The Girl Who Survived(69)

And she wasn’t wrong. The crowd’s mood had turned from anticipation to impatient and rebellious. Beyond angry. A shifting and undulating energy pulsing through the wintry air. He saw a couple of uniforms exiting the elevator and race toward the door. Deputies he recognized. Deputies assigned to guard Jonas McIntyre.

Fuck! This was all wrong. He felt as if he was being played.

“We need to break this up,” he said to Johnson just as the sound of sirens spit the air.

“The cavalry,” she said as the wail of the sirens increased.

“The cops! Someone called the cops!” a woman in a bright yellow beret announced furiously.

Another woman in jeans and a down vest cried, “Jonas is coming! He’s coming down to see us!”

“How do you know?”

She was beaming, cradling a coffee cup. “I just talked to a doctor and he said Jonas is being brought down. Here. To see us.”

“That doesn’t sound right,” an unseen skeptic said as Thomas noted the camera crew disembarking from the van in the lot, a reporter he recognized from Channel 3. Sheila Keegan in a heavy red ski jacket, her curly hair catching snowflakes, was scanning the crowd as she hurried forward, a cameraman on her heels. He, too, was in the red Channel 3 jacket, a bulky camera hoisted onto his shoulder.

“He’s coming! Jonas is coming!” other voices chimed.

At that the reporter looked up sharply and zeroed in on the vested woman.

And the first woman, breathless and starry-eyed, nodded. “A doctor just told me: He’s coming!”

“That’s impossible,” Mullins said, “The guy’s sedated. McIntyre, I mean.” He held up his hands as the crowd pushed forward. “No one goes inside unless they are patients of Whimstick General and—”

“He’s coming! He’s coming!” another couple of women cried, rushing the doors.

What the devil? Why would the crowd think Jonas was being released? His eyes narrowed on the surge of faces, all ruddy and eager, and the news crew trying to set up, an elderly couple huddled near a car in the lot, everyone intent on getting into the hospital, except . . . he caught a glimpse of an intern hurrying the opposite direction, still in scrubs and a jacket, hurrying across the parking area.

It seemed wrong to him.

Out of place, though he couldn’t put a finger on it, just followed his gut instinct. “I’ll be right back,” he said to Johnson as he started wending his way through people, moving faster, but getting nowhere as the crowd seemed to congeal around him. The intern paused again, long enough to say something to a woman in a black puffy coat and her face lit up. “He’s coming,” she cried, juggling a cup of coffee from a local shop. “Jonas is coming down!” She rushed forward, her face glowing.

“Son of a bitch.” Thomas took off after the intern, but the crowd swelled forward.

“Hey, Thomas, you gotta help us out here!” Mullins pleaded.

“I will.” At that moment a determined fan and the petite redhead were having none of it. Swinging her sign to clear a path toward the doors, she pushed past Mullins and rushed forward. “Jo-nas! Jo-nas!” A drumbeat.

“Jesus H. Christ!” the guard was on a walkie-talkie in an instant.

His partner tried to hold the door but was unceremoniously shoved to the ground under the portico. The crowd pushed forward, through the first set of glass doors, holding them open as more people poured through the second set leading to the wide reception area.

People rushed by, some sidestepping her, others tripping over her.

“Oh, shit. Don’t go for your weapon!” Mullins commanded, staring at his fallen partner, trying to reach her. “Don’t go for your weapon!”

But she was reaching for her sidearm and Thomas, closer to her, struggled to get to her side. “Don’t,” he said, more quietly, placing his hand over hers before she pulled her pistol. He saw her name tag: MADGE PETROSKI. “Come on.” He held out his hand as some eager bystander knocked into him, but he managed to remain standing. “Back off!” He helped her to her feet. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Then her face squeezed together. “No.” Dark eyes flashed as she surveyed the mob. “They’re frickin’ crazy! Lunatics,” she muttered, her fury palpable. He didn’t blame her. Petroski was right. The mob was incited, an angry moving curtain. They were all hyped, certain they were about to see their beloved icon. The damned murderer. With these frenzied women of all walks of life idolizing him. She surveyed the crowd. “This is gonna get ugly.”

“It already is.” But the sirens were screaming closer.

“Detective Thomas!” a woman’s voice yelled. “Cole! Cole Thomas! If I could talk to you?” Sheila Keegan was waving one arm aloft, trying to get his attention, her cameraman at her side.

Thomas’s stomach dropped a notch. He didn’t have time for an interview.

“Just a few words.” She was trying to move through the throng, but he was ignoring her, searching for the intern who had been nearly jogging away from the scene, as if he were hurrying to get away.

Or maybe just moving quickly because he was late. Or cold.

Too late to find out. The guy was long gone. Had disappeared into the night.

Thomas bit back a curse. The intern hustling away seemed out of place, and Thomas knew from experience that wasn’t a good sign. Who the hell was he? As he turned back to the hospital and caught Sheila Keegan’s red jacket out of the corner of his eye, he thought about the hospital cameras. Maybe there was an image of the intern. If the guy turned out to be legit, so be it, but if not, maybe he could be identified.