Pendergast’s face was well known in building C. He was not known at all in building B.
He approached the security door, swiped the credit card, placed his hand on the fingermatrix screen, and waited.
His heart was beating at rather more than its customary rate. This was the moment of truth.
At exactly 290 seconds, the security light glowed green and the metal locks disengaged.
Pendergast stepped through into building B. He walked around the first bend in the corridor, then paused in the dark corner made by the dogleg of the hallway. He reached up to the deepest cut on his cheek and, with a vicious tug, pulled out the row of stitches. When the warm blood began to run, he smeared it over his face, neck, and hands. Then he pulled up his shirt, examining the stitched wound in his side where the shank had penetrated. He took a deep breath. Then he yanked that wound open as well.
They had to look as fresh as possible.
At 110 seconds, he heard running footsteps, and, as previously planned, one of the escapees ran by—Jug—who had dutifully followed the escape plan laid out for him by Glinn. Of course, it would not be successful—he would be apprehended at the exit to building B if not before—but this, too, was part of the plan. Pocho’s gang was a smoke screen—that was all. None would actually escape.
As soon as Jug passed him, Pendergast screamed and threw himself down onto the floor of the corridor, while at the same time pressing the emergency button on his comm unit:
“Officer down! Immediate response! Officer down!”
45
Staff Nurse Ralph Kidder kneeled over the supine form of the guard—who was sobbing like a baby, babbling about being attacked, being afraid of dying—and tried to focus on the problem at hand. He checked the man’s heart with a stethoscope—strong and fast—examined the neck and limbs for any broken bones, took the blood pressure—excellent—examined the cut on the face: nasty but superficial.
“Where are you hurt?” he asked again, exasperated. “Where are your injuries? Talk to me!”
“My face, he cut my face!” the man shrieked, finally gaining a measure of coherence.
“I see that. Where else?”
“He stabbed me! Oh, my chest, it hurts!”
The nurse gently felt the ribs, noting the swelling and faint gravelly feel of a couple of broken ones, not displaced. There was indeed a stab wound, bleeding copiously, but a quick check indicated a rib had deflected the blade and prevented it from piercing the pleura.
“It’s nothing that a convalescence won’t fix,” Kidder said sharply, turning to the two responding EMTs. “Load him and take him down to infirmary B. We’ll do a blood workup, an X-ray series, stitch up a few of those cuts. Tetanus booster and a course of amoxicillin. I don’t see anything so far that’ll require a transfer to an outside hospital.”
One of the EMTs snorted. “Nothing’s going in or out until the escapees are apprehended and all prisoners accounted for, anyway. They’ve had a morgue-mobile idling outside the gate for half an hour already.”
“The morgue-mobile’s never in a rush,” said Kidder dryly. He wrote down the guard’s name and badge number on his clipboard. He didn’t recognize the man—but then, he was from building C and his face was cut up pretty bad.
As they were loading the patient onto the stretcher, Kidder heard a sudden uproar of shouting from down the corridor as another prisoner was apprehended. Kidder had been working at Herkmoor for almost twenty years and this was the biggest escape attempt yet. Of course it had no chance of succeeding. He just hoped the guards weren’t beating hell out of too many would-be escapees.
The EMTs raised the stretcher and trundled the whimpering guard off to the infirmary, Kidder following. These guards acted so tough when everything was under control, he thought, but knock them around a bit and they fell apart like so much overcooked meat.
The infirmary in building B, like the other infirmaries in Herkmoor, was divided into two completely separate, walled-off areas: the free area for staff and guards, and the incarceration area for prisoners. They wheeled the guard to the free area and covered him with a blanket. Kidder worked up the man’s chart, ordered some X-rays. He was starting to prep the guard for stitching when his radio beeped. He lifted it to his ear, listened, spoke briefly. Then he turned to the patient. “I’ve got to leave you for a while.”
“Alone?” the injured guard cried in a panic.
“I’ll be back in about half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes, with the radiologist. We have some injured inmates—”
“Taking care of inmates before me?” the man whined.