The Alvarez & Pescoli Series. Lisa Jackson

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СКАЧАТЬ a ping, the thermometer indicated it had found her internal temperature.

      The nurse, a heavy woman of around fifty, was holding the base of the electronic thermometer and wasn’t paying too much attention to any of Jillian’s complaints. She recorded the temperature, removed the probe and, with the dexterity borne of years of service, shot the plastic sleeve off the probe and into a waiting trash can. “Ninety-eight point nine,” she said without much enthusiasm. In fact, Nurse Claire Patterson seemed a little ragged around the edges, as if she’d been pulling a double shift. A trace of lipstick had faded, and if she’d been wearing any makeup it had rubbed off to show a reddish mask of rosacea.

      “Not even ninety-nine,” Jillian pointed out as Nurse Claire tightened the blood-pressure cuff over her arm. “Not elevated enough to keep me.”

      “I’ll see what the doctor says but he wanted you overnight for observation.” Her eyes didn’t move from the dial on the cuff.

      “I don’t need ‘observation.’” Her chest and ankle had been X-rayed, and she’d lucked out and was suffering only a sprained ankle, which a doctor had taped, not even placed in a cast. Her ribs turned out to be bruised. Miraculously, she’d suffered no fractures or broken bones, just as MacGregor had predicted. Good. Her ribs still hurt like hell, though, but if she were given a prescription for pain medication, she saw no reason she needed to be kept a prisoner in this small, rural hospital.

      “BP’s one ten over seventy-five. Normal,” the nurse said with a nod of her head as she read Jillian’s blood pressure. “Good.” She marked the chart again. “I think the police want to talk to you.”

      “I already spoke with them.”

      Nurse Claire stopped to take her pulse, was satisfied with the count and wrote the information down. Then she looked up and her expression was kinder than it had been. “I know, but they want to interview you again.”

      As if Jillian were lying. Why didn’t they believe her? Why did they treat MacGregor like a criminal?

      “I already told them everything I know,” she argued, her vow to not let her anger get the better of her tongue quickly forgotten. The police had questioned her in the helicopter and when she’d first arrived at the hospital, but her doctor had intervened.

      “I’m sure you did.” Claire’s gaze touched Jillian’s. “I’ll talk to Dr. Haas and see what I can do about getting you released, but I doubt he’ll agree.”

      Terrific, Jillian thought as she watched the nurse head to the door. She grabbed the television remote from the tray next to her bed and muted a commercial for home-baked pizza. Home. How long had it been since she had curled up in her favorite overstuffed chair, absently petting Marilyn while eating popcorn and watching some schmaltzy old movie?

      She’d already called her mother and Linnie had cried on the telephone. “I knew they’d found you; they called earlier. But…but, oh Jillian, I was so afraid that I’d lost you forever, that you’d been abducted by that crazed madman and I would never see you, hear your voice again.” Her mother had started sobbing and tears had tracked from Jillian’s eyes, as well.

      “I’m okay.”

      “But what you’ve gone through. With that madman.”

      “Oh no, Mom, you’ve got it all wrong. I was safe most of the time.” She’d spent nearly half an hour trying to convince her mother that Zane MacGregor was not the killer. When Linnie had asked about who had abducted her and left her in the forest, Jillian had told her mother exactly what she’d told the police—that she had no idea who had tried to murder her.

      Linnie hadn’t been convinced but her sobs had stopped abruptly. “I’ll take the next flight to Missoula and rent a car and—”

      “No, Mom!” Jillian had cut her off. “I’ll be home in a day or two and I’ll call you with a new cell phone number.”

      “But after your ordeal—”

      “I’m fine. The doctors are treating me and nothing’s broken and I’ll be able to drive home as soon as the roads are clear.”

      “You’re injured! I should be with you.” And then Jillian had understood. Her mother wanted not only to help her, but also to share in some of the bizarre limelight of the case. Already reporters had tried to call her room.

      “I’m okay, Mom. Really. Don’t come. Just call Dusti and tell her I’m fine, and anyone else who asks.”

      “Well, of course!” Linnie was never more in her element than when she had a task to complete. “And what about the newspapers and the television reporters here? I’ve already had a call.”

      “Really?” Jillian was floored. “How did they find out about me?”

      “I’ve no idea.”

      “Tell you what, Mom, you handle them. Okay? Can you do that?”

      “Of course!”

      “Great, that would be good. And I’ve got another favor.”

      “Shoot,” her mother said eagerly.

      “Would you call Emily Hardy and explain, then pick up my cat and take care of her until I get back?”

      “Oh, of course, honey. Consider it done!” Linnie loved nothing better than having a mission.

      “Thanks, Mom. I’ll call you in a while, once I get a cell phone. Then I’ll let you know when I’ll be back.”

      “If you’re sure you don’t need me—”

      “I’m fine, but I need you to handle these things for me.” She gave her mother the number of the hospital. “I’m in three twenty-three.”

      “Got it,” her mother said.

      “Thanks. I’ll call soon.”

      “Thank God you’re okay! And don’t you worry about the press. I’ll handle them.”

      I bet.

      “I had planned to visit your sister for the holidays,” she’d said. “Why don’t you join us? I can board the cat and you could meet me there.”

      “I don’t think so. Isn’t Christmas in…what? Three days?” Jillian couldn’t imagine spending time with her sister’s family in San Diego. She loved her nieces—they were both pistols and gave Dusti a run for her money—but she didn’t doubt for a second that her older sister would be uptight about making Christmas “perfect” and in so doing ruining all the fun of the holidays. Not to mention Drew the Drip. God, he was a bore. A tall, good-looking man who worked sixty hours a week. In his spare time he played golf, smoked cigars with “the boys” and talked forever about the stock market. He could drive Jillian up the wall. He’d been pressuring Dusti into getting pregnant again in hopes of fathering a son.

      Yeah, Christmas with the Bellamys sounded like a blast.

      Jillian had decided to pass.

      “Yes. I’m leaving on the twenty-fourth. I’ll…I’ll figure out something for your СКАЧАТЬ