Hide (Detective Harriet Foster #1)(92)

“Red hair. Blue eyes.”

Amelia searched her canvas for those things and found them many times over. The phone rang. She let it. She couldn’t be disturbed now. Brush up.

“Birds fly, people die.”

Simple words. True words.





CHAPTER 68


Silva was in ICU hooked up to machines, barely there, after a touch-and-go surgery that might not stick. Foster and Li talked to Silva’s doctor, the attending on duty, who must have been up all night, like they had, but she exhibited no signs of fatigue. In her immaculately white lab coat, she ran through the damage that had been caused by the ferocious attack and how close Silva was to dying even now. Foster glanced down at the woman’s ID. Dr. Kiara Varadkar.

“Her age,” Dr. Varadkar began, “along with the severe injuries, combine to create a toxic brew, really. She’s stable now, but not stable enough that I’m comfortable talking about outcomes. She’s very lucky to have survived to this point. All we can do is monitor her and hope the internal bleeding does not restart. I’m simplifying things.”

Foster glanced toward Silva’s ICU bay, the curtains drawn. “Was she conscious when she was brought in? Did she say anything?”

“She was unconscious when she came into the ER. She was in and out on her way to surgery. She’s mostly out now, incomprehensible when she’s briefly in.”

“We need to talk to her,” Li said.

Varadkar shook her head. “Out of the question. I cannot allow that. She’s dancing on the head of a pin as it is . . . the stress alone could . . .”

“We think the person who attacked her also killed three women,” Foster said. “She might be able to give us a description. Five minutes.”

“I’m sorry,” Varadkar said, adamant. “My first responsibility is to my patient’s well-being.”

“Two then. In and out,” Li said, pleading.

“I know what you’re up against,” Varadkar said, “but she’s only hours out of surgery. She’s not strong enough for questioning. I just can’t do it.”

“When then?” Foster pressed. “If she dies while we’re waiting, we get nothing.”

Foster could tell Varadkar wasn’t unsympathetic, that she was weighing Silva’s prognosis. “Not for another few hours, at least. Maybe then if she’s stronger . . . if nothing else goes wrong . . .”

“Fine. I’ll wait.” Foster turned to Li. “I’ll hang out here until she comes around enough to talk.”

“While you’re doing that,” Li said, “I’ll go back and see what I can turn up. This couldn’t be some kind of copycat thing, could it? Or totally unrelated. Somebody from Westhaven? She’s got no friends there.”

It didn’t feel like a copycat to Foster. Something about Silva’s attack appeared desperate. “Maybe something else. She wasn’t butchered like the others. Whoever did this had other intentions.”

They both realized at the same moment that the doctor was still there.

“Did you say butchered?” Varadkar asked, her mouth hanging open.

Foster let her question sit. “Thank you, Dr. Varadkar. I’ll be in the waiting room. I’d appreciate your letting me know when I can get in to see her.”

Varadkar backed away from them. “Seriously? I wouldn’t take your jobs if it came with a golden goose.”

Foster took up residence in the ICU waiting room, a depressing place. It smelled of antiseptic and woe, the television bolted to the wall tuned to some idiotic morning show and a cooking segment on vegan lasagna. The volume was way too low to catch most of what was going on, but there was no way of turning it up, so Foster cooled her heels in one of the chairs and waited for Silva to rally, hoping she would, dreading how things would go otherwise.

She called Bigelow’s cell for a report on the scene. “What’s it looking like?” she asked when he answered.

“It’s looking like a hit gone hinky. The guy got her as she left the hospital. Dark stretch of road. A good distance from the main street. Trees all over the place that would have made it even darker last night. Plenty of places to ambush her, which he did. Her car’s got a flat. There’s a tire spike embedded in the front left one, and the techs found a couple more in the street. Hold on.” Foster heard muffled noises on Bigelow’s end. “Okay. I just sent you a photo of the car. Blood all over the driver’s seat. And the wig. The EMTs said it was on her head when they arrived. Someone put it there. The driver who found her came up close after it happened. He says he swears he saw two sets of taillights up ahead of him as he approached the main street. When he eased by, he saw that one of Silva’s tires was flat. He got out, looked in the driver’s window, and that’s when he saw her inside bleeding to death. How’s Silva?”

Foster peered over at the nurses’ station. The medical staff were hard at work. “Still breathing . . . but that’s about it.”

“Well, whatever this was, it wasn’t a robbery. Her bag’s still on the seat. Wallet intact. We’re not picking up any prints either. Lonergan’s stomping around here like he’s General Patton.”

A slight smile. “Good luck. There was no weapon found?” she asked.