“Pray for him, Detective. That’s what I’m doing. He did find a love for God, you know, in the last few months.”
Jake nodded. He prayed, but he knew his prayers were different from those of the priest. He prayed only for Peter Bordon to live long enough to give justice a few answers.
At seven, Ashley could stand it no longer. She left Arne, Gwyn and the others at the table and went outside. Neither Jan nor Karen had arrived yet.
She felt someone standing behind her. Len. Unease swept over her as niggling suspicion found root.
“You know where she is! Len, you left with Karen from the hospital parking, you brought her home. You were in her house, and then you followed me when I went out there. Because you were afraid that I’d find something.” She was startled to find that she was having a hard time controlling her temper. She continued more evenly. “You touched everything in that house when you were in it with me, and that way, when her disappearance was investigated, there would be a reason your fingerprints were on everything. Where the hell is she, Len? What did you do to my friend?”
“What?” Len said, stiff and tense.
Other customers were arriving. People stopped to stare at her, and at Len. His cheeks were pink with embarrassment.
“Len, think about it. You look suspicious. Where is Karen, what did you do with her, where is her bo—where is she?”
Something in his eyes changed then.
And she thought that it was guilt. Fury and guilt. There was nothing he could do to her, because they were in a very public place.
“If you hurt her, you are one sick slime!” she accused him.
Then she felt the tap on her shoulder. She spun around and to her amazement, saw that Karen, as red-faced as Len, was staring at her.
“Ashley, I’m right here.”
Almost nine o’clock. Bordon remained unconscious. Jake rubbed the back of his neck. A different prison guard came in. Dr. Matthews had just been there, reading the chart, checking the IV. Bordon was still breathing; his heart was still beating.
Warden Thompson came through. “Detective, maybe you should get a hotel room for the night. Get yourself some real sleep for a few hours. If there’s any change at all, someone can call you.”
“If there’s any change at all and someone has to call me, it may be too late.”
Thompson nodded. “I understand.” He hesitated. “There will be a guard with you all night. If you need anything…”
“Thank you.”
So he sat. Exhausted, he tried to adjust his length to the hospital chair. There was no way to get comfortable in it. He’d sat awake many nights. This one just seemed longer than most. And more painful. Last night…
He’d been on the road. But the night before that he’d slept in his own bed. With Ashley at his side. In absolute comfort, red hair teasing his nose, his chest.
She was like a sudden flame in his life. She meant far too much to him, and he worried too much about her. Not that it mattered. She didn’t want to see him.
He flicked out her drawing again. The accident, the highway, the body.
The figure in black.
He reminded himself that it was a sketch, a quick sketch at that. But then, that was her talent. A few lines on a piece of paper, and everything seemed to be conveyed. The positions of the cars and the body. The broken, pitiful form on the asphalt.
And the figure in black. Just lines, pencil lines. But what he saw was eerily reminiscent of what he had seen all those years ago, visiting the property that had belonged to the People for Principle.
He stood, stretched, nodded to the prison guard and went out to the hallway. Late again, but Carnegie wouldn’t mind. He put through a call to the old cop.
Carnegie answered.
“Still at it?” Jake queried.
“Me? I hear you’ve been sitting in a hospital all day. It’s been all over the news, of course. Papa Pierre, one-time leader of the People for Principle, embezzler, tax evader…connected to the brutal slaying of three women, perhaps the prison mastermind behind the death of a fourth. Bordon still alive?”
“Just barely.”
“You may be wasting your time.”
“Yeah, I may be.”
“Well, I’ve got some good news from here.”
“Yeah?”
“Doctors say there are indications the Fresia boy might be coming out of it.”
“That’s great. Does Ashley Montague know?”
“Nathan Fresia called her, and a few people found out before we got it straight that we didn’t want anyone out there knowing his condition was improved. Of course, if one person knows…well, we’ve got men watching, day in and day out. And I’ve got an APB out on that so-called David Wharton fellow.”
“Carnegie, I’ve got something for you, too. It doesn’t quite add up yet, but I’ve got a sketch of the accident. And there’s someone standing on the side of the road, someone in a black hooded robe.”