Blind Spot. Nancy Bush
the hall toward room 113, Jane Doe—Cat’s—room. Side A of the hospital had three floors; Side B, which housed the criminally insane, sported four floors and two subterranean levels as well.
The door to room 113 was open. Dr. Freeson was staring down at the patient, whose blank face stared right back.
“Alison said she might be coming to,” Claire said.
“Well, you can see that’s not true. Why did Alison go to you?”
“What happened?”
Freeson fluttered a hand. “That Gibson boy was bothering her, so we took them both back to their rooms. Actually, I was just about to call you, so it’s just as well you’re here.” He frowned at the sight of her coat and purse. “There’s a meeting tomorrow morning with the Marsdon family concerning Heyward’s incarceration. I want to make sure you’re available.”
“I’m not available,” she said tightly. “I have patients.”
“Well, rearrange them, for God’s sake,” he said. “This matters, Claire. Eleven o’clock. Avanti will be there, and Neumann, and of course Dr. Radke.”
As hospital administrator, Radke was the big cheese and was also the man in bed professionally with the Marsdons.
“I’m no longer Heyward’s doctor,” she said.
“In Heyward’s mind, you are,” Freeson replied. “I’m not asking, Claire.”
“You never do.”
“You want to take this up with Avanti, be my guest.” Color swept up his neck and his voice tightened. “The Marsdons will be there, too, and the team from Side B: Zellman…Prior…”
Claire could see the pressure was going to be on her to agree to Heyward’s release from Side B to Side A. “Maybe someone from the lockdown section will argue that Heyward should remain with them.”
Freeson looked at her as if she were dense. “Just be there.”
Feeling someone else’s eyes on her, she glanced back and saw that Cat had turned her head and was staring at her. Claire stared back and a frisson slid up her arms in spite of herself. Was there any chance she understood their words? “Hello,” she said.
But the girl’s gaze was in the middle distance. Not on Claire. After a few minutes, she turned back to stare toward the blank television on the wall across from her bed. Claire turned the set on and put the remote near Cat’s right hand, next to the call button. Then she headed out of the room and to the side exit where her car was parked.
Lang sat in his truck, his head against the headrest, eyes closed, ears filled with the pitter, pitter of rain and then sloppy plops when it started pounding in earnest. He opened his eyes. He was in the lot of the Winslow County Sheriff’s Department, parked in a visitor’s spot, nose out. He’d been there an hour. If he stayed much longer he suspected someone would come and knock on his window and demand to know what the hell he was doing. He would, if he worked there.
But he didn’t want to move. He was caught in a funky inertia, the same one he’d battled since Melody’s death. Sometimes he won, sometimes he lost. It had a strong grip that had lessened a bit over time, but still held on hard. He had no family now. He was alone, and a voice in his head kept asking him, What now? What’s next? What’s the point?
Shifting in the seat, he sighed, a sound somewhere between a snort and a groan. He supposed he suffered from depression, although it didn’t completely immobilize him. In fact, given the slightest chance to get Heyward Marsdon a guilty verdict and send him to the big house, he’d be sprinting down the halls to do that.
He glanced toward the sheriff department’s front doors. He’d called for the sheriff again, but had been told the man was out. Lang figured Nunce must still be on vacation, because he was never in. He was asked, again, if he wanted to speak with someone else, but Lang had once again declined. Going to see the medical examiner, pretending that he’d talked to the sheriff, that maybe hadn’t been wise for positive relations with the department; however, he didn’t regret it. What the hell. Sometimes you just had to forge forward in life, and he hadn’t been particularly good in that regard lately.
Although he’d overstepped bounds all over the place and if he were caught, had no backup plan, he didn’t much care. Part of his “depression,” no doubt, but he kinda thought his very lack of interest was the reason he’d gotten past the ME. He wasn’t desperate or pushy, didn’t want anything really, and so he’d raised no alarm. If he wanted to see the John Doe’s body, it was fine, fine, fine. No reason to call the sheriff and check. Just go goddamn look at it already, and get out.
The dead man’s image crossed the screen of his mind. The stitched Y-cut from the autopsy. The muscular build. His youth. No defensive wounds…
Why hadn’t the guy fought back? What had stopped him? Did he know his attacker? Was he unconscious before the knife attack began?
Lang knew the man had been found by a trucker, but unless he looked at the case file he wouldn’t know the trucker’s name and/or how to get hold of him. Not that he really cared to talk to the man. Not that he had any authority to get involved.
“Not my case,” he said aloud.
Yet he was mildly intrigued. Mildly.
“Nobody likes interference,” he added. “Curtis knows better.”
Yet his partner, the bastard, had intrigued him.
Maybe it was a good thing. Time would tell.
The rain had turned his windows into a moving rain splatter and now he was insulated from view behind a gray fog of condensation, cocooned within the vehicle. Lang thought about the Jane Doe who’d been released from Laurelton General to Halo Valley Security Hospital.
Halo Valley.
He closed his eyes, breathed quietly for several moments, then opened them again. Halo Valley Security Hospital was a private institution where special funds were set aside for worthy cases. The Marsdon family being a major contributor to the hospital and the special funds made it a good bet concessions had been made for Heyward Marsdon III, yes, but the hospital served an altruistic purpose, too. Cases that might have normally been assigned to the Oregon State Hospital in Salem, the state-run facility, sometimes ended up at Halo Valley, easing costs to the state and maybe even giving the patient more intensive care.
Not that Lang would ever be a fan. Given what had happened to his sister on Halo Valley grounds, and the choices that had been made by Halo Valley staff, particularly Dr. Claire Norris, he was never going to feel all warm and fuzzy about the place. But Halo Valley was where the pregnant rest stop victim had been taken, so if he kept with this case, it might be a place he was destined to visit.
The idea brought a cold chill to his skin.
So why was he parked outside the Winslow County Sheriff’s Department? Why was he listening to Trey Curtis? Why did he feel oddly committed to a case that had nothing—nothing—to do with him? Why this case? Why now?
Lang’s hands flexed on the wheel for a moment, then he threw open the door and stepped into the rain, jamming a baseball cap on his head and watching rain slide down the shoulders of his black leather jacket. He should have worn a raincoat. He shouldn’t be on this mission. He should have stayed home and watched daytime television.
It was raining the day Melody died, too. An incessant, chilling precipitation thrown around by the hand of the wind. She’d stopped by to see Lang at work, her hair wet, her face flushed from cold, raindrops sparkling under the department lights. He’d been on his way out and she’d said she wanted to talk to him. She wore a thin jacket, a summer jacket, and he could see the bare skin of her wrists and a little up her forearms. Thin, red welts showed where she’d scratched herself. Even in those few moments she couldn’t stop the compulsive tearing at her own skin. He’d been worried. They agreed to meet at the house as soon as Lang was off, about three hours later. Melody had long ago moved out and