Death Angel

most likely be.

Doors to the patients’ rooms were left open a lot, whether it was from carelessness, haste, or for the nurses’ convenience. The odds were at least fifty-fifty he could walk down the hall on the surgical floor, glance in all the rooms that had open doors, and find her. If not, then he’d trail Dr. Meecham. One way or another, though, he would find her. There had never been anything more important to him than that.

He had never cared about anything before, much less so intensely that he couldn’t let it go and walk away. He didn’t like it, but he still couldn’t let it go. Drea represented a weakness that could be used against him, by Salinas or anyone else who figured out that he had this one chink in his armor.

Across the hall, the double doors to the ICU swung open and a small knot of nurses, both male and female, came out of the unit. He didn’t need access to the unit now, so he didn’t follow them. If it turned out he needed to lift an ID tag so he could go into controlled areas, he’d get one, but first he’d see if he could locate Drea the easy way.

She was here, she was alive, and she was talking.

Abruptly he couldn’t sit there another minute, another second, couldn’t hold his act together and pretend he was concerned about his nonexistent mother when all he wanted to do was get somewhere he could be alone until he had himself back under control.

“I’m sorry,” he said, breaking into the conversation that had been flowing around and over him, then getting up and striding out of the waiting room. He looked around, spotted a restroom, and all but bolted for it. It was, thank God, a one-seater; he locked the door, then stood trembling in the middle of the tiny room.

What in hell was going on? He’d spent his entire adult life, and some years before that, perfecting his control. He tested himself, learned his own limits, and then pushed those limits. He didn’t fall apart, had never fallen apart. Everything he did and everything he said was deliberate, chosen to produce the response or result he wanted.

He could handle this. Finding out she was alive and at least functional was good news-still a shock, but nothing to send him over the edge. If he could find a way to talk to her without scaring her to death, he’d tell her she had nothing to fear from him, that as far as Salinas was concerned she was dead and to go on with her life. Not now, though; physically she would still be too weak, and he didn’t want to do anything to put a strain on her heart. God only knew what kind of damage she’d sustained.

Besides, there was always the possibility that she truly didn’t remember who she was, in which case she wouldn’t remember him, either. Just because she was talking didn’t mean she was mentally unscathed. He had to get a grip, and find out exactly how she was instead of letting his imagination run away with him.

Shit. Imagination. When the fuck had he started having an imagination? He dealt in facts, in hard reality, in what was. Reality was solid. He could depend on reality, depend on it being a cold, hard bitch. That was okay with him, because he was a cold, hard bastard. They were a good pair.

He took several deep breaths and shook off whatever the hell it was that had him so on edge. All he had to do was find Drea, and discover for himself exactly what her condition was; then he could get back to New York. There were things he needed to do; he’d been in the same location long enough, and it was time he moved on. He’d check on Drea, and if she was all right he’d walk away for good.

21

SURGICAL POST-OP WAS ONE FLOOR DOWN, SO SIMON TOOK the stairs instead of dealing with the elevator. He preferred the stairs anyway; they gave him two directions of escape, while an elevator not only trapped him in a small box, it followed its electronic commands in the order in which it received them. If it was going “down” and had already received a call from a lower floor, he couldn’t punch the button for a higher floor and make the elevator go “up” instead.

The hospital’s general shape was a giant T, but it was lying down instead of standing up. He came out at the end of the long hallway and systematically walked the floor. Each room had a small plaque outside the door with the patient’s last name as well as the doctor’s name, which was damn convenient for his purposes.

The nurses’ station was situated at the intersection of the T, but the nurses couldn’t see down the hallways unless they stepped out from behind the divider. At the moment, with the shift change just ending and the morning meals being delivered, the hallways were a beehive of activity and he blended into the general hubbub. He kept an easy pace, looking into all the rooms with open doors but taking care to move only his eyes and keep his head steady, so to the casual observer he wouldn’t be paying any attention to the patients.

At least half the doors were closed, but with one reconnaissance he was able to eliminate all of those patients whose doors were open, because none of them were Drea. As he walked he noted the rooms that had Dr. Meecham listed as the doctor, marking their location in the three-dimensional map of his surroundings that he carried at all times in his head.

Then he saw the name “Doe,” and he almost stumbled.

Room 614. Meecham was the doctor listed.

The door was closed, but he knew he’d found her. She was there, just on the other side of that door. He knew it was Drea. There were people with the actual last name of “Doe,” but what were the odds one of them would be on this floor, at this time, with Meecham as the doctor?

His hand closed around the door handle almost before he realized he was reaching for it.

Slowly, carefully, he forced himself to release the handle. If he walked in there she’d scream the place down- assuming she recognized him. He still didn’t know her mental state.

The name “Doe” didn’t tell him anything. If she’d come through without brain damage, she would take full advantage of the circumstances and not tell them her real name. If she did have brain damage, which was likely, then she might not know her name.

Belatedly he noticed the sign on the door: No Visitors.

There were two layers of meaning to the sign. The first was obvious: no visitors. The second was “why not?” Who had put it there? The hospital, because curiosity-seekers and/or the press had been annoying/agitating/gawking at the patient, or had the patient herself requested the sign be posted? Drea certainly wouldn’t want any press, and she would want to keep any cops at bay, too, until she had cooked up a suitable story and felt able to handle them.

But he now had the name she was registered under, and he knew her room number. He’d be able to find out everything he wanted to know. He didn’t have to actually see her, didn’t have to talk to her; he could safely ignore the weird compulsion he felt to do exactly that.

Looking down the hall, he saw that the big cart laden with food trays was just three rooms down. The door to the room next to Drea’s was closed, too, so he moved farther down and leaned against the wall right outside the door, as if a nurse or tech had gone into the room to perform some duty and asked him to wait outside. He kept his gaze on the floor.

The cafeteria lady worked quickly, delivering the food trays to the proper rooms. She pushed the cart toward him, stopping it just past the door to Drea’s room. He glanced up, ready to give a quick, polite smile if she looked at him, but she ignored him as if he were so much furniture. People who worked in hospitals saw a lot of people leaning against walls.

She pulled out a tray, which looked as if it held only orange gelatin, fruit juice, coffee, and milk, but any food at all meant Drea was capable of feeding herself, rather than being fed by a tube. The cafeteria worker knocked quickly on the door, then opened it without waiting for an answer.

“Is that real food?” he heard Drea ask, her tone grumpy.

The cafeteria lady laughed. “You’ve graduated to Jell-O. If your stomach handles that without any upset, maybe tomorrow you can have mashed potatoes. We just bring what your doctor says you can have.”

After a brief silence, Drea said, “Orange! I like orange Jell-O.”

“Would you like to have two?”

“Can you do that?”

“Sure. Any time you want more, just let us know.”

“In that case, yes, I definitely want another Jell-O. I’m starving.”