about him?”
“That child is four years old. He’s been admitted no fewer than twenty-five times. Had three major surgeries. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”
“It strikes me as hard on him and his family.” Ross tried to imagine sitting in a hospital waiting room twenty-five times, wondering over and over if your child would survive. A chill ran over his skin. The maple leaves rustled behind him. “What’s the matter with him?”
“That’s the problem. Nothing conclusive. He has seizures where he chucks up everything in his stomach. Sometimes he’s lethargic and unresponsive afterwards, sometimes not. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. We’ve thought it was some kind of massive gastric infection, but it can’t be pinned down with tests. Whatever he’s got, it won’t be diagnosed.” She paused for breath, and the angry color faded from her cheeks. “And now here he is again, back on the ward. Something isn’t right. I’ve tried to talk to Michael Archer but he’s one of them. His loyalty is to Blanchard and no one else. I took it to the head of my department here and got the door closed in my face. As soon as you bring religion in, no one will touch it. They think I’m nuts and Archer is in the right. So now I’m taking it to you.”
The hospital brass thought Rita Ulstad’s concerns were nothing but sour grapes and a desire for attention. Well, Harry had warned him. Her attitude toward the Elect colored her information—maybe even twisted it. Where did that leave his investigation? Or the well-being of the little kid?
A group of people emerged from the cafeteria door and walked toward the parking lot.
“Oh, no.” Rita Ulstad swung to face him, bracing an elbow on the back of the bench to put a hand to her face as a shield. “It’s them. The Blanchards, visiting the boy. They’re going to walk right behind us. Don’t let them see my face.”
All he needed was for the targets to see him with someone they didn’t trust. He should have anticipated that they’d be visiting the kid and insisted on a meeting away from the hospital. Ross slid over and put an arm along the back of the bench, bending close to give the appearance of a tête-à-tête. He peered cautiously over Rita’s shoulder.
Two young women bracketed a tall blond man. An older couple, the woman as well-upholstered as a pouter pigeon and the man so conservatively dressed he practically disappeared, followed them. The redhead on the blond man’s left was likely the mother. She was crying, holding a tissue to her face with both hands. All of the women were dressed in unrelieved black, right down to their stockings and shoes, as though they had just come from a funeral. The men’s shirts, at least, were white, but their ties were black, and devoid of anything so frivolous as a pattern.
“Julia, not so loud,” the pigeon said, tapping the redhead on the shoulder with two stiffly curled fingers. “Showing so much emotion in public is like saying you don’t accept God’s will. Look at Madeleine. Her resignation shows a lovely spirit.”
“Resignation, my foot,” Rita hissed in his ear, her lips brushing his skin. “She doesn’t deserve those kids.”
“The brunette is the mother?” he whispered. “Not the redhead?”
“Yes. And the harpy is Elizabeth McNeill, their mother. Isn’t she a terror?” Ross and his informant watched the family climb into separate four-door sedans and pull out onto the street. “All that rot about not showing emotion in public.” Rita sounded disgusted. “It’s unnatural.”
“I don’t get it,” Ross admitted. “Crying over a sick kid is reasonable.”
“That’s because you’re a rational man. It shows you how twisted their thinking is. To show her acceptance of God’s will in putting her kid in the hospital, Madeleine never drops a tear. That’s our Madeleine. Always the perfect example of godliness in public. Who knows what she’s like in private? If I had to live with someone that perfect, I’d choke. Poor Julia.”
“The sister?” The one Harry Everett wanted him to cultivate?
“Yes. She hasn’t got much of a life. Imagine having Madeleine thrown in your face every time you didn’t measure up.”
“She’s having a little trouble accepting God’s will.”
“She’s the most human of the whole bunch. I used to like Julia, even though she never has a word to say for herself. The self-confidence of a rabbit and no wonder.”
Would she make a good informant? Ross asked himself. Did she have the spine to talk to an Outsider, or would she scurry for cover before he could convince her he meant no harm? More important, would she make a good advocate for him with the church?
There was only one way to find out. He thanked Rita for her time and swung himself onto the bike.
On an assignment like this a guy needed a book to read. And if Jenny the clerk was right, he knew just where to look for one.
Miriam gritted her teeth and tried to remember Moses’ sermons on patience. But waiting patiently for the end of the world was a whole different kettle of fish than trying to deal patiently with the minions of bureaucracy.
On the whole, she was better equipped for Armageddon.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we can’t give out that information,” the very young woman who answered the phone for Seattle P.D. said for the second time.
“Please. I’m his aunt. I’ve been out of the country for years and I’m trying to make contact with my nieces and nephews. Now, the sheriff’s department in Inish County had no problem telling me he’d signed on with you folks. Don’t you think Ross would want to know his aunt is looking for him?”
“I don’t doubt that at all, ma’am. But I still can’t give out information about present or former members of this department.”
“Former? You mean he isn’t with Seattle P.D. after all? Why, those girls in Inish County, they’ve made me waste all this money in long-distance charges for nothing.”
“Ma’am, I didn’t mean—”
Miriam gave a theatrical sigh. “I guess I’m just going to have to reconcile my differences with that boy’s mama. Much as I hate to do it, since she was the one who started it all, but if it means not being able to see my favorite nephew after all these years in Africa, why…”
The girl on the other end of the phone was beginning to get flustered. “I’m sorry to be so much trouble, ma’am. It’s just that the OCTF…well, we try to help them keep a low profile, if you know what I mean.”
Who or what was the OCTF? “Oh, I do indeed, young lady. Well, thank you for your time. I’m going to call my sister and give her the shock of her life. Goodbye.”
Miriam hung up the phone with a mixture of anger and glee. So the child’s father had moved on from the police department, too. What kind of a fly-by-night was he, anyway?
Now she had to find out what in the world’s end the OCTF was.
Chapter Three
Julia McNeill crouched in the display window of the bookshop, draping blue muslin to form an artistic backdrop for a collection of children’s books—a display designed
