Velocity (Karen Vail #3)(12)

“Okay,” Vail said. “Which room?”

Helen’s gaze flicked between Vail and Dixon, clearly confused—her reply should have been adequate to assuage their desires.

Vail, for one, knew her facial expression was not conveying an air of calm and acceptance.

“Three.” Helen’s eyes slid left.

Vail and Dixon thanked her, then moved toward the room. “Shouldn’t there be cops posted?”

Dixon rubbernecked her head. “There’s supposed to be someone. Don’t see him.”

“Only one?”

“I’m guessing they don’t expect a comatose patient to be much of a problem.”

“He’s huge and he’s killed a lot of people,” Vail said. “I think there should be a decent presence, don’t you?”

Dixon raised a shoulder. “Budget’s always an issue.” She stepped forward and grabbed the door handle. She slid the large panel to the side and they walked in. Lying on the bed to their left, hooked up to flexible tubes and lead wires, was John Mayfield.

Vail moved to his side and had to summon the will not to reach out and grab him by the gown and shake him, slam his psychopathic head against the bed frame. Demand to know what he did with Robby. If he did something to Robby.

Instead, Vail stood there staring at him. Finally Dixon said, “I don’t mean to be callous, but the nurse kind of had a point. What are we doing here?”

Vail pulled her gaze from Mayfield and looked at Dixon. “I don’t know, Roxx. I needed to see him, what kind of state he’s in.” She looked down at Mayfield again. “Do you know what I feel like doing?”

“Shooting his brains out?”

Vail hiked her brow. “That would work, too.” She leaned in close, put her face against Mayfield’s left ear. “Should I do that, Johnny boy? Should I take my Glock and put it in your mouth?”

“Karen—”

Vail was not deterred. “If you manage to survive, I’m going to enjoy watching you get the needle. I’ll be there in the death chamber, along with the families of all the people you’ve killed.”

Dixon sighed audibly, then put her hands on her hips and turned away.

Vail leaned back and studied his face. “So tell me, Johnny, will you be seeing your mother in hell when you get there?” There—what was that—did his face twitch? “Roxx, you see that?”

Dixon turned. “See what?”

Vail continued scrutinizing Mayfield’s expression. It was now blank. Had she really seen something? “Tell me, John. What did you do with Roberto Hernandez? Did you kill him?”

Nothing, not a shudder or a quiver.

Vail moved in closer. “Do you have him tied up somewhere?”

“Does he have who tied up?”

Dixon and Vail swung their heads toward the door. Standing there, an icy expression on his face, was a man dressed in a white lab coat, stethoscope draped around his neck.

“You are?” Vail asked.

The man stepped into the room. “I think the question is, who are you?”

“I asked you first,” Vail said, not yielding her ground.

The man stared at her. “Do I have to call security?”

Dixon held out her badge. “Investigator Dixon. This is Special Agent Vail. FBI.”

“I’m Mr. Mayfield’s surgeon. Dr. Koossey.”

“Well,” Vail said, “I guess that makes us related. We’re Mister Mayfield’s arresting officers.”

Koossey threw his chin back. “So you’re the ones who shot him.”

“I wish,” Vail said. Koossey didn’t like that answer. Tough shit, doc. You don’t know who your patient is.

He folded his arms across his chest. “Are you two about done here?”

Vail stepped closer to Koossey. With a smirk, she said, “Doctor, if I was done here, Mayfield would be flatlining.”

“Karen.” This from Dixon, whose face was a deep shade of red. Vail had to admit that was a stupid thing to say. One thing to think it. Another to speak it to the patient’s physician. Certainly not when she wanted answers. Her “pleasantness filter” was failing her. Lack of sleep, stress . . . she was pissed off and, frankly, she just didn’t give a shit.

“Sorry about that, Dr. Koossey. My partner’s sleep deprived, she’s not exactly exercising her best judgment at the moment.”

His eyes flicked down to her holster. “Yet she’s still carrying a loaded weapon. Very nice.”

This guy’s got a set of balls. Wonder if he’s from New York. “I think I’ve heard just enough out of you, doctor. But I’ll tell you how you can make yourself useful. How about telling us when Mister Mayfield here is going to be able to answer questions?”

Koossey snorted and tossed a look at Dixon, as if to say, “Is she for real?”

Dixon must’ve read the same thing from the man’s face, because she said, “Look, doctor. Your patient is an extremely dangerous serial killer. He’s murdered several innocent men and women. Including a couple local cops.” Dixon yanked down on the collar of her blouse and craned her neck back, exposing her throat. The remnant of Mayfield’s work was apparent in blood red, with emerging hints of eggplant-shaded hues. If it had been a sunset, it would’ve been memorable. It wasn’t a sunset, of course—but for Dixon, it would forever remain a memory. To Koossey, she said, “Mayfield tried to kill me.”