Night Shift. Annelise Ryan

Beth Amos

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      Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

      ISBN: 978-1-4967-1944-7

      ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1946-1 (ebook)

      ISBN-10: 1-4967-1946-8 (ebook)

      For Joyce and Bill

      Chapter 1

      “He’s coming. He’s mad and he’s coming for me! Help me! Please!”

      The man before me, his huge, blue eyes ablaze with fear and panic, is pacing back and forth, wearing a path through dingy shag carpeting. His hands hang at his sides, one opening and closing into a fist with each step, the other clutching a triangular box from the local Quik-E-Mart. The shape of the box is a dead giveaway, but the tangy smell of tomatoes, oregano, and melted cheese leave little doubt that there’s a slice of pizza in that box. It’s almost midnight, and the Quik-E-Mart is the only place in town to get any food at this hour. Despite their small size, the stores make very tasty breakfast sandwiches, hot dogs, brats, pizza, and soups. The aroma of the pizza makes my stomach growl loudly, and I hope no one can hear it over the rants of the pacing man, because this is neither the time nor the place.

      The man’s dark hair stands out from his head in what looks like a cartoonish testament to the fear he’s displaying, though this is often what his curly, unkempt hair looks like. I know this because I know him. His name is Danny Hildebrand and he knows me, too, though you might be hard put to prove it right now. If eyes truly are the windows to the soul, one look at Danny’s makes it clear that reason and sanity have left that particular building. At least for now.

      I take a step closer and the police officer standing next to me, grabs my arm. “Hold back, Hildy,” he warns. “This guy is twice your size.”

      This is a bit of an exaggeration, though not much of one. I barely hit the five-foot mark and Danny is around six-four. He’s a big guy, no doubt about that.

      “It’s okay, Devo,” I say in a side whisper, using Officer Patrick Devonshire’s nickname. “I know the guy. He’s never been violent.”

      “Still,” Devo says, “stay a safe distance back.”

      I see Devo unholster his Taser and I give him a chastising look. “Please, give me a few minutes before you resort to that.”

      Devo frowns at me, but he keeps the Taser down at his side.

      “Danny,” I say, turning my attention back to the pacing man. “It’s Hildy Schneider, remember? You and I have met before at the hospital. I’m the social worker there who always works with you. I helped you figure out a problem with your medications just a few months ago.”

      Danny doesn’t acknowledge me with any words or even a look my way, but his pacing slows almost imperceptibly. I count it as progress. I look over at the woman standing off in one corner, watching Danny with a heartbroken expression, chewing on her stubby fingernails. Her eyes are the mirror image of Danny’s, and I idly wonder which parent they inherited them from.

      “He lives with you now, Allie, doesn’t he?” I ask.

      She briefly shifts her gaze to me, nods spastically, and then goes back to watching her brother.

      “Is he off his meds again?”

      “No,” she says with a hitch in her voice. “I help him with them every day to make sure he takes them like he’s supposed to.”

      The man standing next to Allie, a tall, slender fellow, thirtyish, with thinning blond hair, lets out a loud sigh. “He’s been doing really well lately,” he says, looking at Allie with a sympathetic expression. “We don’t know what’s set him off, but whatever it is, I don’t think he can stay here tonight. His behavior is too erratic. He’s clearly unstable and as much as I love the guy, I love you more, Allie. I’m worried for your safety.”

      “I’m fine, Joel,” Allie insists with a look of annoyance.

      Joel gives us an imploring look. I don’t know who he is, but he is clearly worried about both Allie and Danny, though his allegiance appears to lean more toward Allie. A boyfriend, perhaps? Could that be what’s set Danny off this time? I know he and his sister are very close. Could jealousy be playing a role here?

      I’m guessing, grasping at straws, and Devo weighs in with his opinion in a whispered aside to me that is louder than I like. “This guy’s off his rocker. A total nutcase.”

      Danny stops pacing and whirls on Devo, his hands clenched, his eyes wide with desperation. “I’m not crazy!” he yells, spittle flying off his lips. Then, in a quieter but still panicked tone, he looks at me and says, “I... I saw his ghost. It... it...” He squeezes his eyes closed, and his face contorts into a grimace, as if he’s trying to crush the memory into oblivion. “It came out of the tree,” he blurts out in a panicked tone, half sobbing. “Right out of the trunk!” He slaps his free hand on his forehead several times and stands there, taking huge gulping breaths. His eyes widen. “I saw him get killed and didn’t do anything. Now he’s haunting me!”

      Danny suffers from schizophrenia, so bizarre claims and actions aren’t too far outside his wheelhouse when things flair up. He’s had these kinds of episodes before and I’ve seen and cared for him in the hospital ER during several of them, including one that happened just a few months ago. Though in the past he’s always been haunted by voices, never actual ghosts.

      “You know,” I say to Devo, “I think this is a situation where Roscoe might be able to help. He’s been effective with Danny in the past.”

      Devo stares at Danny for a few seconds, indecision stamped on his face. Then he looks at me and nods. “Yeah, okay. Go get him.”

      I hurry out of the living room and through the front door of the house we are in. Outside, parked at the curb, is the police cruiser Devo and I came in. It’s an SUV, and my golden retriever, Roscoe, a trained therapy dog, is in the back. The hatch opens as I approach, no doubt from Devo hitting a button on the remote he has on him. Roscoe, contained inside a large carrier, thumps his tail with excitement when he sees me.

      I open the carrier and hook him up to a leash that is kept in the back. Together we head inside and reenter the house without knocking. The tableau I left hasn’t changed much. Danny is now squatting on the floor, one hand still palm-slapping his forehead, the other clutching that triangular box. His body trembles and I hear periodic sobs emanating from him. The slapping speeds up and it’s almost as if he’s trying to knock the demons that are haunting him right out of his head.

      I realize the pizza box will need to be dealt with lest it provide too much of a distraction for Roscoe. He’s trained to ignore food—or any other items he may encounter—and not eat anything unless he’s told it’s okay, an important bit of training for a hospital-visiting therapy dog who may come across food or pills in the course of his visits. But that smell is bound to be a distractor if he’s too close to it. When I reach Devo, I tell Roscoe to sit and stay, and he does both. Then I walk up to Danny, take the box from his hand—he