Killer Move

I got my shirt off and wiped as best I could. It wasn’t good enough. I wrenched myself over the seat, found a sweatshirt in the back, the one I used after the gym. I put that on and then tracked down a half bottle of old, warm mineral water under the passenger seat. Steph was always on my case about not remembering to throw the things in the trash. I was glad of it now. I got out of the car and deployed the water carefully, using the blood-stained shirt to scrub. Some blood had dried under my nails and I couldn’t get it out, but I soon decided I’d spent enough time. Only then did I realize there was blood down my trousers, too. I seemed incapable of seeing anything that wasn’t right in front of my face. And maybe not just recently, either.

I couldn’t do anything about the pants. I’d just have to hope that no one noticed. I shoved the gun into the footwell and dropped the shirt onto it, folding it so the bloodstains didn’t show. I knew I needed to get rid of the weapon, but also felt that I had to do it properly—it would now have my fingerprints on it, making it even easier for Barclay to tell bizarre lies about me.

Usually there’s a crew of die-hard smokers ganged up around the side entrance of hospitals, but either Sarasota Memorial operated a shoot-on-sight policy or they’d migrated around the front to rubberneck current events. On the way up from the house I’d tuned to local radio news but learned little I didn’t already know. One dead from gunfire, two seriously wounded, all other injuries sustained while members of the public tried to escape from danger that would never have even come their way if they’d just sat tight. The police were not yet releasing the names of the dead and wounded. I wondered who was holding the fort down there, with Hallam dead and Barclay focusing on a different business. I considered calling the news station and telling them to send someone to my house, but threw the idea away. I didn’t care what happened about all that. I cared only about the woman inside the building I was running toward.

The ground floor was in barely contained chaos. More newspeople. More paramedics. A lot of people who were presumably friends or relatives of either long-term or recent inhabitants. Raised voices, lots of people talking on cell phones. I dodged into the thickest part of the crowd, hoping the bodies would cover the state of my clothes, trying not to look like the only person with a clear mission. It was slow going, and when I finally got close to the junction near where the bank of elevators stood, I saw I had a further problem. I swore, the crack in my voice startling people nearby.

There were cops all over the corridor. They seemed to be there to limit access to the elevators—presumably to stop newspeople from getting up to the ICU. The cops looked harried and stretched. I assumed these were Sarasota cops, not directly tied to Barclay, but couldn’t be sure. It could have been my imagination, but I thought I saw one of them scanning the crowds, looking for someone in particular. Maybe me. Maybe not.

I faded back into the mass of bodies. I was buffeted by the crowd meanwhile, pushed diagonally back into the hallway I’d just come along. More in hope than expectation I got out my phone and speed-dialed Steph’s cell. I’d called her room before, but maybe . . .

No reply. I turned and started pushing back the other way, seized by an idea.

I found a stairwell back near the side entrance, with flights going up and down. Nobody was guarding it. I didn’t imagine it would be long before the cops had the sense to plug this hole, so I ran up the stairs as fast as I could.

I burst out of the doors on the third floor and ran along the corridor. I blew straight into the reception area I’d visited that morning—dropping the pace down to fast walk, but still moving fast. There were a lot of doctors and nurses, people talking in hushed tones. Presumably most of the injured were up here in the ICU.

I heard someone else say—“The shooter. Thirty seconds ago. Crash team’s coming up.”

Through the white doors on the other side of the room it was quieter, a few people standing looking through windows in various degrees of unhappy. I ran to the end and yanked open the door to Steph’s room.

The bed was empty.

It was empty and in disarray, however, and the room didn’t look like it had been cleared in preparation for a new patient. Chanting the word no under my breath over and over, I darted across and checked the cabinet by the bed. Medicines, a spare gown. And Stephanie’s purse.

So where was she?

Had someone got here before I did?

I couldn’t find any sign of her clothes, which I hoped was a good thing. I ran back into the corridor, nearly colliding with a man in a white coat. Recognition cut in and we swung back to face each other. It was the doctor I’d talked to that morning.

“Where is she?” he demanded angrily.

“You’re asking me?”

“You don’t know?”