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.”

I felt a buzzing inside my skull. Placed a palm on the wall to steady myself.

Was that why Slidell wasn’t answering my calls? Where was he? What had he done?

Seconds ticked by.

A moth brushed my hair. Looped back.

I spun.

Ellis Yoder stood behind me. Doughy and freckled. Like some hideous apparition summoned by my fear.

Close. Too close.

I swatted Yoder’s hand from my shoulder.

“The gunshot patient in there.” Tipping my head toward Tinker. “What’s the story?”

“You work with that psycho detective.”

“What happened to that man?”

“Tell the jerk to lay off.”

“That patient is a field agent with the SBI. How was he shot?”

Yoder just stared.

A hundredth of a second slipped by. A tenth.

I grabbed Yoder’s arm, hard. “I know you’re a snoop.” Vise-gripping the flabby flesh. “What’s the word, gossip boy?”

“You people are all nuts.” Yoder tried to turn. I yanked him back.

“How. Was. He. Shot?” I hissed.

“You’re hurting me.”

“Call a nurse.” My fingers clamped tighter.

“All I heard is another cop did it.”

My mouth went dry. I swallowed.

Another tick of the clock.

Forget Slidell. Mary Louise needs you.

With my free hand, I yanked the picture of Tawny McGee from my pocket and held it up. “Point me to her.”

Yoder glanced at the image. “She’s not here.”

Dear God, I’m right.

“Santos at the front desk says otherwise.”

“Santos is clueless what goes on back here.”

“You’re sure?” Clutching the paper so hard it crumpled.

“I told you—” Whiny.

My nails dug deep into the mushy biceps.

“I’m sure.”

I could hear my breath in the quiet of the car. Blood pounding in my ears.

I sat a moment studying the scene. The algae-coated brick. The rusty fences and awnings. The stunted concrete slabs.

Nothing moved but the rain. Which was falling harder now, drumming a tattoo on the car hood and roof.

I got out and scurried under the towering trees. Pushed into the lobby.

Not a single magazine lay on the tile.

Ring her bell? A neighbor’s? Think!

No time.

I hurried outside and across the soggy lawn. Threw a leg over the railing and dropped onto the patio. Squatted and put my face to the milky glass.

Light seeped from a hallway running from the back of the apartment, feeble, barely penetrating the gloom. I could make out the silhouettes of a sofa, chair, and TV stenciled in the darkness cramming the room.

I reached up and tried the door. To my surprise, its latch disengaged, and it hopped a few inches across the track. The sound was like thunder cracking in the stillness. I froze.

Wheels whooshed wetly on the street at my back. A dog barked. Its owner whistled and the animal went quiet.

From the apartment’s interior, an ocean of silence.

Was Mary Louise in there? Was my quarry? Did her twisted ritual involve some prelude that was buying us time? How long would it last? Was the child already dead?