I swatted Yoder’s hand from my shoulder.
“The gunshot patient in there.” Tipping my head toward Tinker. “What’s the story?”
“You work with that psycho detective.”
“What happened to that man?”
“Tell the jerk to lay off.”
“That patient is a field agent with the SBI. How was he shot?”
Yoder just stared.
A hundredth of a second slipped by. A tenth.
I grabbed Yoder’s arm, hard. “I know you’re a snoop.” Vise-gripping the flabby flesh. “What’s the word, gossip boy?”
“You people are all nuts.” Yoder tried to turn. I yanked him back.
“How. Was. He. Shot?” I hissed.
“You’re hurting me.”
“Call a nurse.” My fingers clamped tighter.
“All I heard is another cop did it.”
My mouth went dry. I swallowed.
Another tick of the clock.
Forget Slidell. Mary Louise needs you.
With my free hand, I yanked the picture of Tawny McGee from my pocket and held it up. “Point me to her.”
Yoder glanced at the image. “She’s not here.”
Dear God, I’m right.
“Santos at the front desk says otherwise.”
“Santos is clueless what goes on back here.”
“You’re sure?” Clutching the paper so hard it crumpled.
“I told you—” Whiny.
My nails dug deep into the mushy biceps.
“I’m sure.”
I could hear my breath in the quiet of the car. Blood pounding in my ears.
I sat a moment studying the scene. The algae-coated brick. The rusty fences and awnings. The stunted concrete slabs.
Nothing moved but the rain. Which was falling harder now, drumming a tattoo on the car hood and roof.
I got out and scurried under the towering trees. Pushed into the lobby.
Not a single magazine lay on the tile.
Ring her bell? A neighbor’s? Think!
No time.
I hurried outside and across the soggy lawn. Threw a leg over the railing and dropped onto the patio. Squatted and put my face to the milky glass.
Light seeped from a hallway running from the back of the apartment, feeble, barely penetrating the gloom. I could make out the silhouettes of a sofa, chair, and TV stenciled in the darkness cramming the room.
I reached up and tried the door. To my surprise, its latch disengaged, and it hopped a few inches across the track. The sound was like thunder cracking in the stillness. I froze.
Wheels whooshed wetly on the street at my back. A dog barked. Its owner whistled and the animal went quiet.
From the apartment’s interior, an ocean of silence.
Was Mary Louise in there? Was my quarry? Did her twisted ritual involve some prelude that was buying us time? How long would it last? Was the child already dead?
Wait for Hull? I’d given her the address, but she wasn’t here yet.
Move!
Pushing with both palms, I eased the door six inches more. Waited, senses alert to the tiniest nuance. Then, still crouching, I scuttled inside.
Like an animal seeking cover, I darted into a corner. Blinked to adjust my eyes. Listened.
Nothing but the hum of a motor. The hammering of my heart.
I rose and pressed my back to a wall. Slid to the hallway and peeked around the corner.
Two yards ahead, a bathroom, empty and dark. The light was coming from a door on the left.
My adrenaline-stoked brain flashed a rational thought. I had no weapon. No way to defend myself should she be armed.
Heart banging, I backtracked through the living room and into the kitchen. A window above the sink oozed a fuzzy peach quadrangle onto the porcelain. Streetlight. Odd, but some tangle of cells made note.
The first drawer held towels, the second a jumble of cooking utensils. I cautiously rifled among them.
Bingo. A paring knife.
Ever so gently, I teased it free and set it on the counter.
Carefully digging out my phone, I tried to text Hull.
My fingers refused to obey my cortex. They felt numb. As though deadened by cold or anesthesia.
Shake it off!
Breath in.
Breath out.