THE CHILDREN’S WARD

by Patricia Wallace

Cemetery Dance Publications

Baltimore MD

2013

Copyright © 2013 by Patricia Wallace

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

Cemetery Dance Publications

132-B Industry Lane, Unit #7

Forest Hill, MD 21050

http://www.cemeterydance.com

First Digital Edition

ISBN-13: 978-1-58767-445-7

Cover Artwork Copyright © 2013 by Desert Isle Design

Digital Design by DH Digital Editions

For Drew

Prologue

Spring Valley, California August, 1938

Maggie Connelly hesitated, listening in the dark and wishing, not for the first time, that they’d string lights along the way to Building D. It was an absolute dark, chilling in spite of the warm breeze that blew in off the desert, and she pulled her sweater around her.

Ahead, partially obscured by the tall thick bushes which were clustered among the hospital buildings in an attempt to disguise the sterility of the compound, was Building D. She stood still on the gravel pathway and listened to the faint sound of wind chimes, lifting and tilting her head to catch the delicate tones.

Odd, she thought, that the patients in the psychiatric building would hang up wind chimes, and odder still that she could hear them from this distance. She glanced back over her shoulder at the main hospital building, tempted to go back and wait until one of the other nursing students could accompany her to the locked ward, but it was time for the ten o’clock medications and she knew it might be a good half hour before any of them would be free.

It was always this way; a vague feeling of unease which increased in intensity until she felt near hysteria. There was no need to feel that way, she told herself, but somehow it closed in on her, a suffocating breathlessness she only just controlled.

Still, all she had to do was sit at the desk— as she had so many other nights— while the nurse went inside the ward and gave the night medications. It was why she had to be there that troubled her…in case…

She didn’t like to think about it. Resolutely, she resumed walking toward Building D.

The evening nurse was not at the desk, Maggie saw, letting the exterior door close and lock behind her. The small desk lamp cast a circle of pale yellow light in the room.

Maggie edged back, leaning against the door, her eyes searching. The door to the small restroom was open, the light off. There was no place for concealment. The nurse had either left the building or she was in the ward with the patients.

The rules had been explained to Maggie very clearly: never go in the locked ward alone and leave the desk unattended. Something was very wrong.

She took a breath and moved silently to the desk, picking up the phone and tapping the switch-hook to signal the hospital operator. The line rang. She kept her eyes on the phone and willed someone to answer.

“Operator.”

“Send the guards to Building D,” she said, twisting the phone cord around her finger. “Quickly…” her voice caught, “I need help.”

“Building D,” the voice echoed.

“Hurry.” She placed the phone in the cradle. Averting her eyes from the small observation window which looked into the ward, she began to search the desk drawers for the master key; it took two keys to get out of the building and she only had one. The desk drawers made an inordinate amount of noise as she inched them open.

“Come on,” she whispered, “be here.”

It was not. From outside she could hear the wind rustling and the sound of the wind chimes. And laughter…coming from the ward.

She raised her eyes.

The face was pressed against the observation window, mouth open and eyes wide. A mass of frizzled hair framed the skeletal features which were streaked with dirt, like war paint, only this was…glistening.

Maggie moved toward the exterior door as the face watched and the ward door began to rattle furiously. The laughter stopped and the face contorted, teeth bared and eyes narrowing. The window began to fog and a hand wiped at it, leaving dark streaks on the glass.

Maggie watched as the face regarded its hand, sniffing at it and then licking the fingers, almost delicately, of what she now could see was blood.

“Oh God.”

It began to lick at the window, the tongue searching while the eyes held hers. When the glass was clean it brought the left hand up and the tongue flicked, licking blood off a ring of keys.

Maggie began to walk toward the window.

“You’re all right, Maggie, you’re safe,” a voice soothed and she felt the sting of a needle in her upper arm. Cool fingers brushed her forehead and her eyes fluttered reluctantly open. The room was lit by a single lamp…the ward!

She sat upright, gasping.

Hands grasped her shoulders and eased her back down on the bed. “Rest now.” Patting her hand. “Let the medication take effect.”

She could feel the medication taking hold, as if by suggestion, and she fought it.

“What happened?” Her voice was raspy and her throat ached.

“Don’t worry about it now, it’s over.”

She recognized Nurse Riordan’s voice but her vision was blurred and she could not clearly see her supervisor’s face.

“What happened to the ward nurse?” she insisted.

Silence.

Maggie could feel herself going under, her strength ebbing under the warm haze of medication.

“Please.”

“She’s dead…like the others.” Riordan sounded out of breath. “They’re all dead, but the one who did it.”

“But…why?”

“I don’t think we’ll ever know…the man is crazy.” Riordan moved out of Maggie’s sight, toward the door. “It’s best that you not think of it, Maggie. It was a terrible thing to happen, but dwelling on it won’t come to any good.”

The light went out.

“They should have known not to put those people out there…so far from the main building.” Riordan’s voice sounded far away. “Being isolated like that can’t be good for a weak mind.”

The door closed and Maggie was alone. She could hear, just faintly, the sound of the wind-chimes.

December, 1984

MONDAY

One

Abigail Ballard stood looking into the brightly painted room. It did not look like a hospital ward, or at least, none that she’d ever been in, and she’d been in quite a few. The far wall was covered with shelves and stacked with books, games and puzzles, and the scaled-down furnishings only vaguely resembled the utilitarian beds and tables that the other hospitals used.

She felt the pressure of the admitting nurse’s hand on her back.

“Go in and make yourself at home,” the nurse said.

Abigail hesitated.

Vivid yellow sunflowers were painted along a second wall and paper butterflies were suspended from the ceiling. The only windows faced east and sunlight flooded the room.

The nurse gave her a more insistent push, catching her off guard, and she took her first step into the children’s ward.

“You’re the very first patient,” the nurse said, moving past her and into the room. “The pediatrics nurse should be here any minute now.” She placed Abigail’s small suitcase on the bed nearest the windows. “But you won’t be alone for long.”

Abigail was rooted to the floor.

“I don’t mind being alone,” Abigail said, but her voice was a whisper which did not carry as far as the butterflies.

“Let’s get you settled,” the nurse said, fingering the clasps on Abigail’s suitcase.

“It’s locked,” Abigail said. The key was on a thin silver chain around her neck. She knew about nurses and personal property.

“Well.” A determined smile. “You’re old enough to unpack your own things, I suppose.”

“I think I’d like to rest,” Abigail answered, crossing to the bed and moving the suitcase out of the way. She climbed up on the bed, shoes and all, then calmly stared at the nurse.

A tiny twitch at one corner of her mouth. “You haven’t had your blood work yet,” the nurse warned.

“Dr. Fuller said he’d draw my blood so I wouldn’t get a bruise on my arm.”

Their eyes held, neither willing to look away first.

“How old are you, anyway?” the nurse asked after a minute had passed.

“Eight and a half.” Her point made, Abigail looked away, dismissing the nurse. She was tired, really.

“I’ll send your parents over when they arrive.”

“I don’t have parents,” Abigail said, closing her eyes. “I have a grandmother.” She turned on her side, facing the window, and felt the sun on her skin. California was nice, she decided, beginning to drowse, such warm winters.

The nurse turned to leave, pausing at the door to look back at the child. Small for her age, but sturdy despite her illness. Long brown hair in neat braids and serious brown eyes. A very ordinary little girl.

The pediatrics nurse had arrived and was in the nursing station, assembling the mass of paperwork that would soon be Abigail Ballard’s chart, and as she passed on her way back to the main building, she smiled sympathetically.

She would not, for any amount of money, want to be that little girl’s nurse.

Abigail listened intently, her eyes closed but visualizing the admitting nurse’s retreat. She sensed that the nurse hadn’t liked her but that was something she was used to; a lot of people didn’t like her.

“You’re a very trying child,” her grandmother told her, and Abigail knew it was true.

It didn’t matter, though. Not anymore.

They wouldn’t tell her what was wrong with her, what caused the blinding headaches and the dizziness and the queasy stomach, but she had overheard them talking. Something was growing inside her head.

Abigail had guessed that she was going to die.

Two

“I don’t have anything contagious, you know,” Russell Delano said, looking at the building now in sight in front of them.

“What? I’m sorry, dear, what did you say?” The volunteer was having a time of it, trying to maneuver the wheelchair and balance a suitcase on the runners.

“You can’t catch what’s wrong with me…why are they putting us all the way out here?”

“What? I…what?” The volunteer leaned forward, momentarily slowing the wheelchair. She smiled, encouraging him to continue.

“We’re so far from the rest of the hospital,” he said, turning his head to look back at the main building.

The volunteer clucked and nodded her head. “Nice and peaceful.”

“Too peaceful.” He watched glumly as they approached the building.

“Here’s your patient,” the volunteer chirped as they came through the door.

“You must be Russell,” the pediatrics nurse said.

“I must be,” he agreed, looking around the tiny nursing station. The area was, at the most, ten feet by ten feet, with a bathroom off to one side. A video monitor was mounted in a corner of the desk and he could see the ward on the black and white screen.

He looked back at the nurse. “Are you sure I’m in the right place?” He gestured at the screen. “This looks like an isolation ward.”

The nurse smiled and got up, steering the wheelchair through the double doors and into the ward.

“Abigail,” she said, “this is Russell.”

“How long have you been here?” Russell asked after the nurse had gone back to the desk, closing the doors behind her.

Abigail shrugged, watching as Russell rolled figure eights in his wheelchair. She had ridden in her share of wheelchairs but it had never occurred to her that they could be used for play.

When she didn’t answer, Russell turned to look at her.

“What’ve you got?”

“Something’s growing in my brain.”

“They gonna operate?”

She shook her head slowly.

“Me neither,” Russell said, wheeling his chair over to the windows and looking out. He reached to grasp the windowsill to pull himself flush with the glass but let go suddenly.

“Hey, I got a shock.” He touched the window frame tentatively.

Abigail slid off the bed and came up beside him. Without hesitation, she placed the palm of her hand against the ledge. A tingle, barely perceptible. “It’s just a vibration,” she announced.

“I know,” Russell said, “it just surprised me.” But he withdrew his hand. “Hey, look: someone hung up wind chimes.”

Abigail followed his gaze. The chimes were obviously old, the metal dull and tarnished, and strung with twine which appeared to be on the verge of disintegration. Tucked under the eave of the building, away from the wind, they were more for decoration than for use, Abigail decided.

Russell pushed against the wall with one hand, propelling the wheelchair slowly backward. He flexed and rubbed the fingers of his right hand.

“I wonder why anyone would hang wind chimes in a hospital.”

Abigail regarded him solemnly. “Does your hand hurt?”

“It’s a little numb,” he admitted, “like when you bump your funny bone.”

“Funny bone?”

“You know, when you bump your elbow and your little finger gets numb.”

“I’ve never heard it called a funny bone,” Abigail said. “There’s nothing funny about it.”

Russell smiled. “You can’t take everything someone says literally.”

Abigail could feel the beginnings of a headache forming behind her right eye. “People shouldn’t say things they don’t really mean. I never do.”

Three

Her new office was larger than she had expected it to be, having worked before in rooms that were little more than glorified closets. It was sparsely furnished—a desk, chair and two filing cabinets—but the exterior wall was dominated by a window that had to be at least four feet high and eight feet across.

Closing the door behind her, Dr. Quinn Logan kicked off her shoes and walked to the window to look out on the hospital grounds.

The main hospital building was situated on a slight rise, allowing the remainder of the hundred-acre site to be viewed from a vantage point. A dozen smaller buildings were scattered, seemingly at random, across the compound, and were connected by a series of pathways which snaked through the clusters of trees and bushes between the structures. The grounds were well-tended and thick grass covered the property in spite of the hot California sun.

The overall effect was of tranquility and security.

She had driven all night to get here, stopping at the apartment only long enough to unload the suitcases, and she could feel the weight of exhaustion pulling at her. She was used to working all night; as an intern and resident she’d worked her share of twenty-four hour shifts. But driving all night was worse by a factor of ten. At least when she was on call there was always something happening to challenge her mind. Something to distract her from thoughts of home.

Home.

She turned from the window and went to sit at the desk, pulling the phone closer to her. After a momentary hesitation, she began to dial, but before the line started to ring she hung up.

It would be better if she called after work, she decided, when she would have more time to talk.

For now, she’d better try to locate Dr. Joshua Fuller; it was time to go to work.

“We’re starting the program with four patients,” Joshua Fuller said, handing Quinn a small stack of charts. “These are duplicates of the medical records—including histories, test results, and treatment protocols—on all four.”

Quinn opened the first chart and leafed through the pages. “Are they all being admitted today?”

He nodded. “Russell and Abigail are already here and I saw Tessi Vincent in admitting a few minutes ago. I’ve been informed that Courtney White will be in later this afternoon.” A slight frown. “Her parents took her with them on vacation to the Bahamas.”

“Courtney has…?

“Recurrent fevers of unknown origin with a tendency to seizure.”

“Not exactly conducive to vacationing,” Quinn commented, glancing up from the charts to find Joshua watching her. “How did you choose these particular patients for the program?”

“In Russell’s case, I was covering a shift in our emergency department when he was brought in; he had fallen while trying to adjust a television antenna. Slipped off the roof and landed on his back. We initially suspected a lesion of the thoracic spine, between T-11 and T-12. His spinal cord was damaged but not severed. That was two years ago, and he hasn’t walked since. He’s in almost constant pain.” He stood and walked to the window, looking toward the new ward. “He’s a very bright boy, doesn’t like to take pain medication—he says he doesn’t think about it when it hurts—and he hasn’t given up yet.”

“Will we be able to help him?”

“God willing.”

“And the others?”

“Abigail Ballard was referred to me by a neurologist at Johns Hopkins. She’s something of an enigma; she presents the classic symptoms of a brain tumor but her CT scans are inconclusive. Tessi Vincent is hypertensive, anemic and has episodes of psychogenic vomiting. Her doctor in New Mexico had worked here several years ago and thought we might be able to help. Courtney, well…her godfather is on the board of directors.”

“A disparate group,” Quinn commented.

“But with one point in common; none of them have responded to customary treatments.” He turned to face her. “By removing them from the traditional hospital setting, we might be able to determine if outside factors are complicating their ailments.”

“Outside factors?”

“The sights, sounds, and smells of a hospital can be disturbing even to healthy adults. To a sick child, the sound of someone moaning in the night can be terrifying.” He paused. “By controlling the stimuli, we might be able to control the response.”

“It’s an interesting thought.”

“We’re going to do a full work-up on each of them, although they all have had extensive diagnostic work in the past, and see if we can’t find some answers. The answers may be unconventional, but my contention is that you treat the child rather the disease.”

Quinn nodded. “I certainly agree with that. I’ve treated children who had come to refer to themselves by their diagnoses. Ask their name and they tell you their medical history.”

“Medicine does have a way of depersonalizing the patient…”

The phone rang.

“Medicine beckons,” Joshua said, crossing the room to answer the call.

While he talked, Quinn went to the window, looking out, as he had done, on the children’s ward.

It was the most secluded of the buildings and the only other building which housed patients; the remaining structures were used for laboratories, offices, and research facilities.

As she watched, a volunteer pushing a wheelchair passed along a path which ran parallel to the main building before branching off toward the ward.

In the wheelchair, a girl with long black hair rested, eyes closed, her hand held tightly by a well-dressed woman who walked alongside. The woman carried a large stuffed koala bear and a spotted giraffe. Every few steps she leaned over and apparently whispered to the child.

Following behind was a man dressed in blue jeans and a red-checked shirt. A leather headband held back his shoulder-length black hair.

“That’s Tessi.” Joshua Fuller had come up beside her. “And her parents.”

The girl and her entourage disappeared behind a group of trees.

“I have to go over to the administrator’s office to sign the application forms for another research grant and then we’ll go over to the ward. Why don’t you go down to the switchboard and pick up a pager? In a facility this size, it’s a vital piece of equipment and things may get a little chaotic this afternoon…”

“I handle chaos very well,” Quinn said matter-of-factly.

He laughed. “Then you’re qualified for this job.”

Four

The nurse stood, blocking the doors to the ward. “Afternoon visiting hours don’t start until one p.m.,” she said.

“You don’t understand,” Alicia Vincent said with infinite patience. “My daughter is only ten years old; she needs her mother with her.”

“There are other patients in the ward, Mrs. Vincent…”

“Ms. Vincent.”

“Ms. Vincent…I can’t allow you to disturb them. I believe one of the children is sleeping.”

“I’ll be very quiet.” Her smile was frigid.

“I’m sorry.”

“Perhaps you should page Dr. Fuller…”

The man, who had been standing silently, took a step forward. “Alicia, the nurse is only doing her job.”

“Even if I wanted your advice,” she said, not looking at him and speaking slowly, “I wouldn’t ask for it.”

“Your husband is right,” the nurse began.

“He isn’t my husband. We’re divorced.” She smoothed her ash blond hair with a manicured hand. “Regardless, I would very much appreciate it if you would call Dr. Fuller because I am certain he would authorize my request.”

“If you would like to contact Dr. Fuller,” the nurse countered, “and get his permission for special visiting privileges, starting tomorrow, please do. For today, I am going to have to enforce the rules: visiting hours begin at one.”

“Thank you,” the man said, gripping his former wife’s arm and propelling her toward the door. “We’ll be back at one.”

“Don’t you ever touch me,” Alicia huffed after they were outside, pulling her arm from his grasp.

“There was no cause for that little scene in there.”

“Tessi needs me and I want to be with her.”

“You want, that’s the operative phrase, you want. Our daughter is very ill. Why don’t you think of her instead of yourself?”

“I am thinking of her.” Her eyes narrowed. “You might think of her yourself the next time you decide to drag her off into the wilderness to be next to nature.”

“A ranch in New Mexico is hardly…”

“Ranch? You call that hovel a ranch? Ha!”

“It’s better for her than a third-floor apartment in Los Angeles with winos and addicts wandering the streets.”

“I live,” she said through clenched teeth, “in a very exclusive complex…”

“I know all about where you live, Alicia. How does Tessi fit into that rarefied atmosphere? All chrome and glass, and no substance…”

“The only substance you understand is dirt. . .”

“At least it’s real.”

“Oh, it’s real, all right, no one can deny that. It’s all over the floors, the windows…I don’t know how Tessi stands it when she’s living with you.”

“Why don’t you ask her? It’s her heritage, to be among living things…”

“Like you, Little Wolf?” Her eyes glittered with malice.

“I am half Apache.”

“Half savage…you embrace a culture that died before you were born and you want my daughter to run wild like an animal.”

“You found that very attractive once,” he commented.

“I was little more than a child myself—”

“You,” he said, “were never a child.”

She stared at him. “I think it’s time I went back to court and eliminated this joint custody arrangement. You endangered your own daughter’s life by living so far from medical help…I think it’s about time I put a stop to your negligence.” She spun and strode angrily back toward the main hospital.

“Try it,” he called, raising his voice for the first time. “Try it.”

Five

Abigail watched as Tessi arranged the koala bear and the giraffe on either side of her, then lay very still between them, eyes closed and hands folded across her stomach.

Abigail had never seen anyone who looked as exotic as Tessi. Her black hair was fanned out across the pillow like fine-spun silk and her skin was a rosy golden color that reminded Abigail of the peaches her grandmother bought each summer.

Even more exotic were the tiny earrings that Tessi wore.

Her grandmother said that jewelry was a demonstration of vanity and that pierced ears were “foolish nonsense.” Abigail had accepted that, as she accepted almost everything her grandmother told her, as fact. But looking at the tiny silver and turquoise earrings, she felt a vague stirring of doubt.

She was startled to see that Tessi was crying. Tears ran down into her glossy black hair and her mouth trembled as she wept.

Abigail could not recall ever having cried, although she’d been told she was a fussy baby. It was not the type of behavior that her grandmother would tolerate, but even more, she doubted that crying served any purpose except perhaps to make another person feel guilty.

That didn’t explain Tessi, though. She looked past Tessi to where Russell slept peacefully. Neither she nor Russell had any cause to feel guilty; Russell had slept through Tessi’s arrival and Abigail had only said hello when the nurse introduced them.

It was sad, watching her cry, but fascinating too. The tears appeared to follow the same path, one after the other. Tessi’s hair must have been quite wet by now, she thought.

Gradually the tears stopped and her breathing slowed. Abigail waited until she was certain that Tessi was asleep before she allowed her own eyes to close.

It had been a long morning. It was very hard to believe that such a short time ago she’d been at home in Baltimore. She knew that she should be homesick but she was not. The house, her room, her grandmother…

Grandmother had put her in a taxi for the ride to the airport, claiming that she was not well enough to come along.

“Remember your manners,” Grandmother said, her face stern. “Don’t be giving the doctors a bad time.”

“I won’t,” Abigail said.

“They’re going to an awful lot of trouble on your behalf…” The look on her face was clearly disapproving. “Don’t add to it.”

Abigail had been relieved when the taxi drove away.

Whether or not the doctors could make her better…she had gotten away.

Six

In his dream, Russell ran.

He could feel the muscles in his legs ache but he continued on, not wanting to stop. Not ever. Heart racing and lungs straining, he started up the slight incline at the west end of their property line, across the asphalt roadway, and beyond.

There was no sound at all as he ran, not even the sound of his own breathing.

He saw no one.

Time seemed to pass quickly, as daylight faded and night came on, the moon lighting his way. The cooler air filled his lungs and cleared his head.

He was lighter than the air itself as he ran over the countryside.

Just as quickly, morning came, its pale light growing in intensity. Ahead, still distant, he could see a deserted beach, white sand shimmering in waves of heat.

He could feel sweat dripping down his face stinging his eyes. His back had begun to ache.

But it was not much farther to the water.

He ran across the sand, struggling now for every step, the sand pulling at his legs, threatening to pitch him headlong down the beach. It burned the soles of his feet and now he could see, glinting in the sun, shards of glass and broken bottles with jagged edges.

Clouds swept in from out at sea; black swirling clouds which blocked out the sun.

The water.

He had to reach the water. His legs did not want to work but he knew—had always known— he had to keep running.

The clouds dropped down to the ground and he could no longer see where he was going.

But now he could hear it, the sound of the surf crashing on the shore. It was straight ahead and coming closer with every agonizing step.

Then…he was airborne, falling through the thick clouds which parted finally, and he saw that he had run off a cliff, and that below were the rocks.

It was happening for a second time.

He fell to the ground…

Seven

“Joshua, wait up.” Simon Harrington, M.D., did not quicken his pace, relying on Joshua’s good nature which would require him to stop and wait for his elders.

“It’s been a morning,” Joshua said as Simon came up beside him.

“As always. Today’s the big day, isn’t it?”

Joshua nodded. “Three of the kids are in already…”

“I can guess which one isn’t.” He snorted. “If either of them had a lick of common sense, they’d leave Courtney behind when they get an uncontrollable urge to jet-set.”

“Or they might attempt to control the urge and stay home with her,” Joshua suggested.

“Not a chance.” He cast a sidelong glance at the younger man. “I understand Dr. Logan arrived this morning.”

“Yes…I gather she drove all night to get here.”

“I love dedication in a young doctor. I was very impressed with her at her interview.” He cleared his throat. “As I recall, she’s what we used to call a ‘dish.’ “

Joshua smiled. “She’s very attractive.”

“That’s all you have to say?”

“I’m not a poet, Simon.”

“What am I going to do with you? You have no romance in your soul.”

“You have enough for both of us.” He stopped in the hallway. “Isn’t your office in the west wing?”

“I thought I’d come along with you and welcome our new doctor to the fold.”

“Simon…behave yourself.”

“I’ll remind you that you’re talking to the chief of staff.”

Joshua bowed slightly. “I’ll try to show the proper respect.”

“Dr. Logan,” Simon said, taking Quinn’s hand in both of his. “Good to see you again.”

“Thank you, Dr. Harrington…”

“Call me Simon,” he said, still holding her hand. “I heard that you had an offer from Pete Doyle at Stanford.” He smiled broadly. “Stanford’s loss is quite obviously our gain.”

“I’m very glad to be here.”

Joshua made a point of looking at his watch. “We’d better get over to the ward,” he said.

Simon arched an eyebrow. “We’ll talk later, then,” he said to Quinn, releasing her hand.

“I’ll look forward to it.”

As Joshua passed him on the way out of the office, Simon whispered: “Eyes the color of smoke and don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

“Later, Simon.”

Eight

“Dr. Fuller, I’m glad you’re here,” the nurse said as they came in. “Russell awoke from a nightmare a little while ago and he’s in a lot of pain.”

“Have you…”

She held out a syringe. “He wouldn’t take it from me.”

“Russell,” Joshua said, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed and encircling the boy’s wrist with his hand, finding a pulse.

Russell’s color was ashen and a sheen of perspiration covered his face. His chest rose erratically as he labored to breathe. His eyes opened slightly and he turned to look at Joshua. He attempted to smile but it was more of a grimace.

“It hurts,” he whispered.

“Let me give you something for the pain,” Joshua said.

“What is it?” He licked his lips and swallowed hard.

“Demerol and Vistaril.”

“I’ve had that before…” He struggled to open his eyes wider. “It made me dizzy.”

“You don’t look like you’re feeling too good now.”

The corners of Russell’s mouth twitched and he laughed, a short soft sound that conveyed the measure of his pain. “Promise me I won’t get addicted.”

“I promise,” Joshua said solemnly.

Russell allowed his eyes to close. “Just this one time,” he said.

Joshua drew the curtain around Russell’s bed. The boy had fallen into an exhausted sleep as the medication freed him from his pain. He took the chart that the nurse held out to him and made a notation before turning to Quinn.

“It’s times like this when I wonder if there is a God,” he said quietly, but his eyes were angry.

“Abigail, this is Dr. Logan. She’s going to be your doctor too.”

“Hello, Abigail,” Quinn said.

“Hello.” She looked from Joshua to Quinn and then back again. “Is Russell going to be all right?”

“I think so,” Joshua said.

“Good.”

“How are you feeling?” Quinn asked, moving to the side of the bed and placing her hand on Abigail’s forehead. The chart indicated that the child’s temperature was normal but Quinn’s purpose had less to do with vital signs than a desire to make contact. It was physical contact that mattered, that was essential for forming and maintaining a bond between doctor and patient, particularly with children.

“I had a headache earlier but it went away.” Abigail’s brown eyes watched her.

“It went away by itself?”

“Sometimes they do that,” Abigail said patiently. She looked at Joshua. “It’s in my history.”

“Dr. Logan hasn’t had a chance to read all of the chart yet,” Joshua said. “It’s a pretty thick chart.”

Quinn thought she detected a look of satisfaction in Abigail’s eyes. “Tell us about this headache.”

“It started behind my eye, like a sharp pain.” She squinted in her effort to recall. “My vision was a little blurred but I didn’t feel sick at my stomach…then I laid down and it went away after a while.”

“How do you feel right now?” Joshua asked. “Good enough for me to draw your blood?”

In answer, Abigail withdrew her right arm from under the covers, and extended it by her side. She watched steadily as he wiped her arm with an alcohol swab, watching still as the needle penetrated her skin. She did not flinch.

The glass tube filled with blood and he removed it, handing it to Quinn who handed him a second, slightly larger one. When he was done he released the tourniquet and withdrew the needle, placing a cotton ball over the puncture wound and positioning her arm to apply pressure.

“Thank you,” she said primly. “That didn’t hurt at all.”

“I’m glad. Do you have any questions?”

She shook her head. “I’m going to have an EEG this afternoon and a brain scan tomorrow morning.”

“That’s right.”

“I’ve had them before,” she commented.

“Then on Wednesday, you’re scheduled for a scan in our magnetic resonance imaging system, which you haven’t had before, but I don’t want you to worry about it. It doesn’t hurt at all.”

“I’m not worried,” she assured him.

Tessi watched the blood pressure cuff as it expanded around her arm, clearly concerned. Only when Joshua released the pressure valve and allowed the cuff to deflate did she raise her eyes to his.

He winked.

“Almost normal,” he said, removing the stethoscope from his ears. “How do you feel?”

Tessi frowned. “My stomach hurts.”

“Have you eaten anything today?”

“I started to…but…”

“But?”

“My Dad came to the motel room and mother got upset.” Her dark eyes glistened. “The food got cold.”

“It’s a little early, but I can order lunch for you right now if you think eating something might settle your stomach.”

“I don’t know…” her frown deepened, “it might make it worse.”

“Well, you know your stomach better than I do. But try to eat some lunch later. You can get sick from not eating, too.”

“That doesn’t feel like this . . . like someone is squeezing and twisting my stomach.” She rubbed her abdomen. “It feels terrible.”

“I know it does.” He patted her hand.

Tessi blinked and brought her hand up to her face, shielding her eyes. “It hurts now,” she said. “It hurts.”

Joshua sat at the desk in the nurse’s station, finishing the admitting orders. The nurse was stocking the medication cabinet, talking quietly with the pharmacy clerk as they went over the drug list.

Quinn stood at the doors, looking into the ward through the observation window. Abigail was sitting upright, facing the other children.

It looked almost as if she were keeping watch.

Nine

Abigail did not mind being taken out of the ward for the EEG. Visiting hours only reminded her that she had no one coming to visit her and she did not want anyone feeling sorry for her.

Even at the hospital in Baltimore, less than twenty minutes away from her home, she was always the child with the fewest visitors. One time her second grade teacher came and brought a construction paper card signed by her classmates. She knew that it was all the teacher’s idea and that none of the kids really cared if she was in the hospital, although if she died they might feel differently.

The teacher had only stayed for ten minutes. Abigail did not blame her for leaving so soon, but after she left it was somehow harder than usual to wait out the remaining time until visiting hours were over. She did not much like the sense of expectancy that the visit evoked in her; for weeks afterward she waited, in vain, for the teacher to come back.

Her grandmother came when she was feeling well enough. She would pull a chair up to the side of the bed and settle herself in to listen to the other visitors’ conversations. She said little to Abigail.

After a while Abigail began to request that the curtain be pulled around her bed when the visitors began to arrive. She could still hear them, but she did not have to see their faces or endure their pitying looks.

Tessi’s parents arrived just as she was being helped into a wheelchair. They stood on opposite sides of the bed, each holding one of Tessi’s hands. Tessi’s father smiled at her as she was wheeled past the bed.

Russell was still asleep. A man stood at the foot of the bed watching him sleep. He looked like Russell, she thought.

She was relieved when they were through the double doors and on their way. With luck, the EEG would take until after visiting hours. She crossed her fingers.

It was breezy outside but not too cool and she breathed in the fresh air. It was snowing back home, another thing she did not miss at all. Everyone was always making such a fuss about the seasons, how the west coast missed out on nature’s illustration of time passing.

She did not agree. Winter was something to be gotten through back home. This was another world entirely.

She was very still as the EEG technician applied the electrodes to her head. It was a familiar procedure by now; attach the electrodes, snap in the leads, and the command to close her eyes and relax. Later they would ask her to breathe rapidly until her fingers tingled— hyperventilation, they called it—and then they would flash the bright lights in her eyes.

For now she rested.

It was after three when they started back to the ward. She hoped the afternoon nurse was strict about enforcement of the visiting hours which ended at three. Some nurses were very lax about it, feeling perhaps that as long as the family of a patient remained, that patient would make few demands on the nurse’s time.

The inconsistency of making rules and not enforcing them bothered Abigail.

Breakers of the rules were often not penalized or punished, but even worse, in her mind, was that those who followed the rules were even more often not recognized as being keepers of the rules. No one acknowledged their obedience.

It made her wonder whether any of the things she did right mattered to anyone but herself.

Ten

It was late afternoon by the time they finished the grand tour of the hospital grounds and headed back toward the main building. The lobby was full of people and Joshua was stopped three times before they made it back to his office.

“So…what do you think of Valley Memorial?” he asked, shutting the office door and looking at her expectantly.

“I think I’ll get lost the first time I go anywhere by myself.”

“I still get lost on occasion,” he said, laughing. “But they always find me.”

“I’m impressed; I had no idea the hospital was so well-equipped diagnostically.”

“We receive a great deal of private funding which allows us to acquire the technology as soon as it receives government approval.” He glanced at his watch. “I have a couple of patients to see up on medical, so why don’t you take a break and then meet me back here at five?”

“I’d be glad to assist you with the patients,” Quinn said.

“Not necessary. These are private patients I’m checking for another doctor. Besides, we might have to wait for Courtney. Go have an early dinner…take a break.”

Her new apartment was two miles from the hospital and she decided that a quick shower and a change of clothes would do her more good than a cafeteria dinner. The refrigerator was empty— it hadn’t even been turned on—but she wasn’t hungry anyway.

She moved the suitcases into the bedroom and then had to search for the box with the towels. The movers had stacked all of the boxes in a corner of the living room and the one she wanted was, naturally, near the bottom of the pile.

By the time she was showered and dressed it was four-thirty. She looked reluctantly at the bed—a nap would have been nice—and then locked up, leaving a light on so that the apartment would not seem quite so empty when she came home.

With any luck, it would be a busy evening and she wouldn’t have time to think about anything but work.

Eleven

“Mr. Delano, I understand you wanted to speak to me,” Joshua said, extending his hand.

Frank Delano stood, his face lined with worry.

“I want to get it clear in my mind what is going to happen to my boy.”

“We’re going to try and help him…”

“You told me before, there’s nothing to be done.”

“I said surgery wouldn’t help him, Mr. Delano, but there are other alternatives.”

“To make him walk again?”

“I can’t promise anything at this point…”

“I don’t want him put through any more pain.” The big man’s face was drawn tight. “He’s just a kid, he shouldn’t have to be hurt like that.”

“At this point, we’re not planning anything invasive. After we complete the work-up, we might try some new forms of therapy.”

“But will it hurt him?” The muscles in Delano’s throat worked as he sought to maintain control. “I don’t want him hurt.” He looked away, watching people pass through the lobby, and took a deep breath.

“Neither do I. But,” Joshua repeated, “I think I can help him.”

Delano nodded, his eyes still searching other faces for some indefinable sign that this was right. Finally, he looked at Joshua.

“Russell is all I have,” he said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion.

“I know.”

“If you can help him…”

“I may be able to at least ease his pain,” Joshua said, “and we’re learning more about spinal cord injuries every day. I’ll do everything I can…for both of you.”

“No, I…I’ll handle what I have to…Russell is what matters.”

“Russell may be stronger than you think. A lot of these kids do better than adults in the same situation.”

“My boy’s a fighter,” Delano said, smiling grimly.

“He’s that and more. I have a great deal of respect for your son, Mr. Delano, and I want to give him every possible chance.”

Delano ran a callused hand through his short-cropped hair. “I’d appreciate,” he said, voice breaking, “anything you can do.”

Joshua watched Delano cross the lobby, back straight and walking with obvious determination. Russell came by his perseverance honestly, Joshua thought.

There would be no pain inflicted upon Russell Delano in the name of medical progress. He wasn’t sure how much the program would help the boy, but he would not allow it to harm him.

Twelve

“Oh, look at you, your dress is all wrinkled,” Tiffany White said, brushing at Courtney’s skirt.

“I told you not to lie down like that.”

“Come on,” David White said, standing to the side of the car and watching as his wife attempted to hand-smooth the material. “We’re late.”

“She can’t go in looking like this.” Tiffany straightened up and turned to her husband. “Get her suitcase out of the trunk and let me see if I can find something less wrinkled.”

“Tiff, if we’re not out of here in an hour, we can forget about cocktails…”

Courtney stood silently, looking across the parking lot toward the hospital building.

“I want her to look nice,” Tiffany said, absently stroking her daughter’s blond curls. Her own hair was the same color but it took two hours at the hairdresser every three weeks to keep it that way.

“She’s being admitted to a hospital,” David said, “not dressing for a debutante ball.” He tapped the face of his watch with his index finger. “And we are going to be very late.”

“All right, but if we run into anyone we know and she looks like this…”

“Everyone who is anyone is already at the party,” he said. “Let’s get this over with.”

The admitting clerk fastened the hospital ID bracelet around Courtney’s wrist hurriedly. It was a quarter after five—five o’clock was the end of her shift—and she was anxious to leave.

The paperwork was done, consent for admission signed, and wristband attached. All that remained was the entry of Courtney White’s name, patient number, and diagnosis into the computer. About five more minutes of work, she calculated.

It didn’t help that the child’s father refused to sit down, pacing, instead, in the narrow confines of the admitting cubicle. Or that every other minute he made a point of looking at his watch.

She knew what time it was; she was on overtime.

The little girl, in contrast, sat quietly in her chair, hands in her lap. She had not said anything during the entire procedure.

She entered the data, double-checking the patient number, and reached for the phone to call the volunteer desk. With any luck, someone would be available to take the little girl over to the ward.

Listening to the phone ring, she watched as the mother pulled at the material of the little girl’s dress, stretching the fabric across the bias, attempting, apparently, to remove a series of wrinkles which encircled the skirt.

“What a lovely child,” the volunteer said, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose and peering at the little girl.

Twin smiles appeared momentarily on the parents’ faces.

“You could do us an enormous favor,” Dave White said, “and take her to her room. We have an urgent engagement that we’re already late for…”

“Well,” the volunteer said brightly, “that’s what I’m here for.”

“Courtney,” Tiffany said, “we’ll see you tomorrow after you’re all settled in.”

“Bye, baby,” her father said, mussing her hair.

She watched them leave, her face expressionless.

Thirteen

Quinn ran her finger along the x-rayed image of Russell’s spine, narrowing her eyes in concentration.

“That’s the first film,” Joshua said, “taken in emergency. You can see the degree of soft tissue swelling.”

“Where was the point of impact?”

“Here, in the thoracic spine.” He pointed. “Between T-11 and T-12.”

“How long was this after he fell?”

“Maybe thirty minutes.”

“I don’t see a fracture.” She removed the first film from the lighted screen and hung another. Again she ran her finger down the spine. “He’s still hyperesthetic?”

Joshua nodded. “Extraordinarily so. But…”

“Yes?”

He shook his head. “I keep thinking it must be something I’ve missed. I’ve looked at these films hundreds of times, trying to find an answer…why his symptoms don’t match his injury.”

She turned off the viewing screen and put the films into their manila jackets. “Sometimes they just don’t match, particularly with children.”

“I know you’re right…” His pager began to beep and he went to the phone while Quinn looked through the hard copy images of Russell’s spine CT exams.

“Courtney’s here finally,” Joshua announced, hanging up the phone. “Let’s do the admitting exam and that’ll be it for today.”

“I was worried about you,” Joshua said, taking the thermometer from Courtney’s mouth.

Courtney, who had remained silent during the examination, looked up. “Why?”

“I know what it’s like to be sick when you’re away from home.” When she did not respond, he continued: “When I was a kid, we had a family tradition; we’d wait all year for vacation and then I’d get sick the second day. I got the measles in Florida, chicken pox at the Grand Canyon, and the year we went to Hawaii, I developed appendicitis. My mother always said that’s why I became a doctor, because I equate hospitals with vacation.”

Courtney regarded him seriously, her dark green eyes giving nothing away. After a moment she turned onto her side, away from him, and pulled the covers up to her neck.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” she said, “just leave me alone.”

It was already dark outside when they left the ward and Quinn shivered in a sudden gust of wind. The faintest of sounds, like glass breaking, floated in the air.

Fourteen

Her stepmother answered the phone in the same emotionless voice that she’d used since Julie died, and Quinn, for a moment, was tempted to hang up without speaking.

Then in the background she heard her father’s voice, and heard the hope in his voice as he asked who it was.

“Carol, it’s Quinn,” she said clearly.

“Quinn.” A hesitation. “How are you?”

“Fine…getting settled in.” She could hear a chair scrape in the background and pictured her father, rising from the kitchen table to come to the phone. “How are you and Dad?”

Again, that hesitation. “As well as can be expected. Your father is painting the back bedroom.”

Julie’s bedroom. Why didn’t she just say it?

“Is Dad there?”

No answer, just suddenly her father was on the phone.

“Quinn honey,” he said, and her heart ached at the sound of loneliness in his voice.

“Dad.” She swallowed hard and took a breath. “I’m sorry I didn’t call earlier…”

“Don’t worry about it. I know you’re busy.”

Never too busy for you, she thought, but lately that hadn’t been true.

“Anyway, I’m here now, and as soon as I get everything into some kind of routine, I’ll be able to come home for a weekend every once in a while.”

“Good, good. And Christmas? You haven’t been home for Christmas since…” his voice faded.

“I might have to work this Christmas.”

“Well, I’ll keep my fingers crossed.”

“Me too.” She felt dangerously near tears.

The silence lengthened between them but it was somehow not empty. Quinn closed her eyes and listened intently, hearing love and acceptance. Minutes passed.

“Dad, I’d better go now, I’ve got an early start in the morning.”

“Take care of yourself,” he said.

“I love you, Dad.”

She hung up the phone and sat in the darkened room, waiting for the tightness in her throat to subside.

She thought of everything she should have said to her father. But what could she say to heal her family’s wounds? How could she confront her stepmother’s masked anger? Her own feeling of guilt?

Despite her work with troubled children, she had not been able to help Julie. She had not heeded the cry for help. She had done…nothing. And Julie was dead.

Fifteen

Abigail awoke. The ward was dark and silent, and for a moment she was unsure of why she had woken up.

Then she felt the tingling in her hands. She raised her right arm, bringing her hand to her face and resting her fingertips on her temple.

The feeling persisted. The vibration matched her pulse and it began to spread, moving up her arm to the shoulder before spreading across her back and chest. It radiated through her until her entire body was suffused.

She was not frightened. She had imagined many times how it must be to die and her curiosity was stronger than her fear. If this was dying, it was not unpleasant at all.

Her grandmother had told her some things about dying, about her mother, who chose not to live.

It had frightened her then, the thought of closing her eyes and never opening them again. Of the space left vacant…the finality of it all. Where would her thoughts go, when she died?

Little by little, when the mood struck her, her grandmother would tell her about how it had been. Usually the mood struck her when she’d had some wine with dinner, and some after.

Death, invited, had taken her mother in a frenzy of blood and pain. She had cut her wrists…sawed at them. The room had been splattered with blood, her grandmother said. They thought that she had grown tired of waiting, frustrated by her wounds which the doctor later said would not have proved fatal. Somehow, she’d found the desperation to plunge the knife into her body.

Abigail, six months old, slept through it in a corner of the room.

For a time, after she knew what had happened, she was terrified. Afraid to sleep at night, afraid even more to show her anger in case she should fly into a rage, as her grandmother said, and hurt herself. When she was five and starting school, she heard for the first time about a murder, and was paralyzed with fear. Someone else could decide for you, that it was time you should die.

But gradually, her fears passed.

Gradually, she came to understand that what it really was…was escape.

Now she waited in the dark.

TUESDAY

Sixteen

“Ballard?” The X-ray department secretary consulted an appointment schedule. “For today, right?”

The transportation orderly nodded, leaning over the counter and pointing to an entry. “There…Ballard, seven-thirty a.m.”

“I thought you said an x-ray; she’s having a scan.”

“All the same to me,” he replied.

“There’s a big difference. Anyway, the technician isn’t here yet, so put her in the waiting room. She can watch TV.”

“Whatever.”

Abigail watched the morning news with the sound turned off; it was better that way. It also allowed her to listen for conversations of interest, although so far, with only the secretary and orderly in the office, the news might be more exciting.

Complaints about the holiday work schedule, cafeteria food, and a doctor named Carter who ordered every single procedure stat…

She yawned. As soon as this was over, she was going to go back to bed. It had taken a long time to get back to sleep last night.

She didn’t feel any different this morning— except for being tired—but she thought she should feel something. If she’d been near death, shouldn’t she be…weaker?

Every time her grandmother had a spell with her heart, it would be days before she could do more than sip tea and fan herself. That had been going on for as long as Abigail could remember and she expected that almost dying should be the same for everyone.

She didn’t feel weak, though, nor did she think that she wanted any tea. If anything, she was ravenously hungry. She’d slept through breakfast but she had saved a corn muffin from dinner and she always hid a candy bar or two in her suitcase. It would hold her until lunch…

The electronic doors opened and a man in a white lab coat walked purposefully up to the desk.

“Oh, Dr. Carter,” the secretary smiled. “Can I help you?”

“I need a stat CAT-scan on a patient of mine, up in 311.”

Stat cat, Abigail thought, smiling to herself.

“Well, it’ll be a least forty-five minutes; the technician isn’t here yet and we’ve got a patient waiting already.”

From where she was sitting, Abigail could see the man stiffen.

“Stat means immediately,” he said. “Where is the technician?”

“Her car wouldn’t start this morning…I’m sure she’ll be here as soon as she can. But Dr. Fuller’s patient is already here, waiting, and…”

“Dr. Fuller’s patient can continue to wait.” He looked around, spotting Abigail. “She’s obviously in no distress.”

“I’ll have to call Dr. Fuller before I can put your patient first…I can’t…I’m not…”

“My patient is on the way down,” he said, turning as the doors opened. “And now your technician is here.”

The technician, a woman in her forties, winced when she saw the doctor. Then she attempted a smile.

“Dr. Carter, good morning.”

Carter was facing the technician and Abigail watched as the secretary made a gesture behind his back.

“I need a stat…”

The doors opened once again, and two nurses pushed a gurney into the room. All that was visible of the patient was a balding head. Neither of the nurses was smiling.

“Okay.” Carter rubbed his hands together. “Let’s get moving.”

Abigail watched as everyone crowded through a door into what she supposed was the room where the scans were done. They had apparently forgotten about her.

She looked back at the television. The weather was on and she watched as the weatherman placed a black storm cloud on California.

She could feel a headache building behind her eyes.

Seventeen

Alicia Vincent woke up angry.

He was not going to get away with it. He had endangered their daughter’s life by taking her—for six months every year—to live so far away from medical help.

He knew as well as she did that Tessi was not a healthy child, that she could take sick in the wink of an eye. Yet he persisted in living on that Godforsaken excuse for a ranch.

The blinding anger that he had provoked yesterday had festered as she slept.

It was time to act…past time.

She tossed back the covers, anxious to get on with it. She reached for the phone and listened to the line click until the motel operator answered.

“Long distance,” she said, “Los Angeles.”

It was early yet, only eight, but Howard was often in his office early, wanting to always be a step ahead of everyone else.

Howard Kraft was the attorney who had handled the divorce and who handled her affairs ever since then. He was everything that James Wolf was not: a brilliant, ambitious, ruthless man who knew how to get what he wanted.

Their celebratory drink after the final divorce decree was awarded had led them to her apartment and bed, something she had wanted from the first day she saw him in court. His certain arrogance matched her own; he deferred to no one, not even the judge. And he got away with it.

He had initially advised her against fighting the joint custody petition, reminding her of how often total freedom from responsibility for Tessi would be an advantage. Her position as publicity director for a banking conglomerate required a fair amount of travel and there were occasions when Howard’s wife went off to visit one relative or another.

And, with more men demanding their parental rights, it was very possible that the judge would grant the petition no matter what the argument against it.

Unless James Wolf could be proven to be an unfit parent.

Which was exactly what Alicia intended to prove. Her fingers were actually shaking as she dialed Howard’s private office line.

There was no answer. She hung up the phone.

She would call again later, after she had a chance to talk to Tessi. The stories that Tessi had told her in the past had always just irritated her and, in fact, she hardly listened. But now she needed ammunition against James and so she would listen this time. Listen for the faintest hint that he had acted recklessly.

This time she would teach him, once and for all, that it was not wise to cross her.

Eighteen

Midway through the CAT-scan, the patient, a fifty-three-year-old insurance salesman, stopped breathing.

For a few moments, no one noticed. One of the nurses had gone back to the floor to finish morning report while the other was writing quickly as Dr. Carter listed a series of tests he wanted to be done.

The radiologist had arrived and was standing, drinking a cup of coffee, watching the scan images on the monitor screen.

The technician, mindful of the proximity of both the radiologist and the patient’s physician, was working swiftly and silently.

Then Dr. Carter glanced absent-mindedly at his patient while searching his medical repertoire for any tests he might not have ordered yet. It took a second look before it registered that his patient was turning blue.

Carter had made a career based on covering up his lack of skill as a doctor, ordering test after test to confirm his uncertain diagnoses, and relying on consultations to back him up. He knew, as he looked at his patient’s dusky color, that he was not a good man in a crisis.

“Damn,” he said, “get the radiologist in here and call a code.”

Following his gaze, the nurse’s first instinct was to go to the patient and start resuscitation. But Carter’s reputation was as a by-the-book doctor and one who did not tolerate a nurse taking the initiative. So she turned to follow his orders.

“Damn,” Carter said again, crossing to the patient and praying that the man would start breathing again on his own. He searched for a carotid pulse and was unable to find it. He kept his fingers on the man’s neck, hoping that any second the radiologist would come through the door and take over.

He looked over his shoulder at the door. No such luck.

Gingerly, he tilted the patient’s head back, hyperextending the neck to clear an airway and leaned over, listening for breath sounds. Nothing.

“God damn,” he swore, raising his voice. Where was everyone?

He realized that he couldn’t wait any longer, that to do so would leave him wide open for a malpractice suit. He had to start CPR…

Sweat was dripping off his forehead by the time they came to relieve him.

“Let me take over, doctor,” a voice said.

Gratefully, he stepped back from the table. Immediately the patient was surrounded by the emergency team who within seconds had intubated him, established intravenous lines and were administering the appropriate medications.

Carter moved further back from the line of fire, leaning against the wall. He felt light-headed—he’d probably hyperventilated while breathing air into the patient—and more than a little shaky. His heart pounded.

“Okay, he’s stable; let’s get him to ICU,” someone said.

Carter closed his eyes, smiling faintly. He had done it, then. He had kept his patient alive until help had arrived. All those years since he’d practiced resuscitation techniques and he was still able to save a man’s life.

The voices in the room faded…

He became aware of a dull ache across his chest; he probably had pulled some muscles while doing the chest compressions. He was a little out of shape to be a hero, he thought ruefully.

Well, the excitement was over and he had other patients to see. Opening his eyes, he saw that he was alone in the room. The door had been left open and a little girl watched him from across in the waiting room.

He straightened up and took a step. Pain exploded in his chest with such intensity he was unable to cry out. Eyes wide in amazement, he fell to the floor.

Across the hall, Abigail turned up the sound on the TV.

Nineteen

“What in the world?”

Radiology was swarming with people. The crash cart—resembling a large mechanic’s tool chest but loaded with emergency medical equipment and supplies—was being pushed out of the CT room. Just in view was a shrouded figure on a gurney.

Simon Harrington crossed the room toward them, his face grim.

“What happened here?” Joshua asked when Simon reached them.

“Jim Carter collapsed and died…no one knows for sure what happened. He was alone in the room and apparently he had a massive heart attack. He was dead when they found him.” Simon ran a hand through his graying hair. “I’ve got to call his wife…”

“Where’s Abigail?” Quinn asked, looking around the department.

“We sent her down to the lobby. Carter bumped her scan for his patient. Then this happened and I thought she’d be better off out of the line of fire, so to speak.”

They watched in silence as an orderly pushed the gurney bearing Carter’s body past them and out the double doors. The members of the emergency team began to disperse as well, until they were alone in the department lobby.

Simon frowned. “I’d better make that call.” He shook his head. “I’ve never gotten used to making these calls.”

Twenty

It was his worst nightmare: drawing blood from children. He looked in disbelief at the order slips. Three of them. Three kids with tiny, elusive veins. Three kids who would instinctively jerk their arms at the first sting of the needle. And all three of them in the same ward, eliminating any possibility that he’d have a chance to recover his sanity between sticks.

For a moment he contemplated switching the order slips with one of the other techs, something he had done on other occasions with limited success, but decided against it. The supervisors tended to become a little annoyed with unauthorized work changes, which ultimately resulted in retaliation by scheduling; if he got caught, he could count on working every holiday and weekend for at least three months.

Grabbing the venipuncture tray, he started out the laboratory door. He would stick the kids first, get it over with. Maybe he’d get lucky and hit the veins on the first try. Maybe.

Aguilar was the nurse on duty at the ward and he breathed a sigh of relief; she was very good at holding a struggling child still.

“Delano, White, and Vincent,” he said, reading the lab slips.

Aguilar handed him a clipboard with a dated sheet which indicated scheduled lab work. He wrote his initials in the box beside three of the names. There was a fourth child, Ballard, but no morning lab work had been ordered, thank God. Four would kill him for sure.

“I’ll be with you in a minute,” Aguilar said, phone in hand.

“I’ll wait,” he said, and sat on a corner of the desk.

The boy had good veins and the needle slid in effortlessly. Dark blood began to fill the first tube.

“How are you doing?” he said to the boy, whose eyes were closed tightly.

A slight nod. “Okay.” Perspiration beaded his forehead.

“Almost done,” he lied, grabbing the second of five tubes. He did not like the kid’s color at all. The last thing he needed was for the kid to pass out on him. It would be a lousy beginning to a long day.

The third tube and the blood was flowing slower. With his free hand he tugged the tourniquet a little tighter.

“Pump your fist,” he instructed the boy. Better.

The boy’s skin was cool and clammy as he started the fourth tube. He could see the pulse throbbing in the kid’s thin neck.

“Almost done,” he said again, looking over his shoulder for the nurse, who had apparently left the ward. The fourth child had returned and she was sitting on her bed, watching him.

He looked back at the boy. The last tube. “Hold on,” he said under his breath. He could feel the girl watching him.

Finally the last tube was filled. He extracted the needle and held pressure on the puncture wound.

“Done,” he said, leaning closer to the boy.

“Piece of cake,” the kid said, but he did not open his eyes.

The blond girl surprised him by offering no resistance as he maneuvered the needle in search of her vein. She lay as if dead, staring up at the ceiling, while he probed under her skin.

The morning was getting worse by leaps and bounds. Where in the world was the kid’s vein? It didn’t help that he was drawing from the left side of the bed and was facing the fourth child— Ballard?—who watched him through narrowed eyes.

Just as he was ready to pull out the needle and try another spot he found it; a gentle thrust and he was in the vein. Blood swirled into the tube.

At least this was a small draw, two tubes. And he’d be two down, one to go. A few more minutes and he’d be out of the children’s ward.

He looked at the girl’s face. Very pretty, delicate features, striking in spite of her blank expression. A heartbreaker, for sure.

“Finis,” he said, certain that a child who looked like this one did would appreciate his choice of words.

No response. Either she had not heard him or she chose, as had every beautiful female he had ever known in his life, to ignore him.

His luck did not hold. The third child began to cry before he even unwrapped the venipuncture needle.

“No, no…” she whimpered pathetically.

“Just a little stick and you won’t feel a thing.” He was suddenly very tired. This was too much.

“I’m gonna be sick,” she cried and began to gag.

“No, you won’t,” he said.

She leaned over the bed and vomited on his shoes.

He finally managed to draw the blood with Aguilar’s help. He could smell his shoes which did not make him happy, so he was not as gentle as he might have been. The kid cried through the entire procedure.

“Fun and games in the children’s ward,” he said when he was done.

Aguilar was soothing the little girl and did not answer.

He grabbed the tray and turned to leave, glancing in the direction of the fourth child. He could swear that her eyes had not left him since she returned to the ward. There were no words to express how glad he was that he didn’t have to stick her, too.

She smiled at him.

Twenty-one

Abigail pretended to be asleep. She turned onto her side, facing away from the others. She could hear Tessi sniffling behind her, still upset about having her blood taken, and she would have liked to comfort the other child, but she needed time to think about what had happened while it was still fresh in her mind.

She wasn’t even sure what had happened. Sitting in the waiting room in Radiology, she had been angry at the doctor, Carter, who had disregarded her so easily. He should not have done that. She was there before he and his patient arrived, and she had an appointment, making her doubly entitled to being first.

Then the headache had started.

The oddest thing—when she closed her eyes, it was like she was in the room with those people. Details were a little hazy but she could make out who was who. The sounds were distorted, too. It was sort of like listening to a conversation through a wall; she could hear just enough to keep her interest.

At first she just observed. She was able, somehow, to move about the room and she circled the smaller room where the CT images were reconstructed on a video monitor. The air was cushiony and warm and it took some effort to pass through it.

Carter, at that point, was watching the monitor and drinking coffee. He repeatedly clicked a ball point pen, the sound echoing in the heavy atmosphere of the room.

She watched him, certain that the real reason he had insisted his patient be taken first was for his own convenience. The look on his face was much like the look her grandmother often had when she had to deal with what she called “Abigail’s problem.” Boredom mixed with resentment and more than a little annoyance.

Carter was not concerned with anyone’s welfare but his own.

The scan was finished then, and he passed by her on his way into the examination room, the cloying scent of his aftershave wafting behind.

Abigail could feel her anger growing, the pressure inside her head increasing until she thought it would explode.

She was back in the waiting room, watching through heavy-lidded eyes as Carter tended his patient. The light sent piercing slivers of pain through her brain. In contrast to the blurred haze of seconds before, she could see with brutal clarity, see the perspiration on Carter’s face as he breathed into the other man’s mouth.

She narrowed her eyes against the light, watching him still.

She could smell him now, the aftershave partially masking the scent of fear. It was not fear for the patient, she knew, but for himself. Nothing he did was for anyone else and even as he worked to save a life, it was to protect himself from his accusers.

The others came into the room, taking over.

Carter moved away then, putting distance between himself and his patient. Abigail could sense his relief.

It was not right, she thought.

Then they wheeled the patient out of the room, everyone moving alongside. In seconds they were gone. The department secretary stood in the main doorway, watching as they disappeared down the hall.

Abigail turned her attention to Carter who leaned against the wall with a look of smug satisfaction on his face.

It was a look she knew very well, having seen it on a hundred faces since she was very young. A look that served to remind her that she was a child nobody wanted. A look that closed her out of a world for those who had.

In that instant, her hatred for him was complete.

In that instant, he fell to the floor.

Dead.

Her headache was gone.

Twenty-two

“I’m not a radiologist,” Quinn said, “so I might be missing it, but I don’t see anything in Abigail’s CT scans that indicate a tumor.”

“The radiologists can’t find it either,” Joshua acknowledged. “She could be hypersensitive or perhaps the tumor is not dense enough to show up on the scans. But her symptoms are very specific…”

“You’ve ruled out a pseudotumor?”

“Every clinical finding…indicates something much more critical than intracranial hypertension.”

Quinn returned the scans to him, watching as he put them in chronological order. “How are you going to proceed?”

“She’s scheduled for the magnetic resonance scanner…if anything can image a tumor, the MR scanner can. I’m considering requesting a consult for mapping the electrical activity of her brain at Children’s Hospital in Boston. We need to locate the mass, if there is one; there’s not much we can do medically until we determine location.”

“Until then…?”

“At this point, my priority is not to do anything to make her worse.”

“She seems to be doing fairly well,” Quinn commented, recalling Abigail’s bright-eyed vigilance of the night before.

Joshua nodded. “She has periods of relative normalcy, but when she has a spell, as she calls it, she is one very sick little girl.”

“It’s odd that her headaches come and go, sometimes without treatment.”

“That’s why they initially suspected that it might be psychosomatic. But there is no pattern to the spells, no trigger that they could identify.”

“What was the date of onset?”

“She was six…about two and a half years ago.” He walked to the filing cabinet, opened the top drawer and placed the file folder containing the CT scans behind Abigail’s other records. “We haven’t made a lot of progress in two and half years.”

“If the magnetic resonance scans don’t locate the tumor,” she said, “what’s the next step?”

“Without an identifiable tumor? Treat the symptoms and wait, I suppose, until the next development.”

“Seems risky to do nothing.”

“Our best bet right now is to sit tight. She’s stable at the moment, and with any luck we’ll know soon what the problem is.”

Quinn hesitated. “I took the copy of her chart home last night…”

“And?”

“With her family history, she’s an ideal candidate for some form of hysterical illness.”

“Granted. But I can’t believe that a child—six years old when she first presented the symptoms —could fool a legion of neurologists and psychiatrists, all of whom are aware of the same questionable background.” He shook his head slowly. “She’s a clever child, but not that clever.”

Twenty-three

They descended at one o’clock.

Russell’s father, Tessi’s mother, and, sweeping into the room like a sudden whirlwind, Courtney’s parents.

The Whites were dressed in coordinated tennis outfits and he was carrying a racket which he used to tap on the end of Courtney’s bed.

“Smile, baby,” he said, “it can’t be as bad as all that.”

Tiffany White leaned over and almost kissed her daughter’s cheek. “How are you, baby?”

Courtney shrugged. “Ask the doctor.”

“Not a bad setup here,” David White said, looking around the ward. “At least it doesn’t smell like a hospital.”

“Nice and quiet,” Tiffany added. “You should be able to get a lot of rest.”

“I could use a rest.” He sat on the edge of his daughter’s bed. “Another late night last night.” He winked at her. “Your old man is getting in pretty tight with the powers that be in this town.”

Courtney did not respond.

“Well,” Tiffany said after the silence had lengthened, “I’m re-doing your room while you’re here…I found the most marvelous fabric for curtains, and I’ll have them make a ruffle for your bed.” She smiled brightly. “It’ll be the most beautiful room…wait and see.”

“Got another party tonight, baby, so we won’t be by for visiting hours this evening. You know how long it takes your mother to get ready.” His eyes wandered past his wife and appraised Tessi’s mother.

Courtney followed her father’s glance and then looked back at her mother. “What color?”

“What?”

“What color will my room be this time?”

“Pink and lavender.”

David White looked at his multi-function sports watch. “We’ve got the court at two. I think we’d better hustle on over there.”

“We’ve got plenty of time,” Tiffany protested.

“Yeah, but I need a drink before I play…a little hair of the dog to clear my head.”

“But we’ve hardly had a chance to talk…”

“Courtney understands, don’t you, Courtney?”

“Yes…I understand.”

“How’s Aunt Flo?” Russell asked.

“She misses you; it’s awful lonely without you there to keep her company at night when I’m at work.”

Russell reached up, grasping the trapeze that was mounted above his bed and pulling himself carefully into a sitting position. “You remind her to lock up at night…sometimes she forgets.” His face became wistful. “Wouldn’t it be great if we could surprise Aunt Flo…if I just walked in the door without saying a word?”

“That’d be a surprise, all right, although you can be sure that I’d catch hell for not telling her about something so important.”

“Could it happen? When you talked to Dr. Fuller, did he say there was a chance?”

“He seems to think he’ll be able to help you somehow,” Delano said, eyes intent on his son.

“Help me walk?”

“Not exactly.”

“What did he say, then?”

“You know how doctors talk…”

“But he didn’t say it couldn’t happen?”

“No,” Delano admitted, “but don’t get your hopes up too high; I don’t want you to be disappointed again.”

“I just have a feeling, Dad, that this time’ll be different…something’s going to happen…I can feel it.”

Tessi concentrated on smoothing the fur of her koala bear’s ears.

“Did you hear me?” Alicia asked.

“Yes.”

“Then answer the question.”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what?”

“I don’t know the answer.”

Alicia drew in a breath, struggling to keep her temper. “Tessi, you’ve lived out on that ranch,” she spit the word out, “for six months of the year ever since your father and I were divorced. Don’t tell me you don’t know how far it is to the nearest town.”

“I don’t know,” Tessi said cautiously, “how many miles. Daddy never told me.”

“Well, how long does it take to drive into town? A half hour? Forty-five minutes?”

Now Tessi looked up, measuring her mother’s expression. “About a half hour,” she said. The corners of her mouth turned down.

“So…this last time you got sick, it took at least thirty minutes to get you to a doctor.”

Tessi nodded, rubbing her thumb gently across the koala bear’s black button eyes.

“How often does your father leave you alone on the ranch?”

“Not very often.”

“But he has to work, doesn’t he? He can’t take you with him.”

“Maria’s there most of the time.”

“Maria?”

“The housekeeper.”

“You’ve never mentioned a housekeeper before.” The tone of her voice was accusing.

Tessi did not reply.

Alicia sighed, leaning back in the chair and watching her daughter’s rapt examination of the toy bear’s toes.

“How long has this Maria been working for your father?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was she there last year?”

“I guess so.”

“The year before?”

“I think that was the first time she came.”

“Did your father tell you not to tell me about her?”

“No…I didn’t want to upset you.”

“Upset me? Why would it upset me?”

Tessi’s brows knitted together in consternation. “She’s very pretty.”

Alicia stiffened. “Are you saying that your father and Maria…”

“No.” Her look was a plea for absolution. “I don’t know.”

“Well,” Alicia said, after it was clear that Tessi had nothing else to say, “I think Mr. Kraft would be interested in hearing about all of this…very interested indeed.”

Twenty-four

“Can you feel this?” Quinn ran her fingers across the instep of Russell’s left foot.

The boy shook his head. “Do it harder.”

She complied, watching his face for a sign. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling in fierce concentration.

“Russell?”

“Nothing.”

She replaced the covers over his legs and moved to the head of the bed. “You look much better today,” she said, wrapping the blood pressure cuff around his arm.

“They told me,” he said suddenly, “that whatever I couldn’t do six months after I fell, I would probably never do again. They never said straight out that I’d never walk again.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“About not walking?”

“About not being told directly.”

Russell hesitated. “It makes me mad. Everything that has happened, happened to me. Just because I’m a kid, they think they don’t have to tell me the truth.”

“Sometimes the truth can be very painful.”

“So can lies.”

Quinn waited for him to continue.

“Sometimes, they’d be talking in my room like I wasn’t even there. About options.” His eyes sought hers. “I used to wonder what would happen when they ran out of options.”

“Russell, you have to try and understand. Sometimes it can be very frustrating to be a doctor, to try your best to help a patient and not be able to. And sometimes the only way to deal with that frustration is to put some distance between yourself and the problem. Talking about options is a little easier than talking about the pain and suffering of a human being.”

“It just seemed to me like they didn’t care.”

“If you care about someone very much, it’s hard to stand by and not be able to help them.”

“I suppose…”

“All we can do is our best, and we haven’t given up.”

“Not yet, anyway.”

“Not any time.”

When he did not respond she waited, allowing the silence to lengthen. Watching him, she could sense his uncertainty but she knew that he had to find his own answers.

Finally, he looked up. “My dad won’t give up either.”

“And neither will you.”

“I guess I just forget that no matter what happened to me, it could have been worse. I could’ve been killed.” There was no self-pity in his voice, only a matter-of-factness which belied his years.

Now he pulled himself upright, holding onto the trapeze with one hand while he rubbed vigorously at his thighs with the other.

“I can feel it, sometimes. Transient tact…tact…”

“Transient tactile sensations.”

“Whatever it is, it feels good. I think maybe if I could just forget that I can’t walk, sort of surprise myself…do it without thinking…maybe I could do it.”

“Just maybe you could,” Quinn said quietly.

Twenty-five

“Alicia, calm down.” Howard Kraft leaned back in the leather chair and looked out the window of his penthouse office. The tinted glass made the afternoon sun look like a copper coin suspended in the hazy Los Angeles sky.

“How can I calm down?” her voice demanded and he frowned at the shrillness of her tone.

“Be still for a minute and listen. The fact that your ex has a housekeeper, albeit a pretty one, is not justification for denying him joint custody.”

“But if they’re having a personal relationship…”

“Very few judges expect parents to remain celibate until the child is eighteen.”

“I won’t stand for him flaunting his affairs in front of Tessi.”

“You don’t know that he did,” Howard said reasonably. “It’ll take more than suspicions to stand a chance in court. In any case, I wouldn’t recommend you pursuing that course. He can kick up a little dirt on you, I imagine.”

“I…we’ve been very careful,” she said pointedly.

He grimaced. “But careful enough? I’m not willing to chance it, whether you are or not.”

For a moment she said nothing.

“Then,” she said, just as he was beginning to hope that was the end of it, “we’ll concentrate on the isolation of his so-called ranch.”

“Alicia…”

“No, I intend to go through with this. You should have heard the way he spoke to me.”

“Revenge is never good motivation for going to court.”

“Then what about God-damned justice!”

This is rapidly getting out of hand, he thought. “Darling,” he said, trying another tack. “Don’t forget how exhausting being a full-time mother can be…you always say that you never have time for yourself when Tessi’s with you.”

“I’ll manage.”

“Mm…I’ve got a call on another line. Why don’t you think about it, sleep on it, and give me a call tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow or whenever, I’ve made up my mind,” she said.

He hung up the phone and got up to fix a drink.

Alicia had surprised him, he had to admit. He had never heard her so emotional and in fact it was something he would not have expected from her.

She always impressed him as being made of ice; she was more than a little frosty in bed.

But she was beautiful and self-possessed, and offered a pleasant contrast to his wife’s Italian temperament.

This, however, would not do. Her passionate desire to thwart James Wolf could prove dangerous. He was well aware of her hatred for her ex-husband but it was suddenly clear that she wanted to destroy the man. He knew enough about human nature to know that, once begun, an act of vengeance could consume them all.

He did not intend to be fodder for Alicia’s rage.

Their affair was over.

He would have to be very careful from now on. Feeling betrayed, she might direct her bitterness at him. He had a lot to lose.

He would tell her, when she got back to Los Angeles, that his wife suspected something. He had worked with a number of private investigators…he knew enough about their tactics to be able to bluff her. Suggest that he was being followed. Suggest that they not see each other until everything died down…which would never happen.

It would be over quietly. Without fireworks.

It would work. It had worked before.

Twenty-six

Tiffany White stood in the living room, looking with satisfaction at the new rosewood end tables. They were perfect in the room, their highly polished surfaces reflecting the light from the fireplace.

The entire room was perfect. David had wanted a leather sofa but she had prevailed and even he had to admit that the burgundy crushed velvet lent just the right touch of…elegance? Or indulgence. Either way, the effect was right.

She moved to stand in front of the fireplace, turning to look at the room from that angle.

No, she wouldn’t change a thing.

David liked to remind her that she’d said that about the French Provincial furniture last year. It had looked nice in the summer, but somehow it seemed too cold for the winter, even a mild California winter.

She put her hands behind her back, warming them.

Upstairs, David was still in the shower. She could hear the water running and, faintly, her husband’s voice singing an unidentifiable song.

She had been ready for at least twenty minutes and it would be twenty more before David would be ready to go. It didn’t matter, though. It gave her a chance to wander through the house and admire her handiwork.

Tomorrow she would get started on Courtney’s room. The painters were due at ten and the new carpet would be laid at four. She had not made up her mind about the furniture—it was practically brand new—but the overhead lighting fixtures had to go.

So many details.

David liked to tell everyone that she had no business sense but she wondered whether he could coordinate so many projects at once. There were times when the entire house was filled with workmen, all of whom needed choices made, orders verified, and work approved.

David, despite his pretensions, was no businessman himself. He tended to forget that the money that paid for his downtown office and briskly efficient secretary was hers.

It had been quite a surprise; she never would have guessed that her thrifty widowed father would take out so many high value insurance policies. Or that he owned five hundred acres of land.

The only hint she ever had was her father’s sly remark that she’d get her reward—for being a devoted daughter—when he went on to his.

Now it was there, in dozens of bank accounts. More money than she had ever imagined.

It was a challenge to find ways to spend it.

David had ideas, naturally; the office and secretary were one. But she kept a tight rein on how much he spent, putting only a specified amount into his accounts each month. The rest was in her own private accounts and in trust for Courtney.

Courtney. She felt bad about how little time they spent with their child. Especially now that she was in the hospital.

The vacation to the Bahamas had been David’s idea of family togetherness, but for the most part, Courtney was left to amuse herself while they indulged in adult pleasures.

Shopping was the only activity she shared with her daughter, and even that had not gone right. Amazing that a child as beautiful as Courtney would care so little about her own looks.

If left to her own devices, Courtney dressed indifferently, making no attempt to highlight her best features. It had gotten to the point that Tiffany seriously wondered if the child was colorblind.

She had come to regard dressing Courtney as a form of decorating. With Courtney serving almost as an…accessory…to the rest of the house.

She honestly did not know what Courtney would do without her.

Well, that was what a mother was for.

Twenty-seven

“There’s this house,” Russell said, keeping his voice low so the nurse would not hear them. “You can’t see it from the street ‘cause it’s all overgrown with bushes. It’s gotta be a hundred years old, at least, and all the paint is peeling off, you can see the wood is gray underneath.”

His eyes had adjusted to the dark and he looked at the three faces watching him.

“It’s like the wind is always blowing, and you can hear it whistling through the attic…and the windows are so dirty that it’s never really light inside. If you turn your back on the windows…there are shadows…you can feel the darkness creep up on you, like someone’s standing behind you, but…no one’s ever there.”

One of the girls giggled and was hushed by the others.

“So nobody wants to go there alone, because of the stories…about the man who lived there…and how one night he just up and murdered his wife and son, and a maiden lady who boarded with them…”

“The sheriff went to the house when nobody had seen the man for a couple of weeks…and he found the man sleeping in the same bed with his dead wife…and maggots were crawling out her nose.”

“Oh, gross,” someone said, and the giggling resumed.

He waited for them to be quiet again.

“So the sheriff takes him away to the funny farm and goes back to the house to remove the bodies. And it’s getting dark. He has to wait at the house for the undertaker…and he hears a noise…like someone walking in the upstairs bedroom. So he starts up the stairs…real slow…careful not to make a sound. The wind has come up and branches are scraping against the windows…and it starts to rain…and just as he reaches the top of the staircase…the lights flicker…and go out.

“He’s standing there in the dark at the top of the stairs and trying to listen to see from which direction the sounds came from…but the rain is beating against the roof and the wind is howling so he can’t really hear it anymore…and he walks toward the little boy’s room…the door is part way open and he doesn’t remember it being open before.

“When he reaches the door, just as he’s reaching to push it wider open…it closes.”

“I’d die,” one of the girls said.

Ignoring her, Russell continued: “So now he’s standing there in the dark hall, certain that someone is on the other side of the door. He’s not really afraid, ‘cause he’s got a gun, but he’s a little nervous…so he takes a deep breath…and reaches for the door.

“Just as his hand closes around the doorknob, it starts to turn. Then…the door opens…and there’s nothing there. But the little boy is gone from his bed…

“The sheriff stands there, not really believing it, thinking that the darkness is playing tricks on him…but the longer he looks at the bed…the more obvious it is…the boy is gone.

“Now he decides to go back downstairs and wait for the undertaker…and he turns around…and framed in a doorway across the hall is a figure…just standing there.

“Lightning flashes and in those few seconds he can see that it’s the wife…eye sockets empty and flesh rotting off her bones.”

“I’d die,” someone repeated.

“Then, as he watches, she turns and goes back into the room. He turns and runs back down the stairs, out the front door and smack into the undertaker…

“He refuses to go back into the house until daylight. So…he’s up all night because he doesn’t want to go to sleep and have nightmares and by morning he’s pretty much convinced himself that it was all some kind of…illusion.

“When they get back to the house…he and the undertaker…the sun is shining…everything looks normal…and they go straight upstairs and into the wife’s room.

“There she is…and the little boy’s in bed beside her.

“And the story goes…whenever the father was away at night, the little boy used to sleep in his mother’s room…and after the sheriff took her husband away…she went to get her son.

“And every night since then, her ghost walks the hallway, searching for her son.”

“Russell,” Abigail whispered. “Do you think that’s a true story?”

“The part about the murders is…that’s why nobody lives in the house. I don’t know about the rest; it happened a long time ago.”

“How long?”

“Before my Dad was born, and he’s forty.” Russell tried to stifle a yawn.

“I wonder,” Abigail said, turning her eyes to the ceiling. “I wonder.”

Twenty-eight

Francine loved working the graveyard shift. By midnight, all of the evening people were gone and the laboratory was all hers. There usually weren’t more than one or two blood draws during the night—mainly in the emergency room—and she had a lot of time to study. Her grades had improved markedly since she’d changed from the day shift and even though she was a little tired during her classes, it was worth it.

She walked around the department, shutting off extra lights, satisfying herself that everything was in order. The cleaning crew had been through and the counters and floors were spotless; it even smelled clean.

At the desk she settled down to read. It took a little self-discipline to stay awake, since she couldn’t tolerate coffee and didn’t believe in other stimulants, but she was getting used to it.

The girl who used to have the night shift always complained about hearing strange noises. Noises that couldn’t be explained away as the blood refrigerators or other machines. On one occasion she had barricaded herself in the bathroom after hearing what she described as “rustling” coming from the pathology lab. It was a couple of hours before anyone noticed her absence from the desk and thought to look for her. It took them twenty minutes more to convince her to unlock the bathroom door.

Francine was not the nervous type.

The first sound, like something being pushed across a counter, came, indeed, from the direction of the pathology lab.

Francine lowered her book but did not put it down. Sitting very still, she listened, her mind searching for a plausible explanation for the sound.

A jar, left for some reason on its side, rolling on the counter? Set in motion by…what?

When the sound did not recur, she nodded, satisfied, and turned her attention back to her studies.

The second sound was unmistakably the sound of glass breaking. It, too, came from the pathology lab.

Francine closed her book, placing it on the desk. She was not alarmed; a jar left on its side, once set in motion by—whatever—could very easily roll off a counter. Still, she was in charge and she didn’t want anyone to think she wasn’t doing her share of the work just because she worked nights. Part of the work was the clean-up of broken glass.

She found the whisk broom and a dustpan and walked toward the pathology lab.

Pathology was a lab within the lab, set apart from the rest of the department by four glass walls. Working in pathology, Francine had often thought, must be like being inside a fish tank.

She reached into her pocket for her keys, peering through the glass at the same time. Nothing was moving.

It was a little awkward, trying to select the correct key without putting down the broom and dustpan and using both hands, but she managed. As she extended the key toward the lock, something moved. She watched, amazed, as a glass flask slid across the full width of a counter and fell to the floor.

She blinked.

An earthquake?

A second flask, this one half-filled with an amber liquid, seemed to vibrate for just an instant before it, too, shot across and off the counter.

Francine put the keys back in her pocket.

A row of five-millimeter glass vials vibrated in their rack before shattering, one by one, with a force that sent pieces of glass flying across the room.

She took a step backward.

Up on the specimen shelf, organs and tumors floated in formaldehyde, quivering as the jars rattled. The first jar, with what she suspected was an excised melanoma, slid off the shelf and cracked open on the counter. The specimen was sliced neatly in two by a sharp angle of glass and one half disappeared over the edge of the counter.

Francine shivered, her eyes drawn again to the specimen shelf, trying not to think of the purplish, fibrous mass somewhere on the pathology lab floor.

A second, larger jar balanced on the edge of the shelf. Ropes of intestine twisted inside the jar, necrotic fissures in almost geometric patterns along the length of one side.

The jar fell on its side, cracking on impact.

Uncoiling, the specimen slithered wetly over the surface of the counter before dropping over the side to the floor.

Francine could smell it now, the pungent odor of formaldehyde and the putrid stench of diseased tissue.

She swallowed hard, trying not to taste the hot bile rising in her throat.

She took another step backward, intending to turn away, not to look anymore…but her eyes relentlessly focused on yet another specimen jar…a fetus.

Unbidden, the image of that tiny form, sliding in the muck on the floor, filled her mind.

Turning, she stumbled over to a sink and vomited.

Behind her, the sound of glass breaking continued on.

WEDNESDAY

Twenty-nine

“It was quiet,” the night nurse said, pouring coffee into her mug. “Ballard seemed restless for a little while…”

Mary Aguilar nodded, making a notation on the nursing notes.

“Vital signs are within normal limits for all of them,” the night nurse continued, “although White did complain this morning of feeling warm. Her temperature was 98.8°.”

“I’ll keep an eye on her.” Mary looked at the video monitor; the children were eating breakfast.

“You’ve got a full schedule today,” the night nurse said, consulting a flow sheet. “Ballard has a nine o’clock in radiology for her MRI scan, Delano’s due in hydrotherapy at eight, they’re beginning a blood culture series on White, and Vincent is being evaluated by a psychiatrist this afternoon.” She tossed the clipboard on the desk. “Good luck.”

Aguilar shrugged. “It’ll get done.”

“And I got a call from engineering. They’re going to install the video recorder this morning.”

“Good.”

“I’m not sure I understand what the purpose of taping is.”

“To verify subjective observational data…or at least that’s what it says in the program protocol.” She looked back at the monitor. “And to keep us on our best behavior.”

“What do you mean?”

“Dr. Fuller told me once that he believes a patient’s personality can influence the quality of care he or she receives. Doctors and nurses are only human—”

“Some of them, anyway,” the night nurse remarked.

“—and certain types of people can be difficult to deal with.” Aguilar hesitated. “I’m a good nurse and I’m proud of my work, but I’m willing to admit that I’ve had a few patients whom I just didn’t like.”

“So have I, but I don’t think you have to like every patient you care for.”

“A patient who whines all the time is less likely to be listened to than one who doesn’t. Patients who are openly hostile are sometimes avoided by hospital staff, and when they do receive treatment, it is often given almost grudgingly.”

“But it is given.”

“Even so, you have to remember; in a hospital setting, we are the care-givers. We fill an emotional need as well as a medical or physiological one. If we withhold the emotional support…the caring…if we rely solely on technology to diagnose and treat, we may be omitting the most crucial aspect of healing…the human touch. Babies can die from emotional deprivation…failure to thrive, or whatever you want to call it. They all—even the most difficult ones—need us to care.”

“Is it that much of a factor with children?” The night nurse looked at the monitor. “I would think that just naturally there would be more tenderness in caring for a child.”

“There are some children who don’t invite tenderness. And there is evidence that some abused children actually seem to trigger violence…in cases where only one child in a family is abused.”

The night nurse sighed. “They look so innocent.”

Thirty

“If one more person suggests it was an earthquake,” Simon Harrington said, looking on as the cleaning crew shoveled up the mess on the pathology lab floor, “I’m going to throttle ’em.”

“Never crossed my mind,” Joshua said.

“Nor mine.” Quinn sniffed cautiously. “Evil spirits?”

Simon smiled appreciatively, giving Joshua a look she could not interpret. “More likely. Know any exorcists?”

“Not locally.” She covered her nose and mouth with her hand. “It certainly smells like the devil.”

“Did anyone see what happened?” Joshua asked.

“A lab tech.” Simon turned away from pathology, leading them out of the laboratory and into the hall where the air was breathable. “She said everything ‘jumped’ off the shelves.”

“Was she hysterical?”

“No, quite the opposite. She said, very lucidly, that the specimen jars moved, one by one, to the edge of the shelf and appeared to jump—that’s the word she used, jump—off the edge.”

“Suicidal specimen jars.”

“So it would seem.” Simon shook his head.

“Did you check the shelf supports? Maybe one gave way and the shelf was tilted enough to send the specimen jars over the edge?”

“I thought of that but no such luck. I hope our insurance will cover the damage, although some of those specimens will be difficult to replace.” Simon looked back through the laboratory door at pathology where the cleaning crew was loading the red contaminated material bags into a wheeled garbage can. “Suicidal specimen jars indeed.”

Thirty-one

Anne worked quickly, positioning the lift behind the boy’s wheelchair and setting the brake. She released the harness and brought it down until it was in position to the boy’s left.

“This won’t hurt,” she said, unstrapping the buckles and maneuvering the belts under his thighs and across his back. He was painfully thin and the harness was loose when she finished. The bathing trunks he wore were large as well and her heart ached at the sight of him as he waited, shivering, for her to lift him into the therapy pool.

She moved behind the lift and pressed the lever which raised him until she was able to move the wheelchair out from under him. Then, carefully, she guided the lift until the boy was suspended over the water and began to lower him.

“It’s warm,” she promised.

She thought he looked paler than he had when he’d arrived and opened her mouth to ask him how he felt when he smiled at her. Reassured, she continued lowering him into the bubbling water.

When he was at the correct level, she locked the lift into position. The water came up to his shoulders and he lifted his chin, looking at her with wide eyes.

“It’s okay,” she said, wishing desperately that she could remember his name. “The water won’t get any higher.” She knew from experience that, strapped in place, some of the patients felt they were in danger of drowning. “Just relax.”

The boy nodded and allowed his eyes to close as the water foamed around him.

Anne checked the brake on the lift for a second time and then went to the desk to finish the boy’s paperwork.

Russell Delano. Russell. She would try to remember. A spinal cord injury. She looked across the room at his pale face.

When she had decided to train to work in physical therapy, she had somehow never considered the hopeless cases. She’d always imagined herself helping rehabilitate patients who were, inevitably, curable. And there was a great deal of personal satisfaction in helping people regain their strength and mobility.

But the cases like Russell…where nothing she did had any effect…

Negative thoughts.

She had to stop thinking that way.

There were such things as miracles.

That was her dream; a miracle. She sat back in the chair, drawn, as always, into the familiar scenario.

The patient was a young man, impossibly handsome, sensitive, intelligent, rich…

Unable to walk since a fall (from a thoroughbred stallion?), he was brought to her for therapy.

At first, he was silent, almost brooding. But as the weeks passed he opened up, sharing with her an intimacy he had never known with anyone else.

She became his strength, encouraging him, supporting him, always there when he needed her. And he very much needed her.

Then, one day, having worked beyond exhaustion, she would faint.

And he would get to his feet, overcome with love, and rush to her side. And, music swelling in the background, he would carry her off to be his wife.

It was a wonderful dream.

It was a far cry from the reality of a twelve-year-old boy with wasted legs and hopeful eyes.

Ashamed, she looked toward Russell.

He looked even paler than before.

“Russell,” she said, getting to her feet. The steam rising from the heated water made it hard to see him clearly. “Are you all right?”

As she came closer she saw that his eyes were closed and his head tilted back.

“Russell?” Alarmed, she ran the remaining distance to the pool, noticing that his mouth was slightly open, his lips tinged with blue.

“Oh God.” For half a second she stared at him, not willing to believe her eyes. “Oh God.” She lunged for the lift, pushing the lever to raise him out of the water; it moved impossibly slowly.

As soon as he was out she swung the lift around, reversing the gears to lower him to the floor.

His body was completely limp.

She hesitated. It would take a few seconds to call for help and she could not estimate how long he’d been unconscious…how long he’d been without air.

Kneeling beside him, she unbuckled the harness and put her ear to his chest while searching for a pulse in his throat. His pulse, mercifully, was present.

She hyperextended his neck and opened his mouth. Pinching his nostrils to prevent the air from escaping, she breathed quickly and forcefully into his mouth. His chest rose slightly.

“Please, Russell,” she said before lowering her mouth to his a second time.

Her face was wet and she realized she was crying.

The next time up she gasped for air.

“Please, God…make this my miracle.” She looked down at the boy’s thin chest.

It moved.

He was breathing.

She sat back on her heels, reluctant to leave him alone while she called for help.

Thirty-two

“What it is,” Tucker Smith said, “is a big magnet and a computer.” He looked at Abigail. “The field strength of the magnet is 0.6 Tesla…I don’t expect you to understand that…I’m not sure I understand it entirely, but one tesla is equal to ten thousand gauss. But then…you wouldn’t know what that is either.”

Abigail waited, watching him intently.

“Gauss…the earth’s magnetic field is one half to one gauss, so you can imagine how strong this magnet is.” He patted the outside of the imaging chamber.

“The way it works,” he continued, “is that the magnetic field excites the hydrogen nuclei in the body which send off radio signals…the scanner receives the signals which are converted into two-dimensional images by the computer.” He gazed fondly at the scanner.

“This room was built of stainless steel, wood and copper…which are non-ferromagnetic. And the windows between the imaging room and the operator console are shielded by copper screening.”

“How long will this take?” Abigail asked.

“Oh…sorry.” He looked at her sheepishly. “I always forget that the patients aren’t as fascinated by all of this as I am. Okay, let’s get on with it.”

He helped her up onto the examination table, his fingers cold on her neck as he positioned her head into the molded headrest.

“Now the table will move until you’re partially inside the chamber…you’re not claustrophobic, are you?”

“No.”

“That’s good. I’ll be in the other room, behind the windows. I’ll be able to see you from the console. If you have any problems, just raise your hand, and I’ll come in to help you. Okay? Any questions?”

“No.”

He pushed a switch, activating the table which moved slowly into the imaging chamber.

Inside the chamber, Abigail closed her eyes.

At the console, Tucker Smith logged on and began recording the images of Abigail Ballard’s brain. Dr. Fuller had ordered both sagittal and transverse studies which Tucker programmed, watching the images with total absorption. He pushed the view select button for transverse after the sagittal views were completed and glanced through the window at Abigail…or what he could see of her.

It was going well.

Abigail felt it in the little finger of her right hand; a warm, tingling sensation. Like before, only stronger. It moved along the outside of her hand, up her arm to the right side of her neck. Growing warmer, it spread across the right side of her face and scalp.

She smiled, hidden from view.

“Almost done,” Tucker said, turning from the console to see who had come in.

No one was there.

Perplexed, he looked back at the video screen and then beyond it into the imaging room. He was certain that he’d heard a door open and close; there were only two doors that it could be.

That door was closed too.

“Hearing things,” he said to himself.

The last transverse slice was digitized and filmed and he logged off the computer and shut down the magnet.

As he finished he had a sudden strong feeling that someone was standing behind him and he whirled around.

Again, no one was there.

He helped Abigail down from the table and walked with her back to the radiology lobby.

For the first time since they’d installed the magnetic resonance scanner, he was not eager to get back to the department.

Thirty-three

“It’ll only be for a few hours,” Quinn said, watching as the orderlies transferred Russell from his wheelchair to the bed.

“I hate ICU,” Russell said.

“I want you under close observation until I’m sure you’ll be all right and ICU is the best place for you to be right now.” She waited until the orderlies were gone. “Tell me what happened.”

“I told you.”

“Russell,” she lowered her voice, “I think there’s something you’re not telling.”

He wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“The therapist said you never indicated that you weren’t feeling well. Was it that sudden? One minute you felt fine and the next you were unconscious?”

“I don’t remember.”

“I think you do.”

“Where’s Dr. Fuller?” he asked.

Quinn did not answer. She reached out and turned his face toward her. “Talk to me.”

“I don’t remember.”

“I refuse to believe that anyone as bright as you are would not recognize the early signs of syncope. Were you light-headed or dizzy?”

“I…yes, a little.”

“Why didn’t you call for help?”

For a moment they looked at each other.

“You told me that you didn’t like it when doctors weren’t honest with you,” Quinn said. “It works both ways. I can’t really help you if I don’t know what happened.”

“I can’t tell you what I don’t know.” His voice held a hint of sullenness.

She hesitated. “What do you want me to tell your father? That I don’t know what happened to you? That for no apparent reason you just passed out? That you could have died?”

“I’m fine now.”

“You were unconscious and you weren’t breathing,” she stated flatly. “What if it happens again?”

“It won’t,” he said and now his eyes were clear and intent. “I won’t let it happen again.”

“I want vital signs every thirty minutes,” Quinn said to the ICU head nurse. “And a portable chest x-ray to be certain he didn’t aspirate any water. Also a blood sugar now and again in four hours.” She frowned, looking across at the boy’s pale face. “Put a cardiac monitor on him…just in case.”

The head nurse, who had been writing steadily, nodded. “Right away.”

“Let me know immediately if this condition changes. I don’t want any more surprises.”

She found Joshua in his office.

“How is he?”

“I wish I knew.” She sat down and leaned back in the chair, eyes closed. “Physically, I think he’ll be fine. Emotionally…”

“Are we talking about the same kid? Russell is one of the most emotionally balanced patients I’ve ever treated.”

“I don’t know him as well as you do, but I’d say he’s more than a little withdrawn. He’s evasive about what happened this morning…” She opened her eyes to find him watching her. “I think he’s hiding something.”

“Hiding what?”

“That’s what I don’t understand. The therapist said it all happened within a matter of minutes. What could have happened in so short a time to make him withdraw like that?”

Thirty-four

“Daddy?” Tessi sat upright, her face eager.

“Little Dove.” James Wolf moved soundlessly to his daughter’s side and leaned down to kiss her.

He smelled of the outdoors and Tessi wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face in the soft cotton fabric of his shirt. She could hear his heartbeat and she clung to him, feeling secure in a way she never was with anyone else.

“I missed you, Daddy,” she murmured, feeling his gentle hand stroking her hair. “I want to go home.”

“Soon.”

“I want to go home with you.” She leaned back so that she could see his face. “I want to go back to the ranch.”

“It’s your mother’s turn to have you.” There was no anger in his voice but she felt his sadness.

“Mother asked a lot of questions about the ranch,” Tessi said, not wanting to add to his sadness but needing reassurance.

He nodded. “I know.”

“She’s mad at us.”

“At me. Not you.”

Tessie shook her head. “She is mad at me, I know she is.”

“Your mother loves you, Little Dove. If she is mad at anyone else, it is herself.” He sat on the edge of the bed.

Tessie studied her father’s face. “She doesn’t want me to live with you at all.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“I just know. She said she was going to talk to Mr. Kraft.”

At the mention of Kraft’s name, James smiled faintly. “Don’t worry about Mr. Kraft.”

“Why can’t…” her voice trailed off, her eyes downcast.

He waited for her to continue and when she did not, he finished for her: “Why can’t your mother and I live together?”

She nodded miserably.

“Because we’re too different. We want different things and we choose to live in different worlds.”

“But you were married…”

“A long time ago. We were very young. I wasn’t like the boys she grew up with and she needed to show her independence from her parents. She thought it was romantic to marry an Apache warrior and live on a reservation. She wasn’t prepared for what she found.” He brushed the hair back from Tessi’s face. “She had a bad time of it, I don’t deny that. The night you were born I was with a work party, trying to shore up the levee. It was raining and there was no one to take her into town…the tribeswomen didn’t know that she had intended to deliver in the hospital. She delivered in the way of my people, squatting on a dirt floor. She was scared and in pain, and half-delirious by the time I got there. There was nothing I could say after that to make her stay.”

Tessi’s eyes were questioning.

“I followed her to the city and we lived there…she went back to college and I went to work driving a cab. It was a world as alien to me as the reservation had been to her…and one day I watched as a man put a gun to an old lady’s head, took her purse and then blew her brains out.” His look was haunted. “After that there was nothing your mother could say to make me stay. I went back to the reservation and she filed for divorce.”

“She never could see,” he continued, “that her world was more savage and frightening than mine.”

Tessi hugged her father again. When she closed her eyes, she could imagine herself back on the ranch, the sun warm on her skin, the wind lifting her hair as she walked. It was her home.

She wanted to go home.

She had to go home.

Thirty-five

Quinn walked across the hospital parking lot to her car, shivering slightly as the sun disappeared behind a cloud. The weatherman had been promising rain but, with her winter coat still packed away, she hoped he was wrong.

She might have been wrong to tell Joshua Fuller about her misgivings concerning Russell. In retrospect, it was possible that she had overreacted.

She unlocked the car, checking the back seat more out of habit than the fear that someone might be lurking there.

That was what was missing from Russell…the self-protective instinct. Why hadn’t he called out for help?

Something was not right.

Pulling out of the parking lot, she forced herself to concentrate on driving; three months in E.R. had convinced her that distractions on the road could exact a heavy price.

Being home in the middle of the day was something new for her. She did not see anyone on the way between the carports and the apartment, and the apartment itself was blessedly quiet.

Lunch could wait.

She went into the bedroom, pulled the drapes closed, then lay down on the bed. Eyes closed, she tried to empty her mind of thoughts of Russell…and Julie.

There was something in Russell’s evasiveness that reminded her of Julie. Something in his eyes.

An attitude of wariness that implied distrust.

He hadn’t been like that before; Julie always was.

Julie had been born when Quinn was fifteen, born of her father’s second marriage. In the three years before Quinn left for college, she had become increasingly aware of how…different Julie was from the young children Quinn babysat with.

Julie never ran nor did she exhibit the natural inquisitiveness of the other children. She preferred to be alone and usually could be found, alone in her room, tiny face solemn as she neatly arranged her toys.

Quinn accepted her stepmother’s pronouncement that Julie was just a quiet child. Her father seemed almost relieved, as if the prospect of an active, noisy three-year-old was something he’d rather avoid.

There were things, though, that weren’t as easily explained away.

Her fascination…obsession…with dead animals or insects. She collected them, a fact they discovered after Carol noticed an unusually strong odor coming from Julie’s closet. She found, in a cardboard box, a dead mouse, the partially eaten remains of a small bird, grasshoppers, flies, a wasp, and the severed tail of a lizard.

Her father disposed of the collection without comment.

Julie, with a desperation that Quinn had never seen her display before, set about the neighborhood in search of replacements.

Carol began to inspect Julie’s room on a daily basis.

Julie found new places to hide her treasures.

Even when Carol discovered the still-warm carcass of a puppy hidden among the winter blankets, no one suggested that anything was really wrong with Julie.

It was a phase, they said, that she would outgrow in time.

So, too, was Julie’s intolerance of noise. It was a passive intolerance—if anything was too loud for her, she would cover her ears and withdraw to her room where she would sit by the window and cry.

For this, they took her to a hearing specialist who tested her and found her hearing to be normal. She was not, as Carol insisted, overly sensitive to sound.

The specialist suggested a psychiatrist but the prospect of taking a three-year-old in for analysis was absurd, they agreed, and nothing more was done.

Quinn was glad to go away to school.

She was little more than an occasional visitor at home for the next eight years and Julie was growing up a stranger to her. They had nothing in common except their last name and their father.

There was nothing of their father in Julie; she was a faded reflection of Carol, like a photograph that was underdeveloped.

The summer after Quinn finished her residency, she came home, at her father’s request, to spend a month before going on to Stanford.

It was the summer that Julie turned thirteen. She had, apparently, outgrown her morbid preoccupation with death although she still hated loud noises. Their father joked that Julie was the only teenager in town without stereo headphones glued to her ears.

With both her father and Carol working during the day, Quinn was content to sleep late and do nothing much at all after nearly ten years of intensive study and work.

She was a little surprised to find Julie spending so much time at home.

They fell into a pattern: sleeping late, a light lunch on the screened porch, and polite conversation.

After the first week, Julie began to open up. She admitted that she had no friends and didn’t feel she needed any. The girls her age were mindless children.

But even as she talked, Julie’s pale hazel eyes were fixed on some distant object. She did not look at Quinn and she sat, knees drawn up to her chest, stiff and untouchable.

Quinn found the sessions disturbing. As the days passed, Julie progressed from revelations to tirades as she detailed every incident—real or imagined—that had added to her isolation.

Then, in the last week, Julie calmed down. She even smiled while they talked, although she still would not meet Quinn’s eyes. She dragged the rocking chair from the kitchen to the porch and sat, rocking, for hours on end.

The last Sunday before Quinn had to leave, the family went on a picnic. It was a hot, still day and they lounged in the shade, drinking lemonade and planning for Christmas.

Julie was quieter than usual, smiling her odd smile and plucking grass.

When it was time to go, Julie hung back, walking behind them.

Quinn, turning and walking backward, watched Julie’s face change, the smile fading. It was as if the bones had melted away; her face was blank, empty.

Quinn turned away.

A week later Julie was dead. She had hung herself from a rafter in the attic. There was no note.

She wondered, now, if the reason that Russell had not called for help was because he did not want any.

She might be reading too much into it. She had not yet come to terms with Julie’s death or her failure to recognize the signs preceding it. Perhaps her suspicions about Russell were a manifestation of her guilt over Julie.

Whatever the cause, she was determined that she would never again be deaf to a cry for help.

Thirty-six

Alicia Vincent waited for her ex-husband to leave the children’s ward. It was nearly three and visiting hours would be over soon; he had been with Tessi since one.

She had been waiting for almost two hours now and she was getting impatient. What could he find to talk about for two hours? She could not imagine.

Well, it would not be much longer. She searched through her purse for the gold cigarette case Howard had given her and, finding it, extracted one of the thin brown cigarettes. The gold lighter, also a present from Howard, was not working so she dug through the glove compartment for a pack of matches.

She was almost entirely a social smoker—she enjoyed the brief intimacy of having a man light her cigarette—but right now she needed the nicotine.

Breaking the law was not something she was going to enjoy.

If they had been in Los Angeles, she would have found someone to handle it for her, but Spring Valley was a small town. She would have to do her own dirty work.

She inhaled deeply, drawing the smoke into her lungs.

There he was, walking toward the beat-up truck he’d had since she’d known him. The truck where they’d first…no, she didn’t want to think about that.

She slouched down in the seat but he did not look in her direction. She turned the key in the ignition and put the car in gear, ready to follow him.

It was tricky, staying far enough behind so that he would not be able to see her clearly in his rearview mirror without losing him. She had done what she could to disguise herself—her blond hair wrapped in a black scarf, dark glasses, and driving a rental car—but there was always a chance that he would recognize her.

He made a left turn onto a dirt road and she was forced to wait for traffic before making the turn after him. Worried that she might lose him, she accelerated, raising a thick cloud of dust in her wake.

The road was extremely bumpy, though, and she had to slow down. Leave it to Little Wolf to find the most beaten track in town. Where could he be going? It seemed unlikely that a motel would be located in the middle of nowhere.

She slowed to a crawl as the road began to wind up a small hill. The road was only wide enough for one vehicle and she held her breath at every curve.

As she neared the top of the hill, there, suddenly, was the truck, parked in a narrow turnabout. He was nowhere in sight.

She drove slowly past and saw, hidden among the trees, a cabin. This was it.

She continued on, needing to find a place where she could park the car. As she crested the hill it became apparent that this was indeed some sort of motel…cabins dotted the landscape. There was only one other car, though, so she drove on. She would certainly be noticed if she parked and set off down the hill on foot.

Just beyond the cabins, the road came to an end.

It took a little maneuvering to turn the car around and by the time she made it, she was furious…incensed…at James Wolf. Why couldn’t he stay at a civilized motel?

He was becoming more savage with each passing year. She would not be at all surprised to find out that he ate the raw meat of animals he caught with his bare hands.

She parked the car in a minuscule turnabout a half a mile below his cabin and changed her shoes. She could not recall the last time she’d worn tennis shoes but the salesman had told her that they were quiet (he hadn’t, thank God, asked why she needed them to be quiet).

Locking her purse in the trunk and pocketing the keys, she started the hike up to the cabin. She had, at the most, an hour and a half of daylight, and she did not want to be out walking after dark. She hurried.

When she neared the cabin she moved off the road and into the trees. The truck was maybe fifteen feet away and in it, unless he had changed his habits, were the keys.

The keys she intended to take.

She stared at the cabin, trying to determine whether he was moving around inside. When she didn’t detect any movement after a few minutes, she crouched down and ran to the truck.

Her heart was pounding and her mouth was dry but she had come this far and she would go through with it. The passenger door was unlocked and she inched it open just wide enough for her to slip through.

Half lying in the seat, she pulled the keys from the ignition and began to search for a house key.

There were only two keys that might be it and she worked them off the heavy ring.

Replacing the key in the ignition, she heard the slam of a door.

She backed out the passenger door and restrained an impulse to run. If it was James, there was no way she could outrun him. If it wasn’t him, there was no reason to run.

She eased the door back until it was nearly closed, and waited.

She heard nothing else. Taking a deep breath, she ran back toward the trees. No one followed her.

She didn’t breathe easily until she was back on the main road.

She had done it. It was unlikely that James would notice the missing keys until he went home to New Mexico. By that time, she would have what she wanted…proof that a woman was sharing his home without the benefit of marriage.

Photographs of the desolate countryside and the primitive ruins that he called a ranch. Anything that could be a danger to Tessi…barbed wire, a well shaft, whatever. She would convince a judge that the ranch was no place for a child.

And she knew that James would never leave the ranch. Even if it meant losing custody of his own daughter.

He had made that choice before; if he wouldn’t live in the city to keep his wife, he wouldn’t for Tessi either.

That was when she really began to hate him, when she realized he had chosen a patch of barren ground instead of her.

He would be very sorry. She would see to it.

James Wolf stood at the window long after Alicia left, watching the clouds darken in the sky.

Thirty-seven

“Her temperature is a hundred and one, point six,” the afternoon nurse said, handing Courtney’s chart to Quinn. “I haven’t been able to locate Dr. Fuller.”

Quinn nodded and flipped to the vitals chart where the steady rise in temperature was displayed graphically. Blood pressure was holding steady at 100 over 70, pulse a bit rapid at 80, respirations 16.

“She had aspirin at noon and four,” the nurse continued, “but her temp keeps going up. She’s been sleeping all afternoon.”

“It’s too early for blood culture results,” Quinn said, thinking aloud, “and I’m a little hesitant to start her on antibiotics without the C & S. But if her temp continues to go up…keep the Phenobarbital ready in case she starts to seizure.”

Courtney was on her side, the covers pulled up to her neck. Her face was flushed and her skin dry and warm. Her eyes opened slowly as Quinn stroked her forehead.

For a split second Courtney looked at her without pretense but then, like a shade being drawn, her defenses returned. Now the look was distant.

“How are you feeling?”

“Warm. Sleepy.”

“I need to examine you,” Quinn said, taking the covers and pulling them down, leaving just the sheet. “It won’t take long.” She placed the stethoscope on Courtney’s chest. A steady heartbeat, no murmurs. Lung fields were clear.

She palpated the abdomen, watching Courtney’s face for indications of tenderness, finding none. No masses or swelling, nor were the inguinal, axillary, or cervical lymph nodes enlarged. She drew the blankets back up.

Using the otoscope, she examined the child’s ears: the tympanic membrane was not inflamed or bulging and there was no discharge.

The throat was negative, tonsils intact, pharynx appeared normal. Gag reflex was present, tongue midline.

She took the penlight and flashed it in Courtney’s right eye, then the left. Pupils equal and reactive.

A negative exam.

Quinn turned to the nurse who was standing at the end of the bed with the ENT tray.

“What was her admission urinalysis?”

“All of the admit work-up was normal. CBC, UA, chest x-ray…”

“Well, I want a clean-catch urinalysis just to be sure.” She looked at Courtney. “Do you have any pain anywhere?”

“No…I just feel warm.”

“Nausea?”

Courtney shook her head no.

Quinn brushed the girl’s cheek with her fingertips. “I want you to call the nurse if you start feeling sicker.”

The green eyes closed. “Okay.”

“I want you to push fluids…apple juice if she’ll drink it…check input and output, too. And check her electrolytes.” Quinn sat at the nurse’s station, chart in front of her. “Switch from aspirin to acetaminophen. If the fever increases, up the dose to q 3 hours. I want you to have cold packs on hand in case we have to start cooling measures.”

“What do you think it is?”

“According to the chart, they’ve ruled out juvenile rheumatoid arthritis, collagen inflammatory diseases, mononucleosis…your guess is as good as mine. If it is a viral infection, it’s pretty well hidden.”

“Oh, Dr. Logan,” the nurse said as Quinn prepared to leave. “What should I do with these?” She held up two video cassettes.

“I’ll take them.” As she neared the desk, hand outstretched, she looked at the monitor, first at Courtney and then at Abigail.

For some reason, she was not surprised to see Abigail sitting cross-legged on the bed, watching the other child.

Thirty-eight

Joshua went over Abigail’s MR scans for the third time, squinting in frustration.

There was nothing there, no mass, no abnormality, nothing.

He had been so sure that there would finally be a cause for the headaches…certain that he would have identified an enemy.

The scans were textbook perfect of a normal brain.

“Nothing,” he said aloud, still perplexed. Reluctantly he pulled the scan films down from the viewbox and turned it off.

If Abigail did not have a brain tumor, what did she have?

The technician had gone for the day and the scanning room was dark. Joshua sat at the computer console and stared through the observation window at the ghostly outline of the machine.

On one hand, he was glad it wasn’t a tumor since success rates in treating brain tumors in children weren’t that great. But—there was no denying it—he was back at first base. Every symptom had pointed so clearly toward a tumor.

He glanced at his watch and was surprised to see it was almost five o’clock; he’d arrived at three, just as the technician was leaving. Amazing that his pager hadn’t gone off, unless the shielding that kept the magnetic force from interfering with electronic devices also shielded against radio signals…that had to be it.

And Quinn was probably looking for him.

Eyes the color of smoke.

“Work,” he reminded himself, getting to his feet.

He had a master key and he locked up the department on his way out, pausing for one last look at the scanner.

He hadn’t walked ten feet down the hall when his pager began to beep insistently. He turned back to find a phone.

“Joshua?”

Her voice, although composed, conveyed a sense of urgency.

“What is it?”

“Courtney’s had a seizure.”

“I’ll be right there.”

He ran the distance from the main building to the children’s ward, grateful for the remaining moments of daylight.

The curtain was drawn around Courtney’s bed and he forced a smile for Abigail and Tessi, who looked more than a little alarmed, before ducking inside.

Quinn and the nurse had stripped the bed and wrapped Courtney in wet sheets.

Courtney was limp, her mouth agape.

Quinn, her lab coat pushed up to her elbows, was wringing out a wet towel.

“I’m very glad you’re here,” she said, brushing a dark strand of hair out of her face.

He found himself watching her as she talked.

“It was very fast…I’d only finished examining her about ten minutes before…she was tonic when I got here. It took both of us to give her the Phenobarbital.” Her smoky eyes burned into his. “Her temperature had spiked to 104.2°. I was afraid I was going to lose her.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t around to help, but you handled it as well as I could have.”

“Now look at her.” She indicated the monitor. “Like nothing happened.”

“The recuperative powers of children…”

“I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Thirty-nine

Abigail was angry.

No one would tell her what had happened to Russell, why he had been gone all day.

The nurse would only say that he would be back “later,” whenever that was. It was not a satisfactory answer.

To make matters worse, Courtney’s parents had arrived. They were dressed up and, judging by the way Courtney’s father kept looking at his watch, didn’t have much time, so they made up for it in a flurry of concerned cooing.

It bothered her, the way they were fussing.

She turned away, pulling the covers over her head, trying to shut out the sound of their voices.

Nestled in her cocoon, she remembered the sounds of other voices, voices brimming with good intentions. Grandmother said that good intentions had probably done more harm than evil ones. People doing what was best.

But they would be the judge of what was best.

Abigail hated Sundays.

“Poor dear,” she would hear them cluck behind her back.

She tried not to hear them, tried to listen to the preacher, but the whispers never stopped.

“Poor little thing.”

Her grandmother wouldn’t let her go to Sunday school with the other children, insisting that God’s word was too serious to be given like a spelling lesson.

“Such a plain little thing.”

The preacher always made a point of patting her on the head after the service.

So many faces peering at her.

“. . . killed herself…”

Fussing at her, their faces smiling.

“. . . crazy…”

Her grandmother holding her hand tightly so that she was forced to stand among the whisperers.

“. . . no loss…”

“. . . poor little…”

Abigail pressed her hands to her ears.

Forty

“You poor little thing.” Tiffany White patted her daughter’s hand.

“I don’t know,” David White said, winking. “I’ve heard that Phenobarbital is some pretty good stuff.”

Courtney did not answer.

“Floating a little?” He leaned over and attempted to lift her eyelids. When she moved her head, he laughed. “I think Courtney’s wasted.”

“David…”

“Think if I threw a fit they’d give me some of the good stuff?”

“David…”

“She knows I’m only joking.”

“It isn’t funny…the poor little thing.”

Forty-one

The house was quiet.

Tiffany White shifted in bed, listening for a repeat of the sound that had woken her up. Beside her, smelling strongly of alcohol, her husband slept undisturbed.

It had sounded very much like a door being closed.

Coming in or going out?

She looked at David’s face, debating whether or not to wake him up. He could be very unpleasant when he’d had a lot to drink.

The dinner party had ended at ten in deference to those who had to work the next day. She had taken refuge in the bathroom when they got home so that David would go to sleep without making a drunken attempt at seduction. Waking him now might result in such an attempt.

There was always a chance that the sound was just her imagination, part of her dream.

Courtney. She’d been dreaming of Courtney.

Bringing her home from the hospital and into the house…

The house was so cold, a thin coat of ice covering the walls, frost, like lace, blanketing the furniture…

The ice crunching under their feet as they made their way up the frozen staircase…

A horrible dream.

She looked at the clock: just past midnight. She hadn’t gotten in bed until eleven-thirty, could only have been asleep for minutes…it must have been part of the dream.

Just as her eyes closed, another sound…not a door…caught her by surprise. Not as identifiable, not as clearly heard.

“Damn.”

With one more look at David, she slipped quietly from the bed.

The thick carpet on the landing cushioned her steps and she moved silently toward the staircase. When she reached the banister she looked over into the darkness below.

All was still.

She had probably left the French doors in the dining room open. Since they opened into an enclosed patio, it was unlikely that anyone could have gotten in. It was probably just the wind.

Still, she tightened her grip on the four-shot derringer before she started down the stairs.

The French doors were closed and locked.

Tiffany hesitated, no longer certain of how to proceed. She hadn’t heard any other noises and now she questioned whether it all wasn’t her imagination. She was tired, perhaps still half-asleep.

Pulling her robe around her, she turned away from the window, suddenly anxious to be out of the room.

As she neared the door she sensed movement behind her and she whirled, bringing the gun up as adrenaline pulsed through her veins.

She was alone in the room. The doors were glowing, a pale light that increased in intensity as she watched.

Confused, she took a step toward them, stopping short as drops of light—like rain—fell to the floor, skittering across the polished wood in all directions.

She blinked and looked back up at the windows where tendrils of light had begun to extend from the glass onto the walls. In seconds the far wall was covered with liquid light. It was spreading to the other walls…

A smell, like damp wood smoldering, filled the room.

Burning?

She had to get out…

Turning she saw that at least a dozen of the writhing coils had passed beyond the door.

“No,” she whimpered, “please, no.”

The red lights of the fire trucks were reflected in the windows of the house.

Tiffany watched, standing in the driveway, as the firemen tracked through the front door and into the house. David, eyes still heavy with sleep and seemingly struck speechless, stood at her side.

Tiffany was numb. There was something dreamlike about standing in the dark of night, helpless. There was nothing she could do. No control she could exert, no matter how desperately she wanted, that would make it any different.

It began to rain.

“No smoke damage,” the fire captain said, taking off his helmet and running a slightly grimy hand through his hair. “Just the walls charred and we…contained it on the first floor.”

“What the hell happened?” David was as subdued as Tiffany had ever seen him.

“Ah…” the captain looked at Tiffany. “You had a very intense fire which was not fully involved…the damage was limited to the structure and the…contents were not…”

“Wait a minute.” David shifted from one foot to the other. “How could it burn the walls and not the furniture?”

“I don’t know. It…the drapes weren’t damaged either. And, as I said, there was no smoke.”

“How is that even poss—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Tiffany interrupted, for the first time feeling the cold. “It doesn’t matter how it happened; it just happened.”

THURSDAY

Forty-two

“Russell.” Mary Aguilar got to her feet as the orderly wheeled the boy through the door. “I’m glad you’re back with us.” To her practiced eye he looked pale and wan.

He smiled faintly. “Thanks.”

She nodded at the orderly and stood aside as they passed, then followed them into the ward.

Abigail was the only one awake and Mary smiled in her direction before pulling the curtain around Russell’s bed. She pulled back the covers and watched as the orderly lifted the frail youth from the wheelchair and onto the bed.

“There,” she said, pulling the covers back up. “Breakfast should be arriving any minute; is there anything I can get you before then? Juice? Milk?”

“No thanks.”

“Do you want the curtain open or drawn?” she asked, preparing to leave.

“Closed for now…I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Oh.” She nodded her understanding. “ICU can be upsetting.” She waited, sensing that he wanted to talk.

“I was there before, right after the accident, but I didn’t remember…all of it.”

She nodded again. “I’ve worked in ICU, I know what you mean.”

“Those people.” He looked at her with eyes that were somehow old. “They brought a man up from the emergency room in the middle of the night. He’d been in a car accident. He was all bloody.”

Mary took his hand between both of hers, rubbing warmth into his slender fingers.

“His head…had gone through the windshield and he was almost scalped…” He swallowed. “His face was so cut up it didn’t look like a face anymore.”

“Oh Russell.”

“They were taking him to surgery this morning just as I was being brought back here. I heard the nurses talking…they’re going to amputate his legs…”

She squeezed his hand.

“My Dad…is a long-haul truck driver. He’s always on the road.”

“That doesn’t mean he’ll be in an accident,” she said firmly.

“I couldn’t stand it if anything happened to my Dad.”

“I know.”

His eyes were glistening but his voice was amazingly steady. “I would never let them do that to him…”

“Do what?”

“I’d never let them take his legs…”

Mary pulled the curtain closed behind her. The best thing for Russell was sleep. Everything else could wait.

Abigail was gesturing to her to come nearer and she complied, careful not to wake the other girls as she crossed the ward.

“How is he?” Abigail whispered.

“He’ll be fine,” Mary assured her, touched at the child’s concern.

“No one would tell me last night…what happened to him?”

Seeing nothing but honest distress at Russell’s absence, Mary replied: “He passed out while he was in physical therapy. The doctors thought it best that he spend the night in ICU.”

“Passed out?”

“Yes, he was in the whirlpool. The water may have been too warm for him, or…well, it doesn’t matter. He’s fine now.” Something flickered in the girl’s eyes. “Don’t worry, Abigail.”

“I’m not worried,” Abigail said softly.

Behind her, Mary could hear the outer doors open and then the smell of bacon filtered in.

“Breakfast is here,” she announced and turned to go back to the nurse’s station.

“Not at all,” Abigail was saying as she left.

Forty-three

Anne unlocked the door to physical therapy. At seven-thirty, she was half an hour late but the first patient wasn’t scheduled until eight if she remembered correctly. Thirty minutes was plenty of time to get set up.

She almost hadn’t come to work today. If there had been anyone available to work her shift she would have stayed home and tried to forget about Russell Delano.

But she knew, without asking, that none of the other therapists would be interested in working for her. This close to Christmas—twelve days away—no one wanted extra hours. The holiday parties had begun in earnest and the day shift started too early in the morning for serious party-goers.

Sighing, she hung her purse in her locker and slammed it shut with a little more force than necessary.

Well, she was here now and she’d make the best of it.

The whirlpool. She walked toward it, determined not to think of anything other than the routine.

Water on to bring the water level up, a quick temperature check (had the water been too hot?), and verification that all of the air jets were operational.

She stood gazing at the water as she waited for the tank to fill. With the jets turned off the water was still and she could see her reflection. The water was not kind to her; she looked haggard and drawn.

She had spent a sleepless night, unable to stop herself from thoughts of Russell Delano.

He could have died while under her care.

A few minutes more of daydreaming and he could have died. It could have happened so easily.

Over and over as the night wore on she’d relived the incident. His face haunted her.

Then her second mistake: not calling for assistance. She had managed to get him breathing again but it could have easily gone the other way. If it had, her failure to call for help might well have been a fatal error. There was no excuse for it, either. The code button was only across the room. Seconds away.

She had called ICU at six a.m. and was told that the boy was about to be transferred back to the ward. He’d spent an uneventful night. There were no indications of aspiration pneumonia.

Even with that reassurance, she was uneasy.

The water level was high enough and she turned the handle, shutting off the flow and wishing she could stop her thoughts as easily.

Maybe at lunch she would walk over to the children’s ward and say hello. See for herself that he was okay. Replace the image in her mind— face slack and mouth cyanotic—with one that she could live with.

She turned, thinking that she’d heard the door open, but it was shut and no one was in sight.

Nerves.

Crossing to the windows, she opened the louvered blinds, letting what little light there was—it was still raining—into the room.

Time to start the morning paperwork, but she stood, eyes fixed on the horizon. Dark clouds hung in the air, somehow malevolent.

Around her, the room grew still.

She began to breathe through her mouth, not able to get enough oxygen through her nose. The air was thick, stagnant and she gasped as it seared her throat.

She put a hand to the wall to steady herself.

Something was…

The code button. She took a faltering step toward it. Her legs threatened to give way beneath her.

She clawed at her throat struggling to breathe.

The department door opened and an orderly backed through, pulling a wheelchair with her eight a.m. appointment.

Cool air filled her lungs.

Forty-four

The surgical scrub nurse glanced at the clock: 8:05 a.m. and one hour, fifteen minutes into the procedure.

As was her practice, she had reviewed the patient’s chart meticulously while the anesthesiologist had been putting the patient under. After ascertaining that the preoperative check list had been correctly completed, she turned to the emergency department record.

The face sheet listed the complaint as auto versus auto. The patient, Thomas Foster, was one of the drivers, and had not been wearing a seat belt. He had been trapped in his car, having sustained crush injuries to both legs, a fractured pelvis, and internal injuries. He had multiple lacerations, including a severe scalp wound.

He was, she noted, twenty-five years old.

Upon arrival in the emergency department his blood pressure was eighty over sixty, pulse one hundred, respirations thirty-two. They had established an intravenous line of 1000 cc’s of Ringer’s lactate; drawn blood for a blood count, chemistry, and type and crossmatch; obtained portable x-rays of chest, abdomen, pelvis, legs, and skull. Catheterization elicited 300 cc’s of blood-tinged urine.

The patient was negative for pneumothorax and was put on a respirator.

He had been transferred to ICU since the only available anesthesiologist was in the middle of an emergency surgery at another hospital some thirty miles away. The anesthesiologist had arrived at 6:30 and at 6:40 the patient was brought to surgery.

The surgeons had been working thus far to stop the abdominal bleeding and had removed the patient’s spleen. Another doctor was standing by to assist in the bilateral amputation of both legs at mid-thigh. The patient’s scalp wounds and other lacerations would be tended to afterward.

The green surgical drapes which bordered the abdominal incision were dark with blood and she noted that the glass suction bottle was nearly full of blood aspirated from the surgical site.

They were preparing to close and she assisted in the instrument count to make sure that none of the needles or clamps or even surgical sponges were left inside the patient. Then she watched the surgeon suture the incision, marveling at the speed at which he completed the intricate stitches.

For a minute they stood waiting as the anesthesiologist took the vitals readings to determine whether the patient was stable enough to remain under anesthesia for the amputations. With the intra-abdominal bleeding stopped and on his second unit of packed cells being transfused, his blood pressure was steady if still a little low.

The anesthesiologist nodded and they prepared to continue.

They removed the sterile drape from the legs which were badly mangled, reminding her of those cartoons where a steamroller would flatten the villain. She had seen the x-rays; there was not enough bone left intact for any type of reconstruction. The skin was badly avulsed.

The surgeons were trying to decide how far up the thigh to cut, discussing future prostheses and the patient’s potential for rehabilitation. The third surgeon, a self-professed “leg man,” ended the discussion by taking a scalpel and slicing into the skin.

As he did, she heard a loud crack and felt something wet strike her in the face. She instinctively closed her eyes.

“God damn, I’m cut,” someone said.

Opening her eyes she saw the surgeon holding out his hand. A piece of glass had cut through the glove and was embedded in the back of his hand which was bleeding profusely.

There was blood all over, though. Blood and glass, and after a moment it dawned on her; the suction bottle had somehow exploded, showering the operating room in blood and glass splinters.

Forty-five

“Doctor Logan?” The accent was unmistakably British.

Quinn turned, careful not to spill her coffee.

The man, a tall, distinguished-looking Englishman, extended his hand. “They told me I’d find you here. I’m Dr. Campbell. Ian Campbell.”

“You’re the psychiatrist who examined Tessi Vincent yesterday.”

“None other. I spoke briefly with Dr. Fuller and he suggested that I meet with you.” He looked around the busy cafeteria. “Is there somewhere we could talk?”

She nodded. “My office…let me just pay for this.”

“I’ll take care of it,” he said, and before she could object, he had done so.

“I’ve only done a preliminary examination of Tessi,” he began when they were in her office. “And my review of the family history has been somewhat perfunctory. But I can make some basic assumptions based on what I’ve observed so far.”

Sensing that he was waiting for her permission to continue, she nodded.

“We have a child who is hypertensive with borderline anemia and episodes of psychogenic vomiting.” He smiled apologetically. “I’m sure you know the medical history better than I. The family is living apart with the child spending six months of the year with either parent. She attends a private school in Los Angeles which allows her to study by correspondence during the time she is in New Mexico. She does well in school although she is considered to be ‘quiet’ by her teachers.

“Her socialization is hampered by the fact that she lives in a locked, restrictive situation in Los Angeles, and while in New Mexico she is isolated by distance. The life styles are radically different—from a rigidly structured environment to a relaxed and…permissive one.

“Tessi is very guarded when questioned about her preference but, describing happy periods in her life, she always talks about New Mexico.” He paused, a hint of a smile on his face. “Running barefoot, hunting for geodes, sleeping out of doors…can’t say I blame her.”

His smile was contagious and Quinn found herself liking Ian Campbell very much.

“As you might suspect, Tessi is a very confused little girl. Her loyalties are divided and she is in a bit of a quandary. She loves her parents and wants them both to be happy. That,” he concluded, “is a very tall order for a ten-year-old.”

“Or for anyone.” Quinn sat back in her chair. “How closely related is her illness to her family circumstances?”

“My fellow psychiatrists would have me kicked out of the profession for answering without months and months of evaluation, but,” his smile was dazzling, “I’d venture they’re one and the same.”

“You’re saying…”

“Eliminate the family problems and Tessi is a well child. Or to put it another way, you’ll be hard put to cure the child without first curing the family.”

“Damn,” Quinn said softly.

“Damn is right.”

Forty-six

Alicia Vincent listened to the phone ring, tapping the bedside table with manicured nails.

Where was he? It wasn’t like Howard not to be in his office at least part of the morning, even if he had to be in court. His office was within walking distance of the courthouse and he often took advantage of delays by going back and forth.

She had been trying to reach him since seven; it was now almost ten. Reluctantly she hung up the phone.

She was getting restless, anxious to take action against James Wolf. Little Wolf.

Rising, she crossed the room to the dresser where the keys were. She opened the small manila envelope and up-ended it, allowing the keys to spill out.

She wondered if she’d even need it; one of the supposed virtues of living in that wasteland was being able to leave the doors unlocked. It was possible that the ranch—unattended—was secure as Fort Knox even with the doors open. It made sense in a twisted way; who would think that there was anything of value in such a place?

Regardless, stealing the keys was, if nothing else, a symbolic act on her part.

She returned them to the envelope.

She turned and went back to the bed, sitting on the edge, her hand resting inches from the telephone. Another attempt to call him might only serve to frustrate her but she’d never get through if she didn’t try.

Or…she could call the regular office number and leave a message with his secretary. She was a client, after all, and she needed his advice.

He didn’t like her to leave messages, implying that his secretary, an efficient but dowdy woman, was not above adding drama to her own life by reporting to Howard’s wife. Frequent calls, cryptic messages, a too-personal reference—all would be mentioned to Mrs. Kraft.

Alicia was not concerned about Mrs. Kraft; a woman who was unable to keep her husband satisfied (James was a different matter) was not worth bothering about. If she found out about them, the most likely result was a divorce.

Besides, this was an unusual situation. She needed to act before her ex-husband returned to the ranch and discovered the absence of his keys.

She had not memorized the office line and she had to look it up in her address book. Then, taking a deep breath, she began to dial.

“Howard Kraft.”

His voice was such a surprise that she was momentarily flustered. “Howard?”

“Yes?”

She was positive that he recognized her voice. “It’s Alicia.”

“Mrs. Vincent…how nice to hear from you.”

Someone was obviously listening to his side of the conversation. “I need to talk to you. I’ve…taken the first step.”

“Really?” From the tone of his voice she knew that he was not pleased.

“I’ve gotten the keys to his kingdom and I want you to hire a photographer…”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Vincent, I only have a minute. I’m due back in court.”

“Just find someone you trust and have them meet me. I’m flying into Santa Fe on Saturday, arriving at noon…”

“Yes, well, good to talk to you and I’m glad to hear that things are going so well for you.”

“At the airport…Saturday at noon.”

“Goodbye.”

The phone clicked in her ear.

Forty-seven

“Would you like to tell me what happened?” Joshua found it difficult to believe, looking at Russell’s face, that the boy had refused to answer Quinn’s questions.

“I told Dr. Logan,” Russell said, “I just passed out.” His blue eyes held no hint of evasiveness.

“And you don’t remember how it happened. What caused it?”

“How would I know what caused it? I’m not a doctor.”

Joshua smiled in spite of himself. “Yes, well. . . as a doctor, I can tell you that most patients have some indications—dizziness or sudden weakness or they’re light-headed—before they pass out. In most cases, if they recognize the symptoms, they have enough time to call out or even lie down before they lose consciousness.”

“I guess I’m not most cases.”

“The nurse’s notes indicate that you had breakfast before you went to therapy…”

“Yes.”

“All of your blood work is normal, including the blood glucose level. It wasn’t a hypoglycemic episode…”

Russell waited for him to continue.

“You hadn’t been medicated, your blood pressure was normal…it wasn’t a hypotensive or orthostatic hypotensive incident…I’m at a loss to explain what happened to you.”

“Does it matter? I mean, do you have to have a name for it? It just happened.”

“Doctors are funny that way. I like to know what’s going on with my patients.”

Russell shrugged. “I’d tell you if I knew.” His gaze was steady and open.

“Are these all of the videotapes?” Joshua asked, picking up the stack of six tapes.

“No, Dr. Logan has a couple more.” Mary Aguilar finished writing her notation on Russell’s chart and looked up at Joshua. “I don’t envy you, having to look through all those tapes.”

“The scan’s pretty fast. It shouldn’t take too long.”

“That sounds suspiciously like wishful thinking to me.”

“You know me too well.”

She smiled and nodded. “I read you like an open book…by the way, where is Dr. Logan?”

“With any luck she’s starting to review the tapes.” He looked questioningly at Mary. “What is that look for?”

“What look?”

“Your eyes are full of mischief like…oh, I see. You think that Quinn and I…”

“An open book,” Mary said.

Forty-eight

Quinn inserted the videotape into the player/ recorder and pushed the rewind button. According to the label, the first tape covered three hours beginning at 10 a.m. on Wednesday. An incident sheet completed by the nurses recorded their comments or observations for each three-hour period.

While the tape was rewinding she checked the connections from the first video machine to the second and then inserted a blank tape into the second machine. Using two recorders would allow her to make a condensed version of what she judged to be significant events. The second tape, then, would be reviewed by Joshua.

When her preparations were completed, she pushed the scan button on the first machine and sat back to watch. With no sound and at fast speed, the black and white tape reminded her of a silent movie.

If any of the children were aware of the closed-circuit camera, they gave no indication of it. Russell was not on the tape—he was in ICU by the time the recorder was installed—but Tessi in particular seemed oblivious to the watching eye. With her stuffed animals around her, she rubbed her stomach in a circular motion, over and over again. Was she in pain? Impossible to determine, but her face was fierce with concentration.

Courtney might have been dead for all the animation she displayed. Already beginning to run a temperature, according to the nurse’s notes, Courtney exhibited none of the restlessness that might be expected in a febrile state.

Abigail had returned to the ward after having the MR scan—which Joshua hadn’t shown Quinn yet—and appeared to have fallen asleep. Facing out the window, her back to the camera, she was as motionless as Courtney.

“All right, then,” Quinn said to the screen, settling in for what promised to be a long morning.

“How’s it going?”

Quinn turned her head slightly, keeping her eyes on the screen. “Come see for yourself.”

Joshua came up beside her, pulling a chair with him, and sat down. Without commenting, he handed her the six videotapes.

Stifling a groan, she took them and placed them with the second tape; the stack loomed, forbidding.

“Kids eating lunch,” he said after a minute had passed. “Not much action.”

“Are you kidding? This is a veritable frenzy of activity compared to the rest of the tape.”

“Oh my God…”

Quinn leaned forward in her chair. “What? What happened?”

“Look at Tessi…she’s putting ketchup on her mashed potatoes.”

Quinn laughed. “I gather you’ve never watched many kids eat.”

“I don’t have the stomach for it; that’s also the reason I’m not a surgeon, by the way.”

“Besides, I’m pretty sure that those aren’t mashed potatoes.”

“What is it then?”

“I think it’s tapioca.”

“No wonder her stomach hurts.” He leaned forward and pushed the stop button on the video player, then turned to face Quinn. “I talked to Russell just now.”

“And?”

“He says he doesn’t know what happened.”

“Do you believe him?”

“I guess I have to. He’s obviously the only one who knows what might have caused him to black out. I think it would be counterproductive to make an issue out of it at this point.”

Quinn was silent for a moment. “You’re right,” she conceded. “Maybe I made too much of it.” Frowning, she ran a hand through her dark hair. “It’s just…”

“What?”

Her eyes searched his face. “He didn’t seem to put much importance on the fact that he could have died.”

“Kids aren’t as big on ‘could haves’ as adults are,” Joshua observed.

“But…he wouldn’t even look at me.”

“That’s hard to understand.”

Quinn paused, unsure what his meaning was.

“Anyway, I felt that he was hiding something.”

“That doesn’t sound like Russell.”

“I don’t know him as well as you do,” Quinn said, “but I thought he wasn’t himself…sorry, I’m ranting again and it’s probably just an over-reaction.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, reaching over and taking her hand in his. “I’m not sure I’d trust a doctor who didn’t rant once in awhile.”

After Joshua left she remembered that she had not seen Abigail’s MR scans. She contemplated the stack of videotapes, knowing full well that she should continue her review of them, then put down the clipboard of the nurse’s incident reports.

The tapes could wait.

Having been warned by Joshua, she left her pager at the radiology department front desk with instructions to call her in the MR room if needed.

The room was like something out of a space fantasy: the scanner like an antiseptic monolith of some future world. A portal to another dimension?

She crossed to the control room, past the lurking machine.

Inside the control room, feet up on the counter, the tech sat reading the local newspaper. His concentration was such that he did not hear her approach and she stood, waiting for him to look up.

“Excuse me,” she said after a minute had passed. She looked at his name tag: Tucker Smith. “I’m Dr. Logan.”

Tucker Smith stood quickly, the newspaper falling forgotten to the floor.

“Ah…can I help you?”

“I’d like to look at Abigail Ballard’s scans.”

“Ballard…yes. I’ll get those for you.” In his haste he managed to catch the hem of his knee length lab coat on the back of his chair. He fumbled to get it free, the back of his neck flushing a dark red.

Quinn waited patiently.

When he had freed himself, he hurried to a filing cabinet and began to look for the folder containing Abigail’s records.

“You’re not doing scans today?” A plastic dust-cover was over the computer console.

“No…engineering is coming down to put in an intercom system.” He located the chart and closed the drawer. “Here you go…Abigail Ballard.”

She took the records and went over to the viewing screen. “Thank you,” she said, and then turned to look at the films.

Forty-nine

Abigail kept her eyes fixed on the wind chimes while she listened to them talk.

“One time when I got sick in Los Angeles, the nurse who took my blood forgot to take off that thing they tie around your arm.”

“Tourniquet,” Russell offered.

“Yeah…she just pulled out the needle and bent my arm up like they do. Then she went out of the room and I straightened my arm to look at it, and blood was just pouring out.” Tessi’s voice quavered only slightly. “It was dripping on the floor.”

“Did you take the tourniquet off?” Courtney spoke in a whisper.

“I was afraid to.”

“What happened?”

“Well, the doctor came in and saw the blood dripping all over everything and he untied the thing and put a big thick pad of cotton over the hole and held it real hard. I heard this sound— like you hear in a seashell—in my ears and got real sick at my stomach. He told me to put my head between my knees but every time I did, I saw the blood…my blood…and it made me even sicker.”

“Then what?”

“Then they held this thing under my nose—”

“Ammonia,” Russell said.

“Whatever it was, it smelled terrible and made me cough. Then they made me lie down and gave me a glass of water. And then I heard the doctor yelling at the nurse.”

“The first time I got an I.V.,” Courtney said in her soft voice, “it took them five tries to get it in the vein.”

“Them?”

“Two nurses and finally a doctor. They just kept sticking me and then moving the needle around under the skin…”

“Ouch.”

“Finally they wound up putting it in the back of my hand.”

“I’ve had one there,” Russell said.

“My arm was black and blue; I could hardly move it. Then the I.V. got blood in it and they had to take it out…” her voice trailed off.

“Did they put in another one?” Tessi asked.

“Don’t they always put in another one?” Courtney sounded resigned. “What about you, Russell?”

“There’ve been so many things.” He hesitated, sighing. “The thing that bothered me the most was the night I…fell. The medics put me on a back board and strapped me in, with sandbags on either side of my head. They kept saying ‘Don’t try to move…keep your body still.’ So I was very still, lying with my eyes closed, and they were talking about me. They weren’t talking loud, and the siren was going, so I couldn’t hear everything they said, but…they said I’d probably broken my back.”

Abigail, facing away from them, could feel Russell’s pain.

“When I got to the hospital, everyone was prodding me, could I feel this, could I feel that, don’t move, be still…then this male nurse comes in and starts to take my clothes off, for the x-rays, and he’s very rough, tugging on my jeans and it hurts and I’m not supposed to move at all but he’s moving me. Then he looks at me and I guess I was crying and he makes a face and says ‘This isn’t the worst thing that’s going to happen to you tonight…save your tears.’ “

“How mean,” Tessi said.

“Then they take the x-rays and I’m alone in the room, and all I can think about is that I wasn’t supposed to move. When Dr. Fuller came, I’d lost most of the feeling in my legs…so they put me in traction and took me to ICU.” His voice took on a different tone. “I had a lot of time to think about it, and I think I would have been all right if that nurse hadn’t moved me.”

They lapsed into silence.

Abigail closed her eyes, allowing her anger to grow.

Fifty

“I hate this job, I hate it, I quit.”

Marci looked over at Nadine. “What’s your problem?”

“This computer.” Nadine smacked the side of the computer console.

“You’d better not let anyone see you do that,” Marci warned. “Administration thinks the sun rises and sets in these things.”

“Well, administration can have them and I even have an idea where they can put them…”

“Wow, you are upset. What in the world happened?”

Nadine, despite department policy prohibiting smoking at the desks, lit up a cigarette and took a deep drag. “I’ve spent all morning entering those God-damned DRG codes in for the November discharges, so utilization can have their stinking statistics. All day,” she emphasized, “and it’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“Gone. Like, poof!”

“How could that be?”

“You tell me how could that be. I don’t know.”

“You must have hit the delete key by accident.”

Nadine shook her head. “No way.”

“Well, you must have done something…”

“I didn’t do anything. I didn’t hit the delete key, I didn’t read it into another file, I didn’t look at the stupid screen cross-eyed. But my file is gone.”

“Gone.”

“Poof.” Nadine exhaled a cloud of smoke. “And I don’t care.”

“What does that mean, you don’t care?”

“I’m not going to spend another four hours inputting, that’s what. I don’t care whether utilization gets their statistics or not.”

Marci frowned. “I think you’d better start another file.”

“Why? To feed this monster?” She swatted at the computer.

“Well, it’s your ass,” Marci said, returning her attention to her VDT. “But if I were you, I’d get started on that data before you get in trouble.”

Nadine stared serenely at the ceiling.

“I still think you must have hit the delete key,” Marci said, fingers flying over the keyboard.

Nadine did not answer, but blew smoke in the air.

“Hey,” Marci said after a few minutes had passed. “Hey!” she said louder.

“What?”

“My file…it ate my file!” Her expression was outraged.

“You must have hit the delete key,” Nadine said, smiling sweetly.

Fifty-one

Betty Jo tried to concentrate on reading the nursing progress notes on Mr. Calhoun. It was a hard thing to do with sweat dripping down the middle of her back.

“Did you call engineering to turn down the thermostats?” she asked the unit secretary.

The secretary did not look up from her reading. “Yes, I did,” she said in a sing-song voice. “An hour ago.”

“What did they say?”

“They said they’d take care of it.”

“Did they say when they would take care of it?”

“Not exactly.”

“Either they said when or they didn’t,” Betty Jo said, displaying what she thought was a mountain of patience when what she wanted to do was conduct exploratory surgery to see if she could locate the secretary’s brain.

“They said sometime today,” the secretary smiled. “They did not say the precise minute it would be done.”

“Great,” Betty Jo said. She got up from the desk, flipped the patient chart closed, and walked toward the nurses’ lounge.

It wasn’t much cooler in the lounge, but she got a soft drink out of the refrigerator and sat down to put up her feet.

It was just plain sweltering under all those lights at the nurse’s station. It wasn’t quite as bad in the patients’ rooms, but she didn’t think it would be kosher to wander from room to room, just to get a little air.

She almost never worked on the medical floor, but it was just her luck to get tagged on the day their heating went on the fritz.

Well, her shift was more than half over, so she’d gotten through the worst of it. And there was always a chance that engineering would get around to cooling things off.

How hard could it be, anyway? All of the environmental factors—temperature, air filtration and circulation, even the lights—were programmed into the computer. Someone had made a mistake when they were entering the settings. A simple mistake to make, a simple mistake to fix.

They had better do something about it soon, she thought. Even if they didn’t care about the nurses—and she often suspected that nurses were regarded as a necessary evil in the eyes of administration—they should think of all the money this excess heating was going to cost them.

The hospital had gotten very cost-conscious of late, and she wouldn’t be at all surprised to hear that whomever had made this particular mistake got called on the carpet for it.

If they put the punishment up for a vote, she was voting for a hanging.

Fifty-two

Her experience with magnetic resonance scans was, at best, limited, so she took her time reviewing them. The medical community was very excited about the technology which promised to replace computed tomography as the diagnostic imaging modality. She had read with interest arguments in favor of either method but, looking at the clear MR images, there seemed little doubt of its superiority.

Behind her, Tucker Smith was helping the engineer who appeared to be less than enthusiastic about his assistance.

“If you’d get out…move…”

“What? Over here?”

“There or anywhere but where you’re at.”

Quinn smiled to herself and put up the sagittal scans on the viewer, glancing at her watch as she did so. Eleven-thirty. The morning had passed slowly.

She was used to more activity than this. Seeing patients and doing work-ups was what she was used to; caring for only four patients was scarcely enough to keep her occupied. The other work, especially reviewing the videotapes, was more time-consuming but definitely less satisfying.

Joshua was still seeing private patients in addition to the children but he had turned down all of her offers to assist with those cases.

“You’re really the primary physician for the kids,” he’d said. “I want you to be readily available when they need you. I don’t want you to get hung up treating my private patients— some of whom are very ill—and not be able to respond quickly to calls from the ward.”

He’d made it easy for her to assume care for them, and in fact gave her total autonomy within the limitations of the research protocol. But it was his program and, now in motion, there was little for her to do besides evaluate test results, view the tapes, and respond to problems as they arose. Russell’s fainting spell and Courtney’s seizure, even occurring on the same day, did not begin to approach the level of intensity she was used to working with.

She returned her attention to the scans.

“You’re sure that thing is off?”

“Power’s totally off,” Tucker Smith said.

“Then I’m going inside to cut the hole for the speaker.”

Quinn turned as the engineer went through the door into the scanning room. “Would it be possible for me to look at some other scans? These look normal to me but…”

“Sure,” Tucker bounded across the room. “We haven’t taken many yet but I’ve got tons of reference scans…I’ve been collecting them.”

The sound of an electric saw filtered into the room. Even with the door closed, Quinn could smell the wood dust.

Tucker found what he was looking for and brought a stack of large manila envelopes over to the viewing area. The envelopes were marked with the anatomical areas and he thumbed through them.

“Brain scan, right?” “Yes.”

“Got a lot of those.” He handed her three bulging envelopes. “Transverse, sagittal, and coronal. I don’t have them divided into adult and juvenile, but the ages should be marked somewhere on the scans themselves.” He nodded his head emphatically.

“Thank you.” His eagerness to please reminded her of a puppy she’d once had; she was tempted to scratch behind his ears.

Then he was off, sticking his head around the door to ask the engineer if he needed any more help.

Quinn looked through the stacks of scans until she located what she wanted: a series labeled Jane Doe, age nine, diagnosis normal brain.

They were essentially identical to Abigail’s scans.

There were no masses, no abnormalities, in Abigail’s brain.

Even though she had read all of the consultations, reports, and conclusions from the various medical experts—which all pointed to the presence of a tumor—for some reason, Quinn was not surprised.

“What? What’s going on here?”

Quinn turned, recognizing panic in Tucker Smith’s voice. He was standing in front of the console, trying to remove the dustcover.

“What’s wrong?” She joined him at the console.

“Power’s coming up,” he said tersely, finally wrenching the cover off the machine.

The power button was glowing amber.

He pushed at the button. “It’s stuck…get him out of there.”

Looking through the window she saw the engineer flying backward toward the scanner, his face frozen into a grimace. The saw was imbedded in his upper chest. He struck the scanner with an impact that they heard in the shielded room.

Quinn started toward the door.

“No, wait…don’t go in there. If there’s any loose metal…” Tucker began to pound on the console with the side of his fist. “Off, God damn it.”

“Is there an electric breaker we can throw?”

“I think…wait…it’s off.”

Without thinking Quinn hurried into the scan room where the engineer, released from the magnetic pull of the saw to the machine, had slumped to the floor. Kneeling beside him, she felt for a carotid pulse.

Blood was welling from the chest which was split by the saw blade.

“Get some help,” she called to Tucker who stood in the door, eyes wide with fear.

The toothed edge of the saw blade was buried in the man’s sternum and she was unable to pull it free. The only thing she could do until help arrived was try to keep pressure on the bleeders, to try and staunch the flow.

The code team, when they arrived, worked rapidly to try and save the dying man. They worked in silence, without the customary bits of conversation which generally served as an outlet for tension. Someone managed to get the saw blade free from his chest.

They transferred him to a gurney just as his heart stopped.

They were unable to bring him back.

Someone handed Quinn a towel and she wiped her hands.

“I’ve called the coroner,” someone said.

As she passed through the control room she noticed Tucker Smith standing, looking at the computer console, tears running down his face.

Fifty-three

Lunchtime.

Anne locked the department door and went back to the desk to check the schedule. No one due until 1:30. She had all the time in the world.

The employee lounge was a small room lined on one wall with metal lockers and furnished with a couch and two recliners. A bar-size refrigerator was crammed between the couch and the wall. A two-cup coffee maker sat atop the refrigerator. The coffee, filters and cups were located on a foot-long, six-inch wide shelf above the coffee maker.

She took the coffee decanter and went through the department to the bathroom where she filled it with water from the sink, careful not to crack the glass against the porcelain. The last time someone had broken the decanter it had taken two weeks to get a replacement and she’d had to bring coffee in a thermos from home.

Waiting for it to fill, she looked at her reflection in the mirror.

“Smile,” she told herself. The result was painful to look at.

Back in the lounge she began making the coffee, measuring precisely one and a half of the tiny scoop that came with the maker. She poured the water into the reservoir, switched it on and put the decanter underneath.

Her lunch from yesterday was still in the refrigerator and she took it out and went to the couch. She hadn’t much of an appetite but she’d been tested as a borderline hypoglycemic and knew it was foolish not to eat something.

An egg salad sandwich, two small tangerines and some of the Christmas cookies that her mother had sent her from Boston.

Boston, where Christmas looked like Christmas. Snow and fireplaces and hot apple cider…

And slippery sidewalks, ice-crusted windshields, frostbite, power outages, and dirty melting snow…

She was not homesick for Boston; it had never really been her home, just the last six months before she’d turned eighteen. What she wanted was to get away from the last twenty-eight hours.

She remembered hearing nurses talk about how they handled stress and what they called burn-out. Talking about it seemed to help, keeping busy…and time.

There was no one she felt she could talk to.

The coffee was finished dripping and she put aside her untouched lunch to get up and pour a cup.

She filled her mug and wrapped her hands around it, warming her fingers. It had still been raining when she’d last looked, not hard but steady, and the temperature inside was cooler than usual. Maybe the air conditioning was still on.

She went back to the couch, placing the coffee mug on the floor by her feet, and picked up the sandwich. The bread was a little soggy but she ate, methodically, not tasting much of anything.

When she had finished eating she crumpled up the paper bag and tossed it at the wastebasket which she hit easily.

Should she go over to the ward and check on Russell Delano?

Or should she just try and forget the whole incident?

Leaning back on the couch, she rubbed her forehead as if that would help her think clearer, and closed her eyes.

Someone was rattling the department door.

She glanced at her watch; it wasn’t even one yet.

“Great,” she said, getting to her feet.

By the time she got to the door, the rattling had stopped. She contemplated opening the door and looking down the hallway but she didn’t really want to deal with anything at this particular moment, so instead she double-checked the lock and turned away.

She noticed with some surprise that the whirlpool was clouded with steam.

She must have turned the temperature up too high.

But the temperature indicator showed that it was within the normal range. She tapped the face of the dial.

It must be steaming so much because of the cooler air temperature in the department.

She looked over the edge of the tank. The water was…bubbling.

None of the air jets were on.

It almost looked like it was boiling. She looked for a second time at the temperature gauge.

Maybe air bubbles, formed by the air jets, had remained along the side of the tank and were only now coming to the surface.

But all the steam…what would cause that? She had to admit that the air temperature was not really cold enough to account for all of the steam.

Cautiously, she held her hand above the water.

There was very little heat emanating from the surface.

She took a breath and dipped her fingers slowly into the water.

It was lukewarm, exactly as it was supposed to be.

She submerged her hand and moved it toward the side of the tank where the bubbles continued to rise.

Something grasped her hand. Something very much like fingers closed around her wrist and pulled forcefully.

She opened her mouth to scream.

With a force that dislocated her shoulder, something pulled her into the tank, and the scream was lost in the water which bubbled furiously.

Gradually, the water stilled and the steam dissipated.

Fifty-four

“The poor thing’s dead to the world,” Mary Aguilar informed Joshua as he neared Abigail’s bed. The child lay on her side, head cradled on her right arm.

“Has she been like this for very long?” Joshua picked up the girl’s left arm, then let it fall limp to the bed.

“Actually, until fifteen minutes ago, I thought she was going to stare a hole right through the wall. Her pupils were contracted and I swear she didn’t blink the entire time I was taking her vitals.”

“How long was that?”

“I don’t know…maybe only five minutes, but I’ve never seen anyone look so…intense.”

“What were her vitals?”

“Blood pressure was one-fifty over ninety…”

“That’s high for her.”

“Respirations twenty-four, pulse one hundred and temperature 98.6°.”

Joshua nodded. “Take her blood pressure again.”

Mary wrapped the blood pressure cuff around Abigail’s left arm, placing the stethoscope at the antecubital area, and inflating the cuff.

“What is it?” he asked as Mary took the stethoscope out of her ears.

“One hundred over seventy.”

“Well.” He looked at the sleeping face. “Whatever was going on with her is obviously over for now.” He drew the covers up around her shoulders.

Back at the nurse’s station Joshua became aware of Mary watching him expectantly.

“What? Is there something else?”

“Did you hear about the accident in the scan room?”

“Yes I did; I’m a little surprised you heard about it all the way out here.”

“I hear all kinds of things,” she said cryptically. “Not all of it accurate, but,” she shrugged, “most of it interesting.”

“I’m amazed at the speed that these things get around.”

“So…tell me.”

“I gather there was some type of equipment malfunction and the magnet was turned on…and unfortunately, the engineer was caught between an electric saw and the magnet. It was a freak accident.”

“I heard Dr. Logan was there when it happened…”

“She’s still over there with the coroner.”

“How terrible for her.”

“She’s handling it.” He noticed Mary smile. “Now what?”

“Nothing…just pleased that Dr. Logan is working out so well. You’ve made an excellent choice…” The smile widened and she turned away.

Fifty-five

The engineer, Quinn learned, had been forty-one, married, with two children. His name was Lloyd Marshall and he was, by all accounts, a good man.

She watched them roll the good man away on the gurney.

Tucker Smith was giving his statement to a fresh-faced deputy coroner who looked badly out of place in a room with so much blood on the floor. The chief coroner was supervising the removal of the saw from where it had been placed on the floor. Bits of bone fragments adhered to the blade.

She arched her back, stretching muscles that had tightened from standing too long in the same place. She had given her statement, what there was of it, but the coroner had asked her to stay.

There was very little she could do to help unless it was to give Tucker Smith something to calm him down. His leg was jiggling, his complexion was ashen, and every few minutes he looked at the scanner as if he expected it to leap at his throat.

She wondered if he would ever again be able to push the power button.

“Dr. Logan.” The chief coroner had come up beside her. He was still wearing his raincoat which had been dripping wet when he’d first arrived. It was bone dry now.

“Yes?”

“We’re just about finished here.” He indicated the saw which, bagged and sealed, was being carried past them. “I’d like to ask you a couple of questions, off the record.”

“Off the record?”

“If you don’t mind. Did you notice any…animosity between Marshall and Smith?”

Quinn looked at Tucker Smith. “I don’t think he was capable…either physically or emotionally…of doing this. Look at him.”

The coroner nodded. “Actually, I’d come to the same conclusion, but it was a very violent death for Mr. Marshall and I feel obligated to consider every possibility.” He hesitated. “It’s hard for me to imagine that a magnet could do this either.”

“It’s a very powerful magnet,” she commented, and pointed to the warning signs posted at both doors which cautioned against bringing large metal objects into the room.

“Modern science.” He regarded the scanner, then looked back at Quinn. “Thank you, that’ll be all.”

Quinn wondered if it would.

Fifty-six

“David, are you listening to me?” Tiffany looked sideways at her husband, unwilling to take her eyes off the road. He was driving but on more than one occasion she had alerted him to dangers he was seemingly unaware of.

“Hmm.”

“I don’t want you to upset Courtney by telling her about the house.”

“She’ll have to know sometime,” he said dryly.

“Sometime but not now.” She tensed as he pulled into the opposite lane to pass a slow-moving truck. She hated two-lane roads.

“Whatever you say. Although I think it might be a shock to her when she comes home and sees the black walls…” he laughed suddenly. “Of course, she might think it’s just one of your more avant-garde attempts at decorating.”

She chose to ignore the remark. “I’ll tell her before she is discharged. She was so sick yesterday, I don’t want her to have a relapse or something.”

“I doubt if she’ll care.”

“What do you mean? Of course she’ll care, it’s her home.”

He turned to look at her and instinctively she reached for the steering wheel.

“I’ve got it,” he said.

“What do you mean, she won’t care?”

“She’s not like you, Tiffany. The house is just that to her…a house.”

“And what makes you such an expert on what Courtney is like? You weren’t even around when I brought her home from the hospital—”

“—after she was born. I know.” He smiled grimly. “I had things to do.”

Tiffany was silent, staring at the road.

David was apparently content to let things rest. It bothered her that he never seemed to be wounded when she gave him the silent treatment. She was torn between the desire to make him as miserable as she felt and the exhaustion of keeping alive an old hurt.

As they pulled into the hospital parking lot she decided to put it out of her mind. It was going to take a lot of time and energy to get the house back in shape and there was Courtney to worry about.

“I know,” she said. “I’ll ask one of the doctors when I should tell Courtney…”

David was already out of the car.

Tiffany’s face began to ache from smiling.

Courtney was looking better, she thought, although her hair was a little tangled. She would suggest to the nurse that a shower and shampoo would undoubtedly help Courtney’s frame of mind.

If anything, Courtney was more withdrawn than usual.

It was not a thought that Tiffany found comfortable; she seldom acknowledged that her child was politely distant.

“Is there anything you’d like me to bring you?”

“No.”

“Something to read?”

Courtney shook her head.

Tiffany looked around for David. He had left some time before to get a cup of coffee in the hospital cafeteria. He’d been gone long enough, she thought bitterly, to fly to Colombia, pick the beans himself, and grind his own.

It was nearing three o’clock and the end of visiting hours.

She had insisted that they stay the full two hours today in view of Courtney’s medical crisis yesterday. David, complaining of being chilled from the rain (it had not been raining when they arrived) had taken off after about ten minutes. He would probably return in time to be told they had to leave.

Even when she got her way, she didn’t.

It had been a very long two hours.

Courtney had closed her eyes.

When the nurse said it was time to leave, Tiffany rose gratefully from her chair. David was not back and she supposed that she would have to look for him. She’d ask the doctor tomorrow.

Fifty-seven

“How come nobody called me earlier?” The security guard walked down the hall five feet behind the orderly who was, he felt, trying to rush him. If there was a rush, why wasn’t it two hours ago when it was first determined that the door to physical therapy was locked when it shouldn’t have been?

“I just figured she was late coming back from lunch, and the patient had another appointment in the G.I. lab two doors down, so I took him there first. That took a couple of hours…”

“Well, it’s three-thirty, maybe she left early after her patient didn’t show up.”

“I checked her time card…she didn’t punch out.”

“A lot of people forget to punch out; I forget myself once in a while.”

They were at the door.

The security guard rapped on the door.

“I did that,” the orderly said.

“So I’m doing it again.” He had no patience with civilians who felt they knew security procedures better than he did. He’d been a guard for thirteen years. He rapped harder.

“I’m telling you, I pounded on the door for five solid minutes. If she’s in there, she would have answered.”

“Maybe she was in the bathroom.” He glared at the orderly, noting several stains on the guy’s uniform. His own uniform was dark blue and didn’t show stains but even if he was wearing white, he’d never present such a sloppy appearance.

“For five minutes?”

“How the hell do I know? It’s not something you can rush.”

“She’s not answering now,” the orderly said pointedly.

His smile was not meant to be friendly. “Thank you for telling me…I’d never have figured that out on my own.” He took his ring of keys off the belt hitch. “By the way, where is your patient?”

“They had to give him so much Valium to relax him for the endoscopy, he couldn’t hold his head up straight.”

“Endoscopy? Is that where they…?”

“Yeah…anyway, he wasn’t in any kind of shape to have therapy, physical or otherwise.”

The security guard located the master key, inserting it into the lock. Then he pushed the door open.

The lights were still on; it did not have the look of a department closed for the night.

The orderly passed him going in, heading straight for the employee lounge. The guard followed.

“Look,” the orderly said when he came into the small room. He pulled a glass decanter out of a small coffee machine. He swirled the coffee around; it was darker and thicker than fresh coffee, like it had been kept warm and some of the water evaporated off.

“I see it.” The guard looked around the room which was cramped with the two of them in there.

“She left it on. She wouldn’t have left it on if she’d gone home.”

The guard shrugged, unimpressed. “She could have simply forgotten. This close to Christmas, people get a little absent-minded. It’s well documented.”

The orderly pushed by him to get out of the door.

He was getting more and more annoyed.

He looked at the row of lockers, none of which were locked. That’s how much good civilians were at security measures: give them a safe place to lock up their valuables and they’d leave them hanging like so much fruit, ripe for picking.

Sighing, he stepped closer to the lockers and opened the first one. He could hear the orderly, apparently going through desk drawers. Did he expect to find her in there?

In the second locker he found a purse.

Surprised, he pulled it out, letting the strap hang over two fingers.

“This what you’re looking for?” he called out.

The orderly came back into the lounge. “See?”

“Yes, I see…I found it.” He reached into the purse and dug around for a wallet. Extracting the wallet, he slipped the purse strap over his shoulder, out of the reach of the orderly.

“Let’s see.” He opened the wallet, noticing that there was a fairly thick wad of bills. He flipped to the credit card compartment, searching for a driver’s license. “Anne Beverly Rossi.”

“That’s her. Are her car keys in the purse?”

Without commenting, the guard returned the wallet to the purse and peered inside. He stuck his hand in and brought out a key ring.

“Okay,” he said then. “She left her purse with money and car keys in the department. She’s somewhere on the hospital grounds. Did you think to page her?”

For once the orderly did not seem to have an answer.

“Why don’t you ask the operator to page her?” He spoke slowly, as if to an idiot.

“Yeah, but…” he reached and took the keys out of the guard’s hand. “Her key to the department is here on this ring. Why would she lock herself out?”

“Hell, I don’t know. Maybe that’s what happened. She locked herself out and…” Everyone on staff at the hospital knew that the guards had keys and so did most of the supervisors. All she had to do was go to a phone and call for someone…even housekeeping…to let her in.

The orderly obviously realized the same thing and was smiling at him nastily.

He grabbed the keys back and put them into the purse.

“Then I guess I’ll notify administration that we have a missing employee.” He went to use the phone at the desk, looking around at the department. Nothing seemed to be disturbed…not like there’d been a struggle or anything. The only thing not in perfect order was a small puddle of water near the hydrotherapy pool.

Waiting for the operator to answer, he frowned.

Water on the floor was a hazard. All of the safety films that were shown to the employees during orientation stressed the danger of slick floors. Especially in patient areas.

A stack of thick white towels were folded on a shelf only two feet away from the therapy pool.

He narrowed his eyes. At this angle and without his glasses, it was hard to tell. But it looked like something was floating in the pool.

Swallowing hard, he hung up the phone, and walked slowly toward the pool. When he was halfway there, he stopped.

He had found Anne Beverly Rossi.

Fifty-eight

“You’ve got to be mistaken.” The coroner spoke into the mobile radio. “I’ve just come from Valley Memorial.”

The dispatcher, in a voice that sounded as dead as many of his clients, repeated, “It’s Valley Memorial Hospital. The call was logged at 1545 hours. A drowning victim.”

“Drowning?” He slowed the car, pulling off onto the shoulder of the road. “I’m on my way.”

“Ten-four.”

He had to wait for traffic to pass before he made the U-turn and headed back to the hospital.

How could someone drown in a hospital?

As if in answer, the rain began to pour down and he had to drive slower. The one nice thing about having bodies as clients was that they were never really in a hurry, he thought.

“In here.” A security guard, swollen with self-importance, showed him into physical therapy. “In the pool.”

The body of a woman floated in the water face down.

He looked at the guard. “You didn’t pull her out.” It was not exactly a question.

“I didn’t want to disturb the crime scene.”

“What makes you think there’s a crime?” He nodded to his assistant who began to prepare to pull the body out of the water.

The guard didn’t answer.

He turned his attention back to the woman in the whirlpool. She was dressed in dark slacks, a blouse, and a white lab coat. She was wearing shoes. And a watch.

Not what he would choose to wear to take a swim.

When she was out of the water he squatted beside her to take a look at her hands. Nails were not broken. He slipped plastic bags over her hands and secured them with rubber bands. They would collect the nail scrapings at the morgue.

All of the color had been bleached out of her face by the water but there were no marks to indicate that she had been beaten. The buttons on her blouse were secure, her slacks fastened, nothing was torn or in disarray.

Her eyes were open.

“What’s her name?” he asked, not taking his eyes from her face.

“Anne Rossi. She works…worked here.”

The sleeves of the lab coat were too wet to push up easily but he managed to get them up to mid-forearm. On her right wrist there were faint discolorations which somehow struck him as being too small for fingermarks.

He looked back at her face. Water was coming from her mouth.

He straightened up. “Okay, let’s get her out of here.” He moved to the whirlpool, staring into the water. “Drain it with filters in place. Print the outside rim, controls, whatever surface can hold a print.” He took out his notepad, wrote down her name and what he had ordered to be done. The crime scene photographer flashed pictures as accompaniment to his thoughts.

“Suicide?”

He turned to look at the guard who stood, arms folded across his chest, watching as they prepared to lift the body onto the stretcher.

“Drowning in four feet of water is not one of the easier ways to go.”

The sound of the body bag being zipped caught his attention. It was the most final sound he’d ever heard. He watched sadly as the bag closed over the woman’s face.

“It’s well documented,” the guard intoned, “that suicides increase during the holidays.”

“Is it?”

“I’m surprised you wouldn’t notice when the body count goes up.”

“I never count them.” He was aware that the tone of his voice had grown steadily colder. It was hard for him to imagine why some people were given to equating human tragedy with statistics.

“Excuse me…I’m Dr. Harrington, the chief of staff.”

The doctor looked exactly like a kindly old country doctor. Except for his eyes, which surveyed the room and its occupants with quick precision. “Anything you can tell me?”

“Nothing aside from the obvious: the body of a female employee was found floating in the whirlpool, presumably a drowning victim.”

“Presumably.”

“That’s all I can say at this point.”

The doctor, unlike the security guard, did not press the issue.

When, for the second time in the space of a few hours, he left Valley Memorial Hospital, he was profoundly depressed.

The body of Anne Beverly Rossi had been taken off to the city morgue where, tomorrow, he would perform an autopsy. The body of Lloyd Marshall was probably under the knife at the moment, assuming that the deputy coroner had started without him when the second call had come.

They might discover something. That Marshall suffered from arteriosclerosis or was a smoker or was in the early stages of one disease or another. Things that might have cost him his life eventually, now only mildly interesting clinical findings.

That Anne Rossi had never borne a child and never would. That she drowned in four feet of water in the middle of the day in a busy hospital.

There might be someone’s flesh under her fingernails. There might be a brain hemorrhage from a blow to the head.

Whatever they learned, it wouldn’t bring either of them back.

Fifty-nine

Abigail’s eyes opened.

She had not moved in her sleep and she was looking out the window at the last traces of light. It was still raining.

She yawned and stretched, turning onto her back.

She felt very good.

“Hey, Abigail.” Russell had one arm hooked through the trapeze and was sitting up in bed. “We thought you were going to sleep forever.”

“Did I miss dinner? I’m hungry.”

Tessi shook her head. “I think it’s late because of the rain.”

“They feed us last because we’re all the way out here.” Russell grinned. “Whatever no one else will eat, they bring to us.”

Abigail sat up in bed. “We could complain.”

“Nobody ever listens to kids,” Tessi said.

Abigail smiled to herself and got out of bed to go to the bathroom.

She looked at her reflection in the mirror.

There was so much she understood now. So much that no one else knew. Russell didn’t know, although he had used the power himself. She had felt it flow from him, weaker than her own but still enough to strike out…

Courtney was using it but, strangely enough, only when she was asleep.

Tessi was the only one who hadn’t demonstrated the force of her will. But she would, in time.

Abigail tilted her head back, looking into her own eyes in the mirror.

She was the only one who knew.

When she went back out, dinner had arrived. Her tray was on the bedside table, silver covers still keeping in the heat.

She was hungrier than she’d ever been in her life.

A standard hospital meal: baked chicken, tiny boiled potatoes, string beans, a roll with butter, milk, and a square of frosted white cake for dessert.

All else forgotten for the moment, she began to eat.

Her sense of taste and smell were much stronger than usual, and she savored every bite of the meal. Rather than cutting the chicken with knife and fork like her grandmother had taught her, she picked it up in her fingers and sank her teeth into the meat. Chicken juice ran down her chin.

The plates were spotless when she was finished and she pushed the tray away. She looked across at the others; they too had eaten all of their food. Tessi, usually a fussy eater, was looking at her plate as if disappointed there wasn’t more.

The evening nurse had cleared away the trays and was taking Russell’s blood pressure.

Abigail did not like this nurse. She always pumped the blood pressure thing too full of air until it felt like it was going to cut off all the feeling in your hand. Likewise, taking the pulse, she pressed too hard on the inside of the wrist and held tight for an awful long time. Abigail thought it was a good thing that the hospital used digital thermometers because otherwise this particular nurse would break the old-fashioned glass type by jamming it between someone’s teeth.

There was no expression on Russell’s face, nothing to indicate whether the nurse was hurting him.

The nurse had better hope that Abigail didn’t see a look of discomfort on anyone’s face.

As the only one who knew, she felt responsible for the others.

She would take action if she had to.

Sixty

“Joshua, what are you still doing here?” Simon looked at his watch.

“I might ask you the same thing.” Joshua crossed the room and sat in a chair opposite Simon’s desk.

“Ha!” He indicated the papers strewn across the desk. “I’m being buried in incident reports.”

“I heard…terrible. Have they any idea what happened?”

“If they do they’re not sharing that information with me.” Simon picked up a single sheet of paper from the pile. “Days like this make me extremely grateful that I’m not the administrator and have to go through this…this garbage on a full-time basis.”

“Speaking of Maggie, when is she due back?”

“Next week sometime. She’ll be welcome to it, I can tell you. Why I ever volunteered to do this in her absence, I’ll never know.”

“You’re a sucker.”

“Thank you for those kind words.” Simon smiled, nodding. “So, what are you doing here at this time of night?”

“Finishing charts. Medical records threatened all kinds of nasty things if I didn’t comply.”

“I’ll tell you in the old days, medical records never had such power. It just shows you how respect for our profession is eroding.”

“I think we’re all going to be replaced by computers.” Joshua closed his eyes, leaning back in the chair.

Simon peered at the younger man. “Is that disillusionment I hear?”

“Exhaustion.”

“Then why don’t you go home?”

“I will. I’ve got to go tell Quinn…”

“Is she still here?”

Joshua nodded. “She was hung up with the coroner for a couple of hours and she wanted to finish at least the first tapes.”

“I think you’re both crazy. Go home.”

Quinn was sitting with the clipboard poised, watching the screen.

“How’s it going?”

“A little slow.” She reached over and stopped the tape. “I don’t think I ever realized how boring being in a hospital must be for the patient. Especially for children.”

“Children…yes. You saw Abigail’s scans?”

“I did. Normal, aren’t they?”

“Normal,” he agreed. “I’ve had copies made and they’re on their way back to her neurologist in Baltimore. I hope he can make some sense of all of this.”

“I wonder. Do you think we should tell her that the scans were negative?”

“I think I’d consult with Dr. Campbell first.”

Her eyes searched his face. “Do you think it’s psychological?”

“I don’t know what to think. I suppose anything’s possible, although I find it hard to believe that she could fool all the experts. How could she know enough about brain tumors to be able to mimic the symptoms so convincingly?”

“Is there a chance that she knew or knows someone who does have a brain tumor…knows them well enough to be familiar with the symptoms?”

“I don’t think she could consciously plan a deception like that.”

“Not consciously then.”

He frowned. “It’s an interesting theory. She’s scheduled to see Dr. Campbell Monday morning; maybe you should suggest it to him.” He considered further. “You know, you might have something there. We take the family history during a work-up but it wouldn’t have to be a family member…”

Quinn nodded. “So for now?”

“Just maintain the status quo.”

For a moment neither spoke, then Quinn stood, placing the clipboard on top of the video player.

“It’s odd…it seems so long ago that I was looking at her scans but it was only this morning…”

“A lot has happened since then.”

“The engineer. I wish I could have done something more. It happened so fast.”

“From what I heard I doubt if there’s anything anyone could have done for him.”

“I called the coroner’s office…they weren’t finished with the autopsy, but apparently the impact of the saw striking his chest and then him striking the scanner was enough to tear the pericardium. There was massive internal bleeding.”

“Poor man.”

“He never even cried out.” She stared out the window. The rain blurred the hospital grounds lights into a smear of color. “All this rain.”

“I hear they’re expecting thunderstorms some-

time during the night,” Joshua said.

“I used to love thunder when I was a kid.”

“But not now?”

“I think it lost its magic when I heard the scientific explanation for it.” She rubbed her upper arms and smiled sadly. “There’s not much mystery left. Explanations for almost everything.”

“Almost but not quite everything,” Joshua said, looking into her smoky eyes. “Come on, it’s time to go home.”

FRIDAY

Sixty-one

Hortense had always been an early riser. In all of her fifty-three years she could never recall having slept past five a.m. It was something that had caused a few conflicts—her mother had insisted, awake or not, that she stay in bed until seven—and may have even influenced her decision not to marry. Regardless, she liked to be up and busy before the sun rose.

She had, years before, found her niche; working early morning shifts at the hospital. She had worked briefly as a transcriber before transferring to admitting, where she had established herself as something of a fixture. Monday through Friday, six-thirty to three, and never a sick day in her life.

She had a routine. Arrive at six, lock her purse in her desk drawer, go to emergency to pick up the admitting logbook and any paperwork from night admissions, then a quick tour of the hospital for the latest gossip.

This morning, as she had expected, there was a lot of it. She had heard about the engineer moments after it happened and even knew about the therapist although Hortense was home when the body was discovered. The evening admitting secretary had called her with the news although with very little detail.

Now the hospital was bursting with speculation. How could things like this happen?

Hortense had her own theory: the engineer’s death was clearly an accident, but the therapist may have killed herself in grief at his loss. Yes, the man was married but even having spent fifty-three years as a spinster, Hortense knew that married was not the same as…dead.

In fact, given a moment to think about it, Hortense could probably name at least ten married men working at the hospital who were carrying on with someone else.

It was one of the things about working at the hospital that had shocked her at first; there was an atmosphere of blatant physical lust which, sooner or later, culminated in sin.

Hortense was one of the lucky ones who was above such goings on. But she knew about them.

And strongly suspected that there was some kind of a relationship between the dearly departed.

The consensus in the hospital, however, was that it was nothing more than a coincidence. There was no proof that the therapist had even been aware of the incident in Radiology.

Hortense listened skeptically as the night shift engineer (who everyone knew spent most of his time sleeping on the job) suggested that the girl had been trying to retrieve something from the whirlpool and had fallen in headfirst, striking herself unconscious.

Not likely, she thought, pursing her lips and keeping silent. Hortense read murder mysteries and she knew that the center of gravity in the woman’s body was low enough that she’d have to be maybe two feet off the ground to have had the momentum to fall in that way.

It was almost six-thirty and Hortense, with one last smirk at the night engineer, hurried off to punch in.

Admitting was always quiet on Friday mornings, so Hortense was a little surprised to hear the computer printer tapping away in the back room.

Ignoring it for the moment, she began her morning’s work by pulling the forms for the scheduled admissions. There were only two and both were “regulars,” patients who had long-term illnesses and were in and out of the hospital as often as once a month.

Neither of them would be in before noon but she completed their paperwork, assigned rooms and made their plastic identity plates. The official procedure was not to make the plates until the patients were actually in the hospital, but Hortense, as the senior admitting secretary, preferred to have everything done so that when the patient arrived it was sign the consent form, sign insurance forms, put on the I.D. bracelet, and up to the room.

Finished, she went into her office and turned on the computer. It took a few seconds for the screen to come up. She typed in her identification code.

The computer ignored her.

She repeated the command.

Access denied.

Hortense did not approve of cussing, so it was with some surprise that she heard herself say “Damn.” She also heard the printer, still working at full speed.

The system had to be overloaded or else someone had erased her identification code from the memory.

She would see what was being printed out. It might provide a clue as to who was messing up the system.

Unlocking the door to the print-out room, she flicked on the light.

Piles of computer paper covered the floor.

She hit the interrupt key and waited for the buffer to be emptied. The printer stopped.

Bending over, she picked up an armful of papers, tearing the last printed sheet from the machine.

It took her a minute before she realized what she was seeing.

The computer had discharged every patient in the hospital; it was printing out itemized bills on more than four hundred patients.

Someone would have to go into each patient’s computer file and correct the errors.

“God damn computer.”

Sixty-two

Betty Jo could not believe it: as hot as it was yesterday on the medical floor, it was equally as cold today on surgical. It was so cold that she could barely hold onto her pen, her fingers were so stiff.

After about fifteen minutes of feeling ice-cold air pouring down the back of her neck, she was yearning nostalgically for the tropical climate on medical.

“Don’t tell me,” she said, to anyone who might be listening, “this is a new experiment in cryogenics. They’re going to freeze us all and bring us back when there’s a cure for stupidity. Meaning the engineers, plural.”

“Don’t worry, Betty,” the charge nurse said, “I’ve already called about it and they said twenty minutes, tops.”

“With engineering, twenty minutes could mean Easter.” She gave up trying to write and put her fingers in her armpits for warmth. Was it her imagination, or was her breath frosting as she spoke.

“Have some coffee and don’t worry about it,” the charge nurse suggested.

“I am sure,” she said, “that the wooly mammoths on the plains of Siberia said to one another: ‘Have some more buttercups, and don’t worry about it.’ “

The charge nurse laughed.

But, with an open invitation to get coffee, Betty Jo thought she might as well.

As her grandfather always said, it couldn’t hurt.

“Hear anything from engineering?” she asked when she got back, exactly twenty minutes later.

“They’re sending someone up.”

“Brave group,” Betty Jo said, sitting at the desk.

“They said the computer shows that it’s seventy degrees up here,” the charge nurse continued. “What’s happening, engineering says, is that it’s only supposed to be sixty-eight degrees, so the automatic air-conditioning is trying to cool us down. And it’s been trying for a while now.”

“Well, all I can say is, I hope none of the patients needs an enema because I’m not going to be the one to break up the ice when it freezes up their—”

“Betty Jo!”

Sixty-three

Abigail carefully punctured the yolk of her egg with one tine of the fork, then pressed down on the center of the egg. Thick yellow egg yolk seeped out of the hole.

It had been a long time since Abigail had been served an over-easy egg; her grandmother preferred scrambled.

She selected a triangle of toast and began to transfer the egg yolk from the plate to the toast, spreading the yolk like butter until the toast was covered with it.

Eyes half-closed, she bit into the toast.

It was as good as she had expected it to be. Wanting to make it last as long as possible, she took tiny bites, savoring the texture of the yolk-laden toast.

When she had finished, she looked at the remainder of the egg. Tasteless, but the nurse would expect her to finish it. Instead she cut it into pieces and then hid the pieces in her empty milk carton.

She ate the two slices of overcooked bacon and finished the toast. Hungry still, she lifted the lid off the bowl of cooked cereal. Lumpy and gray.

She wasn’t that hungry.

Nobody was that hungry.

Abigail looked over at Courtney.

Courtney had not slept well during the night, if she slept at all.

Courtney was resisting.

Courtney did not want to dream.

Abigail understood this without knowing how she knew. She also understood that Courtney was getting sleepier.

Abigail smiled.

Outside, the rain was coming down steadily.

At home Abigail had always looked forward to rainy days. Somehow it was quieter then, and she would open her bedroom window so that she could hear the rain sound. Even cars driving by were a part of it, the hiss of tires on wet asphalt.

Alone in her room she would be soothed by the cool fresh air and the wet smells.

If her grandmother was otherwise occupied, she would sneak out after a while, in rubber boots and her rain slicker, to find the deepest puddle and stand in it. Not to splash—grandmother would never permit that— but just to stand, letting the cold numb her stockinged feet inside the boots.

Then she would look for earthworms.

Repulsed but fascinated, she could watch them for hours. An older child had told her that you could cut them in two and rather than having a dead earthworm, you’d have two live earthworms. But she had never done it. She saw nothing to be gained by doubling the number of earthworms.

Still, they were interesting to watch.

Usually, she would remember to go home before her grandmother came out to look for her but sometimes she’d be startled by a hand gripping her arm and pulling her to her feet.

“Look at you,” her grandmother would say. “You’re drenching wet. Come inside now before you catch cold.”

And Abigail would be pulled along, her legs moving as fast as they could to keep up with grandmother’s stride. Sometimes she would slip and be lifted off both feet, held up by one arm.

She remembered that…dangling in the air, one arm held painfully, her shoulder aching, unable to reach the ground. She remembered grandmother’s eyes, glaring at her like…just once…she’d like to let Abigail fall to the ground.

She focused her eyes, blinking.

Hammering.

A workman was up on a ladder, pounding nails into a shelf which he had mounted high on the wall between Tessi’s and Courtney’s beds.

Courtney was watching with heavy-lidded eyes. Tessi had her hands over her ears, blocking out the noise.

Russell’s bed was empty.

A second workman pushed through the double doors carrying a television set. He balanced it on a rung of the ladder.

Abigail looked at Courtney and was certain that she had not yet fallen asleep.

All that noise.

She looked back at the workmen who had destroyed the peaceful morning. They were lifting the television onto the shelf. Almost done, then.

A few more minutes wouldn’t matter, she decided.

Sixty-four

“It looks like a big iron lung,” Russell said.

“How would a kid like you know about an iron lung?” The technician pushed Russell’s wheelchair closer to the hyperbaric chamber.

“I read a lot. I’ve seen pictures of people who had polio…in iron lungs.”

The technician raised his eyebrows. “Whadda ya know. A smart kid.” He went to the end of the chamber and unsealed the door. “You’re not gonna fit in here in that thing.” He indicated the wheelchair. “Can you walk at all?”

Russell shook his head.

“Great. So I get to carry you.” He eyed Russell critically. “Well, you don’t look too heavy at least. I’ll tell you I’ve had some two-hundred pound cripples that I had to muscle in there.”

The technician picked the boy up easily, carrying him to the chamber door.

“Watch your head,” he ordered.

It was smaller inside than Russell had expected. With so little room to move in, the technician jostled him about, bumping Russell’s legs in the process.

“Ya can’t feel that, can you?”

“No,” Russell said, tight-lipped.

“Well, there you are.” The technician was breathing hard, sitting back on his heels opposite the narrow padded treatment table. “I’d better strap you in,” he gasped but did not move.

“I can do it,” Russell said, pulling up on the leather straps and crossing them over his chest.

The technician nodded, then reached overhead and flicked several switches on the chamber’s curved ceiling.

“Now you’ll be able to hear me and I’ll hear you.” Crouched over, he walked toward the chamber door. “Hope you’re not claustrophobic.” Then he was out and the door was swinging shut.

Inside the silver chamber, Russell crossed his fingers for luck.

The technician, who had been reading a magazine, stood up when Joshua entered the room.

“Dr. Fuller…”

“How is he doing?”

“Fine. Been in for, let’s see, twenty minutes.”

Joshua went up to the chamber and looked through the porthole. Russell was lying, hands folded across his stomach. “Let me talk to him.”

The technician took off the headset and handed it to Joshua.

“Russell,” Joshua said. “It’s Dr. Fuller. Can you hear me?”

Russell’s voice, though faint, was clear.

“Hi, Dr. Fuller.”

“How are you doing in there?”

“Okay. What’s the oxygen percentage?”

Joshua looked at the LED display. “About fifteen.”

A hesitation. “That’s okay for the first treatment, I guess.”

“I think so. Listen, I’ll see you after you come out.” He looked back through the porthole. Russell waved.

Joshua handed the headset back to the technician.

“What does a kid like that know about oxygen percentages?” the technician asked, putting the headset back on.

“Are you kidding? This whole thing is his idea. He read about a doctor who’s using hyperbaric therapy in spinal cord injuries, and getting results.”

“But those are fresh injuries,” the technician protested. “His DOI is twenty-five or twenty-six months ago.”

“He wanted to try it. And who am I to tell him that he can’t?”

“Yeah, but if it isn’t going to help…”

“Who’s to say it isn’t? If he really believes it will help him, maybe it will. If nothing else, when this is all over, he’ll know that he got every chance.” He patted the polished silver surface of the chamber. “Good luck, Russell.”

Inside the chamber, Russell massaged his upper thighs.

He felt it again.

A tingling in his legs.

He had felt it the first time yesterday after he’d been transferred out of ICU. His legs had grown increasingly warm and heavy and then the tingling started along the instep of his right foot. In minutes both legs were fully involved.

He hadn’t said anything to anyone, not wanting to even voice his hopes.

But now he thought he could feel the pressure of his fingers on his skin. He wanted to try and move his legs but he was afraid. Afraid to try and fail.

The chamber door opened and the technician stuck his head in.

“That’s it,” he said. “Ready to come back to the world?”

It wasn’t a world that Russell had found to be a fair one, but it was one that he suddenly thought he could lick.

Sixty-five

“David, you haven’t even started to get ready.” Tiffany stood in the doorway to their bedroom, gazing at her husband in disbelief. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, still dressed in his bathrobe, reading the newspaper.

“In a minute,” he said, not looking up.

“We’re due at the hospital at eleven,” she reminded him.

“Don’t worry about it.” He turned the page, folding the paper noisily.

“I don’t want to be late.”

Now he looked up. “You won’t be late, all right? Just give me a minute in peace to finish this article and I’ll be right with you.”

She turned on her heel and walked out, slamming the door behind her.

At times like this she could not remember what she had ever seen in David White.

She walked down the stairs carefully, trying to avert her eyes from the blackened walls.

The building was structurally sound, they had told her, with the fire damage limited to the surface of the walls. It looked much worse than it was.

It almost broke her heart to see the house like this.

Although it was well before noon, she went straight to the bar in the den for an orange juice and vodka. She used a little more vodka than usual but she needed it.

She was thinking of getting a divorce.

It was funny how things were beginning to come clear to her. David’s high-handed, insolent manner had somehow always seemed to her to be directed at other people, people he assumed to be inferior. Now she noticed that a lot of it was directed at her. He apparently had forgotten that the money which supplied his superiority was hers. That all of his indulgences were financed by the generosity of his wife.

Since Courtney had gone into the hospital, Tiffany had become aware of the fact that David considered visits to his child an inconvenience.

It was for Courtney’s sake that she hadn’t left him before, following the sordid affair he’d had with the red-haired waitress from the country club. Because she’d felt that Courtney needed a father.

She was coming to realize that, as things stood now, Courtney had a father in name only.

It wasn’t fair to Courtney.

Tiffany wanted more for both of them. More of a husband, more of a father. Maybe David could, if forced, change enough to meet their needs, but she wasn’t sure that she wanted him, changed or not.

She finished her drink and poured another.

After the meeting at the hospital, she would ask one of the doctors whether they thought it would be bad for Courtney if her parents were to separate. She also needed to get advice on how to tell her daughter about what had happened to the house.

“Don’t forget,” she said to herself, lifting the glass to her lips.

“Don’t forget what?”

David had come into the room and she turned, sloshing a little of her drink out of the glass. He looked pointedly at his watch.

“A little anesthetic so early in the morning?”

She did not respond. Instead she tossed back the drink and banged the glass on the bar.

She prayed that the doctor would tell her what she wanted to hear.

Sixty-six

Courtney could not keep her eyes open any longer.

The ward was quiet except for the sound of the rain being blown against the window.

Exhausted, she turned onto her stomach, burying her head under the pillow. It felt like the room was revolving, first in one direction, then the other. Behind her closed eyes, specks of light danced in dizzying patterns.

She hovered on the edge of sleep, aware of a heaviness in her arms and legs.

Whimpering softly in her throat, she crossed into the dream.

Her parents were walking to the car, her mother’s heels clicking on the paved driveway.

It was raining but neither of them seemed to be aware of it.

She could tell that her mother was angry.

Her father unlocked the passenger door, pulling it open with a sweeping bow.

Her mother got into the car without speaking, and yanked the door closed.

Her father laughed.

“Don’t worry, Tiff, I’ll get you to the hospital on time,” he said when he was in the car.

“How, by driving eighty miles an hour in this rain?”

“I’m a good driver.” He turned the key in the ignition and the car roared to life. He gunned the engine, grinning at her. “And this is a good car.”

“Just don’t get us killed.”

“Such little faith,” he said sadly, and pulled away, tires sliding on the wet pavement.

Sheets of rain poured over the windshield.

“The wipers,” her mother said.

“What?”

“It’s raining. Turn on the windshield wipers.”

He turned them on.

They moved slowly back and forth.

“Isn’t there a faster speed?” her mother asked after a minute.

“Oh, faster? I thought since you wanted me to drive slower, you’d want them slower too.”

“Don’t be an idiot.” She glared at him.

“There’s no pleasing you.” He turned the wipers to a faster speed.

They had reached the turn-off to the hospital.

Her father accelerated.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s ten to eleven. If I don’t speed up a little, we will be late.”

The car drifted a little in the turns, the right tires near the shoulder of the road.

Her father reached over and turned on the heater, pushing the blower up to full blast.

“A little chilly in here,” he said.

The windows started to fog.

“Damn it,” her mother said, leaning forward to turn the heater to defrost.

Her father knocked her mother’s hand out of the way.

“David!” her mother screamed.

The car began to spin in the road.

“Courtney.”

Someone was shaking her.

She opened her eyes. The dream was over.

“It’s time for your appointment with Dr. Campbell.”

She sat up in bed, still groggy. The nurse put slippers on her feet and helped her into her robe.

She noticed that Abigail was looking at her strangely.

Sixty-seven

The car had stopped moving.

Tiffany leaned forward, wiping the fog off the windshield with the arm of her coat.

“David.” She shook his arm. “We’re sideways in the middle of the road. We’ve got to move before somebody hits us.”

He looked at her blankly.

She released her seatbelt and opened the door, then walked quickly around to the driver’s side.

“Get over,” she said urgently.

He moved.

She got into the car, adjusted the seat, and put the car in reverse, backing into the correct lane. Then she inched forward, slowly gathering speed, unwilling to chance another spin.

Tiffany turned the fan to defrost.

When the windows had cleared she allowed herself to sit back in the seat and took a deep breath.

It was over, she told herself.

Her marriage was over.

She would not stay married to a man who had so little respect for her life as to play foolish games on a rain-slick road.

She cast a glance in his direction.

He was sitting there, expressionless.

She wanted to yell at him, ask him if he knew how close they had come—how close he had taken them—to death. They could have gone off the road entirely. The car could have rolled and burned. Another car could have struck them as they sat helpless in the road.

She nurtured her anger. She would need it to get her through what had to be done. She could not afford to vent it on him now.

After the meeting she would go to the house and pack. Her things and Courtney’s. She would stay in a motel until she could find a suitable apartment.

Funny. It didn’t bother her to think of leaving the house. She had put so much work into it…

Now she was willing to leave it to him, sign over the deed.

The hospital parking lot was just ahead. She slowed and made the turn.

Sixty-eight

“Dr. Logan?”

Quinn turned to see Ian Campbell walking toward her.

“Good morning, Dr. Campbell.”

“Morning. Are you on your way to the parents’ meeting? Mind if I tag along?”

“Not at all, but I thought you were seeing Courtney White this morning.”

“Well, I did see her in a manner of speaking. She was so tired she couldn’t keep her eyes open.

She’s asleep in my office.”

“Lucky Courtney. This morning I’d have done anything to have stayed in bed.”

“Yes…I understand you had a rough day yesterday.”

She looked at him. “Word gets around.”

“People like to talk…”

“And what are they saying?” They reached the conference room door.

“Have lunch with me and I’ll tell you.”

“All right,” she said.

Joshua looked up as they entered.

“I see we’re all here now,” he said, looking around the table. “I’ve spoken to each of you in private before but I wanted to introduce Dr. Logan,” his eyes met hers, “and Dr. Campbell to you and to give you an opportunity to ask any questions you might have before we go into the second week of the program.” With another glance at Quinn he continued: “Mr. Delano has been out of town for a few days and has had less of a chance to keep up to date, so I’ll start with him. Mr. Delano?”

Frank Delano leaned forward. “I haven’t even seen Russell since I got back…and the last thing I heard from my sister was that he’d spent a night in ICU. How is he?”

Joshua inclined his head in Quinn’s direction. “Dr. Logan?”

She was a little surprised that he wanted her to answer; he hadn’t indicated that she was to do more than observe the session.

“He’s doing very well. I’m sure your sister told you that he was only in ICU for observation after he fainted in…” she hesitated slightly “. . . physical therapy. He’s back in the ward and in all honesty, he’s shown some improvement since then. He hasn’t complained of pain—”

“That’s not unusual for Russell,” Joshua interjected.

Quinn nodded, continuing, “He hasn’t required any medication, and his attitude…” her eyes flicked to Joshua, “. . . has improved.”

Delano looked from Quinn to Joshua. “Are there any signs that he might…?” He was unable to finish the question.

“As far as objective findings, no. But subjectively I am hopeful.” Joshua’s smile was genuine. “I saw him this morning in the hyperbaric chamber and he’s still optimistic. He might surprise us yet.”

“Dr. Fuller, if I may?” Ian addressed Frank Delano. “I’m Dr. Campbell and I’m conducting the psychiatric consultations for the program. I haven’t had a chance to talk with Russell yet—I believe that’s scheduled for this afternoon—but I’ve reviewed his chart and I’ve worked with similar cases in England. In these cases, where the post-traumatic symptoms are more severe than the physiological findings would suggest, there have been some fairly dramatic recoveries.”

“But he hasn’t walked since the accident.”

“That’s not to say that he won’t.” He looked around the table. “I don’t want to take any more of the group’s time, I know the other parents must be eager to discuss their own children…but I’d be glad to meet with you after I see your son.”

“Thank you, Dr. Campbell.” Joshua consulted his notes. “Russell will continue to receive hyperbaric treatments. He also will be undergoing isotonic exercise therapy using a device they’ve had a certain amount of success with back in Ohio. We’ve also scheduled an electromyogram for determining muscle function.”

Frank Delano nodded, a faint glimmer of hope in his eyes.

“Now,” Joshua said. Alicia Vincent and James Wolf sat on opposite sides of the conference table. “About Tessi.”

Quinn had been watching Alicia Vincent. Everything about the woman suggested barely repressed hostility. Even the way she was sitting—back straight and stiff and shoulders squared—was indicative of rage.

It was directed at James Wolf.

Joshua was detailing Tessi’s condition and Alicia was listening intently, but not as a mother concerned for her child. Alicia, Quinn felt, was looking for ammunition.

Quinn thought about what Ian had told her about Tessi; that the child would not be healthy as long as the conflict between her parents continued. She wondered what Alicia Vincent would say if someone told her that?

Would she be willing to put Tessi’s well-being before her thirst for…vengeance?

Alicia sat, hands balled into white-knuckled fists, apparently oblivious to her lacquered nails digging into her palms.

Quinn doubted that anything short of death…Alicia’s or James Wolf’s…would end the bitterness.

Poor Tessi, Quinn thought.

“All of Courtney’s blood cultures were negative. She is asymptomatic at this time. She will have an electroencephalogram, but as you know, all of her previous studies have been negative for abnormalities.” Joshua looked up from his notes. “Do you have anything to add, Dr. Logan?”

“Not at this time.”

“What you’re saying,” David White said, “is that you still don’t know what’s causing her attacks.”

“Not exactly. All of the seizures are directly related to a febrile episode. It is not uncommon for children to seizure when they have a significantly high body temperature. But we don’t know why she keeps running fevers.”

“It seems to me that at these prices—”

“Dr. Logan,” Tiffany White interrupted her husband, “I wanted to thank you. The nurse told me that you were there when Courtney had her last attack.”

Quinn smiled lightly. “I’m supposed to be there.”

“She said you were very gentle with Courtney.” Tiffany looked on the verge of tears. “That means a lot to me.”

“It’s too bad Abigail’s grandmother couldn’t be here,” Quinn said to Joshua after the parents had left. “I’d like to talk to her.”

“Why don’t you call her in Baltimore?” Joshua gathered his notes. “Her phone number’s in the chart.”

“That’s an excellent idea.”

Ian, who had left the room to talk to Frank Delano in the hall, stood in the doorway. “Ready for lunch?”

“Yes, I…” she looked at Joshua, “I’ll talk to you later.”

Sixty-nine

“Nobody can get into this system,” the engineer said flatly.

“Somebody has.” Simon Harrington spoke with quiet certainty. “What I want you to do is make sure they can’t do it again.”

“Look, the problems you’re talking about are penny ante things that can be explained away as human error. Somebody made a mistake, didn’t want to admit it, so all of a sudden there are mysterious glitches in the system.”

“Several somebodies have come to me about the problem. Why go to the acting administrator about a ‘penny ante’ problem and call attention to yourself, if in fact the people using the system are the problem?” Simon shook his head. “It’s not reasonable.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Dr. Harrington. I really don’t.”

“I’m not placing fault. I’m not blaming anyone for any of this…yet. But I want you to make sure that no vital functions can be accessed by computer—”

“You mean take the life support systems offline?”

“That’s exactly what I mean. All of the equipment can be operated independent of the computer. I know it’ll take a little manpower on your part to do it, but I want those units out of the matrix. And I want it done before something else happens.”

“You’re the boss,” the engineer said. “If you authorize the overtime…”

“I will.”

“Then we’ll get on it.”

Simon nodded, satisfied.

Regardless of what the engineer thought, Simon believed that there was someone who not only had gotten into the system but who was selectively sabotaging various operations of the hospital. He had instructed all of his department managers to report any incident, no matter how trivial it might seem on the surface, that involved the computer system.

What he was seeing was a pattern of tampering. From something as simple as having every one of the computer-run time clocks break down at the same time, to destroying essential financial reports, to potentially life-threatening errors in anesthesia concentration rates, programs were being altered and sometimes eliminated.

He hated to think what would happen to the patients who were reliant on machines if those machines were affected. Computer-set and monitored parameters suddenly erased, there was no telling what might happen.

A glitch?

Did glitches show malice?

Seventy

Tiffany watched David’s car pull away from the house and felt only relief. There was no sorrow, no sense of loss and, surprisingly, no anger.

It was just over.

He did not know it, would not know it until this evening sometime. Since it was a Friday, he would probably not come home until eight or so, by which time she would be situated in a motel room.

She turned from the window, anxious to get started.

The luggage had been a wedding gift but she did not think he would care or even remember. They had laughed, then, about not needing luggage on their honeymoon since they wouldn’t be leaving the hotel room.

She went to Courtney’s room first.

Clothes, some books, the few personal items that her daughter had. Courtney was not a collector, neither had she ever been sentimental about any of her belongings. No favorite doll. No treasured teddy bear.

The diary that they’d given her last Christmas (“What does a nine year old need a lock on a diary for?” David had sneered). It was unlocked, the key still taped inside the front cover. She flipped through the pages. Blank.

For some reason, the empty pages made her sad. What would her daughter remember? She put the diary in the suitcase.

Looking around the room…the closet open and empty, drawers staggered…she realized that there was nothing really of Courtney in the room. No clue to her daughter’s personality, no reflection of her interests. Taking away Courtney’s belongings had not made a difference; the room had been as empty before.

She zipped the suitcases and carried them out of the room, taking them down the stairs and leaving them by the door.

She went into the walk-in closet in the master bedroom. Without allowing herself time to think she began grabbing armfuls of clothes and carting them out to the bed. She worked methodically, filling suitcase after suitcase. She could feel her blouse sticking to her skin and sweat roll down her back.

It was still early.

She had plenty of time.

She went into the bathroom, looking at her face in the mirror. Cheeks flushed, eyes determined.

She splashed cold water on her face.

It was beginning to get dark when she brought her car around to the front door and started loading the suitcases. She thanked God that she hadn’t bought a sports car.

She worked quickly, breathing through her mouth as she lifted suitcase after suitcase into the trunk. Then the final three suitcases went into the back seat.

Locking the car, she went back into the house.

She collected all of her bank books and papers from the safe in the den, then went back upstairs for a final look around. She found Courtney’s baby book and took two of the photo albums, leaving their wedding pictures behind.

What else was there?

She stood in the center of their bedroom.

Nothing.

All that remained for her to do was write the note.

She turned out the bedroom light and left without a backward glance.

The note was simple. She was leaving him and would be filing for divorce. She wanted custody of Courtney. She would sign over the house to him and he could decide whether to sell it or keep it. She would no longer offer any financial support. Her lawyer would contact him next week.

She took the house keys off her key ring and left them on top of the note. She went into the kitchen and took a bottle of chilled champagne from the refrigerator.

Then she was out the door.

Seventy-one

Florence Delano watched her brother pace back and forth across their tiny living room.

“He looked good, don’t you think?” he asked for the twentieth time.

“Yes, Frank, he looked fine.”

“I told you what the doctors said, didn’t I? Yes, of course I did.” He smiled at her sheepishly. “I guess I’m a little excited.”

Her heart ached for him but she smiled in return.

“It’ll be so great. We can get rid of all these ramps and put him back in his old bedroom upstairs…”

She nodded, knowing that it was all he required by way of a response.

“And this summer, I’ll take some time off work…hell, I’ve got four or five weeks coming…and we’ll go camping again…”

Florence got up, patted her brother on the arm, and went into the kitchen to start dinner. The rain, which had stopped for most of the afternoon, had started again and the kitchen was cold.

Frank, when he’d built this house, had wanted the sunniest kitchen possible for his bride and baby son, and had extended the kitchen away from the house so that three walls had large windows.

It was sunny during the spring and summer, but when the temperature cooled and it rained, it was the coldest room in the house.

She went to the windows, drawing the drapes before she turned on the lights. Living so far from town made her a little uneasy and at night, with all the light inside, working in the kitchen made her feel like a guppy in a fish bowl.

She turned on the gas stove and waited. The pilot light had gone out again. She struck a wood match and stiffly leaned over to put the flame near the gas jet. After it was lit, she waited for a minute, never quite trusting that the fire wouldn’t die and the kitchen fill with gas. She only closed the oven door after she could feel the heat on her face.

When her brother’s wife had died, she had gladly given up her solitary existence to come and help him make a home for Russell.

She had never regretted her decision. Her brother was a decent, hard-working man and Russell had always been a good boy.

But now…

She turned her mind away from the thoughts that had haunted her since she’d looked in Russell’s eyes.

Dinner, she reminded herself.

While she worked, she could hear her brother pacing the floor, talking to himself.

By the time the chicken was fried and the potatoes boiled, the kitchen was nice and warm. She set the table and looked with satisfaction at the platters of food—too much, she always cooked too much food, even for the three of them—before going to call Frank for dinner.

“Something’s bothering you?” Frank asked.

“I’m just a little bit tired,” she said, “and the rain makes my bones ache.”

“Rain.” He got up from the table and went to the window, pulling aside the drape to look out.

“Your dinner…” she scolded gently, knowing that, with his mind racing, it was hard for him to be still.

He turned to look at her, smiling that open smile of his that she remembered from when they were children. It had been some time since she’d seen him this happy.

How could she burden him with her worries?

Frank helped her wash up after dinner, drying the dishes with such enthusiasm that she wondered if the floral pattern would survive.

He was quiet now, having talked himself out, but his high spirits were evidenced in every move.

Some men would have celebrated such news with a visit to a bar but her brother was content to stay home. Too many nights on the road had made him even more appreciative of a home-cooked meal and a quiet night in front of the fireplace.

When the fire was going, she joined him in the living room and took up her knitting.

For a while, the only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the click of her knitting needles. Frank watched the flames and she watched Frank.

“He’s going to be all right,” Frank said.

Florence, who had her doubts, nodded.

Seventy-two

Quinn hung up the phone.

It was nearly ten o’clock back east and Emily Ballard was still not at home.

“No luck?” the evening nurse asked.

“No.” Quinn copied the phone number on a piece of scratch paper and put it in the pocket of her lab coat, closing the chart and handing it back to the nurse. “I’ll try again from my office in a little while.”

“You’re not going home?”

“Not yet.” She picked up the three most recent videotapes. “Too many of these to review.”

“You have my sympathies.” The nurse indicated the closed-circuit monitor. “They’re not very active.”

Quinn looked at the monitor. All four of them were very still, apparently watching television.

“Even for being in the hospital, I think they’re awfully quiet,” the nurse continued. “Except for the boy, there’s no reason why they can’t be up once in awhile. Someone went to the trouble of putting books and puzzles in there for them, but I’ve never seen one of those kids even show an interest in doing more than…staring out the window.”

“It’s a little odd,” Quinn agreed.

“A little.”

In her office, Quinn turned on the video players, making sure that the second machine was loaded with a blank tape.

The stack of unviewed tapes was growing steadily higher.

So far, all that she had deemed significant enough to record for Joshua to review was the incident involving Courtney. Even that accounted for only a few minutes of time.

She turned on the tape and sat back to watch. The computer-generated digital clock in the lower right corner of the screen raced with the player on scan, the constantly changing numbers almost mesmerizing.

What was she seeing?

Quinn leaned forward and hit the record button of the second video player.

The image on the screen had changed, darkened. The faces were blurred and indistinct but she knew that these were not the children.

The ward itself was not the same. Bars covered the window and instead of beds there were cots…

The figures in the ward were in constant, aimless motion. Moving from one side of the room to the other, occasionally bumping into each other…

Voices, but no words.

How could that be? She had turned off the sound on the television since the tapes had been recorded without audio.

A long, keening wail.

One of the figures was turning in circles, hands to its head, mouth wide as if gasping for breath.

What was happening?

A second figure ran at the first, striking blows with a fury that turned to frenzy when blood erupted from the other’s nose and mouth.

“Oh God,” Quinn said, sickened.

The first figure had fallen to the ground and the second fell upon it, gouging at the eyes…

The door to the ward opened and a white-uniformed nurse rushed in…

As suddenly as it had begun, the darkened image faded from the screen, and she saw instead the children sleeping.

The digital clock indicated the time as one a.m.

Quinn rewound the tapes on both machines.

Playing the first tape at normal speed, she watched the children sleep as it neared one a.m.

The image did not change.

At two minutes past one a.m., she stopped the player and rewound it again, this time playing the tape at the faster scan speed.

Nothing.

She turned off the first machine and started the second tape. Courtney’s seizure. And then nothing.

That was not possible. If nothing else, the second recorder should have taped the children sleeping.

The screen was completely blank.

Quinn locked the tapes in the filing cabinet.

What had she seen? A hallucination of some sort, brought on by…what?

She was tired but not excessively so.

A reaction to having witnessed the death of Lloyd Marshall?

No. She had seen many people die, some of them after having suffered far worse injuries than Marshall. Even the first of those deaths— a man almost decapitated when his chainsaw kicked back while he was trimming trees in his yard— hadn’t produced more than a profound sense of sorrow that she couldn’t do more and an awareness of human frailty.

She could find no answers.

The only thing that she knew for sure was that she had seen it. She was not dreaming, she was not imagining things, she had seen…

It was the children’s ward.

A stark, empty space instead of a brightly painted room, but clearly the same space.

Outside, the wind blew the rain against the window.

Standing in the doorway, looking into the darkened office, Quinn frowned.

How could she tell anyone about what had happened?

That she’d been alone in her office as a storm raged outside and had seen ghost images on a tape recorded by a closed-circuit camera in the children’s ward.

If it hadn’t been so obvious that the violence had occurred in the ward, she might have thought that it was simply a defective tape. Or that the recorder was somehow picking up a signal from another source. Or that someone had an odd sense of humor and had tampered with the tapes.

She was halfway home before she realized that she had forgotten to try to reach Emily Ballard.

It was far too late now.

Tomorrow.

Seventy-three

Alicia carried her overnight case out to the car, shivering as a blast of cold wind blew her coat open, allowing the rain to soak through her clothes. She unlocked the trunk and tossed the case in, then turned her back to the wind and buttoned the coat with shaking fingers.

Back in the room, she decided against changing her clothes. The car had a good heater and after she was on the road for a while it wouldn’t make any difference anyway.

She had decided to fly out of Los Angeles rather than leave from a closer airport. She could leave the car at the apartment and take a cab to the airport, and no one would know where she was.

She’d told Tessi and the doctors that she’d been called back to L.A. to complete the editing of her company’s year-end report to the stockholders. She would, of course, spend most of the weekend at the office where, unfortunately, the switchboard would be unattended. They would not be able to reach her, but she would call in periodically.

Her flight reservations were under a false name, likewise her car and room rental in New Mexico.

No one, except Howard, would know where she was.

She wondered if she would be able to contact Howard while she was in L.A. Their last conversation had not been very satisfying.

Locking up the motel room—she’d told the manager that she would be back late Sunday— she tucked the keys in her purse, turned up her collar against the wind, and ran to the car.

She was not particularly fond of driving at night under the best of conditions, and with the roads sheeted with water and the steady pounding of rain on the roof, she was more tense than usual.

It would all be worth it if her plans worked out.

She was certain that they would.

Tessi would thank her one day. There were so many things more important than that godforsaken ranch.

When Tessi came back to Los Angeles after six months on the ranch, it took Alicia weeks to re-civilize her. The child was constantly running around without shoes, her tiny feet calloused from six months of neglect.

Her hair, which Alicia liked to keep straight and elegant, would be frizzled from wearing it in braids. Her skin was burnished from exposure to the sun.

She looked like a little savage.

Her behavior also suffered. She had to be reminded not to talk too loud and not to run in the apartment. Her table manners were practically nonexistent in the first days back.

It was no way for a child to be brought up.

Alicia sometimes wondered if James hadn’t deliberately set out to violate every rule of conduct that she subscribed to. Teaching Tessi to run wild was a serious act of aggression.

But it would end.

Her child was meant for better things. A career, a wealthy husband, a nice home, a position in the community…

Everything that Alicia wanted for herself and was still determined to get.

With or without Howard.

That was a problem she had only recently recognized.

Howard should have been nicer to her. He thought she wouldn’t realize that he was backing out of their relationship. He had been playing games while she was playing for keeps.

She hadn’t decided what course of action to take, whether to write an anonymous letter to his wife, or perhaps send one of the cassettes she’d made of some of their more steamy phone conversations.

It had not been easy to get evidence against Howard Kraft; he was too well versed on what comprised incriminating evidence. No signed gift cards, no love letters, no Polaroid pictures.

He would be very angry with her—furious, even—but to her own surprise, she realized that she didn’t care anymore. He should have known better.

She considered it a contribution to his educational experience. It was time he learned what should have been obvious to him from the moment they’d met: Alicia Vincent would never allow a man…any man…to hurt her and get away with it.

She’d made that decision the day that James had walked out on her.

There was little consolation in the realization that she was now being dumped by a better class of man.

They could both go to hell.

There was very little traffic on the road and Alicia was finding it hard to keep her eyes open. The rhythm of the windshield wipers was oddly hypnotic.

She turned the heater down and cracked a window, hoping that the fresh air would keep her awake.

What she needed was about a gallon of hot coffee.

Miles of empty road stretched before her.

She turned on the radio and began the search for a decent radio station. She wasn’t that far south of Los Angeles, but there were enough canyons and hills to block the signals of even the most powerful stations.

The only thing that came through clearly was a country western station. She turned the radio off.

She’d take her chances on falling asleep.

Near the interchange she found a twenty-four hour coffee shop and pulled into the parking lot. Sitting in the darkened lot, she took all but five dollars out of her wallet and hid the rest of the money under the seat.

There were three men seated at the counter and two others in a booth. She could feel their eyes watching her as she stood waiting for the waitress to seat her.

“Might as well sit down, honey,” one of the men said after a minute, and the others laughed.

Alicia remained standing, feeling the color rush to her cheeks. Wherever the waitress was, she couldn’t be gone for long and Alicia would wait.

“You can join us if you’d like,” one of the men in the booth offered.

She kept her eyes straight ahead.

“I don’t think she’d like,” the first man said.

“I bet I know what she’d really like.”

Alicia turned on her heel and walked quickly for the door, suddenly aware of how vulnerable she was.

Their laughter followed her into the night.

Driving on, she found that the stop had accomplished what she’d wanted after all: she was so furious that she was again wide awake.

Seventy-four

It was obvious that Courtney could not do it alone.

Abigail would have to help her.

The lights in the ward had been off for quite a long time and still Courtney was fighting sleep. For whatever reason, Courtney did not want to dream.

It didn’t matter, though, because Abigail was going to help her, and Abigail could do it alone if need be.

Like the time with that doctor, as soon as Abigail closed her eyes she was in another place.

Courtney’s house.

She was standing just inside the front door, looking toward the staircase. The entry light was on. As far as she could see, the rest of the house was dark.

No one was home.

Of course. Courtney’s parents were not the sort to stay home on a Friday night.

Abigail moved slowly through the rooms of the house, fascinated to see the damage that Courtney had done. Blackening the walls was not the type of thing that Abigail would have chosen…

As she was about to float upstairs—her body was entirely weightless—the door opened and Courtney’s father came in. He was reeking of alcohol and he staggered as he tried to lock the door behind him. Courtney’s mother was not with him.

He walked unsteadily out of the room and Abigail followed him. He was getting himself another drink. The look on his face as he lifted the glass to his mouth reminded her of her grandmother.

He finished the drink in two swallows and, leaning against the bar for support, he poured another.

Abigail saw the note before he did. Keys?

He spilled some of his drink on the bartop and was reaching for something to wipe it up when he saw the note. He picked up one of the keys, looking at it with drunken curiosity.

He pulled the note closer to him, the spill forgotten.

Abigail pushed into his mind.

Courtney’s mother had left him. He crumpled the note and bounced it off the mirror behind the bar.

Abigail was aware that he was not disturbed about the loss of his wife. She could feel his feelings and it was clear to her that very little mattered to him. Not even Courtney.

There were a few things her grandmother had been able to tell her about the man who was her father.

He was married to another woman at the time Abigail was born, and he never had shown an interest in seeing his own child. He had not wanted his life disrupted by what he called a careless mistake.

It was very painful for Abigail to know that her life had been a mistake.

There were many times, growing up, that Abigail had prayed for her father to change his mind. She wanted, with all of her young heart, for him to come and take her away. He never did and of late she had accepted that he never would.

But what this man was feeling was worse.

He was Courtney’s legal father and had spent years living in the same house with her. He had shared birthdays and holidays with her. Courtney was not a faceless child he’d never seen.

Yet Abigail knew he felt no loss.

He poured a third drink.

She was undecided.

How best to handle the suicide of Courtney’s father? What was the most painful way?

With his mind numbed by alcohol, it would be easy to make him do as she wanted. But she had to hurry before he went to sleep.

David White moved the chair into the closet. Holding onto the back of the chair with one good hand, he stepped up and steadied himself by grabbing onto the edge of the closet shelf.

Where had all of this trash come from? He didn’t remember putting it in here.

He opened a shoe box and peered inside. Letters. Tiffany had saved them, like she collected other worthless things.

He tossed the box on the closet floor.

She should have taken all of it with her. All of it. All…of…it…

Except the money.

That she wouldn’t get away with. She wasn’t the only one with a lawyer. California had community property laws and he just might sue for alimony from her. It had been done.

It was about damned time men started standing up for their rights. Everywhere you turned, you could hear stories about women taking dear hubby to the cleaners, getting half of everything, including one bitch who’d put her husband through medical school and then sued for a share of his future earnings because she’d “contributed” by supporting him. The hell with that!

Tiffany was hopelessly naive if she thought she could keep him quiet by giving him the house. He’d be lucky, with all of the fire damage, if he’d get a couple of hundred thousand for it. How long did she expect him to live on that?

In fact, this was the best thing that could have happened. While they were married, he’d been forced to be happy with the allowance she’d paid into his accounts. It was never enough. Now, instead of a few lousy thousand here and there, he’d get half of the store.

Yeah, it would work out.

He threw a second box containing several pairs of Courtney’s baby shoes to the floor. Why in the world would anyone save baby shoes?

He’d taken care of that problem—the possibility of having more children—shortly after Courtney was born. The vasectomy had been done right in the doctor’s office. Tiffany had never known about it. In fact, when she’d been unable to get pregnant a second time, she’d suggested that they both get checked but he’d reminded her that they’d done it once, so everything had to be in working order. Eventually she forgot about it.

He leaned forward, reaching for a cardboard box that looked like it might be what he was looking for, and almost lost his balance. For a moment, looking down at the cluttered floor, which seemed to sway, he thought he was going to be sick.

He swallowed hard, trying to keep it down.

He would try to cut down his drinking. In his new life, he would try to clean up his act. With that much money, he could afford to buy fun other than from a bottle.

There it was. He opened the box and took out the gun.

He stuck the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

Seventy-five

To Lucy Fitch, the night shift was a godsend. From the moment she’d been licensed as a registered nurse, she had wanted nothing more than to work nights.

It wasn’t just the shift differential, although the extra money was nice. And it wasn’t because she was lazy.

There were three very good reasons why she preferred nights.

The most obvious reason was because she liked to sleep days. There was no more luxurious feeling in the world than turning over in bed, looking at the clock which read noon, and knowing there were at least three more hours of sleep due you.

The second reason was that it gave her an excuse not to lose weight. Everyone knew that working nights threw the body’s metabolism out of whack. (If they didn’t know, she was sure to tell them.) She was by necessity required to be less active at night; with patients sleeping, she could hardly be expected to run up and down the halls. Thus, with decreased activity and a messed up metabolism, she could hardly be faulted for carrying around an extra ten or twenty pounds.

But the final reason was the one that kept her firmly rooted on the graveyard shift.

Working nights had the added benefit of being able to say no to any social engagement you might want to avoid.

It was a boon during the holidays.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like to socialize…she did. And it wasn’t that she didn’t love her family…she thought she did. It was just that her family’s Christmas parties ranked alongside the Inquisition as far as pure entertainment value.

In fact, they were inquisitions.

Why wasn’t she married? Didn’t she want kids? Why had she broken up with that nice boy from the church? Hadn’t she heard that beggars couldn’t be choosers? Why didn’t she call home more often?

All of it stopped when she started working nights.

She had found the perfect excuse.

Either she’d worked the night before, or she was scheduled to work that night, whatever night that night was.

She got out of Easter egg hunts, Fourth of July picnics, Thanksgiving reunions, and— hallelujah!—the Christmas parties.

There was no occasion, big or small, that the specter of “working all night” could not be used as an hedge. Even the wedding of her skinny cousin to that Neo-Nazi barber.

Working nights was the single best decision of her life.

She was a little upset when she was assigned to the children’s ward—medical was the best floor when it came to work load—but when they told her there were only four patients and that none of them were seriously ill, she decided to make the most of it.

She finished what little charting there was to do and cleaned all of the paperwork off the desk. Then she got out her bag of goodies and the latest Stephen King novel.

There was nothing to compare to being scared silly while stuffing her face with junk food.

Chocolate cupcakes, potato chips, peanuts, chocolate-covered cherries, red licorice, and mint cookies.

And a diet soft drink.

She took off her white nurse’s shoes and put on her knitted slippers, then put her feet up on an up-ended trash bin.

With a brief look at the video monitor—her patients were all asleep— she began to read.

Eyes wide, she turned the page, feeling the dread build in her stomach. Her hand reached out, fingers roving past the peanuts and chips, and grabbed a stick of licorice. This was a gnawing chapter, she could tell.

What was that?

Frowning, she lowered the book.

Like someone whispering.

She looked at the monitor; the children were all asleep.

There it was again.

Using the licorice as a book mark, she put the book on the desk and got to her feet.

Whispering. Definitely voices.

She went to the exterior door and put her ear against it. She couldn’t imagine anyone foolish enough to be outside on a night like this, but anything was possible.

It wasn’t coming from outside.

What in the world?

Of course! One of the children had rolled over the TV remote control in their sleep. The volume was down so it sounded like whispering to her.

Mystery solved.

Padding silently in her knitted slippers, she went into the children’s ward.

The screen was dark.

The whispering went on.

She crossed to the first bed, leaning over the boy carefully. He was not making any noise, nor was the remote control even on the bed.

She opened the bedside table, searching for a radio.

Nothing.

At the second bed, the girl had the covers pulled all the way over her head. Lucy could not hear a thing.

Except the whispering.

It was making her nervous.

She searched the bedside table and even looked under the bed but there was nothing to be found.

Ducking between the third and fourth beds, she quickly checked for a source of the noise. She even picked up the stuffed animals on the third bed and held them to her ears.

The little girl in the fourth bed turned over, opening her eyes and looking straight at Lucy.

The whispering stopped.

“Hello,” the little girl said.

Lucy smiled. “Hello.”

Back at the desk, she settled down to continue reading her book.

She did not hear any more whispering.

By morning she had forgotten.

SATURDAY

Seventy-six

Quinn awoke with a start.

She had been dreaming about the face on the tape. Mad, demented eyes and twisted features. Cords of muscle rippling along the neck.

She sat up in bed, fully awake.

Saturday morning.

The earlier she got to the hospital to make her rounds, the sooner she would be free for the day. Pushing the covers aside, she got out of bed and went to the window to see if it was still raining.

It was not. The storm had blown over and the

sky was a pale winter blue.

She jumped slightly as the clock-radio began to play.

A little nervous.

Leaving the radio playing, she went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. She pulled her nightshirt over her head and stepped under the water.

The warmth soothed her and she stood where the water would massage the back of her neck. She felt the tension drain from her body and she let her eyes close.

What had happened last night?

She was firm in her belief that it had not been a hallucination. She had been completely awake and in full control of her senses. She was under no more stress than usual.

The rational explanations that she had thought of last night made no more sense this morning than they had then.

Maybe there wasn’t a rational explanation.

Maybe what had happened was exactly what it now seemed: that through some…variance in time, she had been witness to a brutal murder that had occurred in the children’s ward.

She was surprised at how easy it was for her to accept such a premise.

As soon as she arrived at the hospital, she went to her office to try and call Emily Ballard.

Again there was no answer.

She dialed directory assistance for that area code and asked for the listing, on the chance that admitting had typed the number incorrectly. It was the right number.

She hung up and then dialed the number again, letting the phone ring.

Well, she would try after she’d completed her rounds. Sooner or later she would reach the elusive Emily Ballard.

“I didn’t expect to see you here today,” Quinn said to Mary Aguilar. “You do get a day off once in a while, don’t you?”

“I have two weeks of days off, starting tomorrow.”

Quinn sat at the nurse’s desk and opened Russell’s chart to the progress notes. “Going anywhere special?” she asked, skimming the notes.

“Just away. And I’ll tell you, I need it.”

“Working you too hard, are they?”

“Either that or I’m going crazy.”

Something in Mary’s voice made Quinn look up.

“Is there something wrong?” The chart was forgotten for the moment.

Mary hesitated. “I’ve been having these dreams,” she said.

“Do you want to talk about them?”

“Oh, I…I don’t know. It’s probably nothing. But the past couple of nights, I’ve had dreams about the ward. About the children.”

Not about the face of a madman, Quinn thought, and relaxed.

“Actually, it’s only two of the children; Tessi and Courtney are gone, I don’t know where.”

“Just Russell and Abigail,” Quinn prompted.

“Yes.” Another hesitation. “They’re here, in the ward, and something terrible is happening. The walls are falling down and there’s fire and smoke…I can’t hear what they’re saying but Russell is yelling at Abigail. She laughs at him.”

“Go on.”

“That’s all there is.” Mary frowned. “But I keep dreaming it, over and over. And I can never hear what they’re saying.”

“That is odd. Have they had an argument?”

“Not at all. In fact, I think Abigail has a crush on him. She’s so concerned about him…that’s what makes the dream so strange.”

“Well, I wouldn’t worry about it. But if you ever do hear what they’re saying, I would like to know.”

When she got back to her office she discovered that someone had delivered the strip chart record of Courtney’s EEG. It had been done late Friday afternoon at Ian Campbell’s request, following his evaluation of her.

Attached to the EEG was a note from Ian asking her to call him, at home if necessary, after she’d had a chance to review the study.

She put it aside and went to the filing cabinet to get the next videotape for scanning.

In the next two tapes, she only found one item that she thought Joshua should review.

On the Thursday morning tape, Abigail appeared almost catatonic for more than an hour, staring fixedly, not blinking.

But, on two occasions during her trance-like state, she smiled.

Once at 11:45 and the other time at 12:30.

Seventy-seven

“Morning, Miss Vincent.” The guard at the parking gate smiled and nodded, passing her through.

She drove the car into the underground lot and parked in her reserved place. She opened the trunk and grabbed the overnight case, then started toward the elevator.

At the elevator she punched in her resident code number and waited for it to descend. Once inside she entered her floor and apartment code.

It was a very secure system.

It was good to be back in Los Angeles.

The apartment was blessedly quiet and after closing and locking the door she stood for a moment, enjoying the solitude. Then, leaving the overnight case at the door, she went to begin getting ready for her flight.

A quick shower and a few extra minutes in front of the mirror to repair the damage of a sleepless night, and she was ready to dress for the trip.

What did one wear when gathering evidence for a custody suit?

None of her clothes seemed right for New Mexico and she did not want to appear out of place. This was not the time to draw attention to herself.

Finally, she selected a pair of ivory linen slacks and a blue silk blouse, along with heeled suede boots.

She took a minute out of her preparations to call for a cab.

Digging through the closet, she found a corduroy jacket that she hadn’t worn since college, then stood in front of the mirror to evaluate her appearance. Desert chic.

She decided to wait downstairs for the cab and, grabbing her purse and the overnight case, set out the door.

“I won’t hear of you taking a cab,” Edmund Cowan said, steering her toward his Mercedes 450SL.

“Are you sure it won’t be any trouble?”

“LAX is always trouble, but you, my dear, are worth it.” His florid face beamed at her.

“If you insist,” she said, allowing him to usher her into the elegant little car.

“I do.”

It was all she could do to keep Cowan from accompanying her to the ticket window. The man needed a leash.

“Don’t be silly, Edmund, the traffic is only going to get worse and I don’t want you stuck in it on my account.”

“All right, but promise that when you get back, you’ll stop by for a drink.”

Where was the man’s wife? “Of course.” She squeezed his hand. “Thanks again.”

She knew that he watched her as she started for the terminal.

At the ticket counter she held her breath. She had paid for the tickets in cash through a travel agency in Spring Valley, using the name Alice Smith. It only just occurred to her that they might require identification.

They didn’t. The clerk handed the packet to her without comment.

She was on her way.

Waiting in the passenger lounge for boarding, she found herself thinking about James.

Jimmy.

He had been so different from the other boys. Strong and silent and gentle-natured. His hair hadn’t been that long, then, but he still looked like her romantic notion of a warrior brave. More than that, he had a body.

She smiled to herself.

The early days of their relationship had been immensely satisfying. The differences between them hadn’t mattered then.

Only later, when he took her to live on the reservation, had she realized how great those differences were, and how deep they ran.

It had never crossed her mind, when she left the reservation, that he wouldn’t follow her. Or that if he followed her, he wouldn’t stay.

But he hadn’t stayed.

He had asked her to bring Tessi and come back with him. He would do everything he could to make it better for her this time.

She did not believe there was anything he could do to make it better.

For the first time in her life, Alicia had wanted something she couldn’t have. She could still remember the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach when he told her goodbye.

Eventually, after he was gone, she convinced herself that she hadn’t really wanted him. But she began to hate him for taking the decision out of her hands.

Now she hated him far more than she had ever loved him. And she would never forgive him.

But she would even the score.

She would more than even the score.

Seventy-eight

Tessi was crying softly when Abigail awoke.

“Do you want me to ring for the nurse?” Abigail asked.

Tessi nodded, looking at Abigail with reddened eyes. Her nose was running and she wiped at it with a corner of the sheet.

“I think I’m going to die,” Tessi sobbed.

The nurse brushed the hair out of Tessi’s face, then wiped away the child’s tears.

“Can you tell me where it hurts?” Mary asked.

“All over.”

“I’m going to call the doctor, Tessi, so just hold on for a minute and I’ll be right back.” She looked at Abigail who was watching silently. “Right back,” she repeated.

Tessi continued to cry.

“Her vital signs are all normal,” the nurse said as Dr. Logan moved her hands across Tessi’s abdomen.

“When did she start doing this?”

The nurse looked at Abigail. “I’m not sure.”

“She was crying when I woke up,” Abigail said.

“Let’s get a blood count,” Dr. Logan said and put the stethoscope in her ears to listen to Tessi’s chest.

The nurse patted Tessi’s hand. “It’ll be all right,” she said and then left the ward.

Tessi did not even protest when the lab technician took her blood. She lay, her free arm across her eyes, crying steadily.

Abigail watched as the tube filled with Tessi’s blood.

“I’m going to die,” Tessi whimpered, her eyes wide with fear.

A second doctor that Abigail had never seen was talking with Dr. Logan near the door.

“No, you won’t,” Abigail said.

“Hi, Tessi,” the male doctor said. “Remember me? I’m Dr. Campbell and we talked the other day. Can you tell me what’s troubling you?”

“I’m going to die.”

“Ssh. You’ll be fine. I think you’re having a little anxiety reaction and the nurse is going to give you some medication…a shot…that will make you feel much better.” He nodded at the nurse.

Abigail watched the needle penetrate Tessi’s skin.

A few minutes later Tessi was sleeping soundly, her tearstained face the only sign of her fears.

The doctors had left and the nurse, after raising the safety rails on the side of Tessi’s bed, followed after.

Abigail knew what fears had tortured Tessi.

Understood them more than even Tessi did.

Tessi was frightened that her mother was going to take her away from her father.

Tessi did not want that to happen.

She was scared that she would be consumed in her mother’s rage against her father, feeling powerless in an adult battle.

Tessi sensed that the final confrontation was near.

They would not destroy Tessi.

Abigail was certain of that.

Seventy-nine

“I’m surprised to see you here today,” Quinn said as they walked across the hospital grounds toward the main building.

“Don’t you think psychiatrists work as hard as you medical doctors?”

Quinn smiled. “That’s not it at all. It’s just such a beautiful day…I would think if you didn’t have patients to see, you’d be crazy to be here today.”

“Well, I am a little crazy, actually. It’s the company I keep…present company excepted.”

“Maybe present company as well.”

“Really?” He looked at her quizzically.

“I had an experience last night I haven’t quite figured out.”

They reached the main building and went in through the lobby.

“Would you like to tell me about it?”

“Hmm. Right now I’d rather talk about Tessi.”

“Ah. Patient changes the subject.”

She laughed. “I can see I may have backed myself into a corner.”

“I’d be more than happy to accompany you in the corner,” Ian said.

“Oh,” she said lightly. “Is this a pass?”

“Not really. I’m not very good at that sort of thing. Besides, I imagine you’re spoken for.”

“What makes you think that?” She unlocked her office door.

“Doctor changes the subject. Let’s talk about Tessi.”

Bemused, she laughed again. “All right. Tessi.”

“I can honestly say I’ve never seen a child as anxious as she was this morning. I think she really believed that she was going to die.”

“That was my impression,” Quinn agreed.

“How receptive do you think her parents would be to counseling?”

Remembering Alicia Vincent’s face at the meeting, Quinn shook her head. “Not very. At least the mother wouldn’t be. I think the father would be willing.”

“We need parents and child.”

“I know.”

“I’m afraid if we don’t do something to alleviate the psychological pressure that Tessi is experiencing, her physical state is going to deteriorate further.”

Quinn sighed. “I suppose we could try to talk to the mother.”

“The sooner the better.”

“Well, it won’t be until Monday; she’s gone back to Los Angeles for the weekend.”

“Monday will have to do, then.” His eyes came to rest on Courtney’s EEG. “Did you have a chance to look that over?”

“The EEG? Not yet.” She reached for it.

“It’s very interesting. According to all of the reports I have, she’s always had a normal EEG up until now.”

Quinn looked up. “Until now?”

“This one is completely normal during the awake exam, but once she fell asleep…look.” He came over and flipped through the folds of the graph paper. “Here, look at those spikes.” He traced the markings through three sheets of the study.

“She’s being stimulated?”

At her questioning look he shook his head. “Not at all. But it certainly looks like an electrical storm in her brain.”

“A dream state?”

“According to the technician, she was in REM.”

“Exciting dreams, then,” Quinn commented, folding back the EEG.

“Well…she told me about some of her dreams. Very odd.”

“Yes?”

“On the night of her seizure, she told me she dreamt that her house was on fire.”

Quinn raised her eyebrows.

“She said, and I think these were her exact words, ‘I was burning up…my house was burning up.’ “

“She did have a fever,” Quinn noted.

“Anyway, it’s in my report.”

“You said dreams. What were the others?”

“Oh yes. Apparently they woke her up just before her appointment. That’s why she was so sleepy when they brought her over; they woke her during the middle of a dream. She was dreaming about an auto accident.”

“Pretty frightening dreams.”

“Then…I told you I let her sleep in my office.”

“She had another dream?”

“This one was tame by comparison. She dreamt that her mother signed her out of the hospital.”

Quinn nodded. “You talked with Russell yesterday, didn’t you?”

“Yes. His is another fascinating case. I have to hand it to Joshua, he certainly has gathered an interesting group of children.”

“Tell me about Russell.”

“Well, what I said yesterday at the meeting. I think it’s possible for us to witness a dramatic improvement in his condition.”

“Such as…?”

“I’m not saying,” Ian continued, “that he’s just going to get up and walk one day. But I think he’s suffering from some sort of hysterical paralysis which keeps him from walking and if we can resolve the emotional and psychological problems, the physical problems can be surmounted.”

“That would be…”

“Fantastic.” Ian’s smile broadened. “I think we can do it.”

“I hope so.” She looked at her watch.

“Am I keeping you from something?”

“I have to go down to the city morgue and sign a death certificate.”

“Don’t they usually bring those here for you to sign?”

“Usually.” She shrugged. “I don’t mind. I’m so new in town…it’ll give me a chance to look around.”

“The morgue wouldn’t be my choice for sightseeing…”

“Mine either.” She got up and smiled at Ian. “But duty calls. Oh, by the way, can I get a copy of your reports on Courtney and Russell?”

“They’re in transcription, probably won’t be out until this afternoon.”

“Well, I’ll get them on Monday then.”

“What, not working tomorrow?”

“Medical doctors don’t work all that hard,” she laughed.

Eighty

Tiffany scanned the hospital parking lot for David’s car, not really expecting to find it but nonetheless relieved when she did not.

She wasn’t ready for a confrontation.

Last night had been the first truly peaceful night she’d had in years and she wanted that feeling to continue. Alone in the motel room, she was less lonely than she’d been in a long time.

She knew that her departure would not break David’s heart. He would have left her years ago if it hadn’t been for the money.

There had always been other women and she suspected that there always would be; David needed a way to prove he was a man.

It didn’t matter, though.

All that mattered was that she and Courtney were going to start a new life.

David could have visitation rights if he wanted them. He was Courtney’s father, after all. But she’d always felt that his heart wasn’t in it.

Whether her own heart had been in it was, she had realized, also at doubt. Her early devotion to Courtney as a baby had given way to a sort of benign neglect.

Maybe if things had been different, if they’d been a real family…she stopped herself.

Maybes didn’t count.

The past was behind her.

It was from this moment on that she needed to focus on. She owed it to Courtney and she owed it to herself.

She was early for visiting hours so she decided to see if she could locate one of Courtney’s doctors.

She needed advice on how to tell Courtney about the fire and, more importantly, about the separation.

Courtney was such a quiet child, it was sometimes difficult to determine whether she was upset about something. Tiffany didn’t know how to proceed.

Her instincts told her that if she explained everything very matter-of-factly, Courtney would handle it without any problems. Or major problems, anyway.

Still, the doctors were more versed in child psychology than she was, and she didn’t want to do or say anything that could have an effect on her daughter’s sometimes precarious health.

Neither of the doctors were in their offices so she went to the switchboard to have them paged.

“Dr. Logan left just a few minutes ago,” the operator said. “She might be back later this afternoon.”

“What about Dr. Fuller?”

“He hasn’t been in yet today but he might be in later. Do you want me to call his exchange?”

Tiffany hesitated. “No…I think it can wait.”

“Do you want to leave a message for either of them?”

She shook her head. “No…yes…if it’s no trouble?”

“Not at all.” The operator handed her a pad and pencil. “Just write down your name and number, and I’ll give it to whichever one comes in first.”

With fifteen minutes left before visiting hours, Tiffany wandered through the hospital gift shop.

All of the Christmas decorations were up and she wondered whether she’d spend Christmas alone. The doctors hadn’t said for sure when Courtney would be released.

She hadn’t thought to take any of the decorations, so she bought a dozen yarn snowballs and as many miniature wood toys. On a small Christmas tree, they would be just about enough.

As for presents…

She hoped to give Courtney a new mother.

Eighty-one

When she arrived in New Mexico, Alicia looked for someone who looked like a photographer. It was not an easy thing to do, since in her experience photographers tended to be nondescript, but she stood watching people come and go.

After fifteen minutes of this she decided that Howard had not bothered to arrange to have anyone meet her.

That was a mistake he would regret.

She hoped Mrs. Kraft would like the sound of her husband’s verbal foreplay…

But for now, Alicia was stuck without a photographer.

Well, how hard could it be? She’d worked publicity shoots dozens of times and none of the photographers she’d ever met seemed to work too hard at it. She’d get her own camera and take the lousy pictures herself.

That decided, she set off in search of the car rental agency. Luckily it was a local company which she didn’t feel would be too particular about I.D.

There was a man at the counter ahead of her and she watched in satisfaction as he rented a car without showing even a driver’s license.

This was the type of thing James would point out as indicative of the innate decency of the New Mexican people.

Whatever, she was grateful for it.

The man left the counter and she stepped up.

“Good afternoon,” the clerk said, and handed her a rental application form.

“I called ahead…Alice Smith.”

The clerk thumbed through a small stack of cards. “Here it is, Alice Smith. Cash or charge?”

“Cash,” Alicia said, and reached into her purse.

For a second she couldn’t believe her eyes. A single five dollar bill. Then she remembered; she had tucked the rest of her money under the seat of the car when she’d stopped for coffee, and hadn’t remembered to retrieve the cash when she’d left the car in the parking garage in L.A.

Five dollars. Damn!

She couldn’t use her credit cards, at least not with this clerk.

“Oh…can you tell me where I could find a phone?”

The clerk, who had been completing the paperwork, looked up. “You can use our phone.”

“No…this is long distance and it may take a while.” Alicia looked at the rental forms, trying to think of a good reason to leave before completing the transaction.

Just then the phone rang. “Excuse me,” the clerk said.

Alicia walked away quickly.

Outside the terminal she stopped to gather her thoughts. She was in an awkward situation. She had five dollars in cash. If she wanted to use her credit card to rent a car she would have to wait until the clerk went off duty. There was no way for her to know when that might be.

Renting a room would present the same problem. She could use her credit cards but she would rather not. She did not want anyone to ever find out that she came to New Mexico.

She had lied to the doctors about where she was going. She had lied to Tessi.

Being found out in those lies would make her look bad.

There was also the fact that she would be, by the letter of the law, breaking into her ex-husband’s house. Since she had the keys, she thought it unlikely that anyone would ever know. But if by some chance the intrusion was detected, she did not want credit card receipts placing her in the state.

So…she could give up her plan, spend the night in the terminal, and fly back to Los Angeles tomorrow.

Or she could walk out to the ranch…there was plenty of daylight left…and spend the night there.

It was an easy decision to make.

She started to walk.

Eighty-two

James Wolf watched his former wife from a coffee shop window across from the airport.

He had known she was coming.

It made him very sad. He had hoped that at some point, Alicia would give up her anger. He did not like being a hated man. He did not wish to be her enemy.

He realized that he had made a mistake by arguing with her about Tessi, and that by not controlling his temper, he had added heat to her flame.

Now he did not know how to stop her.

But stop her, he must.

She began to walk down the road which led from the airport into town.

He could not understand why she was walking, but it would make it easy to follow her.

He got up from the table and paid for his coffee.

He followed her until he was sure that she was walking toward the ranch. Then he turned the truck around.

There was someone whom he could ask.

Someone who would know what he should do.

Eighty-three

“Death certificate, death certificate.” The file clerk searched through a pile of manila folders and papers. “I know I had those this morning.”

“Would you like me to look through some of those?” Quinn offered, not knowing what else to suggest. The woman had been looking for the certificate for five minutes.

“No, no, I’ll find it. I know it’s in here.”

Quinn watched patiently.

“Now if I were a death certificate, where would I be?” the woman mused.

“I think I’ll go get a Coke,” Quinn said.

“You do that.” The clerk did not look up. “I’ll just keep looking…it didn’t get up and walk away.”

Quinn smiled and went outside.

There was a small store down the street on the corner and she walked toward it, enjoying the sun after so many days of rain.

The store windows were covered with white spray-on snow and painted holly, and she went inside, expecting to hear Christmas carols. Instead it was reggae.

A California Christmas, she thought, and started down an aisle.

“Quinn,” a voice called, and she turned.

Joshua, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt and carrying a carton of milk and a loaf of bread, smiled at her.

“Joshua, hello.” She was a little stunned; somehow she expected him to be wearing a lab coat at all times.

“What are you doing downtown?” he asked, coming down the aisle toward her. “Not too many people shop down here since they opened the new shopping center up the road.”

“I just happened to be in the neighborhood.”

He laughed. “There’s nothing in this neighborhood.”

“Except the morgue and city buildings,” she corrected.

“You’re on business, then.”

“I have to sign Lloyd Marshall’s death certificate.”

“That shouldn’t take long…would you like to join me for lunch?”

“I’d like that very much.”

She graciously allowed him to buy her a Coke and they walked back down to the morgue, stopping at his car to leave off his groceries.

“So how were things at the hospital this morning?”

“Interesting.” She sipped her Coke.

“How interesting?”

“Tessi had an anxiety reaction and had to be medicated, I saw Courtney’s EEG which has some abnormalities…”

“That’s never happened before,” Joshua commented.

“…I talked with Ian about Russell…”

“Ian was in this morning?”

“Yes, and…damn!”

“What?”

“I forgot to try Abigail’s grandmother again.”

They had reached the morgue and Joshua opened the door for her.

She decided she liked him in jeans.

“Oh, you’re back. Good. I found them for you.”

“Them? I’m only here for…”

“Right where I thought they were, too. Last place I looked, of course…” She handed Quinn a folder. “Just leave them on the counter,” she said.

Joshua, standing next to her, laughed. “Nice lady.”

Quinn opened the folder. There were two reports, Lloyd Marshall and Anne Rossi.

“That’s the physical therapist,” Joshua said, taking that report from the folder.

“Hmm.” She skimmed through the certificate which was attached to the autopsy report.

“A very thorough job,” Joshua commented, reading through the autopsy report on Rossi. “Stomach contents, fingernail scrapings…cause of death, suffocation by drowning.”

Quinn signed Marshall’s death certificate.

“Even a time of death.”

She looked up. “How did they get that? I thought she’d been in the whirlpool for awhile when they found her.”

“You need to read more murder mysteries. Her watch stopped. At twelve forty-five p.m.”

“Maybe she was wearing a watch that wasn’t working.” Quinn returned Marshall’s autopsy report and certificate to the folder and looked at the second report.

“Don’t challenge scientific principle.”

“Two accidents in the same hospital on the same day, just more than an hour apart; Marshall died at eleven-thirty.” She shook her head.

“Oh, this one’s not an accident,” Joshua said, flipping to the back of the autopsy report. “Her right arm was dislocated at the shoulder with enough force to cause a greenstick fracture of the radius. But there is virtually no bleeding into the tissue—”

“So it happened seconds before she died.”

“And that makes this one a murder.”

Eighty-four

“Look at you,” Mary Aguilar said as her relief nurse came through the door. “Has the ice age arrived?”

Barbara Stuart unwrapped the woolen scarf from around her neck and unbuttoned her knee-length down jacket before answering. “If I didn’t wear it, I’d have to carry it, and I’m too tired for that.”

“But it’s a beautiful day outside,” Mary protested.

“It has been, but it’s about to be the West Coast’s version of the Great Blizzard.” She hung the coat up on a hook on the bathroom door and stuffed the scarf in the pocket.

“I guess I picked a great time to take a vacation…”

“The way things are going around here, I’d be glad to go in your place, even if it meant staying locked in under ten feet of snow.”

“What do you mean?”

Barbara looked at Mary. “You’ve got to get out more,” she said flatly. “Don’t you know what’s been happening around here?”

“Tell me.”

“It was on the news last night that Anne Rossi’s death was not accidental. They’re looking for ‘person or persons unknown.’ Do you realize that means she was murdered right here at the hospital? Maybe by one of the employees?” Barbara shivered.

“No…”

“It’s possible. You’re lucky you work days; I’ve got to be here alone on p.m.’s and I don’t even want to think about the gal working nights.”

“You can lock up,” Mary suggested.

Barbara nodded emphatically. “You can bet your sweet ass I’m going to lock that door the minute you leave. And I’m not letting anyone in.”

“Visiting hours,” Mary reminded her.

“Well…”

“And the doctors.”

“I know all the doctors.” Barbara thought for a minute. “I can think of a few I wouldn’t like to be alone with on a dark and stormy night.”

“Barbara!”

“There are some perverts on staff here,” she nodded knowingly. “Word gets around.”

“Still…murdering someone…”

“And there’s more.” Barbara sat on the edge of the desk, inspecting her pantyhose for runs. “Someone has been sabotaging the computer.”

“How on earth?”

“You wouldn’t believe. The pharmacy order was deleted from the memory, the central service inventory was deleted, all those DRG codes are gone, the thermostats are turned up on medical and down on surgical…the computer even discharged all of the patients in the hospital.”

“And they think someone is deliberately doing these things?”

“What else could it be?”

“Something wrong with the programming?”

“Well whatever is going on, it could have been a catastrophe.” She lowered her voice and leaned forward. “All the life support systems are computerized.”

“Oh no…” Mary could not comprehend anyone doing such a thing.

“Well, they’re off the system now…”

“I guess we’re lucky to be away from the main building after all,” Mary said, looking at the video monitor. “Nothing bad can happen to us all the way out here.”

Eighty-five

The dirt road that led to the ranch was filled with more potholes than Alicia had ever seen in her life. Walking on it was torture enough; she couldn’t imagine having to drive on it.

She had almost missed it as well. The only marker was a two-foot-high wood stake with “Wolf” painted on it. She probably wouldn’t have seen it at all if she hadn’t been so desperate that she was looking for signs with each step.

Even with the potholes and dust, she was glad to be off the paved road. She did not enjoy the stares of curiosity, nor the occasional whistle and rude remark.

And it couldn’t be much farther now.

She watched her feet as she walked. Whoever had named these desert boots should have their head examined. She was certain that once she took the boots off, it would be impossible to put them back on.

That was all that had stopped her from sitting in the middle of the road and pulling them off.

She walked on, shifting her overnight case from one hand to the other.

It couldn’t be much farther.

The sun was getting very low in the sky and a little bit of wind had come up. She remembered the chilled nights from years ago. She did not want to be outside when dusk fell.

She narrowed her eyes, squinting in the effort to see the ranch house. The land was not as flat as she thought it was and the road was not straight.

When she got to the ranch house she was going straight to draw a tub of steaming hot water. Assuming there was any hot water. Assuming there was a tub.

She would not put it past Little Wolf to rely on more primitive methods of hygiene.

None of this was working out the way she planned.

How could she have made so many mistakes?

It all could have been avoided if she hadn’t stopped for coffee at that restaurant. Or if the people inside had acted like decent human beings and hadn’t angered her so much that she forgot about having hidden the money.

Then, in Los Angeles, if she’d taken a cab to the airport instead of allowing a neighbor to give her a ride. She would have noticed then that she didn’t have her money, and could have gone back to the apartment to get it. She might have missed the plane to New Mexico but that was nothing compared to what she was going through now.

She was beginning to think that she would have been better off to have forgotten the whole thing. Right now she could be dining…frugally, perhaps, but she hadn’t eaten all day.

There would be food in the house. Even savages had to eat.

Where was the damn house?

There was something seriously wrong with a person who was so anti-social that he chose to live miles away from town with no neighbors in sight.

She looked over her shoulder at the sun which hovered just above the horizon.

This couldn’t be happening to her.

She stood in front of the ranch house, unable to believe her eyes.

No wonder she hadn’t seen it; it was built right into the side of a rise. The roof was covered by dirt and brush and the front of the building was built of stone.

It did not look like a house at all.

If she’d come upon it with the sun completely set, she probably wouldn’t have seen it.

She let the overnight case drop to the ground and pulled the keys out of her purse.

Whatever it was, it was better than spending the night on the road.

The lights worked and she breathed a sigh of relief. For a few moments, while her hand searched along the wall for a switch, she’d had an awful feeling that electricity was too modern for him. That he would use oil lamps or whatever it was they used during the Civil War.

She locked the door behind her.

The living room was to her right, an open kitchen to the left. She located the bedrooms— two of them—with a bathroom in between.

There was a tub.

She leaned in and pushed the stopper into the drain, then turned on the water. The water pressure wasn’t great but the hot water was hot and that’s all that she cared about.

While the tub was filling she walked slowly around the house.

It was tiny. The entire house would have fit in her living room at the apartment. There were only two windows, neither of them very large, both in the kitchen. There was only the one door.

What if there was a fire?

She would have to remember that when she was preparing her case.

The room that was Tessi’s was sparsely furnished: a twin bed, a chest of drawers, and a rocking chair. The closet had no door.

His room was only slightly larger and just as bare.

She walked to the bed and tested the mattress with her hand. Firm. He had always liked a firm bed.

She would have to sleep in his bed tonight; she wouldn’t fit in Tessi’s. She wondered who else had slept in his bed.

She lowered her body into the hot water.

Both of her heels had blisters and the water stung but the rest of her aching muscles welcomed the heat.

She sank in the tub, resting her head against the edge and submerging everything but her face. The water lapped against her chin.

Amazing how much difference a bath could make. Two minutes in the steaming water and she was suddenly jubilant.

She would win after all. It had taken her the better part of the day to get here but she had accomplished what she’d set out to do; there would be no trace of her trip. The air tickets were the only clue at all, and with millions of people flying every day, in six months no one would be able to say whether Alice Smith was Alicia Vincent.

It had, in fact, worked out better than she’d planned. No signature on a car rental application or a motel registration card. Staying at the ranch eliminated the paper trail and left fewer clues.

She would enjoy her bath, find something to eat, and then sleep. In the morning she would take notes, draw diagrams and look for any evidence that James was unfaithful.

Unfaithful. Why had she…?

It didn’t matter. She had done what she had wanted to do and no one could stop her now.

Not wanting to put her clothes back on, she dressed in one of her ex-husband’s shirts. She searched for a pair of socks so that she wouldn’t have to go barefoot, but there were none to be found.

The house was quiet.

She went into the kitchen to find something to eat, fastening the shutters over the windows so that no one could look in.

She felt strangely vulnerable.

The kitchen was well-stocked with food, including an entire cupboard filled with canned goods, but she couldn’t find an electric can opener. Finally she found an old hand-held opener and managed to open her can of soup enough so that she could pry the lid open and pour the liquid out.

Leaning against the kitchen counter, waiting for her soup to heat on the stove, she tried to imagine what her life would have been like if she’d come back with Jimmy. She could almost hear Tessi’s excited voice…

No. Absolutely not. It would never have worked out. She had made the right decision.

She looked at her watch as she went in to sleep. It was only six o’clock.

Eighty-six

At six o’clock, Abigail watched as they medicated Tessi for the second time that day.

Again, Tessi fell into a deep sleep although her right hand, freed from the covers, still twitched spasmodically. Her hair, damp with tears and perspiration, was stuck to her skin.

Abigail sat up in bed and watched Tessi sleep.

Across the room, Russell was also sitting, one arm looped through the trapeze.

She knew that he was upset, disturbed by the sight of Tessi’s panicked face while they waited for the nurse to come back with the needle.

Now he stared at nothing, a frown on his face.

Abigail realized that it was up to her.

All day she had searched with her mind, trying to locate Tessi’s mother, but was unable to find her. Now she probed tentatively at Tessi.

There was some resistance and Tessi became more restive as Abigail persisted, opening her eyes for one brief second and looking alarmed. But Abigail continued.

It was different from when she had joined in Courtney’s dream. Tessi’s thoughts were jumbled, disorganized. Even sedated, Tessi was profoundly afraid.

Abigail.

Her name was not spoken but she heard it clearly.

She hesitated.

What are you doing?

She looked across the room at Russell, releasing her hold on Tessi’s mind.

Russell had reached into her mind.

Helping Tessi, she answered.

Their eyes held for a time.

Abigail hid her intentions, burying them out of his reach. She knew that he was not as strong as she was, and that he could not find what she chose to hide.

Then Russell blinked and was gone. He resumed staring into space.

Abigail watched him for a minute, trying to decide how to proceed. She looked at Tessi and noticed that Tessi’s right ear was bleeding from where the earring had torn into the skin during what that doctor had called an anxiety reaction.

The perfect little earring was caked with Tessi’s blood.

With a last look at Russell, Abigail began again.

The medication was having more of an effect. Tessi did not resist the second entry.

There was so much more than Abigail had expected. Tessi was filled with memories, the clearest of which concerned the ranch.

The ranch.

Abigail had not thought to look there. It was plain that Tessi’s mother despised the ranch from the tone in her voice when she had interrogated Tessi about it several days before.

Abigail thought it unlikely that the woman would go there, but she turned her mind toward it, feeling her powers weaken as she ventured so far from the source.

She had to stop.

She needed more strength.

She lay back on her bed, closing her eyes and breathing through her mouth.

There was power in this building. The source of the power, she didn’t know…yet…but the air was thick with it.

Abigail had seen it in her own dreams.

Blood was splattered on the walls and even on the ceiling. Great pools of it were on the floor.

He had killed the first with his bare hands with a strength that defied reason. While the others watched with dull eyes, he had struck and struck until his enemy was helpless on the floor. Then he had gouged out the eyes, his thumbs digging into the heat of the other man’s skull.

Someone was trying to pull him away.

He struck out again and heard the crack of bone breaking.

The smell of blood was upon him. He tore at her throat with bloodied hands and howled in victory when he felt her life seep through his fingers.

The others waited with vacant eyes.

Something shiny was on the floor.

A pair of scissors.

She was stronger now.

She had found the one she was seeking.

Eighty-seven

“It occurs to me that we’re probably the only people in this restaurant who are still having lunch,” Joshua said, looking with some surprise at the other filled tables.

Quinn smiled. “We started late.”

“Even so…” he glanced at his watch, “…a four-hour lunch is pushing it a little. Do you want to have dinner?”

She laughed. “No…I couldn’t eat a thing.”

“Neither could I. How many breadsticks do you think there were in the basket?” He held the empty basket up for her evaluation.

“A hundred,” she said with a slow smile.

“At least.” He looked around again. “Do you want coffee?”

“Yes, but not here.” She put the linen napkin on the table and stood up. “I’ll make the coffee,” she said, extending her hand. “Come on.”

“Are you sure it’s no trouble?”

“Making coffee? Just because I went to medical school doesn’t mean I don’t have moments of domesticity.” She switched on the front room light. “Make yourself comfortable. It’ll just take a minute.”

She went into the kitchen and had to look through the cupboards for her stash of instant coffee.

“Mildly domesticated, I’d say.” Joshua stood in the doorway watching her. “Instant coffee?”

“Caffeine is caffeine. I have regular coffee and cappuccino.”

“Do you have brandy for the cappuccino?”

She nodded.

“Then cappuccino.”

“A man after my own heart.” She filled the teapot with water and put it on the front burner. “This will take a little while.”

“I’m in no hurry.”

Her eyes searched his face. “Neither am I.” She walked toward him. “Come in the front room…where it’s warmer.”

She sipped the cappuccino, watching as he talked on the phone to the hospital.

“What are her vital signs?”

She studied the lines of his face. It was a good face; the chin firm, the jaw angled and masculine, an aristocratic nose, a sensitive mouth. Serious, intelligent eyes.

She was attracted to him, she couldn’t deny it.

His hands were strong and slim, the fingers tapered elegantly. It was astonishingly easy to imagine him touching her—

He hung up the phone and turned.

“Under control,” he said.

“How is Tessi?” It took a little doing to change her line of thought.

“Well, she had another anxiety episode…”

“I wrote a standing order for sedation p.r.n.”

He nodded. “They medicated her and she’s sleeping comfortably. All of her vital signs are normal.”

“How about the others?”

“I gather it’s been pretty quiet all afternoon. Courtney’s been sleeping most of the day, the nurse said.”

“That reminds me…I wanted to get a copy of Ian’s report on Courtney’s session with him. He said it’d probably be out of transcription by this afternoon.”

Joshua glanced at his watch. “I don’t think you’ll find anyone in medical records at this time on a Saturday.”

“And Emily Ballard.” She looked at him. “I’d better try and call her.”

“Now?”

“While I’m thinking of it, yes.” She reached for the phone.

“Simon was right,” he said, watching her dial.

“Right about what?”

“You’re dedicated.”

She made a face, listening as the line began to ring. “Did you ever meet Abigail’s grandmother?”

He shook his head. “Why?”

“I’m beginning to wonder if she even exists.” The phone continued to ring. “I’ve been trying to reach her for the past twenty-four hours.”

“Maybe she’s spending a weekend away from home…for the holidays.”

Quinn depressed the switchhook. “I suppose you’re right. But she was too ill to fly out here with Abigail…I’d hate to think that she was alone and too sick to answer the phone.”

Eighty-eight

Emily Ballard took her hands away from her ears.

That phone. It had been ringing periodically since…

She pushed the covers back and swung her legs out of the bed, testing the temperature of the floor.

It was snowing outside and the house drew the cold into it like a sponge soaking up water.

Where had she left her slippers?

She leaned over cautiously, looking down at the floor which at least had stopped moving.

She needed another drink.

There was one of the slippers, half-hidden under the bedside commode.

Holding onto the brass bedframe, she leaned over, reaching blindly where she judged it to be.

Luck was with her. She grasped the slipper and pulled herself back up, dizzy from the effort.

She closed her eyes and waited for her mind to clear.

She put the slipper onto her right foot. The inside of the slipper was damp and clammy since she’d been wearing it all day.

Now, where was the other one?

It would help to turn on the light, but she knew that the glare would only worsen the headache she’d been fighting off.

The other slipper was probably under the bed, out of reach.

She should have put in carpet years ago.

She grabbed the pillow and dropped it on the floor, then slowly lowered herself until she was kneeling on it. She scooted closer to the bed and then reached under, flailing her arm back and forth.

There. She’d knocked it closer to her.

She put the slipper on and then lurched unsteadily to her feet.

The bottle was in the living room and, one hand moving along the wall, she made her way there. As she passed the ugly black phone she narrowed her eyes.

She had never thought it worth the money to pay the phone company to come out and install new phone jacks. Since she couldn’t unplug it, the only way to keep it from ringing was to take it off the hook. But the sound it made then was even worse than the ringing.

She knew who it was calling her, anyway.

Sitting on the couch, she unscrewed the bottle lid and poured the clear liquid into the glass.

It burned on the way down and she closed her eyes gratefully.

It was the only thing in her entire life that had never let her down.

No wonder, she thought, no wonder.

Holding the glass with both hands, she lifted it again to her mouth, gulping greedily.

They were all fools.

Mr. Ballard, old Percy, had been forty-five when she’d married him. She was eighteen. It had taken him twelve years to impregnate her, an accomplishment of which he was absurdly proud. Like dogs didn’t do it every day.

Elizabeth, had been his pride and joy. They were inseparable. When Elizabeth was five, he retired from work and then it was like having two children.

When Elizabeth was twenty, and pregnant by a married man, Percy took to his bed in anguish. He refused to see his daughter, her belly swollen with child.

In the end, Elizabeth’s folly killed them both.

The man she thought would leave his wife and come to her after the child was born, did not.

The father she thought would always be there for her, was not.

In her sheltered life, Elizabeth had never learned about disappointments and disillusionments. Her father’s constant coddling had left her without resources to draw on to help her through.

For her there was no answer but death.

Percy followed soon after.

That left her with the child. Abigail.

She wondered why Elizabeth hadn’t just smothered the child as an infant and made the best of it.

It was what Emily would have done.

Now they were hounding her, calling her, wanting her to be responsible.

But she was too tired. She was only sixty but what looked back at her from the mirror was far more ancient.

She was not interested in anything anymore but the sweet relief of oblivion. She poured more gin into her glass and raised it to her lips.

Eighty-nine

For some reason, Frank Delano could not stop thinking about his son.

It wasn’t unusual for him to think about Russell, but, since he’d gotten into his truck for the long haul to El Paso, it was all he could do to keep from turning and heading back to home.

His boy needed him.

It was a strong feeling and he was uneasy about it.

The last time he’d had a feeling this strong was when he had kissed his wife goodnight at the hospital and had known that he’d never see her alive again. She had died during the night, a night when he’d been half-crazy with a loss that hadn’t yet occurred.

When the phone rang, early that morning, he hadn’t wanted to answer it.

Now there was this feeling about Russell.

It wasn’t quite the same, of course; he didn’t think that Russell was going to die. It was more like his son needed him for some kind of reassurance or…

He gripped the wheel of the truck tightly, slowing down. Ahead the traffic had come to a crawl, and he almost hadn’t seen it, he’d been so involved with his thoughts.

Fine lot of good he’d do his son if he wound up in the hospital because he hadn’t been paying attention to the road.

You could do a lot of thinking on the road, especially long-haul. Stretches of highway where for miles and miles you had only yourself to keep you company. That was part of what kept him driving.

The other part was if he wasn’t home so much, he was less likely to turn around in a room and expect to find her there.

But Russell…

Maybe he could pull off in a few miles and find a phone to call his son.

He lost so much time in the traffic jam that he needed to make it up, so he kept driving, thinking each time that he passed a truck stop that at the next one he’d pull up and call.

When he finally did stop, it was past ten p.m. and he knew from experience that they wouldn’t put calls through so late unless it was an emergency.

So he got a cup of coffee and ate a hamburger he could have used to grease his axle, then got back in the truck to drive on.

Ninety

Joshua was standing, looking out the window, when she came back into the room with more cappuccino.

“It’s raining again,” he said.

She put the cups on the coffee table and walked over to his side, pulling the drape back, looking first outside and then up at him.

He leaned over and, hesitating for a heartbeat, kissed her softly.

“I’ve been wanting to do that all day,” he said.

She smiled and let the drape fall back into place.

The cappuccino grew cold on the table.

They were not surgeon’s hands, they were lover’s hands and they stroked her with a touch that made her ache with desire.

She gave herself over to sensation, not thinking of anything except for the way his body made her body feel.

She caressed him, running her fingers over the hard lines of his shoulders and back, while she kissed the hollow of his neck.

She breathed him in, the scent of soap and clean perspiration. She tasted his warm skin.

He pleasured her and she wrapped herself around him, trying to get closer, closer.

He smiled at her and kissed her gently and she moved her hands to his head, pulling him down to her hungry mouth.

She lay on her side, head propped up in one hand while the other moved lightly across his chest.

“Are you awake?” she asked.

As an answer he reached over and touched her face.

“You look beautiful…”

She took his hand and kissed the palm. “Thank you.”

“Come here,” he said and she moved close to him, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Joshua,” she said after a minute.

“Hmm?”

“This is all right, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve never talked about our personal lives…you’re not seeing anyone, are you?”

“Would it make a difference?”

“It would to me. I’m very territorial; I would never want to be the other woman.”

“No…there’s no one else. But what about you?”

“Me?”

“The dashing Dr. Campbell?”

“Ian?”

“Yes, Ian.”

She laughed. “What made you think—”

“A man knows these things.”

“A man does…what exactly are these things you know?”

“That he finds you attractive. That’s enough.”

“I hardly know him.”

“Some people would say you hardly know me,” he said, turning his head to kiss her, “and look what’s happened.”

“Thank goodness,” she said and kissed him back.

She sat in bed, sheet pulled around her, and watched him as he dressed.

“You don’t have to go, you know.”

“Sadly, I do. This is a small town. Only one answering service in town, and if I check out all night to this number, which they know is your number…”

“That’s a little parochial, isn’t it?”

“A little,” he admitted.

“It is the twentieth century…”

“It’s 1984 and big brother is watching.”

She laughed.

“Besides,” he said, “we’ve got all the time in the world.”

Ninety-one

Alicia woke from a sound sleep, her heart pounding in fear.

Had she dreamed the noise?

In an unfamiliar bedroom, disoriented, she did not know.

The room was pitch black and she was unable to see even the outline of the door, but she stared anyway so that if the door were to open she would see it.

Was there someone in the house?

Now there was no sound at all.

She tried to think of what she should do. Hide, but where? The bed was too close to the floor for her to get beneath it and the closet—assuming she could find it without making any noise— would probably be the first place anyone would look.

She had left her overnight case and purse in plain sight just inside the door. And she hadn’t bothered to wash the few dishes she had used.

It would be obvious to anyone breaking in that the house was occupied.

Where did James keep his rifle?

Would he keep it in the bedroom? She didn’t remember seeing it, but maybe…

The most likely place was the closet.

She was afraid to move. Afraid to make any noise that might attract attention.

Was there someone out there?

If she didn’t get up, didn’t look for the rifle, there was nothing else she could do except wait.

She lifted the covers off her and folded them back away from her body. Her bare legs were visible, contrasted against the dark-colored sheets.

As quietly as she could, she got out of the bed, cursing in her mind as the bedsprings squeaked.

For a minute she tried to get her bearings, tried to remember the position of the bed relative to the rest of the room.

Come on, she thought. I came into the room and the bed was to the right and the closet to the left. So it has to be…

She distinctly heard a door opening somewhere in the house.

She put her hand to her mouth, stifling a cry.

She had to get to the closet.

Placing her feet carefully, she walked toward the other side of the room, her hands out in front of her to keep her from running into anything.

Where was the wall, God damn it.

The room was so small, she should have reached the other side. She…her hand brushed against something solid.

The closet door. She felt around for the handle. And found it. And pulled it.

The closet door was locked.

No one locks a closet door, her mind protested.

Unless they have a young child in the house and they’re locking potential danger away.

She continued to pull on the door handle and then leaned on the door, resting her head against the wood.

What was she going to do now?

If the intruder was in Tessi’s room, there was a chance that Alicia could make it to and out the door before they…he…could catch her.

She was barefoot and dressed only in a flannel shirt that came only to her upper thighs.

It was dark and cold outside, and she would not be able to see. She was miles from help. If she tripped and fell…

But there was no other choice.

She did not wish to wait for him to find her in this room in the dark. Wait until her fear was so great that she would be unable to think.

She stepped carefully toward where the door should be, noting that, wherever the door was, there was no light coming in around it. That meant the intruder was also moving around in the dark.

The door knob caught her in the hip and she winced, but at least she had found it. Hand firmly grasping the knob, she put her ear to the door to listen one last time before she made her escape.

Absolute silence. Not even the hum of the refrigerator.

She twisted the knob, holding the door steady. When she felt it clear of the jamb she pulled the door toward her, holding her breath until it was open enough for her to slip through.

No light. There was no light in the house.

She tried to make out the location of the front door. There was no way she could walk slowly across that open space and calmly search for the door. She was going to run for it and she wanted to know that she was not going to smack headfirst into the wall.

There it was…a barely perceptible shade lighter than the rest of the wall.

She edged out of the bedroom, looking first toward Tessi’s bedroom and the bathroom, half expecting to see a form coming at her. But there was nothing.

For the first time since she was a child, Alicia ran at full speed, her bare feet striking the floor, her lungs straining, her heart racing…

Her hand encircled the door knob and she flipped the dead bolt.

Someone grabbed her from behind and tossed her back away from the door. Someone grabbed her and slammed her face first into the wall, breaking her nose.

She cried out, pushed up against the wall, and tried to reach behind her to grab, to fight back—

She was pulled away from the wall and lifted—

She was flying through the air fast enough that she could feel air flowing over her skin.

She crashed into another wall…and slid to the floor.

Her hand closed around an electric cord and she pulled it, trying to drag in whatever was at the end of it, hoping that whatever it was—a lamp?—would be heavy enough to do some damage.

Someone grabbed her wrist and she lunged forward, but her blows did not connect—

There was no one there.

There was no one there.

Out in the night, her scream was lost in the wind.

Nothing moved in the desert.

Ninety-two

James Wolf drove down the dirt road that led to his ranch, maneuvering among the potholes. He had driven this road so many times that he could almost steer without thinking.

It was time to talk to Alicia.

All day he had sat with the shaman, looking for guidance. Now had come the time to act.

They had to make their peace. Only bad could come of their bitterness and anger.

For himself, he could weather the storm. But Tessi was in danger and for her sake he would appeal to Alicia to end the hostility.

Though it would break Tessi’s heart, he would rather give up his joint custody than have her torn between them. She was too young to be dragged into court and made to say before witnesses which parent she preferred.

Later, when she was older, things would change. He would fight for her then and if it was right, he would win.

She would understand. It was only because he loved her so much that he was willing to give her up. To sacrifice his own interests on her behalf.

As soon as he was no longer a threat, Alicia would relax. She would no longer have to fear his influence on Tessi and maybe her hawk-eyed vigilance would cease.

But before he would agree to relinquish Tessi, even for a day, he would try somehow to get through to the other Alicia.

He could still remember the first day he saw her.

She was standing with two other girls, laughing as they tried to coax a ground squirrel to come after a piece of candy.

The sun was pale compared to the color of her hair and the light in her smile. Her face was open and eager as she held the candy out to the squirrel.

Looking at that beautiful face, he would have taken poison from her hand. He envied the squirrel.

She looked at him and smiled. His heart was lost.

Now when she looked at him, it was with venom.

Maybe he’d never told her how badly he was hurt when they had parted. True, he had left her that second time, but the city was choking the life out of him and he had to go.

Maybe if he told her about the times he was ready to go back to her…

He parked the truck in front of the house, and sat for a moment, listening to the pings of the engine as it cooled down. The house was dark and he thought that he should have come sooner so that he would not have to awaken her.

He found the extra house keys above the furthest kitchen window. He inserted the key in the deadbolt and was surprised to find it unlocked.

That wasn’t like Alicia at all.

He unlocked the second lock and pushed open the door, stepping into the dark and reaching for the light, suddenly feeling that something was not right.

Alicia was face down on the floor.

He went to his knees at her side, turning her over and putting his ear to her chest. He listened for a long time.

He took her wrist and sat back on his heels, looking at her bloodied face. He thought she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

He knew what they would think.

They would think that he had killed his ex-wife. The animosity between them was too well known for him not to be the likely suspect. Whether they eventually found whoever had done this, for awhile, at least, Tessi would know that her father was suspected in her mother’s death.

Tessi. Who would take care of her if he was in jail?

He got to his feet, looking with sorrow at the body of his first love.

He had to go and get Tessi. He would take her out of the hospital and out of the country before someone found Alicia.

He knew he was taking a terrible chance.

If they discovered Alicia before he could make good an escape, his attempted flight would be viewed as proof of his guilt. Everything depended on his being able to make it to California and Tessi before Alicia was found.

It would be Maria who would find her.

That saddened him. Maria was a decent woman and it would be a terrible thing for her.

But it gave him until Monday morning.

He loaded boxes of food, some clothes, and two five-gallon cans of gas into the back of the truck and then tied the tarp down over it.

He drove without headlights until he reached the main road. There was no traffic this time of night and no one saw him leaving the ranch.

He accelerated and drove into the darkness.

He did not look back.

SUNDAY

Ninety-three

On the first day of her vacation, Mary Aguilar was up early.

During the night, she had awoken, disturbed by her dream about the children’s ward. She had heard them, heard what they were saying, and had woken up to fix things in her mind.

Now she had forgotten.

Busying herself in her morning routine, she hoped it would come back to her. She didn’t like to think that she was getting to an age where remembering something as simple as a dream would be so difficult.

By seven o’clock—the time she normally was on duty—the bed was made, the apartment tidied, the laundry was in the wash, and a coffee cake was baking in the oven.

Mary poured a second cup of coffee and sat down at the table, a little at loose ends.

None of her neighbors were likely to be interested in coffee and cake this early on a Sunday morning, and she’d stopped taking the newspaper years ago when she’d decided that it glorified human misery. It was hours before the stores would open for Christmas shopping, and in any case, the presents for her married sister’s family were already bought and wrapped, and waiting for their traditional Christmas Eve gathering.

She had nothing else to do but sit and think.

That dream. It was exactly the same dream as she had been having, down to the last detail, except that this time she had heard what they were saying.

It was a short dream, lasting less than a minute, and she had sometimes dreamt it more than once a night.

It took place in the ward. Smoke hung in the air like a thick layer of fog and tiny flames licked the walls. It wasn’t what she thought a fire would be like; more of an aftermath than a conflagration.

Abigail was in the middle of the room, un-bothered by the heat and smoke. She was alone at first, surveying the ravaged room with a look of delight and wonder.

Then Russell was there, no longer in his wheelchair but still unable to walk, slouched in a corner, clinging to a blistered wall.

He was yelling at Abigail, without speaking.

Yelling inside his head.

“Why did you kill them, Abigail, why did you do it?”

Abigail laughed.

Mary spoke the words aloud so that she would not forget them: “Why did you kill them, Abigail, why did you do it?”

Shaken, Mary sat in her warm kitchen, the smell of coffee cake replacing the stench of smoke which had stung her nostrils as she remembered the dream. Her hands trembled.

It was just a dream, she told herself. Just a dream come of an overactive imagination and fatigue.

She got up and took the coffee cake out of the oven, burning her finger where the oven mitt had worn down over the years. She ran cold water over the burn and, though her nursing training had taught her otherwise, put it in her mouth, running her tongue over the tender spot.

It was just a dream but she did not want to be burdened with it alone.

Dr. Logan had said that if Mary remembered what the children were saying, to let her know.

Telling someone would ease her mind.

It was awful early on a Sunday morning to be calling the doctor.

Because she knew the hospital operator, she was able to call and get Dr. Logan’s home telephone number. She wrote it on a pad and just to be sure that she wouldn’t forget, she wrote the words:

Why did you kill them, Abigail, why did you do it?

With one last glance at the clock—it was only seven-thirty—she picked up the phone and started to dial.

Ninety-four

Quinn had been up since six, trying without luck to reach Emily Ballard in Baltimore.

There was very little information about Emily Ballard in Abigail’s family history, but Quinn knew that the reason Abigail’s grandmother hadn’t accompanied the child to California was because the woman was ill. What the nature of the illness was, Quinn didn’t know, but the longer she thought about it, the more concerned she became.

It seemed that every year there were new accounts of the elderly freezing to death in their homes because they were so far removed from the mainstream of life, no one thought to look for them when they hadn’t been seen for awhile. It was an unkind death and a senseless one.

She got the phone number of the Baltimore police department from directory assistance and placed a call, asking that an officer be sent to check on Emily Ballard.

And, if they located her, to ask her to call Quinn collect, at either her home or the hospital. She gave the police operator both numbers and instructed them to tell Mrs. Ballard that it was not a medical emergency regarding Abigail, but that it was urgent.

Then Quinn called the hospital to inform the operator that she would be in shortly and to leave instructions that she would authorize the acceptance of the long-distance collect call.

The operator gave Quinn a message to call Tiffany White as soon as possible and apologized about the delay in delivering the message which was taken Saturday afternoon.

Quinn dialed the number that was given to her and was surprised when it turned out to be that of a local motel.

“Tiffany White, please.”

“I’ll ring,” the operator said.

Tiffany sounded as though she was half-asleep, and Quinn looked at her watch. Seven-thirty.

“Good morning Mrs. White, this is Dr. Logan.”

“Oh…Dr. Logan.”

“I just got your message from yesterday. What can I do for you?”

“I’m glad you called, doctor. I wanted to talk to you about a couple of things. First,” she laughed nervously, “my husband and I have separated.”

“I’m sorry,” Quinn said.

“Well…what I wanted to ask you was whether you think I should tell Courtney. I mean, I don’t want to upset her and if you think it would be better if I waited…”

“Medically, there’s no reason why you couldn’t tell her. She’s been doing very well since her seizure. And you definitely need to tell her, if there’s no chance of reconciliation, in advance of her discharge from the hospital.”

“I see. When do you think she’ll be able to come…home?”

“Not before the week after next, at the earliest. She’s scheduled to begin training in biofeedback techniques, and I believe that’s a five day program.”

“That long…” Tiffany’s voice sounded wistful.

“Yes, at least.”

“Well, whatever is best for Courtney.” She hesitated. “There are a couple of other things that’ve happened recently…but I don’t know if I need to mention them now, since she won’t be going back to the house.”

“Oh?”

“We had a fire at the house on Wednesday night.”

“A fire?” Quinn blinked, remembering what Ian had told her about Courtney’s dreams.

“The house is still standing, it isn’t like it was burned to the ground or anything, but…she may want to go back to get more of her things, and…I know it would upset her.”

“No one mentioned the fire to her?”

“No. I…we didn’t want to upset her.” She laughed ruefully. “I guess there are all kinds of things we haven’t been telling her since she went into the hospital.”

“What else?”

“Well it really doesn’t matter, I guess, because no one was injured, but Friday…the day of the meeting…my husband and I were almost in an accident.”

Quinn waited for Tiffany to continue.

“The car spun out of control…it could have been pretty bad, I thought the car was going to roll over or something, it was moving so fast. But then it just…stopped. Sideways, in the middle of the road.”

Quinn frowned.

“So…what should I tell Courtney?”

“I wouldn’t tell her about either incident just yet. As far as the house is concerned, and the fire, I’d wait until after she was out of the hospital. The accident…I don’t think you have to tell her at all. In fact, I wouldn’t. With her parents separating, she might be very disturbed that there was a possibility she could lose you both.”

A moment later, Quinn hung up the phone, collecting her thoughts.

She needed to see Ian’s report on Courtney’s dreams, both to verify her impression—her strong impression—that Courtney had had the dreams before the incidents had occurred, and to see if there were more details than Ian had told her.

The report was probably out of transcription. She would run over to the hospital and check it out.

As she grabbed a jacket and went out the door, she wondered if Courtney had ever had a history of precognitive dreams.

The phone rang in the empty apartment.

Ninety-five

Courtney got up from bed and went into the bathroom where during the night she had hidden her clothes. Shivering, she slipped the hospital gown off and began to dress. Her clothes were badly wrinkled—she had wadded them up and stuffed them in the U-shaped section of the pipes under the sink—and she remembered her mother fussing about other wrinkles.

It had only been a week ago, but so much had happened.

Courtney was frightened. Without knowing exactly why, she knew that she had to get out of the hospital. Something was going on.

Something terrible.

There were the dreams. She had never had such dreams before she’d come here. And something she didn’t understand; a sort of dream where she saw nothing and all she heard was the sound of a gun being fired.

She had told that doctor about the dreams.

That had been a mistake.

Somehow Abigail knew that Courtney had told the doctor. Courtney hadn’t told Abigail, but Abigail knew.

Abigail had never said anything to her about it, but a look passed between them and Courtney just…understood that Abigail knew and was displeased.

So Courtney decided to leave.

She wasn’t sure where she was going. She didn’t have a key to her house, but she couldn’t think of another place.

Maybe she could get into the house and hide. It was a big house…there were lots of places.

Or, if she couldn’t find a place to hide there, she could at least change her clothes and take some food, so…

That haunted house.

The one Russell had told them about.

She knew where it was and it wasn’t that far from her house. She even knew some back ways to get there.

She finished dressing; the shoes felt funny on her feet after so many days in bed.

It was early still. As long as she got to her house by noon—her parents always slept late on the weekends—it would all work out.

All she needed was a chance to get out without anyone seeing her. Tessi was still sleeping and Abigail had been staring out of the window, as usual. Russell…he wouldn’t stop her.

All she needed was a chance.

Ninety-six

Quinn walked with the nursing supervisor toward medical records. The hospital was usually quiet in the early mornings, but on an early Sunday morning it was like a ghost town. Their footsteps echoed in the empty hallway.

“Here we go,” the nursing supervisor said, unlocking the door and holding it open. “Don’t forget to turn off the lights and lock up when you leave.”

“Thank you,” Quinn said, turning her attention to locating Ian’s report.

The transcription section of medical records was off to one side, the typewriters in soundproofed cubicles barely four feet by six feet wide. In each cubicle was an out basket of completed work and it was through these baskets that Quinn began to search.

She sat down in the first cubicle and gathered all of the typed reports, flipping through them quickly. Nothing.

She moved on. In the third basket she found reports on Russell and Tessi, but not the report on Courtney. She pulled both reports, setting them aside, and went into the fourth cubicle.

There it was. Courtney White, psychiatric consultation.

She took all three reports and sat down to read.

The dreams that Courtney had described to Ian Campbell were more detailed accounts of the incidents Tiffany had reported.

And it appeared that there was a possibility that Courtney was dreaming about the incidents at the moment each occurred. In fact…Quinn looked up from the report. Tiffany’s comment about the car having suddenly stopped when it had been moving so fast was the point at which Courtney said her dream was interrupted when she was awakened for her appointment with Ian.

What did it mean?

Quinn read through the remainder of the report but found no clues. Ian, of course, hadn’t known about the reality of either “dream.” She wondered what he would think if he knew.

Precognitive dream?

Except that the termination of the accident was precipitated, apparently, when Courtney was roused.

A car, spinning out of control, does not suddenly lose its momentum. Tiffany had said that she thought it might roll over; it was not, then, in the process of slowing down immediately prior to when it stopped.

So the force behind it…

The force behind it was Courtney’s dream?

It was too fantastic, yet…

She needed to talk to Ian.

Folding the reports, she tucked them into her lab coat pocket and, as requested, turned off the lights and locked the door, her mind all the while thinking of things too fantastic to believe.

She had Ian’s home phone number in her office and she headed in that direction. The halls were still empty and it was almost nine o’clock.

She was getting very tired of hearing phones ring with no answer. She hung up, trying to decide whether she should call Joshua instead.

Maybe Ian had his pager with him.

She dialed the hospital operator. “Could you beep Dr. Ian Campbell for me?”

“Dr. Campbell…one moment, please.”

She waited, hearing a series of clicks and then a pulsing sound as she was put on hold.

“Dr. Campbell isn’t answering,” the operator reported.

“Do you have him checked out to a number other than his residence?”

“Dr. Campbell hasn’t checked out at all.”

“You mean since yesterday?”

“That’s what my doctor status sheet says…he never checked out. And—” Quinn heard papers rustling, “—security reported his car was in the lot all night.”

“That’s odd.”

“Maybe he’s asleep in his office,” the operator suggested.

“Maybe. Thank you.”

She stared at the phone for a long while before picking it up to dial.

No one was answering in Ian’s office.

“Damn it,” she said.

Where was Ian?

What was happening to Courtney?

For a second time she followed the nursing supervisor to a locked door and waited as a key was inserted.

But this time, before the door even opened, she knew what she would find.

Nothing.

Ian had not checked out last night, his car was still in the parking lot, and he was nowhere to be found.

Ninety-seven

James Wolf pulled away from the gas station, watching in his rearview mirror to see if the attendant was going toward the telephone.

The man had looked peculiar, his eyes darting back and forth, and he had fidgeted, as if he were nervous about something. And, although it had been a cash sale, James had noticed the man taking a look at the license plate on the truck.

Maybe someone had happened upon Alicia.

They could be looking for him already.

But the attendant just stood there as James drove away, and it was possible the man was just naturally nervous.

He had driven through the night, stopping only for an hour-long rest after he’d passed through Kingman, Arizona. He was getting close now.

Funny how the closer he got to Spring Valley and Tessi, the more anxious he got. And it wasn’t over getting caught, although he felt that too. It was like something bad was going to happen.

It was a disquieting notion that he tried not to dwell on, thinking instead of how he was going to get Tessi out of the hospital without a fuss.

He had to have a plan.

He knew enough about hospitals to know that, even as a parent with joint legal custody, to get her out would take a doctor’s consent.

But it was Sunday and he doubted if either of her doctors would be at the hospital. He did not want to sit around waiting while the nurse tried to reach one of them but what choice did he…

Something Maria had told him about her father.

Maria’s father had suffered a mild heart attack and had been hospitalized for…a week? When the doctors wouldn’t listen to his requests to go home, he had signed a paper stating that he would not hold them responsible if he were to drop dead as he walked out the door, and that the doctors had explained to him why he should not walk out the door.

Against medical advice. AMA, Maria had called it.

It was something to consider.

But if Tessi were really ill, since she was a minor, he half-thought that the doctors could get a court order to keep her in no matter what he signed. And that—the attention of the courts and the police who would enforce its orders—he did not want.

That was also something to consider.

Would the doctors, if they wanted to stop him, be able to get a hold of a judge on a Sunday? If they could not, were there other steps they could take?

What else?

He’d heard of patients getting a kind of furlough to leave the hospital for short periods of time, like on holidays. Maybe he could arrange for something like that on some pretense or another. Then they just wouldn’t come back.

That sounded good, but what reason could he give for taking her out? Christmas was still more than a week away. Shopping for Christmas?

Would they let her out for that?

He had no way of knowing, but once he was committed to that request, if they turned him down, he had no options. If, after being turned down, he tried to sign her out AMA, they’d think he was going off the deep end.

There was another possibility.

That he could somehow get Tessi out past the nurse without the nurse knowing. Just take his daughter and leave without forms, without excuses, without lies…

Could it be done?

The only doors into the ward were through the nurse’s station. And the nurse was almost always at the desk or in the ward.

But once…he had come out to ask the nurse a question and she was in the bathroom. Could he be lucky enough to catch an opportunity like that? He didn’t know.

All he knew was that he had to get Tessi out, and soon.

Ninety-eight

Her own phone was ringing when Quinn got back to her office.

“Hello?”

“Dr. Logan, I’m glad I found you. This is Mary Aguilar.”

“Mary! What a surprise…I thought you were on vacation.”

“I am, but do you remember that dream I was telling you about?”

“The one about Abigail and Russell in the ward? Of course.”

“Well, I feel a little foolish about this, but you told me to call you if I ever heard what they were saying in the dream.”

“And you heard?”

“Yes. Last night.”

Quinn sat down on the edge of her desk. “And it disturbed you enough that—”

“Yes. I had to call you…it was terrible.”

“What were they saying.”

“It was just Russell…Abigail never spoke, she just…laughed. But he said, or rather thought, but I heard him anyway…let me read it to you, I wrote it down. He said ‘Why did you kill them, Abigail, why did you do it?’ “ There was a hint of a quiver in Mary’s voice.

“ ‘Why did you kill them?’ He said them?”

“Those were his exact words…in the dream.” Mary hesitated. “But it was just a dream, Dr. Logan.”

“I’m learning to respect dreams,” Quinn said flatly. “Tell me again about the images in the dream.”

She listened while Mary described the tiny flames and the smoke, ending with Russell’s questioning accusation and Abigail’s laugh.

“And Courtney’s not there?” she asked after Mary had finished.

“No. Neither Courtney nor Tessi are there. It’s just Abigail and Russell.”

“That’s odd.” Quinn didn’t know what to make of any of this, but since one of Courtney’s dreams related to fire as well, she felt there might be some sort of connection. “Well, thank you for calling, Mary.”

“I hope I’m not keeping you from anything with this…this…but I wanted to tell someone.”

Quinn knew the feeling.

Her phone rang a second time as soon as she hung up.

“Dr. Logan, this is Sally in the children’s ward.”

Sally was Mary’s vacation replacement. “Yes, Sally.”

“Uh…Courtney White is missing.”

Quinn closed her eyes, unbelieving. “What?”

“Courtney White is not in the ward. I’ve looked all over for her and she’s nowhere to be found.”

“Did you look around outside?”

“No…I didn’t want to leave the desk unattended.”

“Shit,” Quinn said.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing. Listen, I just found out from her mother this morning that her parents are separated…apparently it’s a very recent thing. Has Mr. White been by? He might have—”

“No one’s been by,” Sally interrupted. “Visiting hours don’t start for three hours.”

“Well, try to call her parents…”

“I already did. There’s no answer at the residence.”

“Okay, let me give you the number where her mother is staying, and call her. Have her come and meet me in the lobby as soon as possible. I’ll get security to look around the grounds.”

“If you want, I can take a look around outside…won’t take but a minute…if you think it’s all right to leave the desk.”

“Yes, go ahead.” She hung up the phone.

She’d better call Joshua.

There was no answer at Joshua’s home.

Ninety-nine

Quinn thought Tiffany White looked remarkably composed under the circumstances until she saw the woman’s eyes.

“Have they found her?” Tiffany asked.

“Not yet. Security is combing the hospital grounds; if she’s still here, they’ll find her.”

“What do you mean, if she’s still here? Where else would she be?”

“I hope you can appreciate that I’m only asking you this because Courtney’s well-being is at stake. Is it possible that your husband would have come and taken her away?”

“Taken her…why would he do that?”

“Some men abduct their own children to get back at their wives.” She said it apologetically, not wanting to imply that any action of Tiffany’s had precipitated this crisis.

“David doesn’t care that much about Courtney.”

“Yes, but could he be angry enough at you to do such a thing?”

“I…don’t know. I don’t know whether he’s angry or not. I haven’t talked to him since I left.”

“Was he mad when you left?”

Tiffany shook her head. “I don’t know…I wrote him a note. I wanted to avoid a scene. But I don’t know that there would have been a scene.” She hesitated. “We haven’t been close for a long time.”

“You say you haven’t heard from him…did he know where you were going? Where you’re staying?”

“No. But he could have found out, if he wanted. I mean, there aren’t that many places to stay in this town, and my car…he’d see my car if he drove around looking.”

“Has he been in to see Courtney since then?”

“Not that I know of. She didn’t say…I didn’t want to ask.”

“Well, the nurse said she tried to call your home and there was no answer.”

“That’s possible. On a Saturday night, with me out of his hair, he could either stay out all night or maybe he’s home sleeping it off.”

“Then Courtney might be home…”

“She doesn’t have a key.”

Quinn thought for a moment. “I think we’d better call the police to check out your home.”

“No…I’ll go there myself. I can get there >before they could.”

“But if you ran into your husband…I’d better go with you.”

Tiffany pulled slowly into the driveway. “David’s car is here,” she said. “So he’s either drunk or…my God, there’s Courtney!”

Courtney White was standing on the front porch, beating at the door with both hands.

Tiffany stopped the car and they both ran to the front porch.

Courtney’s hands were bleeding and she was sobbing. When she saw her mother, she ran into her arms.

“Courtney, what’s happened to you?” The child was dirty, her clothes damp with perspiration and spotted with blood.

Quinn took one of Courtney’s hands and looked at the blood-smeared door.

“Daddy, Daddy,” Courtney cried. “Something’s happened to Daddy.”

“Now, now,” Tiffany soothed, looking at Quinn.

“I’ve been pounding on the door, and pounding…” Courtney glanced down at her hands, as if seeing them for the first time. “I’ve been calling him, but he can’t come, ‘cause something’s happened to him.”

“Oh baby,” Tiffany’s voice broke. “Maybe he’s sleeping.”

“No…I heard it in my dream. I heard the gunshot.”

Quinn frowned. “Do you have a key?” she asked Tiffany.

Tiffany shook her head.

“Then I think we’d better go to a neighbor’s and call the police.” She looked back at the door.

One Hundred

The gods were with him.

He had been across from the children’s ward, trying to get up his nerve, when the nurse came out and disappeared around the side of the building.

He did not know what she was doing, but he knew he didn’t have time to worry about it. He had to act.

He was in the building in an instant.

Tessi was sitting up in bed, stroking her toy animals while she watched TV. There was a curtain drawn around the fourth bed…the boy, and the third bed was empty. In the first bed, the little girl with brown braids looked at him.

He did not speak.

He crossed the room and grabbed Tessi to him. “Come on, baby, we’ve got to go,” he whispered in her ear.

“I knew you’d come, Daddy, I knew you’d come.” Her arms tightened around his neck.

Then he turned and ran, back through the double doors and, taking a deep breath, out of the building.

The nurse was not in sight.

He had seen the security guards but they had worked their way past the ward and were looking in the other direction. He had a path.

He took it.

The truck was parked down the road a bit and he ran, breathing easily. It was like second nature to him, running with his child. She was quiet, as if she knew not to attract attention.

Then they were in the truck.

“Lie down on the seat,” he told her.

He pulled away, careful not to catch his tires in the sodden ground by accelerating too fast.

He did not look down at Tessi until they were on the highway, heading west until they could catch a route south into Mexico.

Tessi was watching him, her eyes filled with tears.

“It’s okay,” he said. “We’re going to be together.”

“Daddy, I was so scared…but I knew you were coming.” She nodded solemnly. “I knew it.”

“How did you know?” He smiled and smoothed her hair, looking back at the road which now stretched to freedom before him.

“I dreamed it,” she said.

One Hundred One

It was twelve-thirty by the time Quinn returned to the hospital.

The police had forced the door to the White residence and their search had located David White. She had examined him quickly to determine if there was anything that could be done for him—there was not—and then had turned her attentions to Tiffany and Courtney.

Her suggestion that Courtney return to the hospital was met with near-hysteria by both mother and child. Not wanting to traumatize either of them further, she had agreed that Courtney could spend the night, at least, with her mother at the motel. Quinn had dressed the child’s torn hands.

But something that Courtney had said still

bothered Quinn.

She had said that she hadn’t told, but Abigail knew. She repeated the statement over and over.

And that was all she would say.

Quinn had given Courtney a mild sedative by injection, and had left two five milligram tablets of Valium for Tiffany to take if she felt that she needed them.

She parked her car and got out, looking around at the parking lot and wondering which of the cars was Ian’s.

Where the hell was Ian?

As soon as she got in her office, she would try Joshua’s number again. Too much was happening too quickly.

As she came into the hospital, the PBX operator slid back the glass window that separated the communications office from the lobby.

“Dr. Logan,” the woman called.

“Yes?”

“I’ve got your long distance collect call from Baltimore on the line…do you want to take it at the courtesy phone?”

“No, give me a minute to get to my office and ring it through.”

“Okay.”

Quinn hurried to her office, unlocking the door as the phone began to ring. She sat at her desk, took a breath, and picked up the phone.

“Dr. Logan,” she answered.

There was a hesitation at the end of the line. “This is Emily Ballard, Dr. Logan. I got your message to call.”

“Mrs. Ballard.” Quinn grabbed a pencil and the clipboard she used for making notes on the videotapes, flipping to a clean sheet of paper. “I have a few questions I’d like to ask you about Abigail.”

“I’ve answered questions and answered more questions,” the woman said, a hint of sullenness in her voice. “And I’ve filled out all your forms.”

“Yes, I know. But there’s been a new development. We’ve eliminated the possibility that Abigail has a brain tumor. The magnetic resonance scans of her brain have shown that there is no tumor.”

There was silence at the other end of the phone.

“So…we asked ourselves…how does an eight year old child—”

“Eight and a half,” the woman corrected.

“Yes…how does a child that age mirror the symptoms of a brain tumor?”

“You mean, she was faking?”

“Not exactly…her physiological symptoms were real, but it’s almost like…” she searched for the words, “. . . she knew enough about brain tumors that, when she became sick, for whatever reason, her subconscious directed her body on how to react. Her body was responding, in a very realistic fashion, to a brain tumor that wasn’t there.”

“She was faking but didn’t know it,” the woman said, and began to either laugh or cry.

“You could put it that way,” Quinn admitted, failing to see the humor in the situation if the woman was indeed laughing.

She was. “So Abigail made herself sick.”

“Mrs. Ballard…I’ve read the family medical history and I know that Abigail’s grandfather died of a stroke when she was just a baby, and that her mother committed suicide. But was there anyone in the family, or maybe a close family friend, who had a brain tumor? Someone who she might have observed at some length so she would know enough about the symptoms to mimic them?”

“No…no.”

“Are you certain? Maybe the parent of a school friend of hers?”

“Abigail never had many friends,” Emily Ballard said flatly. “She’s a difficult child.”

Quinn’s mind was racing, trying to think of another alternative, another way for Abigail to have acquired enough knowledge to fool doctors and specialists into believing that she had a tumor.

“—never went to anyone’s house,” the woman chattered on.

Books? Could a six-year-old…that was absurd. Even if she could read the words, which was nearly impossible, she would have no way to translate medical jargon into physical fact.

“—except for her father, of course.”

“What? What did you say?”

“Her father died a couple of years ago.”

“I thought the identity of her father was unknown. It says in the history—”

“The history is wrong. I knew who he was.” She snorted angrily. “I knew. I was glad when he died.”

“What did he die of, do you know?”

“It was brain cancer,” the woman admitted, “but Abigail would have no way of knowing that. I never told her who her father was, and I never told her when he died.”

“But you’re sure it was brain cancer?”

“Of course I’m sure; we had…mutual acquaintances. But like I said, Abigail didn’t know anything about him. I never told her.”

Quinn closed her eyes. “Thank you, Mrs. Ballard. You’ve been very helpful.”

She looked at the notes she had scribbled while talking.

Abigail’s father had died “a couple of years ago,” apparently of brain cancer.

Abigail had developed the symptoms of a brain tumor when she was approximately six.

Abigail was never told the identity of her father or the circumstances of his death.

The rest of the history was negative. No other family members, no friends, no acquaintances. No exposure, then, to the malady which had plagued her.

But about the time her father was dying, she got sick.

Could a child be somehow biologically and psychically aware of an absent parent’s illness? Could a lonely child with no friends and no nurturing person in her life seek out and find…supernaturally…the one other person on earth with whom she shared a blood bond? And if that person died, might not she also wish to die?

There were stories of people who, at the exact moment a loved one was dying thousands of miles away, were somehow aware of that death.

Quinn sat back in the chair, watching as the pages on the clipboard flipped back over.

One Hundred Two

Abigail had not been able to do anything about Courtney or Tessi.

She had known, almost from the first, that her powers where the other children were concerned were limited. She could not physically stop them from doing what they strongly wished to do.

So they were gone.

Russell was still here, but he was closed off from her.

She was weak. What she had done last night had taken most of her strength and she understood more clearly that the power had limitations of distance. But…she had proved it could be done.

That was good because she had some unfinished business.

She looked at the empty beds, a little sad.

She would have taken care of them. She would have protected all of them. She would have made them secure, something she doubted either of them had ever been.

She did not really understand their fear.

It made little difference now.

She turned her mind to other matters: people were coming.

She accepted the fact that the time had come for her to prove herself worthy of the powers that had been given to her.

She knew what she had to do, and she would do it. She liked Dr. Fuller…she could sense him nearing…but she had no other choice. She had to protect the source.

She tried to imagine what it would be like, to live forever in this room. Because it was here where she had to stay, unless she wanted to become like everyone else.

She had been less than everyone else for too long a time. She was only a child but she had known that there was nothing for her in this world.

Now they were coming.

She needed to open herself up to the source of her powers. She had to draw in strength and prepare herself for what was to come.

She had to be ready.

It felt like her brain was on fire.

Panting, she opened her eyes.

She was more than she’d ever been.

The nurse walked into the room a moment later and Abigail looked at her through narrowed eyes, concentrating.

And the nurse just…disappeared.

One Hundred Three

“Dr. Fuller.”

Joshua stopped, turning to see who had called his name.

One of the security guards walked up to him, looking slightly agitated. “We haven’t found them yet, but we’ll find them,” the guard said.

“Find who?” Joshua was puzzled.

“The two girls.” He pointed in the direction of the children’s ward. “I thought you knew.”

“Knew what? You’d better…”

“Two of those kids, two little girls, are missing from the ward. Disappeared, one after the other.” He scratched his head. “I thought that lady doctor was going to call you.”

“Dr. Logan? Is she here?”

The guard nodded. “I think she’s in her office, but maybe you’d better come over and talk to the nurse who was on duty…”

“I’ll be over in a minute.” He started toward the hospital on the run.

“Dr. Fuller,” the operator called when he came through the lobby door. “They’re looking for you over at the ward.”

“I know,” he said. “Is Dr. Logan in her office?”

“Yeah…”

“Why don’t you ring me through?” He picked up the courtesy phone.

“Well, her line is busy,” the operator said, looking at her phone console.

“All right then…” Which of the kids were missing? “I’m going over to the ward, but I want you to keep trying to reach Dr. Logan for me…and tell her where I am.” And tell her…

“Sure thing,” the operator said, snapping her gum.

The guard had disappeared.

Joshua ran toward the children’s ward.

Things were going crazy. He had unplugged his phone last night and decided to rely on his beeper, only to find that the batteries had gone dead. Out of touch for a few hours and everything got out of hand.

The nurse was not in the nursing station.

He looked at the closed-circuit monitor. Abigail was sitting up in bed. Tessi and Courtney were gone. The curtain was drawn around Russell’s bed. The nurse was not in there, either.

He went through the double doors.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” Abigail said.

It felt like his brain was on fire.

One Hundred Four

It was staring her right in the face.

Unbelievingly, she picked up the clipboard and looked at her notes.

Abigail had been in a catatonic-like state from 11:45 a.m. to 12:30 p.m. on the day— Thursday—when Anne Rossi and Lloyd Marshall were killed.

Quinn could remember the oddity of the child’s state, could see the tiny smiles, twice during her trance.

“Why did you kill them, Abigail, why did you do it?”

Kill them. Were they whom Russell was referring to?

What about David White?

“Wait a minute,” she said out loud, staring at the times written on the sheet.

Courtney had dreams that came true.

Courtney had run away from the hospital, a frightened child.

Courtney had insisted that she hadn’t told Abigail, but Abigail knew.

What did Abigail know?

She got up and found the tapes, looking through them for the one with Abigail’s trance. She inserted it into the video player and turned the set on, rewinding the tape and then watching in fast speed as it neared 11:45 a.m.

Something about the look on Abigail’s face.

Something…evil. A look of malice.

Why hadn’t she seen it before?

There was something about Abigail…

She picked up the phone and dialed Joshua’s number, knowing there would be no answer, but needing to try.

Courtney had told Ian about her dreams and now Ian had disappeared. Was that a coincidence?

“Come on, Joshua,” she said into the phone.

What now? She hung up.

She had to get Russell and Tessi out of the ward.

The phone rang as she was opening the door, ready to leave. Should she answer it? It might be Joshua or…

As much as she desperately wanted to talk to Joshua, she had delayed long enough. If she was right, and it was Abigail, then she had to get Tessi and Russell out of there somehow.

She closed the door on the ringing phone and ran toward the side exit.

One Hundred Five

“She’s coming,” Abigail said, looking inward. Joshua Fuller did not answer.

The nurse’s station was deserted and Quinn hesitated for a moment, catching her breath and trying to steady her nerves.

Her eyes were drawn to the closed-circuit monitor.

Joshua was in the ward, standing beside the window, looking out.

He seemed unnaturally still.

Quinn pushed through the double doors.

“Joshua,” she said.

“He can’t hear you,” Abigail said.

Quinn looked from Joshua to Abigail.

“What are you doing, Abigail?” Her voice sounded calmer than she felt.

“Whatever I want,” Abigail answered.

Quinn looked at the two empty beds. “Where is Tessi?”

“Gone. Her father came and took her away.”

“Her father…”

“Tessi’s mother had an accident last night.” Abigail’s tone was neutral, her expression disinterested. “She’s dead.”

“Dead.” Alicia Vincent, David White, Lloyd Marshall, and Anne Rossi. And Ian?

“Where’s Dr. Campbell?” she asked.

“He’s gone, too.”

“Did you kill him?” Quinn found it hard to say the words.

“No…but he’s not going to do any more harm.”

“What harm? He’s a doctor, he helps people.”

“No he doesn’t. He tries to make people remember things they want to forget. Always digging at places that hurt.” She smiled lazily. “He won’t be doing that anymore.”

“What have you done to him?”

“I emptied his brain.”

Quinn did not react.

“He liked you,” Abigail told her, matter-of-factly. “So does Dr. Fuller.”

“What have you done to Dr. Fuller?”

Abigail looked at Joshua standing by the window and frowned. “I haven’t done anything yet…I’m still deciding.”

Quinn wondered if Russell was listening, behind the drawn curtain.

“All right, Abigail,” she said. “This is between us, then. Let me get Russell out of here.” She started toward the boy’s wheelchair, which was parked at the end of the bed.

“No, I don’t think so,” Abigail said, and the wheelchair spun madly before crashing through the double doors and out of sight.

“Abigail,” Quinn said evenly. “Maybe you have an argument with Joshua and me, but Russell is an innocent bystander…”

Abigail smirked. “Russell is like me.”

Quinn started. The evasiveness she’d sensed? Was that part of all this? But he’d been angry at Abigail in Mary’s dream. Why did you kill them, Abigail, why did you do it?

“I don’t think so, Abigail.”

Of its own volition, the curtain flew away from Russell’s bed.

The boy was sitting up, one arm draped through the trapeze. His face looked…dark.

“Russell,” Quinn said.

“Tell her, Russell, about the things you did.”

Russell did not answer.

“He’s the one who messed up the computers and made a mess in surgery. Didn’t you, Russell?”

Russell did not answer.

“But he didn’t kill anyone,” Quinn said.

“Not yet…but they all deserved to die…that doctor…”

“What doctor?” Then she remembered Carter’s death in radiology. Abigail had been there when it happened.

“They all deserved to die,” Abigail repeated.

“Why?”

“I don’t have to tell you.”

That was the child in Abigail but there was something else, Quinn thought. Something malevolent, something ancient.

“You can tell me,” Quinn said reasonably. “You’re going to kill me too, aren’t you?”

“I’m not,” Abigail said. “I think he is.” She looked at Joshua, who stood motionless. “He should be the one to do it.”

Quinn tried not to react, sensing that the child was enjoying this game.

“He’s going to wait until dark…”

Quinn glanced at Russell, trying to fathom what was going on in his mind. If he was like Abigail…had some sort of power…was he also evil?

Something was building in him, she thought. His body was drawn tight, like a spring under incredible tension.

She knew that he was very close to Joshua.

“What are you going to do with Joshua after he…does what you want him to do?” Quinn asked. The room was getting dark and she could barely make out Abigail’s face. Joshua was outlined against the window.

“I won’t have to do anything to him.”

Quinn hoped that Russell was listening and that he had some human compassion left, some kindness in him.

“I’m pretty sure he’ll kill himself,” Abigail added, and tilted her head, regarding him thoughtfully. “If he feels guilty enough. That’s what my mother did.”

It was past dusk.

“Can I turn on the light?”

“No…”

The television, overhead, lit up, the screen flickering in the dimness. It cast enough light that Quinn could see: Joshua was still at the window and Abigail was watching him. Russell had swung his legs off the bed but was still hanging on the trapeze.

“It’s time,” Abigail said, and in spite of herself, Quinn felt her heart begin to pound.

Joshua turned slowly away from the window.

His face was expressionless, his eyes blank. He moved slowly, as though he’d forgotten how to walk after having been frozen in place so long. Quinn watched as he drew near to her, and realized that she couldn’t move; whatever Abigail had been doing to him, she was now doing to her…

“No!” Russell said.

With effort, Quinn looked in his direction.

Russell was standing on spindly, shaking legs, his face intent. “I won’t let you do it, Abigail, I won’t let you kill anyone else.”

Joshua had stopped, two feet away from her.

“Why did you kill them, Abigail, why did you do it?”

“I had to,” Abigail said. “They were going to hurt us. Hurt you, Russell. They already did hurt you. I had to protect you! To protect all of us!”

“No.” Russell shook his head. “That’s what you want me to believe, but I know better. “

“I did it to protect you!”

“You did it because you wanted the rest of us to be like you.”

“I—”

“You wanted to hurt us too, because you don’t have anyone who loves you. You wanted to kill everyone who loves us.”

“No! I never hurt your father,” Abigail said urgently, getting off her bed and walking toward Russell. “I wouldn’t…”

“I saw you do all those things, and I didn’t stop you,” Russell said. He had let go of the trapeze and was standing on his own. “I didn’t stop you.” His voice was immeasurably sad. “But I will stop you now.”

“You can’t,” Abigail said desperately. She had reached his bed, and looked up at him. “Don’t you know? Don’t you really understand? It wants me to do it. It wants someone to die.”

“Then it can have me,” Russell said.

“Russell, no,” Quinn said.

He took a halting step forward. “Take me, Abigail. Because if you hurt either of them, I’ll kill myself…”

“No!” Abigail screamed, and looked fearfully over her shoulder at the east corner of the room where blue light arced in the dimness. Tendrils of light snaked toward them, crackling and smelling of burned electrical wire.

“Like your mother,” Russell said softly. “You’ll be alone here with only that,” he glanced at the coils of light, “for the rest of your life.”

Tears glistened in Abigail’s eyes. She turned and looked once more at the corner where the light was increasing in intensity until it was a brilliant white. The glow was reflected in the tears which streamed down her face.

She glanced back at Russell. “It wants someone to die,” she repeated. Then she turned and rushed forward, her arms reaching out for the light, the tendrils shooting up both arms and all over her body. The light pulsed and brightened, and Abigail burst into flames.

The fire spread up her body in tiny, licking flames.

Suddenly freed, Quinn reached for Abigail, but as she did, the child disappeared from sight, gone without a trace, and the light receded back to the corner of the room where flames began to shoot up the wall.

Joshua slumped to the floor.

“My God,” Quinn said.

“Get him out of here,” Russell said, “the whole place is going to go up…”

“What about you?” She could feel herself aching to go to Joshua, but the boy had saved their lives.

“I’ll get out,” he said. “I can walk. Just get him out of here.”

Quinn pulled a bedspread from the closest bed and folded it in lengthwise pleats, lifting Joshua enough to get the fabric under him, then moving him to the other side so she could pull it through. She lifted the two corners above his head and pulled him across the floor, through the double doors and out, grateful that there was a ramp and not stairs.

It was cold outside and it chilled the perspiration on her body as she tugged and pulled until they were both a safe distance from the ward. She checked his carotid pulse—he looked lifeless—and was reassured by its steady beat.

Just as she got to her feet to go back in after Russell, she saw him silhouetted in the door against a backdrop of flames.

She ran to him, catching him as he began to fall, his weakened legs giving way under the strain of unfamiliar use. He was light in her arms.

All at once there were people swarming around and she allowed them to take over, getting Joshua onto a stretcher, and someone took Russell from her, carrying him toward the main building.

But she stayed and watched until certain that the building was fully afire…

Over the roar of the flames came the delicate sound of wind chimes.

MONDAY

Epilogue

Quinn sat at Joshua’s bedside, watching him as he slept.

All of the tests were negative: his EEG was normal (she could still hear Abigail saying “I emptied his brain”), x-rays and lab work all normal.

Simon Harrington stood at the end of the bed.

“Tell me again, Quinn.”

She looked at him with tired eyes. “I honestly don’t know what happened, I can only guess.”

“Then your best guess.”

“It was the ward,” a voice came from behind them.

A woman stood in the door.

“Maggie,” Simon said. “When did you get back?”

She walked into the room, a strikingly attractive woman with silver hair. She looked at Joshua. “Will he be all right?”

“We think so,” Quinn said.

“I should never have let him open up the ward,” Maggie Connelly said quietly.

Simon and Quinn exchanged a look.

“He can be very persuasive,” Maggie said, and smiled at Quinn. “He wanted a place away from the rest of the hospital…and he knew it was standing empty.”

“You mean,” Quinn said, watching the woman’s face, “something else happened there.” The ghostly images on the tape.

“Yes…long ago. They closed the building, boarded it up. There was a lot of superstition surrounding it, but eventually it all died down and people forgot.” Her eyes were troubled. “I never forgot. But…I thought it was just one crazy man…”

“And now you think it was the ward.”

Maggie nodded. “I don’t know what…but something was there…” She fell silent and her eyes grew distant.

The face at the window.

Maggie began to walk toward the window.

The face grinned at her wickedly and then disappeared from the square of glass.

Maggie could feel her heart pounding in her chest and her mouth was suddenly dry.

She did not want to look through that window, but she had to…something was compelling her to look at its handiwork.

All she could see at first was the color red.

The walls and floor were covered with blood.

There were bodies on the floor…she closed her eyes, feeling the bile rise in her throat.

Not this, she thought, and steadied herself with a hand against the door.

They were mutilated, great gaping wounds in their chests and abdomens. Things, which looked quite unlike the drawings in her nursing books, spilled out of the wounds.

The man sat among them, like a child surrounded by his favorite toys. As she watched, he dipped his fingers into the blood and drew a wavy line on a bare leg.

Then, with a glance at the door, as if he knew she were watching, he reached into a body, tearing something loose and moving it toward his mouth.

Maggie fainted.

“They were all seriously disturbed,” Maggie said, finally. “But something in that place brought it out of them…” She shivered, hearing in her mind the words spoken so many years ago:

“They should have known not to put those people out there…so far from the main building.

“Being isolated like that can’t be good for a weak mind.”

After Simon and Maggie had left, Quinn sat, holding Joshua’s hand, fighting against her own exhaustion.

She would stay with him until he woke up and spoke to her, so she would know he was going to be all right.

She would stay.

Cemetery Dance Publications

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