Chapter 4 - The Sound in the Hallway
The Pediatric Intensive Care Unit on the third floor of St. Jude’s Hospital was quiet, illuminated only by the soft, blue-green light of the nursing station monitors and the faint yellow nightlights set near the floor.
It was 8:30 PM.
Sophie sat on the edge of the large hospital bed in Room 312. She was wearing a pair of light blue hospital scrubs that were four sizes too big for her, the sleeves rolled up five times so her hands could stick out.
Beside her, sitting on a low plastic stool, was Officer Jennings. Her heavy leather gun belt creaked every time she shifted her weight. She was holding a small wooden puzzle with red and blue geometric shapes, trying to show Sophie how the triangles fit into the wooden board.
“Look, Sophie,” Jennings said softly, her voice gentle. “The red one goes right here in the corner. See?”
Sophie didn't look at the puzzle. She was holding Barnaby against her chin, her small eyes fixed on the glass window that separated her room from the hallway.
Every time a nurse walked past in soft rubber shoes, Sophie’s shoulders flinched.
“When is Mommy coming here?” Sophie asked for the twentieth time that night.
“Your mommy is sleeping downstairs, honey,” Jennings said, setting the wooden puzzle on the bedside table. “The doctors are giving her medicine to make her feel better. She’s very tired.”
“Is my baby brother sleeping too?”
“He’s in a special little bed,” Jennings smiled, reaching out to tuck a strand of dark hair behind Sophie’s ear. “He’s very small, but he’s a strong little guy. Just like you.”
Through the wall, from the adjacent room, came the faint, steady thump-thump-thump of a mechanical ventilator.
Suddenly, the heavy door to Room 312 clicked open.
Detective Marcus Vance walked in, taking off his wet trench coat and hanging it over the back of the door. His face was drawn, his eyes bloodshot with exhaustion.
“How is she?” Marcus asked in a low voice, nodding toward Sophie.
“She ate half a cup of apple sauce,” Jennings whispered, standing up from her stool. “No fever. But she hasn't slept a wink since she got here.”
Marcus walked over to the side of the bed and sat down on the edge of the mattress. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, shiny object wrapped in yellow cellophane.
“Hey, Sophie,” he said softly. “You like butterscotch?”
Sophie looked at the small candy in his big, rough palm. She didn't reach for it.
“Is my daddy outside?” she asked quietly.
Marcus froze for a fraction of a second, his hand hovering between them. He carefully set the candy on the nightstand beside the wooden puzzle.
“No, sweetie. Your daddy isn't here.”
“He has his heavy coat,” Sophie said, her voice dropping into a rhythm that sounded like a nursery rhyme. “He put it on when the sun was sleeping. He said if I was bad, the giant would come through the window.”
Marcus glanced up at Officer Jennings, his brow furrowed in a deep, hard frown.
“Did he say that to you today, Sophie?” Marcus asked gently.
“He said it when he took my sock,” Sophie whispered, pulling her knees tight against her chest beneath the blue scrubs. “He took my sock from my foot while I was watching the milk.”
Marcus felt a sharp, cold prickle run up his arms.
He stood up abruptly, pulling Jennings by the arm toward the far corner of the room, near the bathroom door.
“What did you say about the sock in the truck?” Marcus asked in a furious whisper.
“The Port Authority found it on the passenger seat in Portland,” Jennings whispered back, confused.
“He didn't take that sock at six in the morning,” Marcus said, his eyes darting toward the window. “He took it after she was awake. He was in that house while she was on the phone with dispatch. He was in the hallway.”
Before Jennings could answer, the lights in Room 312 flickered once... twice... and died.
The room was plunged into absolute, pitch-black darkness.
The steady hum of the hallway monitors vanished, replaced instantly by the high-pitched, metallic chimes of battery-backup systems tripping throughout the third floor.
BEEP... BEEP... BEEP...
“What the hell?” Jennings muttered, her hand dropping instantly to the leather snap of her holster.
“Emergency power should engage in five seconds,” Marcus said, pulling his own silver service revolver from his belt and stepping between the bed and the door. “Stay with the girl.”
Five seconds passed. Ten seconds.
The room remained pitch black. No red emergency lights came on.
From the hallway outside, a woman’s scream echoed—short, sharp, and cut off abruptly by the heavy sound of a body hitting the wall.
“Police!” Marcus shouted into the dark corridor, stepping through the open door of Room 312 with his gun raised, his tactical flashlight clicking on in his left hand.
The beam of white light cut through the gloom of the hallway, illuminating floating dust motes and an overturned linen cart forty feet away.
Lying on the linoleum near the central nurses' station was the male officer who had been assigned to guard the floor’s main entrance. He was lying on his side, his face covered in blood, motionless.
“Jennings! Lock the door!” Marcus yelled, turning back toward Room 312.
As he turned, a tall, broad silhouette stepped out from the dark doorway of the janitor’s closet right behind him.
The man was wearing a dark blue industrial jumpsuit, a heavy gray wool cap pulled low over his forehead, and thick rubber work gloves. In his right hand, he held a heavy iron crowbar, wet with dark blood.
The face beneath the cap was cold, symmetrical, and completely devoid of emotion.
Thomas Carter.
Before Marcus could raise his revolver, Thomas swung the iron crowbar with terrifying, mechanical force.
CRACK.
The iron bar slammed directly into Marcus’s right forearm. Pain exploded through Marcus’s arm like liquid fire; his fingers went numb instantly, and his revolver clattered onto the floor, rolling away into the darkness beneath the linen cart.
Marcus let out a roar of pain, stumbling backward into the doorframe of Room 312.
Thomas didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, his heavy boots silent on the floor, raising the crowbar for a second, lethal strike aimed directly at Marcus’s head.
Inside the room, Officer Jennings drew her weapon, her flashlight beam pinning Thomas’s gray eyes in a circle of harsh white light.
“Freeze! Drop the weapon!” Jennings screamed.
Thomas didn't drop the bar. He stepped sideways into the shadow of the doorframe, using Marcus’s staggering body as a human shield.
“Get out of my way, officer,” Thomas said. His voice was flat, level, and strangely calm, like a man discussing the weather at a bus stop. “I’m here for my daughter.”
From the bed, Sophie let out a small, terrified whimpering sound that made Marcus’s blood run cold.
“Daddy?”
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Thomas looked past Marcus’s shoulder into the dark room, his mouth curving into that same thin, tight smile from the photograph on the dresser.
“Come here, Sophie,” Thomas said softly into the dark. “It’s time to go for our trip.”
