of the doorway and into the cemetery. The wind hit their bodies like a team of linemen but they stayed on their feet, locking arms and gripping the other's shoulder as they stumbled toward the light.
Chapter 10
"ARE YOU FUCKING crazy?"
This from McPherson, shouting into the wind, as the jeep hurtled down a makeshift trail along the western edge of the cemetery. He was in the passenger seat, looking back at them with red eyes, all vestiges of Texas country boy charm washed away in the storm. The driver hadn't been introduced to them. Young kid, lean face, and pointed chin were about all Teddy could make out under the hood of his rain slicker. Drove that jeep like a professional, though, tearing through scrub brush and the storm's debris like it wasn't even there. "This has just been upgraded from a tropical storm to a hurricane. Winds are coming in at around a hundred miles an hour right now. By midnight, they're expected to hit a hundred fifty. And you guys go strolling off in it?"
"How do you know it was upgraded?" Teddy said.
"Ham radio, Marshal. We expect to lose that within a couple of hours too."
"Of course," Teddy said.
"We could have been shoring up the compound right now, but instead we were looking for you." He slapped the back of his seat, then turned forward, done with them.
The jeep bounced over a rise and for a moment Teddy saw only sky, felt nothing underneath the wheels, and then the tires hit dirt and they spun through a sharp curve that dipped steeply with the trail and Teddy could see the ocean off their left, the water churning with explosions that bloomed white and wide like mushroom clouds. The jeep tore down through a rise of small hills and then burst into a stand of trees, Teddy and Chuck holding on to the seats as they banged off each other in the back, and then the trees were behind them and they were facing the back of Cawley's mansion, crossing a quarter acre of wood chips and pine needles before they hit the access road and the driver pushed out of low gear and roared toward the main gate. "We're taking you to see Dr. Cawley," McPherson said, looking back at them. "He just can't wait to talk to you guys."
"And here I thought my mother was back in Seattle," Chuck said. THEY SHOWERED IN the basement of the staff dormitory and were given clothes from the orderlies' stockpile. Their own clothes were sent to the hospital laundry, and Chuck combed his hair back in the bathroom and looked at his white shirt and white pants and said, "Would you like to see a wine list? Our special tonight is beef Wellington. It's quite good."
Trey Washington stuck his head in the bathroom. He seemed to be biting back on a smile as he appraised their new clothes and then he said, "I'm to bring you to Dr. Cawley."
"How much trouble we in?"
"Oh, a bit, I'd expect."
"GENTLEMEN," CAWLEY SAID as they entered the room, "good to see you."
He seemed in a magnanimous mood, his eyes bright, and Teddy and Chuck left Trey at the door as they entered a boardroom on the top floor of the hospital.
The room was filled with doctors, some in white lab coats, some in suits, all sitting around a long teak table with green-shaded banker's lamps in front of their chairs and dark ashtrays that smoldered with cigarettes or cigars, the sole pipe belonging to Naehring, who sat at the head of the table.
"Doctors, these are the federal marshals we discussed. Marshals Daniels and Aule." , "Where are your clothes?" one man asked.
"Good question," Cawley said, enjoying the hell out of this, in Teddy's opinion.
"We were out in the storm," Teddy said.
"Out in that?" The doctor pointed at the tall windows. They'd been crisscrossed with heavy tape and they seemed to breathe slightly, exhaling into the room. The panes drummed with fingertips of rain, and the entire building creaked under the press of wind. "Afraid so," Chuck said.
"If you could take a seat, gentlemen," Naehring said. "We're just finishing up."
They found two seats at the end of the table.
"John," Naehring said to Cawley, "we need a consensus on this."
"You know where I stand."
"And I think we all respect that, but if neuroleptics can provide the necessary decrease in five-HT imbalances of serotonin, then I don't feel we have much choice.