The Unlucky (14 page)

A recording answered right away. He waited as he went through the prompts, sweat forming on his brow with each long second.

“Turn the car around,” he yelled at the driver. “Take me to Princess Margaret Hospital. Now!”

An operator answered the phone.

“Put me through to security, please. I need to speak to the head of security.”

“Let me see,” the operator said. “That would be—”

“I don’t care who it is,” he shouted. “This is an emergency. I have evidence of a credible threat to one of the patients.” His swollen lip ached as he forced his mouth open to bellow. “Just put me through to security.”

The operator didn’t respond. There was a click, elevator music, then another click.

“Security here.”

“My name is Fletcher Aldrich. I’m a Toronto councilman.”

“How can I help you tonight, sir?”

“My father is a patient at your hospital.”

“Would you like me to put you through to the front desk so they can help you?”

“No. I do not. Someone is on their way to harm my father.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Please explain. How did you come by this information?”

Fletcher understood the process. Even after explaining everything to this rent-a-cop, he would sluggishly go to the fourth floor and check on Fletcher’s dad. When he found nothing untoward, he would return his oversized paunch to the chair he currently sat in. Sarah was smarter than any of these people. She didn’t give Fletcher this note without the foreknowledge that he would call it in. Sarah was prepared. She would be anticipating security, even the police. By now, his father was probably already dead because he took too long to read the fucking note.

Sorry, dad …

“Sir?”

“I have information.” Fletcher licked his dry lips. “Of a credible bomb threat. Evacuate the hospital now.”

“Excuse me, sir? A bomb threat. Is this a drill?”

“This is not a drill. Empty the hospital as fast as possible. Secure the patients. The bomb is real. Do it now. I’m on my way.”

Fletcher hung up as his driver wended his way back onto the Don Valley Parkway heading south toward the core of Toronto.

“Princess Margaret Hospital,” Fletcher yelled again. “And hurry.”

He forgot all about calling the rest of the board members.

Chapter 16

The phone woke Tim from a deep, dream-filled sleep. In it he was screaming at Vanessa, angry that she wasn’t coming home. He had wanted to ask what her mother would think, but thought that inappropriate as her mother had been dead a long time now.

He rolled in bed, wiped his eyes, distantly wondered what time it was, and reached for the phone.

“Yes,” he said, his voice clogged with sleep.

“Get up. Get dressed.”

“Diner?”

“We found your gun.”

His eyes popped open and he sat upright. “Where?”

“At the feet of the man who was killed with it.”

Lead filled his gut as he dropped back to the pillow, his free forearm came up and rested across his forehead.

“Who?” he asked.

“A man named Joel Aldrich. You might know the last name. Brother to Fletcher Aldrich. Your gun was used to kill Joel’s woman, too.”

“Oh no …”

“Don’t worry. Sarah did the world a favor. If I discovered what was in this house, I probably would’ve shot them as well, and that’s saying a lot coming from me.”

“What? That is saying a lot.” His sluggish mind was slow putting his thoughts in order. “Wait, what was in the house?”

“Too horrible to describe. One hitchhiker got away clean, thanks to Sarah. Four others, two dead, two alive but in need of mental therapy and physio.”

“What?”

“Exactly. Get up. Come to Orillia. Call me when you’re on the highway. I’ll text the address. You can GPS it.”

“Okay. What time is it?”

“Nighttime. Hurry.”

Tim dropped the phone to his side.

“What have you gone and done, Sarah?” he asked the empty room. “Better yet, what are you doing?”

Tim swiveled in bed and brought his legs over the edge. He rested his elbows on his thighs and ran his unbroken hand through his hair. Yesterday had taken its toll on him. He’d gotten home and fell right to sleep. The bedside clock said it was almost ten at night.

Orillia? What the fuck was in Orillia?

He got up, urinated and got dressed without too much trouble, already used to getting his clothes on with a wounded hand.

His phone rang again.

“Coming. Fuck.”

He grabbed it on the fifth ring.

“Yeah?”

“Detective Simmons.”

Councilor Marshall Machiavelli again.

“I don’t have time for one of our philosophical talks, Marshall. I’m in a hurry.”

“Make time.”

“Excuse me,” Tim said harshly. “The last I checked, you’re not my boss.”

“True. But you’re involved with The Club. I’m aware of the texts you receive each month and what name you supply them. I also know who pays you and how much you get for each text. Do we have an understanding?”

Tim moved to the window and looked down at the parking lot of his apartment building. It still took some getting used to not having Vanessa’s music blaring in the other room or a couple of her friends over for a slumber party. The quiet of the apartment made him sad, lonely.

For now, he would listen. He would do his job. And when the ax came down, he would make sure to be the one holding it. In addition, he would be more diligent in watching his back. There was no partner assigned to him and he liked it that way. He was on his own, and on his own, he would hurt them. The fact that Marshall was calling him meant he had blood on his hands. Marshall was worried about something.

“I’m listening,” Tim said.

“Sarah Roberts is in Toronto.”

“You must have the wrong information.”

“Excuse me?”

“There has been a shooting near Orillia—”

“I’m aware of that. After she killed Joel and Belinda, she made it back to Toronto and attacked one of my colleagues, Fletcher Aldrich.”

“You know a lot for a councilor. Tell me, who’s on your payroll?”

“You’re not listening.” Marshall’s voice took on a curt tone.

“I’m listening and I heard you tell me about Joel and Fletcher. Don’t you find it interesting that Sarah targeted this family?”

“There is no need to make connections. I’m passing information along. Sarah is downtown. Where are you? What are you doing about Sarah? Why isn’t she in custody?”

Where am I? Why is he asking that?

“Working on it,” Tim said, trying hard to keep his voice even and steady. He had to figure out what was happening before it caught up with him.

“Work harder,” Marshall said, his voice a gravelly snarl.

The line clicked off.

“Fuck you,” Tim said to the phone.

It rang in his hand.

“Holy shit. What now?” He lifted it to his ear. “What?” he almost shouted.

“Sorry to bother you.” It was Niles Mason. “We just got a call. There’s been a bomb threat at Princess Margaret Hospital.”

“Why call me about that? Call the bomb squad.”

“Hospital security called it in and are evacuating now.”

“So? And why aren’t you in Orillia with Diner?”

“Marina drove up while I stayed behind to finish some paperwork. I’m calling you because Fletcher Aldrich phoned a friend on the force who then contacted me.”

“Contacted you for what?” Drawing anything out of Mason was maddening. “Why call you?”

“Fletcher was passed a note from Sarah when she attacked him in front of city hall.”

He wanted to ask what the note said, but instead of losing his cool, he took deep, calming breaths.

Mason continued, “The note told him that Joel was gone and the next one to go was Fletcher’s father.”

“Okay, find the father, find Sarah. Sounds simple.”

“The father is dying of cancer at the Princess Margaret Hospital, the same one with the bomb threat. Fletcher seems to think Sarah’s on her way there to kill his father.”

“What? Then why the bomb threat? Is that Sarah’s idea to empty the hospital?”

“Fletcher couldn’t think of any other way to keep Sarah out of the hospital.”

Tim thought he would lose his mind in that moment because it seemed everyone else was going crazy. “You mean Fletcher called the bomb threat in himself to keep Sarah away from his father?” he asked, his voice short, clipped.

“Looks that way.”

“Oh my shit, I’m going to have a coronary.”

“Just thought you’d want to join me at the hospital. Let’s find Sarah, get the answers we need.”

“On my way. I’ll meet you there. Back parking lot.” He clicked off.

As Tim ran for his car, the text from Diner with the address of a house on a rural route near Orillia popped up on his screen.

“Some other time, Detective Marina Diner, some other time.”

He jumped in his car and sped away, leaving a small black strip of rubber on the road.

Chapter 17

Sarah entered the hospital through the main doors of Princess Margaret, baseball cap back in place hiding her hair. She didn’t need to stop at the main desk or check in as she knew where Fletcher’s dad was.

Vivian explained that Fletcher and Joel were brothers and part of a terrible group that was the brain child of their dying father. Meet the father. Offer him toilet paper, not Kleenex, for the tears he would shed, and leave it at that. Sarah was to get into private room 404 and hand him water and a roll of toilet paper, then leave and go rest for the night. That was it.

Confused as she was to the purpose of such a meeting, the task didn’t sound too bad.

She got to the elevators, pushed the up button and waited, turning slightly to see if anyone paid extra attention to her. It was easy to spot the cameras in small black domes suspended from the roof. They had her face on file now. Evidence of her presence would be recorded.

Hey Vivian, we’re cool here, right? No more murder?

The elevator doors opened at the same second an alarm sounded.

Fletcher has called it in. He’s read the note.

Security guards emerged from a door by the front nurse’s station. One of them was speaking into a microphone attached to a radio on his hip.

Sarah stepped onto the elevator.

“Ma’am?” security yelled after her.

She pushed the number four and then the close button. The doors closed maddeningly slow.

“We’re shutting down, ma’am …”

The doors shut and the elevator began to rise to the fourth floor. The alarm sounded inside the elevator. Then it suddenly stopped as a voice came through a speaker above her.

“We are currently in the process of evacuating the hospital. This is not a drill. Those who can, please move toward the nearest exit and …”

The elevator slowed as the fourth floor approached.

Sarah stepped off the elevator and into chaos. Nurses were running, doctors barking orders. Gurneys rushed past her, IV bottles banging against their posts.

What the hell did Fletcher tell the authorities?

A quick scan of the room numbers revealed she was two doors from room 404. She would be in and out just as quick as any of the other patients.

Traffic in the corridor picked up as rooms were emptied, but the door to 404 remained closed. She sidestepped around a slow-moving man with a cane, moved out of the way of a doctor pushing an elderly patient in a wheelchair and ran for the second door on her left, hoping it was unlocked.

She grabbed the handle, twisted it and breathed a sigh of relief as it opened. A quick hop and she was inside, already shutting the door behind her. The room was certainly private with one old man on a plush hospital bed. Flowers and cards lined the shelf by the window. A large TV hung suspended from the ceiling on thick steel bars. In the far corner a leather couch had been brought in so the man’s visitors had a comfortable place to lounge. A black mini fridge sat beside that.

To her right, a chair was nestled in beside the door. It was the perfect height to wedge under the door handle. Once it was secured and Sarah knew they wouldn’t be bothered, she advanced slowly to check the restroom. It was empty.

“Can you tell me what’s going on?” the man in the bed asked as he rolled toward her.