Page 41
She was right.
The chopper kicked up a cloud as it touched down in an empty patch of desert. There were no identifying landmarks. Just sand, and more sand.
All Matts knew was that she had been on a small plane for what felt like about four hours, then on the chopper for another thirty minutes or so. When she stepped out of the cabin onto solid ground, she knew one more thing. It was blistering hot. She was still wearing her prison slippers and she could feel the heat through the thin soles. Now two guards were pulling her forward, gripping her arms from both sides.
They walked for what felt like about twenty yards over the hot sand, then stopped. A few seconds later, Matts felt the ground tremble, like a mini earthquake. “What the hell is that?”
“Your new home,” said the guard on her right. “Coming right up.”
What Matts couldn’t see was that a large metal shaft was emerging from the ground in front of her, about the size of a small elevator car but circular in shape. When it rose to a height of about seven feet, it stopped. The sleek surface parted in the middle to create an opening. The guards nudged Matts inside.
She felt a cool, hard surface beneath her feet and smelled a mixture of lubrication oil and air freshener. The door closed with a solid thunk. Matts felt a lurch in her belly as the car descended. She started counting the floors by the soft dings she heard through her hood. She lost count at twelve.
Back on the surface, the helicopter lifted into the air, its rotors blowing sand over the resealed entrance—back to bare, faceless desert.
Agnes Matts, prisoner number 20235578K, had officially disappeared.
CHAPTER 42
POE STOOD BACK as another doctor squeezed into the small cubicle, this one in pink scrubs, with a gauze cap over her hair. “I’m Neela Shane, the OB attending. Who’s the father?”
“I am!” said Poe.
Shane nodded toward Holmes. “Then I’ll ask you to step out.”
Holmes started to protest, but one of the male nurses gave him a firm nudge and closed the curtain, sealing him outside of the cubicle.
The rest of the medical staff backed away to give Shane room. “How’s she doing?” she asked. Baynes fired back a quick litany of stats—BP, respiration, blood ox, meds on board.
By now, Grey had an oxygen cannula in her nose, an elastic cuff on her arm, and an IV line in the bend of her elbow. Shane glanced at the patterns and readouts on the patient monitor screen, then leaned over the head of the bed. “Helene, I’m Dr. Shane.” She shook her gently. “Helene! Do you know where you are?”
Grey rolled her head and mumbled, “Hospital. Ithaca.”
“Can you tell me what day it is?”
“Tuesday.”
“And who’s here with you?”
“Auguste Poe.”
Shane looked over. “Poe? Like the horror writer?”
“Detective writer,” said Poe impatiently. “What’s happening? She’s bleeding!”
“How many weeks along?”
“Thirty-four. We’re having twins.”
Shane pulled a pair of purple gloves from a wall unit. She looked at Poe. “I’m going to do an exam now, Mr. Poe. You can step out or stay, your choice.”
“Don’t leave,” said Grey weakly.
Poe moved to the head of the gurney and put his palm on her forehead. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He looked down as Shane pulled a rolling stool against the foot of the gurney. “Can you lift your knees for me, Helene?” Shane nodded to two of the nurses, who hooked their arms under both knees for support. The OB leaned forward. For a few seconds, her head disappeared below the sheet. When she emerged, she pulled off her gloves and stood up. “You’ve been bleeding a little, Helene. But there’s no hemorrhage. That’s good news.”
Poe realized that he’d been holding his breath. He let it out in a rush.
