Raney & Levine (11 page)

Now Pappas watched the two trade looks. Everyone in the
hospital was threatened.
Let’s do this.

A shout came from inside the lounge: “…okay, so I talked to
her!”

Pappas looked around, and rose. “Gotta go back to Brand with
those two.”

“We’re coming,” Jill said, rising with a mounting feeling of
dread. “We can pretend to fix that microwave in there, listen in.”

David shook his head. “Lemme go, I’ve never seen them. Good
idea about the microwave, though.”

He returned the two chairs to the nurses’ station, and Jill
massaged her brow, as if in pain. “What was I thinking?” She moved shakily to
the bench Pappas had just vacated. “Can I listen from here? Argh, no, unless
they shout.”

She squinted up at the detective. “I need some fancy
listening equipment.”

He cracked a thin smile. “You can buy it anywhere. Ask
Keri.”

21


T
he dogs were friendly. German Shepherds, mostly. Labs,
too.
Wag wag, sniff sniff.

Their police handlers were friendly too. “Don’t worry, just
a precaution,” they told anxious people waiting to enter the ER, or already
seated in waiting areas, or standing before elevators. A few people showed
anxiety, but only fear-of-dogs anxiety. No darting eyes, faces suddenly clammy
with sweat, package-carrying people leaving the line in a rush.

The dog handlers were trained in body language too. As their
dogs sniffed at purses and parcels, the handlers subtly studied every face.

Injured kids being brought into the E.R. were actually
comforted by the dogs.

One little boy with an arm laceration stopped crying in his
mother’s arms.

“What’s his name?” he asked as his teddy bear got sniffed.

“
Her
name is Brandi,” said the smiling cop. “She’s a
real sweetie. Likes to play ball.”

“Can I pat her?”

The mom bent to Brandi, looking a little scared, but her
expression turned to smiles as her tyke patted away and brightened.
Wag wag.

“See?” the handler told the child. “Brandi likes you and
hopes your arm feels better fast.”

Suddenly he wasn’t a scary cop in a flak jacket anymore; he
was just a nice guy, waving ‘bye to the child waving back as Brandi got busy
with the next person in line.

A woman being calmly checked by another handler with a Lab
said, “It’s about time hospitals got the protection they should have had all
along.
Anyone
can just walk into a hospital. When I think of Newtown,
and that Boston bombing…”

The handler said he couldn’t agree more. The woman told him
God bless you, and he smiled and said God bless you back.

“Fascist,” sneered one of two male teens as a Shepherd named
Buck sniffed his backpack.

Buck found nothing. Got busy with the next punk as his
handler told the first kid, “Stay safe, have a nice evening.”

More and more cell phones were being watched for tweets and
updates of the bomb threat. Reporters had arrived in all their flurry. Most of
those waiting and getting checked were calm, no one hysterical. After all,
these crazy times we live in…what was unusual about a bomb threat?

The police would take care of it…

“
But that was the last time, and
she called me
!”

Brian Walsh was on the edge of the couch, gesturing urgently.
“She wanted to make amends. Said she’d found some liberal priest who said what
she was doing was okay, even blessed if she’d – well, I heard
liberal
and we fought again…I mean,
argued
. That’s
all
.”

“When did she call you?” Brand scribbled as Pappas retook
his seat. Keri Blasco touched Tricia’s arm, said something, and went to rejoin
her colleagues.

“The night before her appointment here,” Brian sputtered.
“No, maybe it was
two
nights before…”

Dara Walsh exhaled scornfully, “It was the night before,”
she said as if her husband was stupid. Her low, raspy voice dropped lower.

Tricia left the lounge as David, not wanting to enter with
Pappas, passed her with a tiny grin. In his scrubs and white jacket, he looked
like any resident. No one glanced at him as he went to the fridge, took out
someone’s leftover Chinese, and peered into the squished white box. Maybe two
inches of dried-up rice. The fridge was crowded with white boxes.

He got busy with the microwave; bopped the buttons, waited,
nothing. Opened and closed the door, looking frustrated. Shot only a quick
sideways glance at the Walshes.

A new stage was set in the surgical lounge.

And just outside, Tricia dropped down next to Jill. “That
woman
is scary,” she said. “Dara Walsh is angry and smart. This is the first the
cops’ve been able to question her. They asked her to come in for questioning
last night, and she refused.”

“Knows her rights, huh?” Jill said from some
still-functioning part of her brain, while the rest obsessed about Pappas’s
No
protection is perfect.

“Yeah.” Tricia watched a food trolley pass. “She told them
last night if they wanted to talk to her they could just wait to see her today
at the hospital. Y’know? I don’t think she and her husband like each other.”
Tricia shook her head. “Tough woman.”

“What does she do?”

“Nurses’ aide, works four nights a week at a hospice in the
Village. Probably does a lot of lifting people. Did you see the muscles on
her?”

“No, she had her jacket on.”

“She’s scrawny
and
muscular. Bet she works out too.”
Another food trolley passed. “Have you eaten yet?”

“No.”

“I’m gonna faint from hunger. Can I get off duty tonight if
I faint?”

From inside the lounge they heard, loud again, “So check my
phone records! Or hers!”

Then, mutter mutter…

“Dammit, wish I could be in there,” Jill said. Her chest
felt tight. In her mind she heard Pappas again:
Same creep, hours after his
attack on Jenna Walsh. He’s excited, moving fast.

And he’d been in the hospital during the night. The
chapel…

“David will tell us what they’re saying.” Tricia watched the
food trolley stop outside a patient door, and a laden tray get carried in. She
groaned, got up, and said she was going to go find a vending machine.

Jill slid closer on the bench to the door.

And David inside had the microwave unplugged, out from under
the cabinet and on the counter, unscrewing screws with a knife and pretending
intense repairs –
clunk!
- while Pappas questioned Brian Walsh.

“She wanted to meet? Where?”

“Some café on Third.”

“What’s its name?”

“Uh, Bistro. On the corner of 37
^th
.”

“Three blocks from this hospital,” Kerri Blasco said. “Two
blocks from the alley where Jenna was attacked. You’re sure local surveillance
tape won’t show you there?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

“But you knew where Jenna would be.
Maybe she waited,
you watched from across the street, then followed when she left the café?”

“No!”

David shot another quick glance at Walsh as his voice turned
whiney, defensive. “I tried to call her and cancel a couple hours before, but I
got her voicemail. Maybe she was in the subway.”

Brand asked, “Why did you decide to cancel?”

“Because we’d only end up fighting. And I didn’t
decide
to cancel-”

“Yes you did.”

David saw Dara Walsh unclasp her hands from her top crossed
knee and give Pappas a sarcastic gesture. “He’s indecisive. Should I put my
right foot in front of my left,” she mocked, then re-clasped her hands on her knee.

“I am
not
indecisive!” Brian glared furiously at her,
as if he was sick of her unmanning him.
But how fast he’d changed from
whiney to wild.
All three cops noticed. Alex Brand scribbled.

Abruptly, Walsh looked over to David. “You’re doing that
wrong, y’know.”

“Oh?” David looked up, fake-surprised. “You know about these
things?”

Walsh jumped to his feet. “I’ll say.” He turned to the cops.
“Are we done?” he said sarcastically, suddenly full of himself. “There’s
nothing else I can tell you.”

“Done for now,” Brand said just as sarcastically.

Walsh strode over to the microwave and flipped it upside
down; looked in; tinkered.

“Here it is,” he bragged. “Your high voltage transformer’s
shorted out. Moisture probably got into it. And look at this, your magnetron
tube’s shot, too.” He patted the electronic carcass, pleased with himself.
Jenna
was forgotten
. It was as if his mind had flipped him back to advising a
customer in the appliance store where he worked. “You’re better off buying a
whole new one. Replacing the parts would cost more.”

David thanked him as his cell phone buzzed. He listened,
then said, “Okay, be there in five.”

Outside, Jill had slid to the end of the bench and was
practically hanging over it. She could eavesdrop, at least the louder utterances.
Her overburdened mind was also replaying Tricia’s
“That woman is scary. You
see the muscles on her?”

She straightened and speed-dialed Brand, who answered yards
away.

“Ask Dara Walsh where she was when Jenna was getting
attacked,” she said low. “Ditto Nikki Sheehan. She also must have heard Brian
repeating ‘Bistro, corner of 37
^th.’”

“Getting there,” Brand said.

Mutter, mutter from inside. At least David, poking through
more white leftover boxes, was hearing the string of evasive answers.

“Jenna? Around four o’clock that day?” Dara sounded
offended. “I was off, of course. I told you, I work nights.”

“And where exactly were you?”

“Different stores. Browsed, bought groceries. Came home.
Unpacked.”

Pappas tried to narrow down the times and places, and Dara went
suddenly all floundering, couldn’t remember.

Brand scribbled.

Keri leaned forward and asked, “What about last night? Where
were you both around two a.m.?”

Brian was back on a chair, avoiding his wife’s eyes. She
avoided his, too. “We were sleeping,” he said; and Dara said, “Both of us. I
was off last night too.” She frowned and looked offended again. “What does
last night
have to do with Jenna?”

There was silence in the room, then Pappas drew a long,
frustrated breath. “Okay we’re done for now. You can leave but don’t leave
town.”

Sounds of chairs scraping, feet moving. Dara muttered
something sounding nasty as they crossed the lounge. Jill heard them coming and
whipped into a sleeping position, facing the wall on the bench.

They passed, and she was in the lounge like a shot…just as
David was inviting the cops over to lift prints off the microwave. He held his
phone up to Jill. “We got called. There’s time.”

She nodded.

Brand was pulling on latex gloves and saying, “Did you get
the feeling of an act with those two?” He was examining the microwave, getting
out his lifting tape. “Like, they’re both holding back on something?”

“Definitely.” Pappas was grimly reading a message on his
phone. “CSU’s still found nothing at the Sheehan scene. Stairway, banister, bathroom,
doors. We’ve got a bloody brick with just Nikki’s blood on it. Otherwise, zip.”

Bending by the couch, Keri looked over. “And the missus was
careful to
touch nothing
. Kept clutching her knee. You should’ve seen
how white her knuckles were.”

“Keri?” Jill’s voice sounded high and unsteady to her.
“What’s the name of the psych place where Megaphone Man lives?”

“Saint Mary’s in the East Village,” Keri said,
straightening. “He’s not in the system and they wouldn’t give me his name.
Think you can find out?”

“I’m going to try,” Jill said.

22


S
he was back in July. That steady, drumming fear was
back, a feeling of cold squeezing her heart with no letup.

It was late. Jill was exhausted, drained, but she worked by
rote, functioned okay. The night until after eleven blurred by: two births and
another GYN emergency. They got through it all, even the pain of comforting a
woman much too young to have just-found third stage ovarian cancer. Then and
only then Jill cried, in the hall a ways down from the GYN patient. The dam had
burst…

David held her, tried to comfort. But his hands were cold,
and when she reached to push his hair off his brow, a vein bulged on it. He was
suffering in his way.

By this time, they’d told Sam and Woody details about the
more recent, awful developments. Tricia already knew, and half the story had
been on TV and online.

SECOND SURROGATE MOM MURDERED, BOMB THREAT AT HOSPITAL,
BOMB-SNIFFER DOGS CALLED IN, read online headlines and grim-faced news anchors,
none of them yet able to connect the surrogates with a bomb threat. As with
Jenna, the police had left out the detail of the snake. But how long before it
leaked from Nikki Sheehan’s friend who had found her? Who was still
traumatized, probably crying now to others?

And what would be the headlines in the morning? Bigger and
more hysterical, no doubt, as the connection was made.

Woody, Tricia, and MacIntyre all wanted to help.

An hour earlier Woody had been horrified at Jill’s idea.
“Saint
Who
?” he’d piped after the second birth, one with complications.
“You’re gonna go to some psych place looking for that SPAWN OF THE DEVIL guy?”

Jill had said yes. She was adamant.

MacIntyre removing his mask had said, “Just because his sign
used the same wording doesn’t mean he’s the guy.”

“There’s a connection,” Jill insisted. “I feel it. I want to
do something.”

David yanked off his gloves –
snap! snap!
-
insisting, “They won’t tell you his name. You can’t just go running down
there-”

“I’ll find
out.
”

David exhaled, admitted that he felt torn. They all knew
Jill’s determination. And they worried: the hospital was threatened again. Jill
and David had helped the cops last time. Who knew? Maybe…

“I’ll cover for you,” MacIntrye had said, looking from Jill
to David.

“Me too,” echoed Woody. “Plus there’s Mackey and Holloway,
and the other interns, they’ll all help.” He’d looked around, frowning. “Where
is
Tricia?”

“Off googling St. Mary’s,” Jill had answered. “Unless she’s
been called again. Probably both.”

Things slowed after eleven. But the lull only re-sharpened
the dread, for both of them. Walking the dim halls Jill leaned on David;
repeated Gregory Pappas’s words:
Same creep, he’s excited, moving fast.

“Think he’s in the hospital now?” she asked quietly.

He made no reply, but they walked faster. Hurried down the
long OB hall to see Jesse, who was awake, squirming happily in his isolette.
They checked out every bustling nurse in the place, then took turns holding
him. Felt comfort in his warmth, even laughed a little when one tiny flailing
fist bopped David’s cheek. Jesse’s eyes were hazel, contented. In the dimly lit
Neonatal Unit, machines beeped softly with a steady, mesmerizing rhythm. All
was well.

Holding him, Jill even relaxed enough – briefly – to
yawn…and Jesse yawned too.

Smiling, they put him back in his isolette.

On their way out they passed the gowned Security man on the
inside, two uniformed men just outside, and more uniforms in the halls. One of
them had a dog, a German Shepherd, who seemed asleep until they approached. He
jumped up, stiffly alert.

“It’s okay, doggie,” David said, stopping to pet him.

“His name’s Jasper.” The young cop holding Jasper’s leash
looked tired, but smiled. “Have a good night.”

“You too,” David said. “Nite, Jasper.”

Wag, wag
.

Jasper lay down again.

They made their way to Jill’s on call room. It seemed a
good idea for tonight.

David locked the door, and Jill found a hurried message from
Tricia on her cell phone.

“Gotta run, just got called, you lucky, you can
sleep
tonight. Anyway, Saint Mary’s is in trouble. One hundred and twenty years old,
spent generations as a convent sheltering the homeless and raising orphans, now
a psych facility next to a church the Archdiocese has
decided
to
close
, can’t afford the millions it would cost to fix – I’m reading here –
‘serious structural problems at a time when they’ve had to close more than two
dozen churches and sell their rights to developers’ – argh, condos! – ‘to
narrow their budget gap while facing nationwide low attendance, a priest
shortage, and the rising cost of maintaining century-old buildings.’”

A deep breath at the other end. “Reports say the staff’s
been getting laid off and
patients
are going to get scattered,” Tricia
huffed. “Where do you
put
all those people? Well, it’s the same with
regular psych places too, right? No
wonder
there are so many crazies
walking the streets-”

Voices sounded impatiently in the background; Tricia’s voice
dropped. “Oops, gotta go, Mackey’s getting cranky, Ramu and Phipps are losing
consciousness –
okay, I’m coming!
– see you at morning rounds, sleep
tight, sleep safe, bye.”

Jill pocketed her phone and told David Tricia’s message, all
of it. He nodded, hearing, but was at the desk pounding computer keys.

“What are you doing?”

“Found something.”

She came to look over his shoulder. He’d found a website.
Lurid with violent reds and violets nearly muddling the site’s name:
DevilSpawn.com.

“Yeow, how’d you find that?”

“Just googled ‘Spawn of the Devil,’ and up this popped. That
guy and his sign were all over the media, I figured the keywords would be
searchable.” David scrolled a little. “Looks like it just went up. Not too many
posts under the, uh, manifesto.”

Jill read, openmouthed.

Pale yellow, bold-faced letters against a dark, fiery
background raged
“…child of THE BEAST, the DEVIL! He is born and among us
and MUST BE DESTROYED! Along with that devil’s workshop, Madison Memorial
Hospital, for its arrogance of taking the place of
the Creator! That is no baby on that hospital’s fifth floor, he is the
spawn of the devil! The world must be saved from him!”

Jill closed her eyes for a second. “Oh boy.”

“Nice of him to pinpoint our floor.” David blinked at the
words. “Make it easy to find us. New babies get more visitors than the other
specialties combined.”

“Strangers,” Jill managed. “They can just walk in, carrying
flowers, presents in boxes.”

“Remember the dogs…” David was reading, scrolling down. “Oh
jeez, these posts are gonna rile Psycho worse.”

Jill read:
“Hey asshole, whyn’t ya do something normal
like watch porn! Hands off the kid and drop dead!”

Then the next few: “
Creeps like u belong ina nuthouse”
…
“
Do ur eyes turn red from the flash in pitchers?”
…
“Izis a movie
trailer?” … “Where’s ur damn link to Amazon?”

In all, only five posts. All dated within the last two days.

“How did people find him?”

“Who knows?” David hit the logo on the site’s upper right.
It was one of those create-your-own freebies. The next one advertised gluten
free muffins.

He leaned back in his chair, and inhaled. “The worry is
kooks who
don’t
post. All it would take is one, assuming this isn’t the
killer himself.”

Jill thought as hard as her overwrought brain would let her.
“It might not be. Why would he advertise himself?” She swallowed. “On the other
hand, he’s crazy. So…send the site to the cops. Inciting to violence – that
will get them a warrant and they can find out who he is.”

“ESP, m’dear.” David was already copying the URL and
starting an email.

“Wait.”

She got out her phone. Logged in to DevilSpawn.com, chose
SpawnBegone as a username, and fast-typed:
“I feel as you do, please let me
help. What can I do? How can I reach you?”

Then posted it.

David liked the idea. He typed his email to Pappas, cc’d
Brand and Blasco, and copied the DevilSpawn.com link into the email:
“Found
this. Frightening new site. Check it out and btw ‘SpawnBegone’ is Jill trying
to get a response.”

He hit Send and closed the laptop. “Bed,” he said, rising.
“Bed, bed, bed…”

His scrub top was off and in seconds he was under the
covers, groaning relief.

Jill pulled off her scrubs too. “I thought this bed was too
narrow and made your back ache.”

“I’ll sleep on top of you.”

She climbed in with him. Found comfort in his arms and
warmth, his heaviness and the scrape of his stubble on her cheek.

Until minutes later…when he really did conk out on her.
David falling asleep sometimes reminded Jill of a Garfield cartoon: he’d fall
face first onto the pillow or…her,
whomp,
and it was instant lights out.
His whole left side and shoulder was on her, getting heavier. Not that it
mattered, because her mind was suddenly wired again. She couldn’t shut it down;
behind her closed lids flared every horrid image of the past two days.

He’s excited, moving fast
…
The Snake Guy…he’s
going to attack again, but who? Where? Another woman or the hospital? DESTROY
the devil’s workshop, Madison Memorial fifth floor!

Had they received David’s email at the police station? Maybe
some night cops had rushed to wake up some judge who was thrilled to leap out
of bed and pull on a robe and sign a warrant, and DevilSpawn Guy was the killer
and they’d already arrested him…

Forget it.

David was breathing heavily. His body suddenly jerked a
little, as if from a dream, and, mumbling, he rolled away to whomp the wall.
Didn’t that hurt his head? Apparently not. His deep breathing resumed.

Jill reached and got her phone from the little side table.
Never-sleeps cyber light glowed at her, as if waiting.

For what?
Think
, she commanded herself, because
something had been nagging at her. Something she’d filed away, deep down but
there
…

Then it came to her.

Last night, Paul and Susan Sutter talking about some online
group Jenna Walsh had belonged to. Jill couldn’t remember the name, but on her
phone did what David did: just googled the key words she was thinking, and up
came the site: SurroMomsForum.com.

She decided on “Desperate” as a username, logged in, and
read some posts. All were emotional, ranting, struggling.

“There are surrogates in the Bible. I just don't get why
the church can decide things the bible isn't even against.”

“The church doesn’t agree with science intervening with
having babies, they’re against any kind of ivf, and surrogacy includes ivf.”

“I just don't CARE. God loves babies and families and I
think the problem is those who have a problem with that, not God.”

”I HATE this BS about God's will. God gave us the
intelligence to overcome obstacles, AND He gave us doctors to help us.”

“My cancer left me infertile and the priest said it was
God’s will. Long awful story, but hubby and I went surrogate and now we have a
beautiful family. Thank you, God. Not the church.”

“My priest told my sister if God wanted her to have a
child, she wouldn't be infertile.”

”Jimmy Fallon’s daughter was born by surrogate!”

Above those posts was the most recent one, posted three days
earlier: “
NO to all of you! Bearing a strange man’s child not your husband’s
is interfering with God’s will, agreeing to rape, and committing the biggest
lie possible!”

Jill re-read the last one. It was signed by “Righteous.”

What a self-important username. Um, send her a poke? See
what happens?

Jill squinted and punched away and wrote to Righteous: “
You
have touched my deepest pain. I feel so torn, wish I could talk to somebody. I
don’t suppose you live in the NYC area?”

She inhaled, bit her lip, and hit send. Felt something heavy
lift off her chest, replaced by a fluttery sense of anticipation.

She had just done something, but what?

She frowned, thinking, in the darkness.

There had been something familiar in the voice of SurroMom’s
“Righteous.” It had the same furious tone and exclamation points as the text on
DevilSpawn…
Destroy! Madison’s fifth floor! Biggest lie possible!

Two different websites. A voice on both of them sounding the
same…

Now I gotta remember
,
Jill thought
.
I’m
‘SpawnBegone’ on DevilSpawn.com, and, uh…what?

Oh, ’Desperate’ answering nasty scoldy ‘Righteous’ on
SurroMomsForum.

Or was it the other way around? Look again at what I wrote?
Damn, too sleepy…

The phone slipped from Jill’s hand into her Nike on the
floor.

Seconds later she was asleep.