‘He’s dying!’ somebody called, nodding at the orderly. One of the male passengers suddenly snapped and lunged forward, stepped on a fellow occupant, a petite woman, and boosted himself up. ‘I need out, I need out! Now!’ He grabbed Dance’s collar, trying to pull himself out. Still, he tugged fiercely. Dance screamed as her head was jammed into the gap, the metal ceiling of the car cutting into her cheek.
‘No, listen!’
But he wasn’t listening.
‘Stop!’
She felt the growing strains of panic grip her. She began pounding the man’s hand. Useless. Her head, sideways, was partly inside now, wedged completely still. She was feeling dizzy from the fumes and the dismal air. And that unbearable feeling of being unable to move. She tasted blood, dripping from the gash into her mouth.
Jesus …
No choice.
Sorry.
Dance reared her head back, clamped her teeth around the man’s thumb and, tasting blood and tobacco, bit down hard with her molars.
He screamed and released her.
‘That man!’ she shouted, pointing to the orderly. ‘Get him over here.’
Several of the passengers grabbed the man’s collar and waist and pulled him off the floor. Then, together, they all handed him overhead, mosh-pit style. Dance gestured for two medics from Emergency to help and together they boosted the man up to the gap and got him out.
One ER worker said, ‘We’ll get him downstairs.’ They placed him on a gurney and sprinted away.
Michael O’Neil came running up. ‘Fire’s out in the basement. You all right?’ He frowned, looking at her face.
‘Fine.’
Dance peered back into the car. Brother. She shouted over her shoulder, ‘How long till we can raise the car?’
‘Fifteen, twenty minutes, I’d guess,’ the maintenance man said.
‘Okay, then we need an ob-gyn here. Now.’
‘I’ll get one,’ a male nurse behind her called.
Dance added, ‘And make it the skinniest one you’ve got on staff.’
CHAPTER 65
Dance said, ‘I should’ve thought more clearly. This unsub … he’s too fucking smart.’
A word that rarely escaped her lips.
They were in the lobby of the hospital, waiting for the Monterey County Crime Scene Unit officers to report what they’d found in the elevator motor room, the car itself and the pit in the basement.
After the Honda had started to burn in earnest and the officers had raced into the inn, Dance had checked two exit doors, found them unencumbered – and paused. She looked over the establishment.
‘No,’ she’d muttered. The inn was one story and, though built into a hill, the incline was minimal. To escape, all you had to do was pitch a chair through a window and step outside, safe as long as you minded the broken glass.
Then she’d noted the smoke wafting into the woods and had seen, behind them, the hospital.
She’d said to O’Neil, ‘I don’t think it’s the inn that’s his target.’
‘What then?’
‘Hospital.’
He’d considered this. ‘A lot of exits.’
She’d suggested that he might hit a closed-off interior area. ‘Surgical suite?’
‘There wouldn’t be enough people for a stampede. Good security. And—’
‘Cafeteria? Waiting room.’ Then: ‘Elevator.’
O’Neil’d said, ‘That’s it.’
And they’d started jogging along the quarter-mile path that led to the hospital.
Now, in the third-floor lobby by the elevator, a nurse wandered up the hall. ‘You’re Special Agent Dance?’
‘That’s right.’
‘You wanted to know. You asked earlier? The baby’s fine. A girl. Mother has a broken arm – somebody stepped on it – but she’ll be okay. She asked for your name. I think she wants to thank you. Can I give it to her?’
Dance handed her a card, wondering if the newborn was about to get a different given name than Mom and Dad had originally planned.
‘And the orderly?’
‘Heimlich didn’t work – not with cloth stuck in the windpipe. But we did a tracheotomy. Looks like he swallowed it himself. Attempted suicide. He’ll be okay. He’s pretty shaken up. Claustrophobia’s his big fear.’
A doctor, a tall African American, approached. He examined her cheek. ‘Not too bad.’ He offered her an antiseptic pad. She thanked him, tore it open and pressed the cloth against the cut, wincing at the brief pain. ‘I’ll bandage it up, you want.’
‘I’ll see. Maybe I’ll come by the ER later. Thanks.’
O’Neil’s phone rang. He took the call. After disconnecting, he said, ‘Downstairs. Crime Scene’s released the basement. There isn’t much. But I’m going to take a look. You want to come?’
Just then her phone hummed. She glanced at it. ‘You go on. I’ll be a minute.’ She answered. ‘Mags.’
‘Mom.’
‘Everything all right?’
‘Yeah, yeah. Fine. I finished the book report. It’s five pages.’
‘Good. We’ll go over it when I’m home.’
‘Mom.’
Of course she’d known there was another agenda. No child calls about book reports. No hurry. Give her time.
‘What, hons?’
‘Mom, I was thinking?’
‘Yes, wonderful child?’
‘I think I’ll sing at the show, the talent show. I think I want to.’
Dance gave it a moment. ‘Do you really want to?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Why’d you change your mind?’
‘I don’t know. I just did.’
‘And this’s something you really want to do?’
‘Cross my heart.’
Those words tend to be an indicator of deception. But the fact that she was going to sing even if she didn’t want to wasn’t necessarily bad. It’s a positive developmental step toward adulthood to take on a challenge even if you’d rather not.
‘That’s great, honey. Everybody’ll love to hear you. All right, good. I’m proud of you.’
‘I’m going to go practice now.’
‘Don’t overdo your voice. You probably know the song backwards by now. Hey, honey, is Jon there?’
‘No, just Grandpa and me.’
‘Okay. I’ll see you soon.’
‘Bye.’
‘Love you.’
Where was Boling? Lost in the world of supercomputers, she guessed, still trying to crack the code of Stan Prescott’s computer and the mobile that the unsub had dropped in Orange County. But his not calling? That was odd.
Dance turned to see her mother walking quickly toward