A Secondhand Life Page 14

  Amy must have felt the sincerity of our connection and smiled trustingly, and as I appreciated the beauty of that moment with this young, courageous girl, I wondered if the killer was watching us. If he was, he knew Amy would talk sooner or later, and he couldn’t let that happen. I yearned to protect this girl, but I didn’t know how. I prayed that the cops were smarter than he was.

  Emotions overwhelmed me, so I hugged her, drawing her into the safety of my chest. If only I could keep her there until the threat passed. Amy must have sensed my concern, for she squeezed me tightly and didn’t release.

  “I’m scared,” she suddenly said, her voice muffled in my shirt.

  I leaned back to look at her. “Hey, do you want me to stay and we can watch a movie together? I brought a couple of DVDs with me.”

  “Yeah, I’d really like that. I don’t want to be alone right now.”

  “I know, sweetie. I know…”

  And I wouldn’t leave her alone. For something within me—perhaps Alexis—warned me that the moment Amy was alone would be her last.

  Silence swept over us like lapping waves. Then Amy’s small voice splashed through it.

  “You know what the worst thing about it was?”

  “What’s that?” I wondered aloud.

  “He seemed like a nice, normal man—someone I could trust, you know? How could I be so wrong?”

  I often asked myself the same thing.

  Chapter 20

  Four hours and two Harry Potters later, Amy’s mom showed up with Ben and Jerry’s ice cream and a scowl on her face. Despite Amy’s protests that I was a friend, Mrs. Watson ushered me out the door and instructed me to stay away from Amy … or else. I figured the “or else” involved lawyers or cops, neither of which I wanted to make enemies of.

  On my way out I promised Amy I’d stop by again—“if your mom is okay with it,” I added pointedly—and handed her mother a piece of paper with my name and phone number written on it, which she promptly threw in the garbage can beside the door. As I followed a trail of black scuffmarks down the hallway to the elevators, I visually memorized every face I passed, hoping that one would trigger a reaction. Yet nothing happened.

  Alexis had no message for me—at least not one I sensed.

  It wasn’t until three floors down, as I exited the elevator on my way to the front lobby, when I ran into him. Jeremy Mason. He was pushing a cart of janitorial supplies and nearly brushed against me as we passed.

  “Hey—Jeremy, right?” I said, stopping his hasty route around me.

  “Are you really going to play dumb with me—Mia, is it?”

  “Good memory.”

  “Hard to forget, especially when your boyfriend tried to kill me.”

  “Anger management issues,” I said with a shrug.

  “Yeah, well, I have lawsuit issues, so tell him to watch it. He comes near me again, he’ll be doing jail time.”

  Cowed by the threat, I held my tongue in check. “About that, we didn’t mean to stir up trouble.”

  “Say what you want. But if I find you skulking around my house again, I promise a broken jaw will be the least of his worries. Got it?”

  “No need to get pissy with me. I got it.”

  “Good.” Now that he had the last word, he rolled past me into the elevator, embarking on a friendly chat with a nurse.

  Two steps later, I felt his glower on my back and I turned around, meeting his stare as the elevator doors closed in front of him. A chill ran down my spine and I wondered if I should follow him. I watched the numbers climb as his elevator rose—1 … 2 … 3—and there it stopped at Amy’s floor.

  My pulse quickened. If I followed, Amy’s mother would throw me out again and probably put me on some visitor blacklist. If I left, would I ever see Amy alive again?

  I ran to the front desk and asked if I could place a call to Amy’s room. The receptionist handed me the phone and recited the number for me to dial. It rang twice before it connected.

  “Hello?” It was Amy.

  I didn’t want to scare her any more than she already was, so I chose my words carefully. “Hi, Amy. It’s me, Mia. I just wanted to know if your mom planned to spend the night with you tonight.”

  “Yeah, I think so. Why?”

  “I’m just worried about you, that’s all. I really think it’d be best for you if your mom stays with you the next few nights. I don’t want you to be alone right now.”

  “Is something wrong?” she asked. At that, I heard her mother ask who it was and what they wanted. Amy’s hand muffled the receiver as she answered, “Just a friend, Mom. Chill.” Then her voice came through clearly again. “Sorry, just my mom talking to me.”

  “Nothing’s wrong, sweetie. I just feel it’d be a good idea to have someone with you at all times … just to be safe, you know?”

  “Sure,” she said. “But I have the guard too, you know.”

  “I know, Amy. I just like to be extra cautious. Can you mention it to your mom that you’d like her to stay with you? Please?”

  “I will. And Mia …?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thanks for everything. I feel a lot safer with you looking out for me.”

  If only I really could keep her safe.

  After wishing her a good night and repeating my request that her mom sleep in her room, I hung up.

  There was nothing else I could do. Even if I forced my way through the cops, lawyers, and parents to stay at her bedside, I couldn’t monitor her twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. I had to trust that the police, and her mother, knew how to protect her inside the hospital. In the meantime, I’d work on protecting her from the outside.

  Chapter 21

  Saturday, May 3

  10:14 p.m.

  “Genius is eternal patience,” Michelangelo once said. Smart fellow; he might as well have been referring specifically to me. One doesn’t achieve true success without the essential ingredient of patience. One doesn’t attain his goals or complete his mission without it. Few possess it, and those who do can accomplish anything.

  Luckily I was blessed with more than my fair share of it—that, and a hefty dose of fortitude.

  Blending in with the nursing staff, I had arrived at Duke Hospital … only to find myself nipping at the heels of Mia Germaine. In spite of my irritation at her blatant rebellion, I couldn’t help but find it attractive. Few women these days embraced a life of sacrifice, instead choosing selfish gain that reduced families to empty shells, while homes became tombs of possessions. Mia risked her life for that of a child she barely knew, while Amy’s own mother resumed her fruitless endeavors—hitting shoe sales and making lunch dates with girlfriends.

  Oh, Mia—a rare gem. It was a shame I’d have to kill her after all. She knew the penalty of her actions and accepted it. It appeared we were both up for a challenge.

  Five hours of wandering the hospital halls later while simulating purposeful activity—a blood pressure check here, assisting a patient there—I passed by Amy’s room: 301, my lucky number. Amy’s mother had finally withdrawn for the night, and it was time I made my move. The scrubs allowed me to effortlessly blend in with the staff as I paced the hallways. Within two days I had memorized the shift change times and protocol throughout the day and was almost able to predict which cop would be on duty at any given time. As they say, the devil is in the details, and I was a fast learner.

  Enough time had passed since Amy’s attack that the cops were letting their guard down, rarely checking staff IDs as they came and went. Getting into her room wouldn’t be the problem. Staying under the radar was my concern. The moment I executed my plan, alarms would beckon doctors and nurses to her room to attempt to resuscitate her dead body, and I absolutely could not be there when it happened or else I’d be leaving in handcuffs. Timing was everything.

  My plan appeared flawless. The shift change would occur in ten minutes, leaving me approximately five minutes to get in, complete the task, then get out, where I would seam
lessly flow into the stream of night staff, drifting far enough away to stay unnoticed when Amy was pronounced dead.

  I bustled past Amy’s door at approximately 10:21 p.m. as the cop checked the time. He had nine minutes until his shift ended, but apparently he had somewhere better to be. I had anticipated the early leave and smiled. With the nine extra minutes he gave me, plus the five minutes I had until the next guard arrived at 10:35, this gave me more than enough time to execute my plan and escape.

  I watched him peek his head inside Amy’s door and wish her goodnight.

  “I’m going to head out,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Amy’s reply was blocked by the man’s thick frame in the doorway. Too many doughnuts rounded out his belly, mushrooming his waist above his belt buckle. After he shut her door and disappeared inside the elevator, I headed toward Amy’s room.

  Before slipping inside, I pulled on a surgical face mask and latex gloves, then carefully closed the door behind me. The room was dark, illuminated by the white light of the television hanging on the wall. Immediately I noticed that her heart monitor was gone, and I smiled. This meant no alarm. Could my job be any easier?

  I pulled a stethoscope from out of my pocket and approached her.

  “Hi, Amy. I’m going to take a quick look at your vitals, okay?”

  “Sure.” Without taking her eyes off her moronic TV program, she turned toward me, ready for the usual. She knew the routine … and so did I.

  With a brief glance she examined me. “What’s with the mask?”

  “I have a cold, so I’m supposed to wear this. Can’t risk infecting any of the patients.”

  “Mmkay.”

  I checked her heart rate and her blood pressure, circled the stethoscope around my neck, then pretended to write the numbers down on her chart that hung on the lip of her bed.

  “How’s your pain?” I asked. “On a scale from one to ten.”

  “Maybe a two?” she responded absently, still fixed on the television. It appeared to be a repellent reality show based in New Jersey, peopled by subhuman hedonists, and already the accents were crawling under my skin. I gave the show about two seconds of my attention before deciding that indeed I’d made the right decision to purify poor little Amy’s adulterated heart before it was too late for her.

  I shuffled around the IV drip, randomly checking things until I was certain Amy’s undivided attention was focused on the Jersey cretins. With the wall clock ever in my sightline, I grew anxious with each ticking second. It was 10:29 and counting. I had less than six minutes before the other guard showed up, assuming he wasn’t early.

  Discreetly pulling a needle from my pocket, I inserted the tip into the plastic bag of morphine, which took a little more maneuvering than I expected, and filled the syringe with 60 cc of morphine—more than enough to kill a grown man. When the syringe was full, I turned back to Amy.

  “Honey, I need to give you a potassium shot. It looks like your levels are low. Can you bear with me while I do this?”

  “I hate needles,” she whined. “Can’t you stick it in the IV thingy with the other medicine?”

  10:32.

  I had no time to negotiate.

  “Sorry, Amy, no can do. I promise it will be quick, okay? You won’t feel a thing.” I handed her a stuffed chipmunk from her gift hoard and told her to close her eyes and squeeze the toy, then count to five. “Before you reach five it will be over.”

  She reluctantly extended her arm, then did as instructed and started counting.

  “One … two … three …”

  And in the needle went. At the feel of the prick, her hand clutched the stuffed animal and she exhaled loudly. I released the syringe into her bloodstream, relishing the grand finale of my conquest. Yet without a fight, the experience paled in comparison to our last time together.

  Her reaction to the shot was almost immediate as I watched her sway, then fall against the pillows as her eyelids dropped. Her breathing grew ragged as her fingers twitched. The chipmunk fell to the floor with a light thud. I hurriedly pulled the needle out, pocketed it, and left the room just as the next guard on duty rounded the corner on his way to stand sentry at her door. As I passed him in the hallway, I gave a slight nod, smirking beneath my mask at how close I had come.

  Adrenaline pulsed through me as I made my way down the stairs to the lobby, and out the door to the parking lot. With every step I soared, freely gliding to my parked car. With my mission complete, I could now shift focus to other matters: Mia.

  Killing her wouldn’t be quite so easy, but the challenge excited me. I had carefully plotted through it, deciding to build her fear slow and steady until the crescendo reached its peak … and that’s when I would take her life without her even realizing it was happening.

  Chapter 22

  The blood of her death saturated my hands, and I couldn’t wipe it away.

  I hadn’t seen the newspaper headline that morning. And because I had been running late, I didn’t check the online version of The News & Observer or bother to turn on the television before stuffing a piece of buttered toast in my mouth on the way out the door. I rarely listened to the local radio in my car. So it came as a shock when I arrived at the hospital to find Amy Watson dead. The news nearly shattered me.

  Holding two stainless steel travel mugs of green tea—one for me, one for Amy—I had naively walked into room 301 where I found Amy’s mother weeping inconsolably as she clutched a stuffed chipmunk. Her tears belied yesterday’s formidable personality. Amy’s bed lay empty, with the exception of a pile of rumpled sheets.

  The scene unfolded too slowly for my brain to comprehend what had happened.

  “Um, is Amy here?” I asked softly, unsure what to ask or how to ask it.

  As Mrs. Watson looked up, her battered expression suddenly filled with rage—toward me.

  “What are you doing here? And who are you, anyway?” She rose from the chair she had been sitting in and stormed toward me, her finger nearly poking my eyeball as she yelled, “Do you know anything about this?”

  Spittle sprayed across my face, but I didn’t dare wipe at it.

  “Know about what? What happened?” I asked, my voice cracking. I somehow knew the answer, but I couldn’t accept it. “Please tell me Amy is okay.” It was a plea for a miracle.

  “No, she’s dead! Dead! My baby girl is gone …” Her words broke away as the weeping resumed at a feverish pitch. “That monster got to her … because of you! Amy was safe until you showed up yesterday.”

  “That’s not … no …” I stuttered. “I was watching out for her! I warned her not to be alone last night!”

  But my defense crumbled before reaching her.

  This time her finger pushed my shoulder and its impact stung.

  “How did you even know she was in danger last night, huh?” she screamed. “Her death is on you!”

  Mere hours earlier I had held that sweet girl in my arms, assuring her I’d protect her. Now she was dead?

  “No … no … I promise you, I had nothing to do with this,” I pleaded. “I’m just a friend …” But my assurances rang hollow amid the sobs of a grieving mother. No pledge I offered could comfort this frail woman as she crumpled to the floor and covered her face with her palms.

  I tentatively rested my hand on her shoulder, afraid she might swat at me. But she didn’t. I wondered how she could be alone at a moment like this. Where was her husband? Where was her support? Last night I had been so frustrated with her, but at this moment I pitied her.

  I dropped down beside her and tried to utter some heartening words, but they came from an empty hole in my chest. How could I offer reassurance when I felt so helpless myself?

  As the chill from the cold tile floor seeped through my pants into my rear end, I shifted. That’s when Mrs. Watson suddenly became aware of my presence. Her furious glare warned me that I wasn’t welcome there.

  “You never answered my question. Who are you and what did you wan
t with my little girl? Do you have something to do with this?”

  I didn’t know how to answer without incriminating myself. If I told her I knew about the Triangle Terror, she’d think I somehow was connected to him, that I’d brought this on her.

  Did I?

  The question struck with a force that knocked me back against the wall.

  Was I actually to blame for her death? Did my actions prompt him to come back for Amy? The pictures from the memory card the killer had sent me came to mind. As I had skimmed through them the previous night, I realized he was watching me. Was it my visit that prompted him to kill her?

  No, it can’t be because of me. Please, God, tell me I’m not responsible for this.

  I struggled to my feet. I needed to get out of there. I needed air. Fresh air.

  “I know your name, Mia Germaine, and I will have the cops investigate you!” she spat. “Be prepared to get a lawyer,” she threatened as I backed my way to the door.

  “I’m sorry for your loss. I truly am …” I muttered, then I bolted out the door, down the stairs, not stopping to catch any strained breath I could muster until I slammed my car door behind me. My lungs weren’t working; each breath felt shorter than the last, and my panting became frantic beneath the chokehold of asphyxiation.

  I was drowning in my own tears.

  I needed to fix this, but I couldn’t. Just like everything I touched in my life, my weakness brought ruination to it all. My scar was more than a physical blemish. It typified who I was beneath the brave face I tried to show the world—fragile, pathetic, ugly. I thought I had overcome my self-image issues, but the reality was written in the fine print. I was too cowardly to tumble into love with Brad, too helpless to avenge Alexis, and too afraid to stop this killer.

  A flash of Jeremy Mason face to face with me.

  His threat a boyish plea.

  This was no beast at all, but a mere mortal.

  I would take him on.

  Then I let all my fears and hurt trickle onto my steering wheel for the next hour until my grief turned into fury.