Sixteen.

After leaving Darci's, I still didn't feel like going home, so I decided to visit Stephen. Or at least try to visit him.

With one eye out for anyone who looked like a reporter, I hurried across the parking lot and into the lobby of the Regional Medical Center. I knew where Stephen was, and my plan was to just brazen it out-to walk into the Cardiac Surgery Intensive Care Unit and into his cubicle. The worst that could happen would be they kicked me out. It wouldn't be the first time my presence wasn't welcomed.

I marched through the lobby and followed the route Bill and I had taken on Monday, only this time I prepared my defenses before entering through the swinging doors. I didn't need to be caught off guard as I had been before. With my head down and eyes averted, I walked past the nurses' station toward Stephen's cubicle. I stopped short at the door.

A tall blond woman stood next to Stephen's bed, her eyes glued on his face. Her shoulders hunched forward as one hand gently stroked Stephen's arm. She looked rumpled and her whole body tired.

Oh my gosh, it was Stephen's mother. I didn't feel any guilt at worming my way around the hospital rules, but I did at intruding on this poor woman.

I pivoted on my heel and took a step before she spotted me.

"Wait," she said, leaving Stephen's side and coming toward me. "Are you here to see Stephen?"

I felt a blush creep up my face at getting caught. "Yes," I mumbled.

Her eyes narrowed as they studied me. "You're not with the press, are you?"

"No, ma'am. I'm Ophelia Jensen. I-"

Her hand darted out and grabbed my arm. "You witnessed the shooting."

"Yes, I did. I'm so sorry." I glanced over her shoulder toward the bed. "Is there any change?"

"No." Her eyes flitted back to the still figure lying in bed. "He's not making any improvement, but his condition isn't deteriorating either." Her focus returned to me. "I'm thankful for that." She tilted her head. "Would you mind answering some questions for me?"

She took me by surprise. "Ah, no," I stuttered.

Giving me a wisp of a smile, she nodded. "Thank you. There's a garden cafe outside, at the end of the hall. I'll just be a minute," she said, motioning toward the nurses' station. "I need to let the nurse know where I'm going."

She walked quickly to the station and, in a low voice, explained that she'd be at the cafe if they needed to reach her.

Together, we left the intensive care unit and walked down the hall and out the double doors to the cafe. Mrs. La.r.s.en offered to buy me a coffee, but I declined. While she ordered hers, my eyes wandered the small area.

Above me, leafy branches formed a shady canopy. Dappled sunlight filtered through the leaves. At one plastic table, hospital staff dressed in scrubs sat on plastic chairs. Near them, an elderly gentleman, accompanied by a young man and woman, tottered over and took a seat at another table. I watched as the young woman leaned forward and gently rubbed the old man's arm. Feeling as if I were intruding on a private moment, I averted my eyes.

When Mrs. La.r.s.en took a seat opposite me, she got right to the point. "Can you tell me what happened?"

"Hasn't Sheriff Wilson talked to you?" I asked, surprised by her directness.

"The sheriff seems to be a very nice man, but he wasn't a fount of information."

"Well, ma'am-"

"Please, call me Louise," she said.

"Louise...there isn't much to tell. I'd just met your son, and it seemed we had a lot in common, so..." I paused and shifted in my chair. I didn't want to try explain the connection I'd felt. "Um, we went for a walk. We were standing near the woods when it happened. The shot seemed to come out of nowhere." I hesitated, knowing this had to be painful for her to hear. "I'm sorry, I didn't see anything."

"Did Stephen say anything about his work?" Her lips formed a tight smile. "No, of course he didn't. He's terribly close-mouthed," she commented, answering her own question.

"Do you think the motive is tied to one of his books?"

"I can't think of any other reason. As far as I know, Stephen doesn't have any jealous ex-girlfriends, he doesn't have any overzealous fans, and I'd be shocked if he were involved in anything illegal." Her face took on a faraway look. "He's always had such a strong sense of justice."

"But he does have enemies?" I quizzed.

"Oh, yes," she exclaimed, and lifted the cup to her lips with a trembling hand. "He's done exposes on the mob, crooked CEOs, shady politicians-any one of them might want revenge."

Hmm, maybe Darci was on to something. Maybe the motive wasn't related to his current book, but one he'd already written.

"Were you able to give Bill any specific names?" I asked. "Did Stephen ever receive any death threats?"

"If he did, he wouldn't have told me, and he's never mentioned anyone who's wanted to harm him. The person who'd be able to answer those questions is his a.s.sistant, Karen Burns."

"Have you spoken to her?"

"No." She shook her head. "And that surprises me. She and Stephen work closely together. I'm a little shocked she isn't here." She blew on her coffee and took a sip before continuing. "Stephen's always been a fighter, always cared about the underdog. Even as a child. He's never backed down." Her breath hitched in her throat. "And now it's led to this."

"Louise," I said, patting her frail hand. "It's very admirable that he's used his talent to help people by exposing the truth."

"I know," she said with a sigh. "His father and I had always hoped he'd go into the law. We saw him working in civil rights, but no, he wanted to write." Her eyes shimmered with tears. "And now look at the price he's paid."

"Bill's very good at his job," I interjected. "He'll find who did this."

Her mouth turned to a bitter smile. "I hope so, but what about the next time? I don't see Stephen ever changing. He's so devoted to his work that he's led a solitary life. No wife, no family of his own-all those things a mother wants for their child, he lacks."

Two years ago I wouldn't have understood how she felt, but now I did. Someday I wanted those things for Tink, too. Home, family, success, all the good things life has to offer. I searched for words of comfort but could think of nothing to say.

Her eyes suddenly widened and she quickly wiped her cheeks. "Oh no, don't look, but here comes that awful man," she gasped.

So I did exactly what she told me not to do. I spun around in my chair, searching for the man. "Who?" I asked, my gaze roaming the tables.

"That politician...Chuck Krause," she hissed.

My eyes flew back to Mrs. La.r.s.en. "Chuck Krause is-"

A shadow fell across the table. "Good evening, Louise."

Mrs. La.r.s.en lifted her head. "Mr. Krause," she answered in a tight voice.

I didn't want to get involved in this conversation, so I tried to pretend that I was invisible. It didn't work. I felt Krause's eyes on me and looked up.

"I'd like to introduce Ophelia Jensen," Mrs. La.r.s.en said graciously. "She's a friend of Stephen's."

"Ah, Ophelia." Krause's face fell into an expression of feigned sympathy. "You were with him at the time of the accident."

Attempted murder-an accident? Okay, Jensen, cut him some slack. Maybe he's trying to spare Mrs. La.r.s.en's feelings. Okay, Jensen, cut him some slack. Maybe he's trying to spare Mrs. La.r.s.en's feelings.

Evidently, Mrs. La.r.s.en didn't feel the need to have her feelings spared. "Mr. Krause, someone tried to kill my son," she replied with a tinge of sarcasm. "I'd hardly call that an accident."

Krause slipped into the chair next to her and laid a hand on her shoulder. She shrank from his touch, but he seemed oblivious. "Louise, I want you to know I'm taking a personal interest in your son's case. Stopping this kind of violence is a promise I've made to the voters if elected." His voice rose as he glanced quickly over his shoulder to see if he had an audience. "I will bring pressure to bear until the guilty are brought to justice."

Unwilling to watch Krause's performance, I lowered my eyes. Man, enough hot air was coming out of him to evaporate water. Man, enough hot air was coming out of him to evaporate water.

"I appreciate your efforts, but my main priority is Stephen's recovery," she said shortly.

"Perfectly understandable. Your days must be very long, though, Louise. Nothing more tiring than sitting around a hospital day in and day out." He patted her shoulder again. "You need to take care of yourself, too. I'm having a fund-raiser next week, and I'd love for you to be one of my honored guests. It would be good for you to get away from the hospital for an evening."

My head popped up. Her son's fighting for his life, and this bozo wants her to come to a fund-raiser? Her son's fighting for his life, and this bozo wants her to come to a fund-raiser?

"Mr. Krause, the only thing good good for me right now would be for my son to recover," she answered in a voice dripping with ice. for me right now would be for my son to recover," she answered in a voice dripping with ice.

Krause's eyes widened imperceptibly as her put-down penetrated his thick skin. "Naturally," he said, rising and pressing a hand on her shoulder. "I just stopped by to see if there's anything I can do. If there is, please let me know."

"Good-bye, Mr. Krause," she said without looking up.

Mrs. La.r.s.en waited until Krause was out of earshot. "Humph," she whispered, leaning across the table. "The only reason he he stopped by was to check on free air time." stopped by was to check on free air time."

I gave her a puzzled look. "Huh?"

"The reporters have been such pests," she answered in disgust.

"I know they've been hanging around-one waylaid me leaving the hospital Monday. Have they been bothering you?"

"A little," she conceded. "Security has tried to keep them away from me, but Mr. Krause..." Sitting back in her chair, she gave her head a disgusted shake. "...he's sought them out...and not only that, he wanted me to join him."

"You're kidding?"

"No, I'm not. And this fund-raiser...I may be old, but I'm not stupid." She sniffed indignantly. "He can't fool me. He wanted to parade out the grieving mother to make some kind of political point."

"So," I said with an evil grin, "he's not only smarmy as h.e.l.l, he's a political ambulance chaser."

A true smile lit her face. "Very well put, Ophelia."

Seventeen.

I loved the Internet. Anything you wanted to buy was only a click and a credit card away. Like plane tickets. I'd decided if Karen Burns wouldn't answer her phone, I would fly to St. Louis and talk to her in person. Unfortunately, because of my late booking, the only flight I could get had a three hour layover in Detroit. It would take me almost seven hours to reach my destination instead of the six if I drove.

But this is better, I told myself. If I'd driven and Bill got wind that I left town, he could've had me apprehended. By flying, I could slip down to St. Louis and be back before anyone knew I left. I'd covered my bases with Abby by calling and telling her that I planned on a hot bath and then retreating to my bedroom. She wouldn't try and contact me until that evening. By then I'd be at the hotel, and pretend I was home. Thank goodness for cell phones-she'd never know that I was six hundred miles away.

I think. A little flutter of doubt shook me. A little flutter of doubt shook me. No, this would work. No, this would work.

And if it didn't?

I shrugged. It wouldn't make a difference. I'd be in Missouri-she'd be in Iowa. The worst that could happen would be the h.e.l.l of a lecture that I'd receive when I arrived home.

As I dug my needlepoint out of my carry-on, my thoughts drifted to the conversation I'd had with Tink. She sounded happy and excited. It appeared she now saw the trip as an adventure instead of a banishment. I had also spoken briefly with Aunt Dot, who wanted to know all the details of the latest family "problem." I'd blanched a bit when she mentioned maybe it would be good for her to pay another visit. Just to help, of course.

Right.

I dearly loved Aunt Dot, but the thought of her on the loose again in Summerset gave me the shivers. I emphatically told her we needed her to protect Tink. With that, she chortled and told me all about the forgetful spell Great-Aunt Mary had placed around the property-any stranger without an invitation would have a hard time finding them.

I didn't question the spell, nor did I question the fact that, according to her, the fairies were happy to see Tink.

Whatever-as long as Tink was safe, it was all that mattered.

Paying attention to my needlepoint, I saw that I'd, once again, balled the thread into a tight little knot. I gave up and shoved it back into the carry-on. Next, I picked up my latest J. D. Robb paperback, but even the exciting adventures of Eve Dallas couldn't keep my mind from wandering.

Tapping my foot, I checked my watch for the hundredth time. c.r.a.p, I still had two more hours before the flight. I'll call Karen again. c.r.a.p, I still had two more hours before the flight. I'll call Karen again.

I hit the now memorized numbers and listened as it rang and rang. It was weird. Surely she knew that her boss had been shot. One would think she'd have contacted someone by now. Could she have spoken with Bill? Finally, the voice mail clicked on and I left another message. One way or the other, I intended to track the woman down and question her about Stephen. I had her address-I'd camp out on her doorstep if I had to.

Bored beyond belief, my eyes traveled around the airport. Maybe I could amuse myself by people watching? Businessmen sat with their Bluetooth headsets clipped to their ears while they tapped away on their laptops. Not much of interest there Not much of interest there. In the next row, a mother tried to keep her toddler entertained. I could relate-he appeared as bored as I was. He caught my eye from over his mother's shoulder and gave me a toothy grin. I smiled. Satisfied he'd been noticed, he returned to tugging on his mother's hair.

I stole another look at my watch. Well, that took all of fifteen minutes. Well, that took all of fifteen minutes.

Bouncing my knees impatiently, I glanced toward the gift shop. Okay, let's give that a try. Okay, let's give that a try.

I stood up, slung my carry-on over my shoulder, and strolled over to the wide doorway. Travel pillows, lap rugs, candy, souvenirs of Detroit, magazines-everything a weary traveler would want lined the shelves. Taking my time, I browsed the magazines, studied the selection of candy, fingered the soft lap robes. From behind me, I felt someone staring at my back and my nerves jangled. With a sideways look, I noticed one of the clerks watching me, suspicion written on her face.

Oh man, she thinks I'm a shoplifter.

Crossing to the counter, I picked up a pack of gum, paid for it, and beat a hasty retreat out of the shop.

From across the way, I caught sight of a bookstore. Tucking my gum in my pocket, I wandered into the store. Immediately my attention was drawn to the display of the latest best-sellers. Placed in a prominent position was Terror on the Seine Terror on the Seine by M. J. LaSalle. Striding over, I picked up the hardcover and skimmed the blurb on the back. by M. J. LaSalle. Striding over, I picked up the hardcover and skimmed the blurb on the back.

As I read, icy fingers tickled up my spine.

The novel told the story of a man hunting a group of neo-n.a.z.is as they tried to build a new Third Reich a la Frankenstein's monster.

Was Stephen a World War II buff? If so, had my connection with him been so strong that I sensed it on some level? Was it why I'd suddenly started dreaming about Paris and the German occupation? What if the dreams were not mine, but his?

Clutching the book, I hurried over to the counter and paid for it. I rushed back to the waiting area and flipped the cover open.

For the next hour I sat lost in the story. No doubt about it-Stephen spun a good tale. One scene that drew my attention portrayed a dinner party eerily like the one in my dream. The one I'd experienced as Madeleine. Stephen had even mentioned Drancy and Auschwitz in the dialogue.

Was that the connection? What if somehow, while his body was in a coma state, his mind was reaching out and touching mine?

I grimaced. If his mind was indeed invading mine, I wished his message would be a little more specific than showing me the life of a Parisian model living over sixty years ago.