Vanishing Day Read online

  Charlie’s tail wagged furiously, anyway, and she licked Logan’s face. Then she lowered herself gracefully into a “Down,” laying on Logan’s foot. Love was almost as good as hot dogs.

  After Rick left, Logan called Bonnie. Good news on that front, anyway. Mrs. Croft came by and, after a thorough inspection, approved Shannon’s temporary placement with Bonnie and Mike for the next two weeks, or until Lori could come home.

  If she comes home.

  “How is Shannon doing without her mom? Has she asked for her?” Logan said, “It’s got to be tough on her. Has she said anything? Do you think she saw what happened?”

  “No, she hasn’t said anything. She did ask for her mom this morning, but I just told her mommy was working, and she seemed to accept that. At least for now. Bedtime will be another story,” Bonnie said. “Haley’s keeping her busy playing with Quinn.”

  “Sally’s going to stop off here to bring me lunch first, but she should be there on time to pick him up,” Logan said.

  “That’s right, you’re grounded. How’s the knee?” Bonnie asked. “Ben told me you managed to tear your meniscus.”

  In the middle of Logan’s medical report, she heard a knock on the front door.

  “Meals on Wheels is here, Bonnie. Gotta go!” she said.

  “Come in!” she called to the door.

  Sally let herself in.

  The aroma of crispy fries and seared meat permeated the house, making Logan salivate like Purgatory waiting eagerly to be tossed a Polish sausage off the grill. Suddenly starving, she was glad she ordered a triple. Sally plopped the bags on the coffee table. Handing Logan her meal first, with plenty of napkins, she grabbed her own and sat down in the rocking chair. Neither spoke until they’d taken the first few bites. Hot juices and secret sauce ran down Logan’s chin.

  Heaven!

  Eating an In-N-Out burger was a messy business, but somebody had to do it.

  29

  When there were no Code Blues, the ICU was a peaceful place. At least Rhonda thought so. She’d worked there for the last seven years and loved it. Machines whirred, screens beeped and blipped reassuringly. No doctor’s rounds, no new orders to fill. No meal delivery. Some patients even slept, which was good for everyone. Doctors tried to catch a few ZZZ’s in their respective call rooms in between pages. There were only two on the night shift. Nice to have them nearby, but not underfoot.

  At the end of her circular path around the unit, Rhonda stopped at Room 217. Some nights she had two patients, but tonight she just had one, an assault victim they brought up two nights ago from the ER. She long ago learned to detach herself from the wrecks that lay before her on the bed, but this one was bad. This young woman she checked on every 15 minutes until she stabilized. Today she dropped it down to every half hour. She still wasn’t out of the woods.

  Domestic violence cases, which this almost certainly was, were always harder to deal with than accident victims. How could one person inflict this much damage on another human being? And why?

  At least she had the best tools at hand to care for her. It was one of the reasons Rhonda liked working the ICU. From the nurse’s station in the center, she could see every room. They all had glass walls. In ten steps she could be at her patient’s bedside and know instantly, by checking the monitors, how she or he was doing. ICU patients were usually heavily intubated, which freaked out family visitors, but all those tubes were actually viewed as a blessing when you understood what they were for.

  A big tube sticking out of your mom’s neck looked scary, but a regular IV line couldn’t deliver enough fluids. You needed a bigger line. No one liked seeing a tube going into someone’s nose, but an NG could deliver vital nutrients—proteins and carbohydrates—that the patient couldn’t get any other way.

  Every tube, going in or out, gave vital information to Rhonda and helped her know the second her patient needed her. When they first came in, she set the alarms on each device to signal when bags needed to be changed, or vital medicine administered. No guesswork or fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants ER heroics. ER was just “treat and street.” Any patient they couldn’t discharge usually made his or her way to her. They got the hot messes, the sickest of the sick. Precision, organization, and critical thinking skills helped her patients survive.

  Entering her patient’s room, in a glance, she took in the information provided to her from the various monitors, after which she did a thorough visual assessment. Up, down, back and front, she checked it all. Made sure all lines were secure and her patient was comfortable as possible. Turned and clean. She even smelled the air. Satisfied, she went back to the nurse’s station and grabbed a handful of Gummi bears. Every nurse’s station was the same—lots of goodies everywhere. She’d gained twenty-five pounds since she started working there.

  When the ER nurse brought her up last night, he said her new patient was officially still a Jane Doe. Her neighbor, a woman named Logan McKenna, said her name was Lori Wright, but the police didn’t find any ID. The only other information in the EMT’s notes was the fact that the victim had a young daughter, preschool age, presumably with Children’s Services by now.

  Rhonda hoped they found some family soon. She hated to think of the little girl funneled into foster care. She had a two-year-old in here last year who was a product of that system.

  Each room in the ICU had one or two chairs stationed outside for visitors. Earlier this morning, the chair outside Lori’s room encased the ample derriere of an Officer Gussler, a reserve police officer pulled in to do guard duty. But by noon, he’d been reassigned.

  The chair was not unoccupied, however. Currently, it housed a Mrs. Santa Claus clone, complete with white hair, placidly knitting. She wore a dove grey sweater over a long-sleeved white, cotton blouse, jeans, and black, orthopedic tennis shoes. Passing within inches of her on the way out, Rhonda did not ask the woman what she was doing there or if she was family. She obviously saw her, but, ignoring the knitter, implicitly allowed her to stay.

  The rhythmic clacking of the needles harmonized with the blips and beeps, creating a reassuring soundtrack for everyone on the hall, patients and nurses. The pool of calm surrounding Mrs. Claus may or may not have reached the young woman in the room behind her, who had yet to regain consciousness, but she certainly hoped so. Either way, she was here till morning. Staying up all night wasn’t that hard. She hadn’t needed much sleep since she turned seventy. She’d catnap with her Maine Coon, Fenway, when she got home.

  A few minutes later, the woman looked up from her knitting and stretched her neck and rolled her shoulders a few times. Rhonda nodded from her station and returned the smile. For the last few years, Sophia (she never gave a last name) showed up whenever they had a domestic violence case. DV’s were always potentially dangerous. These guys didn’t give up.

  But no one got past Sophia. It was rumored she could do more than knit socks with those needles. Grabbing another handful of Gummi Bears, Rhonda went back to her computer. She almost hoped the guy would try. As an extra benefit, Sophia always donated her completed knitting projects to the neonatal unit. Tonight’s baby booties were robin’s egg blue with yellow trim around the top.

  Her first year in the ICU, Rhonda’s preceptor, Helen, unofficially filled her in about Sophia and friends. They were part of a highly secretive organization called the House of Ruth. Good at flying under the radar, they were Candy Stripers, orderlies, admitting clerks. Rhonda had no idea how many worked or volunteered at Hoag, but she suspected quite a few. They were all over the hospital, but most could be found in and around the ER. Which made sense, given their mission.

  Helen explained that all these women—and a few men—were part of an underground railroad of sorts for abused women that stretched across the country and even helped sex slaves from as far away as Taiwan, Russia, and Mexico to find safe homes and make new lives for themselves.

  One key to
their success was that no one working with House of Ruth knew more than they needed to about the rest of the organization. The beneficiaries of their help rarely knew more than one contact, and only first names were ever used. If an abused wife went back to her husband and divulged the names of the people who helped her, it wouldn’t matter, anyway, because they all used assumed names and met in public places.

  In her younger days, Rhonda would have told the police what she knew about the House of Ruth volunteers. But with a few years under her belt, she understood there was almost nothing the police could do to protect domestic violence victims. And the law? Men ignored or broke through restraining orders all the time.

  The House of Ruth provided a very necessary service.

  The volunteers probably wouldn’t know Lori’s real name or origin, anyway. They would only know the last location, not the first. According to Helen, they never housed an abused wife in the same town or state she was from.

  But somehow, her abuser had found her. If he found her once, he’d be back. Her best chance was to lose herself in the underground railroad again. Maybe this time she’d stay lost.

  Rhonda had every intention of keeping her patient safe so she’d recover and have that opportunity.

  The doctors didn’t have a clue; they never did.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Unaware of her guardian angels outside, beneath the layer of blips and bleeps, eyes closed, Lori floated, suspended in a sea of molasses. Ribbons of memories wound slowly through her mind. Her mom. Some of the cooks at Juan’s. They were funny. Her new friend, Logan.

  Drifting ... familiar smells ... She sat on the edge of a thin mattress, waiting for something. She was back in the emergency room in Seattle. She’d been here before. On the other side of a thin, blue curtain someone moaned.

  Then, suddenly, searing pain! A doctor popped her arm back into place, then after a quick examination, had the nurse clean and apply butterfly bands to her cheek to hold the broken skin together.

  Once the doctor finished his work and left, the ER nurse handed her clothes back to her and tucked a piece of paper into her palm. Leaning forward, she whispered into her ear.

  “Call them, these people will help,” she said, straightening up, looking directly into Lauren’s eyes. She was still Lauren then.

  Lori remembered looking away, pretending not to hear.

  “I’ve seen your chart,” the nurse said, waiting a beat to see if her words hit their target. “This is your third visit in two months. ...

  Lori hadn’t realized she’d been here that often.

  “It won’t stop, you know,” the nurse said as she turned to leave so she could get dressed. “Call them. They’ll help.”

  Lori looked at the paper. No name, just a phone number. Keeping the card was not an option. Garrett went through all her things on a regular basis. How would she explain having a card with no name, just a phone number on it?

  He’d think it was another man. That’s what started it last week. She made the mistake of thanking the produce manager when he showed her where the avocados were. Garrett acted as if she was arranging a clandestine rendezvous.

  Staring at the piece of paper, she repeated the sequence of numbers over and over in her mind as she pulled on her pants and top. She’d always been good with numbers.

  The nurse was right. It hadn’t gotten better. This time he went after Shannon. If she hadn’t intervened to take the blame for the noise Shannon made when Garrett was on the phone, Lori knew he would have wrenched his daughter’s arm out of its socket instead of hers, without realizing what he’d done until he was through venting.

  She could take it, but she’d be damned if she’d ever let him lay a hand on Shannon.

  30

  Telling Patricia what restaurant he’d be at, and not to expect him back this afternoon, Garrett called Neal from the Audi. Neal answered on the first ring.

  “Meet me at SeaTac in a couple of hours,” Garrett said without explanation, “I should be there by 2:30 p.m.”

  “Should I pack?” Neal asked.

  “No, short trip,” Garrett said, “We’ll be back before your bedtime.”

  Early-to-bed, early-to-rise. All part of Neal’s post prison, new leaf routine. He even drank that Kambucha shit. Still smoked though.

  Leopards can’t change their spots.

  Garrett did not believe in rehabilitation.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  When they got to Carlsbad, CA, Garrett tied down the Cessna and made sure it had enough gas to get back. The place was deserted. He grabbed the keys to Steve’s other vehicle, an older-model Mercedes, and tossed them to Neal. The color was a god-awful green, but it ran well and, above all, it was quiet. He preferred the Jeep, but didn’t want to risk anyone recognizing it from his last nocturnal visit.

  When Garrett told Neal they were going to Lori’s house to get back something she stole, he flinched slightly, but kept his speed steady, his eyes on the road, and said nothing. He was sure Neal didn’t buy his lame story for a minute, but Neal wasn’t paid to express his opinion.

  No need to get a motel this time. He wasn’t planning on them staying long. Find the flash drive and leave. He had Neal stop at a liquor store for food. Liquor stores had lots of people come and go. No one would remember one guy coming in for some beach grub. Cellophane-wrapped submarine sandwiches, bag of chips for him, apple for Neal. Gatorade. No beer.

  Sunset still several hours away, they parked at the beach and ate in the car. Wadding up his trash, Garrett passed it up to Neal, then lay down in the back seat, pulling the baseball cap down to shade his eyes.

  “Wake me when the sun sets,” he said.

  Neal, expressionless, remained in the driver’s seat and watched the late afternoon surfers. They seemed so free.

  An hour later, Garrett woke. Sunset was still hours away. They took in a movie and rotated through a few parking lots. Neal knew some tricks from his former life. Hiding in plain sight. No one would remember them.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  11:45 p.m.

  As Neal rolled quietly past Lori’s house for the third time, Garrett, finally satisfied, instructed him to park across the street in front of the empty lot, facing towards PCH. The nosy neighbor’s house was dark. There was police tape around the front porch, but no cops guarding the place. Didn’t look like anyone was home.

  Lori must be in the hospital, and they probably had Shannon in some kind of foster home. Frustration burned from his gut to his throat at the trouble Lauren caused, but he stayed focused. Once he had the flash drive, he’d be back in control. No sense wasting time on trying to get at her in the hospital, where he presumed she was. She hadn’t been very cooperative last time he tried to reason with her, no reason she’d start now.

  The door locks thunked open loudly, but there was no one near enough to hear. Following Neal’s lead, Garrett ran low and quiet up to the porch. They dropped down silently behind the railings, so as not to create a silhouette should another car drive by. The front door was locked tight, but Neal made short work of it. They were inside in seconds. If he had any objections to searching Lori’s home for a flash drive or anything like it, he didn’t say.

  For a job like this, Garrett deferred to Neal’s experience. They agreed to twenty minutes tops before it became too dangerous to stay. Starting in the back of the house, Garrett took Lori’s room; Neal, Shannon’s and the bathroom. The bathroom was a particular favorite hiding place for people, Neal said. They assumed no one would look there, so it was the first place to try.

  Garrett checked his watch. The IWC Pilot was a gift to himself not long after taking Mr. Yoshimoto on as a client. The luminous silver hands showed it had only been ten minutes, but it felt much longer. They hadn’t found a thing. The kitchen was next. It was almost a tie with the bathroom, Neal said.

  As each drawer or cupboard yielde
d nothing but junk—cheap silverware and plastic dishes—he grew increasingly furious with Lauren.

  Where is it?!

  Finally, Neal tapped his own watch. It was time to go. They’d searched every room and found nothing. Garrett even checked for hidden compartments in the walls and along the baseboards, and Neal checked the garage, including Lori’s junker. While he was there, Garrett had him remove the tracker. No sense arousing suspicion. He wanted the police to think Lori’s attack was just a burglary gone wrong. The mess they made tonight would go a long way towards supporting that theory that there were thieves in the neighborhood. Or maybe some random stranger did that to her.

  The world was full of crazies.

  Neal yanked his head toward the front door. It was time to go. They’d already exceeded their twenty minutes. But until he had that flash drive, Garrett knew he would always be looking over his shoulder. He wasn’t going home without it.

  Lori said it wasn’t in the house. He figured she was lying, but unless they missed it, she’d been telling the truth. If it wasn’t here, it must be at someone else’s house—and the only person Neal had seen her with was the neighbor. The woman his daughter ran to for safety—from him. As if he would ever do anything to hurt his little girl.

  Women always stuck together against men.

  Instead of leaving out the front, Garrett urgently pointed toward the back door and waved Neal to follow. From the look on his face, Neal obviously thought this was a bad idea, but did as his boss requested.

  Before they were ten yards away from the house, a light came on in the neighbor’s house. Quickly, Garrett ducked behind the small, detached garage that squatted between the two houses, gratefully blocking him from the neighbor’s view should she look outside. The two men held their breath for what felt like forever, but no one came out, and the light was soon turned off.

  When all was quiet again, Garrett and Neal crouch-ran to the car, doubling back, avoiding the gravel this time. Soft grass all the way. Garrett was grateful for Neal’s get-away expertise. He’d parked downhill so he wouldn’t have to start the car and make a screeching u-turn like he had to do the other night. That made enough noise to wake a banshee.