See No Evil. Morgan Hayes
he wasn’t still here.
Allister slung the duffel bag over one shoulder and knelt beside Stevie. Slipping his gloves on again, he realized the risk he was about to take. Yes, there was the very real threat of being framed by Bainbridge. And in all likelihood, the police would not believe his story once they’d placed him at the scene of Gary’s murder. Then there was Stevie Falcioni; it was going to take some pretty creative explaining to convince her that he hadn’t been trying to kill her when, mistaking her for Gary’s assailant, he’d come at her with the fire extinguisher. But given the circumstances, he thought as he lifted her limp body from the catwalk and shifted her weight against his chest, he would have to run those risks.
The stairs were the trickiest. After Allister maneuvered them, he found carrying Stevie through the warehouse to the side door relatively easy. Outside, the storm had risen to its full force; the wind howled and the snow had turned to biting pellets of ice. After struggling briefly with the passenger door of the Explorer, Allister eased Stevie onto the seat. He reclined it, then fumbled with the seat-belt clip until he heard it catch.
In another moment he was behind the wheel, and the engine rumbled to life. Above the thrashing wipers and the noise of the fan, he heard the radio announcer on the local station advise people to stay indoors and caution drivers about the hazardous conditions.
“…and you can certainly expect to wake up to a few more inches of the white stuff tomorrow,” the announcer said, “after that green Christmas, it looks like winter’s finally settling in…”
Allister steered past Stevie’s Volvo, out of the warehouse lot and onto the deserted street. Five blocks later, he brought the big vehicle to a sliding stop at a red light and restlessly drummed his fingers against the steering wheel as cars crawled through the intersection.
In the close quarters of the Explorer, Allister detected a faint trace of her perfume. He looked over and saw how the yellow glow of a street lamp through the windshield cast gentle shadows across her striking features: high cheekbones, a square yet delicate jawline, a small straight nose, and lips that looked as though they’d been carefully sculpted into an enticing curve. Allister didn’t doubt that Stevie Falcioni had seduced countless men with little more than a smile.
“…and remember, drive carefully if you have to be out tonight,” the radio announcer cautioned again. “Police are reporting numerous accidents in and around the city, and we’ve just received word of a multicar pile-up along the north branch of the Harriston Expressway near the Jefferson exit. We’ll have more details on the ten-o’clock news coming up in seven minutes. For now, though, here’s something that should brighten things up a bit for all you storm-bound listeners. The golden oldie ‘I Can See Clearly Now’—”
Allister switched off the radio and eased the Explorer past the intersection. The rest of the drive to Danby General Hospital was a white-knuckled ordeal. Throughout, he snatched quick side glances at the woman next to him whenever the driving permitted. Her small frame rocked with each bump and swerve.
He had no idea what he would have done had she regained consciousness in the car—would she have believed he was actually trying to help? And by the time he pulled into the hospital lot, Allister was grateful she hadn’t come around. He turned off the ignition and in the welcome silence looked at the emergency entrance.
Three ambulances were parked out front, one with its lights still strobing. Beyond the wide sliding doors in the bright glare of the ER, he could see a blur of activity.
This was it, he thought, taking a deep breath. As soon as he carried Stevie Falcioni through those doors, there would be no turning back. He’d have to give his name, address, phone number. And shortly after that, the police would be knocking on his door, if they hadn’t already picked him up at the hospital.
Allister glanced at Stevie again. So how was he going to explain his apparent attack? Who would believe him? And what made this any different from six years ago?
But right now there wasn’t time to debate these questions and fears. What mattered was Stevie and getting her the medical attention she needed. He owed her that much.
When the emergency-room doors swung open at his approach, Allister shifted Stevie’s weight in his arms, careful not to drop the duffel bag, which he also held. Her head rested on his shoulder, her face only inches from his, and again he detected a subtle hint of her perfume. Dodging two attendants wheeling an empty gurney back to the ambulances, Allister stepped through the second set of doors.
He stopped abruptly.
The ER bad more than activity; it reeled in utter chaos. The waiting room was jammed; people without seats paced or leaned against walls, while another dozen waited impatiently to give information to the harassed desk nurse. Orderlies flew from one station to the next, their crisscrossing paths seeming more like a well-choreographed dance than the frantic scramblings of an ER staff beleaguered by a sudden string of accident victims. Behind him, Allister could hear the approaching siren of yet another ambulance.
“All right, people, we’ve got another two coming in!”
A woman in green scrubs moved past Allister at full tilt. “Let’s make some room out here. Jerry, use the halls if you have to. Karen, Dr. Stowe needs you in number four. And, Alex, get another crash cart down here.”
“Excuse me?” Allister hurried after her, twisting his way through the crowded corridor.
The woman briskly signed two charts thrust at her by interns, before starting down the hall.
“Excuse me!” This time he shouted, slowing his awkward pursuit only when she spun around on one sneakered foot.
Even then, she didn’t look at him. Her attention was riveted on the woman in his arms.
“I need some help here,” he said. “Are you a doctor?”
The woman nodded. “Dr. Delaney. Is this one of the expressway-pileup victims?”
“No. She fell,” he explained, shifting Stevie’s weight, his arms beginning to feel the strain. “She hit her head.”
“Carol, find a gurney,” Dr. Delaney called to a nurse, her eyes never leaving Stevie. “How long has she been unconscious, sir?”
The doctor reached up and lifted Stevie’s eyelids to examine her pupils.
“I don’t know. Fifteen… twenty minutes, I guess.”
“Where did she hit her head?”
“The back. She fell backward.”
The doctor was already probing Stevie’s skull when the gurney arrived, and Allister lowered Stevie onto the crisp sheets. Dr. Delaney pulled open Stevie’s coat, as well as the shirt beneath, and grappled with her stethoscope. When he saw the edge of a white lace bra against olive-colored skin, Allister redirected his gaze. He waited, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, as the doctor looked Stevie over and finally muttered something to the nurse.
And then the emergency doors slammed open.
“Here they come!” someone shouted.
All available hospital staff, including Dr. Delaney, raced
to the doors as attendants rushed in with the next accident victims.
“We need these forms filled out, sir,” the nurse said, shoving a clipboard at Allister. “Dr. Delaney will be with you as soon as she can,” she added as she scrambled to the speeding gurneys and was swallowed up in the frantic flow of medical staff down the main hall.
Allister looked at the form and then at Stevie. He moved to the side of the gurney, which had been pushed up against the corridor wall, and lowered the black duffel from his shoulder onto the sheets beside her. She appeared paler now under the harsh unforgiving fluorescents, her face framed by the short gleaming black hair.
Her beige trench coat was splayed open, and the edges of her white cotton shirt were still brushed aside. Gingerly Allister reached out to pull it closed over