"I'm fine," she said to Loman.

"You're not fine if you're sitting down on the job," he pointed out, frowning darkly.

Oh, great. Of course.

"Just catching my breath." Laura got to her feet and bit her tongue to keep from saying something sarcastic as she sidestepped the man.

He followed after her, soft-soled shoes squeaking on the tile. "I know who you are," he said, surprising her. The hairs on the back of her neck lifted. "You're one of them, and I know them."

Laura glanced over her shoulder to catch a glimpse at him. He seemed like he was on the verge of exploding, as if something she'd done had sent him over the edge.

She knew what he meant. Dr. Dolph Loman and his now deceased brother, Dr. Parnell Loman, had been the doctors who'd attended Laura and her sisters when they were children. Laura recalled Dolph, though Parnell was a distant memory. She half recalled something salacious and unpleasant in regard to Parnell and her mother, or maybe it had been Dolph, or maybe it was all faulty memories, a fabrication she'd concocted from the lore she'd garnered about her promiscuous mother. All this time she'd worked at Ocean Park, she'd hoped Dolph hadn't recognized her. Now she knew that hope had been in vain.

"So, you're diagnosing patients now?" he said with a faintly disguised sneer.

"Was there something specific you wanted, Dr. Loman?" she asked him coolly.

"Mind yourself," he snapped. "You're a nurse here, not a doctor. That's all I'm saying."

"Is it?" She reveled in his look of surprise. "Seems to me you're saying a lot more."

"We both know about your family," he said, recovering quickly. "Soothsayers and nuts and quacks."

"Quacks," she repeated, eyeing him hard. "Is that a new medical term?"

He flushed, the barb hitting home. "My reputation is impeccable."

"I remember your brother," Laura said, though it was nothing short of a lie.

That left the old man speechless. He opened his mouth and shut it twice before saying quickly, "My brother was an excellent surgeon! His death was a tragedy."

He seemed to want to say more, but he was definitely flummoxed by Laura's decision to confront him right back. He strode off, muttering about her rudeness, and she wondered what exactly had gone on between her mother and Dr. Parnell Loman and/or Dr. Dolph Loman. Would Catherine tell her, if she asked? Would she even really know?

Laura headed back to her rounds, feeling a bit overwhelmed by the events of the past few days, but since there was no way to explain, and because she wasn't about to blame her weakness on her pregnancy, she drew several deep breaths and soldiered on.

She was beginning to wish she'd listened more to Harrison. She'd been so sure she'd be safe at the hospital, but now she longed to be with him, safe within his protection. Grabbing her cell from her locker, she placed a call to his and wound up with his voice mail. She hesitated, frustrated, but instead of leaving a message, she replaced the phone and determined she could get through the rest of her shift without talking to him. It was just a case of mind over matter.

CHAPTER 22.

"Detective."

Lang strode through the front doors of the department instead of the back because he'd parked his Jeep on the street rather than in the rear parking lot, which was currently full of potholes as deep as the Grand Canyon. May Johnson, the unsmiling, heavyset black woman who manned the front desk, spoke the single word like a cannon shot. She didn't much like Lang, and he didn't much like her. He thought she was arrogant and uncompromising, and she'd disliked him on first sight as well, seeming to regard him as too loose on rules, too entitled, too, maybe, male. She definitely considered him a cowboy in both dress and spirit, and now, looking down at his dusty boots-definitely not department issue-Lang allowed that yes, that part was probably true.

He reluctantly slowed his steps and gazed at her expectantly. He'd just come from the scene at Seagull Pointe, and he wanted to report to Sheriff O'Halloran before he headed back out. "Yeah."

"Sam McNally returned your call."

Lang lifted his brows. Geena Cho was dispatch, and to date Johnson had let her deliver all Lang's messages rather than go out of her way to make sure he was informed.

"Thanks."

She nodded curtly, then nearly bowled him over by asking, "How's the adoption going?"

Johnson's icy facade was at a full-blown thaw. Lang could scarcely credit the change. "It's going. Slowly."

Lang's fiancee, Dr. Claire Norris, was trying to adopt a baby girl whom she'd grown extremely close to. Lang, too, hoped it would happen soon and had been mulling over dragging his beloved to the altar to finalize that step and hopefully give that process a jump start when Turnbull's escape completely screwed up his timetable.

As if embarrassed by her familiarity, Johnson turned abruptly away, and Lang walked along the counter that stretched the length of the reception area, ending at the back door, then turned down a hallway that led toward the main part of the building and the jumble of offices therein.

The smell of old coffee crept through the hallways from the lunchroom, and phones jangled. A couple of deputies who'd pulled all-night duty at the Tyler Mill fire still smelled of soot as they walked by.

Sheriff Sean O'Halloran was in his office, at his desk, looking troubled. His normally smoothed gray and white hair was in disarray, and his blue eyes, usually bright with inner humor, looked dull and tired. "Goddamn Turnbull," he said.

"Goddamn Turnbull," Lang agreed. "Looks like he smothered his mother and strangled this other woman, whom we're trying to identify."

"She still alive?"

"Just."

"Nobody knows her?"

"Nobody at Seagull Pointe," Lang said. "Savvy and I checked with everyone on staff and the patients who could be of help. We did a turn around the parking lot, checking for extra vehicles. No other cars than those that belong to residents. Also, no security cameras, although the director was quick to point out that they planned on getting some soon. Lot of good that does us. The upshot is we don't know who she is or how she got there. She's young. The theory is, she ran into Justice somehow and he strangled her and killed his mother."

"Any chance-any chance at all-it wasn't him?"

Lang hesitated. "That a rhetorical question?"

The sheriff sighed heavily.

"You want us to work some other angle?" Lang asked.

O'Halloran shook his head. "Nah. Not until we count out Justice Turnbull completely." The two men discussed the case at length, then, after they'd exhausted all the new information and Lang turned to go, the sheriff added, "Got a call in from a farm east of Garibaldi. Seagulls and buzzards circling something, which turned out to be a dead body. Male. Sent Delaney down there. The guy's been dead a couple days."

Garibaldi was south of the city of Tillamook, but still in Tillamook County. "Any missing person reports?"

"We'd checked the tags on this hippie van that's been parked overnight in that day lot viewpoint north of town for two nights. Called 'em up to tell them it was going to be towed, and this woman just started screaming that her husband was missing. So, we think our body could be this guy. Actually, he's her significant other. They haven't officially tied the knot. But the van's in both their names, and he left their happy home in Salem in a huff a couple days ago and hasn't been heard of since."

"Maybe he's just cooling off?"

"According to her, they fight, he leaves, and he always comes right back within twenty-four hours. It's just their way."

"Sounds like the body's him," Lang agreed.

"Could very well be. Description matches. Got his picture from the DMV."

O'Halloran seemed to be holding back something, something important. Lang thought a moment, then said, "Exactly when did this guy take off?"

"About six o'clock Friday night."

"And he drove right past Halo Valley Security Hospital on his way to the coast from Salem. That puts him right in harm's way."

"It's a theory," O'Halloran allowed.

"God damn it. He was Justice's ride!" Lang was running with it. "How was he killed?"

"Blunt force trauma to the head. Talk to Delaney."

"I will," Lang said with meaning. He was already ahead of himself, putting the pieces together of Justice Turnbull's escape. "So, Turnbull took the van, then dumped it right away. Why?"

O'Halloran snorted. "You wouldn't have to ask if you saw it. Damn thing's painted all over with flowers and leaves and shit. Hippie stuff. He'd need something a little less conspicuous."

Lang thought a moment, his mind spinning with different scenarios, then settled to the only conclusion that made sense. "The woman strangled at the nursing home. Justice found a way to take her car after he unloaded the van."

The sheriff sighed. "You think he picked up her car at the same viewpoint?"

"Or close by." Lang shook his head. "Why not just kill her and leave her?"

"She would have been found sooner. Let's just hope she wakes up and can ID the bastard."

"Hell," Lang muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. The woman was near death when he'd left her, the EMTs refusing to give any prognosis as they tried to transfer her to a hospital. "We've got to find out who she is. Someone must be missing her. I'll get a picture on the news. Who is this woman? If you recognize her, call the TCSD. Something like that."

"Do it," O'Halloran said.

Lang strode out of the sheriff's office and nearly ran over Savannah Dunbar, who was looking a little white-faced. "What?" he asked.

"She . . . died." Savannah exhaled heavily. "The Jane Doe at Seagull Pointe. About twenty minutes ago." She let out a long breath. "The EMTs thought they'd save her, but . . ." She shook her head. "She was DOA at Ocean Park."

"Damn!" He thought of the comatose woman he'd seen at Seagull Pointe, how young she was, and he wondered about her family. If she didn't have kids of her own or a husband, she was someone's daughter, maybe someone's sister.

"They might have saved her if the caregivers at the nursing home hadn't been so incompetent," she whispered harshly.

"There'll be an investigation into their practices."

"And hopefully charges leveled!" She was seething. Upset.

"Why do I think you'll see to it?"

"'Cuz you can read me like a damned book."

Lang nodded. "This is all the more reason to find out who Jane Doe is. I was going to put her picture on the news."

"Crime scene techs took photos of the scene. They got Madeline Turnbull and Jane Doe, while she was still alive." She was shaking her head.

"There may be one of her we could post."

"Maybe," she said and met his gaze with her own troubled eyes.

"This isn't your fault," he said.

"No, it's not." Her lips tightened. "Seagull Pointe's staff missed the obvious signs, and they know it. The nurse and director were busy covering their asses."

"If you're right, there will be an investigation."

"Damned straight." Her smile held no mirth. "I'll see to it." She was already walking toward her desk. "I'm going to write up a report."

That should take care of any flaws with Seagull Pointe. Savvy wouldn't let their incompetence go unnoticed. He passed several deputies in the hallway, one who nearly ran into him, sloshed her coffee, and sent him a pissy glance.

"Hey, watch where you're going!" she said, then muttered something under her breath about stupid jerks.

Lang ignored her bad mood and thought about going to his own desk to call retired homicide detective Sam "Mac" McNally, who Johnson had said had finally gotten back to him. The next second he changed his mind, choosing his cell instead as he headed back outside to his Jeep, giving Johnson a hand lift of good-bye, to which she managed a nod. Placing the call, he was frustrated when he got McNally's voice mail yet again, but this time he asked him to phone his cell instead of the department. McNally had been the lead investigator out of the Laurelton Police Department, the city where Justice's last rampage had begun. McNally knew Justice Turnbull as well as anyone, and he'd worked with both Fred Clausen and Clausen's ex-partner, Kirkpatrick, who'd since moved on, leaving a position open at the TCSD, the position that Lang now owned.

Clausen had told Lang that McNally was an "okay guy," high praise from the terse and generally gloomy detective. Lang had wondered if Clausen might be feeling a bit overlooked since O'Halloran clearly expected Lang to be the lead dog in this investigation, instead of the more senior Clausen. Clausen, however, didn't seem to mind. He'd told Lang to call McNally, and Lang had, only to learn that Mac was now retired and on a weekend camping trip with his son. The Laurelton PD had given Lang McNally's cell number, and he'd phoned and left a message on the man's voice mail. Mac had apparently picked up that message sometime during the camping trip and had called back, but now it was Lang's turn to keep up with their telephone tag. And all the while Justice Turnbull was at large.

As he pocketed his phone, he caught a glimpse of Clausen behind the steering wheel of his vehicle as he drove into the back lot. Lang circled the outside of the building on foot to meet with the older man. Clausen was just climbing from his department-issue Jeep, a twin to the one Lang drove, when Lang reached him.

"Hey," Fred said, stepping out and into a deep puddle up to his ankle. He swore for a full minute, and Lang said mildly, "Not to be an ass, but that's why I park out front."

"Yeah. Well." He stepped gingerly around the monstrous puddle, which had also dampened his pant leg. "You are an ass. Just for the record."

Lang grinned.

"You seen the Breeze?"

"Glanced at it," Lang said.

Clausen snorted. Shook his foot. Swore again, then said, "Harrison Frost is playing big shot reporter again. Seaside PD busted this ring of high school students that were invading and burglarizing houses, but Frost took credit for giving them the tip. Whole article's about the kids calling themselves the Deadly Sinners, or something. Seven of 'em. Frost got to know 'em, apparently."

"This the same Harrison Frost who was with the Portland Ledger?" Lang asked. He knew enough about the man from when Lang was with the Portland PD. Frost had gotten into hot water over the shooting outside a Portland club called Boozehound. "He was related to one of the owners of Boozehound and practically accused the other one of instigating the homicide of his partner."

"Ye-up. Same guy. Works for the Seaside Breeze now but can't stop stirring up these big stories. He'll be dogging us before you know it." Clausen slid Lang a glance as he walked toward the building, his shoe still making a sloshing noise. "Turnbull's escape is just the kind of news he wants to report."

"He's left us alone so far."

"'Cuz of these kids." Clausen snorted. "Damn West Coast High teens. My stepson knows one of the Bermans. Britt Berman. Her dad lives in Tillamook, and she's at some of our games. Bermans kinda think they're better than everyone down here."

"She one of the seven Deadly Sinners?"

"No." Clausen waved a hand at him as he pushed open the door. "Could be, though, I guess. She fits the profile. But she's the victim, in this case." He sounded almost disappointed, and Lang figured his stepson had been snubbed by the girl, or something like it, to elicit this response from Clausen.

"You're not a fan of Frost," Lang observed. "Any particular reason?"

"The guy just wants to make mountains out of molehills." Clausen seemed about to say more, then changed his mind. "But he's right about the West Coast High kids. That place is a breeding ground for entitled, selfish, ungrateful kids."