Theo had walked this hall many times before, though never as the tattoo artist.
Before heading to the hospital, he’d pulled a set of scrubs from his locker at the back of the tattoo parlor. After kicking off his cowboy boots, he quickly changed, topping off his look with a white coat and a pair of pristine white sneakers. Finally, he pulled the silver caps from his teeth and neatly brushed his mustache, removing the western twist that was a signature style of Theo the tattoo artist, but was too bold for the infinitely forgettable hospital orderly.
The mayor had made an agreement with the hospital administration to give Theo clearance to all the nooks and crannies of Good Samaritan. Ellen knew Victor was biding his time, and she wanted an inside man in case he made a move. When Sheila was in a coma, this was less of a concern. No need to silence a woman who might never wake up. Now that she was conscious, Victor would almost certainly have someone on-site ready to make sure Sheila suffered a relapse, or worse.
Theo trotted down the long, wide hall. Blue vertical stripes with bold, white numbers announced rooms 385, 386, and finally 387, Sheila’s home for the last six months. It was positioned on the corner within sight of the nurse’s station, and easy to guard. But no bored-looking police officer sat on the chair outside.
Cautiously, Theo stepped through the open door. The curtain had been drawn around the bed. He ripped it open. Sheila was gone. In her place was an unconscious but still bored-looking officer, his shirt pulled open, the sensors that had been tracking Sheila’s vitals now calmly tracking his. The man’s wrist was firmly shackled to the bed’s railing with what were likely his own handcuffs. Theo took in the rest of the room. A handful of cards from well-wishers had been swept to the floor, along with a cracked vase of roses, a dented bedpan, and a ripped open carton of Capri Menthols. He wondered vaguely what kind of lunatic would bring a coma patient a gift of cigarettes.
All this he’d absorbed in a moment, and then he rushed into the hall and to the nurse’s station. “Where is Sheila Elkins?” he asked urgently.
A nurse looked up. “I checked in with Ms. Elkins before my rounds. She’s awake and appears to be doing very well.” The nurse glanced at a monitor. “Strong heartbeat today,” he said, tapping on a screen.
“That’s not Sheila’s heartbeat. Call the police. We need to find her, now.”