“Car accident, I’m told. I have no memory of it.” She pointed to her stitched-up scalp. “But I think I’ll have a nice souvenir.”

Jack thought her tone seemed a little too light. Was she putting on a show? Hiding fear?

“What about leading up to it?”

She shook her head, then quickly pressed her hands against her temples and closed her eyes. “Note to self: Don’t shake head.” Opening them again, she said, “I remember leaving the house and heading for an Internet café and that’s about it.”

“Retrograde amnesia,” Jack said. “Happens with head trauma.”

“Right. You know about that?”

He winked at her. “I read it.”

That had been her mantra when they were kids. She’d spout some tidbit of arcane lore and whenever Jack or anyone else would ask how she knew, that was what she’d say.

But he hadn’t read it. Through experience over the past year he’d learned too much about head trauma.

“Were you being followed or chased?” Harris said.

“I have no idea.”

“Excuse me,” said an accented voice from the doorway.

Jack saw a lean black man in scrubs pushing a gurney ahead of him.

“I must take”—he glanced at a yellow slip in his hand—“Louise for an x-ray. Please step aside.”

They complied and watched him wheel the gurney up to the bedside and pull the curtain. They waited, heard a few grunts of effort from her, then the curtain reopened and Weezy, propped up on pillows, was wheeled toward the door. She waved as she went by.

“I think I’m going to head home,” Harris told her. “A million things piled up while I was away. Now that I know you’re safe, I can concentrate on other stuff.”

“We need to talk,” she said.

“Do we ever. I’ll be in touch as soon as I get home.”

When she was gone, Jack turned to Harris. “You might be followed.”

He grinned. “If so, I’ll lose them. No one’s tailing me home.”

Jack had said it for effect. He figured if Harris was such a big shot in the Truther movement, whoever was interested in Weezy already knew where he lived. But then again, maybe not.

After Harris shook hands with both of them and left, Jack turned to Eddie.

“Did you give the hospital your address?”

“Not yet, but—”

“Your phone?”

“No, but I will before I—”

“Don’t. It can be traced to your home.”

“I’ve got to leave a number. What if something happens?”

“You’ve got mine. Give them that.”

“But—?”

“It’s prepaid. No billing address connected.”

Eddie nodded and headed for the door. “Good thinking.” He stopped at the door. “You’re not an appliance repairman, are you.”

“You’re wasting time.”

A few seconds after he left, a smiling Dr. Gupta showed up with a binder in his hand. “Well, well. We’ve had—” He stared at the empty bed. “Where is Mrs. Myers?”

“Down to x-ray.”

Gupta frowned and flipped through the chart. “That cannot be. I ordered no studies, and besides, her chart would go with her. I have it here.”

Jack had started moving on “That cannot be.” He ducked out into the hall and checked the elevator area. They would have had to take the gurney by elevator. No sign of her there. Already gone. She wouldn’t be making a fuss either. She’d be compliant until she realized something was wrong. By then she’d be out of earshot.

Jack took the stairs as fast as he dared. He lifted his shirt and pulled his Glock 19 from the nylon holster nestled in the small of his back. He tended to keep the chamber empty when he was walking around town. He worked the slide to remedy that now, then returned the weapon to its holster.

They’d want to move her off premises ASAP. They couldn’t use the lobby because she’d make a scene. Needed a back way.

The hospital had to have a loading dock for food and medical deliveries. After five now. Probably not much activity in those areas.

Okay, if he were going to spirit someone out of here, how would he do it? How about putting her in a box and loading her on a truck? Good, but someone might want to know what he was removing from the hospital. Could be stealing supplies, drugs.

Better: Pretend to be transporting a body to a funeral home. Perfect. People died all the time in hospitals and they weren’t taken out through the front door. The two main entrances were on Fifth and Madison, so most likely the loading area would be on a side street.

But how to get there? The medical center covered three square blocks.

He’d have to ask. He hated asking directions.

When he reached the main-floor level he stopped the first maintenance worker he saw.

“The undertakers are taking my mother’s body to the funeral home and I need to catch them before they go. Where do I find them?”

The guy sent him down another level. He had to ask again along the way, but finally reached an open receiving area where he spotted the black guy rolling the gurney off the edge of the dock into the open rear of a waiting panel truck. The guy with the bleach-blond hair was helping him. A black body bag lay on the gurney, held in place by duct tape. Whatever was inside the bag was moving.

What? No security?

And then, to his right, he spotted a portly figure slumped over a desk, blood leaking from his scalp.

Jack looked around for somebody, anybody to intervene. No one in sight. That left it all up to him. It meant exposing himself—something he never wanted to do—but he couldn’t let this go down.

He pulled his Glock and kept it pressed against his thigh as he hurried toward the pair. He’d loaded the magazine with alternating hardball and hollowpoint rounds. The top round was always a hollowpoint, so one of those was in the chamber now.

When he came within ten feet he called out, “Hey! I need a word with you guys.”

The head end of the body bag lifted and movements within the bag increased to a frenzy. The blond guy looked up. Shock of recognition flattened his features and then he was reaching inside his jacket. Jack was a half dozen feet away now and saw a pistol grip jutting from a shoulder holster.

“Let’s not,” he said.

Gunfire was the last thing he wanted.

But blondie didn’t even hesitate, so Jack raised the Glock and shot him twice in the chest. Then he swiveled and put two into the black guy who was fumbling for something under his scrubs top.

A look back at blondie showed him collapsing backward, his arms out-flung, his hands empty. The black guy was ninety degrees into a spin move as he hit the floor.

Neither moved again.

Shit. Why were some people such dumbasses? He’d have to put it in high gear now.

With the terrific din of the four reports echoing through the loading area, Jack returned the Glock to its holster and grabbed the weapon from blondie’s holster—a Tokarev 9, from the look of it. He had no idea what the rest of the day would bring. No such thing as too many guns.

Then he slid the gurney the rest of the way into the back of the panel truck and unzipped the top of the body bag. Weezy raised her head and looked at him, eyes wide, mouth sealed with duct tape. He pulled the tape off, then jumped out and slammed the rear doors. The truck was running. He slid behind the wheel, slammed into gear, and roared up the ramp.

“Jack!” Weezy cried from behind him. “My God, Jack! What just—ow!”

The acceleration slammed her gurney against the rear doors. He’d neglected to lock its wheels.

“Sorry.”

The gurney rolled forward again and struck the back of his seat when he stopped at the street. Only one choice here: left turn toward Fifth Avenue. He had to stop at the red light on Fifth so he used the opportunity to pull out his Spyderco and climb into the rear compartment.

“Jack?” Her expression bordered on panic. “What just happened?”

“You almost got kidnapped.”

He opened the bag further and saw that Weezy’s arms were duct taped against her sides.