Page 52 of Go First
Her next thought was obvious: the killer must have taken Santos’s identity.But a murder had happened while the pseudo-Santos was in custody at the prison.Impossible.Unless—
The light changed.Kate drove on, no answers, only the rattle of questions.
She detoured to the prison.The Governor’s face was pinched and flushed; he kept licking his lips and feeling his pulse.Not coping well with the stress levels.
He wanted to talk about the stabbing. “We conducted a full investigation.It seems someone… an inmate… moved the Out of Order sticker from a broken unit on the east wing, to the visitation suite.”
“Let me guess: they can’t explain why they did it and they deny receiving any encouragement, incentives or threats.”
“They’ve got a long time to think about it in solitary.And we’re now running weekly checks of all units.”
He looked at her almost expectantly.Did he want a round of applause? A member of the medical staff came into the office and handed him something.
“We just found this in the hospital wing,” he said, holding a small evidence bag.Inside lay a scatter of pale fragments.
“Eggshells?”Kate frowned.
“They were under Cox’s bed,’ the Governor said.“He’s allergic.”
The medical orderly, a wiry-looking con with intelligent eyes, stepped forward.“His wound kept flaring up.We cleaned it twice a day, upped the antibiotics.Looked like sepsis.Fever, swelling, lumpiness in the wound.Couldn’t understand it.But it wasn’t sepsis.Some allergic reactions can mimic infection.”
Kate felt the realization slide into place like a knife.“Someone helped him to trigger an allergy.To get him sent to hospital.”
The governor’s jaw tightened.“Exactly.”
The plan was suddenly visible in outline: Santos appearing at the jail, Cox’s orchestrated illness, both men outside the prison gates the same morning.A pattern of precision.
But the center of the pattern—who was killing, and why—remained a blank.
Kate closed her eyes.Gabe’s words from yesterday echoed like a refrain.
Someone pretending.
She still didn’t know who.
Let alone why.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
The paramedic Gus braced his forearm against the door frame as the ambulance took a tight curve.The wail of the siren cut across the trees and the hiss of the winter tires on wet blacktop.He checked the straps across Cox’s chest—secure, for now—and concentrated on being glad to be out of that jail.How people could work in places like that...the bells, the buzzers, the bars.It was like being a lab rat.And they didn’t get danger money; he’d asked the nurse, last time they were called to a prison: a beautiful Latina woman, she was, reminded him of Salma Hayek.Wasted in a place like that.Ambulance work was stressful, but nothing like a jail.Imagine it: stitching up the jagged wounds of prison shanks 24/7…
He could hear frantic car horns from the road outside.Then Monty’s voice crackled from the front cab.“We’ve got company.Coming up fast.”
Gus leaned forward, peered through the narrow window.Blue strobes flared behind them, bouncing off the bare birch trunks.A police cruiser.Old Crown Vic.Too close.It surged alongside, horn blaring, lights raking the ambulance with manic pulses.
“Are we supposed to have a police escort?”Gus asked, mainly to himself.He glanced down at the patient, all sweaty and grey, lost in his own sickness.
In the cab, Monty flicked a glance across.The driver of the cruiser—a square jaw, eyes hidden by dark glasses—was leaning half out of his window.The man’s voice carried over the howl of engines.
“Fella!My partner’s having an allergic reaction.No epi-pen.We need help now!”
Monty’s stomach tightened.Orders were orders, and their orders were to take the prisoner to St.Spiridion Hospital without stopping.The patient was dangerous, apparently, but Monty didn’t see it, not from the grey, frightened-looking face they’d strapped onto that gurney back at the jail.Sickness was a great leveller.
He glanced across at the cop car.The passenger was slumped, red-faced, clutching his throat.A third man in the back leaned forward, lips moving urgently.What was he, some perp they’d arrested?Nowthatwould be a story for the clientele of Wolfgang’s Bar this evening.
Monty clicked on the intercom.“You hearing this?”
“Fellah, please.He’s my partner, man.He’s got two kids!”