up, slipped, hit my head. Landed on my face. I lay there, face on cold linoleum, and knew I couldn’t make it. I wouldn’t be able to get help. I’d just about given up, accepting the fact that I would die, when I reached my arm out and touched cool steel. The security door. I’d made it this far, couldn’t stop now. I pushed ahead again, reached out another time—and froze, afraid to look at what my hand had found. I lay there, gathering the strength to raise my head and find out whose arm I’d grabbed. Finally, drawing a breath, I craned my neck.
Evie Kraus was wearing a bright blue sweatsuit. Crouched against the wall, she’d begun to sing, rocking back and forth in rhythm, cradling a bloody knife.
SEVENTY-ONE
I SWALLOWED AIR AND BLINKED, STRUGGLING TO STAY CONscious. Evie huddled silently over her dripping knife. “Somebody’s knockin’.” I heard her clear, strong voice. “Lord, it’s the devil. Will you look at him?”
Where was Molly? Or Woods? I grunted and pushed to get back up onto my elbows and look around, made it only halfway. I tried to say Evie’s name, to ask her to go get help, but couldn’t make a sound. Then I saw a figure in black boots, rumpled skirt, and pink sweater, lying on the floor behind her.
I remember letting my head drop on to Evie’s lap. Her face was calm, almost pretty. “I’ve heard about him, but I never dreamed,” she sang, “he’d have blue eyes and blue jeans . . .”
When I reached for the knife, she surrendered it without resistance. But it was heavy. I couldn’t hold it and heard it clatter to the floor.
“Mommy?”
Molly? Was that Molly? Where? I couldn’t talk, could barely breathe. Evie regarded me indifferently as she continued her song. “He must have tapped my telephone line . . .” I felt myself fading. Falling. Where was Molly? I opened my eyes and saw a small angel beside me, holding my hand. With a final effort, I took the small hand and reached for Evie’s, connecting them, but I couldn’t hold my head up anymore, couldn’t talk. My head banged the floor as I fell back. “He must have known I’m spendin’ my time alone . . . Somebody’s knockin’ . . .”
Dropping, letting go, I couldn’t be certain whether Evie understood, whether she would take Molly and go for help or sit singing until someone wandered by.
SEVENTY-TWO
KEVIN FERGUSON WAS JUST BEGINNING TO COLLECT THE breakfast trays when a goose-bump-raising, ear-splitting, high-pitched howl zoomed past him and down the hall. It seemed to come through the wall, from the plaster.
Kevin saw the security door standing open and stepped warily through it toward the noise. As he rounded the corner, his jaw dropped. The big catatonic one was walking toward him in a bloodstained sweatsuit, carrying a child. A blood-covered child. Kevin called out for a nurse. “Hey—nurse? Anyone? I need help here!” Somehow, the huge psychotic woman had gotten her hands on a kid. And Lord knew what she’d done to her. Kevin’s knees turned soggy; his stomach flipped. The woman approached him, sleeves rolled up, cradling the child in her strong, tattooed arms.
Kevin reached into his pocket to beep for help, but the woman moved suddenly, kicking the beeper out of his hand, dislocating his thumb. He backed up to the security doors, but before he could step through and lock them, she kicked again. Kevin flew backward through the door into the stainless steel cart, knocking it over, sending trays and dishes and leftover food crashing to the floor.
The day shift had just begun, and two nurses in Unit 8 around the corner had just come on duty when they heard the racket and came running with an orderly. Kevin Ferguson saw them standing over him and heard them ask what had happened, what had caused all the mess and commotion. Dazed, he told them about the patient and the little girl. They called the security guard; getting no answer, they set off the emergency alarm and went off to search the area. Aching and bruised, thumb and belly throbbing, Kevin stumbled to his feet to help. But no one found any sign of the woman or the child. They were gone.
Down the hall, though, Kevin and the others did find some other people. Locked in a utility closet, they discovered a chloroformed orderly. Near the security door, they found the art therapist, stabbed in the back. And