Fated (3 page)

Now there was the new kid—this young man in a coma.

Hart opened up a new file and titled it DRAKE. He checked his watch. If he showered now, he might be able to go to the hospital and have a quick look around by himself instead of leaving it for a Monday morning with a reluctant stranger for a temporary partner. He shut down his laptop, drained his coffee, and rose to his feet. Sorting through his father’s things would have to wait.

B
RIGHTLY
ONLY
had one hospital and a fairly small one at that. The security guard at the ER entrance sat reading a newspaper and barely glanced at him. Walking with purpose often proved more useful than the little badge, but he held it up anyway. It made the security guard perk up.

“Sir,” he said, scrambling up and around his desk. He dropped his voice. “Are you here to see… the victim?”

“I really can’t—”

“Do you know who did it yet?”

Hart’s eyes flicked to the guard’s name tag. Curtis Hanby was tall, rotund, and past retirement age. Hart wondered if Hanby had been in security his whole life, or if this was a job to fill the gaps in his pension.

“I really can’t discuss—”

Hanby’s voice lowered even more. He leaned over, and Hart was treated to a faceful of stale coffee breath. “People are talking about the Predator.”

With something resembling patience, he asked, “The what?”

It was the wrong thing to say. Hanby’s long face lit up with glee. “Oh, are you not from around here, then? Are you a Fed? Well then you couldn’t know, could you? It’s a creature that lives on Shadow Mountain, a dangerous—”

God have mercy
. Hart wanted to pinch the bridge of his nose but didn’t. “Actually, I have heard that particular fairy tale. I’m pretty sure we’re safe from monsters under the bed.” Hanby looked injured, and Hart patted his pockets for his wallet. “Here.” He handed over a Riverside police business card with his name on it. “If you think you have relevant information, Mr. Hanby, you can call that number. But I really have to get going.”

Hanby took the card and nodded, turning back toward his desk.

Inside a large elevator, he let the doors slide shut without choosing a floor and fished his worn notebook out of his back pocket. Basement below, first floor ER and offices, second Maternity and Gyno, third Pediatrics and Orthopedics, four and five Geriatrics and OR. In a shorthand only he could read, he jotted it all down and then pressed the number three. He’d rather take the stairs, but people tended to notice when someone avoided elevators, and Hart wanted to remain inconspicuous.

The elevator arrived at the exact split of the two wards, across from a long half-moon desk curving away in either direction. On the left side, a nurse lifted her head. Her gaze was steady and guarded, her black hair pulled severely back from a young but tired face. Hart let his eyes slide over her pony-decorated scrubs with disinterest and turned his head to the other end of the nurses’ station. The pediatric nurse went back to her work.

At the orthopedic end, two people in green scrubs kept their focus on an old computer, while a third in a white coat sat with his back to Hart. The doctor talked about a procedure, maybe briefing the staff on a new arrival. Nobody paid attention to Hart. It was tempting to just slip past them, but he decided not to.

“Excuse me.” The doctor turned around. He had almost delicate, fine-boned features, and a contrasting stubble peppered his jaw. His doctor’s coat looked wrinkled and Hart figured he was on the tail end of a night shift. “Lieutenant Hart, Riverside police, Homicide.” He flashed his badge again. “I would like to see Mr. Drake’s room.”

The doctor hardly paid attention to the badge, but he did raise a sardonic eyebrow. “You realize he won’t be able to tell you much, don’t you?”

Hart kept his smile in place and said nothing.

The doctor quirked a quick grin. “End of the ward, last room on the left.”

“Thank you.” Quietly he made his way into the long white corridor. The first two rooms on either side held two empty beds. The next two had two occupied single beds; the noise of silverware clinking against porcelain came from behind the open doors and closed curtains. Hart walked on. Four rooms with four beds, then four with six, all occupied by a variety of patients with arms, legs, knees, and wrists in slings or casts. The next six rooms were private ones, and from the very last one came the sound of steady beeping, the whooshing noise of air being pumped around. The door stood slightly ajar, and Hart pushed it far enough so he could step inside.

A young man lay on his back, arms resting above straight, crisp sheets. Wires and tubes surrounded him like tentacles. The beeping monitor began to make a whirring noise, and two new numbers appeared on a screen to the right of the bed. Hart had no idea what they meant, but no alarm went off, and no one came running, so he thought all must be well.

While in sleep most people looked younger, this man seemed older than his twenty-four years. His blond hair was listless and dull where it stuck to his forehead, probably in need of a wash. With his eyes taped shut and the tube coming out of his mouth, it was hard to guess what he looked like awake. Long, thin, and pale, but then that could’ve been due to the coma.

A vase of yellow roses on the windowsill stood in the company of one get well card. Hart would take note of the message and name in a minute. First he lifted the patient file from its holder at the end of the bed.

“Benjamin Drake,” he read out loud, keeping his voice down. “You poor kid.” Scanning over the daily vitals and other notes, Hart quickly found what he’d been expecting.

…. Prior to coma Advanced ALS patient…. Extensive case file with Dr. Brook in Neuro…. No sign of disease now.
A separate sheet from the ER mentioned attempted strangulation and a head wound as the cause of the coma.

Slowly Hart replaced the file. He listened for sounds from the corridor but heard nothing, and he cautiously approached the head of the bed. Too rhythmically Benjamin’s chest rose and fell, and it gave Hart chills to see it. Part of Drake’s skull was shaved, and a bandage covered the head wound. Dark finger-shaped bruises spanned the circumference of his throat. The largest bruises were around the front of the neck, which indicated Drake had been throttled from behind. He made a note to confirm that fingernail scrapings had been taken from Drake in case he’d scratched his assailant.

Hart reached out and, without touching skin, compared the bruising with his own hand span. It was nearly a match. A man, then, with larger than average hands. The bruises lacked fingernail abrasions, so the attacker might have worn gloves.

Very carefully, making sure he didn’t dislodge anything, Hart pressed the pillow under Benjamin’s head down far enough so he could take a look at the back of his neck.

“You don’t look like a policeman.”

“Jesus Christ!” Hart jerked upright and veered into an IV pole behind him. He whirled around to steady it, but someone already had ahold of it, as if they’d expected Hart to jump out of his skin and knock it over. It was the doctor from the desk, and he had a shit-eating grin on his face.

“People get jumpy around coma patients. Sorry, I couldn’t resist. Where did you say you were from?”

Trying to get his blood pressure under control, he held out his hand. “Riverside police.” Hart glanced at the name tag on the white coat and then at the hand still holding his.

“Oh.” The doctor released him and smiled. “I’m Tobias Darwin, the chief orthopedic surgeon.” He made a face at the title. “But call me Toby. Everyone else does.” He glanced over Hart’s shoulder at Benjamin. “What were you looking for…?” He settled his gaze back on Hart. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“It’s just Hart. And I was looking—” Hart rubbed his eyes and glanced over his shoulder at the patient. “Is there somewhere else we can talk about this? It seems rude to discuss this while Mr. Drake here is… indisposed.”

Toby lifted an eyebrow, his eyes glinting mischievously. “Ben is probably happy to have some diversion. He must be bored out of his mind.” Toby held out a hand toward the door to let Hart pass him by, but Hart hesitated.

“Bored? Isn’t he… well, brain-dead?”

Toby lifted his hands, palms up and fingers spread. “Just because we can’t detect brain waves doesn’t mean there’s nothing going on up there. The brain is still one of the body’s biggest mysteries, so who knows? Shall we…. Police Lieutenant Hart?”

“Just Hart is fine. And after you.” He could come back and read the card later.

“I mean it, though. You don’t look much like a police officer.” They strode down the long corridor and stepped back into an open elevator. When Hart turned around, he saw one of the nurses in green duck her head and snigger. Toby pressed the first floor button before giving Hart a significant once-over.

Hart gritted his teeth. “I wasn’t expecting to be talking to anyone officially during my stay in Brightly.” In fact he’d only brought one suit, and he didn’t plan on wearing it for anything other than its intended purpose. Glancing down at his dark brown cargo pants and red-and-blue striped T-shirt, Hart felt a bit self-conscious next to Toby in his crisp-white coat and expensive shirt underneath. He resisted the urge to pull his rolled-up sleeves down.

Hart sucked in a lungful of air and straightened to his full height. If there was to be any hope of conducting a professional interview, he needed to regain the upper hand. Faint amusement danced in Toby’s eyes as they met Hart’s over the inch or two of height difference. It left him mildly unsettled.

“Are you all right?” Toby asked as the elevator opened again, and Hart heaved a sigh of relief. They stepped out into the hallway, and Toby led them into an office with his name on it. “You look a little pale.”

If he told Toby about his issues with closed spaces, who would have the upper hand then? “I didn’t get much sleep last night. That’s all.” What was it about doctors that made a person want to bare their soul, anyway?

The room was fairly small and no different from any other doctor’s office Hart had ever entered: impersonal, clean, smelling vaguely of antiseptic and despair. A desk stood in the middle with two cheap chairs on one side and a large leather one on the other.

“Really?” Toby closed the door behind them. “Insomnia?”

Hart sat down in one of the chairs Toby indicated, but instead of taking the other one, Toby perched on the edge of the desk. Hart didn’t particularly like looking up at him, but he’d grin and bear it for the sake of peace. For now.

“No.” Well, he did have insomnia too, but why admit it if he could just continue living in denial? While he didn’t feel like sharing his life story, he admitted, if reluctantly, “My father died unexpectedly. I’m clearing out his house, and I got a little caught up in it last night, I guess.” He looked up sharply at Toby’s intake of breath.

“Jonathan Hart?”

“Yes, you knew him?”

“We met very briefly.” And that made sense, Hart supposed. Brightly wasn’t a very large town. Toby was a doctor, and his dad wasn’t the youngest. They might’ve had a doctor-patient relationship, but that wasn’t why he was here.

Toby’s shoulders sagged as he ducked his head, and Hart stared up into a pair of very dark brown eyes. They had a faint circle of green around the edge of the pupil. “I’m sorry to hear he passed away.”

“Thank you.” He reached for the pen in one of the pockets on the side of his leg. “Is it all right with you if I ask a few questions?”

The smile made a reappearance on Toby’s face, dimpling his cheeks on either side of his mouth, giving his lopsided smirk an almost irresistible charm. A strand of black hair had made an escape from its carefully gelled hold and fell over his forehead.

“Are you asking me because technically you’re supposed to wait for Freddie?”

Hart pushed his chagrin down. When would he gain some ground on this guy? “Yes.”

Toby grinned and leaned back on the desk, crossing his legs. “Sure, go ahead. I won’t tell.”

Hart shifted in his seat, taking his notebook out of his back pocket. Its edges were worn, all the pages curling up from where they’d taken the shape of his ass. He tried to straighten it on Toby’s meticulous desk, but the paper sprang up again, so he flipped it over and pushed it down.

“Why is Mr. Drake on your ward?”

Toby tapped the desk with the tips of his fingers very close to where Hart’s hand rested. “Even though he’s on life support, he doesn’t really need to be in the ICU anymore. Geriatrics is full, which is where he would’ve gone otherwise. This is only a small hospital, so we have to make do. And we always keep a few beds for overflow on this floor because we have a high turnover. Plus, half of our staff takes shifts in the ICU when they are short on people, so they know the machines. My turn.”

“Excuse me?” His pen slipped from his fingers and rolled off the desk. When he straightened from picking it up, Toby was watching him.

Hart put him somewhere in his early forties, maybe not quite ten years older than Hart himself. Dark-haired people always looked younger than they were, in his opinion, especially the type like Toby, who evidently put a lot of care into his appearance. His hair was meticulously groomed. There were faint tan lines on his temples from sunglasses, but his skin wasn’t dry. He hardly looked like the gardening type, so he was active: a runner maybe or a cyclist. Hart would’ve believed him to be a surfer if they were anywhere near a coastline. Whatever Toby did in his spare time for amusement, the laugh lines around his eyes betrayed how amused he was right now.

“Isn’t that how it works? You ask a question, I ask one?”

Hart laughed loudly, surprised by Toby’s audacity. “No, no it’s not.”

“Well, it is today. What were you looking for when I made you startle?”

Hart hesitated and thought fast. In Toby’s shoes he would’ve asked a different question. Why a homicide detective when Ben was still alive? Why someone from Riverside? But then Toby had called the chief inspector by his first name, so these might all be questions that had been asked and answered already.