by Baigh Queen
“Deputy,” I say, hoping my cheery tone will let me weasel my way into finding out more, “Ms. Baker.”
“We have a strict policy; no talking to the press,” the deputy replies. He doesn’t even look up from whatever he’s writing in his notebook.
“Understandable,” I say. Damn Bane, I think. “I was just wanting to check in and see if that was still a…active rule.”
“It is.”
I try to keep a gentle smile on my face, though my jaw is starting to hurt from the strain. “Of course. Ms. Baker, I’m working on some—“
“Oh, I know what you’re working on Miss Weaver,” she interrupts. Her blue curls barely reach past her ears but she still brushes them back. “And I’ll tell you what I told the deputy here, I didn’t see a thing. One moment the ice rink was full of cheer and bliss, then next everyone was screaming to get out. Scared the bejesus out of me and Charlie!” She squeezes the child’s shoulders tighter, making him flinch.
“Can I quote you on that?”
Ms. Baker nods her approval. I say, “Great! Thanks for your time, I hope you two have a safe drive home.”
I quickly walk away, as fast as I can, with Lily in tow. The crowd is starting to disperse, already bored with waiting to hear what’s happening.
“That’s it?” Lily questions.
“No,” I reply, “now we—I—talk to a couple more people, then wait for Vineville’s finest to show up and talk to them. I bet they don’t have Bane’s stupid rule.”
“They might just have a general no talking to the press rule.”
I slow my pace and look at her. “True, but I can be really annoying when I want something.”
Chapter Twelve
With another article written, my finger hovers over the PUBLISH button once more. There’s something about having an attempted murderer and madman contacting me, specifically, that I find titillating and terrifying. Goderich is a small town and if anyone wanted to find out where I live…I glance over my shoulder at the front door, the lullaby drifting through my mind. I shake my head and publish the article. This is the best way to push the case along, even if Bane and Osh are also looking into things. I do wonder if there was anything they didn’t tell me, but after seeing that note I’m certain this is a copycat. And copycats always make mistakes.
At least that’s what I’m telling myself as I get a message from Manhattan and Tex asking how things are going. A good question, as I think of Osh in her bright red lipstick and coat, the way she leaned over me in the interrogation room…I shake my head and reply. It’s going.
Going where? Tex asks.
I think of all the “I didn’t see a thing” quotes I got from the crowd at the ice rink, and all the “we can’t say at this time” ones I got from Vineville’s bomb squad.
Somewhere, I reply.
So nowhere, Tex jokes. Even in text I can tell he’s joking about it. I roll my eyes, waiting for Manhattan to chime in. I just need them to say that I’m not totally insane for doing this. Just one little comment about how not crazy I am and—
You’re nuts, Manhattan finally says.
Damn.
I mean, she goes on when I don’t reply, nuts in the reporter kind of way. I love doing my research, but I would never put myself in danger like you are.
I’m not in danger, I quickly write.
Not according to your blog, Manhattan adds. Have you read any of your comments?
I blink at the screen, thinking to when the last time I read the comments. It hasn’t been that long, but it feels like an eternity. I count back the recent events, and can’t believe it’s only been two and a half days. I blink again. Is that’s all it’s been?
I rub my fingers into my weary eyes, suddenly feeling the stress of it all. Now that I’ve stopped moving it’s like I can feel every muscle in my body cry out in small aches and pains. I decide I can’t go to bed, not yet at least.
Opening up a Goderich Girl tab, I scroll through the comments. I notice the one that Osh showed me and stare at it a moment.
Another message from Tex pings my computer. Wait, Sharpe is involved?
He must have just read my article. Or at least skimmed it, in that time. I didn’t mention Osh specifically, but I mention that one of Sharpe’s associates was involved. It wasn’t like they told me not to say they were there—besides, I’m sure everyone has already seen Osh with the Sergeant. And me.
I glance over my shoulder again before telling the group about Oceane Song and her interest in the Roundabout Bomber. The words come quickly and easily as I describe my encounters with Osh. Too easily.
Our other two group members aren’t online right now—I think one of them is on vacation with the family and the other has always been a bit flaky. I wish they were online now, if only to get their input. Part of me actually feels a little guilty for the part I’ve played in recent hours. With my articles scaring people, interfering with a police investigation, and even Brett comes to mind.
As if to remind me he’s still a teenager, Tex asks, So on a scale of one to ten how hot is this Oceane chick?
I run my tongue over my teeth. Not the point.
It doesn’t sound like they’re that interested in getting involved with a copycat, Manhattan mentions. I agree, but I don’t want to type that out just yet. Osh is still in town, so there must be something keeping her here that she hasn’t told me yet. Manhattan goes on, But if you’re into her you should go for it girlie.
I lean as far away as I can from the computer, hands poised over the keyboard. “What?” I say aloud. I type the same, unable to think of anything else. My throat is dry and when I take a gulp of water from my mug it’s hard to swallow.
Well you described her as a femme fatale in your article, Manhattan says, and you just told us about what shade of lipstick she was wearing with extreme detail. And I know you’re not that into makeup.
“I could be into makeup,” I say with a nervous laugh. I quickly shake my head and type it out. I add, Also I didn’t go into that much detail about her lipstick.
You must have it so hard right now, Tex goes on, his excitement evident in how quickly he’s typing. Working with the Sharpe agency and having this gorgeous hot lady on your tail.
Tex!!!! I reply.
He’s got a point, Manhattan chimes in. *Sigh* I’m jealous.
You’re married. I lean back and cross my arms. While this was the opportunity of a lifetime for my career, it also feels like it isn’t. Just because the Sharpe agency is hanging around doesn’t mean I’m suddenly going to skyrocket in popularity and become the world’s number one crime reporter. If anything, once this case is wrapped up, most likely because the copycat blew himself up, my little blog will go back into the shadows of Goderich. I’ll only be remembered as that one person that got lucky that one time. Now I sigh, rubbing my palms over my face.
A girl can have her fantasies, although I think I would prefer Chris Evans to play the hot and mysterious person following me around.
Pretty sure that’s a crime, Tex mentions.
I lick my lips, about to argue with them that I’m not into Osh, and most definitely not feeling lucky right now. But Tex sends a Bitmoji of him gasping before I can type anything. It’s got spiky blond hair and a fur coat on, but before I can make fun of him for using it I read, Did you see this comment???!?!?!
He attaches an image, a screenshot of my blog. An anonymous person writes, “Come to the Vineville hospital. 408. Alone. I have what you’re looking for.”
I reread the words out loud. They used a cursive text, which is what seals the deal for me. It’s not the same person that commented about speaking the truth, but it makes my gut wiggle. In a good and bad way. God, I hate how much these things excite me.
You have to go, Tex demands.
You have to not go!! Manhattan tells me. You have no idea what’s waiting for you!
True. But it’s a hospital. As long as I stay in clear sight of other people I should be fine. Right
? I ask them, and as predicted they have conflicting answers. Manhattan makes me promise to bring someone with me, and my first thoughts go to Brett. I quickly shake my head, determined to do this without him. Plus he would probably say no.
Only when I tell them I need to get some sleep do they back off. I’m sure they have their own private chat in which Manhattan is yelling in all caps at Tex to let me relax for a while after all that’s happened. I smile, remembering when she did the same to me when Tex was taking some time off to work on college applications.
But then I look back at the comment on my blog, and feel my insides twist. What’s the harm in going? Whoever has written the comment replies to it, adding in that I should go tomorrow morning when visiting hours are allowed.
So they’re a patient. I filter through all my theories, all of Lily’s investigative work in her basement, and Osh’s words from the station. But the only thing that seems to ring true is that this is the real bomber. The original. The man that nobody knew anything about, and disappeared just as easily has he had arrived. And he wants to meet with me.
Chapter Thirteen
I’m early, big shocker. The nervous energy had kept me up half the night, and most of it I spent looking through Google Maps to see what the hospital looked like. Eventually I fell asleep, exhaustion taking over only to have my alarm go off at 5am and give me a heart attack. I think I got about another twenty minutes sleep on the bus to Vineville, but beyond that, I was running on fumes.
So now, as I stood in front of the St. Joseph’s Hospital in Vineville, I started to question if this was the right one. There were two hospitals in Vineville; St. Joseph’s, and the Stroud Children’s Hospital on the other end of the city. I assumed this was the right one, but now I was second guessing myself.
“It’s the right one,” a voice says. I nearly leap into a nurses arms as she passes by, giving me a dirty look when I crash against her shoulder.
“Sorry!” I call, but she’s already moving faster away from me. I bite down on my index nail, eyes rolling to the source of the voice. Osh.
She’s standing a foot away from me, plum lipstick decorating her mouth, with her dark hair in a braid that cascades down her left shoulder. A few wispy strands have escaped it, framing her face. There’s an undeniable sparkle in her eye, and briefly I wonder if it’s because of me.
Okay, maybe I do have a thing for Osh. I flinch, pushing those thoughts away as quickly as they came, and say, “I know.”
Osh nods. “You’re the type to second guess yourself, even if you know you’re right. So I just wanted to ease your mind. You’re right again.” Her eyes drift towards the large sliding glass doors behind me. “Whoever wrote that comment is in here, room 408.”
I look over my shoulder, watch the throngs of people move in and out of the building.
“Shall we?” Osh interrupts my thoughts once more.
“You want me to go?” I raise my nose in the air, but Osh gives to indication of what she’s thinking. It’s strange how she’s harder to read now, considering how she was during my interrogation.
“Technically you were the only one invited. I just thought you might want some company.”
While I know that’s not the full truth, I nod. I’ll take it, because honestly I’m not sure if I would have been able to walk in alone. A hospital seems like a safe place, until I remember I’m going to see a man I believe to be a serial bomber. Plus all those cases of people being kidnapped in plain sight spring to mind.
“The children’s hospital would make sense if this were a trap,” I mention as I walk. Osh keeps my pace with my injury, though I’m faster than I was yesterday.
“Yes, it would. Do you think this is a trap?”
Yes, I think. Well…maybe. A trap would only make sense if I were getting close to the truth, and I still felt miles away from that. But really, why set a trap to kill the person reporting on you? Too many questions swirl in my mind to give her a straight answer so all I do is offer a shrug.
The world goes by in a blur. On the edge of my mind I hear crying, voices in different tones, and people of all moods drifting by. But I don’t feel my feet on the floor, the way my cardigan normally scratches at my wrists, or how I come to stop on my own at room 408. I blink as Osh patiently waits for me to come back to reality.
“It’s empty…” My voice is barely above a murmur. But that doesn’t change what I’m looking at. A private room, empty of any patients as a nurse makes the new bed and sets a pillow at the head. She looks up at me, her black Mickey Mouse scrubs a stark contrast to the bright sunlight just starting to stream in from the window.
“Can I help you?” she asks. Her eyes narrow on us.
Osh steps in, giving me no time to think about what may have happened. “Was somebody in this room recently?”
“Yes,” she says, her suspicion vanishing as Osh pulls out a business card and hands it to her. The woman takes it, her eyebrows arching at the name. At least she knows who Osh works for. She goes on, “He passed in his sleep last night. Such a shame too, his nephew had just come to visit him.” She frowns, looking to the bed.
“Nephew?” I question.
She nods. “Oh!” She pulls a card out of her pocket, and even from the doorway I can see the sleek cursive written on it. “I found this while cleaning up the room. Mr. Fields didn’t have any family listed in the system so maybe you can track down his nephew?”
Mr. Fields. His name rattles around my skull for a moment as Osh continues talking with the nurse. I think she’s asking about who the man was, why he was here, if anyone else ever visited. But all I can think about is that name; it’s not familiar in the least.
Osh is careful to take the card by the edges, quickly pulling out a small bag from her pocket and sticking it inside. Then she passes it to me, like I'm her partner or some kind of official on this case. Being there though I feel like what I really am. A blogger from a small town that has no actual investigative work to her name. Still, I read the card.
Violet 24. My face must give me away because Osh asks, "Mean something to you?"
Surprisingly, yes. The tightness in my chest increases as we begin to put the pieces together. Osh isn't asking me for more details, maybe letting me work it out myself. I turn quickly and she's on my heels, nails clicking across her phone screen.
"I'm sending a request to my tech guy to see what he can dig up on Fields. We should know soon. In the meantime you want to tell me what Violet 24 is?"
Of all things, I sigh. "A storage locker in Goderich."
"My keen investigator instincts are telling me you're disappointed. Why?" There's a sly grin on her lips, and she manages to make me pull the corner of my lips up a bit.
"It always leads to some creepy storage locker," I say, "where's the originality? The mystery?"
"You want more drama, something new."
"No...Something that isn't stored in the same place as my childhood Pokémon card collection."
I watch Osh pull her lips towards her teeth as a snort goes through her nose. Her hand quickly covers her mouth as her eyes dart to look at anything but me.
"I said childhood," I respond. "Also, Pokémon is still cool and nothing will change my mind."
With that I keep walking.
Osh doesn't follow and instead calls, "You want a ride there? Or would you prefer the bus?"
I halt, lips pressing together. I nod at her over my shoulder, grateful that she's keeping me included. Though it's odd. "What about Bane?"
"We’ll call him if we find anything. For all we know this is just some old man's storage locker full of his coin collection and Marilyn Monroe pinups."
True. Very true, actually. I let out a heavy breath and nod again, wondering if my anxiety is showing. I try not to let it as Osh leads me to her rental car. It's in the underground parking so we have to take the elevator down. I take the time to finally rest my foot, leaning against the cool metal back of the elevator as more people clamour in. My head ma
kes a small thunk when it hits the back.
Osh's phone lets out a small ping. She skims over her screen a moment before typing something back. Without a word to me she holds her phone close to her chest, tapping it idly with her index nail. I watch the slender colour go back and forth, my mind focusing on the sound until finally Osh bumps my shoulder with hers. I jolt out if my trance. I seriously need to stop doing that.
The elevator doors are open and the people in front of us are already leaving. We follow and I stay a foot behind Osh as she takes me to the SUV parked in the far corner.
I hesitate as she goes to the passenger door and opens it for me. "What are you doing?"
She laughs. "You're not used to people being nice to you, are you?"
I have to think it over before I offer a shrug. When I climb onto the black leather seat she sets a hand on the door. "Maybe you should try opening up a bit. People aren't as bad as you think."
My brow furrows. "We’re heading to a storage locker that could have belonged to a serial bomber in the eighties who has a copycat that may have murdered him to keep him quiet."
Osh blinks. "Point taken." The door shuts with an echoing slam throughout the garage.
Once Osh is in the driver's seat and the car is started she puts on the AC. Only then do I notice how hot it really was in the garage, and point one of the vents directly into my face. As I enjoy the breeze blowing through my hair Osh sets her phone into a small holder on the dash and calls someone she's labelled "Inky".
"Well hello hello my lovely co-worker," a deep voice says.
"You're on speaker," Osh states. She puts the car in drive and starts out journey back to Goderich. "What do you have on Fields?"
"Just because you're a junior investigator doesn't mean we can't chat like usual," he tells her. He sighs and I hear the clicking of a keyboard. "Anyways, Charles Fields, born 1937, a promising engineer that only seemed to work a bunch of odd jobs around his hometown in Hamilton, Ontario. Married in ’62 to his high school sweetheart, yada yada yada, had one daughter, Meredith Fields, and here's where it gets somewhat interesting."
