Dark Justice(11)

Showed my age—using the yellow pages at all. Emily would have looked it up online.

Back at my computer I Google-searched the hospital until I found the phone number. I picked up my bedroom receiver and punched in the numbers. When the receptionist answered I asked for the emergency room. The line clicked.

“Coastside E.R.” The female voice sounded very efficient.

“Hi. My name is Hannah Shire. I’d like to check on a man that came into your department less than two hours ago. His first name is Morton.”

“Last name?”

“I don’t know. I . . . we were the first ones to see him at the car accident. I called 911. Just wanted to see if he’s okay.”

“You said Morton?”

“Yes.”

A long pause. “Ah.”

What did that mean?

“Hold a minute, please.”

I waited, pacing my small bedroom, right hand cupping my left elbow. In my mind I felt the wind on Tunitas Creek Road and smelled the open field. Remembered the surprising strength of Morton’s fingers as they sank into my arm. “Please. Important.”

“Ma’am?”

I jumped. “Yes?”

“What did you say your name was?”

“Hannah Shire.”

“Are you a relative of the patient?”

“No.”

Another pause. In the background I could hear a doctor’s name being called.

“I’m sorry I can’t give you any information.”

“Why? Do you know how he’s doing?”

“I can’t give you any information.”

“I’d just like—”

“Sorry. I suggest you call the sheriff’s department if you’d like to learn more.”

Sheriff’s department?

I ended the call and stared at the receiver. This could be normal policy for the hospital. All the same, it unnerved me.

The front door bell rang. I jumped again—a sign of nerves on edge. Who could that be? Neighbors and friends didn’t tend to just show up at my door.

I shoved the phone into its holder and hurried toward the entryway, hoping the sound hadn’t awakened Mom. At the living room window I leaned to one side, trying to glimpse who stood on the porch. I caught the partial side of a man in a dark suit.

Great. Religious solicitors.

“Mrs. Shire?”

The muffled voice came through the door, followed by a harder knock. I jerked back from the window.

“Mrs. Shire?”

I edged toward the door and leaned in. “Who is it?”

“We’re with the FBI, ma’am.” The accent was a Southern drawl. “We need to ask you a few questions.”

FBI? “What about?”

“The accident you saw today.”

The answer hit me in the gut. I drew back, nerves shimmying. What was this? That deputy knew I’d lied to him, and now the FBI was at my door? What had I done?

What had Morton done?

Rationality pulsed through me, pushing back the paranoia. “Just a minute.”

I unlocked the door and opened it a couple inches. Not one, but two men, stood on my porch. They both reached inside their coat pockets and drew out folded black holders. Inside each was a gold-colored FBI badge and a picture of the man with his signature.

I pulled back the door. “Please come in.”

With tight smiles, the two men stepped inside. They were of equal height, about six feet. The one with the accent was quite young—early twenties, maybe? He had a lanky build, a buzz cut, and a stern, hard jaw. The other was a good ten years older, with a shaved head. The latter’s chest and arms were huge. I focused on him, taking in his steel-gray eyes. “What can I do for you?”

I couldn’t help but glance toward the hallway. Mom could be quite rattled if she saw two strange men in our living room. On the other hand, she might be delighted and offer to play one of her CDs for them.

The younger one spoke up. “I’m Special Agent Rutger, and this is Samuelson. We’re sorry to barge in on you like this. We just need to ask you a few questions regarding the auto accident you witnessed today.”

“I didn’t see the accident. We came upon the scene after it happened.”

“We . . . ?”

“My mother and I.”

“Is she here?”

“She’s napping.” I spoke abruptly, as if protecting a child. I could feel the eyes of both men boring into me. “She struggles with dementia. She wouldn’t be able to help you anyway.”

“I see.”

Rutger glanced around. “Mind if we sit down?”

I extended my arm toward the couch. The men took opposite sides of the sofa, sitting forward, legs spread. Samuelson withdrew a small notebook and pen from his inside coat pocket. I sat facing them in Mom’s old cane rocker, furniture that had been handed down from her mother. Mom had left her favorite red-and-blue crocheted blanket hanging over one arm of the chair. I rubbed it absently. “Can you tell me how the man is doing? I only know his first name: Morton.”