The Inn - James Patterson Page 0,80

in wheelchairs staring out the windows at the parking lot; one was sleeping with his head at an awkward angle, the front of his shirt soiled with food stains. At a counter on the second floor, an exhausted-looking nurse was having a shouting match with a patient on crutches. She stopped to bat away a fly that had been buzzing around her face. I watched the fly go, strangely disturbed by its presence in the hospital. The smell of this place wasn’t the same nostril-tingling, disinfectant freshness of Addison Gilbert. It was faintly sour and tainted with something unmistakably biological.

I wandered the corridors, thinking about Cline, my head down, tracing the smudgy footprints of others on the linoleum. After a while I came into a hallway and witnessed another argument, a nurse trying to reason with four very large men standing outside a darkened ward.

“You have to respect visitor protocols,” she said. “We have a system here, and you have to have approval.”

I watched, my hands in my pockets. The four men were obviously military. They had the functionally muscular bodies of men who worked out several times a day, but in addition to the muscles that looked pretty, they had well-developed muscles in their hands, forearms, and necks, the kind of muscles you get only by picking up and moving heavy equipment across long distances. They were dressed in civilian workmen’s clothes that had never been worked in. Flattops you could rest a beer can on. Two of them were backing the nurse toward me without touching her, their big hands up, a moving wall of hard flesh.

“Thanks for your concern, ma’am,” one of them said. “We got it from here.”

Something seemed to tell the nurse that whatever it was, their having it was set in stone, and her protests were useless. She turned and brushed past me as she left, bringing me to the attention of the men. The nearest one met my eyes as the four of them walked back to the door, and I saw recognition flash there.

“Is there a problem, sir?” he asked.

“No problem.” I noticed a restroom door behind the wall of men. “Just want to use the restroom.”

“There’s one on the second floor.”

“I want to use that one.” I pointed. “It’s my favorite.”

“It’s out of order.” The meathead squared his shoulders. “Move on.”

Now I knew what I was dealing with. I smiled and nodded toward the door.

“Cline’s guy,” I said. “Russell Hamdy. Tell him I want to see him.”

CHAPTER NINETY

RUSSELL HAMDY TOOK ten minutes to decide whether or not he’d see me. The recognition I’d seen in one of the guys probably meant they had been briefed on people who might approach the room, and I was one of them. Russell’s military friends watched me silently from the doorway, looking from their charge to me, their eyes mean and their mouths hard. In time I was beckoned in, although no one moved to let me through, which forced me to slide between tautly stretched fabric and clouds of strong antiperspirant.

Cline’s man was sitting upright in the bed, a complicated apparatus around his bloodied and bandaged knee. His face was pale and drawn; an oxygen tube was under his nose. Russ had his hands beneath a blanket on his lap, and I knew that he was holding a loaded gun that was pointed at me.

“This is one hell of a disappearing act,” I said, looking around at the curtain pulled tightly over the window and the four empty beds. “How do the nurses feel about you giving yourself a private room?”

“They’ll do what they’re told,” he said. His words were slightly slurred, probably an effect of whatever painkiller he was on. “They don’t want my blood all over the floor any more than I do.”

“So you’re ex-military,” I said. “What’s Cline doing with an ex-military guy on his crew? I thought he only took losers and jailbirds.”

“I was a loser and a jailbird.” Russ gave a lopsided smile. “After two tours in Iraq, I was deployed to help out after the Boxing Day tsunami in Indonesia in 2004. We were pulling bodies out of the water for six weeks straight. Kids and all. That kind of shit fucks you up pretty good.”

I nodded.

“I did some things I’m not proud of, and Cline stepped in when I hit rock bottom,” Russ said. “But before all that I was a Marine. And once a Marine, always a Marine.”

The guys in the doorway stirred, wanting to give