Part seven
Okay, I confess that I'm a pusher. I push hard and harder until I get what I want. It has always helped me in life. During my carnie life, I could even persuade my dad into doing things he never would have done had I not insisted constantly. If I hadn't pushed on and on, I wouldn't have escaped that life, taking Angela with me. If I hadn't been so persistent, I wouldn't have made it to the big leagues as a fake psychic.
If I hadn't been who I was, I would not have survived Angela's and Charlotte's deaths. I would have put a bullet in my head and ended the mental suffering that had been part of my life for so long now.
So when I confessed to the fact that I was a pusher, it's just to state that I really did know what I was doing when I waited until evening fell and my three companions were tired, hungry and eager to go home. Mr. Westfield, Tommy's dad, had called to inform us he would arrive in the morning, having difficulties with his flight. I wanted to let him know that he shouldn't be in a hurry anymore; that it wouldn't matter anymore.
Before they'd left, Van Pelt asked the question that burned on all of their lips. "How do you know that Tommy is dead?"
I smiled and looked at them. "You don't know?"
"No, I don't know."
"He's dead, probably buried or hidden away somewhere, by Donald Delaney."
"Mr. Delaney? The stepdad? The man who just came in? Why?"
"He made an error when he started talking about Thomas. He spoke in the past tense. Didn't you notice? When I asked him if he loved him, he replied. Not: I love him. But, I loved him. And he did that several times. He knew that Tommy was dead because he killed him."
"Is that all?" Cho had said. "Is that your lead?"
"Yep. And I know it's right."
"So you're not saying that Delaney killed his stepson. Then who attacked his wife?"
"That, I don't know yet. It could be Tommy. It could Donald."
"He had the perfect alibi", Van Pelt had protested.
"Then he hired someone to do it, while hiding in plain sight. Check his financial records for any inconsistencies. If there was money paid, you'll find it, Van Pelt."
She had nodded, making a mental note.
"Look," I had said. "It's getting late and you guys should be heading home. I'll just go to sleep now and see you in the morning."
Then they had all eyed me suspiciously. "What are you up to, Jane?" Rigsby had asked.
"Nothing," I had replied innocently. "Look, I really am tired and need some sleep. The more I rest, the sooner I get out of here, right?"
"Right …"
"So you guys get some rest too and come back here in the morning. Alright?"
Reluctantly they had packed up their stuff and left.
"I will see you again tomorrow, right Jane?" Cho had threatened. "If not …"
"I promise you that I will see you in the morning. Scout's honor."
"Good. Goodnight."
With that, the team had left.
They had no idea how much I had mentally coerced them into leaving. They had done exactly what I wanted them to do and they wouldn't think a bad thought about me all night. They would be at home, resting, eating, sleeping, whatever and they would not think of returning.
I did sleep. For about an hour or so. The nurse walking in to check up on me switched off all the lights and left me alone for the night. And when it was pitch black outside and the night nurses came on duty, always too little of them, I knew nobody would come in here and see if I was still in here.
I carefully pulled out my IV and placed the tube and needle on the chair. I carefully lowered myself out of bed and onto the ground. I felt better than this morning. If I acted really, really calm, I would be okay.
Slowly I dressed completely, opened the door and peeked outside. There wasn't anyone on the floor.
Carefully I shut the door and tiptoed towards the staircase next to the elevators, hoping nobody would notice me.
So far so good, I escaped fairly easily. Downstairs in the lobby, the receptionist was watching television. It was fortunately a quiet evening.
Outside I felt lucky once more as three cabs were standing in line, waiting for unexpected passengers. I stepped into the first one and gave the cabdriver an address in the city. He looked at it, then looked at the bandages around my head, nodded and drove off. About twenty minutes later, he dropped me off.
"Wait here," I said, handing him a fifty dollar bill. "I'll be back in an hour."
Standing outside in the cold air, I pulled off the white bandage, pulled my short curls down a bit in the hope to cover my forehead, stretched my arms and legs and walked inside, into a pool of noise and voices.
Less than half an hour later I was puking my guts out in the stinking toilets, leaning in cold sweat against the cold tiles, straightened up, straightened myself out and left the same way as I had gone in.
The cab driver was still there. I gave him another address and he drove off. "You look like hell," he said. "Shouldn't you go back to the hospital?"
I shook my head. "Nope. This address will do."
After that, neither of us spoke another word.
