Jeffery Deaver - Solitude Creek

She tossed the phone onto the seat next to her. Get serious here.

Bounding into the lower lot at the inn, the Pathfinder sped up to the Highway Patrol trooper, dressed crisp, as they always looked, standing next to the Pacific Grove cop, whom she knew.

‘Charlie.’

‘Kathryn.’

‘Agent Dance,’ the CHP trooper said. ‘I got the call. This is the Solitude Creek suspect?’

‘We think so. Where is he?’

Charlie offered, ‘Headed inside just after he parked. He didn’t spot me, I’m sure.’

‘Where’s the car?’

‘Follow me.’

They eased along the path, through gardens of pine and succulents. They paused behind a large bush.

The silver Honda was parked near the loading dock of the large hotel, a stone-and-glass structure that featured about two hundred rooms. The dining room was top notch and on Sunday it did a huge brunch business. Dance and her late husband, Bill, had come here several times for romantic busman-holiday weekends, while Stuart and Edie kept the kids.

Two more patrol cars pulled up quietly, filled with three MCSO deputies. Dance waved them over. Another car arrived. O’Neil. He climbed out and hurried along the path, joining his fellow officers.

‘There’s the car.’ Dance pointed.

O’Neil glanced at her, then said to the others: ‘What he’s going to rig, incendiaries, flash bangs, whatever it is, probably isn’t life-threatening in itself. That’s not what turns him on. He wants to kill with the panic, people trampling each other — because they can’t get out. You have to tell people that there’s no real danger. They might not listen. They won’t want to. But you have to try.

‘But, remember, at Bay View he was armed. Nine mil. Plenty of ammo.’

They started to leave and go inside.

Which was when, with a whump , rather quiet actually, the Honda began to burn. In seconds the fire was raging. The device, whatever it might be, was in the trunk. Just above the gas tank. Dance imagined the unsub had drilled or punched a hole into it, to accelerate the blaze.

She then noticed smoke being drawn into the HVAC system, just like at Solitude Creek.

‘The exit doors — he’s probably wired them shut. Get ’em open, now! All of them.’

Always happened, the orderly reflected.

The two elevators in this part of Monterey Bay Hospital were pretty dependable. But what happens, a woman comes in, contractions counting down, and car number one is out of commission.

‘You’ll be fine,’ the thirty-five-year-old career medical worker told her. He turned his kindly face, under a fringe of curly hair, toward her.

‘Ah, ah, ah. Thanks. My husband’s on his way.’ Gasp. ‘Oh, my.’

The orderly had been on duty since five a.m. He was beat. Sundays were the days of rest for almost everybody — but not hospital workers. He eased the wheelchair a bit closer to the door, through the group of eight or nine visitors and medicos waiting for the car. He didn’t think there’d be any problem with getting on the next ride. They weren’t about to deliver.

The blonde, in her late twenties, was sweating fiercely. The orderly was happy to see a wedding ring on her finger. He was old-fashioned.

She grimaced in pain.

Come on, he thought to the car. A glance at the indicator. Second floor.

Come on.

‘Where is he? Your husband?’ Making conversation, putting her at ease.

‘Fishing.’

‘What’s he fish for?’

‘Ah, ah, ah... Salmon.’

So he was on a party boat. Four hours minimum. Was he out of his mind? She looked like she was ready to pop at any minute.

She glanced up. ‘I’m two weeks early.’

The orderly smiled. ‘My son was two weeks late. Still’s never on time.’

‘Daughter.’ A nod toward the impressive belly. She gave another assortment of gasps.

Then, the car. The doors opened and people streamed out.

‘Like one of those funny cars at a circus, all the clowns.’

The woman in labor didn’t laugh. Okay. But he got a smile from a nurse and an elderly couple, carrying a balloon reading, ‘ IT’S A BOY!!! ’

After the car had emptied one person pushed on first — a doctor, natch. Then the orderly wheeled his passenger — well, technically, two passengers — on and turned her, facing out. The others walked in as well, jockeying for space. As in all hospitals, the elevators were large — to accommodate gurneys — but with the other car out, this one filled up fast. Several said they’d wait. A dozen, fourteen people climbed on. The orderly looked at the maximum weight. How the hell helpful was that? He supposed the buzzer would sound if it was too heavy; it had a safety system like that, of course.

He hoped.

It was really packed, stifling. Hot too.

‘Ah, ah, ah...’

‘You’ll be fine. We’re three minutes away and the staff’s all ready for you.’

‘Thank y-aaaah.’

The door closed. She was in the far right-hand corner of the car, the orderly behind her, his back to the wall. He was extremely claustrophobic but, for some reason, being in this position, having no one behind him, kept the discomfort at bay.

A businessman looked around. Frowned. ‘Shit, it’s hot in here. Oh, sorry.’

Maybe directed to the pregnant woman, as if the fetus might be shocked. But, the orderly thought, shit, it is hot. Prodding the claustrophobia to squirm.

The elderly couple was discussing their granddaughter’s choice of a name for the boy who’d just been born. The orderly heard the beep of phone keys. The doctor, natch again, had pulled out his mobile.

‘I’m confirming a reservation...’

Blah, blah, blah.

The restaurant apparently didn’t have a particular table he’d requested earlier. And he wasn’t happy.

The car stopped at the second floor.

Three people got off. Five got on. Net gain. Ugh. And one was a biker. The Harley-Davidson variety. Black leather jacket, boots, stocking cap. And chains. Why did anybody need to wear chains? There was protest in the form of sighs and a glare or two (he could’ve waited) and the doors closed and the car rose slowly, bobbing under the weight. Not because he looked dangerous, which he did, but at his size. They were completely packed in now, belly to back. Man could’ve waited for the next trip.

This is hell.

Shit.

‘Ah, ah, ah...’ the woman gasped.

‘Almost there,’ the orderly said, reassuring himself as much as the pregnant woman.

Not that it worked.

As the car climbed toward floor three, conversation slowed, except for the complaining doctor, who was abrasively asking to talk to somebody in charge. ‘Well, I don’t know. Maybe the restaurant manager? Is that so very hard to figure out?’

Almost there...

Seconds unreeled like hours.

Jesus Christ. Get to the floor. Open the fucking door!

But the door didn’t open. In fact, the elevator didn’t even make it to the third floor. It bounced to a stop somewhere between two and three.

No, no, please. He believed he thought this. But the prayer or plea might have been uttered aloud. Several people looked his way. That might, however, have been from the look of encroaching panic on his sweaty face.

‘It’s all right. I’m sure it’ll get moving soon.’ It was the doctor, slipping his phone away, who’d offered this reassurance to the orderly.

And the pregnant woman in the wheelchair wiped abundant sweat from her forehead, tucked stringy hair behind her ears and tried to steady her breathing.

‘Ah, ah, ah. I think it’s coming. I think the baby’s coming...’