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He got the door open, then jammed his foot in to keep it ajar. He pulled out his orderly uniform and a clipboard, which had printed pages of blank but authentic medical forms on it—again, thanks to Ryan. He tossed his backpack behind the bushes.
A minute later, he was inside.
It was eight o’clock—too late for dinner, too early for sleep. The patients were either in the dayroom, watching TV, or in their bedrooms, preparing for bed.
The very areas Marc planned on exploring.
He saved the dayroom for last, since that would be the most difficult place to maneuver. There was bound to be staff inside, which meant he’d have to be seen and hope that the entire staff wasn’t familiar with one another and, as a result, recognize him as a stranger.
He went up a flight of stairs and down Hall B—the section Ryan had reported housed the patients with specialized medical needs—needs that an Alzheimer’s victim would have. It was a crapshoot. Then again, this entire venture was a crapshoot.
He walked purposefully, clipboard in hand, as if he had someplace to be. A few staff members passed him in the hall, but no one did anything more than smile and nod. He returned the gesture. Every room he passed, he glanced quickly inside, taking an instant mental picture of the occupant. No luck. He continued around the bend and finished his search. Still nothing. He even doubled back to see if he had missed something. There wasn’t a single patient who even resembled Linda Turner.
He had two choices: try another wing or risk the dayroom in that section of the facility.
Trusting Ryan’s assessment, he went for the dayroom. It was situated in such a way that told him it was only for those patients who occupied Hall B.
Pushing open the door, he stepped inside.
There were half-a-dozen patients gathered around the TV, which was anchored halfway up the wall so everyone could see it. There were another half dozen sitting at the panorama of windows, staring vacantly across the dark lawn. And there were two nurses in the back, keeping a close eye on everyone.
Seeing Marc, one of the nurses spoke up immediately. “Yes?”
“Hi.” Marc shot them an easy smile, his gaze sweeping the room in one comprehensive motion. “I was told to check and see if there were any new dietary restrictions I should report to the kitchen staff before breakfast.”
The nurse turned to her companion, eyebrows raised quizzically. “Anything I’m not aware of?”
The other nurse shook her head. “Everything is status quo.”
“Great,” Marc replied. “I appreciate it.” A rueful look, and another sweep of the room, this time concentrating on the patients at the window. “After a bunch of last-minute changes, it’s a pleasure to find at least one status quo.”
He’d found a lot more than that.
Sitting at the window, her face angled toward Marc, was Linda Turner. He recognized her instantly from Ryan’s enhanced photo. The bone structure. The sharp features. The facial expression. The salt-and-pepper hair. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind. They’d found the one they were looking for.
Their long shot had paid off.
“I’ll be heading off for my next meal check,” Marc told the nurses, exhaling a frustrated breath. “Night shifts suck.”
“Tell us about it,” the first nurse said drily.
With a grimace of camaraderie, Marc and his clipboard left the room.
In theory, his job here was done. Still, the more information he could give Ryan, the better.
There was a supply room across the hall. Marc slipped inside, shut the door all but an inch, and waited.
His efforts were rewarded about a half hour later, when the nurses began to escort the patients to their rooms for the night. They worked in shifts, walking some of the patients back two at a time, some of the more mobile patients in groups of three.
Linda Turner was among the second duo to be guided to her room. Marc waited until the nurses were halfway down the hall before he eased the closet door open wider. He watched carefully, counting the number of doorways the nurses passed before leading Linda into her quarters.
Sixth room on the right.
He went back into hiding, waiting until he heard the nurses’ voices, chatting with each other about the great new restaurant that had opened in town, their voices growing more and more distant as they left the area and went back to the nurses’ station.
When there was nothing but silence, Marc emerged.
He inched his way down the hall to Linda Turner’s room and looked at the slot beside the door. Fitted in the slot was a cardboard tab with the patient’s name on it. Lorna Werner.
