hallway.
“Wait—give me your phone number,” Jo said.
Misty stopped, found a piece of scratch paper, and scribbled on it. “My new cell number. Call me anytime. Day or night.”
She turned and rushed down the hall, swerving around an orderly pushing an elderly man in a wheelchair. Jo heard her break into tears.
She watched her flee, thinking, What the hell? She ran a hand through her hair. Exhaling, she walked back around the corner.
Simioni was nowhere in sight, but Officer Paterson was at the nurses’ station. She walked over and offered an apologetic smile.
“On the plane, I may have seemed more concerned about Kanan than about you. Is your elbow all right?” she said.
“Fine. Thanks.” His baby face looked tired. “It’s time to read Kanan his rights.”
“You can read him his rights. He’ll understand them. And five minutes later he won’t remember that you’ve done it.”
“Head injuries can make people violent. He may lash out again. He should be restrained.”
Next verse, same as the first. “Give me some time—”
“You’ve had time.”
She put up her hands, knowing she’d pushed it as far as she could. Beyond Paterson she saw Simioni walking up the hallway. He was carrying a backpack and a package wrapped in bubble wrap.
He set them on the counter. “Kanan’s carry-on, plus one of the daggers he brought back. Recognize the type?”
Paterson’s face took on a look of utter incredulity. He shook his head at Jo. “What did you say to me back at the airport—‘How nuts, and what kind?’ Wrong question. It’s who’s nuts. And the answer is you doctors. Kanan should be in a straitjacket.”
Jo opened her mouth to snark back, and her phone rang. The ringtone consisted of a death-metal lick and a singer screaming, “ Psychosocial .” She grabbed it and turned away from Paterson and Simioni’s horrified faces.
She saw the display, and her face flushed. She answered quietly. “Call you back?”
Gabe Quintana said, “Day or night. You know how to find me.”
“Great.” She hung up, heart kicking, and turned back around. “Sorry.”
Paterson huffed a breath from beneath his form-fitting uniform shirt. “Is Kanan stable?”
“That’s a relative term,” Simioni said. “But his life is not at risk right now.”
“I need to place him under arrest.”
Jo acquiesced. Kanan would have to deal with it. “You’re not taking him to the jail tonight. He’s been admitted to the hospital.”
“Understood. But I need to go through the formalities.”
Reluctantly, Jo and Simioni accompanied Paterson to Kanan’s E.R. room. Paterson opened the door.
Kanan was gone.
7
“D amn it.” Paterson grabbed his radio and stalked down the hall.
Kanan was gone, along with the things that had been on the bedside chair: his jacket, wallet, and passport. Crumpled on the floor by the bed was a blue tartan scarf that matched Misty Kanan’s skirt. Jo picked it up. A bubble-wrapped package sat on the visitors’ chair, ripped open. Simioni hurriedly checked inside.
“Sword’s here,” he said. “Dagger . . .”
In the hallway an orderly was passing by. Jo caught him. “Did you see a man leave this room? Rusty hair, pale blue eyes?”
“Couple minutes ago. He came out, asked me if I’d seen the woman who was here before.”
“His wife?”
“Tartan skirt, nice looking?”
“Yes.”
“Told him I saw her head that way.” He nodded down the hall.
The cop had gone the opposite direction. Jo turned to Simioni. “Get Paterson.”
She rushed down the hall in the direction the orderly had indicated. Kanan couldn’t have gotten far. She silently berated herself. Kanan had repeatedly insisted that he wanted to leave. She shouldn’t have presumed that Simioni and Paterson were watching him.
What was driving Kanan to split?
Pop quiz: Business trip, poison, and weaponry—which ones don’t go with “corporate babysitter”?
She reached the end of the hall and pushed
“Wait—give me your phone number,” Jo said.
Misty stopped, found a piece of scratch paper, and scribbled on it. “My new cell number. Call me anytime. Day or night.”
She turned and rushed down the hall, swerving around an orderly pushing an elderly man in a wheelchair. Jo heard her break into tears.
She watched her flee, thinking, What the hell? She ran a hand through her hair. Exhaling, she walked back around the corner.
Simioni was nowhere in sight, but Officer Paterson was at the nurses’ station. She walked over and offered an apologetic smile.
“On the plane, I may have seemed more concerned about Kanan than about you. Is your elbow all right?” she said.
“Fine. Thanks.” His baby face looked tired. “It’s time to read Kanan his rights.”
“You can read him his rights. He’ll understand them. And five minutes later he won’t remember that you’ve done it.”
“Head injuries can make people violent. He may lash out again. He should be restrained.”
Next verse, same as the first. “Give me some time—”
“You’ve had time.”
She put up her hands, knowing she’d pushed it as far as she could. Beyond Paterson she saw Simioni walking up the hallway. He was carrying a backpack and a package wrapped in bubble wrap.
He set them on the counter. “Kanan’s carry-on, plus one of the daggers he brought back. Recognize the type?”
Paterson’s face took on a look of utter incredulity. He shook his head at Jo. “What did you say to me back at the airport—‘How nuts, and what kind?’ Wrong question. It’s who’s nuts. And the answer is you doctors. Kanan should be in a straitjacket.”
Jo opened her mouth to snark back, and her phone rang. The ringtone consisted of a death-metal lick and a singer screaming, “ Psychosocial .” She grabbed it and turned away from Paterson and Simioni’s horrified faces.
She saw the display, and her face flushed. She answered quietly. “Call you back?”
Gabe Quintana said, “Day or night. You know how to find me.”
“Great.” She hung up, heart kicking, and turned back around. “Sorry.”
Paterson huffed a breath from beneath his form-fitting uniform shirt. “Is Kanan stable?”
“That’s a relative term,” Simioni said. “But his life is not at risk right now.”
“I need to place him under arrest.”
Jo acquiesced. Kanan would have to deal with it. “You’re not taking him to the jail tonight. He’s been admitted to the hospital.”
“Understood. But I need to go through the formalities.”
Reluctantly, Jo and Simioni accompanied Paterson to Kanan’s E.R. room. Paterson opened the door.
Kanan was gone.
7
“D amn it.” Paterson grabbed his radio and stalked down the hall.
Kanan was gone, along with the things that had been on the bedside chair: his jacket, wallet, and passport. Crumpled on the floor by the bed was a blue tartan scarf that matched Misty Kanan’s skirt. Jo picked it up. A bubble-wrapped package sat on the visitors’ chair, ripped open. Simioni hurriedly checked inside.
“Sword’s here,” he said. “Dagger . . .”
In the hallway an orderly was passing by. Jo caught him. “Did you see a man leave this room? Rusty hair, pale blue eyes?”
“Couple minutes ago. He came out, asked me if I’d seen the woman who was here before.”
“His wife?”
“Tartan skirt, nice looking?”
“Yes.”
“Told him I saw her head that way.” He nodded down the hall.
The cop had gone the opposite direction. Jo turned to Simioni. “Get Paterson.”
She rushed down the hall in the direction the orderly had indicated. Kanan couldn’t have gotten far. She silently berated herself. Kanan had repeatedly insisted that he wanted to leave. She shouldn’t have presumed that Simioni and Paterson were watching him.
What was driving Kanan to split?
Pop quiz: Business trip, poison, and weaponry—which ones don’t go with “corporate babysitter”?
She reached the end of the hall and pushed
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