Saving Scott (Kobo) (38 page)

A car door
slammed. An engine started. Ashley listened to the car drive away. And waited,
heart pounding. Was it a trick? Was Lorna coming back?

When she was
afraid she’d drift off if she kept her eyes closed any longer, Ashley braved a
peek through slitted lids. Nothing. But did that mean Lorna was gone, or just
not standing over her? It made more sense for Lorna to leave. Why risk someone
coming by and seeing her?

Ashley held
her breath, straining to hear anything that would indicate someone else was
there. When she heard nothing, she gave a quiet groan. Nothing happened.

Now or
never.
She opened her eyes fully, and lifted her head. Which was a mistake.
Pain speared behind her eyes. This time there was nothing quiet or fake about
her groan.

She worked
her way up to her knees. No sign of Lorna’s car. Staggering to her feet, she
tried to get her bearings. She’d been right. She was in an alley. Nobody would
find her here.

She
staggered down the alley. Her stomach churned. She fought the nausea. No. If
she’d ingested the drug, maybe some of it was still in her stomach. She leaned
against a brick wall. Would throwing up help? The point became moot as whatever
was left in her stomach took the reverse route.

She wiped
her mouth, not sure if she felt better, or whether she still had too much of
the drug in her bloodstream. Judging from the way her thoughts still seemed to
be slogging through a vat of thick brownie batter, she definitely had a fair
amount.

She rounded
the corner at the end of the alley, feeling like she’d run a marathon. She had
no clue where she was. No purse. No phone.

Storefronts
she didn’t recognize lined the street. Not Pine Hills, then. All closed. She
looked at her watch. Eleven-ten. She wrapped her arms around herself against
the chill night air. Tried to remember. It had been before ten when Lorna had
shown up. Ashley had no idea how long she’d been in the car, how long she’d
been pretending to be unconscious, but she had to be less than an hour from
Pine Hills. Probably more like half an hour.

She looked
left, then right. If she had a coin, she’d flip it. Surely there would be
something open late on a Saturday night. Some sports bar. Anything. And if not,
she’d hit a residential area and someone would still be up. Or she’d wake them.

Worst case
scenario. She’d find someplace to wait until morning, when things would be
open. Or would they? Tomorrow was Sunday. And she had to be home. Baking. Her
grand opening was Monday. She’d walk all the way to Pine Hills if she had to.

If only she
knew which way it was.

Scott paced
the detectives’ office, angry at himself for losing his professional edge, but
unable to calm down enough to sit. They’d been able to read the plate and put
out the BOLO on the beater from the parking lot. But so far, no reports of
anyone spotting the damn thing. The owner, a man who had no connections—or none
they could find—to either Lorna, Felicity, or Theodore Young lived in Salem.
Detweiler was on the phone with the owner.

Scott’s leg
started twitching, as if in sympathy to the jumping in his gut. He limped to a
chair and rubbed the muscle.

“Thanks,
sir, and sorry to bother you so late.” Detweiler hung up and faced them. “He
sold it to a woman a few days ago. Cash. He says he’s reported the transfer of
title to the DMV, but he has no idea where the woman went. Said her name was
Mary Moone, but when I described our suspect, he said it could have been her.”

Kovak spread
a map out on the desk and drew a circle. “This is our best guess on how far
they got, traveling within the speed limit. They’re not going to be breaking
any speed records. Too risky. They won’t want to be stopped.”

They
.
Kovak had avoided Scott’s eyes when he’d said it. Because there were no
guarantees that it was a
they
in the car. Given her history, Lorna was
much more likely to have dumped Ashley somewhere. Drugged? Dying? Dead?

Scott leaned
forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. “We don’t have squat.”

“Every cop
in the county has eyes out for the car,” Detweiler said.

“No known
residence for Lorna Young?” Scott asked.

Detweiler
shook his head. “According to Sarah, she told everyone she was leaving her
husband. They took her to the Women’s Center for short-term shelter and
counseling. The Center set her up at a safe house, but she never showed.”

Scott
rotated Ashley’s phone in his hand, as if it were a connection to her. He scrolled
through her menu, her contacts. He almost smiled when he saw she’d starred his
name and number. At least she hadn’t erased him from her life completely. Yet.

He checked
her call log for the third time, in case he’d missed a call to or from Lorna. This
time he looked for a Mary Moone, too. No such luck. He’d checked all the
numbers, and all were local residents. Bakeoff communication was his guess.

Ashley’s
text message log was empty, as it had been the last three times he’d checked.
Did she not get text messages, or had she simply deleted them?

Damn. It was
after midnight. She’d been gone two hours. Why didn’t this part of the county
have more traffic cams?

Detweiler
shot him a look filled with enough sympathy to twist Scott’s insides. Kovak had
told him about what had happened to Sarah, and sure, it was nice to know that
Detweiler had been there, but right now, he needed action, not platitudes. Not
that he could fault the detectives’ work. They’d done everything he’d have
done.

At least
they weren’t telling him to go home and get some rest, that they had everything
under control.

Scott took a
much-needed bathroom break, then wandered down to Dispatch where he felt closer
to the action.

As he
entered, the dispatcher was acknowledging the call. She swiveled her chair
toward him. “Got a response on the BOLO. They’re bringing your suspect in.”

His mouth
went dry. “Suspect? What about Ashley Eagan?”

She gave him
a gaze filled with even more sympathy than Detweiler’s. “No, only one woman.
Fit the description of your suspect, Lorna Young.”

“What did
she say?” Scott kept his tone even. Shaking the dispatcher wasn’t going to get
the answers any faster.

“Two things.
Said her name was Mary Moone. And she wanted a lawyer.”

***

Ashley
couldn’t decide which was heavier, her head or her legs. She was dimly aware
that she was staggering, that the world was fading in and out, but she couldn’t
seem to make her body parts obey the commands she knew her brain was trying to
send them.

Stay awake.
Keep moving. Breathe. She’d barely gone half a block when all three seemed
impossible. Bright lights approached from the distance. Questions pelted her
brain like so many raindrops.

A car? Lorna
coming back? Should she hide or flag it down?

Closer. Too
big for a car. Truck. Big truck. If she stood in the middle of the street,
would it stop? Or would the driver not see her?

Unlike the
storm of questions, there was no deluge of answers.

She stumbled
into the street, making every attempt to wave her sluggish arms above her head.
Relief swamped her when the truck slowed. Brakes hissed, and the truck came to
a stop. She staggered toward the cab.

Strong arms
helped her into the warmth. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

“Phone,” she
said. Or hoped she did. A cell appeared in her hand. She stared at it,
blinking. The speed dial and contact lists on her phone meant nothing on this
one. What good was a phone if you didn’t know anyone’s number? She doubted she
knew her own.

“Pine Hills.
Police. Please.” Then everything went black.

Ashley
opened her eyes and immediately squinted them shut against the blinding light
coming from above. The odor of disinfectant engulfed her. She listened, sorting
out the sounds. Hisses. Beeps. Names being called. Doctors’ names. Slowly,
carefully, she opened her eyes again. She was in a bed. Surrounded by blue
cloth walls. A middle-aged woman in pale blue scrubs frowned at her.

“You’re
awake.”

Ashley tried
to swallow, to get rid of the dryness in her mouth. “Where am I?” she managed
to say.

“Cottonwood
ER,” the woman said. “You’re lucky that truck driver brought you in.”

Slowly, the
memories took shape. She tried to sit, but the woman pushed her back. “You’re
not going anywhere until a doctor says so. And don’t mess with that IV.”

The woman
yanked on the curtain surrounding the bed and swished away, closing it behind
her. Ashley heard her mutter something that sounded like “damn junkies.”

“Wait.”
Ashley tried to cry out, but her plea was little more than a hoarse croak.

She
remembered nothing after asking the truck driver to take her to Pine Hills.
Which, if she was in Cottonwood, he clearly hadn’t. Lorna. She had to warn the
police about Lorna. She searched for some kind of call button. The background
beeps got faster.

She couldn’t
see anything beyond her curtained prison cell. Shadows moved, rubber-soled
shoes squeaked, and people shouted things that reminded her of the medical
television shows she used to watch. It
was
an emergency room, after all.
And it was—she assumed—the wee hours between Saturday night and Sunday morning,
probably a prime time for emergencies. She reflexively lifted her wrist to
check her watch and found
the IV tubing the nurse had warned her not to
touch.

No problem
with that. She and needles didn’t get along well. Especially when they were
sticking her.

The outside
noises faded. A few moments later, the curtain swept aside. A man in scrubs
stared at a clipboard as he approached her bed.

“I have to
go,” Ashley said. “Or at least call the police. Please. There’s a killer out
there.”

The man’s
head jerked up. “What?”

“Please. You
can examine me, or poke me, or do what you have to do, but please, first you
have to call the police in Pine Hills.”

He stepped
closer to the bed, and she took in the stubble on his jaw, his red-rimmed eyes.
He looked more exhausted that she felt. And young. Could he possibly be a real
doctor?

As if in
answer, he gave her a bored smile. “I’m Doctor Pekarsky. Let’s have a look.”
Seemingly ignoring her, he looked at the monitor by her bed and wrote something
on his chart. He stuck a stethoscope on her chest, then wrote something else.
Finally, he shoved the pen in his pocket. He gave her a stern stare. Not as
nasty as the nurse’s, but clearly, he wasn’t pleased to be treating her. “You’re
fortunate you got here in time for the Narcan to work.”

“Narcan?”
Her head throbbed.

He tilted
his head toward her IV. “Counteracts the drugs we found in your tox screen.”
His stare turned into an indulgent smile. “Now, what were you saying about the
police and a killer? It’s not unusual to imagine things when you’re taking
drugs.”

“Drugs? The
only drugs I’m
taking
are whatever you have in this IV, and whatever
Lorna stuck in my coffee. She tried to kill me. With painkillers. Hers. Like
she killed the others.”

“I’m sorry,
Miss—?”

“Eagan.
Ashley Eagan.” Only then did she realize she had no ID, nothing to say who she
was. Or any of her credit cards. Or insurance cards. No wonder they thought she
was an indigent junkie.

“I live in
Pine Hills. I’m the proprietor of Confections by Ashley, which opens on Monday.
I feel fine. Please, if you won’t call the police, give me a phone so I can
call.”

This time,
he looked at her as if he believed her. Thank goodness.

The curtain
swished aside again. The doctor stepped toward the intruder. “I’m sorry, you’ll
have to wait in the waiting room.”

“Like hell.”
Scott pushed his way to her bedside. Carrying her purse. As if he always
carried one. He glared at the doctor. “Unhook her from that machine, and get me
whatever paperwork I need to get her out of here. I’m taking her home. Now.”

The doctor
straightened, “Sir—”

“Do it.”

The doctor
looked at the chart once again, scribbled something on it, and gave Scott a
brusque nod. “Her vitals are stable. I have no reason to keep her. You can
settle at the front desk.” He approached the IV.

Ashley
averted her gaze, instead fixing her eyes on Scott. If she thought the doctor
had looked exhausted, he had nothing on her neighbor. But beyond the
exhaustion, she saw relief. Concern.

“You found
me,” she said.

“You damn
well made it hard enough, woman.” But there was no anger despite the gruffness
of his tone.

“I was going
to call. As soon as the doctor gave me a phone. The truck driver did, but I
didn’t know anyone’s number and then I passed out—”

“Shh.” Scott
put his fingers over her lips.

“All
finished,” the doctor said. “I’ll order a wheelchair.” He gave Scott a look as
emphatic as the one Scott had given him. “Hospital rules. No exceptions.”

Ashley
braved a look at her arm, a simple Band-Aid where the IV had been. “My clothes?”

The doctor
pointed toward the floor. Scott leaned down and pulled a large plastic bag from
under her bed. Scott narrowed his eyes at the doctor. “Thank you.”

The doctor,
apparently satisfied that he’d maintained a semblance of control over the
situation, ducked through the curtain. Scott pulled her clothes out of the bag.

“Put these
on. Fast. So I can take you home and get you out of them.” He leaned forward,
bringing his lips to her ear, cradling her head in his hands. “If you ever
scare me like that again, so help me—”

She pulled
away. “Lorna. I don’t know her last name, but Sarah or Maggie will. She’s the
killer. You have to find her.”