Page 8 of Demi
He tries to beat me to my bike. It’s unfortunate for him, suaveness doesn’t count when it comes to physical fitness. I throw a leg over my ride and kick out the start lever before he’s within touching distance of me, and even quicker than that, my despair switches to hope.
My dad commands the road like he commands the air when he’s flying, but not even his racecar-driver-inspired skills will have him reaching Mercer Private before me. I can maneuver my bike between cars. My father can only go around them.
“You can’t park here,” a security guard with thick biceps and tattooed hands grunts out when I skid my bike to a stop at the front of the hospital eighteen minutes later. “This is a restricted area.”
My determination to sidestep him grows when I notice a familiar-looking vehicle parked in the ‘police, fire, and ambulance only’ bay.
The Lincoln’s plates aren’t local.
They rarely are when it comes to the FBI.
“Sir…” The deep baritone of the security guard’s voice is gobbled up by the squeak of a nurse when I dart through the rapidly closing doors of the elevator cart, of which, she is the sole occupant.
“What floor is the morgue?” I ask, my tone low from watching the security guard alerting other officers to my presence via the walkie-talkie curled over his shoulder.
Even with my hope higher than it’s ever been, wrangling underpaid security personnel isn’t my main priority. What if Rocco is wrong? What if there is a body, and I simply failed to ask to see it? It is plausible.
The last image I want in my head is of Demi lying on a cold and sterile gurney. The vision of her slumped in the shower isn’t any better, but we had many good memories in there I could mix it with to make it seem not as devastating as it was.
I put my private contemplations onto the back burner when the nurse steps closer to me. Her eyes are kind, but they’re also brimming with mischievousness. “We don’t have a morgue here. Patients are transferred to Ravenshoe each evening.”
I curse under my breath before backing it up with a voiced one. “Fuck!”
My profanity doesn’t bother the nurse. If anything, it makes her more sympathetic to my cause. “From what I heard, that doesn’t occur until after midnight. If this was a recent passing, she could still be here.” The fact she said ‘she’ reveals she’s an old romantic at heart. “They keep them on the ward they were assigned during admission until transport is organized. Do you know which ward she was on?”
I nod so briskly I make myself woozy. “The surgical ward.”
After pushing the button for the seventh floor, the nurse commences removing her navy blue smock. “Sorry,” she apologizes with a smile when she accidentally bumps into me. “It’s been a very long shift. I’m dead on my feet.”
My eyes shift from the impish pair staring at me to the elevator panel above our heads when it dings only a second later. We’ve reached the second level, the nurse’s apparent desired floor.
“Good luck. I hope you find her in time,” she says while walking out of the elevator cart.
I lose the chance to reply when she races for the stairwell. Through the glass walls of the elevator cart that looks out over the garden atrium in the center of the hospital, I watch her gallop down the single flight of stairs we rode together. When she reaches the foyer, she discards her smock into a waste receptacle in the middle of the bustling space before she spins around to face me. My mouth gapes when she jangles my bike key in the air, clear as day for me to see. I’m unsure whether I should laugh or cry that I got pickpocketed by a con artist in a nurse’s uniform. If it were any other day than today, I’d respond to her gall. Since it isn’t, I act oblivious to the familiar rumble of my motorbike’s engine when it’s being pushed to its limits.
I’m so stunned by the turn of events, a man leaning against an IV stand asks me three times if I’m going up or down before I register that he is talking to me. “This place isn’t a bore-fest, but surely you’ve got better things to do than ride the elevator for fun?” His toothy grin exposes there’s no malice in his tone, much less his frail clutch of his IV stand. “If not, I’m more than happy to cruise with you, but can we take a detour to the rooftop? This place is going into lockdown within the hour.” He raps his frail fingers against the cigarette packet in his hands. “Last time that happened, I was locked in my room for hours. The window doesn’t open, and the head of nursing is a fucking hardass.” His eyes gleam like he’s way off the mark with his comment about the head nurse. “The good ones always are, aren’t they?”
I jerk up my chin before stepping out of the elevator, finally clueing on to the fact the elevator stopped because it reached my desired floor.
With my boorish demeanor announcing I’m not up for a chit-chat, the man I’d guess to be mid-fifties shuffles into the elevator cart before pressing the button for the rooftop. Just before the doors shut with him on the other side, the rational half of my brain switches back on.
I jab my arm between the gleaming metal doors, stopping their closure. The brown-eyed man startles, but the wires and cables protruding out of his body assure me an inquisitive mind is the least of his problems.
“Did they mention what the lockdown was about?”
He shakes his head. “This isn’t my first rodeo. I’ve slept here more times than in my own bed the past couple of years, but I learned early on not to ask questions if I want lung disease to be the cause of death on my death certificate.” His tongue delves out to lick his nicotine-stained lips while his eyes rake my body. I don’t know what he sees, I feel more broken than complete, but it once again has the chips falling in my favor. “For what it’s worth, most of the commotion today came from the west wing.”
“The west wing?” I double-check, wanting to ensure the frantic beat of my heart doesn’t have me mistaking what he said.
He lifts his chin for the second time. “Take a left once you go through the double doors of the surgical unit. The west wing is at the end of the corridor.” When I release the doors so he can relish in the addiction that’s slowly killing him, he warns, “Keep your head down low. They’realwayswatching.”
I issue my thanks with a dip of my head before breaking through the double doors he mentioned. After taking a sharp left, I tuck my chin in close to my chest. Even a man with a dead-cold heart would feel the heat of several motion-activated cameras on him. They have a way of restarting even heartless men’s hearts.
My already cautious steps slow even more when a male voice sounds through my ears. It isn’t what the Russian says two doors up from me that has me paying careful attention. It’s who he’s talking about.
My name is mentioned several times in a row.
“Why would she take his bike? That won’t improve matters!??? ???????? ??? ??? ????????.”
