“And I don’t have one,” Maria pointed out the obvious.
“I said could be,” Jenn pointed out. “And some.”
“If I’m going to have a baby,” Maria said, “I should have one soon. Before we position me for the senate run.”
“All this talk of crazy people,” Jenn said, “is making you crazy.”
“I’m just trying,” Maria said, “to make sense of all of this. Everything happens for a reason, doesn’t it?”
“Except for the things that happen for absolutely no reason,” Jenn countered. “Of which there are an awful lot in this whacked-out world.”
“But what if my being targeted like this, and what if Maggie’s murder,” her voice shook, “for which I will never forgive myself—”
“Maria, my God, honey, this isn’t your fault,” Jenn interrupted her. “Not at all. You didn’t ask for this, you don’t deserve it, and you are absolutely not responsible for it.”
Maria nodded, as if she were trying to convince the emotional part of her to embrace what her logical side surely already knew to be true. “It feels like my fault,” she said quietly.
“It’s not.”
“But what if,” Maria said, “something good can come from it? Like you and Dan.”
“Okay,” Jenn said, “I don’t think the whole twelve on a scale from one to ten thing really counts as something good coming from Maggie’s murder.”
“But what if you fall in love with him,” Maria persisted. “Dan. And what if he falls in love with you—”
“That’s not going to happen,” Jenn told her. The second part, anyway. The first part—what if she fell in love with Dan—was already dangerously close to moving from possibility to reality. Oh, God, she was in trouble here. And if that first part happened without the second part, that wasn’t exactly good news either.
“But it’s not impossible,” Maria said, and she was so fierce in her hope, in her belief that light could come from darkness, that Jenn couldn’t bring herself to argue.
“You’re right,” she agreed. “It’s not impossible.”
It was, however, very, very highly unlikely.
Hospital bed number 14C held a weeping, vomiting toddler and her extremely concerned parents.
“Excuse me,” Jules said as he knocked softly upon the door and leaned into the tiny room. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but… have you been in here long?”
“About an hour and still no doctor,” the girl’s mother said grimly.
“An hour.” Jules looked at Alyssa, and then tried to intercept a nurse. “Excuse me … I’m sorry, would you tell me …”
The nurse sped past him.
The emergency room here at St. Sebastian’s was crowded. The waiting room was wall-to-wall people of all ages, from crying babies to gangbangers to dazed-looking elderly men and women—all jockeying for their chance to see a doctor.
When Jules had called, he was told that their John Doe—a homeless man brought in with a possible head injury—was in bed 14C.
There was no sign, either, of the FBI agents who had been sent in from the New York City office to guard him or take him in for questioning, should he be released from the hospital.
Another aide approached, pushing a computer on a rattle-wheeled cart, and Jules tried again. “Excuse me.” He leaned in to read the name tag pinned to her chest. “Ms. Duddy. Pam.”
“Can’t stop,” she told him.
But he stepped in front of her, and it was stop or run him down. She stopped. She was in her early forties, with a sweet, round face that broadcasted her exhaustion. She was clearly overworked and overwhelmed and she sighed her exasperation. “Sir…”
“Nice socks,” Jules said, and Alyssa looked down to see that she was, indeed, wearing unusual socks—adorned with little dolphins. She also had a Mister Spock Rocks sticker on her computer cart, along with another that said Fan of All Things Joss.
“I really can’t stop,” the woman told Jules.
“Maybe not for a fellow Buffy fan,” he said as he took out his ID and held it out to her with an apologetic smile. “But for the FBI?”
That got him her full attention.
Particularly when he added, “We’re looking for the man who’s supposed to be in fourteen C, because we think he might be connected to a murder in which a woman’s heart was cut from her chest.”
“Connected to?” Pam Duddy asked.
“As in he might be the killer,” Jules told her. “Which is why we’re kind of perturbed that he’s not actually in bed fourteen C.”
He pointed to the occupied bed, and she pulled her cart out of the stream of traffic.
“What’s the patient name?” she asked.
“You have him as Doe, John.”
She shot him a humorous look. “Oh, good,” she said, fingers moving across her keyboard, “that makes it so much easier. We have seven different Does, Johns tonight. He was brought in … what time?”
“Around twenty hundred,” Alyssa said, translating to civilian, “Eight p.m.”
“This him?” she asked, spinning her laptop to face them.
There was a slightly blurry digital photo of the man that Sam had dubbed Don Quixote in the right corner of her computer screen. He was on a gurney and unconscious, his eyes closed, but… “That’s our man,” Alyssa confirmed.
Pam pulled her computer back around, and typed in several commands and … “Got him,” she said. “He’s in … bed fourteen C, which is what you already knew. Sorry. I’m not finding …” She looked up from her computer, an apology in her warm blue eyes. “Here’s what we do know: He wasn’t released. At least not officially. He might have done what we call a self-release. Also known as a walk-away.”
“Has the hospital been this busy all night?” Alyssa asked, as Jules took out his phone.
“Yes, and sir, there are medical reasons why you can’t use that in here. We’re not just being difficult, I promise you.”
“Sorry,” Jules said, adding, “Thank you so much for your help, Pam.” With a keep-talking-to-her nod at Alyssa, he headed back out into the waiting area. He was, no doubt, calling his contact at the FBI headquarters, hoping that the confusion was only on the hospital’s end.
Although he was supposed to have gotten a call, should the homeless man be taken into FBI or police custody.
Pam looked as if she were getting her computer cart ready to roll, so Alyssa stepped forward to block her path. “Do you get many indigent patients here?” she asked.
“We’re one of the few hospitals in this part of town that takes them,” Pam told her. “So again, yes. But we don’t go to Herculean efforts to keep them from wandering off.”
“Is it possible he’s doing his wandering in the hospital?” Alyssa asked.
“That’s unlikely,” she said. “With his wrist bracelet on, he’d be easily ID’d as an ER patient, and brought back down here.”
“Unless everyone’s too busy,” Alyssa pointed out, but Pam shook her head.
“With that hair, wearing a hospital gown … ? He’s gonna get noticed,” she said.
“Is it possible he was moved to another location in the hospital, or even to another hospital, but the transfer’s not in your records?”
“Anything’s possible,” the woman said in a tone that was heavy with no way, “but our system’s pretty good. I can check with the nurse’s station, see if they know anything—”
But Jules was already coming back, his normally cheerful face a complete thundercloud.
Pam correctly read his expression, too. “Or … we’ll certainly keep an eye out, and let you know if he comes back.”
“We’ll be issuing a BOLO,” Jules said, having overheard her. “And an APB.”
“Good luck finding him,” the woman said, and took the opportunity to escape, rattling her cart away.
“What happened?” Alyssa asked Jules, who was already leading the way back to the lobby.
But he didn’t answer until they’d m
ade their way out of the front doors and into the street.
It was still snowing, so Alyssa pulled her hat back on. Jules had earmuffs. As high-level FBI, he couldn’t risk getting hat hair. Or so he claimed.
“What happened?” she asked again.
“They were delayed getting here—the agents who were assigned to make sure our John Doe didn’t go anywhere,” he reported. “They were coming in from Queens, and a semi jackknifed on 495. They were stuck in traffic, so they called the hospital and spoke to a nurse who told them our man wasn’t going anywhere. Except he did. When they arrived, his bed was empty. They didn’t call me, because they didn’t think he’d go far. They expected to find him. But… they didn’t. And go on. Ask me what I know you’re dying to ask me. Why, dear Jules, didn’t they think he’d go far?”
Alyssa didn’t have to ask, but she made it a question anyway. “Because he left without his clothes?”
“Correct! Ten points to the woman in the funny hat.” Jules was furious about this. “Our man is now wandering Manhattan in a knee-length hospital gown with his ass hanging out, two very thin blankets around his shoulders, and a pair of paper booties on his feet.”
It was cold tonight and getting colder. As if to punctuate her thought, the wind whipped down the city street, rocking a sign.
“Are they still looking for him?” Alyssa asked. It was a relatively stupid question, considering how angry Jules was. In fact, it was likely that every available person in the local Bureau office was getting called in to assist in the search. The real question was, “How can we help?”
“I’m going to hit the local subway stations,” Jules said, heading briskly down the sidewalk. “Although if he got on a train, he could be anywhere.”
“If he got on a train,” Alyssa said, scrambling to keep up, “at least he’s warm.”
“Why do I care?” Jules asked, talking more to himself than her. “If he killed Maggie Thorndyke, freezing to death would be letting him off easy.”
“Because if he didn’t kill Maggie,” Alyssa answered anyway, “and I don’t think you believe he did, anymore than I do—then he’s just another wounded vet who sacrificed nearly everything for our country, and you don’t want him to die in the street. What I can’t figure out is why he’d have my picture.”
“Because you’re pretty?” Jules said. “Oh and nice tits, by the way, I’ve been meaning to say that.”
She went to smack him, but he danced, laughing, out of the way.
“Sorry,” he said, “I couldn’t resist. Seriously though, that photo is a nice one. Maybe too nice. It’s from the TS website, right? Maybe you should ask Tom to pull it down.”
Alyssa nodded. “I’ve already spoken to Tracy about it. She’s going to take all of the personnel photos off the site.”
“Judging from the length of our John Doe’s beard and hair,” Jules said, “I think it’s safe to guess he’s been on the street for a while. Do you agree? That, like, he’s not some wealthy stockbroker or computer programmer who’s recently gone off his meds?”
“I would guess that he’s not, yes,” Alyssa said. “His teeth were in bad shape. And his skin … ? Let’s just say he’s sporting years of harsh weather and neglect.”
“So where does he get anything that he has?” Jules asked. “His winter coat? His collection of beer-bottle tops?”
Not only had Sam found beer tops in his pockets, but Jenn had also said that he’d had quite a few in an old sock he’d left in her car.
Bottle tops, a small pile of military ribbons, some Monopoly game pieces, several shiny stones …
“He gets it from the Salvation Army,” Alyssa said, “or from a freebies box at a shelter.”
“Or he goes through the trash,” Jules pointed out. “Jenn said she’d seen him diving the dumpster outside Maria’s office. We should check with Savannah, see if she had a picture of you, maybe to show to Maria.”
“Back in September?” Alyssa asked.
“Maybe they were talking about hiring additional security,” Jules suggested. “So she had your picture, but they went another route, it got thrown out, and our homeless guy found it and kept it.”
Alyssa shook her head. “Why would he keep it?”
“Because you’re pretty,” Jules said again. “Or maybe because he has a daughter or granddaughter who’s about your age, and he likes pretending that picture is of her.”
“I don’t know,” Alyssa said. “It’s all just so weird.”
“Check with Savannah,” Jules said.
“I don’t know—”
“Another possibility,” Jules pointed out, “is that the whole homeless guy thing is an act, a costume that he puts on. And he’s really some diabolical and insanely wealthy—and insane—killer who’s been tracking you for years. And he didn’t wander off from the hospital. He escaped, and his trusty minion picked him up in his Rolls Royce and took him back to his mansion, where he’s plotting against you as we speak.”
“But of course, you’re really Batman, so you’ll stop him.”
“It has been suggested,” Jules noted, “that I could be Batman.”
“I’m liking the first scenario better and better,” Alyssa admitted.
“Then call Savannah,” he said again.
“I will. Hey! I thought we were searching the subway stations.”
Jules had stepped to the curb and neatly hailed a cab. He opened the door and gestured for her to get in. “I’m doing that. You’re going back to the hotel to feed your giant, hungry, adorable baby. Sam made me promise I wouldn’t keep you out past pumpkin-time. He said if I didn’t send you back you’d ruin another shirt, and we can’t have that.” He turned to the driver. “Hilton Hotel, West Fifty-third and Sixth.” Back to Alyssa. “Go back, make sure Sam’s okay, too. Although if he needs a hospital, we’re not coming back to St. Whatsis. Oh, and tell Robin I’m about two hours behind you. If I’m going to be later than that, I’ll call.”
“I’m not leaving you,” Alyssa said.
“I’m a gay man, trolling subway stations in Manhattan,” he said. “What could go wrong?”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better—”
“It was a joke, oh, humorless one,” he said. “I’m meeting a team from the Transit Police, they’re going to take me to a couple of popular subterranean homeless hangouts. Hey, when you were a kid, you ever watch that show, Beauty and the Beast, with Linda Hamilton?”
“The woman from the Terminator movies, yeah.” Alyssa had. “My sister was really into it.”
“If this were an episode,” Jules told her, “I’d be indoctrinated as one of the mutant underground people and given a hobo name, like … Hot Potato Two Shoes, and be forced to choose between my loyalty to my new brethren, and my life up above. FYI, hands down I’m picking my life up above. Unless, of course, I find out that all along, Robin has secretly been a mutant, too. In which case, I’ll communicate with you in the future via whispered messages through the sewer drains.”
“I thought you were Batman,” she said, laughing despite her trepidation.
“Are we getting in or are we talking?” the taxi driver asked petulantly.
“She’s getting in,” Jules said, and Alyssa reluctantly did just that.
“Be careful,” she told him.
He nodded. “I’ll call you if we find him.”
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
It had been a long time since he’d seen them—his mère et papa.
It was stupid of them to make him speak French at home Spanish would have served him better. But they’d never known what to do with him. He’d arrived late in his father’s life—an unexpected and unwanted surprise.
His mother was already dying. The cancer that killed her had started before he’d appeared in her womb.
He wondered sometimes if it was that, the death that had already claimed her, that touched him and marked him, an unborn babe, for its own.
He was barely two months old when s
he’d died.
His nannies, of which there were many, never stayed for long. His father couldn’t keep his pants zipped. He’d heard one of them say as much, as she angrily packed her bag, long before he understood what the words meant.
His father had finally married one of them—his mère—but she was more interested in his father’s money than in his child, and she hired more nannies to care for him while she shopped.
As the years passed, he’d learned to move silently about the rambling old house, exploring its basements and attics, but spending most of his time in the windowless Prohibition Room, built during the 1920s.
He’d learned to speak French, and to avoid the biting and scratching of his mère’s angry, spiteful cat, Monsieur Henri, and he’d learned that school was a place to be taunted and abused—unless you were the taunter and abuser.
He’d learned he was very good at both.
When he was twelve, they’d shipped him off to boarding school after they found the box that he’d kept in the crawl space in the basement. It held what was left of Monsieur Henri, gone missing four years earlier, and his replacements, Tinkerbell and Jolie.
Even then, he’d loved their teeth, loved that they would try to bite him as they screamed in pain.
It was his fault for not hiding his box well enough, and he’d learned from it, learned that he must keep his secrets more carefully hidden.
At first he’d gone home for the occasional rare holiday, until Suzette, Mère’s new poodle—a vicious little thing that barked and snarled at him incessantly—was hit by a car in the busy street in front of their house.
It wasn’t his fault that she’d raced out the door every chance she could get. Although it might have been his fault that he’d held the door open…
They’d sent him to doctors, who recommended they ship him off to a school for troubled youth—where he’d learned, even better, to hide his secrets from the world. And then they’d set up a generous trust fund for him, available upon graduation from college, on the condition that he not come home again.
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