Page 21 of Rowe

Five men. No gap. A clerk who could describe them. An orderly who had seen Dean reach inside his jacket. A lobby camera above the entrance and the possibility of several more. Sirens, if not yet audible, already promised.

The arithmetic settled badly.

Patrick heard a siren begin somewhere beyond the front entrance of the hospital. The tall stranger heard it too.

“This doesn’t end here,” he said.

“Most lobby conversations don’t,” Sonny said. “People validate parking, exchange recipes.” Christopher looked at the strangers’ boots.

“Melt.” Dean’s face reddened.

“You think because there are five of you—”

“There are more than five,” Odette said. The strangers looked around.

The orderly had set aside his mop. Two maintenance men stood near the emergency entrance. A respiratory therapist had emerged from the elevator holding a steel oxygen wrench. The elderly man beneath the television was now upright with a cane across his knees. Through the glass doors, a pair of shrimpers had stopped beside their truck and were watching.

Belle Fleur had not been summoned. It had noticed. The men were all summoned from their work during the recovery and were there without notice in minutes. Jethro glanced around the lobby.

“We may be overstaffed.”

“Union rules,” Christopher said. Patrick addressed the tall man.

“Here is what happens now. You walk outside. You get into whatever black vehicle completes the costume. You leave town slowly enough that nobody mistakes you for interesting.”

“And if we don’t?” Patrick considered the question with visible seriousness.

“Then Dean sweats through the rest of that jacket while we wait for the sheriff.” Dean’s hand flexed. Kai noticed.

“He is close,” Kai said. “To the jacket, I mean. Not the sheriff.” Sonny nodded.

“Another six minutes and that lining is legally a wetland.”

The pale man looked toward the glass doors. Heat shimmered above the parking lot. Their black sedan waited beneath a dying pecan tree, its interior baking in full sun.

“We came to help someone,” he said. Christopher’s answer was quiet.

“People who come to help give their names.” The pale man said nothing.

“They ask what the injured person needs,” Christopher continued. “They do not ask what room contains her. They do not hide things under their cuffs. They do not mention bosses before they mention the woman.” The tall man picked up his glasses.

“You’ve made assumptions.”

“Correct us,” said Patrick.

“We don’t owe you an explanation.”

“Then we’re comfortable with our assumptions.” The siren grew louder. Patrick stepped aside by six inches, opening a narrow path toward the exit and nowhere else.

“Door’s there.”

The tall man put on his glasses. They concealed his eyes but not the calculation behind his stillness.

“Tell her we came for her.” No one answered. “Tell her Mr. Rossi wants to speak with her about returning his property.”

The temperature of the lobby seemed to drop despite the steady climate control. Patrick’s voice lost its last trace of humor.

“She is not property.”