Meanwhile, he would check on the patients upset by the commotion. But only one patient concerned him, of course.
He would enter Kaylie’s room at 7:30, roughly half an hour after her last scheduled injection, when the methyl amphetamine would have peaked in her bloodstream, rendering her most vulnerable to attack.
Agitated and confused, she would be easy to overpower. All he need do was pin her down, then slide a needle into her arm and pump in four milligrams of lorazepam.
A strong sedative, used on patients undergoing surgery. It would put Kaylie to sleep instantly.
No more resistance after that.
He would lash one end of the bedsheet to Kaylie’s neck, hoist her up, then run the other end through the grilled vent cover and tie it tight….
And let her dangle as breath was choked off by the sliding knot.
A peaceful death, really. Quicker and easier than Walter’s. She would be unconscious for the worst of it. She would know only a moment of struggle against Cray’s superior strength, then the stab of the needle and a numbing plunge of vertigo, then nothing, ever again.
He wished he could make it harder on her. He wished he could see her suffer.
But the important thing was that she would be dead, and when Anson McMillan showed up with authorization to see his darling Kaylie, he would cast his eyes on nothing but a corpse.
McMillan might well suspect foul play, but his accusations would be dismissed as an old man’s dementia. To the rest of the world it would be obvious that Kaylie had hanged herself in her cell. And because it was obvious, no detailed autopsy would be required and no toxicology tests would be done.
No one would ever find evidence of amphetamine poisoning or a massive dose of sedative administered immediately prior to death. No one who mattered would ever suspect a thing.
“You cost me a great deal, Kaylie,” Cray whispered to the crowd of faces that were his silent audience. “More than you know. Now you’ll pay the price.”
50
In the hall, the squeak of rubber-soled shoes.
Kaylie knew that sound. The night nurse, whose name tag read CUNNINGHAM, had left her station and was coming this way.
“Talk to her,” she murmured, “Make her understand.”
It won’t work, Justin said coldly. Nobody’ll listen to a sad little piece of shit like you.
Kaylie ignored him. She had to get the nurse to listen. Cray had promised to be back after nightfall, and although she couldn’t judge the time of day in her windowless room, she knew from the crawl of hunger in her belly that evening had drawn near.
She had no idea how he would gain entrance, what subterfuge he would use, no idea how he would end her life and how he expected to cover it up. But she knew he would find a way.
Since Cray’s departure she had not moved from the floor. Now she struggled to her feet, dizzy with the effort, while the voices of Anson and Justin blended in a singsong mockery of her failing strength.
Weak as a baby…. She’s always been weak…. Running scared, hiding like a mouse in one cubbyhole or another…. Weaklings never last, not in this world….
She staggered under the deluge of insults. For a moment she could only sway on unsteady legs, the room blurring around her.
Then she saw the nurse pass by the plate-glass window in the door, and a sudden fear that she had missed her chance drove her across the room in two steps. She pounded the glass.
“Nurse! Nurse Cunningham! Nurse!”
The shoes stopped squeaking. A momentary silence. Then with surprising abruptness the small window filled with Nurse Cunningham’s face, a face both stern and sad.
“Yes, Kaylie?” Spoken through the glass.
“I need to talk to you.” That was good, it had come out fine, it had sounded calm and lucid.
“Go ahead.”
“Can you open the door?”
“I’m afraid not.” Hesitation. “I saw what you did to Dr. Cray. That was bad, Kaylie. You mustn’t keep misbehaving like that.”
Cray? What had she done to him? Oh, yes, scratched his cheek — a few lines of blood, quickly dabbed up with a handkerchief.
“I need your help,” Kaylie whispered.
The nurse tapped her ear impatiently, and Kaylie realized the words had been inaudible through the glass.
She repeated herself more loudly. “I need your help.”
“We all want to help you.”
“No, that’s not true. Dr. Cray doesn’t want to help me. He wants to kill me.”
“Oh, Kaylie.” No trace of belief in the nurse’s voice, only a tired pity.
“It’s true. I know it sounds… I know you think I’m… But I’m not.”
She had been in this situation before, she was sure of it — insisting she wasn’t crazy, warning of the danger Cray posed, and hearing only patronizing solicitude….
The 911 call. Yes. This was like that.
Time had passed, things had happened, but nothing ever changed.
No one listened. No one believed. No one cared. No one could be counted on. No one anywhere, ever.
“It’s true!” she screamed in a rush of uncontainable frustration, and suddenly she was beating her fists on the glass and weeping. “It’s true, why won’t anybody help me, what’s wrong with all you people, what’s the matter with you?”
“That’s enough!”
Nurse Cunningham barked the command, startling Kaylie into stillness.
“Now,” the nurse added more gently, “just get hold of yourself. I know what the problem is, and I’ve taken steps to fix it.”
Kaylie heard this without comprehension. “Steps?” she echoed blankly.
“It’s the medicine you’re taking. It doesn’t seem to work at this dosage. But I’ve spoken with Dr. Cray, and he’s agreed to consider lowering the dose, starting tomorrow. That should help you, Kaylie. If it doesn’t, we’ll try something else.”
Kaylie lowered her head, worn out. “He was lying,” she said softly, no longer caring if the nurse could hear. “He knows I’ll be dead tomorrow.”
“You won’t be dead, Kaylie. You’re just imagining things, that’s all.”
“Don’t let him in my room.”
“Kaylie—”
“That’s all I’m asking.” She looked through the window again, trying one last time to reach the nurse. “Just for tonight. Don’t let him in my room.”
“There’s no reason Dr. Cray would be visiting your room tonight.”
“But if he shows up — don’t let him see me.”
“He won’t show up.”
“Don’t let him see me.”
The nurse looked away, fatigue written in the puffy flesh under her eyes, the slack muscles of her face. “Dr. Cray is the director of the institute,” she answered tonelessly. “If he needs to see you, Kaylie, of course I have to let him.”
No hope then.
No chance.
Told you, Justin chortled, but Kaylie barely heard.
“All right,” she mumbled, surrendering.
“I have to check on another patient. Okay?”
“Go ahead.” The nurse began to move away, when Kaylie added for no reason, “After I’m dead, you’ll know he did it.”
Nurse Cunningham frowned sadly. “Kaylie, don’t think that way. It doesn’t help you to get better.”
“After I’m dead,” Kaylie repeated stubbornly, “you’ll know. He did it. Remember that. Will you remember that, at least?”