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keeping watch over Letton to be beneath him, yet he wouldn’t be happy with a job that required him to expend any energy either. He was one of those guys that needed to be shit-canned like yesterday, but he toadied up to Sheriff Nunce on a regular basis, so Will was stuck with him for now. And Laurelton General was outside the city limits and therefore the county’s problem, so good old Ralph was going to have to suck it up and play bodyguard.
    Except he was missing in action from his post.
    Silently cursing the man, Will placed a palm against the light oak door and pushed, taking a few quiet steps inside the room. Letton lay beneath the glow of a light attached to the headboard of his bed. His right leg had been broken in three places and he was skinned up like he’d been scraped over a cheese grater. But it was the injury to his skull that had placed him in a coma. Smithson probably figured there was no way the guy was leaving this place on his own power and had decided to check out the lunchroom. Nevertheless, Will didn’t plan on leaving till the guard returned.
    Seven minutes later Ralph came hustling down the hall carrying a tray. He’d raided both the cafeteria and some vending machines, as he balanced a heaping helping of some kind of stroganoff with mystery meat, and several bright, plastic bags of Fritos, Doritos, and other Lay’s and Ruffles products.
    He jerked as if caught in a nefarious act upon seeing Will. “What’re you doing here?”
    “Looking for you,” Will said mildly. “What’s the status on our patient?”
    Ralph hesitated, quickly reviewing his options. Will could practically read the questions running behind his bullish forehead: Should I play it safe? Be contrite? Come up with an excuse? Should I bluff my way out? In the end he regarded Will balefully, choosing to go on the attack. “Do I look like a doctor?” he sneered. “The fucker ain’t no patient. He’s a fucking pedophile.”
    “I’d ask you where you’ve been but it would be a redundant question.”
    “Yeah?” Ralph’s jaw clenched pugnaciously.
    “I’d just like you to stick by the door.”
    “That’s what I’m doin’, Kemosabe.”
    “I want Letton to wake up and explain about that gear in his van.” Will carefully tucked his annoyance behind a stoic facade.
    “He’s a sick fucker,” Ralph said, ripping open a bag of Fritos and stuffing a fistful into his mouth. “Hope he dies. Not that I’d do anything to help him along, but if he made a run for it, I’d drop him, man.”
    “He’s not going to be running anywhere,” Will pointed out.
    “He’s going straight to hell, that’s where. You tell that girl in room 434 she did the world a favor. Almost, anyway. If this fucker lives…” He shook his head and reached in the bag for another hammy fistful.
    Will left him to his food and retraced his steps toward the ER. At Gemma’s room, he gave up all pretense of disinterest and peeked inside.
    There was no one in the bed.
    No one in the room.

    Climbing out of bed had been all fine and good, but the dizziness that overwhelmed Gemma made her realize she wasn’t going to be able to hightail it to freedom with any real speed. She was injured, and her body wasn’t eager to move.
    “Damn,” she whispered, swaying as she headed toward the bifold closet doors which, when opened, revealed a small, built-in chest of drawers and little else.
    She found her clothes in a plastic bag in the top drawer of the chest. They were identified by the number 434 written on the bag in black felt pen. Gemma pulled the items out carefully and gazed in a kind of awe at the blood-soaked T-shirt and ripped jeans. The fabric over one thigh was sliced as if by a knife and Gemma looked down at the thin, superficial wound that ran down her corresponding leg.
    Another wave of wooziness grabbed her and she stumbled back to the bed, her clothes squeezed inside her fists. Her head throbbed. It took a lot longer than it should have to