High Country Nocturne - [32]

She stood straighter. “We’re not leaving. I can take care of myself. Jamie and Jennifer can, too. We’ll take shifts with you watching Lindsey.”

I said, “At least don’t be exposed at night. This woman likes the night.”

“So do you,” she said. And she was right.

Back upstairs, we waited. I was allowed in to see Lindsey four more times. IV bags were changed. A blood-pressure cuff was attached to her arm and periodically inflated and deflated, sending the data to the monitors. A nurse with an elaborate cart containing additional monitoring equipment came in once-another time I was instructed to leave the unit. I napped for short periods in chairs, leaving kinks in every muscle.

A police technician used a laptop computer to generate a likeness of Lindsey’s assailant. The problem wasn’t the quality-it was a pretty good rendering. The problem was that she looked like scores of other average-attractive thirtysomething women walking around the malls of Phoenix. This was no doubt an advantage in her trade.

At seven p.m. Sunday, the three Peralta women sent me home to rest, promising to call if anything changed.

Sharon walked me to the door. It was black night outside and I realized I hadn’t seen the sun for more than a day. Then the question that had been sitting under my feet like a land mine finally detonated.

“Why are you here?”

She looked at me strangely. “For you and Lindsey. Why?”

“No, I mean what brought you to the hospital? How did you know we’d be here?”

“The call.”

I was suddenly twitchy. The feeling of imaginary ants marching up the back of my neck was so pronounced that I reached back to brush them off.

“What call?”

She said, “I got a call from the hospital. They said you asked them to call me and say Lindsey had been shot and please come. What’s wrong?”

“I didn’t tell anyone to make a call. Man or woman’s voice?”

“A man.”

I stared through the glass door at the night street. “Accent?”

She shook her head.

I looked back at her. “Could it have been Mike?”

“No.”

“People can change their voices, Sharon.”

“I know my husband’s voice.”

I asked to see her cell phone, but the supposed call from the hospital only showed “602,” the area code. When I attempted a return call, it provoked the familiar three tones followed by “Your call cannot be completed as dialed.” Whoever had called Sharon had concealed his tracks well. Lindsey knew how to pull off such a trick. I didn’t.

I said, “It wasn’t the hospital.”

“Well, thank God someone let me know,” she said.

“How many people have your number?”

She thought for a few seconds, stroking her hair. “Maybe two hundred in five states and D.C.”

I cursed, handed her phone back, and studied her.

“What are you not telling me?”

Her eyes widened in exasperation. “I’m telling you everything.”

I tried to make myself stop, but I couldn’t. “Sharon, are you in on this with him? Did he call you about Lindsey being shot?”

“No! David, you’re traumatized.”

I couldn’t tell if she was being truthful. Sharon was usually as straightforward as her husband and thankfully lacked his manipulative streak. But who knew better how to lie than a shrink?

I repeated, “What are you not telling me? Whatever it is, another miscalculation by him and we’ll all be dead.”

She turned away and placed her hand against the wall, lightly at first and then with such force that it was if she were trying to push the building off its foundations. When she faced me again, her eyes were still wet with tears.

I had never seen Sharon cry in all the years I had known her, all the years she heard other people tell their psychological nightmares, all the years she had endured her husband’s moods and tirades.

“I didn’t know what Mike meant,” she managed in a husky voice. “When he called on the old county landline as Paco and told you to watch your ass. I should have done more. Should have realized. Now Lindsey is hurt.”

“It’s not your fault. I’m to blame.”

“I’m afraid…” she began. Then she lowered her head for a long moment before finishing. “For the first time in my life, I’m afraid he’s in over his head. We can’t lose both of them, David. And you lost Robin, too.”

“We won’t lose them,” I whispered without conviction.

“He’s in trouble, David, and he needs you.”

I suddenly felt angry again. “If he needs me, he has to do more than drop a cryptic note on a business card.”

“I know, I know.” She put both hands on my shoulders, calm again. “I don’t know how to ask for your help because you’re totally focused on Lindsey. As you should be. But…”

“We can help each other.” I said it not knowing what it meant, what I was promising. “I’ll try to find him.”

“Thank you.” She pulled my face close. “You’re exhausted. Go home and get some sleep. I promise we’ll call if anything changes here.”

She turned me and pushed my numb body forward.

The automatic sliding glass doors gave their kissing sound and I walked through. When I looked back, she was watching me with those wide brown eyes. I shook my head and forced myself to move along.

Chapter Fifteen

A cop had given me a ride to the hospital, so I crossed the expanse of Thomas Road and walked the nine blocks home, past the narrow streets I had memorized on my bicycle as a child. Edgemont, Windsor, Cambridge, Virginia, Wilshire, Lewis, Vernon, Encanto Boulevard, Cypress.