in thought, he scratched his fingernails over the bandages in the region of his heart. “I didn’t mean to hurt her, but she said she had no feelings left for me, not even friendly ones.” Red blotches stained his cheeks. “I knew she was lying, but I couldn’t help myself. I used her own gun on her. It wasn’t registered. She’d gotten it for protection when Warren wasn’t home. One shot, and it was done.
“I thought I’d fall apart. I mean, I started to, but then I didn’t. I put everything right. I do autopsies. I knew what had to be done. I cleaned the place, and I left. I thought maybe I’d screwed up somewhere. I kept waiting for the cops to come and arrest me. But they never did. And Stubbs and Canter only went through the motions.”
“So where does Fitz come into this?”
Patrick made a dismissive motion. “I thought she knew the truth, thought she’d figured it out, when all she really wanted was to ask me some dumb question about James Barret and a watch. It sounded like she knew something, just like it did when Critch showed up tonight. But I’m told I was wrong about him, too.”
He fell back against the pillow, stared blankly at the ceiling. “They called me Igor. Can you believe that?”
When he began to hum a Christmas song, Jacob decided it was time to leave. At the door, however, he turned his head and offered a quiet, “Why the mistletoe leaves?”
Patrick’s lips moved, but he merely continued to sing.
That’s when the lights went out.
Chapter Eighteen
“I won’t be sick. I won’t, I won’t, I won’t.”
The bathroom lights flickered several times, prompting Romana to push off from the sink.
“Okay, that’s it, Shera. We’re leaving, or I am.”
Shera angled her jaw in defiance. “I’m not going to see your cousin.”
“Leaving, Shera, now.”
She took the woman’s hand, pulled. But the lights snapped off completely, and this time they didn’t pop back on.
“Wonderful.” Romana kept them both moving. “Night’s just getting better and better.”
“You said there were emergency generators.”
“For the vital areas, not out-of-the-way bathrooms. Ouch.” Shera kicked her heel. “You don’t have to drape yourself all over me, okay? I won’t abandon you.”
“He always does.”
“I’m not your husband.” Romana located the wall, but not the door.
“I-oh!” Shera slipped, clutched at Romana’s coat, then gave a yelp and went down.
“Shera?’ Romana crouched, slashed a hand across the low shadows. “Where are you?”
A moan was her only answer.
The door opened behind her and a weak shaft of light filtered in. She saw Shera’s face, saw her lips move, her eyelids flutter.
“Sher-ah-h-h…”
Romana emitted a painful gasp as someone’s hand tangled in her hair and gave it a vicious yank. The hand-it had to be a man’s-hauled her roughly to her feet, snapped her head back and her body up against his.
Yes, definitely a man…
She glimpsed a red suit and whiskers and saw a quick flash of teeth. Then his other hand came up, and an even greater pain sliced through her skull.
She heard a soft, icy chuckle as the washroom faded to black.
JACOB LEFT PATRICK’S ROOM at a jog. He wasn’t sure why, but he knew he had to get to Romana.
He punched O’Keefe’s number into his cell as he went. The service said O’Keefe was away from his phone.
The emergency lights came on, making the corridors navigable, but many of the patients were nervous and plucked at Jacob’s jacket and jeans.
Barret wasn’t where he’d left him. Had he taken Shera and left? Jacob glanced back. Could he have missed Romana along the way?
Not a chance. She was far too striking to be missed, especially tonight in her long red coat, black boots and scarf.
Outside the washroom, he looked around. No one paid any attention to him. Drawing his gun, he knocked, glanced around again, then pushed it open. “Romana?”
A groan emerged, followed by a weak, “James?”
Jacob swore as a pale hand came into the light. Holding the door back, he crouched and helped Shera sit up. “Where’s Romana?”
She swallowed, pushed at her hair. “Left with Santa Claus… Really strange.”
His light shake of her shoulders belied the knot of fear building inside. “Where is she, Shera?”
“Told you,” she mumbled. “Went with Santa Claus.” She rubbed her forehead. “Carried her away… I think.”
“Santa carried her out?”
“Think. Pretty sure. Might have hit her.”
Terror spiked through him. He propped Shera against the door frame. “Orderly.”
A young man rushed past. “I’m kinda busy.”
Jacob set his sights on the exit. Where the hell was Barret?
He tried O’Keefe’s number again on the stairs. Still away from the phone.
Santa Claus. The image took root in his head. Not a jolly version, but a vengeful one. If he hadn’t known better, one with Critch’s face.
But it wasn’t Critch, and he wasn’t sure who that left. Except…
Four cards. That’s what Romana had told him, what Critch had said to her. He’d sent only four cards.
As he shoved through the fire door and into the lobby, the question that had been nagging Romana now became Jacob’s.
If not Critch, who had sent the other two?
ROMANA AWOKE IN A CAR, with her wrists bound and her mouth covered. The tip of a Santa hat bobbed above her. She didn’t make a sound, hardly moved, and yet he knew. At a stoplight, he turned and set a finger on his whisker-covered lips.
It was a taunt. With her mouth gagged, she couldn’t scream, and even if she could and did, her head would probably explode.
Slashes of pain attacked her every time the tires hit a rut. She knew she had to get past it, had to beat down her terror and think.
Whoever he was, he hadn’t killed her in the hospital. Why? Where was he taking her, and again, why? He wasn’t Critch, but he was wearing a disguise. He had a plan. Whatever it was, it couldn’t involve fleeing to South America or any other country. He wanted to stay right here.
Did he want her to think he was Critch? Possibly. No, probably.
But Critch was in custody in the hospital, under police guard.
Pain shoved gleeful knives into her brain. The car began to move. More ice ruts, more knives.
What had Shera said? No one knew about Critch and North. Well, yes, some did, but mostly the news of Critch’s capture and Patrick’s arrest had been contained.
Different approach, then-who did know about it? James and Shera Barret, certainly, the doctors who treated both men, O’Keefe, Jacob and her.
Romana breathed carefully, ordered herself to hover above the pain. If monks could do it, so could she.
Names glimmered to life, then fizzled out. Only one lit up and held.
Turning her head was agony, but she did it. With the movement, her scarf, which she’d thought was a gag, fell
