Again, Celeste appeared shocked, her red-rimmed eyes rounding as they crossed the sparsely filled parking lot. “Kara was attacked, too? Or wait—did she get into it with Merritt?” Her neatly plucked eyebrows drew together as she took in a swift breath. “Oh, shit. Did she kill him?” Panic started to rise again, her eyes round with the horror of the thought.
“Accident,” Thomas said quickly. “She called it in. We don’t know what happened. Won’t until we talk to her.”
Celeste nodded, but didn’t seem convinced and sighed, looking up at the heavens as if seeking some kind of divine intervention. “When it rains, it pours, ya know, and when it snows? It’s only worse.” Blinking against tears again, she fished into her massive purse and withdrew her keys. Just as his phone buzzed. Squinting through the snow, he saw it was from a deputy at the hospital. Kara McIntyre was awake. He texted that he’d be there within the hour.
Johnson said to Celeste, “I’ll ride with you and fill you in on the way to your house.”
“Good. I want to know everything.” As they reached the front of the strip mall she pressed a button on her keyless remote. A sleek black Corvette responded, its lights blinking, a beeping sound audible.
Thomas pulled Johnson aside. “Kara McIntyre’s awake. I’ll meet you at Margrove’s after I talk to her. Don’t want her slipping back into a coma before I get some details.”
Johnson nodded, then caught up with Celeste. “I can drive,” Johnson offered again.
“Oh, right,” Celeste mocked, shaking her head as she reached the driver’s side and opened the door. “No way in hell. You can ride shotgun.” Celeste hitched a chin toward the passenger side of the sports car. “No one drives my baby but me.”
CHAPTER 18
Whimstick General was a madhouse.As expected.
Tate parked two blocks over as all the nearby lots were full. Once he’d slid his RAV4 into a spot near the icy curb, he double-checked information on his phone, skimming news stories and the social media platforms dedicated to the release of Jonas McIntyre.
Not only had the news of Merritt Margrove’s murder and the near-fatal accident in the mountains rippled through the local restaurants, cafés and shops of Whimstick, the information had spread like a wildfire in tinder-dry grass. The ex-con’s fan pages on social media had erupted with concern, “prayers,” “good vibes,” and emojis and memes filled with sad faces and hearts and praying hands. Apparently there was already a vigil staged near the hospital, the most active of his fans who lived nearby collecting at Whimstick General. The news outlets were buzzing about the accident and the fact that McIntyre and his sister were survivors, though there was little information on the driver of the other vehicle. The story of the accident was not just local but showing up online throughout the Northwest. God only knew how far it would go.
Probably national and, nowadays, of course, likely viral.
The good news was that Kara McIntyre, who was driving her Jeep, hadn’t been seriously injured. Thank God. Even though he barely knew her, there was a part of him that found her intriguing. Yeah, he wanted to interview her and needed her help in his quest for the truth, but there was more to it than that. More than he wanted to admit.
As for her brother, so far it seemed that Jonas McIntyre had survived.
Tate hoped so.
And he hoped the son of a bitch was coherent enough to give one last interview.
No time like the present to find out.
He checked his watch. 4:48. Perfect timing for a shift change. Though some of the nurses worked ten-or twelve-hour shifts, a majority of the staff, admin workers and the like, including some of the nursing and clinical staff, worked the 8:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. schedule. After grabbing the small satchel he’d packed before leaving his apartment, Tate locked his car and hiked through the snow-crusted sidewalks to Whimstick General.
About forty or fifty people had gathered on the walkway, the beefy security guard and the makeshift barricade holding them away from the sliding glass doors while others lobbied to get inside.
There were more milling around in the building. Through the wide glass windows, Tate spied patients in wheelchairs or on crutches, loved ones hovering nearby. The vestibule with its long couches and chairs situated between potted plants and small tables was full; the information, registration and admission desks surrounded by people. He thought he caught glimpses of some of the people he’d seen online, those who had clamored for Jonas’s release, members of his Internet fan club, but he couldn’t be certain.