“They’re in need of rather more urgent care.” Kidder didn’t tell him about the call he’d just received. It was as he feared: the guards had beat the crap out of several of the escapees.
“How long will I have to wait?”
Kidder sighed irritably. “Like I said, maybe forty-five minutes.” He readied a needle with a mild sedative and painkiller.
“Don’t stick me with that!” the man cried. “I’ve an awful fear of needles!”
Kidder made an effort to control his annoyance. “This’ll ease the pain.”
“It’s not that bad! Turn on the TV for me. That’ll distract me.”
Kidder shrugged. “Have it your way.” He put away the syringe and handed the patient the remote. The man immediately turned it to an asinine game show and cranked up the volume. Kidder left, shaking his head, his already low opinion of prison guards having sunk even lower.
Fifty minutes later, Kidder returned to the infirmary in a ferociously bad mood. Some of the guards had jumped at the chance to settle scores with a particularly unsavory group of inmates, breaking half a dozen bones in the process.
He checked his watch, wondering about the guard he’d left behind. Fact was, in any of the big New York emergency rooms the man would have had to wait at least twice as long. He pulled back the curtain and gazed at the guard, all bundled up and turned toward the wall, sleeping heavily despite the excessively loud game show playing on the television.
Are you sure, Joy, that door number 2 is your choice? All right, then, let’s open it up! Behind door number 2 is… (huge groan from the audience)…
“Time for your X-rays, Mr.—” Kidder glanced at the clipboard. “Mr. Sidesky.”
No response.
… a cow! Now, isn’t that the most beautiful Holstein cow you’ve ever seen, ladies and gentlemen? Fresh milk every morning, Joy, think of it!
“Mr. Sidesky?” Kidder said, raising his voice. He reached for the remote, turned off the TV. A sudden, blessed silence.
“X-ray time!”
No response.
Kidder reached over and gave the man’s shoulder a gentle push—then jerked back with a muffled cry. Even through the covers, the body felt cold.
It wasn’t possible. The man had been brought in an hour ago, alive and healthy.
“Hey, Sidesky! Wake up!” With a trembling hand, he reached out again, pressed on the shoulder—and once again felt that hideous muffled cold.
With a feeling of dread, he grasped the corner of the covers and drew them back, exposing a naked corpse, purple and grotesquely bloated. The stench of death and disinfectants rose up, enveloping him like a miasma.
He staggered, hand over his mouth, choking, mind reeling in confusion and disbelief. The man had not only died, he had started to decay. How was it possible? He looked around wildly but there was no other patient in the ward. There had been some terrible mistake, some crazy mix-up…
Kidder took a steadying breath. Then he grasped the figure by the shoulder and pulled him over onto his back. The head flopped around, eyes staring, tongue lolling like a dog, face horribly blue and bloated, mouth draining some kind of yellow matter.
“God!” he moaned, backing up. It wasn’t the injured guard at all. It was the dead prisoner he had worked on just the day before, helping the radiologist produce a series of forensic X-rays.
Trying to keep his voice normal, he paged the Herkmoor chief physician. A moment later the man’s irritated voice came over the intercom.
“I’m busy, what is it?”
For a moment, Kidder didn’t quite know what to say. “You know that dead prisoner in the morgue—”
“Lacarra? They carted him away fifteen minutes ago.”
“No. No, they didn’t.”
“Of course they did. I signed the transfer myself, I saw them load the body bag into the morgue-mobile. It was waiting outside the gate for the all-clear so it could come in for the corpse.”
Kidder swallowed. “I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think what? What the hell are you talking about, Kidder?”
“Pocho Lacarra…” He swallowed, licked dry lips: “… is still here.”
Twenty miles to the south, the mortuary vehicle was on the Taconic State Parkway, heading toward New York City through light traffic. Within minutes, it pulled over at a rest area and cruised to a stop.
Vincent D’Agosta tore off his white morgue uniform, climbed into the rear, and unzipped the body bag. Inside was the long, white, nude form of Special Agent Pendergast. The agent sat up, blinking.
“Pendergast! Damn, we did it! We frigging did it!”
The agent held up a hand. “My dear Vincent, please—no effusive demonstrations of affection until I am showered and dressed.”