It didn’t matter why he hadn’t limped before, he’d done so now and Becca had seen. She pitied him. So did Reitman and George. If his mom had any brain cells left, she might as well.
Owen had to get out of this room—recoup, regroup, recon.
“I’ll make that call.” He gimped his way into the hall.
Becca followed. “I could do it.”
“They aren’t going to tell you anything. Privacy rules.”
Her gaze flicked to the stairs, then back to him.
“I can manage the stairs, Becca. If I was that bad off don’t you think you’d have noticed I had a limp before now? In a few weeks I’ll be good as new. I just need more rest.”
“You aren’t getting any here.”
“Not today,” he agreed.
Thankfully the stairs wound upward, disappearing from view of the hallway after Owen had climbed the first three. Then he could start taking them with his good leg, pull the bad one up, use his good leg, pull the bad one up. Rather than alternating right, left, right, like the rest of the world.
Two miserable minutes later he reached the porch, wiped the sweat that had sprouted during the stair-climbing portion of the program from his brow, and called the mental health facility. He asked for Peggy Dalberg, his mother’s caseworker.
“Missing anyone?” he asked when she picked up the phone.
“How do you know?”
“Starin’ right at her.” Or close enough.
“Where?”
“Her house in Three Harbors.”
“She’s never gone there before.”
“What do you mean ‘before’?”
He had the presence of mind to lower his voice, rather than shouting like he wanted to. He didn’t need anyone else knowing about this.
“She’s escaped two times. Three if you count today.”
“And no one called me?”
“I thought you were in Afghanistan.”
“The phones still work.”
“What would you have done from there?”
“I still should have been told.”
“You would have been if we hadn’t found her fairly quickly. We always have.”
“How long has she been AWOL this time?”
“Late last night.”
“You’re sure?”
Peggy drew in a long breath. “Since she got all the way there, yes. Unless someone gave her a ride. We post signs on the highway that people shouldn’t, but no one reads as well as they should. Or maybe they don’t comprehend as well as we hope.”
Owen grunted. Preaching to the choir there. “From the looks of what’s left of her shoes, she walked.”
“She was definitely here at lights out.”
“Okay.” His mom was clear for the animal sacrifices, as Owen had found them yesterday afternoon. And, according to Peggy, she’d never come here before.
That they knew of.
“When was the last time she escaped?”
Papers rustled. “A month ago. Or near enough. Not unusual. The full moon is like that.”
“You lost me.”
“The full moon sets some people off.”
“Werewolves?”
She laughed. “Good one. Ask any nurse, psychiatric worker, cop, waitress about the full moon. Makes normal people twitchy. Makes twitchy people a lot twitchier.”
Owen would take her word for it.
“Has she always escaped on or near the full moon?”
Papers rustled again. “Yeah.”
“Where’s she gone the other times?”
“Small towns nearby. No rhyme or reason to them that we can tell. If she lived in any of them before, it isn’t in her record.”
“What are they?”
She ran through the names.
“Never heard of them.”
“We thought she was just running, trying to get as far away as she could. There were some issues with the voices, telling her things. You know how she is. But maybe she was trying to get home all the time and never made it until now.”
“How has she been escaping?”
“If we knew that, she wouldn’t be able to keep doing it. It’s like she’s being beamed out.”
Owen pulled the phone away from his ear, frowned at it, put it back. “Who is this?”
“Not funny,” she muttered.
“Neither are you. My mom is a danger to others, which is why she’s incarcerated.”
“I know why she’s incarcerated. I just don’t know how she’s getting out. It’s a little hard to get good information from people who think tinfoil hats are more than a shiny fashion statement.”
“What have they said?”
“Where do you think I got the ‘Beam me up, Scotty’ explanation?”
“Fair enough.”
There was still the issue of his mom trying to kill Reitman. That she’d called him a witch could not be an accident considering what was going on here, there, everywhere, not to mention that he was one, or thought he was. How had Mary McAllister known that? He doubted asking her would lead to a worthwhile answer.
“Anyone gibbering about witches?”
Silence fell. He could almost see Peggy gaping.
“Have you had someone check up on us?”
“Should I?”
“Feel free,” she said, unconcerned. Which went a long way toward his being the same. “Your mom made a new friend.”
“She has friends?”
“One. They share a common interest.”