Page 72 of Sharp Force
She stands by Benton’s open window, staring up contemptuously at the high-pitched annoyance.
“And it’s not right we have to put up with shit like this,” she complains. “The jerk in the van can probably hear everything we’re saying right now.”
“I have a feeling it won’t be a problem for long,” Benton replies as if he knows something we don’t. “I assume you’re also keeping track of anyone leaving the island.”
“Nobody has since we got here except cops in and out. But shift change is in an hour, and a lot of the hospital staff will be heading home.”
She keeps glancing up at the drone, the whining maddening.
“What about the staff coming in?” Benton asks her.
“We’ll check everyone, making sure no one unauthorized tries to sneak past us. Reporters for example.”
She returns Benton’s credentials.
“You’re good to go.” She pats his windowsill with a smile. “Y’all take care now.”
The police remove sawhorses and traffic cones to let us through, the drone following as we begin crossing the bridge. The aggressive quadcopter is directly over the back of our SUV, bird-dogging as if taunting and goading.
“The damn pilot probably picked up everything we were saying.” I watch in my visor mirror. “He’s having a good time messing with us.”
“I’d say that’s a safe bet.” Benton doesn’t seem concerned.
“The pilot knows who we are. Hell, we’re probably on live TV as we speak. Everyone can see your license plate in the process, by the way.”
“Sounds about right,” Benton replies as he drives, and now I’m hearing a helicopter, the thudding faint at first.
Then louder.
Next, it’s bearing down, and the drone zips straight up, speeding away as if escaping a large predator.
CHAPTER 24
Irecognize the guttural roar of the twin-engine Doomsday Bird I’ve flown in on many occasions.
“I know that earlier Lucy was on her way to HRT,” I’m saying to Benton. “She didn’t mention what she was up to.”
“She and Tron are doing aerial surveillance, among other things,” he explains as we watch the helicopter thudding low overhead, the noise deafening.
It begins a slow circuit of Mercy Island as we’re crossing the mile-long bridge. I can make out the weathered granite wall topped by iron spikes worthy of a medieval castle. Looming closer is the five-story psychiatric hospital with its leaded casement windows, its post-and-beam timber in a herringbone pattern.
“What are they looking for?” I watch the helicopter getting smaller as it flies past the island and begins looping back around.
“Whatever they can find,” Benton says. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if Dana Diletti’s drones have a sudden loss of signal. And, oops, drop from the sky.”
“It would be most appreciated if we can carry out the body and load it into the van without the entire world watching.” I stare up at the Doomsday Bird roaring back toward the entrance, slower and lower.
“I believe Lucy’s making sure that happens,” Benton says.
The bridge ends at Pitié Lane, the only road in and out of Mercy Island. We slow down at the stone wall’s entrance. The narrow opening is barricaded by a security gate, a boxy metal-encased motor with a wooden arm that goes up and down. One easily could duck under or climb over to enter the grounds.
Standing guard are FBI uniformed officers in ballistic gear and heavily armed. They’re keeping an eye on Dana Diletti and her crew huddled near a silver cargo van with a rooftop satellite dish. She continues inching closer, her cameras pointed at us as Benton slows to a stop, humming down his window.
“Special Agent Benton Wesley, Secret Service.”
He displays his credentials to one of the FBI officers, nice-looking in dark blue, and extremely fit. Lucy’s helicopter passes overhead as loud as a tornado.
“I know who you are, sir. Good morning,” he says. “Merry Christmas.”
