Most Wanted (48 page)

Suddenly she heard another sound, a mechanical one. Instinctively she looked up, but raindrops drenched her face. She almost lost her balance and fell again. The sound intensified. A rhythmic thwacking sound came from the sky behind the dense cloud cover. She recognized the noise. It was a helicopter.

“Help, help!” Christine screamed. She straightened up as she ran, waving her bloodied hands. She prayed the helicopter could see her cutting a swath through the cornfield. It sounded closer and closer, a mechanical thumping.

She glanced up, blinking rain from her eyes. The helicopter popped through the cloud cover, its big rotors turning. It was flying low and coming toward her. She waved her hands as she ran. It got closer, and she felt the turbulence from its rotors. Bugs and birds flew everywhere. The helicopter was the corporate green of Chesterbrook Hospital. It was a medevac.

Christine screamed for help, waving her hands in the turbulence. She was going to be rescued. Help was here. She didn't have to die here, not now, not today. She looked up again only to see the helicopter fly past her.

“No, no, help!” she screamed, running and running. The helicopter choppered to the gravel road. It must have been for Joan. Christine was on her own. She almost cried out with despair. No one was coming for her. She had to save herself and her baby. She didn't know if Dom was behind her, but he wasn't shouting anymore. He must've realized that he had to stay quiet and low or the helicopter would see him.

Her chest heaved, her lungs burned. She was almost out of breath. She didn't know if she could go another step, but she kept running, hacking away at the cornstalks, powering herself forward.

Suddenly she heard the faint sound of a police siren cutting through the rain. The police were on their way, coming toward her, but too far away. She had to keep going. Behind her she could hear the crackling getting closer, less than six feet, then five. Dom was closing the gap between them. He could reach out and grab her. He could kill her and get away.

The rushing sound of the traffic got louder and louder. She heard the honk of a car horn. She heard the louder rumbling of truck tires churning on the wet asphalt.

Christine screamed for her life, running and fighting her way through the corn. The rushing of traffic got closer and closer. She caught glimpses of the cars on the road through the stalks.

Suddenly she popped out of the cornfield, staggering to stay upright, her momentum carrying her forward into the road, where cars were rushing back and forth. She screamed as a pickup almost sideswiped her, skidding, but righted itself as she kept running across the road. She reached the other side, just as she heard a sickening
thud.

“No!” Christine whirled around from the other side, just in time to see Dom struck by the massive chrome grille of a tractor-trailer that carried him forward before he vanished beneath its chassis.

Christine collapsed to her knees, in a flood of tears and rain. It could have been her, but it wasn't. She was alive.

And so was her baby.

 

Chapter Fifty-two

Christine experienced the next few hours as if they were a blur, after being collected at the scene by the Chester County Police, who arrived in force, taking statements from drivers who had witnessed what had happened, rerouting traffic around Route 842, establishing a perimeter with flares and yellow tape, and erecting a blue tent with screens around Dom's body, until the coroner came. Christine was taken to the hospital in an ambulance, sirens blaring, and she felt a sort of mute shock as she lay strapped into a gurney, while the EMT took her vital signs and phoned them in ahead.

Christine kept all of her emotions at bay, whisked to the emergency department at Chesterbrook Hospital, where she'd parked only hours before and caused the scene with Grant Hallstead. She never would've guessed that it would end with the gruesome death of Dom Gagliardi and the attack on Joan Hallstead, who was already in the OR. Dom had cut Joan's throat and left her for dead, but amazingly, she'd been able to reach her phone to call 911 in time. The hospital hadn't hesitated to send a medevac for the wife of one of its most prominent surgeons, and the word was that Joan had lost a lot of blood but was expected to recover.

Christine had been wheeled into the ER, changed out of her sopping wet clothes and into a hospital gown, then she'd been given a heated blanket and a saline-drip IV. Her cuts had been examined, irrigated, and covered with Neosporin. She'd asked the nurses to call Griff and Marcus, who was on his way. She figured he wouldn't arrive until the middle of the night, and she didn't want to think about how he had reacted to the news.

They checked her and the baby and both were given a clean bill of health. She got her discharge papers, but not before the nurses replaced her hospital gown with a fresh set of scrubs, as a parting gift. Scrubs were color-coded at Chesterbrook Hospital—navy scrubs were for nurses, maroon for radiologists, and teal for OR nurses—and Christine felt honored to don the navy scrubs that only nurses like Gail Robinbrecht were entitled to wear. But she tried not to think about that either, keeping tears inside.

Christine had been allowed to remain in the examining room to give a statement to the Chester County detectives, rather than go to the station house, and she waited for the detectives, muting the flat-screen TV in the corner, when CNN started running a video of the rainy scene on Route 842, above the banner,
BREAKING NEWS
—
NURSE MURDERER DEAD IN TRUCK COLLISION
. She glanced at the screen and flashed on her good-bye party, when she had first seen the video of Zachary's arrest. She knew she should feel happy that he would go free, but she kept even that emotion at a distance.

The first detective to enter the examining room was the one who had taken her through the crime scene, Detective Stuart Wallace, in his black logo polo shirt and khaki slacks. “Remember me?” Detective Wallace asked gently, crossing to the foot of her bed, his smile warmer.

“Yes, of course.” Christine smiled back, though her face hurt from the cuts and scratches, as if her skin were too tight.

“How are you feeling?”

“Okay, good.” Christine didn't elaborate. The truth was, she was trying not to feel.

“Griff says hi. He's out in the waiting room. He's been here since just a few minutes after you got here.”

“Really?” Christine asked, touched.

“He called 911 on your behalf, even before Mrs. Hallstead did. He asked us to send a squad car after you to make sure you were okay. He asked us to look for you, just past Unionville.”

Christine felt puzzled. “But how did he know I needed help?”

“He said he got a phone call from you, that you were upset or something?” Detective Wallace smiled sympathetically. “He was worried you were going to have an accident, driving distracted. We were already on our way when the 911 call came in from the doctor's wife.” Detective Wallace pulled out a skinny notepad, and so did the two detectives behind him. “So, Christine, why don't you tell us exactly what happened, in your own words?”

Christine told him what had happened, starting with the vigil and ending with the hospital, and answered all of his questions. She managed to stay in emotional control, tearing up only when she remembered Joan's frantic attempt to get to the driver's seat and even Dom's getting hit by the truck, a horrific sight that would be seared into her brain for a long time. After Christine had finished her statement, Detective Wallace helped her to her feet and walked her to the waiting room, where he took his leave.

Griff rose unsteadily. “Good to see you're in one piece,” he said, his lips parting in the beginnings of a relieved smile.

Christine entered the waiting room, crossed to him, and opened her arms. “I'm going to hug you, ready or not.”

“No, no.”

“Yes, yes.” Christine gave him a big hug, and Griff emitted a soft little grunt. He felt soft, warm, and cuddly in his airplane-propeller bow tie and his rumpled seersucker suit, with a black umbrella hooked over his forearm. He smelled like cedar chips and pencil lead, and as she released him, his hooded eyes twinkled behind his smudgy tortoiseshell glasses.

“What was
that
for?”

“Thanks for waiting for me.”

“What choice did I have?”

“Thanks for calling 911, too.”

“What was I supposed to do? Who else will work for free?”

“Ha.” Christine felt her smile widen. “What does this mean for Zachary? Do they let him out?”

“Not yet. It takes time. They just started their investigation of Gagliardi.” Griff leaned closer, lowering his voice. “But the D.A. told me confidentially that Gagliardi is definitely the doer. They seized his computer and found photos of Robinbrecht, McLeane, and Allen-Bogen, taken postmortem.”

“You mean, dead?” Christine asked, disgusted.

“Yes.” Griff frowned. “It's not uncommon for serial killers to take pictures or trophies.”

“What about his wife, did she know?”

“Evidently not. They have no kids.”

“So why was he in the hospitals in the first place?”

“He brokers corporate insurance, mostly for health care systems. He calls on hospital administrators. That's how he finds his victims. If you hadn't stopped him, he'd still be killing.” Griff's half smile returned, and Christine had to admit she was starting to feel satisfied, if not happy.

“I think somebody has to say ‘good job,' don't you?”

“Good job.” Griff's smile broadened, begrudgingly.

“Thanks.” Christine warmed, knowing it was the best she'd get, and it was more than enough. She hadn't done it for Griff or even Zachary. She'd done it for herself and her baby. “So when does Zachary go free?”

“A day or two, after the government gets through with its red tape.”

“So do we go tell him?”

“First, let's stop in at the office. I have someone you should meet.”

“Who?” Christine took his arm, and Griff waddled beside her as they left the waiting room.

“You'll see. By the way, there are reporters outside. Should we tell them I bite?”

“They'll figure that out.” Christine realized she'd have to come clean to Griff about who she was when they got back to the office. She wanted him to know the truth. “So are you going to make a statement?”

“No, I'll tell them ‘no comment.'” Griff looked over at her. “Besides, I don't know if you caught the bad guy. Or the bad guy caught you.”

“A little of both.” Christine managed a smile as they made their way slowly down the hall. “You helped.”

“No I didn't.” Griff shook his head.

“Yes you did. You showed me I could do it.” Christine had always said that teachers could do anything, and now she knew it was true.

“Let's take our time, going out. It's still raining. They'll get wet.”

“Good idea.” Christine smiled.

“You know, I made a decision. I'm not ready to retire.”

“Good. Don't.” Christine could see a throng of reporters through the glass exit doors, firing camera flashes in the rain.

“I'm going to get bunion surgery, then get back in business. I've got a lot of life left in me. That's what you showed
me.
”

“Good.” Christine felt warmed. “But you need a new suit.”

“Nah. All I need is a bulletin board.” Griff laughed at his own joke.

Christine joined him, laughing, as they strolled out, arm in arm.

 

Chapter Fifty-three

Griff entered his office ahead of Christine, who was tired, hungry, achy, and not completely delighted to see a woman sitting in one of the chairs opposite his desk. The woman had chin-length red hair, and was slim and pretty in a white V-neck T-shirt and hip yoga pants. She had been scrolling through her phone, but she leapt to her feet with an excited smile when they came in.

“Tanya Spencer, meet Christine Nilsson.” Griff eased into his desk chair with a tiny grunt. “And vice versa. From the Latin.”

“Christine, my God, are you okay?” Tanya beamed at Christine, her admiration plain. “It's amazing, what you did today! You're a hero!”

“Oh, I don't know about that, but thanks.” Christine crossed the room and extended a hand, then stopped herself because it was covered with Band-Aids. “Tanya, I'd shake, but maybe that's a bad idea.”

“Totally, of course, you
are
a hero! You could have been killed!”

“Luckily, I wasn't.” Christine sat down, realizing who Tanya was, because her red hair was the tip-off. Tanya must have been Zachary's new girlfriend, who had paid half of his retainer.

“Thank you so much for what you did for Zachary.” Tanya retook her seat, perched on the edge, close to Christine. “You risked your life to help him. The news is on every channel. I saw the video on my phone.”

“Well, it's not the way I wanted it.” Christine and Griff exchanged looks since she had filled him in on the way over in the car. “But I'm glad that Zachary isn't going to have to stand trial for a crime he didn't commit.”

“I agree, that would've been an awful injustice.” Tanya's eyes flared, a light hazel color, set close together, with no makeup. She gave off a vaguely organic vibe in brown huaraches. “I can't stand that he's in prison right now. He doesn't belong in a disgusting place like that. He never did.”

“No, he doesn't.” Christine found herself curious about Tanya, especially after Hannah had thought that she was the only girlfriend. “Anyway, it's nice to finally get to talk to you.”

“Finally? What do you mean by that?”

“I heard about you from Zachary and the woman at the prison. You're his girlfriend, aren't you?”

“No,” Tanya answered, with a sheepish smile. “That's just a story we made up to tell the people at the prison.”