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A doctor crossed the area behind Deputy Burghsmith, and Hale jumped up and caught up with him. “Excuse me. My wife is . . . having tests . . . ?”
“Dr. Mellon will be out to talk to you,” he said brusquely, moving on by.
The deputy was still standing near Hale’s chair, and Hale didn’t want to talk to anyone but the medical staff. When he didn’t return to his chair, Burghsmith went to him. Before he could ask another question, Hale preempted with, “Am I going to have to go through this with the Seaside police, too?”
“One of their detectives will want to talk to you.”
Which made him think of Savannah. Off in Portland. “Excuse me,” Hale said and then walked away from Burghsmith, sliding his thumb across the screen of his phone to unlock it.
Then another doctor came into the room, his gaze searching the occupants and falling on Hale. Hale immediately locked the phone again, put it in his pocket, and stalked quickly toward the doctor, who extended his hand as he drew near.
“I’m Dr. Mellon,” he said, introducing himself.
“Hale St. Cloud. My wife, Kristina . . . Are you her doctor?”
“Dr. Oberon will be doing the surgery, Mr. St. Cloud. We need to relieve the pressure on her brain. She has a subdural hematoma and—”
“Subdural hematoma?”
“She’s bleeding into her brain.”
Hale stared at the man, cottony with shock. “Will she be all right?”
“We’re taking her into surgery.”
“That’s no answer.”
“We won’t know anything until after surgery,” the doctor said firmly.
“Tell me something, goddamnit!”
“Mr. St. Cloud, if you could just be a little patient. We’re doing everything we can—”
“How severe is it?” he interrupted.
“Severe enough to require surgery,” Mellon answered after a moment, his expression neutral. Then he was called away.
Hale stared after him. He guessed the doctor hadn’t given him anything because the injury was bad. Bad enough that loved ones had to be kept in the dark.
God, Kristina. What were you doing there? he thought.
Charlie expelled air through his teeth, frustrated as hell. The bitch wouldn’t die. Just wouldn’t die. She had lain there, staring into space, and had just gone on breathing and breathing and wouldn’t die! He’d tried to wait her out, but she’d won in the end. He had to leave her before he was discovered, and it really pissed him off.
It had been nearly a day and still no report. At least he’d gotten back to his apartment and seen the news before he went to bed. It was all about the murders in the truck at the steak house. Ha, ha, ha. That, at least, had made him feel good. They could speculate all they wanted, but none of them knew his power. He recalled staring at Tammie and Garth as they each died, and that made him feel even better about Mrs. Kristina St. Cloud, who just wouldn’t die.
He went to the refrigerator and pulled out a Guinness, popping the top and drinking it down in long, thirsty gulps.
He needed to see that last look in their eyes before the light seemed to get pulled back inside them and they were gone. Blink, blink. Gone.
But that was all yesterday, and today some things had happened that made him forget his disappointment with Kristina and remember the highlights with her instead. Man, could that St. Cloud bitch shriek. She would buck and wail and damn near climax before he hardly did anything. She was that susceptible to his power. Made him want to masturbate right now just thinking about it, but alas, he had a date that just couldn’t wait.
But then she was kind of a shrieker, too, he thought with a slow grin.
He wondered briefly, foolishly, if he could kill her while they were having sex and watch the light blink out. In his mind’s eye he saw the arch of her throat and himself drawing a knife across it, a thin scarlet line of blood rising against her white flesh.
Man, oh, man.
With an effort, he tamped down his thoughts. He had to wait. Had to wait for the perfect time. Then he would slice her lovely throat. He would kill her . . . and like he’d told his mother, he would kill them all.
