Andrea Kane - The Girl Who Disappeared Twice

Using his military-issue binoculars, he monitored the scene and took mental notes.

First note. The security cameras. They were positioned at the main gate, and probably at the rear ones, as well. That left long lengths of iron fence that were out of viewing range. Getting in would be no problem.

Second. Bennato Construction’s crew was starting to wind down for the day. The wing they were building was already framed, and the Sheetrock was well under way. Between the slew of men working overtime, and the piles of construction materials in the area, Marc would have an easy place to blend in and hide, should it become necessary.

Marc turned his attention to the section of grounds where patients were situated. A small number of them were interacting with other patients. Most of them were sitting alone, either under the patio canopy or in the neatly manicured gardens. Some were mobile. Most were sedentary. Even the more mobile patients were being supervised by nurses or nurse’s aides. And those who were unable to get around on their own were attended to more closely, many of them being wheeled back to their rooms.

For all Marc knew, Linda Turner could be sitting right across the street from him.

Ryan had done his homework. Marc was up to speed on the number of patients living there, the ratio of staff to patients, and the physical size and layout of the main building itself. Ryan had emailed him both interior and exterior photos of the place. He would have gotten Marc a complete schematic, had there been time.

Despite the urgency of their situation, Marc waited. He’d learned the importance of patience. Just as he instinctively knew the right moment to strike.

The dinner hour came and went. The night shift arrived. The day shift went home. It didn’t surprise Marc that the number of those driving in was leaner than those driving out. Nighttime would be quieter. The patients would be confined to their rooms. The number of staff members would be reduced.

Making Marc’s job a hell of a lot easier-and harder. He’d have less square footage to cover, and more risk of being caught in empty corridors. So he’d made provisions for both his break-in and his presence. He was dressed in black-long-sleeved shirt and jeans, as well as the backpack slung over his shoulders. But in that backpack was an authentic white orderly’s coat-straight from the Forensic Instincts arsenal.

The sun had set, and the stars were coming out, when Marc stowed his night-vision goggles and shoved the case into his backpack. It was time.

Silently, he crossed over to the section of fence he’d chosen, far away from the scope of the security cameras. He was up and over the fence in a few deft motions, landing lightly on his feet. He waited a full minute to make sure he was alone.

The only sound was the crickets.

Avoiding the outside lights, Marc moved quickly until he reached the main building. Then he slipped around to the back. Sure enough, the delivery door had a lock on it that a ten-year-old could pick.

He got the door open, then jammed his foot in to keep it ajar. He pulled out his orderly uniform and a clipboard, which had printed pages of blank but authentic medical forms on it-again, thanks to Ryan. He tossed his backpack behind the bushes.

A minute later, he was inside.

It was eight o’clock-too late for dinner, too early for sleep. The patients were either in the dayroom, watching TV, or in their bedrooms, preparing for bed.

The very areas Marc planned on exploring.

He saved the dayroom for last, since that would be the most difficult place to maneuver. There was bound to be staff inside, which meant he’d have to be seen and hope that the entire staff wasn’t familiar with one another and, as a result, recognize him as a stranger.

He went up a flight of stairs and down Hall B-the section Ryan had reported housed the patients with specialized medical needs-needs that an Alzheimer’s victim would have. It was a crapshoot. Then again, this entire venture was a crapshoot.

He walked purposefully, clipboard in hand, as if he had someplace to be. A few staff members passed him in the hall, but no one did anything more than smile and nod. He returned the gesture. Every room he passed, he glanced quickly inside, taking an instant mental picture of the occupant. No luck. He continued around the bend and finished his search. Still nothing. He even doubled back to see if he had missed something. There wasn’t a single patient who even resembled Linda Turner.

He had two choices: try another wing or risk the dayroom in that section of the facility.

Trusting Ryan’s assessment, he went for the dayroom. It was situated in such a way that told him it was only for those patients who occupied Hall B.

Pushing open the door, he stepped inside.

There were half-a-dozen patients gathered around the TV, which was anchored halfway up the wall so everyone could see it. There were another half dozen sitting at the panorama of windows, staring vacantly across the dark lawn. And there were two nurses in the back, keeping a close eye on everyone.

Seeing Marc, one of the nurses spoke up immediately. “Yes?”

“Hi.” Marc shot them an easy smile, his gaze sweeping the room in one comprehensive motion. “I was told to check and see if there were any new dietary restrictions I should report to the kitchen staff before breakfast.”

The nurse turned to her companion, eyebrows raised quizzically. “Anything I’m not aware of?”

The other nurse shook her head. “Everything is status quo.”

“Great,” Marc replied. “I appreciate it.” A rueful look, and another sweep of the room, this time concentrating on the patients at the window. “After a bunch of last-minute changes, it’s a pleasure to find at least one status quo.”

He’d found a lot more than that.

Sitting at the window, her face angled toward Marc, was Linda Turner. He recognized her instantly from Ryan’s enhanced photo. The bone structure. The sharp features. The facial expression. The salt-and-pepper hair. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind. They’d found the one they were looking for.

Their long shot had paid off.

“I’ll be heading off for my next meal check,” Marc told the nurses, exhaling a frustrated breath. “Night shifts suck.”

“Tell us about it,” the first nurse said drily.

With a grimace of camaraderie, Marc and his clipboard left the room.

In theory, his job here was done. Still, the more information he could give Ryan, the better.

There was a supply room across the hall. Marc slipped inside, shut the door all but an inch, and waited.

His efforts were rewarded about a half hour later, when the nurses began to escort the patients to their rooms for the night. They worked in shifts, walking some of the patients back two at a time, some of the more mobile patients in groups of three.

Linda Turner was among the second duo to be guided to her room. Marc waited until the nurses were halfway down the hall before he eased the closet door open wider. He watched carefully, counting the number of doorways the nurses passed before leading Linda into her quarters.

Sixth room on the right.

He went back into hiding, waiting until he heard the nurses’ voices, chatting with each other about the great new restaurant that had opened in town, their voices growing more and more distant as they left the area and went back to the nurses’ station.

When there was nothing but silence, Marc emerged.

He inched his way down the hall to Linda Turner’s room and looked at the slot beside the door. Fitted in the slot was a cardboard tab with the patient’s name on it. Lorna Werner.

Lorna Werner. Linda Turner. Close enough for a woman with a fading memory to respond to. But not so close as to be recognizable. Smart choice.