Blind Spot Page 7

  Thunder clapped over her head and she felt a few raindrops. She yanked open one of the glass doors and stepped into the lobby. Behind her, the skies opened up and a curtain of water started falling.

  Inside, on the right, she saw a gift shop and coffee stand, both closed. In front of her were a couple of couches. To the left was a larger waiting area. She stepped farther inside and scanned the larger room. More couches. End tables. Coffee tables. A fake fireplace. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases nearly empty of books. One wall of the room was made up of windows that looked out onto the horseshoe drive at the hospital entrance.

  A lone dark-haired man was on one of the couches facing the windows. He was sitting down with his feet up on one of the coffee tables. Dressed in blue scrubs, he had an open book on his lap. She studied his hands. They were big enough and hairy enough. Reaching inside her coat, she put her hand on the holstered gun tucked into the waist of her jeans. He looked up from his reading to check his wristwatch and glanced out the windows. She figured he was waiting for a ride to pull up. What was he reading while waiting? He raised the volume closer to his face, and she saw the cover didn’t belong to a medical reference. The book, by Anne Tyler, was The Accidental Tourist. She exhaled and took her hand off her gun. Did she really think the murderer would be sitting there waiting for her just inside the front doors?

  She walked over to a set of café tables parked in front of the dark gift shop, eased herself into one of the chairs, pulled off her gloves, and dropped them on top of the table. Dipping her hand into her pocket, she pulled out the bag with the ring. The idea of fishing out the package containing the strands of rope was tempting, but Bernadette decided to go with the known quantity. This was going to be one of those occasions when she didn’t have time to focus. She hoped she could still get a bead on him.

  Inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly, she tipped the bag. The ring fell into her right palm. She shut her eyes tight, closed her hand around the band, and said the five words. While she sat in her personal darkroom, the sounds of the hospital and the city surrounding it filled her ears: Gurney bumping down a hallway. Female voice paging X-ray. Distant sirens. Rumbling thunder. Music. Bob Dylan on the radio. Early Dylan. Perfect accompaniment for the downpour outside. “A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall.” At the same time, the hospital smells invaded her nostrils and crawled down the back of her throat: Antiseptic solution. Cafeteria cooking. Fried something with onions. Coffee, strong and black.

  The coffee and guitars began to fade.

  Those big hairy hands again. They’re holding an open book while he’s standing. Not the same book, though. A smaller one. Another reference of some sort? She can’t make out the details. He’s turning the page. Again, the words are too small for her to read. No big chapter headings this time. Sitting down with the book. Sitting down on what? A chair. There are two more of those chairs in front of him. What color? Cough-syrup orange, like before. He has to be in the same room, the woman’s room. He’s turning the book pages again. Lifting his arm to his eyes. Hairy wrist with a watch wrapped around it. As with the wall clock, she can’t make out the numbers, only the position of the hands. Working in real time. Good. He sets the open book down on his lap. That blue on his legs could be scrubs. Scrubs or jeans. Now he’s standing again, the open book in front of his face.

  Suddenly it all went black. A light switch flipped off. She waited with her eyes closed. Waited. Nothing. Still black. He’d fallen asleep or passed out or died or—most likely—the connection was broken because she was wiped out. Her hand tightened around the ring. “Return to me,” she whispered. Nothing. Might as well be sitting in a closet with a bag over her head. She was wasting time. She opened her eyes but still saw black. She dropped the ring in the bag, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. Her eyes cleared. Bernadette shoved the bag back in her pocket. She stood up, plucked her gloves off the table, and pulled them on. Time to do it the regular way.

  Her eyes darted between the hospital signs and arrows pointing this way and that. Admitting. Cashier. Cafeteria. Chapel. Information Desk. Three different sets of elevators. She headed down the main hallway that sliced through the lobby level and found a bank of elevators on her left, opposite the information desk. She punched the UP button and walked back and forth three times in front of the doors while she waited for one of them to open. A middle one parted and she got in. Two women in scrubs followed her into the elevator. One pressed the fourth-floor button. Bernadette raised her hand and hesitated, mulling over her strategy. She’d start at the top and work her way down. The south side of the hospital had patient rooms facing FREE PARKING. She’d narrow her search down to the correct floor on the south side by studying the angle of its window views. After that it would be a matter of poking her head into each room and looking for one containing a blond female patient with a dark-haired male in attendance.

  “Need help finding something?” asked one of the scrubs.

  “I’m good.” Bernadette pressed the fifth-floor button. While she waited for her floor to come up, she took in the killer’s emotional state. He was tranquil. At peace. That pissed her off—and worried her. He’d just murdered two people, and he was as relaxed as someone coming out of a spa.

  Eleven

  Bernadette quickly eliminated the top level of the hospital: it was up too high. She could see not only FREE PARKING from the windows on the fifth floor, but the rest of the sign—MICKEY’S DINING CAR—as well. She took the stairs down one level, found an empty patient room at the end of the hallway, and slipped inside. She stepped up to the windows and opened the drapes. Through the downpour, Bernadette looked out onto the neon and streetlights and car lights of downtown. The fourth floor was a hit; the sign and the twin church steeples appeared as she’d seen them through his eyes.

  She went outside the room and ran her eyes up and down the corridor. She didn’t want to get stopped and have to explain herself or be forced to whip out her ID. If she could help it, she didn’t even want to ask anyone a question. This lead could still fizzle. At one end of the hallway, she saw a male technician bent over a hospital cart. At the other end were a couple of nurses standing next to each other in front of the nurses’ station. The women were immersed in conversation.

  The door to the next room was closed, but she heard noise—a male voice. She took a breath and reached inside her coat, putting her right hand on her gun. With her left, she gently pushed the door open a crack. An elderly man was alone, sleeping, while the television set across from his bed blared with a baseball game. She glanced at the score: the Twins were kicking Anaheim’s butt at the Metrodome. Quietly closing the door, she backed out of the room and took her hand off her gun. She turned to continue down the hall.

  The door to the next room was wide open. She stepped into the doorway. The bed was stripped of linen, and the lights were off. The room had been empty all night. As soon as she stepped back into the corridor to continue her tour, someone behind her touched her shoulder. Bernadette started and turned around. A nurse. Busted.

  “Visiting hours are over.” She was a little taller than Bernadette and twice as wide. Her upper arms were the size of picnic hams, and her voice was hoarse. She sounded like she’d been yelling at people all day, and she wasn’t going to take any grief. The nurse thumbed over her shoulder at a sign on the corridor wall behind her. “You’ll have to leave.”

  Bernadette stole a sideways glance at the next room. The door was propped open, but she couldn’t see the patient or the visitors. Probably another dead end. She didn’t want to waste any more time doing it the discreet way. Bernadette whipped out her wallet. “I’m with the FBI. Agent Bernadette Saint Clare.”

  The nurse’s eyes widened as she studied the identification. “What’s going on?”

  Bernadette put away her ID. “I need to check the patients’ rooms on this side of the hallway. While I’m doing that, you can get me a list of all the staff working tonight. The professional staff. Doctors, nurses, aides.”
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br />   The woman’s eyes narrowed. “What do you need all that for?”

  “I can’t disclose that information. This is part of a federal—”

  The woman interrupted her: “Federal patient privacy laws. Heard of those? I’m not authorized to hand out anything or let you see anyone. You’ll have to go through Administration. They’ll be in on Monday.”

  “This can’t wait until Monday!”

  The woman planted her fists on her hips. “Turn down the volume. This is a hospital.”

  “Let me speak to a supervisor.”

  “You’re looking at her.”

  “I don’t have time to fool around!”

  “If you don’t keep your voice down, I’m going to call Security.” She folded the hams in front of her chest. “How do I know that badge is real and that you’re really an FBI cop? You think just because you waved that ID in my face I’m gonna hand over a pile of personnel information? Let you bother patients? You come back on Monday with the proper paperwork and go through the right channels.” Then, in a voice that was as loud as Bernadette’s, she added: “Now, please leave!”

  Bernadette hesitated. Arguing in the hallway with Nurse Big Arms wasn’t getting anywhere. Maybe she could sway the woman if they sat down together. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “This is really important, and I don’t have time. Can we talk somewhere?”

  The woman unfolded the hams and pointed toward the nurses’ station. “This way.”

  Bernadette eyed the woman’s ID badge. “Thank you, Marcia.”

  While the two women walked side by side, the nurse started her own questioning.

  “What’s this about exactly? The dead judge? It’s all over the news. Television said the FBI is investigating. You think someone at the hospital is involved?”

  A frightened man stuck his head out the door of Anna Fontaine’s hospital room. He looked down the hall and was relieved to see the backs of the nurse and the FBI agent.

  FBI! What has that bastard gotten my wife into?

  “Dad?” said a squeaky male voice behind him.

  “Shut up and stay here,” Jerry Fontaine said to his sons without turning around. He was a soft, chubby man with thinning blond hair combed over the top of his scalp.

  He slipped outside the room and chugged for the steps. Giving one last look over his shoulder, he saw the two women going into the nurses’ break room. Good. He opened the door and thumped down the stairs. Jerry remembered the bastard had said he was going to attend evening services at the hospital chapel and then head on to another appointment.

  Jerry saw him standing outside the chapel, talking to the hospital’s lady minister and smiling. He mistrusted that reptilian grin and despised the man’s overall appearance. The snake was too good-looking to be left alone with an impressionable, weak woman like Anna. Other worshippers were spilling out of the room as well. As soon as the hallway crowd dispersed and the chaplain parted ways with the big man, Jerry came up behind him. “Hey!”

  He spun around. “Jerry. What’s wrong? Is Anna—”

  Jerry grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him back into the chapel. He let the chapel door shut behind them and glanced around the room to make sure no one else was there. “What the hell did you two do? There’s an FBI agent on Anna’s floor.”

  “What?”

  With the heel of his hand. Jerry swiped a coating of perspiration from his forehead. “I heard her arguing with a nurse.”

  “What makes you think that has anything to do with me? With your wife?”

  Jerry wiped his palms on the thighs of his khakis while he felt sweat collecting under his armpits. He wondered if he was going to drown in his own fluids. “She wanted personnel files or something. I couldn’t catch all of it.”

  “A hospital worker must be in hot water.”

  “Sounded like it had something to do with the judge.” Jerry stepped closer. “So help me God, if you had anything to do with that fat fucker’s death, if you’ve roped my wife into some sort of—”

  “Lower your voice.”

  Jerry whispered his next questions. Even as he asked them, he hoped the bastard would lie to him. He didn’t want to know shit: “Did you do it? Did my wife have anything to do with it?”

  He posed his own questions in a voice so calm and condescending it made Jerry want to punch him in the mouth: “What does she look like, this FBI person? You said she, right? What does this woman look like? Can you describe her to me?”

  Jerry stumbled over his response, all the while wondering what the hell the woman’s looks had to do with anything. “Didn’t…I didn’t see her face. From behind she looked tiny. Skinny. Short blond hair.”

  “How was she dressed?”

  “What? Leather jacket and jeans. Why?”

  “Does that sound like an FBI agent? Come on, Jerry. I’m sure you misunderstood the conversation. I’ll bet you overheard them gossiping about what they saw on the news today.”

  Jerry took a step back, blinked, and considered the possibility. He dragged his shirtsleeve across his sweaty upper lip and said hesitantly: “No. I’m sure…”

  “You’re all wound up because of Anna. Go back upstairs and take care of your wife and kids. Forget about what you thought you heard.”

  Jerry went to the door and put his hand on the handle. “I hope you’re right.” He yanked open the door and left. He looked over his shoulder as he went and saw the asshole was still inside, peeking into the hallway through a window in the chapel door. “Chickenshit,” Jerry muttered, and continued back to his wife’s room.

  Bernadette’s one-on-one with Nurse Big Arms had been a waste of time. The woman’s answer was still the same: Visiting hours are over, so get out. As Bernadette headed down the hall, she felt the nurse’s eyes on her until she stepped into the elevator. The car went down; she held on to the railing with one hand and closed her eyes. The two sessions with the ring had wasted her. Her legs were rubbery, and her empty gut ached. She needed to eat something and go to bed.

  She opened her eyes when she felt the car stop and heard the doors open. She half expected a cadre of security guards to be waiting for her, but none materialized. Hanging a right off the elevators, she headed for the exit. She contemplated a third try, and at the same time wondered if she could take it. Would the church be closed by now? When she was this tired, she needed that serene setting. She stopped with her hand on the door and looked outside. The thought of schlepping through the rain in search of a church exhausted her. The hospital had a chapel; maybe that would work. No. She needed the real thing. She opened the door and dashed through the rain, retracing her steps to the church.

  Twelve

  With eyes closed tight, Bernadette set her elbows on her thighs and rested her face in her hands. She couldn’t make herself do it again, couldn’t make herself pull off her gloves, dip her hand into her pocket, and take it out. She was too damn drained. A third round with the ring could ruin her for tomorrow, and she wanted Sunday to work on this. She opened her eyes and sat up on the bench, ready to leave. She rubbed her temples, feeling the beginnings of a headache. She’d get something to eat, try to sleep, and get a fresh start in the morning. A call to Garcia could wait twelve hours.

  She scanned the front one last time. When she’d first returned to the church, Bernadette was surprised to find it open and the women still cleaning. The altar ladies had quietly disappeared while her eyes were shut. They were probably putting away their supplies; they had to be closing shop soon. She told herself she should leave before they had to kick her out. A clap of thunder shook the church walls and reminded her it was storming outside.

  In unison with another clap, she felt a hand on her shoulder. She jumped to her feet and spun around. In the pew behind her stood a tall man in a robe, his face obscured by the garment’s hood. She hadn’t expected to see a priest at this late hour. “What?” she blurted, and then quickly added, more respectfully, “Yes, Father?”

  “I’m sorry if I st
artled you, daughter.”

  “No, Father. I’m sorry for staying so late.” She turned back around and started shuffling out of the pew. “I’ll get out of your hair.”

  “Wait,” he said.

  She froze. Bernadette looked over her shoulder and was horrified to see he’d left his pew and was sliding into hers, coming up on her right side. “Father, I really didn’t intend to…”

  He motioned down toward the wooden seat with his left hand. “Sit. Please. You look troubled.”

  She opened her mouth to respond and then closed it. Slowly lowering back down, Bernadette silently cursed herself for staying so long. For all she knew, this priest had observed her from the sacristy during her first visit. Now she was back and he felt compelled to counsel her. Worse, maybe the altar ladies had summoned him to deal with the crazy woman who kept popping in at night. As he sat down next to her, she avoided looking at him.

  “Why are you here this evening?”

  “Father…” Her voice trailed off. She hadn’t been close to a priest in years, and his presence made her nervous. She’d always felt guilty for quitting mass while still using the physical space of the church for her sight. Now here she was, caught in the act by a priest. At the same time, she felt drawn to him. He reeked of incense, a scent that drew her back into her childhood memories of church.