Sight Unseen(105)
“He had to know what he was doing when he took this job.”
“Did he?”
“As much as any of us did.”
Lynch nodded. “Keep in touch. I’ll let you know what we find out here. The local police have already put up roadblocks on the highway. No one’s driving off this mountain without our knowing about it.”
“If he’s still on the mountain.” Kendra turned toward Nelson, who was on a gurney being placed into one of the paramedic units. “Well, that’s my cue. You know the expression, ‘Doctors make the worst patients?’ Whoever said that never met my mother.” She glanced back at Lynch. “Be careful.”
“You too.”
She looked out into the darkness of the woods as she moved toward the paramedic unit. Was Myatt there, watching, planning? Surely not. This area was crawling with agents and response teams now.
But who knew what Myatt was thinking or planning. His move in attacking her mother and Olivia had been very bold, and it had almost been successful.
When this had started, she had never dreamed that it would lead her down this twisted road. Now the only thing of which she could be certain was that Myatt would take any chance, go any distance.
And take down anyone who got in his way.
* * *
“YOU’RE JOKING.” Diane stared incredulously at the young female emergency-room doctor. “I am not staying the night here. Cut this bracelet off me right now.”
“Ma’am, it’s for your own safety and wellness…”
“I’m quite safe and well, thank you. I’ll make that decision.”
Kendra rolled her eyes. “Give my mother a sedative and a plausible horror story. Those are the only things that will work, trust me.”
The doctor, who appeared to be in her midtwenties, frowned in puzzlement. “A sedative and a…”
“… horror story. Tell her what can happen if she goes home right now.”
“We try not to unnecessarily frighten our patients.”
“Frighten her,” Kendra said. “It’s absolutely necessary.”
“Don’t listen to her,” Diane said to the doctor. “My daughter is just—”
“You could die,” the doctor said bluntly.
“That isn’t funny,” Diane said.
“I assure you it’s not. But you and your friends breathed poison, plain and simple. It’s unavoidable in a house fire. We have no idea what toxins are only now entering your bloodstream. We need to observe you for the next four to six hours. During that time, you can help yourself by keeping your mask on and breathing oxygen.”
“But I already feel better.”
“That’s good. But I served my residency with a physician who treated a fire victim who unknowingly breathed toxic levels of chorine and hydrogen. Apparently, the house’s molding and baseboards were made of a plastic material that released those elements at high temperature. The patient had only a minor cough, but he went home and several hours later his respiratory system shut down, and he died.”
“That’s a horror story, all right,” Diane said sourly. “Now I think I really need that sedative.”
On a gurney a few feet away, Olivia pulled off her mask. “For the record, I really didn’t need to hear that.”
“I’m sure you’ll both be fine,” the doctor said. “It’s just a precaution.”
Olivia sat up and leaned toward Kendra. “What about Don?”
“I’ll check on him again. They told me he’d be in surgery at least another hour and a half.”
Olivia frowned. “That sounds like big-time surgery. Can you check now? Please?”
“Sure.” Kendra shrugged. Her current duties here at the hospital appeared to be everything from trying to keep her mother in line to aid and comfort to the lovelorn. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“It’s not what you’re thinking,” Olivia said. “After all, Don could have been killed protecting us.”
“I’m not arguing.” Kendra smiled as she moved toward the exit. “I’m grateful to him, too. You’ll have your report.”
FBI San Diego Field Office
“MR. DILLINGHAM…” SPECIAL AGENT Saffron Reade stepped off the elevator and smiled as she greeted Bill Dillingham in the lobby. “I’m Agent Reade. I’ve heard so much about you. I’m very happy to meet you.”
Dillingham struggled to stand up from the long wooden bench near the reception desk. He wore high-waisted knit slacks and a short-sleeve white dress shirt and carried a large sketch pad.
Reade had heard that the freelance sketch artist was in his mideighties, but he appeared to be an even older man.