The Vanishing Season (The Collector #4)(94)

I glance over at Kearney, who’s leaning against the door to watch. Beneath the professional mask, she looks a little sad and a lot frustrated. Halloran looks a little sick, to be honest, but the doctor seems unsurprised.

“Tell me about your daughter, Mr. Davies.”

His whole face softens with his misty smile. “Lisa. She’s nine, you know, and so smart. So very smart. She loves math.”

“You said she’s sick?”

“Leukemia,” he says with a nod. “The doctors . . . they’re not sure . . .”

“They’re not sure if it’s helping?”

He shakes his head. “We had to move her bedroom down to the basement when she’s not in the hospital. It’s quieter there. Helps her rest. She’s fighting, though. My little girl’s a fighter.”

I pull my tablet from the back of my waistband, flipping it open and around so he can see the picture. “Mr. Davies, do you recognize this girl?”

“What kind of sick joke is this?” he demands. Pink and red splotches mottle their way across his cheeks and nose. “That’s my Lisa!”

I swipe Brooklyn’s photo away for Kendall’s. “How about this one?”

“Why do you have pictures of Lisa? Is she okay? Is she safe? Answer me!” The cuff on the guardrail rattles with his movement.

“Mr. Davies, neither of these girls is Lisa. The first is named Brooklyn Mercer. We found her in your basement.”

“I just told you, Lisa is in the basement. It’s her bedroom, to help her rest.”

“This girl is named Kendall Braun.”

He sinks back into the pair of flat pillows. “I don’t know that name. But she looks so much like my little girl.”

“We found her body in your backyard.”

“What?” He looks genuinely shocked. “Oh, God, what happened to her? Are Lisa and Laura all right? Lisa . . . if they’re searching the yard, they can’t come into the house. Lisa’s too sick; she catches almost anything. You’ll tell them to be careful, won’t you? Tell them they can’t come into the house.”

“Mr. Davies, this is the year 2018. Lisa isn’t nine years old anymore. She isn’t sick anymore.”

“I don’t know what you think you’re pulling, but I demand to see my family. Let me see them. Let me—” He drags at the cuff, yanking so hard that it digs into his wrist. “Why is this here? What kind of hospital is this?”

“Mr. Davies—”

“This isn’t funny in the slightest, young lady. Help!” he yells. “I need a doctor! I’m being held against my will!”

I back away from the bed and circle around to the door, to Halloran and Kearney. The doctor is already at Davies’s side, trying to calm him. Davies gets increasingly agitated, pulling at the cuff and chain, trying to slide out of the bed. With a sigh, the doctor pulls a capped syringe out of his coat pocket.

“Try to relax, Mr. Davies,” he says in a soothing, unexpectedly deep voice. He flicks off the cap and inserts the needle into a port on the IV tubing, compressing the plunger. “Take a deep breath.”

After a few minutes of struggling, Davies slumps back into the bed, eyes glassy in his flushed face. The doctor remains by his side, one hand on his patient’s shoulder, the other at his wrist, as he watches the monitor. We wait in silence, and in less than ten minutes, Davies is asleep, his heart rate mostly back to resting. When the doctor motions us out, we obey. “Thank you for not pushing past that point,” he says in the hallway.

Halloran shakes her head. “Not an ounce of recognition. I’ve been in with him all day, even rode down from Richmond with him, and not a glimmer to suggest he’s seen me before.”

“When are they starting his battery?” asks Kearney.

“They’ll do a few tests this afternoon,” the doctor answers, “but most of them will be kept for next week. Psych prefers not to start them on weekends simply because of the amount of time involved. They’re harder to do with a smaller staff.”

Knowing precisely fuck-all about the process, I’m not going to try to argue. “How bad is his heart?”

“Without this kind of upset, not too terrible, honestly,” he admits, hooking his ankle around a portable charging station to drag it over. “He should probably be on beta blockers to help with intermittent arrhythmias, but it’s not the end of the world that his primary care hasn’t recommended it.”

“But the stress goes right to his heart.”

“Yes. So the more agitation he suffers, the more likely it is to lead to cardiac arrest.”

Kearney looks up from her phone. “Watts says not to hang out and try again later. We can honestly say that we tried but he’s in no condition. With the exams scheduled, it should build a bit of a shield around him.”

“How long will you have agents guarding him?” asks Halloran.

“As long as he’s in the hospital,” I reply. “Standard procedure, if anyone asks about that. Not that he’s much of a flight risk or danger, but it keeps him in place and also protects him from anyone who’s curious or pissed off. Doctor, do you have a set rotation for which medical personnel are allowed to enter his room?”

He bobs his head, looking a bit like a heron. “In addition to myself and the other doctors, he’s assigned to the care of the charge nurse on each shift. They’ll draw the labs and deliver his meals, as well, to limit the number of people in and out.”