Wolf in the Shadows - Marcia Muller [103]
“No, and I’ll bet they didn’t even try. Gage isn’t stupid, and he doesn’t underestimate other people, either.”
I got my bag, took my father’s gun out, and set it on the small table by the window. After removing the roll of film from the camera, I set it there, too. Then I stuck the film in my bag, slung the bag over my shoulder, and gave Hy what I hoped was a confident smile. “I’d better get going.”
He stepped forward, put his hands on my shoulders. “You’ll be okay, and I’ll handle what I have to on this end.”
“I’m not worried,” I lied.
“I am,” he said, proving he’d lied, too. “Don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.”
“You won’t.” I went up on tiptoe, touched my lips to his. “By this time tomorrow, it’ll all be behind us.” Then I hurried out of the room before all the bad, scary possibilities that lay unsaid between us could grow into even scarier probabilities.
* * *
As we’d driven toward Tijuana, the sky had cleared and the heat had intensified. It grew stifling as I waited in the Sunday-afternoon traffic jam at the border control. The U.S. Customs officials seemed to be questioning returning Americans with more than the usual thoroughness; as I inched toward the gate, refusing the overtures of peddlers who hawked flowers and jewelry and soft drinks between the cars, I saw several vehicles being turned aside for searching. When the car ahead of mine cleared, I put on my best tourist smile.
The man in uniform leaned down to my window, studying my face unsmilingly. His eyes moved over my colorful, flowing clothing to the souvenir-laden backseat. “How long have you been in Baja, ma’am?”
“Just the day, for a little shopping.” I motioned at the piñata—in the shape of an exceedingly stupid-looking donkey—that now rode in the passenger seat.
“And where’ve you been?”
“Avenida Revolución.”
“No farther south than T.J.?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you own this car?”
“It’s a rental.”
“May I see your contract?”
I handed it to him.
“Is this San Francisco address correct?”
“Yes. I’m down visiting my brother in Lemon Grove.”
The customs man handed the contract back to me. “You have a nice day, ma’am,” he said as he waved me through.
I waited until I’d passed under the flashing sign that said “Watch for pedestrians crossing freeway” before I let out an explosive sigh of relief at crossing this first hurdle. My next stop would be Gooden’s Photographic, which operated a one-hour developing service even on Sunday. After that I’d head for nearby Cabrillo Hospital.
* * *
It was a small private facility on a quiet side street off Sixth Avenue across from the southwestern edge of Balboa Park: three nondescript stories of beige stucco with beds of longstemmed purple agapanthus bordering the path to the lobby entrance. Its sign said that it was a care provider for Marin County–based Sequoia Health Plan, probably the reason Mourning’s personal physician had selected it. I parked in the lot beside it and got out of the car, looking around for a police cruiser. There wasn’t any, and that didn’t surprise me. While California law requires hospitals to report gunshot wounds to the police, this one had been sustained in Mexico; they might eventually question Mourning, but they weren’t likely to devote too many valuable man-hours to a shooting that had occurred in a jurisdiction where they’d get little or no cooperation from their counterparts.
The lobby was empty except for a nurse who leaned against the information desk talking with an older woman in a volunteer’s pink uniform. When I asked about Diane Mourning, the two exchanged guarded looks. “I’m sorry,” the volunteer said, “she’s not allowed any visitors.”
“I’d like to speak with the attending physician, then. It’s important; I have a message for her from Mr. Mourning.”
The volunteer glanced hesitantly at the nurse, who said, “That’d be Dr. Henderson. I believe he’s making rounds now.”
“I’ll be glad to wait.”
She considered, then told me, “Go to the second-floor nurses’ station. They’ll page him.”
“Thanks.”
As I moved toward the elevator,