“YOU’RE SURE?” Ford asked, barely able to breathe as he waited for Sam to answer.
Sam’s expression was grim. “That’s the most likely explanation. The official cause of death was cardiac arrest, but with this new information, it’s clear that it could have been caused either by blood loss or by the paralysis caused by the meds he was given. Suxamethonium chloride is fast acting. It doesn’t stay in the body long, and had Joel lived any longer, it would have been completely metabolized. He died quickly after the drug was administered or it wouldn’t have shown up in the panel at all.”
“Either way, his death was not self-inflicted.”
“Unless he got his hands on anesthetic drugs, injected himself, and then slit his wrists, I would say no.”
“Fuck,” Ford muttered. He felt like he was going to throw up. He swallowed hard and took a deep breath, hoping to push down the bile that was rising in his throat.
“Are you okay?” Sam asked, his eyebrows knit together in concern.
“Yeah, I’ll be all right.”
“I need to call Jack and update him. Why don’t you go talk to Nash?”
Ford felt almost catatonic. “Yeah, okay.”
“Good. Call me later and let me know how everything went, okay?”
Ford nodded, and as Sam picked up the phone and dialed, Ford slipped out of the room.
The hallways were quiet as he made his way to the stairwell. He was still processing when he hit the first flight. Joel had been killed in the hospital while his room had been guarded by a police officer. His mind raced through the possibilities of who could have done it. And why?
He pushed past the renewed sadness and forced himself to concentrate. Pieces were flying into place, and the more Ford thought about it, the more complex it became.
Whoever killed Joel was more than likely involved with the deaths of the other kids. It had to be someone the cop would allow into the room with no questions asked. Could it be someone who worked at the hospital?
Ford stopped in his tracks, holding tight onto the railing to keep his balance as his head reeled.
Peter.
Ford thought back to all the times he’d seen Peter since Joel arrived at Saint Joe’s. He’d been lurking near the psych unit more than once. He worked on the floor where Joel had died, and no one would ever question a doctor entering a patient’s room. Was Peter capable of killing?
The more Ford thought about it, the more certain he became. Sam said himself that Peter was a sociopath. He was cunning and manipulative and had access to the anesthetic medications. He could easily have slipped into Joel’s room without raising any suspicions.
Ford really was going to throw up.
He pulled out his cell phone and glanced at his screen, only to see that he had no reception in the stairwell. He raced to the top and out the door into the parking lot, waiting for the bars to appear before he scrolled through his contacts and dialed.
Jack’s phone clicked over to voice mail. He must still be talking to Sam.
“Jack, call me as soon as possible. I think I know who killed Joel.”
Pain sliced through his skull as something collided with his head. It took a moment for him to orient himself, and Ford felt cold metal pressed against the side of his temple.
“Drop the phone.”
The voice was so familiar and so filled with hate. Ford’s stomach dropped when he realized the metal was the barrel of a gun, held tight against his head.
Ford did as he was asked, letting the phone fall with a clatter onto the uneven pavement.
“What are you doing, Greene?” Ford asked, horrified by the trembling in his voice. Despite living on his own downtown and walking by himself at all hours of the night, he’d never been held at gunpoint before. Hell, he’d never seen a gun other than the one Jack kept holstered on his hip. This was much more terrifying. It wasn’t something Ford would ever have suspected the hospital administrator capable of.
“Move,” Greene ordered, pushing Ford forward with enough force that he nearly tripped. Images of Greene blowing his brains out because he was klutzy filled his head, and he began to sweat.
Greene led him to a car parked near the entrance, a white Buick that looked like it belonged to a seventy-year-old man. With the gun still pressed against Ford’s skull, Greene unlocked the door and pulled it open.
“Get in. And if you make a noise, I’ll put a bullet right through that pretty head of yours.”
Ford climbed in, aware that these could be the last few minutes of his life. He took stock of the situation, surveying his options. Ford couldn’t concentrate on anything other than that goddamn gun that Greene had trained on him as he rounded the car, the matte black of its barrel unnervingly sinister.
Ford took deep breaths, trying to calm his rapidly beating heart, his palms slick with sweat. He rubbed them on his jeans and sat still, crushing the urge to squirm. There would be a moment—there had to be—when Ford could run. Maybe he’d get shot, but if he stayed with Greene, his chances of getting shot were exponentially higher.
Greene pulled out of the parking lot, turned onto the street and drove through traffic. No one saw the gun, held below the frame of the window, pointed at Ford’s chest. No one heard Greene, his voice cold and hostile.
“You couldn’t keep your fucking nose in your own business, could you?” Greene spat as they turned left onto the street that would take them over the bridge. “I knew you were going to be trouble from the first moment I met you, strutting around that hospital with that smug fucking look on your face. I should have had you taken out long ago. But I have you now, and I’m going to have some fun with you. You’re not my usual type, but I’m willing to make an exception.”
Ford shuddered as Greene caressed the side of his face with the tip of the gun, sliding it along his cheek. Traffic was thick. Ford scanned the other drivers, praying someone would look over, hoping someone would notice how close to dying he was, but everyone had their eyes focused on the road, zoned out or not paying attention. It was like he was invisible.
“I don’t understand…. Why are you doing this?” Ford asked, trying to get a handle on the situation.
“Bullshit you don’t. I don’t know how you figured out it was me, but do you seriously think I am going to let you rat me out? I don’t think so, Joseph.”
“You killed Joel?”
Greene snorted. “Piece of cake. It was gory as fuck but easier than I thought it would be. That little shit should never have gotten away, but it wasn’t difficult to tie up that loose end. He almost pissed himself when I showed up in his room.”
Ford was going to puke. He wondered if that would make Greene more or less inclined to murder him. His mind ran in circles over and over, desperately grappling for a way out of this.
Greene pulled off Marine onto one of the residential side streets, then up the sharp angle of a steep driveway belonging to a large house at the end of the dead-end street. The house was massive, all hard angles and large windows with decks on all three levels. The outside was clad in pink stucco and looked like it would have been quite the high-end home sometime around 1992.
Greene stopped under one of the overhanging decks, the parking space hidden from sight by large cedar trees.
Ford was going to die. He was going to die in this horrible pink monstrosity, and no one would ever find his body. Or maybe they would and he’d be another naked body, carved up and dumped in an alley. Ford didn’t know which was worse.
“We’re here. You make any noise at all and I’ll shoot you in the fucking face. Now don’t move.”
Greene got out of the car and rounded the front. His gun never lowered as he pulled open Ford’s door and grabbed his arm.
“Get out of the fucking car.”
Greene tugged hard, harder than Ford thought him capable, and Ford stumbled out of the car to standing. The gun was pressed between his shoulder blades as Greene propelled him forward.
The sound of a car pulling into the driveway had Greene spinning them around, gun pointed squarely at Ford’s head. He saw the dark SUV with the tinted windows approaching. For a moment Ford thought it wasn’t going to stop, that it was going to ram into them, and he’d be dead either way. Would that hurt more than a bullet in the brain? That was pretty much a definite yes.
Ford braced himself for impact, his muscles clenched hard, but the vehicle stopped suddenly, and Jack jumped out, his own weapon trained on them. Walter climbed out a moment later, a little slower, gun aimed unerringly at Greene.
“Drop the gun, Greene,” Jack demanded. “I don’t want to have to shoot you.”
He didn’t sound all that convincing. In fact, judging by the look of carefully contained rage on Jack’s face, he’d like very much to shoot Greene, probably between the eyes. Ford trembled, fear racking his body. If Jack shot Greene, would Greene’s gun go off? That’s the way it happened in the movies.
Fuck, this was not a good situation, and Ford was not one of those badass victims that got all tough. He was more likely to piss his pants or pass out. He hoped to God he didn’t do either.
“Greene, I’m not going to say it again. Drop the fucking gun.”
“I’m not going to jail,” Greene shouted.
“It’s going to be a hell of a lot worse for you if you kill him, Greene. You know that. We can work something out.”
Ford didn’t believe that for a minute. He knew Jack didn’t either. He only hoped Greene bought it.
Greene laughed. It was a wild, maniacal sound, and that was scarier than the two guns currently pointed at him. How had he never noticed what a psychopath Greene was? Maybe it was like those killers you hear about in the news. No one ever suspected how twisted and depraved they were. It’s always the guys you least expect who end up with the closet full of skeletons, and in Greene’s case, it seemed they were skeletons of the literal sort.
“There are units on the way, and in about five minutes, this place is going to be crawling with uniforms. If you don’t cooperate, I can guarantee this is not going to end well for you.”
Jack was getting angrier by the moment. It was audible in his voice and visible in the way his shoulders hunched forward, his eyes narrowed, and his mouth tightened. Ford had seen Jack angry before, but he’d never seem him look like this. It was his calmness that was the most terrifying. He was still, focused, and Ford didn’t doubt for a second that given the chance, Jack would take the shot.
It felt like an eternity had passed, although it couldn’t have been more than a couple of minutes. Ford could hear the sirens in the distance. Greene flinched, his head snapping toward the sound.
There was a crack in the air, the sound echoing off the walls of the houses in the neighborhood. Ford’s heart stopped.
Everything happened so quickly, it took a moment for Ford to put the pieces together. Greene was down on the ground, dark red soaking through the pale material of his suit pants. He was screaming and holding his thigh, blood covering his hands.
Ford’s vision snapped into focus, and he spotted the gun on the ground next to him. He moved faster than he thought possible, diving for it. He grabbed it, careful to keep his fingers far from the trigger, and darted away. One strong arm wrapped tightly around him, and he looked up to see Jack holding him.
Jack reached down and took the gun, lifting it away from Ford’s grasp before handing it to Walter. Ford sagged against him, his face buried in Jack’s chest, his legs like jelly. Jack stood stock-still, his gun trained on Greene, who was writhing and screaming about police brutality.
Two cop cars, lights flashing, pulled into the driveway then, and two of the officers ran forward and cuffed Greene facedown on the pavement. Jack lowered his gun and holstered it, bringing his other arm around Ford.
“Are you all right?” he asked. Gone was the hard hostility from moments ago, in its place a gentle concern that made it nearly impossible to keep from crying. Jack hugged him, and then he did cry, tears spilling hot over his cheeks.
“Hey, you’re okay,” Jack soothed.
Ford had known him for years, and he’d never thought Jack capable of actual compassion. It was shocking and appreciated all at once.
“Do you need us to get your head checked out for concussion or anything? Should we call the paramedics?” Jack asked a moment later.
“Just Nash. Please,” Ford replied, the words muffled by Jack’s shirt.