A Spark of Light(67)

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HUGH WAS HALFWAY TO THE front door of the clinic when he crashed into a cop. “Lieutenant?” the officer said. “This is Rachel Greenbaum. She’s the one who called in the shooting.”

He blinked. He had to shake his head a few times to clear it, to let go of Wren’s name, which was caught like a bit between his teeth.

What had he been thinking? Well, obviously, he hadn’t been. Charging inside was a mistake. He couldn’t help Wren if he got himself shot.

“Ms. Greenbaum,” he said, taking a breath. “Why don’t you come with me?”

Slowly, he loosened his death grip on his phone and slipped it into his pocket. He led her in the other direction (away from the clinic; away from Wren and Bex, goddammit) to a spot where two officers were hastily erecting a Tyvek canopy over a card table and a couple of folding chairs. There was also a laptop.

He sat down and offered her a chair as well. The girl—he put her in her twenties, maybe—had cotton-candy pink hair and a hoop in her nose. Her mascara had run, giving her raccoon circles under her eyes. She was wearing a pinny with buttons on it: THINK OUTSIDE MY BOX. MAY THE FETUS YOU SAVE TURN OUT TO BE A GAY ABORTION PROVIDER!

“You work at the Center?” he asked, reaching for a pad and a pen.

She nodded. “I’m a jack-of-all-trades. I do everything from escorting people in from the parking lot to admin to holding the hands of patients during procedures.”

“You were there when the shooter came in?”

Rachel nodded and started to cry.

Hugh leaned forward. “I know how hard this must be for you. But anything you can tell me is going to make the odds much greater that we can help your friends inside.”

She wiped her eyes with her wrist. “I came in late this morning because my car broke down. I had just arrived.”

“Can you describe in detail what you saw?”

“The waiting room was pretty empty,” Rachel said. “That meant the group info session was finished.”

“Group info?”

“We have to do one every day for the next day’s procedures. It’s the law,” she explained. “There were only a couple of patients left, I think.”

Was one a young girl? Hugh thought desperately. Or a woman with eyes the same color as mine? But the cop who had brought Rachel Greenbaum over was an arm’s length away. He could not risk him overhearing.

“Vonita was at the front desk.” Rachel looked up. “Vonita’s the owner of the clinic,” she said, and then she started to cry again. “She … she’s dead.”

“I’m so sorry,” Hugh said evenly, but his heart tripped. Wren had said that Bex had been shot. Was she dead, too?

“She was drinking a diet shake. She hates—hated—diet shakes. We were joking around and then the buzzer rang, and it was him.” Rachel glanced at Hugh. “We’re not like Planned Parenthood, with security guards and metal detectors. I guess we operate on hopes of southern gentility. We have protesters, but they keep to their side of the fence, and the Center door is always locked and there’s an intercom. If you don’t come in with a known escort, all you have to say is that you’re there for an appointment, or that you’re with someone who’s there for an appointment, and then whoever is at the desk will push a button and let you in.”

“Was it unusual to have a man show up?”

She shook her head. “We get boyfriends and husbands coming to pick up patients all the time.”

“Did he say he was there to pick up a patient?”

“No,” Rachel said quietly.

“What did he look like?”

“I don’t know. Ordinary. Shorter than you. Brown hair. Plaid shirt. A jacket.” She could have been describing half the citizens of Mississippi.

“What kind of gun was he carrying?”

“I-I didn’t see one.”

“Handgun, then,” Hugh said. “Not a rifle.”

Rachel wiped her eyes as another police officer approached. “Lieutenant? Dispatch came back with the plate registrations.”

His first order had been to run the plates of every car in the parking lot. There were only a dozen. Now Hugh shuffled through the driver’s license photos, subtracting out the women. “Any of these ring a bell?”

Rachel hesitated at the first one. “This is Dr. Ward,” she said. “He works for us.” Then she turned the page. “That’s him.”

“George Goddard,” Hugh read. “Excuse me a minute.” He picked up his phone and pushed a few buttons. “Dick? Yeah, I know. Listen, I have an active situation I’m working and the hostage taker’s got a car registered in Denmark. Can you do a drive-by?” He glanced down at the screen after he hung up. Wren had not texted again.

“Did he say anything?” Hugh asked.

“I was going to lock up my backpack in Vonita’s office,” Rachel said. “I heard him come in, and come up to the desk, and Vonita asked if she could help him. I expected him to say he was looking for his wife, or picking up his girlfriend or something. But he said, ‘What did you do to my baby?’ and he started shooting.”

“ ‘What did you do to my baby?’ ” Hugh repeated. “You’re sure?”