He moved toward the door, but I threw the bolt and was out first. All those years of jogging and treadmilling finally paid off.
The door to 505W was already wide open.
Cassie was on her back in the bed, breathing through her mouth.
Post-seizure slumber.
She was covered to the neck. I.V. tubing curled from under the blankets.
Cindy was sleeping, too, flat on her stomach, one arm dangling.
Milo stood next to the I.V. pole, baggy in green surgical scrubs. A hospital ID badge was pinned to his shirt. M. B. STURGIS, M.D., his photographed face cross and bearish.
The real face was policeman-stoic. One of his big hands was clamped over Chip Jones’s wrist. The other bent Chip’s arm behind his back. Chip cried out in pain.
Milo ignored him and told him his rights.
Chip had on a camel-colored jogging suit and brown suede running shoes with diagonal leather stripes. His back was arched in Milo’s grip and his eyes were splayed and bright, sick with terror.
It was his fear that made me want to kill him.
I ran to the bed and checked the I.V. gauge. Locked—sealed with Krazy Glue. Stephanie’s idea. None of what was in the cylinder was entering Cassie’s bloodstream. Creative, but a risk: seconds later, Chip would have felt the pressure build behind the needle. And known.
Milo had him cuffed now. Chip started crying, then stopped.
Huenengarth licked his lips and said, “You’re fucked, Junior.” I hadn’t seen him come in.
Chip stared at him. His mouth was still open. His beard trembled. He dropped something on the floor. White cylinder with a tiny, sharp tip. It rolled on the carpet before coming to a stop. Chip raised a foot and tried to step on it.
Milo yanked him away. Huenengarth put on a surgical glove and picked up the cylinder.
He waved it in front of Chip’s face.
Chip made a whimpering noise and Huenengarth responded with a masturbatory movement of one arm.
I went over to Cindy and nudged her. She rolled and didn’t waken. A shake of her shoulders failed to rouse her. I shook harder, said her name. Nothing.
A cup was on the floor, near her dangling hand. Half-filled with coffee.
“What did you drug her with?” I asked Chip.
He didn’t answer. I repeated the question and he looked at the floor. His earring tonight was an emerald.
“What’d you give her?” I said, dialing the phone.
He pouted.
The page operator came on and I called for an emergency resuscitation.
Chip watched, wide-eyed.
Huenengarth advanced toward him again. Milo stilled him with a look and said, “If she’s in danger and you don’t tell us, you’re only making matters worse for yourself.”
Chip cleared his throat, as if preparing for an important announcement. But he said nothing.
I went to Cassie’s bed.
“Okay,” said Milo, “let’s go to jail.” He pushed Chip forward. “We’ll let the lab figure it out.”
Chip said, “Probably diazepam—Valium. But I didn’t give it to her.”
“How much?” I said.
“Forty milligrams is what she usually takes.”
Milo looked at me.
“Probably not lethal,” I said. “But it’s a heavy dose for someone her size.”
“Not really,” said Chip. “She’s habituated.”
“Bet she is,” I said, lacing my fingers to keep my hands still.
“Don’t be stupid,” said Chip. “Search me—see if you find drugs of any kind.”
“You’re not holding because you gave it all to her,” said Huenengarth.
Chip managed to laugh, though his eyes were frightened. “Go ahead, search.”
Huenengarth patted him down, turned his pockets inside out, and found only a wallet and keys.
Chip looked at him, shook hair out of eyes, and smiled.
“Something funny, Junior?”
“You are making a big mistake,” said Chip. “If I wasn’t the victim, I’d really feel sorry for you.”
Huenengarth smiled. “That so?”
“Very much so.”
“Junior, here, thinks this is funny, gents.” He wheeled on Chip: “What the fuck do you think is going on here? You think one of Daddy’s attorneys is going to get you out of this? We’ve got you on videotape trying to kill your kid—everything from loading the needle to sticking it in. Want to guess where the camera is?”
Chip kept smiling but panic fueled his eyes. They blinked, popped, raced around the room. Suddenly he shut them and dropped his head to his chest, muttering.
“What’s that?” said Huenengarth. “What’d you say?”
“Discussion closed.”
Huenengarth came closer. “Atttempted murder’s not some dinky-shit Chapter Eleven. What kind of scum would do this to his own flesh and blood?”
Chip kept his head down.
“Well,” said Huenengarth, “you can always start a new project—Cliff Notes for jailhouse lawyers. Those big bucks in maximum lockup are gonna love your educated anus.”
Chip didn’t move. His body had gone loose—meditative—and Milo had to work at holding him upright.
A sound came from the bed. Cassie shifting position. Chip looked at her.
She moved again, but remained asleep.
A terrible look came onto his face—disappointment at an unfinished job.
Enough hatred to fuel a war.
All three of us saw it. The room got very small.
Huenengarth reddened and puffed like a bullfrog.
“Happy rest of your life, fuckhead,” he whispered. Then he stomped out.
When the door closed, Chip snickered, but it sounded forced.
Milo. pushed him toward the door. They got out just before Stephanie arrived with the emergency team.