Pacific Ocean, which stretched to forever . . . reached into his heart and pulled. It had always been this way.
