In the Heart of the Wind Book 1 in the WindTorn Trilogy (38 page)

As the drug swept through his body, inching its way into every pore, every muscle, every vein, across nerve endings, invading tissue and organs, claiming him, his last thought was that it didn’t matter if he forfeited his life as long as his friends were kept out of harm’s way.

He felt them turning him over. His body was limp and unresisting. He looked blankly up at Beecher’s angry, hateful face, his own slack eyes straining to stay open. He winced as the restraints were dragged across his flesh and his arms and legs were pinioned to the bed in brutal jerks of the canvas straps.

His last sight was of Beecher grinning, the smile a death’s head smirk of promise.

Kyle wondered why
they had all been gathered in the little chapel. He’d watched in surprise as the other patients were given pills and water, before they were led to the room where they now sat and were given hymnals.

“It’s not Sunday,” Rebecca had protested to the nurse.

“It’s a Holy Day of Obligation,” one of the patients had cried, clapping his hands.

“No,” one of the nurses had said. “Just an assembly. Doctor has a surprise for you.”

“What kind of surprise?”

“Now, you know it wouldn’t be a surprise, Vincent, if I told you,” the nurse said with a laugh.

Everyone was there: the patients; the nurses; the orderlies; the kitchen staff; the grounds keepers... Everyone except Dr. Lassiter and the poor man kept in the bungalow out back, and he suspected, the guards out front.

Kyle looked for Gabe in the crowd and didn’t see him either. He leaned toward Rebecca.

“Where’s Jamie?”

Rebecca shrugged. “I don’t know.” Her eyes were dreamy. The drug she had taken was making her smile.

Everyone had been given those drugs. All the patients at any rate.

All except himself, Kyle thought.

Had it been an oversight?
Were they even now realizing he hadn’t been medicated along with the rest of them? He saw Beecher staring at him. Did the man know he hadn’t been given meds along with the others? As Beecher’s eyes moved on to stare at one of the other men, Kyle breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

“David.”

Kyle turned and found Dr. Lassiter standing in the doorway. He faked a smile, nodded at the psychiatrist. “Is my mother still here?”

Lassiter shook his head. “She had to leave, but she’ll be back when it’s time for you to go.”

The smile slid from Kyle’s face. “Go? Go where?”

“You’re being transferred this evening, David.” Lassiter nodded at one of the patients, then turned his eyes back to Kyle. “Back to Georgia.”

Absolute astonishment filled Kyle and he stood facing the doctor. “Who said so?”

“It was your mother’s idea, I believe.”

The astonishment Kyle had felt at the physician’s words turned to dismay, then a letdown so great he thought he might cry. If Edna Mae was taking him out of the clinic, that could only mean one of two things—either the man she had hoped was Gabe, wasn’t or Gabe had been found, and if he had been found, the chances weren’t in their favor or she would have stayed around long enough to tell him.

“You may be excused from the assembly in about thirty minutes, David. In order to get your things ready for departure.” His eyes bore into Kyle. “James Sinclair will also be leaving tonight. I hate to lose two of you at the same time, but such are the vagaries of fate, eh?”

“Jamie is leaving?” Why did that news send a cold finger of dread down his spine, Kyle wondered.

“His family is coming for him this evening.” Again the doctor’s eyes fused with Kyle’s. “After your departure, I believe. I explained to your mother, it might be best if the two of you didn’t leave at the same time.”

For a second, Kyle didn’t understand the implication behind the psychiatrist’s words, but when the full realization of exactly what it meant finally penetrated the fog of confusion in Kyle’s mind, his eyes widened and his heart began to hammer.

My God, a voice inside his head screamed. It
is
Gabe! Jamie Sinclair really
is
Gabe James!

“I wish you both success, David,” Lassiter was saying, drawing Kyle’s eyes to his own. “Both you and Jamie.”

Kyle stared at the physician.
What did the man mean?
Lassiter smiled sadly and Kyle finally understood. There could be only one explanation for the look in the doctor’s eyes—Lassiter knew what they were up to and he had warned Edna Mae that Jamie was about to be transferred.
Who else knew?

“Cobb will accompany you when the ambulance arrives. He’ll be sent back on one of Dr. Gardner’s private jets.” Lassiter looked toward the black man and nodded. “He’s never flown and he’s looking forward to it, aren’t you, Cobb?”

“Yes, sir, Dr. Lassiter, sir.” He shifted his eyes to Kyle.

You know, don’t you?
Kyle looked at the orderly.
Lassiter has told you what’s going to happen tonight and you’re a part of it.
Idly he wondered if the black man still felt a strong sense of dislike toward him; if he still thought Kyle was the pervert Dr. Gardner had labeled him. He didn’t think so because the way the black man was regarding him was different than the way he usually looked at him.

“I won’t bite you, Cobb,” Kyle said. His eyes slid down the orderly. “I don’t like dark meat.”

Cobb’s lips twitched. “Then I won’t have anything to worry about. Will I, Mr. David?”

Kyle sniffed and turned his head away. He found Beecher’s stony eyes sizing him up and felt a shiver of dread travel down his spine. He didn’t trust the man. He actually loathed him. If Beecher was a Tremayne family plant, he would have to be dealt with. And soon.

Staring from across
the room at Boudreaux, Beecher was satisfied he had intimidated the queer. The man was big, Beecher acknowledged. And he looked in pretty good shape. But he thought he could take him. No, in a fair fight, or one heavily in Beecher’s favor, the orderly
knew
he could take the candy-assed fruit. The bastard couldn’t even meet his gaze for long without turning away.

Oh, yeah, Beecher thought. I could whip your ass in a New York minute!

The bulk of Beecher’s mind wasn’t on Boudreaux though. He was pleased with himself for being able to carry out Mr. Tremayne’s orders without anyone on the staff knowing what he’d done. A sick smile stretched his lips and he glanced at Harrison. Not even Harrison knew what he’d been able to achieve after all the nut cases had been gathered in the chapel.

“One hundred milligrams, Beecher. IV,” the old man had gasped on the phone. “One hundred at five-thirty and another at seven.”

“That’ll dust him, Mr. Tremayne,” Beecher had protested. “That bitch, Jeffers, gave him a hundred at four-forty-five.”

There had been a short pause, then the chilling, malevolent voice of Liam Tremayne had rasped across the line.

“And another hundred at eight.” A wet cough barked into the receiver. “Don’t get caught. The ambulance will be there by nine at the latest. It’ll be impossible for them to revive him.” Another cough, then words as cold as the farthest reaches of hell. “Make sure he’s gone before the ambulance arrives. Do I make myself clear, Beecher?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Tremayne,” the orderly had confirmed. “He’ll be history by the time they get here.”

“I’m counting on it, Beecher.”

The line had gone dead, as dead as Jamie Tremayne was going to be once the drugs in his system began to shut down his respiratory system.

It had been easy popping the unconscious man an extra dose. There had been no one around to see the needle Beecher had thrust into Tremayne. Just like there wouldn’t be anyone around to see the IV go into him at seven.

Beecher’s eyes slid to Boudreaux once more and he frowned. He’d wait until the fag was gone, then slip the man in 158 another dose of calm.

A slight chuckle rattled in Beecher’s chest.

It’s going to be easy as killing baby chicks.

Andrew Tremayne
glanced past the limo driver’s shoulder to the orange-and-white Fairfield Ambulance Service van ahead of them. The rain had started almost as soon as he had landed in New Orleans and was slashing against the windshield of the ambulance with enough force to slow the driver. They had been practically crawling along the road, water sloshing against the car’s undercarriage, the tires hydroplaning occasionally as the water on the road streamed across the pavement in sheets.

“What time is it, Curtis?” Andrew asked. He’d dropped off his watch at the jewelers to be cleaned that morning and felt lost without it.

The driver flicked on the map light, held up his left wrist and glanced in the rear view mirror.

“A little past six-thirty, Mr. Tremayne. We should be there by seven.”

Andrew looked away. “I hope so. I want to get this the hell over with.”

He hated Louisiana. Despised it actually. The less time he spent there, the better. He considered the people rude, uneducated, and as liable to in-breed as not. His opinion was only reinforced as bright high-beam headlights suddenly flashed into the back seat, casting the interior of the car into a gray light.

“Turn them brights off, you idiot,” Tremayne’s driver snarled, flipping the night time driving portion of his rear view mirror into place. He moved to the right in his seat, away from the sharp, piercing glare of the lights in his side mirror.

“Let the bastard pass,” Andrew griped.

The driver slowed, then cursed as the vehicle behind them pulled into the passing lane and started around them, its brights still slashing spears of light into the rainy night.

“Son of a bitch, if that ain’t an ambulance,” the driver grumbled as the van passed them. “That fool ought to know better than to ride around out on a night like this with his high beams blinding a person!”

“Well, he’s going a might too fast for conditions,” Andrew observed. “It wouldn’t surprise me if we rounded a bend to see him on his side in the ditch.”

The driver snorted. “Wouldn’t hurt me none if we did.” He chuckled. “Might hurt his patient, though, if he’s transporting one.”

Andrew thought no more of the ambulance, but s ettled back in the seat, closed his eyes and went over the day’s trial in his mind, looking for ways he could have been even better in the courtroom. He ignored the limo that sped past them in the wake of the ambulance. If some fool wanted to kill himself on a dark, slick, rainy Louisiana road tonight, he sure as hell didn’t care.

Beecher pulled back
on the plunger, wondering why he bothered since the man lying in the bed was as good as worm fodder anyway. So what if he caught an embolism? He had enough dope in him now to kill two men. What was a little bubble of air amongst friends?

Capping the syringe, he slid it into his pocket and pulled the sheet over the needle prick on the inside of Tremayne’s elbow. He was about to turn away when he saw Boudreaux standing in the doorway.

“What are you doing here, Boudreaux?” he snarled, walking away from the bed, wondering what, if anything, the faggot had seen.

Kyle looked past the burly orderly and saw that Jamie was sleeping. His eyes slowly slid back to Beecher.

“I’m being transferred home tonight and I came to say goodbye to Jamie.”

“That and what else?” the orderly sneered. “You get your ass up to your room. We’ll call you when your ride gets here.”

Kyle shrugged, pretending nonchalance, but his sixth sense told him Jamie wasn’t merely sleeping, but as far under as drugs could take him. He turned sideways, allowing Beecher to walk through the door.

“Go on,” Beecher snapped. “Get on upstairs.” He reached for the handle of Jamie’s door to pull the heavy oak closed behind them.

“You’re a real sweetheart, you know that, Beecher?” Kyle asked in a harsh voice. “How many men have you put it to?”

Beecher’s meaty hands balled into fists. “Get...up...those...stairs, Boudreaux.”

“Save some for me, eh, Beecher?” Kyle grinned, knowing the big man was all talk and no show as long as you stood up to him.

Doc glanced at
Mary Bernice as he turned the ambulance into the clinic’s driveway. The black woman’s hands were digging into the dashboard as she stared with wide eyes at the high wrought-iron gates.

“Easy does it, Mary Liz,” Doc said in a low, calm voice. “You’re supposed to be an EMT, girl. You’re supposed to have nerves of steel, remember?”

Mary Bernice turned her worried eyes to Doc Remington and nodded. Her mouth was too dry for speech; her lips too rigid to do anything but press together even harder. She sat back in the seat, her hands going to her lap as Doc rolled down the window. A thin sheet of rain swept in.

“May I help you?” came a disembodied voice through the speaker on the gate.

“Fairfield Ambulance to pick up Boudreaux,” Doc called out.

“All right. One moment, please.”

Doc rolled up his window as the double gates slowly began to swing inward.

“Two guards,” Mary Bernice said quietly. She nodded to the left.