Sheriff Dennis gives me yet another sidelong glance, but I look away. As I do, I see Caitlin watching me carefully. She’s come to the same conclusion I have: “Gates Brown” must be “Huggy Bear”—the childhood friend of Pooky Wilson, who visited his mother on her deathbed. Henry’s mystery witness is still in town—or at least he was this morning.
“Agent Kaiser?” says a new FBI agent from the edge of the group.
“Yes?”
“We’ve been grid-searching the grounds on the highway side of the building. We just found a dead raccoon out there. Still warm.”
“So?”
“It was right under the victim’s window.”
“Show me.” Kaiser slips through the knot of bodies and heads toward the exit.
As the FBI men move away, Walker grabs my arm and leans close to my ear. “That’s got to be that same ‘Mr. Brown’ who told me he saw Brody Royal burning the Beacon, right?”
“I imagine so.”
“What the hell is going on, Penn?”
“I don’t know, Walker. Let’s go see the raccoon.”
CHAPTER 81
HENRY SEXTON LAY half-conscious in a windowless room that only an hour ago had been an administrative office. Two doctors, four FBI agents, and a squad of nurses had hastily converted the office into a protective cocoon for the reporter-turned-assassination-target. Only one nurse had been with Henry since the ER doctor had patched the grazing wound to his skull, and at least one plainclothes FBI agent was standing guard outside his door. The nurse had been ordered not to speak to anyone about Henry’s condition, or even to confirm that he was alive.
To Henry’s dismay, neither Sherry nor Caitlin nor Penn Cage had been in to check on him. The FBI agents he’d questioned had been brusque, but as the dazing effect of his head wound began to wear off, Henry recognized his nurse as an old grade school classmate—Irma McKay. When he told Irma he recognized her, she lingered to talk to him, and he’d taken advantage of the opportunity to ask about the shooting. Nurse McKay tried to obey her orders not to reveal Sherry’s death, but Henry quickly read the truth in her eyes. Seconds later she broke down and admitted that Sherry was dead.
Although Henry had feared this from the start, something broke inside him when the nurse told him the truth. Not since the murder of Albert Norris had a death hit him like Sherry’s did. Her loss proved the cliché: you never knew what you had until it was gone. For years he had taken her for granted—the thousand things she did to make his life easier and, more important, the rock-solid support she’d given him when no one else gave a damn about his work. Sherry had always begged him to pursue a different type of story, but she’d finally accepted his need to see his quest through. She’d even helped him when she could. But now she had paid for his stubbornness with her life, while he had survived.
Try as he might, Henry simply couldn’t process the shock. As he lay on his back in a drug-induced haze, a conviction grew in him that soon became an obsession. He had to get out of the hospital. Before an hour passed, his obsession had become a compulsion, irresistible and beyond all logic. The goal of his escape seemed almost secondary. As though in self-defense, his mind had focused on logistical considerations rather than philosophical ones.
The problem was, escape seemed impossible—at least at first. He’d considered and rejected a host of wacky ideas. A diversion was a common component of prison escapes, he knew, but with the FBI on high alert, the slightest disturbance would only tighten the protective cordon around him. Floating in an opium-derived cloud, Henry’s mind began to search for a more original solution. As the medical machines clicked and beeped around him, he recalled an older boy telling his underaged self how to sneak into adult bars. You walk in like you own the damn place, man. Show no fear. No doubt whatsoever. Henry had used this tactic many times as a journalist, and often gained exclusive access to restricted areas and crime scenes.
Might not that same tactic serve him now?
The next time Irma McKay returned to check his vitals, Henry gave her the saddest smile he could muster.
“How are you holding up, Henry?” she asked. “I’m so sorry about Sherry. I should never have told you. That wasn’t my place.”
“Yes, it was. Better to hear it from an old friend than from some grouchy government agent. It’s all right, Irma. I won’t tell anybody that you told me.”
“Really?” she said hopefully, making notations on his chart.
“Not if you’ll you do me one little favor.”
She looked up quickly, anxiety in her eyes. “I can’t get you no cigarettes, Henry.”