Jude Hardin - The Reacher Code - Timestream 1

Along with three other guys on scooters.

They all had long hair.

And knives.

7

Stahler had produced his driver’s license and his physician’s ID badge at the front gate, and again at the entrance to the hospital. The sentry posted at each location had given the credentials a perfunctory glance, and had waved Stahler on through. He’d been prepared to answer any questions they might have asked, and ready to deliver additional means of identification, including a social security card and a membership card from the American Association of Neurological Surgeons, but none of that had been necessary. Amazing what had passed as security back in 1983, he thought. It was a joke. Especially considering the recent terrorist attack, one of the deadliest in history, carried out on an installation that was less than two thousand miles away. Stahler was good at recon and espionage, but he almost felt like his talents were going to waste with this mission. Anyone with a decent fake ID could have driven onto the base, no problem.

At any rate, he was inside the hospital now, and he couldn’t think of anything that might prevent him from performing the grim duty that had been assigned to him. It was pretty much a done deal. In a few minutes, Rock Wahlman would be dead, and Stahler would be spinning back to 2101 for some much needed rest and relaxation.

He took the elevator to the sixth floor, walked onto the intensive care unit as if he owned the place, projecting the poise and confidence of a very important man who was there to do very important things. He made a beeline toward room 614, hurrying past the nurses’ station without a wave or a nod, no indication that he appreciated or even acknowledged their existence. Just like a real doctor, Stahler thought. A hotshot surgeon. Nobody said anything to him, or tried to stop him, which told him that his portrayal was probably spot-on.

He swung the door open and stepped into the room. Switched the light on and looked over at the bed.

Which was empty.

The sheets had been stripped, and there were some plastic trash bags on the floor, bulging with items that had been used to care for the patient, who was obviously not there anymore.

Stahler walked back up to the nurses’ station. A woman wearing a knit dress and a strand of chunky yellow beads was sitting at a computer monitor that could have doubled as an ottoman, moving the ugly green cursor through some ugly green text with the arrow keys on the keyboard.

Stahler figured she was the unit secretary.

“I’m looking for the patient who was in six fourteen,” he said.

She looked up from her monitor.

“And you are?”

“Greg Stahler, Neurosurgical Services,” Stahler said, pointing toward his badge. “I’m covering for Doctor Krebs tonight.”

“The patient who was in that room left the hospital a while ago,” the secretary said. “During shift change. Just got up and walked out. Didn’t sign an AMA form or anything.”

“So he’s not in a coma anymore?” Stahler asked, realizing how stupid the question was as soon as the words left his mouth.

“No, sir. He woke up earlier in the shift. Extubated himself. His nurse called the attending for new orders.”

“Can I talk to his nurse?”

“I think she’s still in the breakroom,” the secretary said, pointing toward a wooden door marked EMPLOYEE LOUNGE. “Her shift was over at eleven, but she said she had some charting to catch up on. And an incident report to fill out, of course. Her name’s Jessie.”

“Thanks.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry about all the trouble.”

Stahler walked over to the door and pushed it open and stepped into the lounge. An attractive young woman wearing blue scrubs and a white lab coat was sitting alone at a round wooden table. There was a three-ring binder in front of her and some loose papers and a coffee mug. She didn’t look up from her work right away, didn’t seem to notice that Stahler had entered the space.

“Are you Jessie?” he said.

“Huh?”

Her eyes were red. Maybe from fatigue. Or from crying. She glanced at Stahler’s badge, set her pen on the table and raked her fingers through her hair.

“Sorry to bother you,” Stahler said. “I was here to see Mr. Wahlman. The unit secretary said he left AMA.”

“Not officially,” Jessie said. “That’s why I’m still here dealing with all this paperwork.”

“Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”

Stahler tried to keep his tone as casual as possible. Just a concerned physician, curious about the circumstances. Not a time-traveling assassin on a deadline, frantically trying to locate his mark.

“We know that he stopped at the impound lot,” Jessie said. “He assaulted the guy on night watch over there. Then he broke into the lot where they keep the vehicles and found his motorcycle and rode away. I’ve been on the phone with Security Forces about ten times already. They’re pretty sure he left the base.”

Not what Stahler wanted to hear.

“What was his mental status when he came out of the coma?” he asked.

“He was alert, but confused. Didn’t know his name, or where he was, or the date.”

“Combative?”

“Not toward me. But they said he knocked the guy out over at the impound lot.”

“Do you know the guy’s name?”

“Breakstone. He’s being treated down in the ER right now.”

Stahler looked at his watch, switched it to countdown mode. He still had about forty-five minutes to work with. After that, he would be at risk for being stuck in this timestream forever. Which, if the Wahlman situation was any indication, was pretty much a death sentence. He figured he could hurry down to the ER and talk to Breakstone, spin back to 2101 and file his report and start getting ready for another spin to 1983. And maybe another one after that. No telling how many trips it would take to track Wahlman down. The piece-of-cake assignment had turned into a piece of shit. It was going to be a long night.

“Give me a call if Mr. Wahlman happens to come back,” Stahler said, handing Jessie a business card with a pager number on it.

“I’ll probably be finished here and heading home in fifteen minutes or so,” Jessie said. “I’ll leave your card with the charge nurse.”

“That’s fine. Have a nice night.”

As Stahler turned and started to make his exit, the door swung open and another nurse stepped into the lounge. Petite, twenty-something, red hair and freckles. Her badge said Linda, RN, Med-Surg Services.

“Did one of the patients up here leave the hospital a while ago?” she asked.

“It was my patient,” Jessie said. “That’s why I’m still here. I was supposed to go home at eleven.”

“I overheard a couple of orderlies talking about it,” Linda said. “They said the cops are looking for him.”

“Right. Apparently he assaulted an officer over at the impound lot. And of course everyone’s blaming me for not keeping a better eye on him up here. It’s always the nurse’s fault, right? Like I really could have stopped him, even if I’d known he was leaving.”

“Is he a big guy? Like, really big?”

“Six-four, two forty,” Jessie said. “All muscle. Looks like he could break you in half if he wanted to.”

“I think I might have seen him,” Linda said. “I was late getting to work tonight, and he was leaving as I was coming in. I almost bumped into him on the sidewalk. He was walking beside one of the nurses I work with down on the third floor. I don’t know for sure that they were together, but it looked like they were.”

“He was with a nurse?”

“Diane Givens. Works three to eleven. Do you know her?”

“No,” Jessie said. “I don’t know her. But I think we better call Security Forces and let them know.”