Tess Gerritsen - Keeper of the Bride

Another humiliation. This would destroy his reputation, not to mention his back account. The Showman had promised four hundred thousand dollars for the deaths of Dalton and Liddell. Spectre had thought this an elegant solution: to kill both of them at once. With so many other victims, the identity of the targets might never be pinpointed.

But the targets were still alive, and there’d be no payment forthcoming.

The job had become too risky to complete, especially with Navarro on the scent. Thanks to Navarro, Spectre would have to bow out. And kiss his four hundred thousand goodbye.

He shifted his gaze, refocusing on another figure in the crowd. It was that nurse, Nina Cormier, bandaging one of the injured. This fiasco was her fault, too; he was sure of it. She must’ve given the police just enough info to tip them off to the bomb. The usher’s uniform, no doubt, had been the vital clue.

She was another detail he hadn’t bothered to clean up, and look at the result. No hit, no money. Plus, she could identify him. Though that police sketch was hopelessly generic, Spectre had a feeling that, if Nina Cormier ever saw his face, she would remember him. That made her a threat he could no longer ignore.

But now was not the opportunity. Not in this crowd, in this street. The ambulances were arriving, siren after siren whooping to a stop. And the police had cordoned off the street from stray vehicles.

Time to leave.

Spectre turned and walked away, his frustration mounting with every step he took. He’d always prided himself on paying attention to the little things. Anyone who worked with explosives had to have a fetish for details, or they didn’t last long. Spectre intended to hang around in this business, which meant he would continue to fuss over the details.

And the next detail to attend to was Nina Cormier.

SHE WAS MAGNIFICENT. Sam paused wearily amid the broken glass and shouting voices and he gazed in Nina’s direction. It was ten-thirty, an hour and a half since the explosion, and the street was still a scene of confusion. Police cars and ambulances were parked haphazardly up and down the block, their lights flashing like a dozen strobes. Emergency personnel were everywhere, picking through the wreckage, sorting through the victims. The most seriously injured had already been evacuated, but there were dozens more still to be transported to hospitals.

In the midst of all that wreckage, Nina seemed an island of calm efficiency. As Sam watched, she knelt down beside a groaning man and dressed his bleeding arm with a makeshift bandage. Then, with a reassuring pat and a soft word, she moved on to the next patient. As though sensing she was being watched, she suddenly glanced in Sam’s direction. Just for a moment their gazes locked across the chaos, and she read the question in his eyes: Are you holding up okay?

She gave him a wave, a nod of reassurance. Then she turned back to her patient.

They both had their work cut out for them tonight. He focused his attention, once again, on the bomb scene investigation.

Gillis had arrived forty-five minutes ago with the personal body armor and mask. The rest of the team had straggled in one by one — three techs, Ernie Takeda, Detective Cooley. Even Abe Coopersmith had appeared, his presence more symbolic than practical. This was Sam’s show, and everyone knew it. The bomb disposal truck was in place and parked nearby. Everyone was waiting.

It was time to go in the building. Time to search for any second device.

Sam and Gillis, both of them wearing headlamps, entered the theater.

The darkness made the search slow and difficult. Stepping gingerly over debris, Sam headed down the left aisle, Gillis the right. The back rows of seats had sustained damage only to the upholstery — shredded fabric and stuffing. The further they advanced the more severe the damage.

“Dynamite,” Gillis noted, sniffing the air.

“Looks like the blast center’s near the front.”

Sam moved slowly toward the orchestra pit, the beam of his headlamp slicing the darkness left and right as he scanned the area around the stage — or what had once been the stage. A few splintered boards was all that remained.

“Crater’s right here,” observed Gillis.

Sam joined him. The two men knelt down for a closer inspection. Like the church bomb a week before, this one was shallow — a low-velocity blast. Dynamite.

“Looks like the third row, center stage,” said Sam. “Wonder who was sitting here.”

“Assigned seating, you figure?”

“If so, then we’ll have ourselves a convenient list of potential targets.”

“Looks all clear to me,” Gillis declared.

“We can call in the searchers.” Sam rose to his feet and at once felt a little dizzy. The aftereffects of the blast. He’d been in so many bombs lately, his brain must be getting scrambled. Maybe some fresh air would clear his head.

“You okay?” asked Gillis.

“Yeah. I just need to get out of here for a moment.” He stumbled back up the aisle and through the lobby doors. Outside he leaned against a lamppost, breathing gulps of night air. His dizziness faded and he became aware, once again, of the activity in the street. He noticed that the crowds had thinned, and that the injured had all been evacuated. Only one ambulance was still parked in the road.

Where was Nina?

That one thought instantly cleared his head. He glanced up and down the street, but caught no glimpse of her. Had she left the scene? Or was she taken from it?

A young cop manning the police line glanced up as Sam approached. “Yes, sir?”

“There was a woman — a nurse in street clothes — working out here. Where’d she go?”

“You mean the dark-haired lady? The pretty one?”

“That’s her.”

“She left in one of the ambulances, about twenty minutes ago. I think she was helping with a patient.”

“Thanks.” Sam went to his car and reached inside for his cellular phone. He was not taking any chances; he had to be sure she was safe. He dialed Maine Med ER.

The line was busy.

In frustration he climbed in the car. “I’m heading to the hospital!” he yelled to Gillis. “Be right back.”

Ignoring his partner’s look of puzzlement, Sam lurched away from the curb and steered through the obstacle course of police vehicles. Fifteen minutes later, he pulled into a parking stall near the hospital’s emergency entrance.

Even before he walked in the doors, he could hear the sounds of frantic activity inside. The waiting area was mobbed. He pushed his way through the crowd until he’d reached the triage desk, manned by a clearly embattled nurse.

“I’m Detective Navarro, Portland Police,” he said. “Is Nina Cormier working here?”

“Nina? Not tonight, as far as I know.”

“She came in with one of the ambulances.”

“I might have missed her. Let me check.” She punched the intercom button and said, “There’s a policeman out here. Wants to speak to Nina. If she’s back there, can you ask her to come out?”

For a good ten minutes, he waited with growing impatience. Nina didn’t appear. The crowd in the ER seemed to grow even larger, packing into every available square inch of the waiting area. Even worse, the reporters had shown up, TV cameras and all. The triage nurse had her hands full; she’d forgotten entirely about Sam.

Unable to wait any longer, he pushed past the front desk. The nurse was calming down a hysterical family member; she didn’t even notice Sam had crossed into the inner sanctum and was heading up the ER corridor.

Treatment rooms lined both sides of the halls. He glanced in each one as he passed. All were occupied and overflowing with victims from the bombing. He saw stunned faces, bloodied clothes. But no Nina.