Killer Weekend

Twenty

A different nurse-young and overweight, in loose-fitting blue scrubs-wheeled in the EKG trolley.

She maintained a professional air as she asked some questions, explained the EKG, and then helped him to sit up. She got his arms out of the nightgown and folded it across his lap. Trevalian sca

He had a chest thick with brown hair, but it was his nine scars that caught and held her attention. Her eyes jumped clinically one to the next, and he could imagine her explaining them to herself. Two bullet wounds, three stabbings, and four lacerations. She dispensed some shaving cream from a can and applied it to several areas on his chest. She then shaved him, rinsing the razor between strokes in the purple tub of warm water that she’d filled in the washroom.

When she was done, she took a towel to him and told him they’d wait a minute for the skin to dry completely.

“Could I trouble you for a refill?” He handed her the plastic pitcher of ice water from his bedside.

“No problem.” She headed into the washroom.

Trevalian slipped his hand through the side rail and snatched a disposable razor from a box on the lower shelf of the EKG trolley. He slipped it under the covers, between his legs-let her find it there-and lay back on the pillows. He’d spiked his heart rate and pumped up his adrenaline, wondering if that might skew his EKG.

The nurse returned with the water, poured some, and actually held the cup for him as he sipped from the straw. Like taking candy from a baby, he thought.

Twenty-one

T revalian waited for the di

He administered one last dose of painkiller from the electronic box attached to his bed and went to work disco

He moved the panel out of the way and slid it to the side, but only far enough to look vaguely out of place. The key to any ruse was psychology-to push and pull the adversary, allowing him his own discoveries. Trevalian wasn’t going to make this too obvious.

He covered the disposable razor with a towel and crushed it against the vinyl tile floor, making sure to pick up every last speck of broken plastic. He then removed a piece of adhesive tape from his arm and taped one of the razor’s two narrow blades to the end of a pen that read “St. Jude’s Community Hospital.” He tested it and added yet another piece of tape for reinforcement. Now it behaved like an X-Acto knife, the blade holding strongly to the end of the pen. A tool. A weapon.

He listened carefully for any indication his crushing of the razor had been overheard. Silence.

He checked the clock one last time, and then continued his work.

Twenty-two

T ommy Brandon sat across from room 26 at St. Jude’s Hospital. “Furnishings compliments of Christopher Guest and Jamie Lee Curtis” read a plaque immediately below the door number.

“You ever see her in that one with Arnold?” Brandon asked the Secret Service agent, who had the chair closer to the hospital room door. This man was technically in charge. He was also unresponsive. Brandon continued, “True Lies? Jamie Lee. That little dance she did. Fu

Still the agent failed to acknowledge him.

“This is what they call the technical integration of law enforcement agencies, right?” Brandon said sarcastically. “The politicians are fucking brilliant.”

“Put a sock in it, will you?” said the agent. “We start out like this, it’s going to be a long night.”

Both agents saw a nurse approaching. Brandon immediately looked away, keeping his eyes on the exit door at the end of the hallway; the two men had the entire hallway covered.

“He had an EKG not an hour ago,” the agent said to the approaching nurse. “How often are you going to check on him?”

“Just doing my rounds, Officer. Doing my job, same as you.”

“It’s Special Agent,” the man corrected. “I was just making conversation.”

“And I was just making conversation back.”

“We’ve got to search you,” the man advised her.

“I know.”

Brandon did not take his eyes off the far door. “He just came on shift. You’ll have to forgive him. He doesn’t realize you’ve already been through this three times, Maddie.”

“It’s all right. Let’s get it over with, please.” She raised her hands out like wings. She told the agent, “You get fresh with me, and your senior officer will hear about it.”

“Special Agent in Charge,” the man said, correcting her again.

“He’s still going to hear about it.”

He patted her down-gently and carefully-and cleared her. “Okay. You can go inside.”

“Gee, thanks,” she said.

She waited for the agent to unlock the door. She went inside, and he relocked it behind her.

“It’s Sunday,” Brandon told him. “No one likes getting a call on a Sunday.”

“Every day’s the same to me,” the agent said.

“That’s kind of sad, you ask me,” Brandon fired back. With the room door shut, Brandon was free to look in whatever direction he wanted. He chose to stare down the agent.

“But no one did ask you,” the agent said, determined to have the last word. Brandon could have kept playing, but decided against it. It was going to be a long night, and the sheriff seemed determined to keep him here-and away from his trailer-for as long as possible.

Twenty-three

O nly seconds after the nurse entered the hospital room there was a pounding on the door-not the casual knock that Brandon had grown used to but a frantic, full-fisted effort. Her voice barely made it through the thick door, but it sounded as if she was in a panic.

Brandon and the agent took positions, both with their weapons drawn, and the agent unlocked the door. He stepped back, prepared for a hostage situation where Trevalian was using the nurse to startle them.

She was red-faced, wide-eyed, and overly excited.

“He’s gone!” she said. “The bed…I checked the bathroom…”

Brandon glanced at the agent, then punched his radio and rattled off several codes, relaying an emergency. It was quickly worked out that the agent would go in, but without his weapon.

Brandon pulled the nurse out of the doorway. “Get gone,” he said.

The agent pulled open the door. The bed was empty. He edged toward the closet and slid the door across. Empty. Glanced under the bed. Nothing. Moved cautiously toward the bathroom, the door standing open. Checked the reflection in the mirror first-the bathroom appeared empty. He yanked the shower curtain back. No one. Then he caught it out of the corner of his eye: a ceiling panel over the bed. Slightly askew. Not like the others.

“Clear!” he shouted. He returned to the hallway, where several more deputies had gathered. He used hand signals to direct Brandon to follow. Together they entered the room. He pointed to the ceiling panel. Brandon climbed onto the end table and popped the ceiling panel out of its frame. He poked his head inside and squeezed a flashlight past his chin.