Julian carried the black Sony M-430 microcassette recorder through the double doors of the breakroom. He stepped back onto the linoleum of Nurse Station 4B.
The shift clock on the wall read 12:45 AM.
The air behind the wire-glass enclosure was cold, but it smelled of machine oil and clean drafting paper. The yellow bio-line at the threshold hummed with a low current, keeping the hallway shadows outside at bay.
Across the central corridor, twenty feet away, the green linen privacy curtain of Alcove 13 hung completely still.
At the bottom hem of the curtain, two bare, waxy heels rested against the floor. Dr. Tallow had not moved.
The creature remained perched on the edge of the examination gurney, listening for any sign of weakness.
“Don’t play it out loud,” Elena whispered, stepping up beside Julian. “The acoustic baffles in the ceiling are old. If the sound carries across the yellow line, Tallow will hear it.”
“I know,” Julian said. “He knows Marjorie Bell kept records. If he realizes we have her voice, he won’t wait for the two-fourteen audit minute.”
