Janeesha shook her head as she stamped the work order that would authorize a plumber to deal with the stopped-up toilets in Ward Two. Despite the staff’s vigilance, stuffed animals, plastic blocks, and other things often ended up in the plumbing. Patients had discovered that such antics made life a great deal more entertaining than their ordinary daily routine.
Normally, Colonel Ryan signed for such things. Nothing, however, was normal anymore. Patients now vanished, others escaped, then came and went as they pleased. Generals, new administrators, coming and going. One day Colonel Ryan is out, the next he’s back. Then he’s coming and going as if the Grantham Barracks was a revolving door.
“Ought to get me a raise,” Janeesha murmured as she signed Ryan’s signature. “I’m doing the director’s work, ought to get director’s pay.”
The phone rang. Janeesha reflexively answered, “Dr. Ryan’s office.”
Mirabel Krantz, at reception, told her: “I have two gentlemen here to see Dr. Ryan.” A slight pause. “They’re from the Pentagon.”
Janeesha, her mind still on clogged plumbing, said, “Tell them the director is unavailable today. If they’d make an appointment—”
“Janeesha, I’m sending them up now!” The tension in her voice was unmistakable.
“But I—” The phone clicked.
Janeesha sighed, glanced at the clock, slipped the work order into its envelope and placed it in the outbox. She’d no more than finished when the door opened and a tall, storklike, washed-out-looking white guy entered. He was followed by a medium-built Latino with a square face, curved nose, and intense hawklike eyes. Both men wore conservative gray business suits, white shirts, and dark ties. The medium-sized Latino held a thick leather folder in his left hand. The Pentagon? These guys looked like middle management executives.
Right up to the point they walked up to Janeesha’s desk and produced sleek-looking badge cases that held their IDs and credentials.
“I’m Staff Sergeant Hanson Childs, United States Army Criminal Investigation Command,” the over-bleached white guy told her. His pale-blue eyes fixed on hers. The pupils—like black dots—sent a shiver down her back.
“I’m Special Agent Jaime Chenwith,” the Latino said crisply. “US Air Force Office of Special Investigations. We’re here to see Dr. Timothy Ryan.”
In an attempt to get her bearings, Janeesha stared at the badges. The Army CID guy had a shield with an eagle on top. The eagle on the Air Force’s OSI dude’s round shield looked half asleep. That brought her just enough humor to leverage a bit of backbone.
“Doctor Ryan isn’t in today. If you’d care to make an appointment—”
“Where is he?” Chenwith’s clipped voice had tightened.
“If you could tell me what this is all—”
“Dr. Ryan is currently at the center of a classified investigation. We know that he was in Washington several days ago.” Chenwith flipped open the leather folder, laying out photos. “Can you verify that this woman, Major Winchester Wesson Swink, is a patient at this facility?”
Janeesha felt a band tighten around her heart. “She is.”
Hanson Childs pointed at the next photo. “And this is Chief Petty Officer Karla Raven, also a patient here?”
“That’s her.”
“And do you know this man?” Hanson Childs produced another photo.
“Yes, sir. That’s Major Savage. One of General Grazier’s staff people.”
The two agents gave each other the kind of triumphant look that virtually shouted, “Pay dirt!”
“We’ll need a conference room. If you could have Swink and Raven brought up, we’ll need to take their statements.”
“They’re not here.”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, Winny and Karla left this morning with Colonel Ryan.”
The two men fixed her with an intent stare, Chenwith asking, “Where are they, Ms. Felid?”
“I really don’t know.”
“Don’t be coy,” Hanson Childs’ pale eyes turned glacial. “Major Swink’s prints were all over the helicopter’s controls. Not only can we tie CPO Raven to the passenger seat, but two pieces of nine-millimeter brass were found wedged beneath. Pin mark analysis suggests they came from an HK MP-5. Swabs taken from the cabin surfaces test positive for powder residue. Nine-millimeter slugs were recovered from the cowling and engine of an aircraft apparently shot down by Chief Raven. There are two fatalities.”
Janeesha blinked. Shot down?
“Not to mention unauthorized use of a military aircraft which resulted in substantial damage.” Jaime Chenwith leaned down on stiff arms to glare angrily into her eyes. “So why don’t you just tell me where our persons of interest are, Ms. Felid? Because if you don’t, you’re going to find yourself smack dab in a world of shit. And, it’s just a guess, mind you, but I think you’d rapidly discover that you were one very unhappy woman.”