Umm. What would they do then?
The film came on the television again. Jilly rushed to the bed and sat down to watch. Oh, it was lovely, so lovely.
When the news bulletin ended, she went to her overnight bag and took out her precious videotape. She carried it with her wherever she went. She popped it into the VCR and knelt in front of the TV to watch. How many times had she seen it? A hundred? A thousand? And yet, she never grew tired of it… or the feelings it provoked.
"Now do you see why you have to die?" she whispered to the screen.
She happened to notice one of her nails was chipped and rushed into the bathroom to repair it. Checking the time, she realized
that Monk would be arriving soon. She needed to get ready to greet him properly. And reward him, of course. Like a dog who'd performed a difficult trick, Monk would be anxious for his treat.
Virginal white, she decided as she pulled the negligee from her overnight bag. He'd like that. But then he liked everything she
did to him, didn't he?
She mustn't forget to put on red lipstick. Oh, how men loved pouting red lips.
They loved her perfect body. They loved her angelic face.
They all loved her.
THE PARAMEDICS TOLD Carrie she was in shock. She didn't agree, but she understood how they had reached their diagnosis. Granted, there was something a little peculiar about her behavior. When they'd lifted her out of the ravine, she had been sobbing uncontrollably and incoherently. She knew the words she wanted to say, yet she couldn't seem to get them out in the right order
or at the right time. Still, their conclusion was a bunch of nonsense. They weren't doctors. What the hell did they know? Her
mind was working just fine, thank you very much.
Camera lights glared in her face as she was carried on the stretcher and placed across from Sara in the waiting ambulance.
Carrie struggled to sit up until she realized one of the paramedics had rudely strapped her down. She was able to move one of
her arms, though. Reaching across the narrow aisle, she took hold of Sara's hand.
Her friend was in terrible pain. Both paramedics were working on her leg. "Is she going to be all right? Is she going to be all right?" The question became a chant she couldn't stop. Even though both men tried to assure her that yes, yes, she was going
to be fine, Carrie felt compelled to keep asking.
One of them gave Sara an injection, and she closed her eyes seconds later. Her hand went limp in Carrie's.
After they finished immobilizing her leg, one of them checked her blood pressure again while the other worked on Carrie.
"He's going to kill Avery. Make them stop him. Do you hear me? He's going to… going to…"
Carrie passed out. The terror of what she had been through, added to sleep deprivation, had finally caught up with her. Her
body simply rebelled and shut down.
When she next opened her eyes, she was in a hospital bed. And, oh, how she ached. It seemed every muscle in her body throbbed. Had someone taken a stick to her?
She desperately tried to clear the fog in her mind. Avery. Oh, God, she had to find Avery before it was too late. She saw the call button pinned to the sheet on her left and tried to reach for it. Pain shot up through her elbow and she cried out. Looking down, she saw the cast on her arm and let out a low curse.
How had that happened?
The ravine, of course. She'd fallen headfirst into that deep pit, and she remembered putting her arm out to try to brace against the fall. She knew she'd injured her wrist, but she thought she'd just sprained it. It hadn't hurt all that much at the time, had it? She couldn't remember. Maybe it had gone numb, as numb as the rest of her at that point. She did remember landing on top of Sara, though. Her friend had been writhing in agony, and Carrie distinctly recalled putting her hand over her mouth to stifle her cries, terrified that Monk was lurking in the dark waiting to catch them.
Where was Sara? Carrie could hear men's voices in the hallway, and she couldn't reach the call button. She was about to shout when the door opened and a young doctor dressed in blue scrubs and a white lab coat came inside. He was holding a chart in his hand.
His name was Dr. Bridgeport, and he looked as if he hadn't had any sleep in a week. That can't be good, she thought. Then she noticed his hands. They were huge, as though he'd had them transplanted from a bigger body, along with the new row of dark
hair plugs in his scalp.
"Are you my doctor?"
"I'm a neurologist. I've reviewed your X rays and CAT scan," he began.
"I had those tests?" she interrupted.
He nodded. "You suffered a mild concussion. I'm going to keep you overnight for observation. I didn't see anything alarming
on the scan," he added.
"What about my arm?"
"You broke it."
"Obviously," she said.
He was writing in her chart and, without looking up, said, "Your primary physician will be in to check on you in a little while. Meanwhile, you've got quite a few eager law enforcement officers waiting to talk to you. I'm going to allow two in the room…
if you're feeling up to it."
"My head hurts. May I have something for pain?"
"In a little while," he promised.
She knew what that meant. When Avery was little and wanted something Carrie didn't want her to have, she used the very
same phrase. It hadn't worked on Avery then, and it wasn't working on Carrie now.
"I want something."
"You've suffered a concussion, Mrs. Salvetti, and I would rather-"
She cut him off. "Oh, never mind. Doctor, a friend of mine rode with me in the ambulance. Her leg was all torn up. Where is she? Do you know?"
The doctor nodded. "Judge Collins is in surgery," he explained.
There was a hard rap on the door. The doctor closed the chart, smiled at her, and turned to leave. "You need to rest," he said
as he opened the door and let two men in dark suits rush inside. "Ten minutes," he said to the agents, "then she needs to get
some sleep."
They moved like soldiers on parade, arms stiff, heads high. They were also dressed alike, except for the choice of tie colors.
One wore a gray-and-black-striped tie, and the other had on a muted plaid.
An agent named Hillman was in charge. There was a sharpness about his eyes she found comforting. She didn't think he would miss much.
The other, younger agent pushed the burton to elevate her back, poured her a glass of water, and hovered at her side while Hillman questioned her. He led her through the sequence of events, rarely interrupting when she paused to collect her thoughts. She wanted to tell him everything at once, impatient to ask questions of her own, but Hillman was tenacious and made her keep
to his agenda.
She turned to the more cooperative agent and asked him to find her jacket.
"The letters are in the pocket."
Hillman found the jacket hanging in the built-in closet. He pulled on a pair of gloves and dropped the envelopes into a Ziploc bag the other agent held out for him.
"Anne gave a letter to me. I want to read it."
"We'll let the lab dust it for prints," the sidekick told her.
She'd thought he was more malleable than Hillman, but now she realized he was just as tenacious.
"I want to know what that sick bastard of a husband wrote to her. He hired Monk to kill her, you know. You have to arrest him."
Ignoring her demand, Hillman resumed his questions. Carrie had had enough. "No, it's my turn. I want to know where my niece is."
"We're searching for her…"
"Find her."
Seeing how distraught Carrie was, sidekick offered her a sip of water by holding the straw under her nose. She turned her head.