If Nat hadn’t been through so much trauma that night, she’d have guessed immediately what it must be.
“Rachel, what is it? What happened?”
“He left me.”
Nat had to constrain herself from adding,
Again.
She wished Rachel would sound angry instead of disconsolate. Nat only hoped the bastard would stay away this time. Good riddance to bad rubbish.
“He says he still loves me, but that it’s . . . it’s all too "much for him.”
“What exactly does he mean by ‘all’?”
Rachel fought back tears. “He didn’t say. I didn’t ask. What does it matter? He doesn’t want to be married anymore. He wants his freedom. He wants—” She compressed her lips. “I suppose there’s another woman.”
Nat more than supposed it.
“I just had to . . . get out of the house. I needed time to ... I don’t know. I just...”
“It’s fine, Rach. I’m glad you came here.”
“I told Anya I was going to spend the night with you. I know I have to explain to the children, but I’m just not. . . ready yet. And I didn’t think I could face them in the morning without. . . cracking up. That would be so awful for them.”
“You made a good decision, Rach.” Nat patted her sister’s shoulder.
Rachel’s eyes brimmed with tears, but she managed a weak smile. “You’ve been through it, too, tonight. I’m sorry about Hannah, Nat. I should have thought—”
“Forget it. I’m glad you’re here. I could use the company.”
Nat nudged her sister gently toward her. It didn’t take much coaxing before they were hugging.
After a few moments, Rachel still in her embrace, said, “Oh, I almost forgot. There was an envelope on your floor just inside thf front door. I put it in the bowl on your hall table.”
It was only after Nat had made sure that Rachel was sound asleep in her guest room that she ventured back into the foyer. The plain white envelope was, as Rachel had said, in her shallow blue-and-white Delft pottery bowl on her entry table, resting on top of the mail.
The envelope was blank.
Nat could feel her pulse racing, her throat clogging up. Even the air in the apartment felt different. Thicker. Colder. How could such a nondescript item hold so much terror?
A part of Nat wanted to snatch it up, rip it open, and get it over with. Whatever “it” was.
Another part of her wanted to forget it existed. Oh, for her sister’s talent at denial!
But in the end she could neither push it from her memory nor open it on the spot. The “special delivery” would have to be treated as potential evidence. The police would need to examine the envelope and whatever was contained inside. Nat’s guess was they wouldn’t find incriminating fingerprints. Even the least savvy of criminals knew to wear gloves. But they weren’t always smart enough to remember not to lick the envelope closed. Saliva might tag a person through DNA testing.
Nat went into the kitchen to get a plastic bag and a pair of tongs, checking the clock on the stove. It was nearly two in the morning. She wasn’t going to call Leo at that hour. The poor guy had looked emotionally and physically spent when he’d left her apartment. He needed some sleep.
So did Nat.
ten
Don’t I have the right to give, to love, to be loved in return? If only I could make people understand that my desires aren’t perverse, but natural longings.
L. I.
IT WAS A few minutes before eight in the morning when Rachel, wearing one of Nat’s white cotton nightgowns, groggily entered the kitchen,
“You’re dressed already,” Rachel said, a touch of disappointment in her voice.
“Yes, and just about to leave, I’m afraid.” Nat was at the sink, taking a last swallow of coffee and then quickly rinsing the cup under the faucet.
“You have to be at the center so early?”
“Well ... I want to stop at the hospital first. To check on Lynn Ingram.” Nat was also meeting Leo there. She’d called him a few minutes ago and told him about the envelope. He was ready to drive right over to her apartment, but Nat was determined to keep her sister in the dark about what might well turn out to be a warning similar to the one left on Dr. Varda’s medicine cabinet. Rachel had enough to worry about without Nat adding further to her troubles.
“Would you like me to go with you?” Rachel asked.
“Go with me?”
“To the hospital?”
“Oh, no. No. Thanks, Rach. But look, stay here, have some breakfast, shower, relax. And I’ll tell you what. I’ll try to clear up my schedule so we can have lunch together. I’ll call you later. What do you say?”
“Sure. All right.” But she didn’t sound very enthusiastic.
“Rach. It’s going to be okay,” Nat said softly.
She nodded. But Nat knew Rachel didn’t believe that for a second. Who could blame her? Nat certainly couldn’t. She’d been through it herself. When Ethan had walked out on her, she’d thought she’d never get over the pain, the anger, the shame, the terrible feeling of having failed to hold on to her man. It had happened over a year ago, and even now Nat couldn’t really say it was okay. Just that it was more okay than it had been twelve months ago.
Certainly, twelve months ago, Nat wouldn’t have imagined she’d ever let herself risk getting so emotionally involved with another man.
And look where that involvement had gotten her.
“You’d make a good surgeon,” Nat said as she watched Leo meticulously extract the folded sheet of paper from the plain
white envelope using a pair of eyebrow tweezers.
“It’s the rubber gloves,” he said, trying to inject a lightness into his tone. He didn’t succeed.
They were alone in the doctors’ lounge just outside the ICU. Leo had locked the door so they wouldn’t be disturbed. After putting the now-empty envelope in an evidence bag, he unfolded the sheet of white business-size paper. Nat was standing right beside him, already picturing in her mind the words of warning.
A gasp escaped her lips as she saw the open sheet of paper. There were no words written on it. Instead, Nat was viewing something far worse. A crude ink drawing of a woman’s face. Only, where the eyes should have been, there were empty sockets colored in with red ink. A half-dozen red lines had been slashed across the nose. And the mouth—the mouth was yawning open. And the tongue—what was left of it—was indicated by a very jagged red line.
“It looks like something a demented child might draw,” Nat said once she’d gotten over the initial shock and horror of it.
Leo looked over at her. “You okay?”
“Fine,” she lied, glad she was wearing a long-sleeved blouse so Leo wouldn’t spot the goose bumps decorating her arms.
Leo eyeballed her. “Will it do any good for me to tell you to back off?”
“Come on,” Nat said. “Let’s go check on Lynn.”
Leo grabbed her by the shoulders. “At least be careful, Natalie. Don’t go off on your own, half-cocked. Can you promise me that much?”
“I promise.”
Leo didn’t look convinced. Smart man.
Lynn’s status remained critical and she was still unconscious, but the surgeon felt it was a good sign that there had been no further deterioration since the second surgery. Leo took off, anxious to get Nat’s missive to the lab for analysis, but the truth was neither of them was holding out much hope that they’d get a lead from it. Nat was about to head off as well when she spotted a familiar face over at the ICU nurse’s station. She walked over.
“Hi. Do you remember me?”
The pretty young Asian nurse looked up from a medical report she was reading and gave Nat a distracted look. But within seconds* recognition dawned.
“Superintendent Price.”
The last time Nat had seen Carrie Li was over a year ago when the nurse was working in the emergency room. She’d had the misfortune to be the nurse who’d tended to Dean Thomas Walsh after he’d slashed his wrists at Horizon House. Carrie had walked into his cubicle to administer a hypodermic injection for pain and ended up being grabbed by the inmate and taken as his hostage. It was only after Nat had managed to convince Walsh she was a much better hostage than the terrified young nurse, that he had made the exchange.
Nat could see from Carrie Li’s expression that her sense of gratitude remained as fresh now as it had been on that fateful day.
After a brief bit of chitchat, Nat asked the nurse if she was. due for a coffee break anytime soon. Carrie checked the large clock on the wall behind the station.
“I can meet you down in the cafeteria in fifteen minutes.”
Carrie cupped her slender hands around her mug of tea. “I took a call at a little past eight this morning. At first he wouldn’t identify himself. When I told him we could only give a status report on the patient to immediate family, he said he was the patient’s father.” Carrie looked across at her. “That’s how he put it. ‘The patient’s father.’ Not ‘Lynn,’ not ‘my daughter.’ ‘The patient.’ ”
Nat wasn’t surprised at Peter Everett’s choice of words, but she was surprised he’d called. Of course, she had no way of knowing if it was actually him. Although, again, his choice of words tended to lend credibility. Nat wondered if Leo had already been in contact with Lynn’s father.
“I don’t think he’s ever adjusted to having a transsexual child,” Nat commented.
Talk about an understatement.
“I don’t imagine it would be an easy thing to accept.”
“No,” Nat agreed. “Not easy.” She paused for a moment and then asked, “How did he sound on the phone?”
Carrie took a small sip of her tea. “Uncomfortable, first and foremost. But I sensed concern.”
“And when you told him she was still listed as critical?”
“He muttered a formal ‘thank you’ and abruptly hung up.” “Have there been any other calls?”
Carrie seemed suddenly distracted, her gaze drifting away from Nat.
“What is it?” Nat asked.
“There was this woman over at one of the tables near the door . . . she looked familiar.”
Even as Nat turned to see who it was, Carrie said, “She left. I could sense her watching us. As soon as I caught her eye, she popped up and took off.”
Nat spotted a cup of coffee and an untouched muffin at an
empty table. “What did she look like?” she asked.
“Tall, thin, blonde hair down to her shoulders, very pretty. Maybe late twenties, or at least she looked it from here. Definitely patrician.”
Nat scowled. The first woman who came to mind was Jennifer Slater. But Slater was closer to fifty than thirty. Still, a good facelift . . . Nat wished she’d caught a glimpse of her. “If you spot her again—”
“I’ll let you know,” Carrie said. “And I’ll try to find out who she is. I know I’ve seen her somewhere before. Maybe it’ll come to me.” She shrugged. “Anyway, as to phone calls, I haven’t personally taken any others besides Lynn’s dad, but I did check the Ingram call-in sheet before I came down.” Carrie pulled out a slip of paper from the hip pocket of her crisp white uniform. “Last night at eleven fifty-two, Dr. Harrison Bell called. He called again at a little past seven
a.m.
Dr. Ross Varda called at eight this morning. Lynn’s mother called right after the psychiatrist. Oh, and a priest called at nine-twenty
a.m.
... a Father Joe. There were also two unidentified calls noted—one at ten-fifty last night, another at shortly past nine
a.m.”
She looked up from the paper. “I was at the nurse’s station when that last call came in. Janice Bailey, the head nurse on duty, took it. Janice said it was a woman caller but she wouldn’t identify herself. When Janice told her she couldn’t give out any information, the woman hung up. She must have been angry, because Janice said she slammed the phone down hard.”
Nat’s eyes strayed to the empty table where a cafeteria worker was gathering up the muffin and coffee. “How about any visitors?”
“None so far. But it’s early. And only family are being allowed in.”
Nat was walking up the concrete walk to Horizon House later that morning when someone came up behind her and put a hand on her shoulder.
She nearly jumped out of her skin. Then she spun around, stepped back, and shot her fists up, all in defensive mode.
The young man—tall, husky, dark-haired, handsome enough to be a movie actor—looked almost as alarmed as she must have looked.
“Superintendent Price? I’m Bill Walker of WBBS’s evening news. I’m terribly sorry if I—”
Nat dropped her arms to her side, but she was feeling no less defensive. The media. Why were they always around when things were going to shit—they were swarming all over her during the Walsh incident—but never when there was good news to share? For months Nat had been trying to get people from the media to run a story on Horizon House that focused on its positive goals and achievements. Every other day, it seemed, stories were popping up on the front pages about prison riots, rape behind the walls, the escalating recidivism rate, the need for stricter sentencing, a call for more high-security prisons. Nat wanted people out in the community to read about programs that focused on rehabilitation, programs that gave inmates concrete skills as well as counseling so they could return to the community as law-abiding, tax-contributing citizens. The problem was there weren’t enough programs inside the walls, and fewer outside them, that emphasized rehabilitation. Those kinds of programs took money and support, both of which were sorely lacking.
But good news didn’t seem to be much of a draw for the media. It didn’t sell papers or make for high television and radio ratings.
“I’d like to talk to you about Lynn Ingram, Superintendent.”
“I’m not giving out any statements, Mr. Walker.” Nat abruptly turned away from him and continued walking up the path.
“I’m the reporter who interviewed Jennifer Slater yesterday. Matthew Slater’s widow.”
She stopped and turned back around.
He smiled faintly. “And I’ve got an interview with Mrs. Slater’s brother, Rodney Bartlett, that’s going to air at eleven this morning. I brought the tape along if you want a sneak preview.”
“Come inside.”
. .
that Matt told Jen there was this freak who was stalking him—”
“Is that the actual word Matthew Slater used, Mr. Bartlett?”