damn cold. Jesus. June could be winter on the Oregon coast. Worse than Portland.
Staggering to his feet, he stumbled into the shower, letting the hot spray rain over his head. He didn’t know how long he stood there. Long enough to make water conservationists shudder the world over, he supposed.
From the shower he threw on some gray sweatpants and a black long-sleeved T-shirt, then padded barefoot to the kitchen, where he stumbled rotely through the steps of making coffee. He was so lost in thought, he was almost surprised when the coffeemaker beeped at him that it was finished brewing.
After pouring himself a cup, he opened the refrigerator, hoping for cream or milk, knowing there was neither. He drank the coffee black and in between gulps took several deep breaths. After ten minutes he felt almost human, and he switched on his television with its DVR—his one indulgence that was critical to his job—and played back Channel Seven’s eleven o’clock news. He had glanced at it when he’d returned the night before, spent a little time on the Internet, researching the escape of Justice Turnbull, then, exhaustion catching up with him, had slid into the sleeping bag. Now he watched the segment that dealt with Justice Turnbull’s escape in more detail, taking mental notes.
First there was a bit with Pauline earlier in the evening, in front of the redwood and brick facade of Halo Valley Security Hospital. Patrol cars were parked every which way, some with their lights flashing. Pauline was explaining about the two sides of the hospital, Side B being the section that housed the criminally insane. In voice overlay she explained where Justice Turnbull had escaped, and the camera caught the portico outside of Side B, which was on the back side of the building, the eastern side, and mirrored Side A, which faced west. More sheriff’s department vehicles stood in attendance. It looked like they’d sent the whole damn force, and maybe they had.
Questions were asked of law enforcement and the Halo Valley staff. The camera zoomed in on Detective Langdon Stone with the Tillamook County Sheriff’s Department. Harrison gave him a hard look as he seemed to be the officer in charge. If he was going to dig into this story, he would undoubtedly butt heads with Stone at some future point, and it was unlikely to be an easy friendship.
Stone wore a black leather jacket, jeans, and cowboy boots, and his brown hair was tossed by an errant breeze. He said, “No comment,” enough times to make it sound like a rap song. Pauline clearly knew him, or thought she did, and her usual brisk, probing tone held a kittenish note of wheedling. Clearly Stone found her excruciating, and when one of the doctors from the hospital, Dr. Claire Norris, stepped into the fray, Harrison didn’t miss the way Stone gazed at her with an unflinching, yet somehow self-conscious, stare. Something going on between them, he deduced.
Dr. Norris couldn’t shed much light on Turnbull’s escape; she was on Side A, not B. Pauline abruptly switched from them to Side B’s portico, where she interviewed another woman doctor, Dr. Jean Dayton, who was serious, cautious, and clearly freaked out that Justice was gone. Mention was then made of the Ocean Park security guard who’d been injured, Conrad Weiser, and Justice’s primary physician, Dr. Maurice Zellman, whose condition was listed as stable. Conrad was still in the “serious” category. He’d suffered a head injury that had required surgery. Zellman had been through minor surgery as well, for the damage to his throat and voice box, but he was responsive and alert.
There was a brief moment with Dr. Byron Adderley, who just managed to look pissed off; then the camera’s eye turned to Nurse Laura Adderley, her face in profile, before Dr. Dolph Loman’s icy blue eyes and white hair filled the screen with a lot of hyperbole about how great Ocean Park Hospital was.
Pauline cut him off quick, then gave a short
Staggering to his feet, he stumbled into the shower, letting the hot spray rain over his head. He didn’t know how long he stood there. Long enough to make water conservationists shudder the world over, he supposed.
From the shower he threw on some gray sweatpants and a black long-sleeved T-shirt, then padded barefoot to the kitchen, where he stumbled rotely through the steps of making coffee. He was so lost in thought, he was almost surprised when the coffeemaker beeped at him that it was finished brewing.
After pouring himself a cup, he opened the refrigerator, hoping for cream or milk, knowing there was neither. He drank the coffee black and in between gulps took several deep breaths. After ten minutes he felt almost human, and he switched on his television with its DVR—his one indulgence that was critical to his job—and played back Channel Seven’s eleven o’clock news. He had glanced at it when he’d returned the night before, spent a little time on the Internet, researching the escape of Justice Turnbull, then, exhaustion catching up with him, had slid into the sleeping bag. Now he watched the segment that dealt with Justice Turnbull’s escape in more detail, taking mental notes.
First there was a bit with Pauline earlier in the evening, in front of the redwood and brick facade of Halo Valley Security Hospital. Patrol cars were parked every which way, some with their lights flashing. Pauline was explaining about the two sides of the hospital, Side B being the section that housed the criminally insane. In voice overlay she explained where Justice Turnbull had escaped, and the camera caught the portico outside of Side B, which was on the back side of the building, the eastern side, and mirrored Side A, which faced west. More sheriff’s department vehicles stood in attendance. It looked like they’d sent the whole damn force, and maybe they had.
Questions were asked of law enforcement and the Halo Valley staff. The camera zoomed in on Detective Langdon Stone with the Tillamook County Sheriff’s Department. Harrison gave him a hard look as he seemed to be the officer in charge. If he was going to dig into this story, he would undoubtedly butt heads with Stone at some future point, and it was unlikely to be an easy friendship.
Stone wore a black leather jacket, jeans, and cowboy boots, and his brown hair was tossed by an errant breeze. He said, “No comment,” enough times to make it sound like a rap song. Pauline clearly knew him, or thought she did, and her usual brisk, probing tone held a kittenish note of wheedling. Clearly Stone found her excruciating, and when one of the doctors from the hospital, Dr. Claire Norris, stepped into the fray, Harrison didn’t miss the way Stone gazed at her with an unflinching, yet somehow self-conscious, stare. Something going on between them, he deduced.
Dr. Norris couldn’t shed much light on Turnbull’s escape; she was on Side A, not B. Pauline abruptly switched from them to Side B’s portico, where she interviewed another woman doctor, Dr. Jean Dayton, who was serious, cautious, and clearly freaked out that Justice was gone. Mention was then made of the Ocean Park security guard who’d been injured, Conrad Weiser, and Justice’s primary physician, Dr. Maurice Zellman, whose condition was listed as stable. Conrad was still in the “serious” category. He’d suffered a head injury that had required surgery. Zellman had been through minor surgery as well, for the damage to his throat and voice box, but he was responsive and alert.
There was a brief moment with Dr. Byron Adderley, who just managed to look pissed off; then the camera’s eye turned to Nurse Laura Adderley, her face in profile, before Dr. Dolph Loman’s icy blue eyes and white hair filled the screen with a lot of hyperbole about how great Ocean Park Hospital was.
Pauline cut him off quick, then gave a short
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