Grayson barely held on to his temper. “Just because it’s the same caliber bullet doesn’t necessarily mean—”
Santana’s eyes snapped fire. “Like hell.”
“Let’s go!” Spitzer was trying to grab Santana’s arm and shepherd him out the door, but he yanked himself free of her grasp.
“Find her,” he rasped to Grayson, pointing a long, bloody finger at the sheriff. “You damned well find her.”
“We will.” Grayson’s voice was cold steel.
“I mean, before it’s too late and some idiot like Ivor runs across her out in the woods, dead and naked against a goddamned tree!” He brushed off Spitzer’s repeated attempts to corral him, then turned and headed out the back door. His shoulders were stiff, his jaw set, his boot heels ringing with determination.
Alvarez watched him go. No way was Santana going to sit tight and let the professionals do their jobs. She’d seen his rock-s
olid conviction to do things his own way in the angle of his chin, the glitter in his eyes, and the determination that flattened his lips over his teeth.
The loner was going to try and take justice into his own hands.
“He’s a rogue,” she said just as Grayson’s cell rang, and he nodded as he took the call. She walked to the window and watched Santana climbing into the truck with the dog. If the rifle used this morning at his employer’s house was the same as the one
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that had shot out the tire of Pescoli’s Jeep, then Santana was in the thick of it. His boss. His girlfriend. But you saw how upset he was about Pescoli. He’s not the killer.
“What . . . Who? . . . Yeah, but wait. I’ll send Alvarez down, she can bring ’em up . . . What? Yeah, I know. Tell the press, I’ll give them a statement today, at the department . . . Hell, no, not now. I’ve got a meeting at four with the task force. After that. Closer to six. Maybe later. Whenever I’m done.” He snapped the phone off before whoever was on the other end of the connection could ask anything else, then he met the questions in Alvarez’s eyes.
“That was Connors at the gate. He’s got Clementine and her son freaking out, demanding to be let in. The television cameras are rolling, so let’s bring
’em up.”
“I’m on my way.”
“Are you sure she’s unaware of what we’re saying?”
the African-American psychologist asked Martha, the big floor nurse who had been at Mountain View for as long as Padgett could remember.
“Near comatose,” was the response. Martha had never been long on insight, just rolled in and did her job before clocking out, always leaving early. Jalicia Ramsby PhD frowned at the response. Well, really, it wasn’t very P.C. How did the fat slob of a nurse know anything about her? Padgett wondered, as she sat in the chair she’d claimed years before and rocked gently. Ostensibly she was staring out at the gray afternoon, her mind as blank as 198
Lisa Jackson
Martha believed, but she could see them behind her. They appeared ghostlike and washed out, their cellophane images seeming to float over the darkening landscape of lawns, hedges, and leafless trees in the grounds that surrounded Mountain View. Slowly fingering the rosary on her lap, as if she were praying, Padgett told herself she would have to be wary of the newcomer. Dr. Ramsby was slim, straightforward, and sharp, with close-cropped hair, coffee-colored skin, and big eyes that didn’t seem to miss much.
Head turned toward the window, Padgett moved her lips, as if in prayer, and kept her eyes blank, for she was certain Ramsby was watching her image in the glass, just as she was watching the psychologists. Oh what a devious game we play, Don’t we, Doctor? she thought but kept mouthing the familiar prayer.
“Our Father who art in heaven . . .” No sound escaped her lips and she noticed, in the sheer pane, Ramsby’s arched eyebrows come together, small lines radiating over her nose, red-tinted lips pursed in disbelief.
Why? Why didn’t this woman trust the diagnosis that had been with Padgett ever since she’d been helped over the threshold of this ancient and revered hospital?
Some of the best psychologists and psychiatrists had examined her. She remembered, though, the last one to show any true interest in her had been Dr. Maxwell, and his interest had dwindled quickly years before.
So why this new interloper?
Why now, when it was most important that she seem as dull as the bread pudding the unimaginative cooks served each Wednesday?
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