Sweet Dreams Boxed Set (188 page)

That was good. He bathed in the pleasure of the moment until his sweat cooled in the dim cave. Finally he stood, stared at the corpse. His heart slowed down, his brain sprang alive, and he aimed one last kick at the lifeless body.

She didn’t flinch or move. He smiled with thin, cruel lips.

What a rush! And he didn’t even have to screw her.

The killer rolled her onto the dirt floor and tossed the blanket over her body, looked around. They were so deep inside the cave she wouldn’t be found for years and years.

It was the last phone call Frankie ever expected to receive.

“He what?” she nearly shouted into the phone.

The neutral voice on the other end of the line didn’t belong to a medical person. Frankie knew by the tone – brusque and military sounding. “He’s been transferred to Sutter General Hospital in Sacramento, the ICU. You’re the only person listed in his files, but you’ll need picture ID to see him. He’s under guarded lock-down.”

She dropped the land line. It fell lopsided onto its cradle. Her father was in critical condition in a trauma center. That meant he might not survive the night. The automaton-like voice had given few details on his condition. She’d have to visit the hospital herself for a status report from a physician.

Involuntarily, Frankie glanced at the stairs winding up to the second level bedroom where Cole Hansen recuperated from his bullet wound. He was getting better every hour, but still ran a low-grade fever.

She didn’t dare leave her patient, but she had to see her father. Learn for herself how critical his condition was. What had happened to him in Folsom Prison? And why?

Did it have anything to do with her?

Chapter 52

“Both of them can hide out at my place,” Slater offered as he and Cruz sat in the Sheriff’s office discussing the case. “No one would suspect the Bigler County Sheriff of harboring an ex-con on the loose and a pretty prison doctor.”

“Who said Frankie’s pretty?” Cruz asked.

“Oh, ho, I’m the older and wiser man, and I can tell by the way you say her name that she’s no ordinary-looking woman.”

It annoyed Cruz that he was so transparent. “Cole Hansen’s a violated parolee, not a runaway,” he corrected. “I had to violate him to keep the heat off me and Dr. Jones.”

Slater smiled slyly. “Dr. Jones, huh?”

“Cut it out. We’ve got three murders, attacks on a respected member of the community, homeless people in jeopardy, and a violated parolee on our hands.” He rose to pace the floor of the small office. “We don’t have time for jokes.”

“I got plenty of room at my ranch,” Slater offered again, “and it’s secluded enough to avoid notice. Trick will be to get them out of the ‘ordinary-looking’ Doc Jones’ house.”

He smiled at his little joke and rubbed the top of his close-cropped head. Gray threads ran through the thick brush of hair. “How do you figure the
Lords
got to them anyway?”

Cruz shook his head, continuing to pace. “No idea. Whatever this is about, though, I bet somehow it all leads back to Anson Stark.”

“Maybe,” Slater said slowly. “But if so, we’ve gotta be careful. Whenever money’s at stake, the risk increases.”

He gave Cruz directions and a set of keys to his ranch north of Placer Hills. “I’d better see what Flood thinks he’s got on the cases.” As they left the office, he placed a hand on Cruz’s shoulder, halting him. “Safety first, Chago, safety first.”

Cruz didn’t need the warning. He didn’t call ahead to warn Frankie about the move to a different safe house. She’d resist the change, especially if Cole was not recovering well, and he didn’t need an argument with her right now. Safety first, he muttered to himself.

“I’m not leaving my patient,” Frankie insisted when Cruz arrived at the Rosedale house and explained the plan to her. “Not until his fever drops and the wound stops seeping.”

He’d brought groceries and was stacking them on the counter, when he paused. Hands on hips, he glared down at her. She looked frazzled and he didn’t blame her. The last forty-eight hours had been brutal for both of them.

He stepped away from her because even while his survival senses were ringing alarm bells, part of him wanted to take her in his arms and soothe her. “All right, okay.”

Finished with stocking the refrigerator, he rummaged through it, muttering, “No beer? What kind of doctor doesn’t drink beer?”

She trailed after him. “The kind who – ”

“No, don’t tell me,” he interrupted. “The kind who keeps a giant bottle of vodka in her bedroom.”

“The kind whose mother was an alcoholic,” she corrected calmly.

He felt foolish, straightened up, and looked at her over the top of the fridge door. “Oh – sorry. And I guess the vodka is – ”

“A nice little disinfectant and pain killer in an emergency.”

He smiled gently. “Not a reminder to stay on the straight and narrow?”

“Well, maybe that, too,” she admitted, sinking onto a kitchen bar stool. “Seeing as how I’ve kept it in my bedroom since before med school.”

He leaned against the counter, holding a carton of milk and a package of sliced lunchmeat. “We’ve got to figure this out because you and Cole can’t stay here.” He drank from the milk carton with the abandonment of a child and then stuffed his mouth with several slices of ham.

“Who at the prison has the know-how to remove a kidney without someone dying?” Cruz asked Frankie as they moved into the living room.

“Has to be one of the nurses, night-time, probably. No one else would know the mechanics of it, but it would still be a great risk.”

“Another doctor?”

“Dr. Vincent comes in to cover for me, but he’s old, nearly retired. I doubt he’d – ”

“Where would they do it?”

“The SHU clinic is pretty quiet at night, but at least one guard would have to be part of the scheme,” Frankie answered. “They’d have to pack the organ in ice and transport it for immediate use.” She shook her head in perplexity. “I don’t see how they could manage it.”

“Unless ... ” Cruz began, trailing off.

“Unless, what?”

“Unless they don’t plan on using the organ at all.”

Frankie looked shocked. “But – but why would they remove a perfectly good kidney simply to – what, dispose of it?”

“A demonstration of loyalty?” Cruz suggested. “Or intimidation?”

Frankie bit on her lower lip, concentrating. “If that’s true, they could dispose of it easily enough in the hazardous waste containers.”

“A ritual for leadership in the gang,” Cruz continued. “Do you have the names of those inmates who had abdominal scars? We could cross-check them against known members of the
Lords of Death
.”

“I have another idea,” Frankie said after thinking a long moment. She retrieved the pilfered note from a folder, and pushed it across the counter where Cruz stood. “Take a look at this again. In light of what you’ve told me, could the letters and numbers refer to human organs?”

Cruz nodded. “Cole was talking about musical instruments ... ”

Frankie’s brow puckered. “The symbols could represent blood types, like O+ stands for O-positive.”

“And the ‘10p’ at the end of the note could be 10:00 pm, couldn’t it?” He bent his head close to hers, their cheeks almost touching. “A delivery time?”

“Who was the note meant for? If the note says the – the supplier, I suppose, needs one O-positive or A-negative blood donor of a heart, for example – ”

“Right,” Cruz interrupted excitedly, “‘1O-O+’ means one organ, with blood type that’s either O-negative or O-positive.”

Frankie turned her head quickly toward Cruz, their faces suddenly close and unbearably tense. “Ah, because O is the universal donor, yes, and ‘HK’?”

“Heart and kidney,” Cruz replied immediately, his voice low, his breath soft against her skin.

The reality of their words broke the spell and she shuddered violently. “My God, it’s a specialty order for organ transplants.”

Chapter 53

The escape from Frankie’s family home in Rosedale to Slater’s house took place after midnight, but no one was sleepy. Even in the safest place possible – the residence of the county Sheriff – none of them found comfort in the Sierra foothills, no matter how far from Rosedale, but there was safety in numbers.

Slater’s house, roomy and spacious, was able to accommodate all of them. Frankie and Cruz each took a guest room, and Slater would sleep on the sofa bed in the den. Still recovering from the gunshot wound, but no longer feverish, Cole had been settled into the master bedroom upstairs.

Slater had finished the cleanup at the Rosedale house, the repair of the back door and disposal of the broken glass and blood-stained rug. He’d examined the residence during the daylight and found no clues to identify the attacker, but stationed the same deputy outside in case someone returned to the scene of the shooting.

It was now three in the morning, and Frankie and Cruz gathered at one end of Slater’s ancient dining room table with the Sheriff at the head. Fueled by endless cups of coffee and the adrenaline rush of flight, no one was inclined to go to their room. Everyone’s mind was on the brutal attack at Frankie’s father’s house and the astounding information that’d come at them like a runaway train.

Slater looked into Dr. Jones’ calm eyes, gray like his own. He swiped a large hand over his jaw. “I hate to say this, Dr. Jones, but the attack was aimed at you. Personally. I don’t think it had anything to do with Cole Hansen.”

“We can’t be sure of that,” Cruz contradicted. “The attacker could’ve been looking for Cole, missed seeing him in the garage, and gone searching.”

“And knew just where Cole might be? At Dr. Jones’ father’s house?” Slater shrugged but didn’t argue further. “We won’t know, will we, long as the two of them are together?”

“Are you suggesting we split them up?” Cruz seemed outraged at the idea, and Slater knew for sure the parole officer was starting to take a personal interest in Frankie Jones.

She rose abruptly, nearly knocking over her cup of coffee. Agitated, she rubbed her hands up and down over her crossed arms. She stopped and faced them, stance like someone prepared to do battle. “Talk
to
me, not
about
me.”

Cruz and Slater exchanged sheepish looks. “Sorry, Frankie,” Cruz said at last, “but it will be hard to figure out who did this if we don’t know who the target was.”

“I know that.” She ran her fingers through her thick dark hair, messy and tangled from the recent activities. A good hot shower, she thought, that’s what she needed. No time for one now, though. Her cell phone buzzed in her back jeans pocket.

It was her father’s lawyer. A sharp jolt of guilt ran through her. She hadn’t thought of her father since they’d left the Rosedale house, running for their lives. “I have to take this,” she said, and moved into the kitchen for privacy.

“Where are you?” Wright’s voice was unusually sharp, his normal unflappability gone. “I’ve been trying to reach you.” He paused. “Roger’s in ICU.”

“The prison called me,” Frankie answered. “They said Sutter.”

“Yes, Sutter General, downtown Sacramento, under heavy guard. Frankie, he’s in a bad way. He may not last the night.”

She bit down hard on her lip. “Will they let me visit?”

“Probably not, but as his attorney of record, I can get a message to him.”

Her heart fluttered wildly in her chest, birds’ wings desperate for flight.

“I don’t think you should try to see him,” Wright added during the brief pause. “It might alert whoever’s looking for you. It’s too dangerous. Roger wouldn’t want you taking unnecessary chances.”

“Yes, you’re right.” She felt her cheeks flush and her eyes mist. She’d never, not for a minute, believed her father had killed her mother. If he were dying, she had to find a way to convince him of that continued belief – and her love for him.

“Tell him – tell him I said,
‘semper fi.’”

“Like the Marine Corps?”

“He’ll know what it means.” Frankie cut the connection before she began crying like a baby.

When she returned to the dining room, she got right down to business. “Let’s proceed as if I’m the target. Surely it’s easier to find out where my house is than track down a recently-paroled homeless man.”

Cruz quirked his mouth. “You’d think, but I found Cole pretty fast.”

“Hot shot,” Slater said in an attempt at humor.

Cruz took in Frankie’s pale face and damp eyes. “Everything okay?”

She shook her head. “Not really. I – I know you both want me to hide out here, tend to my patient, but I – I have to visit my father.” She paused and then dropped the bombshell. “He’s in Sutter General Hospital in Sacramento, under guard.”

“Father?” Slater and Cruz spoke at the same time, and it would’ve been comical if the situation weren’t so dire.

Cruz recovered first. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

“You gotta give us more than that,” Slater said wryly.

Frankie gave them the short version. “My father is doing fifteen to life for murder two. He was attacked in the exercise yard at Folsom State Prison. Knife wounds. They don’t expect him to live.”

Stunned silence followed.

“I’m going to see him,” Frankie insisted, a fierce look on her face. “With or without your approval.”

Chapter 54

Toward dawn, the three of them lounged around Slater’s great room, a fire roaring in the fireplace, the comfortable area warm with the heat of fire and strong coffee. This was the first focused opportunity they’d had to share their individual findings with each other.

Cruz had made copies of the kite Cole had stolen from Pelican Bay, and handed Frankie a yellow legal pad to jot down notes. “Let’s try to figure out what we know about the deaths of these three people,” he began, “see how they’re connected to each other and the attacks on Frankie – and maybe what’s going on at the prison.”

Putting down his coffee mug, Cruz shifted toward the front of the armchair he sat in. “Okay, we have three dead victims, all attacked in a similar fashion, but not exactly the same way, according to the medical examiner.”