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knows I m interested in the case. So Sanderson s still there.
Kowalski wasn t too sure. There were few buildings on Earth he or Midnight or any
other SEAL couldn t get out of. It was also true that, generally speaking, music
producers didn t go through SEAL training. Still, he wasn t taking any chances.
Where is this place? What s the name?
The Spring Harbor Psychiatric Institute and Correctional Facility. They get big
grants for research. It s about thirty-five miles out of town, toward Mt. Hood.
Kowalski calculated. With the traffic, it would take him about an hour to get there,
and back, calculate another hour while there. Whatever it took, though, he wasn t going
back to Allegra without some solid answers. Jacko would stay and guard her for
however long it took. Okay, I m going now to check it out and see if Sanderson could
leave long enough to terrorize Allegra and sneak back in. Bud was shaking his head.
What?
I guess you didn t hear me the first time around. Bud brought his left hand with
the IV needle taped to the back up to tick off the points. First he s in a psychiatric
institution. They don t let guys waltz in and out of there, otherwise they ll lose their
contract with the government and would be hauled before the Prison Board. Second
whatever s going on out there, they re not going to tell you, a civilian, squat. You d
need a warrant, or at least you d need to go with a cop and I m not going anywhere at
the moment. Three what the fuck are you doing?
Bud s weak voice registered shock as Kowalski calmly reached into the top drawer
of the hospital bedside table and pulled out Bud s badge. He hung the badge over his
belt as Bud struggled to sit up. Listen, don t even think of it, Bud said, breathing
heavily as he made it to a semi-sitting position, wincing as he leaned on one elbow.
The two of them locked gazes like two old moose locking antlers. But Bud s antlers
had been clipped. He gave up. Ah, shit. His head hit the pillow again. Don t kill
anyone while flashing my badge.
Try not to. Kowalski headed for the door.
Bud raised his voice. And I want that badge back tomorrow, you hear!
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Lisa Marie Rice
Kowalski closed the door quietly behind him and headed for the stairs, moving fast.
It was a place for the rich. The crazy rich, Kowalski thought, as he walked the
perimeter of Spring Harbor Institute. His SUV was parked a mile down the road at a
roadside dive. He d smeared some mud on the fenders and sidewalls to make his
vehicle fit in. No one was going to notice his vehicle among the thirty others parked
there outside the shabby building with loud music leaking from every joint.
Kowalski had fast-walked to the Institute, staying just off the two-lane blacktop,
about ten feet into the old-growth forest, ready to leap away at the first hint of a car, but
there had been no cars along the way. Just the fading day, the tall, ancient trees looking
ever more ghostly in the twilight, and silence.
He hit the walled perimeter about two hundred feet from the gates, visible along
with the road to his left. Instead of moving there, he walked around the entire wall
counterclockwise, checking security arrangements.
They weren t top-of-the-line, but they weren t bad. He and Midnight might actually
have a little trouble getting in and out. Not much, but some. There were unobtrusive
security cameras on stanchions rising every twenty feet from the stone wall. Every five
minutes, the cameras made a full revolution. Kowalski recognized the make, and they
had a deep security flaw they only had a narrow angle of vision, which meant that if
you timed it right, you could waltz right by through the dead zones. He didn t even
have to time it right because the cameras weren t equipped with infra-red detectors, so
all he had to do was stay in the gloom of the trees and observe.
He finally came full circle to the gates, observing them through his spotting scope.
Very discreet brass plaque with the words Spring Harbor Psychiatric Institute and
Correctional Facility engraved in fancy script. The security cameras trained on the
entrance were heavy-duty and very visible. The gate was big and thick, the lock ten
inches high. A steel plate running the width of the road would, at the push of a button,
rise and present spikes to any incoming or outgoing vehicle. All in all, a very
impressive-looking security system, and perfectly useless. It obviously hadn t occurred
to the administration that anyone seeking illegal entry or looking to escape wasn t
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