Blind Spot Page 4

  She decided to believe that whoever had taken her was negotiating with Amarok, that Amarok was trying to free her, and picked herself up off the floor in order to cross to the bed. She was so weary she could barely move. Fatigue had become an issue since she’d started her third trimester. Never before had she been tempted to put her head down on her desk for a catnap during the middle of the day, but she’d done so twice the past week.

  “We’re going to be fine,” she whispered to her baby as she rubbed her stomach. “We just need to be smart. To eat whenever we get the chance. To get plenty of rest. To conserve our strength for the right moment.”

  She heard the heat kick on, felt the warmth blowing through the small vent overhead and was slightly reassured. She’d been given only one thin blanket. It was nice to know she wasn’t going to be miserably cold on top of everything else. It wasn’t as though she could tell anyone if she was getting uncomfortable. Even on the temperature, she had to tolerate whatever someone on the outside decided.

  Scooting down in bed, she pulled the blanket over her and fell into a troubled sleep.

  4

  Hilltop, AK—Tuesday, 7:10 p.m. AKDT

  From Amarok’s best guess, Evelyn had been gone for five hours or so. Five hours wasn’t long in most respects, but in this regard, it was an eternity. On the way back from the prison, he’d stopped at his house to scour the empty land around it, just in case Evelyn had been killed quickly, her body dumped nearby. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. No drag marks through the summer moss, no footprints. Not a trace of anything different at all.

  He had Makita with him as usual, but Makita wasn’t an official police dog. He hadn’t been through the training in New Mexico that so many police dogs had. That training, together with the price of the dog, could cost upwards of fifteen thousand dollars—money the state wasn’t willing to spend.

  But Amarok had been around dogs all his life, so he trained Makita himself, step by painstaking step, teaching him to help enforce the hunting laws, which was a large part of a trooper’s job in Alaska, especially in a small outpost like Hilltop. Because he had to confront groups of hunters who were often drunk and jacklighting—shining spotlights on deer or bear, causing them to freeze so they could easily be shot—or doing other illegal things, he’d trained Makita to hide behind him and remain completely silent. If the hunters who were breaking the law wouldn’t obey verbal commands and grew threatening, ganged up or started to shoot, he’d whistle for his dog just as other cops would call for backup, and Makita would come charging out of hiding, take them by surprise before they could shoot and put an end to the fight, most of the time before it could even get going. Makita knew how to knock a man down. If Amarok really got into trouble and gave a certain command, he could put his opponent out of commission permanently.

  But now that Evelyn was missing, Amarok wished he’d trained Makita as a search dog so that he’d be more useful in finding Evelyn. As it was, the dog kept returning to him as though asking when they were finally going to confront what he would consider a “pack” of hunters, so the fight could begin—especially because this was hunting season, the time of year they worked the most, in tandem.

  “Evelyn,” he told Makita, having him smell her shoe. “Find Evelyn.” But the dog didn’t fully understand, and they didn’t turn up anything. Neither did Phil Robbins, a middle-aged local who helped out by clearing the roads in the winter and acting as a Village Public Safety Officer throughout the warmer months. Amarok had sent Phil to check the closest rivers at various choke points where broken branches and floating debris typically got snagged, but Phil had called on the radio just as Amarok finished to say that he was back and the rivers were clear.

  Amarok was hoping to get better news from Shorty, who also helped keep the peace during the summer months when they had such an influx of rowdy hunters and fishermen. He’d sent Shorty to various hunting cabins in the mountains, and because of how long it took to get from one to the other, he hadn’t yet radioed in a report.

  “Hey, I don’t like the look on your face,” Phil said as Amarok entered the small trooper post. “I can tell what you’re thinking, and it isn’t good.”

  Amarok didn’t reply, just glanced up to see Phil with a paper cup at the water cooler as he closed the door behind Makita.

  “We’ve been up against tougher things,” Phil added in an effort to encourage him.

  Amarok shook his head. “No, we haven’t.”

  Phil’s forced cheer crumbled beneath Amarok’s leveling gaze. Instead of continuing to act chipper and overly optimistic, he downed the water, crushed his cup and tossed it in the wastebasket as he walked over. “We’re going to get her back, Amarok. And she’ll be fine. That doc of yours has already been to hell and back. She knows how to survive. She’s tougher than all the rest of us put together.”

  “How tough can she be at six months pregnant, Phil?” Amarok wiped the sweat from his forehead as he dropped into his chair. “She’s so tired at night, she falls asleep on the couch almost as soon as we have dinner. Sometimes, I have to carry her to bed. Her feet swell if she doesn’t put them up enough. Her back aches if she doesn’t change her position as often as she should. She feels nauseous if she doesn’t eat at regular intervals. And, sometimes, if she overdoes it, she starts to cramp, which the doctor has warned us could mean trouble. The stress alone of what she’s going through could bring on early labor and—” His voice cracked, so he shut up.

  Phil squeezed his shoulder. “I understand what’s at stake. But she knows you’re out here doing everything you can to get her back. That’s what she’s clinging to. You have to believe you can do it, too. You have to keep fighting as though it’s a given—and thinking what you were thinking a second ago won’t help.”

  Those were strong words for Phil. He wasn’t someone who typically took charge. But he was right.

  With a nod, Amarok picked up the phone to give Beacon Point Mental Hospital in Minneapolis another try. He’d left three messages before he exited the prison, but the person on duty kept insisting that, what with HIPAA laws these days, she couldn’t even confirm if they still had a Lyman Bishop at their facility.

  He’d explained his situation and asked to speak to her superior, and she’d promised he’d be hearing from someone soon, but, probably because it was three hours later there, so after ten, it wasn’t happening soon enough.

  “Hello?”

  He recognized the woman’s voice. “Sarah? It’s me again.”

  “I know,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to get a hold of someone who can tell me what to do, but the on-call doctor hasn’t responded yet.”

  Amarok struggled to keep his voice from rising. “I just need to know if Lyman Bishop is there. That’s it.”

  “I understand. But I’ve already told you—”

  “I’m a police officer.”

  “That’s what you say, but how do I know it’s true? Anyone can call up and pretend to be a police officer. You need a search warrant or a court order to get medical information—”

  He could hear Makita lapping up the water in his dish after the time they’d spent outdoors. “I’m not asking for medical information.”

  “This is a mental hospital. I can’t share any information, not unless you have the patient’s written permission or private code.”

  “I don’t have Bishop’s permission or his private code because I’m no friend of his. And I can’t get a search warrant, because I don’t have probable cause for believing a man who’s been ravaged by a severe brain hemorrhage and is being fed through a tube in Minneapolis might’ve just committed a crime in Alaska. I’m merely trying to get a lead on a woman who’s been abducted. He’s attacked her before, so I need to rule him out.”

  “I understand.”

  “No, I don’t think you do. Her life could hang in the balance—her life and the life of her unborn child. You don’t want to be responsible for their deaths, do you? Please, tell me if h
e’s there.”

  She’d been adamant in her refusal, completely unresponsive to his entreaties, but when she didn’t answer right away, he got the impression she was finally softening.

  “Please?” he said again. “Rules are just rules. Sometimes doing what’s right—what’s most humane—requires breaking them.”

  “I agree, but—”

  “This isn’t just any woman who’s gone missing. It’s Dr. Evelyn Talbot.” He’d been reluctant to mention that before, to start up the media circus that would result. Those who didn’t believe in what Evelyn was doing tried to capitalize on any setback in order to shut her down. But now that she hadn’t turned up as he’d hoped, he was beyond trying to protect her work at Hanover House. “You’ve heard of her, haven’t you?”

  “I have. Anyone who works in a psych-related field has heard of her. She researches serial killers.”

  Makita padded off to his bed, but even after he curled up, he kept lifting his head as though he was trying to figure out what had changed, what was going on.

  “That’s right,” Amarok said. “At Hanover House in Alaska. And I’m calling from Alaska. You can tell by the area code, right?”

  “She’s missing?” she said uncertainly.

  “Since one o’clock today. At least, that was when she left the prison. It was nearly four when I found the contents of her purse scattered over the ground and only one of her shoes.”

  There was a brief pause. Then she said, “Fine. He’s here, okay? You can quit worrying about him and look elsewhere, because it’s not Bishop. He’s no longer on a feeding tube, but he isn’t capable of much.”

  Amarok dropped his head in his hand and began to massage his forehead.

  “Sergeant Murphy?” she said. “Did you hear me?”

  “Yeah. I heard. Thank you,” he said, and hung up.

  Phil watched him expectantly. “So? What’d they say?”

  “It’s not Lyman Bishop. I can’t believe I let Jasper convince me it might be.”

  “Who then?”

  “I’m going over to speak to the Ledstetters.”

  “Sandy’s family? Why? They’ve never hurt anyone.”

  “They hate Evelyn, blame her for Sandy’s death. You should see the way they look at her if they happen to see her at the Moosehead or elsewhere. She pretends she doesn’t notice, but I can tell it bothers her.”

  “Sandy died eighteen months ago, Amarok. Don’t you think Davie or Junior would’ve done something by now—if they were going to?”

  He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Of course I do. I’ve always liked Davie and Junior. But right now, it’s the only lead I’ve got.”

  Minneapolis, MN—Tuesday, 11:00 p.m. CST

  Lyman Bishop frowned as he lifted the remote to turn off the television that hung on the wall.

  “What the hell?” Terry Lovett, a janitor about thirty-five years old, paced beside Lyman’s bed. “Why wasn’t it on there?” he asked, referring to the late-night news.

  “Because it’s too soon.” Lyman too had thought Evelyn’s abduction would be reported right away. He’d been counting on it, but he couldn’t let on that this wasn’t something he’d anticipated. He had to maintain Terry’s confidence, pretend as though he had everything under control. Seeing Evelyn’s abduction on the news tonight wasn’t critical, anyway. They’d just have to wait an additional day for word to spread. He wanted to be in Minneapolis when the news broke.

  “How long can it take?” Sweat beaded on Terry’s forehead even though it wasn’t the least bit hot. And Terry wasn’t overweight. He was just worried, anxious.

  Lyman watched him curiously. He found this manifestation of Terry’s anxiety rather odd, since he’d never been nervous enough to have that kind of physiological reaction. “It’ll probably be tomorrow.”

  He pivoted at the wall. “And if it’s not?”

  “It will be. Dr. Talbot’s a prominent figure. The press will pick up on her disappearance soon. Then, as Sergeant Murphy—or anyone else who gets involved—starts searching for her, they’ll check to make sure I’m still in this terrible place. And once they confirm it, they’ll assume I couldn’t possibly be responsible, that it was a stretch to even consider it, and you won’t have to worry about anyone pointing a finger in your direction when I come up missing.”

  “After everyone knows she’s been kidnapped, that’s when you’ll escape?”

  Lyman shoved his glasses higher up on the bridge of his nose. “Yes. I’ll put on the change of clothes you brought me and walk out the back door.”

  “Which I’ll leave unlocked for you. You have the burner phone I picked up? You’ve hidden it well?”

  “It’s taped to the bottom of the bed. No one’s looked under there since I got here.”

  “Why would they? I’m the janitor.”

  That was Lyman’s point. Even he hadn’t gone under the bed, and he was supposed to clean there. “Exactly.” Bishop liked him, but there was no question he was lazy.

  “Be sure the door latches behind you when you leave,” he said. “I’ll need to repair the emergency alarm before anyone discovers I deactivated it.”

  “I’m not likely to forget.” Lyman adjusted the covers on his bed. “We couldn’t have any of the lunatics in here getting out on the streets, now, can we?” He laughed at his own joke. Some of the patients in the psych ward were scary, and not only the schizophrenics. But Terry was too worked up to enjoy a little levity.

  “What if things don’t go the way you’ve planned and the police jump all over this?”

  Lyman waved him off. “They won’t. They’ll assume I got up, rambled around and somehow managed to get out of the building, at which point I wandered off.”

  “They’ll need to account for you somehow. They might even call Hanover House to let them know you’ve gone missing.”

  “Why would they? They think I’m an incoherent fool these days, not capable of surviving on my own.”

  Terry picked up a piece of trash Bishop had thrown at the garbage can earlier. “And if you’re wrong?”

  That was always a possibility. He couldn’t control everything. He could only put the odds in his favor and, statistically speaking, he felt his chances were good. “Let them search. They’ll never find me. I’ll be Mr. John Edmonson at that point. The ID you got me is flawless. No one will ever be able to tell it’s a fake.”

  “Should be good. Cost enough,” he grumbled.

  Lyman smoothed what hair he had left over the top of his head. His male-pattern baldness was getting so much worse as he aged. “I’m going to pay you for that. Don’t worry. I’ll pay you for everything, just as soon as I get out of here and can access my money.”

  “I’m counting on it. You don’t know my brother-in-law like I do, but he’ll come after you if you don’t.”

  Bishop wasn’t worried. An ounce of brainpower could overcome a ton of brawn. “You’ve made that clear.”

  Terry retied the drawstring on his scrubs. He enjoyed looking like one of the medical staff, probably because it was more prestigious than being a janitor. “If they do find you, tell me you won’t drag me into it no matter what. I got a family now. I can’t go back to prison. And Emmett is not the type of enemy you want to have.”

  “Again, you’ve made your point. Anyway, I would have no reason to bring either of you down with me. Like I said before, relax. Everything’s running according to plan.” His plan, which, even he had to admit, was brilliant. Maybe his mind wasn’t quite as sharp as it used to be. But now that the seizures he’d suffered right after the brain hemorrhage were gone, his situation could be a lot worse. He could be sitting on death row with little or no chance at freedom.

  “I’m trying,” Terry said. “But Emmett is unhappy. He doesn’t like that she’s pregnant.”

  Bishop found that aspect of Evelyn Talbot’s situation especially appealing, but he couldn’t say so. He’d spent too long crafting a far different image of himself for Terry. “He must be
afraid she’ll go into labor.”

  “Do you blame him? He doesn’t want to be responsible for delivering a baby—or having the baby die while he’s in charge. He told me he’s about to bug out.”

  Lyman felt his first real jolt of alarm. He’d finally made his move, had it all set up. He couldn’t have Emmett ruining everything. “He’d better not. We had an agreement!”

  “I’ve told him that, but if he decides to go there’s nothing I can say to make him stay.”

  “What about the money? Doesn’t he care about getting paid?”

  “I’m sure he does, but—”

  “You assured me he was dependable. I told you what I needed, and you said you could make it happen.”

  “And I did make it happen. It’s just that Emmett’s a little … unpredictable.”

  “Your wife’s his sister. Have her say something.”

  “Are you kidding? She doesn’t know anything about this. Besides, he makes up his own mind, and he has this weird code of ethics. Some things he has no problem with, others are a big deal.”

  “Then you should’ve gotten someone else.”

  Terry threw up his hands. “I was lucky to get him! How many people do you think I know who’d be willing to kidnap a woman, especially someone like Dr. Talbot?”

  Lyman toyed with the anxiety medication they gave him each night, along with a sleeping pill. He’d been saving his meds instead of swallowing them almost since the day he arrived at this facility. They made him feel tired and dull, and he couldn’t have that. “Ten grand is a lot of money. And I’m paying you the same amount. So if you want to keep your demanding wife happy, you’d better make sure her brother doesn’t let us down.”

  He heaved a sigh as he came back toward the bed. “I’m doing my best. I had no idea Emmett would get this jittery. He talked so tough when we were in the joint. How much longer do you think we’ll need him to stay?”