“Fine.”

Dance glanced back into the car. Brother. She shouted over her shoulder, “How long till we can raise the car?”

“Fifteen, twenty minutes, I’d guess,” the maintenance man said.

“Okay, then we need an OB-GYN here. Now.”

“I’ll get one,” a male nurse behind her called.

Dance added, “And make it the skinniest one you’ve got on staff.”

Chapter 65

Dance said, “I should’ve thought more clearly. This unsub…he’s too fucking smart.”

A modifier that rarely escaped her lips.

They were in the lobby of the hospital, waiting for the Monterey County Crime Scene Unit officers to report what they’d found in the elevator motor room, the car itself and the pit in the basement.

After the Honda had started to burn in earnest and the officers had raced into the inn, Dance checked two exit doors herself—found them unencumbered and then she paused. She looked over the establishment.

“No,” she’d muttered. The inn was one story and, though built into a hill, the incline was minimal. To escape, all you had to do was pitch a chair through a window and step outside, safe as long as you minded the broken glass.

Then she’d noted the smoke wafting into the woods and saw, behind that, the hospital.

She’d said to O’Neil, “I don’t think it’s the inn that’s his target.”

“What then?”

“Hospital.”

He’d considered this. “A lot of exits.”

She’d suggested that he might hit a closed-off interior area. “Surgical suite?”

“There wouldn’t be enough people for a stampede. Good security. And—”

“Cafeteria? Waiting room.” Then: “Elevator.”

O’Neil’d said, “That’s it.”

And they’d started jogging along the quarter-mile path that led to the hospital.

Now, in the third-floor lobby by the elevator, a nurse wandered up the hall. “You’re Special Agent Dance?”

“That’s right.”

“You wanted to know. You asked earlier? The baby’s fine. A girl. Mother has a broken arm—somebody stepped on it—but she’ll be okay. She asked for your name. I think she wants to thank you. Can I give it to her?”

Dance handed her a card. Wondering if the newborn was about to get a different given name than Mom and Dad had originally planned.

“And the orderly?”

“Heimlich didn’t work—not with cloth stuck in the windpipe. Looks like he swallowed it himself. Attempted suicide probably. But we did a tracheotomy. He’ll be okay. He’s pretty shaken up. Claustrophobia’s his big fear.”

A doctor, a tall African American, approached. He examined her cheek. “Not too bad.” He offered her an antiseptic pad. She thanked him, tore it open and pressed the cloth against her skin, wincing at the brief pain. “I’ll bandage it up, you want.”

“I’ll see. Maybe I’ll come by the ER later. Thanks.”

O’Neil’s phone rang. He took the call. After disconnecting he said, “Downstairs. Crime Scene’s released the basement. There isn’t much. But I’m going to take a look. You want to come?”

Just then her phone hummed. She glanced at it. “You go on. I’ll be a minute.” She answered. “Mags.”