See No Evil

CHAPTER TWO

BENEATH HIS FINGERTIPS, the woman’s pulse fluttered rhythmically. Her breathing was shallow but steady. Allister withdrew his hand from the silken smoothness of her neck and eased her head to one side. Fearing the worst, he feathered his fingers back through her sleek, jet black hair, searching for injuries.

There was a small gash, hardly worthy of stitches, and a rapidly swelling lump. It would be pretty painful, he guessed, given the force with which she’d struck the railing when she’d lost her balance.

Lost her balance. Allister shook his head. No, her fall had had more to do with his manhandling than any action of her own. He’d been so determined to stop her, to explain why he was in Gary’s office and why he’d appeared poised to swing a fire extinguisher down on her head, that Allister had grabbed for her without any thought beyond selfpreservation.

Now she lay on the shadowed catwalk, unconscious, and most likely concussed. She needed medical attention. Even in his own panicked state, he recognized that.

It was one thing to leave Gary at the warehouse and remove himself from the crime scene for fear of being framed by Bainbridge; there was nothing he could do for Gary. But it was quite another to leave this woman here. He couldn’t do that.

Allister paced the distance between her and the office door, uncertain of his next move but knowing he had to do something. Finally he saw the black duffel bag. He picked it up. Giving her another sidelong glance, he unzipped it. He wasn’t sure what he was searching for, but when he brushed aside the nylon flap, Allister saw the Nikon.

This woman, no doubt, was Stevie Falcioni.

Allister looked at her again. Her right arm was stretched out toward him, her slender fingers partially curled. It was as if she was reaching for him. And the way her delicate face was angled, the tenuous light from the overhead lamps lending a warmth to her unconscious expression, only served to increase that impression.

No, he couldn’t leave her here, even if he placed an anonymous call to the police. Whoever had beaten the life out of Gary could still be on the premises. Gary had said Bainbridge didn’t have the coins. And when Allister had asked about the shipment’s whereabouts, Gary had mentioned Stevie. Chances were good that Gary’s killer would be back to look for the package—if he wasn’t still here.

Allister slung the duffel bag over one shoulder and knelt beside Stevie. Slipping his gloves on again, he realized the risk he was about to take. Yes, there was the very real threat of being framed by Bainbridge. And in all likelihood, the police would not believe his story once they’d placed him at the scene of Gary’s murder. Then there was Stevie Falcioni; it was going to take some pretty creative explaining to convince her that he hadn’t been trying to kill her when, mistaking her for Gary’s assailant, he’d come at her with the fire extinguisher. But given the circumstances, he thought as he lifted her limp body from the catwalk and shifted her weight against his chest, he would have to run those risks.

The stairs were the trickiest. After Allister maneuvered them, he found carrying Stevie through the warehouse to the side door relatively easy. Outside, the storm had risen to its full force; the wind howled and the snow had turned to biting pellets of ice. After struggling briefly with the passenger door of the Explorer, Allister eased Stevie onto the seat. He reclined it, then fumbled with the seat-belt clip until he heard it catch.

In another moment he was behind the wheel, and the engine rumbled to life. Above the thrashing wipers and the noise of the fan, he heard the radio announcer on the local station advise people to stay indoors and caution drivers about the hazardous conditions.

“…and you can certainly expect to wake up to a few more inches of the white stuff tomorrow,” the announcer said, “after that green Christmas, it looks like winter’s finally settling in…”

Allister steered past Stevie’s Volvo, out of the warehouse lot and onto the deserted street. Five blocks later, he brought the big vehicle to a sliding stop at a red light and restlessly drummed his fingers against the steering wheel as cars crawled through the intersection.

In the close quarters of the Explorer, Allister detected a faint trace of her perfume. He looked over and saw how the yellow glow of a street lamp through the windshield cast gentle shadows across her striking features: high cheekbones, a square yet delicate jawline, a small straight nose, and lips that looked as though they’d been carefully sculpted into an enticing curve. Allister didn’t doubt that Stevie Falcioni had seduced countless men with little more than a smile.

“…and remember, drive carefully if you have to be out tonight,” the radio announcer cautioned again. “Police are reporting numerous accidents in and around the city, and we’ve just received word of a multicar pile-up along the north branch of the Harriston Expressway near the Jefferson exit. We’ll have more details on the ten-o’clock news coming up in seven minutes. For now, though, here’s something that should brighten things up a bit for all you storm-bound listeners. The golden oldie ‘I Can See Clearly Now’—”

Allister switched off the radio and eased the Explorer past the intersection. The rest of the drive to Danby General Hospital was a white-knuckled ordeal. Throughout, he snatched quick side glances at the woman next to him whenever the driving permitted. Her small frame rocked with each bump and swerve.

He had no idea what he would have done had she regained consciousness in the car—would she have believed he was actually trying to help? And by the time he pulled into the hospital lot, Allister was grateful she hadn’t come around. He turned off the ignition and in the welcome silence looked at the emergency entrance.

Three ambulances were parked out front, one with its lights still strobing. Beyond the wide sliding doors in the bright glare of the ER, he could see a blur of activity.

This was it, he thought, taking a deep breath. As soon as he carried Stevie Falcioni through those doors, there would be no turning back. He’d have to give his name, address, phone number. And shortly after that, the police would be knocking on his door, if they hadn’t already picked him up at the hospital.

Allister glanced at Stevie again. So how was he going to explain his apparent attack? Who would believe him? And what made this any different from six years ago?

But right now there wasn’t time to debate these questions and fears. What mattered was Stevie and getting her the medical attention she needed. He owed her that much.

When the emergency-room doors swung open at his approach, Allister shifted Stevie’s weight in his arms, careful not to drop the duffel bag, which he also held. Her head rested on his shoulder, her face only inches from his, and again he detected a subtle hint of her perfume. Dodging two attendants wheeling an empty gurney back to the ambulances, Allister stepped through the second set of doors.

He stopped abruptly.

The ER bad more than activity; it reeled in utter chaos. The waiting room was jammed; people without seats paced or leaned against walls, while another dozen waited impatiently to give information to the harassed desk nurse. Orderlies flew from one station to the next, their crisscrossing paths seeming more like a well-choreographed dance than the frantic scramblings of an ER staff beleaguered by a sudden string of accident victims. Behind him, Allister could hear the approaching siren of yet another ambulance.

“All right, people, we’ve got another two coming in!”

A woman in green scrubs moved past Allister at full tilt. “Let’s make some room out here. Jerry, use the halls if you have to. Karen, Dr. Stowe needs you in number four. And, Alex, get another crash cart down here.”

“Excuse me?” Allister hurried after her, twisting his way through the crowded corridor.

The woman briskly signed two charts thrust at her by interns, before starting down the hall.

“Excuse me!” This time he shouted, slowing his awkward pursuit only when she spun around on one sneakered foot.

Even then, she didn’t look at him. Her attention was riveted on the woman in his arms.

“I need some help here,” he said. “Are you a doctor?”

The woman nodded. “Dr. Delaney. Is this one of the expressway-pileup victims?”

“No. She fell,” he explained, shifting Stevie’s weight, his arms beginning to feel the strain. “She hit her head.”

“Carol, find a gurney,” Dr. Delaney called to a nurse, her eyes never leaving Stevie. “How long has she been unconscious, sir?”

The doctor reached up and lifted Stevie’s eyelids to examine her pupils.

“I don’t know. Fifteen… twenty minutes, I guess.”

“Where did she hit her head?”

“The back. She fell backward.”

The doctor was already probing Stevie’s skull when the gurney arrived, and Allister lowered Stevie onto the crisp sheets. Dr. Delaney pulled open Stevie’s coat, as well as the shirt beneath, and grappled with her stethoscope. When he saw the edge of a white lace bra against olive-colored skin, Allister redirected his gaze. He waited, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, as the doctor looked Stevie over and finally muttered something to the nurse.

And then the emergency doors slammed open.

“Here they come!” someone shouted.

All available hospital staff, including Dr. Delaney, raced

to the doors as attendants rushed in with the next accident victims.

“We need these forms filled out, sir,” the nurse said, shoving a clipboard at Allister. “Dr. Delaney will be with you as soon as she can,” she added as she scrambled to the speeding gurneys and was swallowed up in the frantic flow of medical staff down the main hall.

Allister looked at the form and then at Stevie. He moved to the side of the gurney, which had been pushed up against the corridor wall, and lowered the black duffel from his shoulder onto the sheets beside her. She appeared paler now under the harsh unforgiving fluorescents, her face framed by the short gleaming black hair.

Her beige trench coat was splayed open, and the edges of her white cotton shirt were still brushed aside. Gingerly Allister reached out to pull it closed over the delicate lace bra. And then he noticed the red smear on her jeans.

For the first time, Allister looked at his gloved hands. There were traces of blood—Gary’s blood. And there was more on his shirt, his jacket, and his jeans.

Panic rose again. He had to get out of here. Four years in prison. There was no way he was going back. He was not about to be framed by Bainbridge a second time, and that was exactly what was going to happen if the police found out he’d been at the warehouse tonight, if they matched the blood on his clothes to Gary’s.

He needed to think this through, away from the clamor and confusion of the ER. He needed a plan. Some way to get to Bainbridge before Stevie Falcioni had a chance to identify him.

As the rest of the ER whirled in confusion, Allister recognized his one and only opportunity. If he left now, before the doctor returned, he’d be able to slip out without anyone noticing. And with the frenzy caused by the expressway pileup, chances were no one would even remember him later when the police came around to question Stevie and the rest of the hospital staff.

He’d have to leave her.

She’d be all right though, he tried to convince himself, or else the doctor wouldn’t have left them here unattended in the middle of a corridor. Stevie was in good hands now. He’d done all he could. There had to be identification in the fanny pouch she wore around her slim hips; the attendants could get any information they needed. They’d call her family or a friend. She wouldn’t be alone.

Allister took one more look at Stevie, but somehow suspected it wouldn’t be his last. She was a part of this—part of Gary’s murder and Bainbridge and the coins. How she was connected, Allister didn’t know yet. But why else had Gary whispered her name?

He could only hope to have the answers soon. For now he had to get out.

And, leaving Stevie there on the gurney, running off into the night like some fugitive, for the first time in his life Allister felt like a criminal.

“YOU WEREN’T SUPPOSED to kill him, dammit!” Edward

Bainbridge yelled into the phone. “You were meant to get the coins, Vince. Remember? The coins? Without them, we don’t have a deal. You were supposed to go over there last night to get them from that weasel, Palmer. After that, I didn’t care what you did with the son of a bitch.”

Gary Palmer’s murder had been on the front page of the Danby Sun and the first story Edward Bainbridge had read with his morning coffee. He’d gotten as far as “…police speculate the murder was a result of a random break-in.” Seconds later he had Vince Fenton on the phone.

“He didn’t have the damned coins,” Vince was saying.

“What the hell do you mean, he didn’t have them?”

“Like I said, I went over there, roughed him up a bit—”

“He’s dead, Vince.”

“Okay, I roughed him up a lot. The point is, he didn’t have the coins. I searched the office. They weren’t there. If you ask me, Allister Quaid’s probably got ‘em.”

Edward Bainbridge’s grip tightened on the cordless phone. He squinted against the glare of the sun and gazed past his stables to the snow-covered paddocks marking the north end of his property.