The Devil's bed

In daylight, St. Peter was a pretty little town set in the wooded valley of the Minnesota River. The Regional Treatment Center, of which the Minnesota State Security Hospital was a part, lay in the hills south of town. The facility was a mixture of imposing sandstone block buildings that looked several decades old and newer, more functional brick structures.

At the reception desk in the administration building, Bo and Coyote met briefly with the director of personnel, who arranged for them to talk to the program director in the Security Hospital where Luther Gallagher was employed as a security counselor.

The Minnesota State Security Hospital sat behind trees atop a hill a quarter mile west of the other buildings. It was a relatively new single-story facility, dull red brick, with barred windows, razor wire on the fencing, and a perimeter maintained with motion detectors and infrared cameras. Housed therein were the most dangerous of the patients remanded by the courts for treatment.

Helen Wardell, the program director, met them in her office, a gray, windowless room. She was a gaunt woman with dark circles under her eyes and a look on her face that seemed perpetually braced to deal with crises. The odor of cigarette smoke rolled off her clothing, and her voice was raspy in the way of someone long addicted to nicotine.

“Luther Gallagher,” she said. It was clear the name was significant and not in a good way. “What’s he up to now?”

“That’s what we’re here to find out,” Bo replied. “We were hoping to speak with him, but apparently he hasn’t been to work in quite a while.”

“He went to Albuquerque. Christ, I could use a cigarette. You guys mind if we take this outside?”

They stepped out of the building into an internal courtyard reserved for staff. It consisted of two stone benches and a small patch of grass, separated from the sky above by a mesh screen. Helen Wardell lit her cigarette and breathed smoke that drifted upward toward freedom.

“What’s this about Albuquerque?” Coyote asked.

“Luther called one morning with some cock-and-bull story about his father having a heart attack in Albuquerque. He requested a leave of absence to drive down and spend a few weeks there while his father recovered.”

Bo asked, “Why cock-and-bull?”

“Luther? Giving a good goddamn about his old man?” She started to laugh, but it turned into a hacking cough.

“He’s not a particularly sensitive guy?” Coyote said, encouraging her.

“He’s big, that’s why he’s here. Dealing with the kind of people we house, big is a definite plus. But sensitive? Yeah, like a rhino.”

“Did he say when he’d return to work?”

“He was supposed to be back last week. We haven’t heard from him.”

Bo asked, “Does the name Max Ableman mean anything to you?”

She watched the smoke escaping through the mesh and thought a moment. “Should it?”

“I spotted a pickup truck registered to Luther Gallagher in a motor court in Bayport yesterday. According to the desk clerk, a man named Max Ableman was driving it. Ableman is an alias, but it’s still possible Gallagher might have mentioned him.”

“If he ever did, I don’t remember it.”

“Not that it will help, but why don’t you describe Ableman,” Coyote suggested to Bo.

“Probably in his late thirties, early forties, just under six feet tall, approximately one hundred eighty pounds, sandy hair, pale complexion, quiet. And scars.” Bo made a couple of slashes across his upper arm.

Wardell paused with the cigarette just shy of her lips. “Sunglasses, even indoors?”

“That’s him.”

“Oh, my God.” She dropped the cigarette on the sidewalk without bothering to crush it out. “Gentlemen, if you please.” She signaled them to follow and returned to her office, where she asked them to wait. She left and came back in less than five minutes with a small, dark woman at her heels. “These are the agents. I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your names.”

Bo held out his hand and introduced himself and Coyote.

As she shook Coyote’s hand, the woman said, “I’m Dr. Jordan Hart. I’ve asked Helen if we could go to my office and talk before we inform the local authorities. You seem to have information about Moses.”

“Moses?” Coyote said.

“The man you call Max Ableman.”

“Moses.” Coyote grinned at Bo. “Brother, looks like we’ve found the Promised Land.”

Dr. Hart was younger and less imposing than Bo imagined a psychologist who dealt with the criminally insane might be. He guessed her to be in her early thirties. She stood barely five feet tall, had a smooth, dark complexion, and intense brown eyes. She escorted them to her office. It was a neat little room, red brick walls decorated with tasteful Monet prints and lined with bookcases. The wide window overlooked another courtyard, one with a small flowerbed where a patient knelt, carefully pulling weeds and putting them in a plastic bucket.

“What’s your interest in David Moses?” she asked. She poured water into a coffeemaker and flipped the switch.