Robert Crais - Hostage

The newspeople were clumped together at the admitting desk, talking to a harried woman in a white coat. Marion listened enough to gather that she was the senior emergency room physician, Dr. Reese, and that tests were currently being run on Walter Smith. Two young nurses, both pretty with dark Toltec eyes, stood behind the admitting counter, watching with interest. Marion thought that this was probably very exciting for them, having the newspeople here.

Marion went to a coffee machine in the small waiting area and bought a cup of black coffee. A female police officer sat watching the interview. A young Latino man sat across from her, rocking a small baby while an older child slept half in his lap, half on the seat next to him. The man looked frightened in a way that let Marion think that his wife was probably the reason they were here. Marion’s heart went out to him.

“It’s like they’ve forgotten you, isn’t it?”

The man glanced up without comprehension. Marion smiled, thinking he probably didn’t speak English.

“That’s so sad,” he said.

Marion turned away and went back to the admitting area. A gate opened to a short hall, beyond which was a kind of communal room with several beds partitioned by blue curtains, and another hall with swinging doors at the end. Marion waited at the gate until an orderly appeared, then he smiled shyly.

“Excuse me. Dr. Reese said someone would help me.”

The orderly glanced at Reese, who was still busy with the reporters across the room.

“I’m Walter Smith’s next-door neighbor. They told me to pick up his clothes and personal effects.”

“That the guy who was the hostage?”

“Oh, yes. Isn’t that terrible?”

“Man, the stuff that happens, huh?”

“You never know. We’re worried sick. Those children are still in there.”

“Man.”

“I’m supposed to bring his things home.”

“Okay, let me see what I can do.”

“How’s he doing?”

“The doctor’s checking the CT results now. They should know soon.”

Marion watched as the orderly disappeared into one of the doors farther up the hall, then he stepped through the gate and walked up the hall just far enough so that the nurses at the admitting desk could no longer see him. He waited there until the orderly returned with a green paper bag.

“Here you go. They had to cut his clothes off, but there isn’t anything we can do about that.”

Marion took the bag. He could feel shoes in the bottom.

“Do I have to sign?”

“No, that’s all right. We’re not that formal around here. I used to work for County-USC; man, you had to sign for everything. Here, it’s not like that. These small towns are great.”

“Listen, thank you. Is there another way out of here? I don’t want to leave past the reporters. They were asking so many questions before.”

The orderly pointed to the swinging doors at the far end of the hall.

“Through there, then take a left. You’ll see a red exit sign at the end. That’ll bring you out the front.”

“Thanks again.”

Marion put the bag on the floor to go through Smith’s things. He did it right there. The bag contained jeans, a belt, a black leather wallet, white Calvin Klein briefs, a Polo shirt, gray socks, black Reebok tennis shoes, and a Seiko wristwatch. The clothes had all been split along the centerline. Marion felt the pants pockets, but found only a white handkerchief. There were no computer disks. Mr. Howell would be disappointed.

Marion tucked the bag under his arm and walked down the hall past the beds in the communal room. The beds were empty. Marion wondered about the Latino man’s wife, but stopped thinking about it when he found Smith in a room at the end of the hall. Smith’s left temple was covered in a fresh white bandage, and an oxygen cannula was clipped to his nose. Two nurses, one red-haired and one dark, were setting up monitor machines that Marion took to be an EEG and an EKG. That the nurses were only now setting up the monitors told Marion that the tests had just finished but the doctors were still waiting for results. That gave him time. When the doctors knew Smith’s true condition, they would either proceed with some additional intervention or move Smith into the main body of the hospital. A room there would make things easier, but surgery would make Marion’s job impossible. He decided not to take the chance.

Marion found a quiet spot farther down the hall where a gurney was resting against the wall. He put the bag on the gurney, then put a syringe pack and a glass vial of a drug called lidocaine into the bag. Both the syringe and the lidocaine were Marion’s, brought in from the car.

A tall young man pushed an empty wheelchair around a corner. He looked sleepy.

Marion smiled pleasantly.

“I used to tell myself I would get used to these hours, but you never do.” The man smiled back, sharing the tragedy of late hours.

“You’re telling me.”

When the man was gone, Marion worked inside the bag so no one could see. He tore open the syringe pack, twisted off the needle guard, and pierced the top of the vial. He drew deep at the lidocaine, filling the syringe. Lidocaine was one of his favorite drugs. When injected into a person with a normal healthy heart, it induced heart failure. Marion placed the syringe on top of Smith’s torn clothes so that it would be easy to reach, then closed the bag and waited.

After a few minutes, the dark-haired nurse left Smith’s room. Shortly after that, the second nurse left.

Marion let himself into the room. He knew that he didn’t have much time, but he didn’t need much. He put the bag on the bed. Smith’s eyes fluttered, opening partway, then closing, as if he was struggling to wake. Marion slapped him.

“Wake up.”

Marion slapped him again.

“Walter?”

Smith’s eyes opened, not quite making it all the way. Marion wasn’t sure if Smith could see him or not. Marion slapped him a third time, leaving a bright red mark on his cheek.

“Are the disks still in your house?”

Smith made a murmuring sound that Marion could not understand. Marion gripped his face again and shook it violently.

“Speak to me, Walter. Have you told anyone who you are?” Smith’s eyes fluttered again, then focused. The eyes tracked to Marion.

“Walter?”

The eyes dulled and once more closed.

“Okay, Walter. If that’s the way you want it.”

Marion decided it was time. He felt confident that he could report that the disks were still in the house and that Smith hadn’t been able to speak since his release from the house. The people in Palm Springs would be pleased. They would also be pleased that Walter Smith was dead.

“This won’t hurt, Walter. I promise.”

Marion smiled, and suppressed a laugh.

“Well, that’s not exactly true. Heart attacks hurt like a motherfucker.”

Marion opened the bag and reached in for the syringe.

“What are you doing?”

The red-haired nurse stood in the door. She stared at Marion, clearly suspicious, then came directly to the bed.

“You’re not supposed to be in here.”

Marion smiled at her. She was a small woman with a thin neck. His hands still in the bag, Marion let go of the syringe and lifted the clothes so that the syringe would fall to the bottom. He never took his eyes from the nurse or stopped smiling. Marion had a fine smile. Sweet, his mother always said.

“I know. I came for his belongings, but I got the idea of leaving something from home, you know, like a good-luck piece, and there was no one to ask.”

Marion took out the wallet and opened it. He took out a worn picture of Walter with his wife and children. He showed it to the nurse.

“Could I leave it? Please? I’m sure it will help him.”