“I’m fine!” she said. “Really.”
“We have to get you to the hospital, too. Get some samples of whatever that is—and get it off you,” an EMT said.
“Let’s go,” Devin told her.
“But...it isn’t any kind of acid. I’d know by now!” Vickie assured Devin and the others.
“I don’t think it is any kind of an acid,” Devin said.
“No,” an EMT agreed.
“What?”
“Can’t you smell it?” Devin asked.
“Smell it?” she murmured, frowning. And then she could.
She hadn’t before, because of the adrenaline running through her. Because of her focus and determination to catch the young woman.
But now she could smell the substance. Metallic and earthy.
And she could feel it soaking her clothing. Heavy and sticky.
And she knew what it was.
Blood.
And she was so very afraid...
That it was human.
5
Vickie knew that she was never going to feel clean enough—no matter what kind of a thermo-shower she was able to take at the hospital, no matter what kind of special anti-everything chemicals existed in the soap she was given.
The sticky red substance was blood.
And it was human.
On the one hand, what happened had provided authorities with an important lead.
There was a possibility that the forensic department might just find a match for that blood.
She had still been drenched in blood.
A very good thing was that the blood had been quickly tested, and by the time she’d gone through her cleansing ritual, she was relieved to learn that it was unlikely that she’d been exposed to any diseases of the blood, such as HIV, hepatitis C, malaria or other. There were still tests being done, and testing took time, but it looked as if she had been covered in the blood of a nicely healthy person.
Griffin had met them at the hospital; he’d spent his time switching between the different areas—the “containment” sector with Vickie, and to the emergency and then the intensive care unit to look over the young woman who had attacked her.
It had been stressful and frightening to Vickie, cleaning off the blood and wondering what might be in it.
Yet, all the while, she couldn’t help but worry and wonder about the redheaded woman. If she had just left her alone...
Vickie was finally clean—fully sanitized, really—and dressed and ready to leave. Devin had gone to her apartment for fresh clothing for her.
Griffin came toward her; they might have been standing in a hospital hallway, but he took her tightly in his arms and held her for a minute. She clung to him, and then she eased away.
“How is the redhead?” she asked.
“She’s hanging in. She’s fallen into a coma. I don’t pretend to know a great deal about the effects of cyanide poisoning, but the fact that she’s not dead—that you got enough of the poison out that she didn’t die instantly—bodes well for her. You and Devin did amazing work.”
Vickie shook her head. “It was instinct, I think. Maybe not in a good way. She threw something at me—I wanted to catch her. And, of course, I felt that I had to keep up with Devin.”
He smiled at that. “You two have a lot in common. She writes fun children’s books and you write for adults.”
“Not so fun, huh?” Vickie asked.
He laughed. “No, just more serious. Anyway, let’s head to ICU, and then, well, you have to be exhausted.”
“No police artists at night?” Vickie asked.
“You’re up to it?”
“Up to it? There was nothing wrong with me. I had a lot of baths. I’m good to go.”
“All right. Barnes is up in ICU. He’ll make arrangements.”
They headed to the ICU section. The redhead was behind glass, but they could join Rocky, Barnes and Devin, who were looking through the window.
The girl’s color was better; she wasn’t the wild, rash-riddled red she had been. She lay perfectly still, an IV in her arm, a machine at her side making a rhythmic sound, as if, with every droning pulse, it helped her breathe.
Barnes turned to look at Vickie. He was a good man; he’d become a friend, and it had meant a lot to her when he’d told her that he admired the way she had managed herself during the Undertaker case.
He shook his head. “Can’t stay out of it, huh?” he asked her.
“Hey. I was minding my own business,” she said.
“Actually, you were out questioning a pair of guitar-playing siblings regarding Alex’s disappearance,” Barnes reminded her.
“Well, according to Special Agent Lyle, this young woman approached the two of you and asked if you were Victoria Preston.”
Vickie nodded. Barnes looked at Griffin. “You two should have gotten down to Virginia,” he said gruffly.
“Detective,” Vickie said, touching his arm. “Griffin is an agent—he’d be called out on something no matter what.”
“Very strange people might not, however, be asking for you by name,” Barnes said.
And that, of course, was true.
“Vickie still wants to work with the police artist,” Griffin said.
“There’s a young man already here,” Barnes said. He cleared his throat. “We’ve taken some pictures of this young lady, but since we don’t know when...or if...she’ll recover, we’ve had an artist portray her for the newspapers and the media. Hopefully, we’ll be able to find out who she is.” He shook his head with wonder. “It’s pretty amazing that you and Special Agent Lyle were able to save her. Anyway, the artist is downstairs in one of the waiting rooms.”
Vickie nodded, but she kept staring at the girl on the bed.
“Hey, we’re going to keep someone guarding her, but the group of us watching her is not going to change her condition,” Griffin said firmly. “Come on. Let’s see the artist.”
He set a hand on her shoulder and led her out of the ICU and down to the waiting room. It was empty. Griffin saw the coffee machine and prepared cups for the two of them. Vickie sat nervously and waited for him, accepting the cup of coffee as he joined her.
“It’s been such a strange day!” she told him. “I can’t begin to understand. Sure, Devin and I went after her, but...she hadn’t done anything that would have sent her away for her whole life or anything. Why would she want to die? Or, more to the point, how could she be so willing to give it all up—to thrust that pill into her mouth? I just don’t get it. I can’t help but wonder what good we’re doing, if trying to catch these people is causing them to commit suicide.”
“First off,” Griffin said, “we can’t control what other people might choose to do. But it’s my job to stop people who might harm others. I’m sorry as hell that I couldn’t prevent Darryl Hillford putting a pill in his mouth, but I can’t be sorry that I went after him.”
“But...suicide!”
He sighed. “Most of us can’t begin to understand something so...sad. But we are human, and humans believe all kinds of things. And we are frail. Maybe there were threats, maybe promises of grand rewards. Then there’s brainwashing—the effects are real. We haven’t even scratched the surface here. But we can hope that this girl lives. If she’d just thrown blood at you, run away and escaped, we might have had to wonder if it was a separate occurrence—you know, maybe an extreme critic who really hated your books.”
He offered her a dry smile.
She punched him in the shoulder.
“Seriously, because of you and Devin catching her, we know that this young woman is part of the cult, whatever it may be. If she wakes up, she’ll be our best lead. We may also discover something through the blood that she threw on you.” He paused. “That was a lot of blood,” he said quietly.
“So much that the person who supplied it is...dead?”
“I don’t really know. But—”
“Agent Pryce? Ms. Preston?”
Griffin stood and Vickie leaped up.
The officer entering the room was about six feet even with brown hair, brown eyes and an easy manner.
“I’m Officer Jim Tracy.” He shook hands with both of them before indicating that they should take their seats again.