"God, I hate it when they get condescending."
"If by 'they' you mean me, I'm sorry that's the way it sounded to you, but I do have an awful lot on my mind."
"Isn't kidnapping a big enough crime to get some attention?"
"Kidnapping? You're talking about Malcolm?"
"Who else?"
"As I understand it, that was a fairly routine transfer of a patient from one facility to another."
"Bullshit!"
Ramsay lowered a forkful of mashed potatoes back to the plate. From a desk drawer he drew a clear plastic folder with several sheets of a printed form inside. The sheets were spattered with a brownish stain.
"I have here," Ramsay said, "what they tell me are the official and correct forms for transfer of our patient Malcolm from La Reina County Hospital to some clinic. They are a bit messy, because they were found on the desk of the late Dr. Qualen, who was more or less lying on top of them."
"Have you read them?"
"Well, no, but - "
"I have," Holly snapped. "And there are some glaring irregularities."
"How did you get hold of these reports before I did?" Ramsay asked.
"I have friends here. The point is that although Dr. Wayne Pastory's name is all over those forms transferring Malcolm to his own clinic, nowhere is the location of that clinic spelled out."
"So?"
"So I want to know where Malcolm was taken."
"When Dr. Pastory shows up we'll ask him. How about that?"
"Fine, but what makes you think he's going to show up?"
"What happened here this morning won't exactly be a secret by the time the six o'clock news hits the air," he said. "Unless Pastory is a damn fool, he'll show up here voluntarily and give us his version of what happened."
"Pastory is no fool," Holly said tightly, "but he may be something much worse."
"What does that mean?"
"It means Malcolm could be in real danger. While you sit here waiting for Pastory to stroll in and chat, he could be harming that boy in some dreadful way."
"Now listen to me, Holly. I know you have a special feeling for Malcolm, but it seems to me you're letting it get in the way of your professional judgment. I will want to question Dr. Pastory as a witness, but as far as I know, he has committed no crime. This man called Derak is a bona fide murder suspect. That is my number one priority, and it's going to stay that way until I have reason to change my thinking. Is that understood?"
She glared at him. "Oh, absolutely, Mr. Sheriff, sir. You just go ahead and play Dirty Harry and hunt down your phantom murderer. I trust you won't mind too much if I do what little I can to try to find a boy who may be in trouble like you've never imagined."
"Do whatever you want to, Holly," Gavin said, making an effort to soften his tone "But I'll appreciate it if you'll try not to interfere with the investigation."
She sprang to her feet and glared, fists clenched at her sides "Don't worry, Sheriff. I won't come within shouting distance of your precious investigation."
Without giving him a chance to reply, she spun on her heel and marched out of the office, startling Nevins and Fernandez, who were finishing up their lunches out in the corridor. By the time Ramsay got to the door she was not in sight.
"What did you do to the lady doctor, Sheriff?" Roy Nevins asked. "She came out of there like her tail feathers was on fire."
"I asked her to please stay out of my way."
"Oh. Well." The deputy nodded as though that explained everything.
When he could postpone it no longer, Ramsay made his way out through the crowded lobby of the hospital. Every third person seemed to be carrying a television mini-cam on his shoulder. Those who didn't have cameras had tape recorders and phallic microphones, which they thrust at anyone who moved within range. When Ramsay appeared they surged toward him like piranha to a goldfish.
"Have you made an arrest, Sheriff?"
"Any suspects?"
"What kind of wounds did the dead man have?"
"Is it true his head was bitten off?"
"Is there a link to the killings last year at Drago?"
"What's your opinion of the werewolf theory?"
Ramsay held up a hand like a traffic cop and waited a full minute until the reporters subsided into near silence. He said, "There have been no arrests. We are following up on several possible suspects. I cannot describe the fatal wounds at this time for fear of jeopardizing the investigation. The victim's head was not bitten off. No connection has been found to any other crimes. In my opinion werewolves exist only in cheap horror movies. Thank you all very much."
As he started toward the door the reporters crowded in around him, thrusting their ball-headed microphones close to his face, gabbling questions all at the same time.
"Excuse me. I'm sorry. I have a very important meeting that could be vital to the investigation. No, I cannot give you any more information. Excuse me."
Ramsay's progress through the crowd slowed to a near standstill as the mass of bodies around him pressed closer. As he was about to be pushed backward, a thick-shouldered man with forearms like Popeye shoved his way through the crowd, ignoring the complaints and curses from the reporters.
"Right this way, Sheriff. The car's outside."
The man was vaguely familiar, but Ramsay could not immediately place him. However, this was no time to ask for ID. He fell in behind the man like a running back behind his pulling guard, and together they plowed a furrow through the gaggle of reporters, out the door, and down the wide walkway to a beat-up Volkswagen Beetle. Ramsay jumped into the passenger's side and the other man wedged himself behind the wheel. He slammed the little car into gear and they took off, barely missing a camera crew from the Los Angeles ABC affiliate.
By the time the reporters had collected themselves and dashed for their own vehicles, the Beetle had roared around the corner and turned off the road onto an all but invisible wagon track that led out of sight behind a row of eucalyptus trees. There the driver stopped and cut the engine.
When the caravan of media cars had roared past on the highway, Ramsay turned for a better look at his driver. "Thanks for the rescue," he said. "You've got a handy way with crowds."
"I played a little football years ago at Stanford."
"Do I know you?" Ramsay asked.
"You might have seen me around. Name's Ken Dowd. I own a little shop in Darnay. Heard about what happened at the hospital this morning and thought maybe I could help you out."
"That so? In what way, Mr. Dowd?"
"Call me Ken. Well, I heard how they're saying this killing was like the ones they had over at Drago before the town burned down. Werewolves, you know."
"I know," Ramsay said wearily.
"Well, back then I had occasion to help a fellow out. Came up from L.A. Had to go into Drago after a woman or something. He came to my shop."
"What do you call your shop, Ken?"
The broad-shouldered man looked embarrassed. "The Spirit World. My wife's idea. I told her it sounded like a liquor store, but that's what she wanted, and half the money to set it up was hers. We sell occult books, Ouija boards, powders, potions, charms, chants. You name it."
"That's interesting, Ken, but I don't see how it's going to help me."
Dowd reached behind the seat and brought up a cardboard box the size of a double deck of playing cards. He handed it to Ramsay. The box was surprisingly heavy for its size.
"What is it?"
"Take a look."
Ramsay raised the flap and looked inside. It took a moment for him to recognize the contents.
"Silver bullets?"
"Caliber thirty-eight. I figured they ought to fit your police revolver."
"You're not joking with me, are you, Ken?"