Cache a Predator (17 page)

Maybe he could have prevented it if he’d taken her keys away. Had she been under the influence of drugs or alcohol?

He hurried inside. Nurse Becky greeted him at the receptionist’s desk, knowing him well from his frequent cop visits with drunk drivers. But tonight, Nurse Becky looked at him twice before she seemed to recognize him, probably because she’d rarely seen him out of uniform. “Oh, Brett. Come on back.”

She led him through double doors and into another area lit with florescent lights and enclosed in curtains. He expected the room to smell like a usual sterile hospital room, but instead, he smelled … nothing. It was as if there was an air purifier in the room that eliminated all smells. Or was it because there wasn’t much life left in Ali?

Beeping sounds echoed off the walls. A swooshing sound like air being pumped in and out of a machine joined in the noise. Men and women in blue scrubs surrounded Ali. One woman wrote something on a chart. At first, all Brett could see was the color of Ali’s spiky bleached hair. IV tubes, breathing tubes, and oxygen nasal tubes protruded from her body. Even on her worst drinking days Ali hadn’t looked this bad.

The room spun. Nurse Becky, who’d followed him into the room, pulled up a chair next to Ali and motioned for him to sit.

He shook his head, standing to the side. “I’ll be okay. Do you know what happened?”

The nurse said, “We were told she ran a stop sign and hit the driver’s side of another car.”

Brett cringed. “Was anyone else injured besides the lady who died?”

“Not that we know of.” She patted his shoulder before she quietly left the room.

Brett stared at Ali’s face, trying to find some resemblance. Had there been a mistake? This wasn’t Ali. Her face was as round as a blowfish, but as pale as his cotton T-shirt. He took a deep breath and moved closer, recognizing the birthmark on her small hand resting on the bed. Yes, this was Ali.

A man in blue scrubs, with a head of graying hair and a bulbous nose, approached Brett. “I’m Dr. Nesbitt, the neurosurgeon.” He extended his hand.

Brett shook it. “Brett Reed. How is she?”

The surgeon, in a somber voice, said, “She’s lost a lot of blood from a cut on her neck here.” He pointed to a large bandage that ran from just under her left jaw. “She wasn’t wearing a seat belt, so there was trauma to her brain from the impact, and she can’t breathe on her own.”

Brett nodded, noticing the bandages along her neck.

The doctor continued in his medically grave tone. “The tube coming out of here is to drain the fluid.” He pointed to a tube running from behind her head. “See this meter here? This checks the pressure. We have to monitor it. If it gets below this mark here—well, let’s just say that we don’t want that to happen.”

Brett whispered, “What are her chances of living through this?”

The doctor looked away and then back to Brett. “The next twenty-four hours will tell.”

Brett held the doctor’s eyes. “If she lives, what kind of life … I mean, will she have brain damage?”

The doctor shrugged. “We never know. Every person is different, and sometimes miracles happen. Hope is your friend. Hope and prayer. But the longer she stays in this coma, the stronger her chances are of being severely disabled, if she lives.”

“Was alcohol in her system?”

The doctor hesitated, not meeting Brett’s eyes. Was he holding something back? “We haven’t gotten the toxicology reports back yet.” The doctor took her chart and wrote something on it, and started to walk out of the room but turned to Brett and squeezed his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’m sure this is difficult. I’ll let you know if there are any changes, but for now she’s stable. I’ll be back after I make my rounds.”

The doctor left the room, and one at a time the nurses did too. The machines continued to beep and swish, and occasionally the blood pressure machine would click, pumping air into the cuff.

He reached for her hand, amid tubes protruding and crisscrossing around her. Her hand was warm but limp, and her fingers felt like sticks—thick and lifeless. Red gashes and scrapes covered her arms and face.

The sounds of the machines echoed off the walls, keeping the rhythm of an artificial heartbeat, breathing for her.

Brett released her hand and moved to check the dial on the tube at the back of her head. The long lever seemed to pulse and hover right around the danger zone.

What could he say to her? If he had one wish, would it be for her to return to her life as it had been before the accident? If that miracle happened, she’d have to face prison for killing someone. Would he stand by her side? What kind of life would she have behind bars?

There was no going back for Ali. For any of them. She had had time to change before the accident and chose not to. If she came back to her life now, would she seek help? He doubted it.

Thank God Quinn hadn’t been in the car with her or she’d be dead now. Dizziness circled him. He inhaled sharply. What was he going to tell Quinn? Poor Quinn.

Ali’s fingers twitched. His heartbeat quickened. He leaned toward her. “Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.”

He waited. Nothing. Had it been his imagination? He watched her eyes. Nothing. Not even a flutter.

He squeezed the tears shut in his eyes and lifted Ali’s hand, kissed it, and left the room.

On his way to the waiting room, Brett passed a young man sitting in the corner who had bandages on his head and his arm. His elbows rested on his thighs as he sobbed into his hands. Dr. Nesbitt stood over the young man with his hand on the man’s shoulder. Between muffled sobs, the young man said, “Why did this have to happen? We were getting married next month. My whole future is gone. Just like that.” He snapped his fingers and glared at the doctor as if waiting for answers.

The words cut into Brett, making the hair on his arms stand up. He took a seat across the room, but he was still close enough to hear what was said next.

The man’s face reddened. “Was she drunk? If so, I’ll sue her. I swear I’ll sue her and her entire family.” His face wrinkled in a tortured expression.

Brett looked away. He was sure Ali had killed the man’s fiancé. Tears filled his eyes, blurring his vision. The room spun. He needed air, fresh air. Air that would give him hope in a life that didn’t have meaning. Wandering down the tiled corridor, he saw a sign for a chapel. He went inside and sat in a pew. A wooden cross hung on the wall behind a white altar. One elderly lady, bent over and hunchbacked, exited the room in short, shuffling steps, wiping her eyes with a tissue.

He sat alone in the dark, empty chapel for a long time. It had been a long time since he’d stepped into a church. The evening’s darkness engulfed the room and his mood. There was no reason for him to stay at the hospital with Ali. He couldn’t do anything to help her. All he could do was pray, and he wasn’t very good at that either.

He went to the front of the chapel, closer to the altar and the wooden cross. He sat on the wooden pew, leaned forward, and clasped his hands together. Now what?

Footsteps fell on the tiled floor. Brett turned to see Clay tuck in and kneel beside him. Clay placed his hand on Brett’s shoulder and squeezed. “I’m sorry, man. Do you want me to pray with you?”

Brett nodded and watched as Clay’s eyes closed and he bowed his head. Brett dropped his head too.

Clay said, “Oh, heavenly Father, bless this man and his family. Help him to see your plans for him. Let him feel your powerful love. Remind him that in times of turmoil he can turn to you for guidance and approval. Protect Ali and Quinn, and keep them safe until they are with you in eternal peace. Amen.”

Brett turned to Clay. “Thanks, bro.”

Clay leaned into Brett, wrapping his large arms around him for a brief man-hug, patting his back. “No problem. I’m sorry you’re going through this.”

“Yeah, me too. This sucks.” Brett ran his fingers through his hair. “I need to get the evidence to you. It’s out in the cruiser.”

“No need. I found it.”

“You found it?”

“Yeah, you left the car running outside the ER, so I took the backpack and parked the car.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out the keys, and handed them to Brett.

Brett hit his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Thanks. I guess I was in a hurry.”

Clay stood to go. “Come on, let me buy you dinner. You gotta eat.”

#

I sat in the dark, hiding in the row of pine trees along the side of pervert Moore’s house. As soon as his lights went out, I’d proceed. There wasn’t much time though. Mrs. Stookey dropped the girls off a half hour ago. She was crazy for leaving them with the creep. I’d watched from across the street.

Pine needles stabbed at my thighs, making me a little more crotchety than usual. It was a good thing I packed a Snickers bar. I opened my backpack and pushed the other stuff aside until I found it, unwrapped it, and took a bite. Maybe now I could stay awake long enough.

A car’s lights flashed up the road and headed down the street. The fat lady next door stood on her porch waiting for her poodle to potty. She called to him, “Hurry up, Biscuit. Mommy wants to go to bed.”

The car continued past the house, so I scooted a little deeper into the trees. It passed, and the yard returned to darkness. But not before Biscuit saw me. He growled. I froze. He barked louder and louder as he approached. When he was a few feet away, the lady came running over. I held my breath.

“Biscuit. Get over here,” she whispered, and grabbed him in her arms and waddled home. She hadn’t seen me. She shuffled into her house and turned off her porch light.

Darkness filled the yard again. All I had to do was wait a little longer. I took out my iPad and played a few games of Angry Birds. I wanted to kill the pigs for taking the eggs.

Then, I woke with a jerk, forgetting for a second I was waiting for Moore to go to bed. My iPad was still in my lap. It must have shut off after I’d fallen asleep. Darn! I’d have to wait to see my scores later. I shoved the iPad in my backpack and took out the flesh-colored nylon, pulling it over my face and adjusting it around my nose. After throwing my backpack over my shoulder, I proceeded to the side door of the house.

Quit humming. Deep breath.
Do it, do it, do it. Not scared now. Not scared. I’ll show him. I’m brave now.

I turned the knob of the side door that led into the house. Unlocked.
Score!
I tiptoed into the kitchen. Brownies.

No, I can’t eat them now.

Someone snored. I lifted the backpack onto the kitchen table and gathered the rag, the syringe, and the tourniquet. I hummed softly. After pulling on my gloves, I applied the liquid to the cloth and gathered the syringe and the rubber band.

Do the deed, do it
. I followed the snoring noise down a hallway and peeked into the room. The pervert’s dark hair showed against the white pillow. The bedsheets lay in a crumpled mess around him, reminding me of Mama’s bed. And then the lies. I wadded my fists.

I entered the room. Shut the door. Lock it. Go to the pervert. Cover his face with the rag. Hold it down. Wait. A little longer. He’s done kicking. Get out the syringe. Poke him. Only a little. Doc Spear uses this all the time. It won’t kill. It’s okay, it’s okay. Get out the rubber band. Wrap it tight, knot it. Pull it tighter.
I know how to make a double knot
. Open the bag. Get the scalpel. Slice, slice. Red blood, go away. Damn blood.

A whimper. From under the bed. Who’s there? “Don’t cry; don’t listen to the lies. Shut your ears. I’ll save you this time. Daddy can’t hurt you now. I promise.” Let me stop the blood first. Wrap the piece in the plastic. Put everything away, wipe it on the towel. Tuck it in the backpack.

“I’m coming. I’m a big boy now. I’ll save you. I see you under the bed. Scoot to me. I’ll help you.” It’s the little girl with the dark curly hair. “Come to me, come to me.” Aw, she’s crying. Poor baby girl. So sorry. “Mommy is looking. Smile. Don’t be scared. I’m not scared. I’m a big boy. Come to me. It’s all better now. Daddy’s gone.”

Chapter Seventeen

Brett and Clay turned to leave the chapel but stopped short when a small voice called out from the back of the church. “Are you happy now?” Ali’s mother, Mrs. Mable Greer, stood in the doorway, glaring at Brett.

Give me a break, crazy woman. What was she talking about? His temper soared at the sight of her—big dirty T-shirt, polyester pants spread too thin across her dimpled pear-like bottom, and curlers dangling from her thinning hair.

Despite her short frame, Mable’s love for control could dominate the largest room. Her presence suffocated him. She loved making him feel inferior, questioning his motives, telling him how worthless he was. But what was she saying now? No, he wasn’t happy. Especially seeing her. She was the last person he wanted to talk to.

She shuffled double-time up to the front of the church, tears streaming down her face, her nose bulbous and red. Her voice sounded higher pitched than usual, as if she was on the verge of hysteria. “Ali could die! This is all your fault. She’s really out of your life now, isn’t she?”

Brett kept his voice low. “What are you talking about? I didn’t do this to her. I never wanted her out of my life this way.”

She slammed her fist into his chest. “This never would have happened if you hadn’t divorced her. She’d still be at home, safe.”

Brett crossed his arms over his chest. “Are you insane? Ali’s self-destruction started way before I divorced her.” Brett started to turn away, but stopped, years of pent-up anger spilling over. “I gave Ali every chance to get it together. Did she tell you that she’s the reason Quinn is in foster care right now?”

Mrs. Greer’s mouth dropped open.

Brett had turned to go, Clay at his side, but stopped and turned to the lady. “Yeah, that’s right. CPS took her away because Quinn was found wandering the streets in her pajamas a block from home. Guess where Ali was? At home hungover, asleep on the sofa.”

The old lady put her hand across her heart melodramatically and reached for a pew. She sat down, fanning herself.

“She didn’t tell you that, did she?” Brett asked.