Ranger Defender

Slate Thompson looked surprised. No, he actually looked terrified.

“I hadn’t... I...”

“Don’t worry, Slate. Your secret’s safe with me.”

There weren’t too many people in the world who truly cared about others anymore.

“I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to discuss the case with your—I need to take this.” He withdrew his phone and answered. “What’s up? No, I’m in Uptown. Yeah, twenty minutes with sirens. You’re certain? I’ll check it out.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Vivian said, “I’ll take the bus home.”

“There’s been a murder-suicide at the VA Hospital. One of the men in the same study as your brother.” He scanned his phone. “If you don’t mind waiting in the truck, I can take you home after. Easier than trying to find the buses in the rain. Come on.”

He asked the waiter to make it a to-go order, paid the bill and left her to go get his truck.

“He’s such a nice man,” the maître d’ said after the door shut behind him. “He saved my life during that robbery. The guy held a gun under my chin and said he was going to blow my head off. After the whole terrifying thing was over, Slate brought a counselor by to talk with me before my shift a couple of days later. There’s no way I’ll ever be able to repay him.”

“He seems very kind.” Amazing is more like it.

“Here’s your order,” the waiter said, handing her the bag of food.

Right on cue, Slate pulled up under the awning.

She climbed into the passenger side. “I don’t want to be a bother, Slate. You could drop me at the Rapid Transit station and I can get home from there.”

“You’d ruin your shoes waiting in the rain. I promise, I won’t be long. Wade, one of the guys in my Company, gave me the heads-up.”

“Do you believe it’s related to my brother?”

“Another ranger thinks it’s one of the guys in the study.”

“Right. No promises.”

Get a grip. Slate Thompson had a job. He was doing it, and a side benefit was helping Victor. There was no reason to think any part of it was personal.

No matter how often he held her hand.

Chapter Seven (#u0b26392c-075e-525d-87f8-ba0b993c75ee)

There is more than one way to kill. There is more than one way to kill. There is more than one way to kill.

Abby wrote in her journal, but scratched each sentence out quickly. She covered it with her hand so no one could see it. Even if she was alone and in a private office.

That didn’t matter. The government spied on everyone through all sorts of devices, and the police were everywhere.

Cell phones had cameras. Stoplights had cameras. Cars had back-up cameras. They were everywhere. She couldn’t get away from them.

Spies were spies and had to be dealt with. But there was no one around. No one to deal with for the moment.

The doctor had said journals were important. Dr. Roberts had a journal and had written about her as a patient, had written about them all. Abby had taken care of her in the best way she could. Not a perfect way, though. Abby hadn’t found that yet.

Dr. Roberts had been right about that particular problem. Abby needed to find it soon. The day was getting close when she’d need to move and start over in another city at another hospital.

“I am not crazy. Dr. Roberts told me I wasn’t. I can believe her,” she whispered.

Abby needed another pencil. She’d scratched out her last journal sentence so hard, she’d broken the tip. She looked around, but there wasn’t another near her to continue. She rolled the chair closer to the small window facing the front of the building.

It was two hours past time to go home. Catching her normal train wouldn’t be possible. She was familiar with the alternative, taking a cab, but that wasn’t possible either. And she was hungry.

Her subconscious suggestions with Rashad Parker had been so successful that he hadn’t waited. He’d gone to the cafeteria, secured a knife and stabbed two people, then slit his throat. Now the hospital was on lockdown.

If she’d known it would work so well, she would have followed him. Now she had been ordered to stay in her office until the hospital was cleared, until the police were certain no one else was at risk.

It was four minutes past dinner.

She moved away from the distracting police lights and arranged the patient binders by date. Then numeric order. She checked the contents to verify that she’d organized them correctly. She’d already finished transcribing the dictation. She listened again. There were no corrections to be made.

She couldn’t allow herself to panic just because her schedule was off. She needed to journal more. That would calm the rising nervousness.

A knock on the outer door relieved the moment of panic. She tucked her journal into her handbag with the microtapes she’d used on the sleep-study patients today. She practiced the concerned look she should have in the glass of the only picture hanging on the wall.

The knock persisted. She grabbed her handbag and twisted the lock.

“Come in.” She stepped away from the door and waited for the person on the other side to open it.

“Ms. Norman?” The man wasn’t dressed like a policeman. He wore a suit and tie.

“Yes. May I go now?”

“Sorry, it’s taken a while to clear the offices on each floor. We understand that you had a Rashad Parker here today.”

“Yes. He’s one of the sleep-study patients. Is he okay? Did something happen?”

“You seem concerned. Was he acting strangely? Make any threats toward anyone?”

“No, of course not.” She added a breathiness that indicated worry. She’d studied an emotional thesaurus and practiced at eight o’clock each evening for half an hour. Even so, unable to pursue her normal routine was making her a bit anxious. “May I leave now? I’ve missed my train and the second train, too.”

“I apologize. I forgot to introduce myself. Detective Arnold. Here’s my card. I’ll have one of the officers escort you out of the building. Mind if I have a look around?”

“I do. I’m not the doctor or the technician. I just set things up for them. There are patient files in here and records. I believe you’ll need a court order to proceed with the hospital.” She gripped the knob and pulled the door closed behind her. “Which officer will see me safely outside?”

“Burnsy. Will you take Ms. Norman out?”

An officer in full uniform with an automatic weapon took her to the stairs. “Sorry, ma’am, but the elevators are off-limits.”

“I prefer the stairs.”

On the ground floor, she waited and allowed the officer to open the door—having to remind him that it was the polite thing to do for a lady. She slipped on her surgical gloves and mask for the ride home. She might be forced to take public transportation, but she would not succumb to the germs. She had important work to finish.