The Devil's bed

Another long pause. Then a different voice came on the line, a voice unfamiliar to Bo and attached to a name he didn’t know.

“This is Special Agent Greer.”

“You’ll have to do. You listen to me and listen good, Greer. Tom Jorgenson is the target for a hit. An attempt will be made on his life very soon. You should get him out of the hospital and back to Wildwood, where security is tighter.”

“Who’s going to make this attempt?”

“I don’t know. I just know that it will happen.”

“Come in, Thorsen, and we’ll talk about it.”

“No.”

“How do you know this information?”

“It’s too complicated to go into over the phone.”

“Then come in.”

“I can’t.”

“Where are you?”

“Do it, Greer. His life is in your hands.”

“Thorsen-”

“Just do it.” Bo hung up.

Otter was waiting in the van with the engine running.

“They buy it?”

“I don’t know. But I don’t want to take any chances. We’re going to Stillwater, Otter. Step on it.”

They took I-94 east, then I-694 north, and finally shot east again on Highway 36 ten more miles to Stillwater. Otter pushed the van as fast as it would go, but it was in need of an alignment. Much over fifty and the chassis shook so badly Bo’s teeth rattled. Just outside the river town, they turned north again and scooted along the crest of the hills that fronted the St. Croix until the tall concrete tower that was the Medical Center burst into view.

“Park there,” Bo said, indicating a curb at the corner.

He checked his Sig Sauer. The clip still held six rounds. He shoved it under the waistband at the back of his trousers and let his shirttail hang over the butt of the firearm.

“What do you have in mind?” Otter asked.

“You stay with the van.”

“What about you?”

“I’m heading in. Play it by ear.”

“That’s your plan?”

“You got a better one?”

“You’re the professional. I just thought-”

“Wish me luck.”

“You got it.”

The sun was low in the west. It bathed the hospital tower in a tangerine hue and all the western windows had a glaring orange glint that made Bo think of a many-eyed beast watching him. The parking lot was full. He wove among the vehicles, working his way toward the entrance. The fire lane was lined with police cruisers, county and state. Uniformed officers were posted at the doors. Keeping to the cover of the lot, Bo headed toward the Emergency Room entrance on the south side. A police cruiser was parked there, too. He thought about the outside door of the laundry room in the building that adjoined the hospital on the northeast side. It was possible that door hadn’t been locked yet. He headed that way.

Even if he gained access to the hospital, he had no idea what he would do once he was inside. After his call to the field office, every law enforcement officer would be looking for him. But he was responsible for putting Tom Jorgenson’s life in danger, and he couldn’t simply sit and wait to see what move NOMan made. He followed a lilac hedge that bordered the hospital grounds, then trotted across the empty parking area behind the laundry building. He mounted the stairs to the loading dock and tried the door. It was locked.

As he stood considering what next, a chopper swung over the hill, hovered above the roof of the hospital tower, and descended toward the pad there until it was out of Bo’s sight. He could hear the thump of the blades slowing after it landed.

Down the hill overlooking the town, Bo saw a SuperAmerica gas station/convenience store at the next intersection, and he had an idea. He bounded off the loading dock, raced across the laundry parking area, and jogged down the sidewalk to the store. He found a pay phone near the pumps, but where the phone directory should have been there was only the dangling end of the chain that had once held it in place. He pushed through the door of the store and leaned on the counter, breathing hard.

“I need a phone book. It’s an emergency.”

The clerk, a kid with gold wire-rims and the look of a failed poet, said, “Be with you in a minute.” He reached to the cigarette bins above his head and pulled down a pack of Winston Lights for the customer ahead of Bo.

“I need that phone book now.”

“I said just a minute.” The kid gave him a stern glare weighted with all the authority of a clerk in charge.

Bo drew his Sig. “Give me the damn phone book.”

The customer, a balding man with eyes that had bloomed huge as two chrysanthemums, stepped out of Bo’s way.

The clerk kept his gaze on the barrel of the Sig, reached to the phone book that was on a stool near the register, and handed it to Bo.

“I’ll need fifty cents for the phone, too.”

The clerk rang open the register, fingered out two quarters, and handed them over.

“Thank you,” Bo said. He pushed out the door and ran to the phone.