neck. Although the sun remained hidden behind gray clouds, it was most assuredly up there, somewhere. Trying. One couldn’t help but admire the effort.
Esme still hadn’t called.
Tom was tempted to phone her back, but refrained. If she didn’t want to get involved, she didn’t want to get involved. He had to respect that. He didn’t respect it—just as he hadn’t seven years ago—but he had to at least pretend. Pushing only created distance.
She would be such an asset on this case. There were so many variables, so many questions unanswered. This was a killer who thought outside the box, and Tom knew his capture would only be achieved by a detective who thought outside the box. And Esme flourished outside the box. So what in the hell was she doing in cookie-cutter Long Island…?
Tom washed down the last of his burger with a swig of tangy lemonade and tossed his refuse in a nearby bin. Across the street was a superstore which specialized in hats. Sometimes Amarillo reminded him of his childhood back in Jasper. Only Jasper wasn’t as flat. Nothing was as flat as the Texas Panhandle. The landscape was populated, as it were, with forests of shrubs that rarely rose above Tom’s ankle. The rest was desert, and went on for infinity.
Tom motored up Wallace Boulevard to Baptist St. Anthony’s. Chief Harold Lymon, nicknamed “Catch,” was situated on the fifth floor. Since no one from the hospital had left Tom a message, he assumed the man was still, sixty-five hours after being shot, unconscious. The doctors had insisted that Catch’s condition wasn’t critical, that he had been extraordinarily lucky, that his brain functions appeared normal and he could awaken at any moment. However, that likelihood decreased with each passing hour. Catch—and what he might have seen at the aquarium—was their best hope—their only hope—in identifying the sniper who called himself Galileo.
So imagine Tom’s relief when he received a text message, just as he pulled into the hospital lot. CATCH AWAKE, it read. It was from Darcy Parr, the youngest member of his task force. She’d drawn the morgue assignment, and since the morgue was situated in Baptist St. Anthony’s, it made sense she’d be the first to learn any status change in Catch’s condition.
Three minutes and thirty seconds after reading the text, Tom had locked up his motorcycle, secured hisgear, and was riding the hospital elevator up to floor five. Darcy met him at the nurses’ station.
“The doctors are in with him right now,” she said. “They said he may be too weak to talk, but I convinced them to give us five minutes as soon as they’re done.”
Darcy was Tom’s little blond-haired puppy dog—hyperactive, always eager to please, sidling up beside him. She was twenty-six years old. Her youthful energy sometimes drove Tom insane. Today it helped stretch his lips into a cheek-to-cheek grin.
Two different Texas Rangers were stationed outside Room 526. The door was closed. As soon as Catch had arrived at the hospital, the Texas Rangers had stepped up and volunteered their time. Everyone wanted to help. Well, except Esme Stuart.
The Rangers—two tin-starred linebackers topped with cream-colored cowboy hats—stood at attention on either side of the door. Tom offered them a salute. Darcy followed close behind.
“How long have they been in there?” he asked.
“About fifteen, sir,” replied Sgt. Conwell.
“Catch called out to us, sir,” added Sgt. Baynes. “He knew where he was. He knew what had happened.”
Tom’s grin filled his whole face. He paced the hall, eager to chat with his star witness.
“How was the service?” Darcy asked.
“It was nice. Very respectful.”
He glanced at Room 526’s closed door. Any minute now.
“Has his family been notified?” Tom asked her.
“As far as I know,” Darcy replied. “I’m sure they’llbe here soon. I’m sure they’ll want to talk with him, too.”
“Well, then, they’ve just got
Esme still hadn’t called.
Tom was tempted to phone her back, but refrained. If she didn’t want to get involved, she didn’t want to get involved. He had to respect that. He didn’t respect it—just as he hadn’t seven years ago—but he had to at least pretend. Pushing only created distance.
She would be such an asset on this case. There were so many variables, so many questions unanswered. This was a killer who thought outside the box, and Tom knew his capture would only be achieved by a detective who thought outside the box. And Esme flourished outside the box. So what in the hell was she doing in cookie-cutter Long Island…?
Tom washed down the last of his burger with a swig of tangy lemonade and tossed his refuse in a nearby bin. Across the street was a superstore which specialized in hats. Sometimes Amarillo reminded him of his childhood back in Jasper. Only Jasper wasn’t as flat. Nothing was as flat as the Texas Panhandle. The landscape was populated, as it were, with forests of shrubs that rarely rose above Tom’s ankle. The rest was desert, and went on for infinity.
Tom motored up Wallace Boulevard to Baptist St. Anthony’s. Chief Harold Lymon, nicknamed “Catch,” was situated on the fifth floor. Since no one from the hospital had left Tom a message, he assumed the man was still, sixty-five hours after being shot, unconscious. The doctors had insisted that Catch’s condition wasn’t critical, that he had been extraordinarily lucky, that his brain functions appeared normal and he could awaken at any moment. However, that likelihood decreased with each passing hour. Catch—and what he might have seen at the aquarium—was their best hope—their only hope—in identifying the sniper who called himself Galileo.
So imagine Tom’s relief when he received a text message, just as he pulled into the hospital lot. CATCH AWAKE, it read. It was from Darcy Parr, the youngest member of his task force. She’d drawn the morgue assignment, and since the morgue was situated in Baptist St. Anthony’s, it made sense she’d be the first to learn any status change in Catch’s condition.
Three minutes and thirty seconds after reading the text, Tom had locked up his motorcycle, secured hisgear, and was riding the hospital elevator up to floor five. Darcy met him at the nurses’ station.
“The doctors are in with him right now,” she said. “They said he may be too weak to talk, but I convinced them to give us five minutes as soon as they’re done.”
Darcy was Tom’s little blond-haired puppy dog—hyperactive, always eager to please, sidling up beside him. She was twenty-six years old. Her youthful energy sometimes drove Tom insane. Today it helped stretch his lips into a cheek-to-cheek grin.
Two different Texas Rangers were stationed outside Room 526. The door was closed. As soon as Catch had arrived at the hospital, the Texas Rangers had stepped up and volunteered their time. Everyone wanted to help. Well, except Esme Stuart.
The Rangers—two tin-starred linebackers topped with cream-colored cowboy hats—stood at attention on either side of the door. Tom offered them a salute. Darcy followed close behind.
“How long have they been in there?” he asked.
“About fifteen, sir,” replied Sgt. Conwell.
“Catch called out to us, sir,” added Sgt. Baynes. “He knew where he was. He knew what had happened.”
Tom’s grin filled his whole face. He paced the hall, eager to chat with his star witness.
“How was the service?” Darcy asked.
“It was nice. Very respectful.”
He glanced at Room 526’s closed door. Any minute now.
“Has his family been notified?” Tom asked her.
“As far as I know,” Darcy replied. “I’m sure they’llbe here soon. I’m sure they’ll want to talk with him, too.”
“Well, then, they’ve just got
Similar Books
