Yesterday's Thief: An Eric Beckman Paranormal Sci-Fi Thriller (10 page)

I took a sip of my drink and set it down. “You and your girlfriend have a good relationship, right?”

“Ophelia? Sure, couldn’t be better. Been together eight years.”

“You don’t have to answer this, but what does she think of your cross-dressing?”

She laughed. “Yeah, boss, I guess that’s pretty personal, but I don’t mind. Why do you ask?”

“Well, I’m thirty-nine, and I’ve never been together with a woman for more than a few weeks. I’m trying to figure out—”

“Admit it. You’re just curious.”

“Okay. Partly.”

Peggy slid a chair out from another table and put her bare feet up on it. “No problem.” She sat looking at the scenery long enough that I thought maybe she wasn’t going to answer, then said, “Things are fine, and they’re going to continue to be fine. But between you and me, boss,” Peggy turned to me, “I think maybe she’s a closet lesbian.”

After a restful dinner that didn’t include pastrami, I gave Craig a call. All was quiet on the eastern front. That is, the Romanian front.

“Did you see a guard on her room?” I asked.

“I don’t remember,” he said. “Look, Eric, I’m about to scrub in for a shunt operation. I can’t talk now.”

* * *

The events of the day ran through my mind while lying in bed, staring at the time display on the ceiling: 12:09 a.m. I reached for the EZ-Sleeper prototype on the side table. Its brainwave-synchronized input would have me sleeping in minutes, but I stopped and put it back. Sleep could wait. I was enjoying thinking about how I’d solved a case and rescued Donny.

And about the mystery of Viviana Petki. An image of her glancing at the evacuation map while flirting flashed into my head. While distracting me.
Shit!
I should go check on her. I should have gone earlier. Of course. What’s wrong with me? I jumped out of bed and threw on my clothes.

Would she be gone by the time I got there?

CHAPTER SEVEN

Viviana watched the clock on the wall of her hospital room: 12:09 a.m.
Sincronizare este importantă
. Timing is important. Finally, the hospital shift change was finished. Escape time.

She had to disappear before they figured out who she was. When that happened, she’d get a one-way ticket to prison. Maybe she’d be past the statute of limitations on her crimes, since she’d jumped so far ahead by mistake, but she wasn’t taking any chances. She wanted—needed—total independence and anonymity. Without that, her favorite entertainment would be closed to her.

The night before, she’d been tripped up by those stupid machines monitoring her vital signs. They must have sent a signal to a central station somehow. Soon after she’d detached herself, the nurse had popped in. “May I help you?”
How did that happen?
The only wires from the machines were the power cords. Some technology that didn’t exist in 1980?

She wouldn’t make that mistake again. She had figured out a solution.

12:10 a.m. She rolled her bed closer to her comatose roommate’s, careful to take things slowly, keeping her heart rate stable. Her blood pressure cuff only inflated periodically, so that went first. As soon as it finished taking a measurement, she slipped it off and wrapped it around her roommate’s arm.

Next was the thing that clipped onto her finger, whatever that was. She held her hand next to the roommate’s and transferred the device in less than a second. So far, so good. The tricky part would be the three chest wires. Would they have enough stickiness to be reattached? She got everything in position and transferred each wire.

One of them got hung up.
La naiba!
Damn!
She untangled it and soon got all three stuck to her unresponsive roommate’s chest. The monitor squealed, but only for a second. Viviana pictured someone at the nursing station looking up and then, hopefully, back down again. She was past the point of no return now. If someone came into the room, acting innocent wouldn’t work.

She moved her bed back into its original position and arranged pillows and other items until it looked occupied. She reached under the mattress to retrieve her booty: an ID card lifted from a nurse, the table knife from her lunch tray, a surgeon’s cap and mask.

She tiptoed to the door and peered out the small window. This was the new guard on her door—the young one.
Da, excelent!
This was the one who sometimes walked away from his post, taking trips to the bathroom or water fountain.

He was engrossed with some strange electronic device or plaything that involved tapping with the thumbs. How long could she wait for him to go get a drink of water? Could she charm her way past him? Unlikely. If only she could arrange a distraction.

She watched him through the door’s window.
Hai, du-te!
Come on, go!
The corridor was deserted. She only had to get past the guard to be in the clear. Her heart raced. Good thing she was no longer plugged in.

She stuffed her hair into the surgeon’s cap that she’d slipped from an intern’s pocket. That should make her look a little different. She’d rejected wearing the surgical mask—it would hide her identity but call too much attention to itself.

The monitor beeped. She rushed over. One of the chest wires was coming loose. She pressed it down firmly and with the other hand picked up a small flower vase. Dumping out the plastic flowers, she arranged it, along with a fold of blanket, so that it held the wire down. It only had to last a few minutes.

That done, she went back to the door. The guard was gone.
Da!
She inched the door open. He was strolling toward the water fountain.

She slipped out and eased the door closed. It jumped shut at the last second, hitting the jamb with a thud. Her heart rate spiked.

She held her breath and whipped her eyes to the guard.
If he turns
—how did he not hear that? Earphones. He had wires going to each ear.

The fountain was close by. She wouldn’t be able to get out of sight before he finished drinking. If he saw her hiking away down the hall, he’d know it was her. Viviana willed her muscles to stay loose and took deep, calming breaths. She’d been in stickier situations than this.

She walked away quickly, watching the guard the way a lioness watches her prey. As soon as he released the water fountain button, she reversed direction and walked back toward him with her head down. She passed him just as he sat down and pulled out his toy.

He spoke to her without looking up. “How ya doin’?”

“Not bad.” She drew the words out, sounding as American as possible, putting in a touch of Southern accent—naht byad.

She turned a corner and let out her breath. That was the trickiest part, but she wasn’t out of the thicket yet. An image of her close call in Bucharest flashed into her head and the burning sensation when the bullet hit her. She was more careful now,
da
?

She made a beeline for the locker room and waved her stolen ID. The door clicked open and she walked in.
Succes!

“Excuse me, may I help you?”

Oof!
Two workers stood by the coffee machine.

“Sorry, wrong room.” She backed out and dashed into a nearby restroom. She pushed the door closed and put her ear to it, listening.

The two workers walked past. “Yeah, duh, but if she’s a patient, how did she get in?”

Breathing deeply, Viviana waited, counting to ten—
opt, nouă, zece.
Her heart still pounded, but more slowly now. She zipped into the hall and back into the locker room. It was empty. She’d have to be fast.

She heard new voices outside and the click of the electronic door.
Oof.
Where could she hide? A desk-sized laundry bin on casters sat in the corner. She jumped in and pulled the dirty scrubs over her. It rolled out from the wall. Not good.

Two men came in. “Did you hear something?”

No response. Maybe the other shook his head. They accessed their lockers, speaking medical gibberish the whole time, and taking too long to change. The scrubs around Viviana’s face smelled of antiseptic and sweat. Finally, the men’s used clothing dropped on top of her. Would they nudge the bin back to the wall and notice the extra weight? The door to the locker room clicked shut.

Viviana climbed out and looked around. She considered the scrubs. No, street clothes would be better.

Most of the padlocks weren’t familiar, but two lockers were protected by silly multiple-dial padlocks. The kind with four rings of numbers, zero through nine on each. Easy.

She pulled on the first lock, turning each dial and feeling the slight click as it moved into the right position. Done. The locker held only snacks and an LCD watch. She put the watch on her wrist. Nice. 12:30.

The second locker contained jeans and a turtleneck. She held out the pants. Too long. She slipped them on and rolled the hems inward.
Da. Good enough
.

She felt the pockets. Empty. No money. She rummaged around on the shelf in the locker, knocking over a plastic bottle of Coca-Cola. Plastic? It didn’t feel right. She pulled it out and smiled. It was a fake. She shook her head. If it had been glass, like a real Coke bottle, she might have been fooled. She unscrewed the bottom and pulled out a man’s wallet. Someone was clever enough to hide his wallet. He would have been smarter to get a good padlock.

She removed three hundred-dollar bills and two twenties. A lot of money to carry around. The twenties looked different, but not too different. She left the credit cards and driver’s license, repacked the wallet into the fake Coke bottle, and resecured the locker.

With the turtleneck and a pair of Swedish clogs from under a bench, she was set. The door clicked and someone else came in. Would he talk to her? She put her head down and walked out, the stolen nurse’s ID dangling from her neck.

She thought back to the evacuation map she’d examined. Beckman had noticed her interest, but it couldn’t be helped. She entered the stairwell. Seven floors up, she began clip-clopping her way down. Things were going well, but that could change. Maybe the competent guard—FBI?—would return. He’d check on her and sound the alarm.

After only three stairs, she stumbled in the ill-fitting clogs. She fell and grabbed the railing. One shoe came off and went through the railing supports. Leaning over, she watched it sail all the way to the bottom, landing with an echoing crack.
La naiba!

Get by without it? No, a person with one shoe or with bare feet would attract attention.

Was someone close behind? No, that was just a premonition, yes? Sweat tickled her neck, and she checked her new watch: 12:37.

* * *

I arrived at the UCSF med center at 12:30 and took the slow elevator to her floor. A guard sat in a chair by her room. Good.

Without looking up from his smartphone, he said, “How ya doin’?”

His thoughts were typical of someone playing a video game. <
Up, up. Over. No, no, no. Darn. Now. Now!>

I peered in through the small window. All was okay. She was resting comfortably, as they say. Sleeping.

I turned to speak with the guard, then froze. I whipped my head back to the window. Why was there a vase on the other patient’s chest? The tubes and wires—they all went to Viviana’s roommate’s bed.

I slammed the door open. The guard jumped, then followed me.

I threw Petki’s covers aside. Sure enough, underneath were pillows, rolled blankets, and a drawer. The guard’s mouth formed a perfect “O,” and his face was the color of Russian dressing. I tilted my head back and checked the narrow air ducts in the ceiling. Too small. The windows? No, the fixed-frame windows couldn’t be opened. We were on the seventh floor, anyway.

I turned back to the guard and clenched my teeth. “When was the last time you left your post?”

“I haven’t left it.”

I pointed to the empty bed. “Then how did she get out?”

“I, uh, I got a drink of water from the fountain five or ten minutes ago, but that was just a few rooms down. I kept my eye on the door.”

“When exactly?”

“Just ten minutes ago. Maybe twenty.” <
I think. Crap. I really, really screwed up.
>

“Did you see anyone else around?” I opened the cabinets and checked the bathroom.

“No. No one.” <
That nurse walked by. Or doctor. Crap.
>

“Call security. Tell them to block the exits. Tell them someone dangerous is escaping.”

I sprinted to the stairwell, and slammed the door open. I went down fast enough to get dizzy. I jumped over three stairs at a time. Step, step, jump. Over and over. Once false move and I’d sprain an ankle.

I caught a faint thought from below me, at the edge of my range: <
Shit and crap and vomit!>
English, but what American would think that? I yelled, “Viviana!”

* * *

Viviana jumped toward the door to the lobby. Above her a stairwell door clanged, followed by running footsteps.
Shit and crap and vomit!
The jig is up. Some yelling echoed down, but she couldn’t understand it.