“Yes, Doctor Beadermeyer. She spit the mouthwash on me, but she did get a bit of it in her mouth.”
“I hate the smell of vomit,” Beadermeyer said as he looked down at his shoes. He’d cleaned them as best he could. Just thinking about what she’d done made him want to hit her again, but it wouldn’t gain him any pleasure. She was unconscious.
“She’ll be out of it for a good four hours. Then I’ll lighten the dose to keep her pleasantly sedated.” “I hope the dose isn’t too high.” “Don’t be a fool. I have no intention of killing her, at least not yet. I just don’t know yet what will happen. I’m taking her out of here tomorrow morning.” “Yes, before he comes to get her.” “Why do you say that, Holland? How the hell do you know anything?”
“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 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.”
“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.