Twisted and Tied (Marshals 4) - Page 90

“The fuck happened?” Ian grumbled as he walked up beside me. “I left you with a perfectly happy woman, and now look at her. What’d you do?”

“I didn’t do anything. She’s a crybaby,” I told him, and she laughed and hiccupped before ordering me to find the Kleenex in her purse.

As soon as I had it, Ian snatched it from me and then held a tissue over her nose so she could blow. It was adorable. We got on the plane fifteen minutes later.

THE PLANE ride was an hour and fifty minutes, and as predicted, Catherine was there when we walked out of the terminal. She ran to Aruna and grabbed her, and as they hugged, I got ready to be next. But she lunged for Ian as soon as she was released, and what started out awkward changed to him holding her like she would break in seconds.

“I knew Miro would come,” she said, sobbing into his sweater. “But I wasn’t sure you would. Thank you, Ian, I’ll never forget this.”

She and Ian would be different going forward, closer, and I was so much more than pleased.

In the line at the car rental, Ian explained his plan.

“Miro, you and Catherine go get Janet out. Me and Aruna will get the baby.”

“So we need two cars,” I told him.

“We have two cars,” he assured me.

“She really is just terrifying,” Aruna said with a whistle, referring to Min again.

After stopping quickly at a copy shop on the way to the facility to print out the paperwork Min sent, we reached the very-high-end rehabilitation center just after ten in the morning.

“I wonder why us,” I said absently to Catherine.

“What?” she asked, getting out of the Cadillac Escalade we’d paid for the upgrade on, since Catherine refused to ride in the Dodge Dart the guy at the Enterprise counter tried to give us. She looked stunning, I noticed, hair swept up, diamond studs in, Dolce&Gabbana black power suit and sunglasses on, black clutch tucked under her arm.

“You look kinda scary.”

“You look like you’re ready for a day of antiquing.”

I scowled.

“But to your question,” she said as we began toward the front door, her black Louboutin heels sliding over the gravel as she walked. “I’m a doctor, so me at the mental health facility makes sense, and Janet will want to see you first. I just hope when Ian kicks down the door of Janet and Ned’s place that he doesn’t scare the crap out of everyone. He can be a bit—intense.”

“He can be, yes.”

“But perhaps, in this instance, that’s what’s needed.”

At the front desk—it was more like a five-star hotel inside than what I was expecting—a woman smiled at us.

“Hello,” Catherine greeted. “We need to speak to the doctor in charge, as well as to one of your patients who we have an order of release for.”

“I’m sorry, but—”

“Ma’am,” I said, stepping forward, holding up my credentials, “deputy US marshal. I’m afraid I’m going to need to insist.”

And with that little, she went from combative to helpful. This was the nation’s capital, after all; they knew how to obey people with badges.

Catherine went to the office with the doctor on duty, Dr. Abbott, who seemed more than a little blown away by one of the top neurosurgeons in the country striding through the corridors of his facility. Did it make sense? No. But Catherine was using her big words, her smile, the feeling of money that oozed off her, and the hard click of her heels on the floor as she walked to intimidate the man but good.

I followed a nurse and two orderlies. “It must be hard, coming here every day.”

“The hard part is when you meet people who have no support systems,” the nurse told me. “People who’ve had their families turn their backs on them for whatever reason—that’s what breaks my heart.”

I cleared my throat. “I have a new job with the marshals service working with kids.”

She reached out and patted my arm. “Oh, then you understand how I feel. When there’s no one for your kids, you’re going to have a heck of a time, but just remember, never stop trying and never stop caring, that’s my motto.”

“It’s a good motto.”

Her smile was bright. “You don’t get into this line of work, or yours, I suspect, unless you’re a fighter—am I right?”

“You are.”

At Janet’s door, the bigger orderly gestured for me to go ahead and open the door.

“It’s not locked?”

“No, of course not,” he said. “That’s not the kind of facility we’re running here. She can leave her room, just not the building.”

I opened the door and found Janet sitting up on a made bed she clearly had not slept in, legs crossed, breathing deeply in and out.

She was dressed as she’d probably been at home, in yoga pants, socks, a Lululemon short-sleeved shirt, and a large sweater coat with pockets. Her bright red hair was tied back in a messy ponytail, and when she saw me, her face went from slack and ashen to infused with light.

Tags: Mary Calmes Marshals Crime
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