Hit List (Stone Barrington #53)(41)

“So, it’s not his fault?”

“You’d have to ask a psychiatrist about that,” Stone replied. “Sig probably knows what he is, though, and he doesn’t care. That’s why he would kill you in a nanosecond, in order to protect himself from arrest.”

“That’s very troubling,” she said.

“As well it should be. Do you doubt that Sig could get into this hospital?”

“No, he’s very clever, and he still has his FBI credentials. He reported them lost or stolen when he left the Bureau.”

“I don’t think he would come in here to rescue you,” Stone said. “After all, you’re wounded; you couldn’t make it to the street. Do you think Sig knows that?”

“I suppose he does,” Frances said.

“If you’re unwilling to take my advice, what do you think will happen to you when you’re released from the hospital?”

“Oh, Sig would help me.”

“By that time, Sig will either be in jail or dead,” Stone said. “I can tell you what he will do if he comes to trial.”

“What would he do?”

“He’ll blame you. He’ll cook up a story in which you are the villain and he is the victim. Sociopaths always see themselves as victims when things go wrong.”

“Trixie, come,” she said, and the little dog jumped from Stone’s lap onto the bed.

“That is love,” Stone said, nodding at Trixie. “That’s not what you’re getting from Sig Larkin.”

“I’m beginning to think that,” Frances replied.





33


The nurse, Carol, came back into Frances’s room, looking worried.

“What’s wrong?” Stone asked.

“A security guard has been found dead at a side entrance to the hospital,” she said.

“Uh-oh. Is there a vacant room on this floor?”

“There’s a storeroom, two doors down. It’s large enough to take the bed.”

“Let’s go,” Stone said, grabbing the bed and motioning for Carol to push the IV stand in one hand and the head of the bed in another.

Stone propped the door open and looked up and down the hallway. The cop on station wasn’t on station.

“It’s to your left,” Carol said, “two doors down.”

“What’s wrong?” Frances asked.

“Sig is in the building,” Stone replied. “Keep Trixie quiet.” He pulled the bed, aligned it with the door, and moved it into the hallway, making the turn to the left. He found the storage room door and tried to open it.

“You’ll need this,” Carol said, tossing him a key.

He unlocked the door and pulled the bed inside, switching on the light.

Carol took something off a shelf and held it up, a doorknob sign reading, MORGUE PICKUP. “I’ll put this on her door,” she said, disappearing down the hall. She came back, rapped on the door, and Stone let her in and closed and locked the door. He looked around at the supplies stacked neatly on steel shelving. He grabbed a sheet, shook it open, and spread it over the bed, covering Frances’s face. “Our last line of defense,” he said to her. “Keep your breathing shallow.”

He found a stool and sat against the wall, the shelving hiding him. “Carol,” he said, “go be seen on the floor. If anyone asks you where Frances is, direct them down to the morgue. She died of her injuries.”

Carol let herself out of the storeroom and closed the door firmly behind her.

Stone removed his pistol from the shoulder holster, checked that there was a round in the chamber, then thumbed off the safety.

“Please don’t shoot him,” Frances said from under the sheet.

“Not unless I have to,” Stone said. What that really meant to him was, I’ll shoot him if I get the chance.

Trixie made a grumbling noise.

“Please keep her quiet,” Stone said.

He heard rushing feet from the hallway. One man, he reckoned. He heard a door open, then a pause, then the sound of it shutting. He heard a man ask someone, “Where is the morgue?”

Frances heard it, too, and began to move under the sheet. “Sig,” she said, as loudly as she could.

Stone pulled back the sheet and clamped a hand over her mouth. “Quiet,” he whispered, “or he’ll kill you.”

She shook her head. He heard the footsteps moving toward the elevator, and a moment later it arrived, and the doors opened and closed. “He’s going to the morgue,” Stone said, “to make sure you’re dead.” He took his hand away.

“You don’t know him,” she said, shaking her head.

“I know him better than you do,” Stone said. “He’s not the first murderous ex-husband or boyfriend I’ve dealt with.”

“You think everybody is bad,” Frances said.

“I think bad people are bad,” Stone replied. “I could make a case that you are one of them, but I’ve come to think better of you.”

Trixie seemed to think something was wrong. Stone stroked her head, calming her. “Trixie knows him better than you do,” he said to Frances.

Someone rapped at the door. Stone walked over and put his ear against it.