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“It is the right size,” Elena said. “But you never can be sure about a fit unless you try the boots on and walk around in them for a while. Jacobson, give him the first-aid kit.”
Jacobson gave her a look but got the first-aid kit out of his backpack, tossed it to Manta Ray. Elena watched Manta Ray gingerly rub Neosporin on his heel, press some gauze o
ver the blister, and wrap an Ace bandage over and around his foot to hold it in place.
It was all she needed, an infected blister. She’d intended to keep their pace slow, no reason not to, since they were trying to kill time anyway. He was looking at his foot, turning it this way and that. She couldn’t believe it, but even his feet were beautiful, like Michelangelo’s David. She remembered the first time she’d seen Liam’s photo, remembered her hormones had come to attention. He was a looker, no doubt about it. She bet he had phenomenal success with women.
She gave Liam a bright smile. “It’s been a long day. Your heel will be better in the morning. Get some rest.”
He started to open his mouth but decided against it. He eyed the sleeping bag. No way did he want to zip himself into that skinny confining coffin. No, he wanted to stretch out and fall asleep by a nice cozy fire. He ended up lying on top of the sleeping bag. He watched Elena pull off her boots, crawl into the sleeping bag. He went over in his mind how he would deal with the boss. He knew he was the golden goose. If the boss forgot that, he was the biggest fool alive.
The air was still and warm. Jacobson was snoring. Manta Ray closed his eyes and remembered himself as a young man of eighteen, at home in the underbelly of Belfast, and for a moment felt the glow of exhilaration. And the winning, he’d loved the winning, and seeing the faces of those who knew he’d bested them, even if he had to beat or bludgeon a few to make them understand. And of course the money. His mum had complained about where it came from but she took it anyway. Then he was nabbed after beating a stupid copper and sent to the Maze prison, where real hunger was only a small part of the endless misery. Liam Ryan Hennessey, you are hereby sentenced to five years imprisonment at the Maze prison, commencing immediately.
He could still hear the gavel bang down, hear his mum weeping.
19
WASHINGTON MEMORIAL HOSPITAL
WASHINGTON, D.C.
MONDAY NIGHT
Kara Moody had no more tears, not even anger toward the people who’d let that woman steal Alex. It hadn’t helped trying to fan her rage at the hospital, against fate, against God, against anyone she could think to blame. She found herself floating in a kind of blackness, with nothing to hold on to. Every few minutes a nurse came in to sit with her, repeating endlessly how the FBI would bring Alex back, and she pretended to listen, nodding her head occasionally. But deep down, she wondered if she would slowly dissolve into that blackness and let it carry her away. She stared across her room at the empty bassinet, Alex’s bassinet. Dr. Janice had been there, sitting with her, staying close, saying little. Of course everyone knew Alex had been kidnapped, because of the Amber Alert, and Dr. Janice had fielded calls for her.
It was late, but she couldn’t sleep, didn’t want to sleep really, so finally she got out of bed, pulled on the ancient pink robe Dr. Janice had brought her from home, slid her feet into her old tatty rabbit slippers, and slipped out of her room. The hallway was empty, the nurses’ station thirty feet away. She saw a maternity ward guard, not the same one who’d let them take Alex, but another, younger man who looked bored. She waited until he went to the break room and slipped down the stairs to the third floor.
When she stepped onto the floor, she realized she didn’t know what room John Doe was in. Then she saw a policeman down the hall, his seat tilted back against the wall, a magazine in his hand. She watched him awhile, decided he wasn’t going to go relieve himself anytime soon, and walked up to him. He saw her coming from the corner of his eye and became immediately alert, his hand going to the gun at his waist.
“Officer, I’m Kara Moody. I’m the woman the man in there tried to save.” I’m also the new mother whose baby was stolen. She couldn’t say those words aloud, couldn’t get them to even form in her mouth. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know his name.”
Officer Ted Rickman, night shift, said, “No one does. They’re calling him John Doe.” He eyed her up and down. “What are you doing here, Ms. Moody? It’s after midnight.”
“I know he’s unconscious, but I need to see him. However crazy he seemed, he believed he was saving me and my baby from something. May I see him?”
Rickman saw the empty shock in her eyes. He couldn’t begin to imagine what she was feeling. He knew there was no husband in the picture, knew this young woman was alone and here she’d had her baby stolen right out of the hospital. Rickman slowly rose and walked through the door. He nodded, pointed to the unmoving man on the narrow hospital bed. A dim light shone from a single lamp. Kara stared at him, whispered, “He’s not moving.”
“No, he’s not. He’s in a coma.” Officer Rickman thought of his own two small children, remembered the joy at their births, couldn’t imagine what he’d do if something had happened to them. Rickman’s cell rang. “Excuse me.”
Kara walked slowly to the bed and stared down at John Doe, the man she’d believed was crazy, who wanted to take her away to protect her. But from what? From whom? Whoever it was, he’d cared enough about her and her baby to risk his life for them. She saw Officer Rickman still on his cell, standing in the doorway, watching her as he listened. Did he think she’d lost it? She didn’t care. She pulled up a chair, sat down beside John Doe and studied his young face. There was still a bandage around his head, and his beard scruff had grown. Odd, but he looked somehow familiar to her now, but how could that be? He was breathing normally, evenly, looking peacefully asleep. When he’d forced his way into her house and tied her to the chair, she’d seen only a terrifying monster, not this motionless, slight young man who couldn’t be more than twenty-five.
Kara lightly touched her fingers to his cheek. His skin was warm through the stubble. She couldn’t remember the color of his eyes. Blue, maybe?
She stroked his hand and said quietly, “I’ve heard that people in a coma can hear people talking to them. Do you hear me? Do you know who I am? I wish I could remember exactly what you said, but so much of it didn’t make sense to me, and I was so scared.”
She sat silently, stroking his hand, studying his face, a handsome face, really. She let it come pouring out of her, how she’d been in labor even at the house and about her beautiful boy she’d named Alex, after her father. She told him about her father, what he’d been like and how much she missed him. Kara felt tears running down her cheeks, hadn’t even realized it until she tasted salt. She swiped the tears away with her fist. “I’m sorry about crying, but Alex is gone. Someone stole him. He’s just gone. Was it the people you were trying to protect me from? You’ve got to wake up and help me. I don’t know what to do. I wish I knew your name at least. Won’t you wake up and tell me?”
There was no movement, no sound except his slow, even breathing. She swiped her eyes again and began to lightly rub her fingers over his cheek. She talked about music, her art, how she’d painted a field of wild flowers during a rainstorm, about what she was planning when she and Alex were together again. She talked until finally, she laid her head against his shoulder and fell asleep.
She was standing in the middle of the field she’d painted, the rain cascading down over her, the only sound that of the raindrops splattering against her and hitting the earth. Then there was a sound rain wouldn’t make, but there it was—something niggled at her consciousness, something that wasn’t quite right. She blinked away sleep and slowly raised her head toward the door. It was closed. Nice of Officer Rickman to give her so much privacy. She heard footsteps and then the door slowly opened. He was coming to check on them. She relaxed, laid her face back down on John Doe’s shoulder.
Officer Rickman didn’t say anything, so she slitted her eyes open and saw a man she didn’t recognize, slim and military fit, easing his way into the room. He was wearing surgical scrubs and a mask over his face. At the sound of his footsteps, Kara realized he was wearing loafers, not the soft-soled shoes the nurses wore. He held a syringe in his hand.
This man wasn’t here to help her; he was the enemy.
He was looking at her, frowni
ng, and she quickly closed her eyes, heart pounding, readying herself. She heard him walking toward the bed, slitted her eyes again, and saw him raise his hand to inject something into the IV tubing tethered to John Doe’s wrist.
