"I was sitting beside her after you gave her the shot, and she was whispering that she knew he'd come here, she knew it."
"She's fucking crazy. You know that, Holland." "Yes, Doctor."
Damnation. Quinlan could find out everything he wanted to know about the sanitarium within computer minutes. He felt the wet of his own sweat in his armpits. Damn, this shouldn't have happened. He wondered if he should get her out of here tonight, right now.
They should have killed that damned agent while they'd had him, and because they'd been afraid to, now Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
he would have to deal with it.
If he was smart, if he wanted to make sure he was safe, he'd get Sally out of here now.
Where to take her? Jesus, he was tired. He rubbed the back of his neck as he walked back to his office.
Mrs. Willard hadn't left any coffee for him, damn her. He sat down behind the mahogany desk that kept patients a good three and a half feet from him and leaned back in his chair.
When would Quinlan and his FBI buddies show up? He would show up, Beadermeyer knew it. He'd followed her to The Cove. He would come here for sure. But how soon? How much time did he have?
He picked up the telephone and dialed. They would have to make a decision now. There was no more time for playing games.
The night was black as pitch. He and Dillon left the Olds-mobile sedan about twenty yards down the road from the wide gates of the Beadermeyer sanitarium. The words were scrolled in fancy script letters on top of the black iron gates.
"Pretentious bastard."
"Yeah," Dillon said. "Let me think if there's anything more to tell you about our doctor. First of all, I don't think many people have this information.
"He's brilliant and unscrupulous. Word has it that if you're rich enough and discreet enough and you want someone under wraps badly enough, then Beadermeyer will take that person off your hands. It's just rumors, of course, but who knows? Who did Sally piss off enough to get her sent here? Look, Quinlan, maybe she's really sick."
"She isn't sick. Who sent her here? I don't know. She never would tell me. She never even mentioned Beadermeyer by name. But it has to be him. Keep the flashlight down, Dillon. Yeah, better. Who knows what kind of security he has?"
"That I couldn't find out, but hey, the fence isn't electrified."
They were both wearing black, including heavily lined black gloves. The twelve-foot-high fence was no problem. They dropped lightly to the spongy grass on the other side.
"So far, so good," Quinlan said, keeping the flashlight low and moving it in a wide arc.
"Let's stay close to the tree line."
The two men moved quickly, hunkered down, the flashlight sending out a low beam just in front of them.
"Oh, shit," Dillon said.
"What? Oh, yeah." Two German shepherds came galloping toward them.
"Damn, I don't want to kill them."
"You won't have to. Just stand still, Dillon."
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"What are you going-"
Dillon watched Quinlan pull a plastic-wrapped package from inside his black jacket. He peeled it open to show three huge pieces of raw steak.
The dogs were within twelve feet of them. Still Quinlan held perfectly still, waiting, waiting.
"Just another second," he said, then threw one piece of raw steak in one direction and a second piece in the other direction. The dogs were on the meat in an instant.
"Let's get moving. I'm going to save this last piece as getaway meat."
"Not a bad security system," Dillon said.
They were running now, keeping low, the flashlight off because there were a few lights on in the long, sprawling building in front of them, enough to light their way.
"You said the patient rooms are all in the left wing."
"Right. Beadermeyer's office is in the far end of the right wing. If the bastard's still here, he's a good distance away."
"There should just be a small night shift complement."
"I hope. I didn't take the time to access their personnel and administration files. I don't know how many employees work the night shift."
"Damned useless machine."
Dillon laughed. "Don't accuse me of being married to my computer when you're at your damned club most weekends wailing away on your sax. Whoa, Quinlan, stop."
They froze in an instant, pressed against the brick building, just behind two tall bushes. Someone was coming, walking briskly, a flashlight in his hand.
He was whistling the theme from Gone with the Wind.
"A romantic security guard," Quinlan whispered.
The man waved the flashlight to both sides and back again to the front. He never stopped whistling. The light flowed right over their bent heads, showing the guard only black shadows.
"I just hope she's here," Quinlan said. "Beadermeyer has to know I'll come here. If he's the one who hit me, then he would have checked my ID. What if they've already taken her away?"
"She's here. Stop worrying. If she isn't, well, then, we'll find her soon enough. Did I tell you I had a date tonight? I had a damned date and look what I'm doing. Playing Rescue Squad with you. Stop worrying.
You're smarter than Beadermeyer. She's still here, I'll bet you on it. I get the feeling there's more arrogance in this Beadermeyer than in most folk. I think the bastard believes he's invincible."
They were moving again, bent nearly double, no flashlights, just two black shadows skimming over the Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
well-manicured lawn.
"We've got to get inside."
"Soon," Dillon said. "Just ahead. Then it's going to be tricky. Imagine seeing the two of us dressed like cat burglars roaming down the halls."
"We'll find a nurse soon enough. She'll tell us." "We're nearly to the back emergency entrance. Yeah, here we are. Help me pull up the doors, Quinlan."
Well oiled, thank God, Quinlan thought when they gently eased the doors back down. He turned up the flashlight. They were in an enclosed space that could hold at least six cars. There were four cars there.
They made their way around them, then Quinlan turned and trained his flashlight on the license plates.
"Look, Dillon. Good guess, huh? The bastard would have a luxury plate-BEADRMYR. So he's still here.
I wouldn't mind running into him." "Marvin would have our balls." Quinlan laughed.
Dillon used one of his lock picks to get into the door. It only took a moment.
"You're getting good at this."
"I practiced for at least six hours at Quantico. They have about three dozen kinds of locks. They use a stopwatch on you. I came in sixth."
"How many agents were entered?"
"Seven. Me and six women."
"I want to hear more about this later."
They were in a long hallway, low lights giving off a dim, mellow glow. There were no names on the doors, just numbers.
"We've got to get us a nurse," Dillon said.
They turned a corner to see a nurses' station just ahead. There was only one woman there, reading a novel. She looked up every once in a while at the TV screen in front of her. They were nearly upon her when she saw them. She gasped, her novel dropping to the linoleum floor as she tried to scoot off her chair and run.
Quinlan grabbed her arm and gently pressed his hand over her mouth. "We won't hurt you. Just hold still.
You got her chart, Dillon?''
"Yep, here it is. Room 222."
"Sorry," Quinlan said quietly as he struck her in the jaw. She collapsed against him and he lowered her to the floor, pushing her under the desk.
"We passed 222. Quick, Dillon, I've got a feeling that our charmed existence is about to be shot down in flames."
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They ran swiftly down the hallway, back the way they had come. "Here it is. No light. Good."