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Where the hell was her contact list? Her brain was taking too long to process anything that wasn’t blind terror. The screen swam in front of her eyes, and she realized that tears of fear and frustration were threatening to spill over. Shit. If she cried, it would contaminate the evidence.
She had to pull herself together. Clear the fog. Get angry.
Because how dare this monster put his hands on her? How dare he wait until she was passed out and alone to do it? Completely defenseless. Vulnerable. This was a brazen taunt. A message. He could get to anyone—even a police officer—anywhere, any time and no one could stop him.
Josie had had enough of this bullshit.
Her thumb stabbed at the icons on her phone until her contact list finally came up. At the top was a selection of favorites with gold stars beside their names. They were in alphabetical order. She meant to tap Dispatch but with the tremor in her hand, she hit Douchebag instead.
“Quinn,” Kyle Turner answered after two rings. “What are you—”
“Where are you?” she demanded. God, she sounded like a dying frog.
“Where am I? Why are you even calling me? Gretchen told me about your shoulder. Aren’t you supposed to be—”
“Shut up,” Josie said. The dizziness returned. She needed to get back to the bed before she passed out. “Just shut up. I’ll give you a dollar. Fifty dollars. Just shut up. I’m at the hospital and I need you here now.”
Turner was completely silent on the other end.
“You can call everyone on your way,” Josie continued. “Just come to the emergency room now. Please, Turner.”
More silence. Then, in a voice she recognized from when his family had been missing—one of complete seriousness—he said, “I’ll be there in five.”
Josie’s whole body was covered in sweat by the time she got herself back onto the gurney. Chills rushed over her but she didn’t have the energy to pull the covers up. Soon, Turner’s voice rose over the din of the busy department. He must have been talking to someone.
“Detective Josie Quinn,” he said. “She’s here somewhere. She just called me. Josie Quinn. Look it the hell up.”
A female voice stammered, “If you—you would just wait—wait a minute, I—”
Turner started bellowing Josie’s name. The hall quieted enough for her to call back. “In here.”
He threw the curtain open. “Jesus, Quinn. What the hell is going on? Are you dying or someth—”
His words cut off as he took her in. He froze. Josie didn’t think she’d ever seen him so still. A nurse bumped into him from behind. It seemed to snap him out of his paralysis. Spinning on his heel, he shouted at her, “Code Silver. Code Silver.”
Josie recognized the hospital code for someone with a weapon, a hostage situation or an active shooter. This wasn’t any of those situations but there wasn’t a code for a serial killer sneaking into a patient cubicle and leaving his mark on a sleeping police officer.
The nurse’s mouth dropped open. Turner already had his credentials out. “Code Silver,” he repeated, shoving them in her face. “Get it over the PA or send out the alert to the staff phones. Whatever you have to do, but lock this place down right now.”
With a curt nod, she sprinted away. Tugging his beard hard, Turner stalked toward Josie, looking her over from head to toe, worry flashing in his deep blue eyes.
“He didn’t hurt me,” she gestured to her mouth, “just this.”
“Don’t talk. Try not to move your mouth at all until I get Hummel out here. Palmer and Fraley are on their way. I didn’t know what to tell them. Just that you sounded like something was wrong. Can you walk?”
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I’m dizzy and I feel so tired.”
She hated showing vulnerability or weakness to anyone, most of all Turner, but she took comfort in the fact that only a month ago, he’d let her see all his broken pieces.
“I need a wheelchair over here,” he hollered into the hallway.
The staff must have found him particularly commanding because a petrified nurse appeared with an empty wheelchair in record time. Turner shooed her away and pushed it over to the gurney, squatting to put the brakes on. “Get in,” he said. “You’re not leaving my sight until we find this bastard.”
Forty-Three
Through one of her first-floor windows, he saw the flicker of her television. She was asleep in her armchair. He watched her for a long time, debating whether to wake her up or sneak inside. When he realized he’d been standing outside like a peeping tom for far too long, he decided to sneak in. It would be easier.
The entire thing should have been easier.
