Bones Never Lie (Temperance Brennan, #17)(94)

A domestic disturbance with an officer down. Shit. Now I’d never get him to help me look for Mary Louise.

“I will call you back.”

“I’ll look forward to that.” Zoeller disconnected.

I tried Barrow.

Salter.

Had the whole damn world gone AWOL?

As I barreled up Queens, my mind whirled in search of benign explanations for Mary Louise’s nonappearance. Found dozens. All bullshit.

I continued through to Providence, cut right onto Laurel, and shot across Randolph. At Vail, I sat paralyzed, palms damp on the wheel. Left or right? Where? Where would she go?

A horn brrped behind me.

Dick that he was, Zoeller was correct on one point. A false tip could divert critical resources and personnel up a blind alley.

The horn again. Longer. Less polite.

Decision.

I turned left, fired north, circled the block, then winged into the drive leading to the Mercy ER.

Four blue and whites sat under the portico, angled like guppies at feeding time. Something looked off. What? The careless parking? No. The cop shooting that Zoeller had mentioned. Of course they’d been abandoned in haste.

An ambulance sat with its back doors open. Two unmarked sedans. Vans from every TV station in town.

Officer down. Dead? The story would be on all channels at eleven, in all morning papers in skyscraper font. But before that, it would appear in cyberspace, attracting every assignment editor not yet clued in. The media would slather all night.

The CMPD would focus on avenging one of its own.

No one would give a rat’s ass about my “hunch.”

I looked around. Slidell’s Taurus was nowhere in sight.

I was on my own.

I slammed the gearshift into park and killed the engine. Sprinted up the walk and through the doors, pulse running faster than my feet.

I expected chaos. EMTs shouting vitals. Doctors bellowing orders. Nurses scurrying for equipment or meds.

Not so. The scene was tense but subdued.

The usual supplicants occupied waiting room chairs. The bleeders, the coughers, the junkies, the drunks.

Uniformed officers stood talking in clumps. Men in dark jackets and loosened ties who I assumed were detectives. I knew none.

A few eyes tracked me as I hurried to the front desk, worried, hard with anger. I spoke to no one. Didn’t interrupt their vigil.

When I posed my question, the woman looked up. Maybe surprised. Maybe annoyed. I couldn’t tell. She wore glasses that covered half her face. Her name tag said T. Santos.

Knowing I had no authority, I flashed my MCME security card. Fast.

Santos bounced a glance off the photo, my features. She was about to speak when a man shuffled over reeking of BO and booze.

“Mr. Harker, you will have to wait your turn.”

Harker coughed into a hankie that was stained and wet with phlegm.

Santos pointed Harker to the waiting room. Looked at me and jammed a thumb over her shoulder.

I hurried in the direction indicated, mind scrambling, eyes scanning. Hoping. Fearing. Could Mary Louise actually be here? Where Alice Hamilton claimed her prey? Outside in the backseat of a car? The trunk?

Please, God. No.

My flesh felt tight on my bones. On my lungs. I worked to keep my breathing even.

As out front, the treatment area was relatively calm. A patient sat in a wheelchair by a wall. A CNA went by with a cart, its rubber wheels humming on the tile. Somewhere out of sight, a phone rang.

Staff passed with X-rays, with trays of specimen tubes, with stethoscopes looped sideways around their necks. All in scrubs. All efficient. All indifferent to my presence.

The only crisis was occurring at a curtained cubicle, third in the right-hand row of curtained cubicles. A CMPD uniform stood guard outside. Sounds filtered through the white polyester: taut voices, the rattle of metal, the rhythmic beeping of a machine.

I felt sorrow for the person behind the partition. A man or woman gunned down while helping a distraught wife or girlfriend, maybe her kids. I said a silent prayer.

But I had to find Mary Louise’s abductor. Or determine that I was wrong.

Feeling like a trespasser, I began parting fabric, searching for a face.

Behind the first curtain lay a child in a Spider-Man suit, forehead stitched and smeared with blood. A woman with mascara-streaked cheeks held tight to his hand.

Behind the second, a bare-chested man breathed oxygen through a clear plastic mask.

When I neared the third cubicle, the guard raised a palm. Behind him, a hastily positioned cart created a wedge-shaped opening into the enclosure.

As I veered left to cross to the other row, I glanced through the wedge.

Saw equipment. Bloody clothing. Masked doctors and nurses.

The patient on his gurney, face gray, lids closed and translucently blue.

I froze in place.





CHAPTER 41


I STOOD PARALYZED. Staring at Beau Tinker.

The death-mask face. The blood-soaked shirt.

Suddenly, the cruisers made sense. Blue and whites, yes. But some SBI, not CMPD.

For a moment I saw only a terrible whiteness. In it, a name in bold black letters.

I’ll see that yank-off in hell before I bring him back in.

I took a step toward the guard. He spread his feet and shook his head. Stay back.

Beyond the parted curtain, the doctor’s head snapped up. Muffled words came through his mask. “Keep everyone away.”