Cracked (15 page)

“If my brother Darren somehow talks to you privately,” I reminded her, “you can tell him what happened here. And tell him I’ll get in touch. But nobody else. Okay?” My foot hurt. I was wondering how I was going to pull this off.

I walked straight out the door, into fluorescent lights.

Nobody stopped me. Trying my hardest not to limp, I walked in the opposite direction of the nurse’s desk at my left. I had my purse swung over my left shoulder, but I doubted that my – or Ginger’s – wallet was in it anymore. That would have been too much to hope for.

I found my way to the lobby, saw a bank of payphones, and paused. I didn’t really have a plan, as such. Find Ginger’s killer? Check. Find my nephews? Yes, and quickly. How? Fucked if I knew. And in the meantime, I had to evade both the police – difficult, and my brother – next to impossible.

Nobody was looking at me, that I could tell, so I picked up a phone and rooted around in my bag for change. I dialed Fred and Ginger’s number. At the same time, I cursed Darren for not having a cell phone. What kind of self-respecting musician wanders the globe without a cell? My ancient one was one thing – I never went anywhere, and I had a landline, and at least I did own one. But in this day and age, for someone like Darren to not have one was more annoying than charmingly quirky.

Rosen answered. “Lindquist residence,” he intoned.

Take a break, Jeeves. “James,” I said. “It’s Danny.” I had no idea why I had decided to trust him. Lack of choice, I supposed.

I could hear a sharp intake of breath. “Are you all right?” he whispered into the phone.

“Peachy,” I answered. “Hospitalized. Being tended to.” I thought the FBI would be listening to every word. I had to be careful now. “Is my brother there?”

“Yes,” he answered. “Mr. Lindquist has been released from jail. Bail, they said,” Rosen continued. “And the detectives are in an uproar.”

“Why?”

“Because he never arrived here from prison. He’s gone. Missing.”

“Oh, Christ,” I said.

“I’ll tell Darren that you telephoned. Perhaps you could try again in a little while.” And he put down the phone.

What the hell was that all about?

* * *

I went into the public washroom near the entrance of the hospital and locked myself into a cubicle to regroup. I pulled the Hello Kitty scrub pants down and peed while I thought. Multi-tasking. Grabbing my purse, I rooted through loose Kleenex and change, an eyeliner and a tube of lipstick, until I hit pay dirt.

The plastic wallet was gone. The police must have taken it as evidence, at some point. I was beyond relieved that I had transferred the cash to my own wallet, and it seemed to be all there. I counted. Five hundred and forty dollars left. After spending two hundred on the faux-crack yesterday, a bunch of rounds of drinks and seventy for motel hell.

I opened the Altoids tin where I carried my stash, and held my breath. I always kept a bunch of real Altoids in it, on top, in case anyone checked it. And because I like to have fresh breath. I should have just over a gram of coke, and most of an eightball of good old ketamine-free Toronto crack tucked away underneath.

It was there. And without further ado, I used a useless Visa card to quickly and quietly scoop out some of the coke from the wrap of paper and snort it. Better than Tylenol any day of the week, and it would help me get clear.

I would have to be careful with the rest of the money. Five hundred and forty dollars doesn’t go all that far for an addict on a mission. Though I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be risking any street-bought crack anytime soon. Being drugged with horse tranquilizer and then adrenaline and amphetamines will sometimes do that to a girl, I guess. Take away that old adventurous spirit with regard to buying street drugs from strangers. I knew I would start craving it again by tomorrow, though, but tomorrow was a whole day away. I had enough of my own crack to get me through the next couple of days, if I didn’t binge.

Besides, the way things had unfolded so far, I was far from sure I would still be alive then.

Exiting the stall, I went to the mirror and assessed the appearance. Could I be taken for a nurse finishing her shift? I was pretty pale, but what else was new. My hair, however, was in dire need of a wash – I had shampooed it the morning before, but a lot had happened between then and now, including throwing up twice and of course, being knocked on the head. They had cleaned me up at the hospital, but had neglected the hair. I wet it down as much as I could, sticking my head under the tap for a few seconds. I hoped nobody would come in. I slicked it back and noticed that the blonde roots were starting to show through.

That’s when Detective French walked into the bathroom.

She looked as surprised to see me as I was her. Before she could react further, and without thinking, I crossed the three or four steps between us and punched her in the chin. As hard as I could. Which had the desired effect of her slumping straight to the ground. She hit her head pretty hard against the bathroom wall before she did.

Despite what you see on TV, most people will go down with one punch, especially if they’re not expecting it. It was something I’d learned from Jack, who had been a bare-knuckle boxer in his youth, before becoming respectable and getting his Ph.D. I checked to make sure French was breathing, and then decided it would be a good idea to amscray, and quick.

Assaulting a police officer. Good one. I was pretty sure I might be in a bit of trouble before this was all over. With French’s temperament, she’d probably try to pin attempted murder on me. I could just hear Darren’s eyes roll. But it didn’t matter. None of that mattered. What happened to me after I found the boys and killed whoever had them, whoever killed Ginger? I couldn’t care less.

I opened the door and sauntered out. Be cool, I told myself. I didn’t look around for Miller. He might not notice me in this uniform, if he was milling around out here somewhere. An old lady in a wheelchair sat near the entrance.

“Let me help you, dear,” I said, and wheeled her through the doors. A nurse escorting a patient outside. What could look more natural?

Luckily, the woman didn’t protest. I realized that she must have had senile dementia or something. She just turned around and smiled at me, and her smile broke my heart.

“Hi,” I said, when we were outside. “My name is Wanda.” I looked down and noticed Wanda had actually pinned her nametag to the Hello Kitty scrubs. I looked for a cab stand. It was a different entrance than I had come out of yesterday.

“Hello,” she said. She stuck out her hand. “I’m Doris.”

“Nice to meet you, Doris,” I said, shaking her hand. “Are you on your way home?” Now that I had her out here, I didn’t know what to do with her. I glanced back inside to see if any irate relatives were rushing after her, but all I could see was my own reflection in the glass.

“I don’t know,” she said simply.

I had to get out of here. I saw a cab. Again, with the taxi luck.

“Doris,” I said, rooting around in my purse. “I’m sorry I brought you outside. I thought your ride was here. This is for your trouble.” I shoved a twenty into the old woman’s hand and turned to go.

“Bye, Wanda!” Doris called after me. “Don’t take any wooden nickels!” I turned around and waved back at her. She was waving her twenty in the air. Dear God, I found myself praying, take care of this lady.

As I was climbing into the back of the cab, a police car approached the hospital entrance, sirens blazing.

“Hi,” I said to the driver. “Fashion Island, please. Macy’s entrance.” I had been to Fashion Island with Ginger every time I’d come down here. I knew it couldn’t be too far from here – I was pretty sure it was somewhere in Newport. It was a huge, fancy-schmancy shopping centre, if you like that sort of thing. Which Ginger had at least tried to, that kind of thing being expected of her down here. Very expensive, very Orange County. I would have been just as happy for a K-Mart, but if I was a nurse living here, I couldn’t exactly ask a cab driver to take me to the nearest K-Mart, without knowing where one was. It might stick in his head. So, Fashion Island it would have to be. And I could be lost in there for a while, and get myself some real clothes. I have never been known for my shopping prowess, so I was pretty sure it was the last place anyone would think to look for me.

“Thanking you,” the Sikh driver said, and pulled away. And I was thanking God that English wasn’t his first language. He wasn’t going to try with the small talk.

Twenty-five dollars later, we were there. It could have been worse. This time, I handed the driver forty and asked for ten back. I couldn’t afford to keep handing out twenties like they were candy on Halloween.

In Macy’s, I wandered around, feeling safe for the first time in a couple of days. I looked at clothes, trying to decide what look I wanted to present today. Slutty? Or like a buttoned-down business chick? I settled on casual. Big surprise. I bought a pair of skinny jeans and a nice black t-shirt. Ginger’s sandals were going to stay. I took some time trying on bras, because despite all the weight loss, I still had breasts, and I didn’t like them moving around so freely. Sends the wrong message to the male of the species. I didn’t want any undue attention.

I took the clothes to a cashier, and fished money out of my wallet.

“Your poor hand,” the woman said. I looked at it. My right hand was swollen, the knuckles looking like raw meat. As soon as I looked at it, it started to hurt. Of course.

“Long day in the E.R.,” I said, smiling at her.

“Must’ve been a very long day,” the cashier said, handing me my change.

“You don’t know the half of it,” I replied, ruefully, as though I had been treating gunshot gangbangers all night and had had to subdue them by force.

“Have a good day, Wanda,” she said as I walked away. My heart stopped for a second, until I remembered the nametag.

“I’ll try,” I said.

* * *

I changed clothes in yet another public restroom, hoping I wouldn’t have to punch anyone else out today. Though I didn’t like her, I hoped Detective French was okay. She was probably only out for a few minutes, unless hitting the wall had done some damage. Highly unlikely. Her head seemed way too hard for that.

With new clothes, a touch of makeup and my hair still slicked back, I didn’t look half bad. But then again, my standards aren’t tremendously high. I did a quick, energizing bump of coke in a stall when the ladies’ room cleared out, and walked back into the mall.

Wealthy young matrons in expensive yoga gear and six-carat diamond rings walked around with shopping bags, looking as serious as though this was a board meeting at Exxon. For them, shopping wasn’t just a pastime, it was a serious necessity, up there with two or three hours of exercise a day and a good plastic surgeon. Another world. I might as well have been in Bali, or Greenland, so far was this from my existence. But this was Ginger’s world.

Or it had been. Until she had turned into me.

I saw a clock near a huge fountain. It was almost noon. I looked for payphones, but in this land of five-year-olds with iPhones, it took a long time to find one. I went into an upscale chain restaurant and ordered a Caesar salad and a glass of white wine. The phone was just outside, but I needed a little something to fortify myself before I made the necessary phone calls. And I needed change.

Two glasses of wine later, I called the house again. Darren answered.

“Thank God,” he said, whispering. “I was just about to call the hospital to fill you in. Have you heard what’s going on here?”

“Frankly, no,” I answered. I didn’t bring him up to date on my daring hospital escape yet, and I didn’t bother mentioning talking to Rosen.

“Fred’s gone,” Darren continued. He sighed into the phone. I could hear Marta crying in the background. I wondered what she was cleaning. “He was being driven back here by Chandler York, you know, his lawyer?”

I knew.

“The police were here waiting for them, you know, to put on the monitoring bracelet around his ankle. But apparently they pulled into a gas station on the way back from the jail, and somehow Fred got Chandler’s gun and forced Chandler to get out of the car when they stopped for gas.”

“Fred?” I said. “Lindquist?” I could hear my voice raise an octave. Fred was about a foot shorter than Chandler York, and in no kind of physical shape. But then again, a gun changes the playing field pretty dramatically.

“Fucking place,” Darren was saying. “Everybody carries guns around.”

“He’s a criminal defence attorney,” I said. I felt sorry for Chandler; I had kind of liked him. “Can you blame him?”

“Anyway, he took off in Chandler’s car,” Darren continued, ignoring me. “They already found it a couple of miles away in a Target parking lot.”

“Fuck off, Darren,” I said. “No way.”

“Way,” Darren said. “And they shut the shopping plaza down, the whole nine. They think Fred was picked up there by somebody. I hate to say it, but it looks like Fred was behind all this after all.”

“He was in jail when I got hit on the head.”

“Well they know somebody else is in on all this. I mean, the woman who took the boys, right? And you know. The drug thing yesterday. That guy…”

“Dom,” I said. “His name was Dominic.” A tear leaked onto my face, and I brushed it away. “What about the boys?”

“Nothing. There’s nothing on that yet. They don’t know who the woman is,” he said. “The license plate from the car that she took the boys away in was a dead end.”

“Maybe Fred has them,” I said. “Maybe he ran away to be safe, and took the boys with him somehow. Maybe there’s a big—”

“Danny. Fred killed Ginger.”

I was silent, thinking hard. It was too much. Not Fred. “Who’s there at the house?”

“Just James and Marta,” Darren answered. “Along with about ten cops.”

“Miller and French?” I ventured.

“Nope,” Darren answered. “No sign of them yet.” Thank God. So far Darren, at least, didn’t know that I’d slugged a cop. Or, for that matter, had sex with one in my hospital bed. “Listen. Are they letting you out now?”

I took a deep breath. “They already did. In a manner of speaking,” I said slowly.