“Hmm,” I said, nodding again. It was exactly as I had figured before entering, but wanted to give her the impression it was a vital piece of information, the hope being that at some point she would add something that was. “How long have you and Yvonne worked together?”
“Couple months now,” Shek said. “She just started this winter, moved up here from somewhere down south. Atlanta, I think it was.”
I kept my features impassive, not wanting her to see any emotion on my face or guess at the myriad questions springing up in my mind.
“Was she from here?” I asked. “Just moving back?”
Shek thought for a moment, her gaze rising to me and then on up to the ceiling.
“I know she’s not from here,” she said, “but I actually don’t know where home is originally.”
That too sent off warnings in my mind, such information being the kind of basic small talk that was usually ticked off in the first couple of days of encountering a new coworker.
“You don’t know?” I asked, my eyes narrowing slightly. “Even after a couple of months?”
“Well, no, not exactly anyway,” Shek said. “She always just said Atlanta, so we took it at face value. Now that I think about it though, I’m not sure if she meant that was her home or just where she’d been before coming here.”
The explanation made sense, though it still seemed a bit odd that nobody thought to press it.
“Any idea what brought her up here?” I asked. “This is a long way from Atlanta, not the kind of place someone just ends up if they have no connection to it.”
Again, Shek’s gaze settled high above me, the look on her face relaying that these were questions she’d never previously thought to ask. She remained that way a long time before finally whispering, “I don’t know,” no small amount of guilt present in her voice.
As much as I wanted to keep pushing on this line of thought, to determine where Yvonne Endicott had come from, what had brought her to the backwoods of Montana, I needed to move on. While there might be legitimate answers for what had happened to her lying somewhere in her backstory, it did me no good to keep digging at something that the woman before me clearly had no knowledge of.
“Okay,” I said, “tell me about this evening.”
I stopped there, adding no clarifying comments or questions, not wanting to limit her scope in any way. I wanted whatever she recollected to be unfiltered.
“Um,” Shek said, leaning back in the chair and folding her hands together in her lap. “I came on around 8:00 this evening, didn’t see Yvie until a couple hours later. An older woman – Mrs. Everson – had slipped on the ice and hit her head and come in for a couple of stitches.”
A quick flash of a smile crossed her face, disappearing just as fast. “Normally it would have been something I would have handled, but I think Yvie was so bored she took her back and did it without even letting me know the case had come in.”
“Is that usual, to not see each other for a couple of hours at the start of a shift?” I asked.
“It’s not unusual,” Shek replied. “Besides, I came on at 8:00, and Yvie’d been here since 6:00 this morning. During that time she was probably in the break room or grabbing a quick nap or something, and I was making rounds.”
I nodded, superimposing the information with what I’d seen on the way in. The hospital was dead, there was no denying that. If someone, especially coming from Atlanta where things were probably nothing short of chaotic, was to have spent 18 hours in this place, they would be crawling the walls.
“Did Yvonne seem agitated, nervous, anxious, when you did see her?”
“No,” Shek replied, shaking her head, the bottom of her ponytail visible as it swung from side to side. “Like I said, she just seemed sort of resigned, bored, looking to pass the time.”
“Is that why she went outside?” I asked, watching as she again went rigid, her shoulders rising up toward her ears, her fingers locking together in her lap.
“I didn’t even know she had,” she whispered. “Not until after the alarm went up and everybody started trying to find her.”
As much as I was hoping that some easy answer, that a magic piece of information, was going to pop out from our interview, I knew well enough that that was not how these things went. I could keep leaning on the girl, ask about the search of the hospital once they realized she was gone, but there wasn’t anything of value I was going to get from it.
The reactions of every person in that break room made it clear at a glance that they were stunned by what had happened, had been trying in vain to put some reasoning to it, but were coming up empty.
All too often that’s how such things tended to go - especially early in an investigation.
“Is there anything else at all you can think of?” I asked. “Any patients or coworkers Yvonne might have had friction with? Any reason, no matter how slight, you can think of for something like this happening?”
Shek’s eyes went glassy for a moment as she receded into thought, trying to put an answer to my question. I watched as she chewed on it before again shaking her head.
“No, nothing like that. I mean, she always kept somewhat to herself, was kind of quiet, but she was very nice to everybody, employees and patients alike.”
I expected that very response, and asked, “And when you say she kept somewhat to herself?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Shek said. “It wasn’t bad or anything, just, like, she was very aware of herself at all times.”
I had no idea what she was trying to tell me, choosing to remain silent, letting her fill in the gaps for me.
“But, I mean, I think if I moved to a place where I was the only black person in town, I probably would be too.”
Chapter Fifteen
Sheriff Rake Ferris waited until he heard the door to the neighboring office close. He knew that Hawk had come of his own volition, had set off no negative vibes, but couldn’t quite shake the feeling that he needed to keep his attention at least quasi-split for the time being.
The stories that had floated into town just over a month earlier bordered on mythical, ranging from Hawk being a recluse who just wanted his privacy, to a man who was up to something and got called on it, to his being a coldblooded killer who had lured his prey out into the wilderness and disposed of them.
Whether any of that was true Ferris had no idea, had accepted the fact that he probably never would. As with most things, the truth probably rested somewhere in between, known only to Hawk, God, and maybe a handful of others at best.
Multiple times he had tried to press on his contacts in Billings for information, once even making the trip over and buying a couple of rounds of beer, only to find out they were just as mystified as he was. The story Hawk had told them seemed to play out with the evidence at hand, but the sheer audacity of one man taking out five others in the middle of a Montana night seemed nothing short of a tall tale.
Going to ask him for help wasn’t especially high on the list of things Rake wanted to do, the move in no small part predicated on wanting to eliminate the man as a suspect, to keep him close so he could study him.
Thus far, nothing Hawk did or said seemed to indicate anything was wrong, his willingness to take part in the investigation bearing just the right amount of trepidation for someone in his position with nothing to hide.
Still, for as much as Ferris would take advantage of his presence and his skillset, he would be careful about giving him too much leeway just yet.
Shifting his thoughts away from the man in the office next door, Ferris removed his hat and stepped away from the door. It was his second time inside the office that evening, his second time meeting with Myles Breckman. Both appeared to be exactly as they were the last time he had encountered them, the office a Spartan affair with a large L-shaped desk that ran halfway along the back wall before jutting straight out at him. A single chair sat on either side of it, various pictures and knickknacks strewn across it.
Not e
xactly the kind of thing he would envision for a hospital CEO, more functional than aesthetic, but pretty standard for someplace like Glasgow.
Breckman was seated in the guest chair, his left leg crossed over his right, his fingers laced together around his knee. His top row of teeth was jutted out over his bottom lip, gnawing softly on it, his gaze fixed on the painting directly across from him.
Ferris knew the man from a lifetime of living in Glasgow, Breckman just a few years behind him in school. Despite that, he appeared much older than the sheriff, his thinning hair completely white, loose skin hanging from the underside of his jaw.
He was dressed in faded slacks and a white guard’s shirt, a thin jacket over it, the outfit doing nothing to hide the fact that he couldn’t have weighed more than 150 pounds.
Who or what he was supposed to be able to guard against, Ferris could only guess.
“Rough night, huh?” Ferris opened, walking over to the padded black leather chair behind the desk and lowering himself into it. He left his hat in his lap, not wanting to drip water on the desk, and stared across at Breckman, waiting for a response.
There was none, save a slight nod.
“I know we spoke earlier,” Ferris said, “but I want you to walk me through everything again. Now that a little time has passed, you’ve been able to think about things a bit more, I want to know if there’s anything you might have overlooked before. Anything at all.”
The only things to move on Breckman were his eyes, watery blue as they shifted from the painting to Ferris, his chin still angled away.
“No,” he said softly. “It happened just like I told you.”
“Really?” Ferris said, raising his eyebrows a touch, letting it be known that he didn’t appreciate being lied to.
It had only taken a moment during their previous encounter to know that the man had been sleeping when the abduction took place, no doubt a habit he’d picked up years before and never thought to change, especially during times as slow as tonight.
“Really,” Breckman said, his face still turned away from Ferris.
Silence passed slowly, Ferris openly staring at him before opting to change directions and come at things from a different angle.
“Why don’t you walk me through the whole day,” Ferris said. “What time did you come on?”
The question seemed to surprise Breckman, his head turning to face Ferris, a quizzical look on his features as if trying to determine where the sheriff was going with things.
“Noon. Roy, the other guard, lives outside of town. He called and asked if I would come in early so he could make it home before the snow got too bad.”
“And he thought you’d be better able to handle it?” Ferris asked.
“Yeah. I have snow tires on my rig, only live a few blocks away, so I told him I’d come in early.”
“And it’s just the two of you?” Ferris asked.
“Four,” Breckman corrected. “Three of us rotate through on eight hour shifts while one is off. Sometimes they have the extra man run double coverage during the day, but that’s not too often.”
“Hmm,” Ferris said, nodding slightly. “And you were next in line on the rotation for today, after Roy?”
“I was,” Breckman said, his eyes narrowing just slightly. “Besides, I’m usually the guy they call anyway. The others all have wives or kids. I live close by and don’t do much, told them I’d be happy to cover.”
Ferris’s mouth turned up just slightly, as if buying into the story completely. “And I’m sure the overtime pay doesn’t hurt.”
“Sure doesn’t,” Breckman said, seeming to agree before realizing it, the look on his face indicating almost immediately that he regretted it.
Ferris let the smile grow on his face at the admission, the information and the reaction fitting with what he’d already pieced together hours before.
Breckman was a longtime fixture in Glasgow, the kind of guy who took on odd jobs such as security guard at the hospital, stayed until he’d worn out his welcome, then moved on to the next one. He’d never been accused of anything malicious, seen more as a lethargic sort who never did a single thing that wasn’t explicitly requested and routinely followed up on.
Still, Ferris had to press just to be sure.
“So things are tight?” Ferris asked.
The look on Breckman’s face clenched as he stared at Ferris. “No tighter than anybody else. I do alright.”
“Yeah?” Ferris asked. “Not starting to get up in years a little? Tired of living in an apartment in town? Beginning to think about getting your own place, maybe head toward retirement?”
Breckman’s features grew even more strained as he remained stiff, his look just short of incredulous.
“I mean, hey, I know how it can go,” Ferris said, lifting his hands from his lap and spreading them before him. “We’re not 25 anymore. The winters are longer and colder than they used to be.”
Silence passed between them for a moment, a cord in Breckman’s neck jumping slightly. “What are you getting at, Sheriff?”
Ferris made no effort to answer just yet, lowering his hands to his lap, allowing Breckman to see his own face harden.
“I’m saying I know you weren’t making rounds when things went down. What I don’t know is if you were just sleeping, or eating, or jerking off in the bathroom, or doing something else you shouldn’t have been, or if you actually had a role in all this.”
Going after someone he had known for decades like this wasn’t how Ferris would have liked to approach things, but he was brutally aware of the ticking clock hanging over the investigation, the short timeframe meaning that he had no other choice. Under better conditions he would have filled Hawk in, let him play the bad cop role, having no qualms in letting every person in town hate the outsider.
In this instance, though, Ferris knew he couldn’t do that. He had to be the one to ask, to look across at Breckman and see his response, to know for certain if he was lying or not.
For a variety of reasons.
“So tell me, Myles, is that how it went? Somebody called the old security guard, asked him to look away for a few minutes?”
Disbelief seemed to spread on Breckman’s features as he stared back at Ferris, his upper body trembling slightly.
“Or maybe they went even further than that,” Ferris pressed. “Slid you a neat little stack of cash, all wrapped up with a band around it, and you fed them the schedules of everybody here tonight? Maybe even called and let them know that the coast was clear? That a young female doctor was standing right outside, all they had to do was pull up and grab her?”
At that Ferris stopped, content that he had made his point. There was more he could have added, more character assassination quips he could have tossed in, but there was no point.
He had drawn blood, the shock on the man’s face confirming it before he lowered his head.
“How long have we known each other, Rake?” Breckman whispered, the question just barely audible.
Ferris noted the use of his first name, the quiver that seemed to pass through his voice.
“Long time,” Ferris conceded, “which is why this conversation is taking place here instead of down at the station.”
He let the comment settle for a moment before adding, “I’m going to ask you once more, and that’s it, did you have anything to do with this?”
Another long pause, Ferris allowing the words to hang in the air, before adding, “Because your story doesn’t make sense. It just doesn’t add up.”
Across from him Breckman’s head rose slowly, tears pooling in the corners of his eyes.
“Sleeping,” he whispered, his voice detached, low, as he looked away, a flush of blood coloring his cheeks. “I was asleep in the call room.”
He kept his gaze averted, turning to look at the floor, and added, “We all do it from time to time when things are especially slow. Hell, the last time anything bad happened here was over a decade ago. Aside from your office,
this is the safest place in town.”
He glanced up once, his features twisting slightly, as if he were in pain and may begin to cry at any moment.
“The place was dead quiet. One old couple had come in at 9:00, nobody else since. There wasn’t but a handful of employees, all of them just kind of puttering around.”
He drew in a short gasp, fighting for air, the emotions, the reality of the situation he was in, that he had caused, crashing in around him.
On the opposite side of the desk, Ferris did nothing to ease his guilt. Instead, he leveled his gaze on the man, already content with his response, but needing to hear him say the words just the same.
“But I didn’t have anything to do with what happened. I swear to God I didn’t.”
Chapter Sixteen
Cuddyer had no intentions of hurting the girl. If everything went as planned, and she did what she was supposed to, he would have no qualms with taking her back to the hospital, or dropping her off at home, or driving her any-damned-where else she wanted to go once the storm let up and the roads cleared.
Despite what his appearance seemed to indicate, what the few people around town he interacted with seemed to think, he was not an evil man. He derived no pleasure from causing pain, did not spend his weekends kicking dogs or punching small children.
His appearance was more apathy than anything, the beard something that had started years before to combat the Montana cold, had stayed because he didn’t feel like going through the hassle of shaving all the time. His clothes and the smell were a byproduct of the way he made a living, something he had tried to combat in the past, but had finally accepted as inevitable.
Even the scars on his face, the many more that traced his arms and torso, were a result of the harsh chemicals he spent so much time working with, not some form of sadistic self-mutilation.
He knew the rumors about all those things bothered Jasper, had even heard the man go as far as to try and defend him before, but to Cuddyer the stories provided a cover far better than anything he could have ever concocted for himself. They kept people at arm’s reach, kept their attention focused anywhere but at him, which fit his purposes perfectly.
Fire and Ice: A Thriller (A Hawk Tate Novel Book 3) Page 6
