The Charlemagne Pursuit by Steve Berry Page B

rectangle rose three stories. The file on the passenger seat lay open, ready for reference, but his attention returned to his iPhone and a Star Trek episode he’d downloaded. Kirk and a lizardlike alien were battling each other on an uninhabited asteroid. He’d seen every one of the original seventy-nine episodes so many times he usually knew the next line of dialogue. And speaking of babes, Uhura was definitely hot. He watched as the alien lizard cornered Kirk, but glanced away from the screen just as two people pushed through the front doors and walked toward a mocha-colored Ford hybrid.
    He compared the license plate with the file.
    The vehicle belonged to the daughter and her husband.
    Another man emerged from the hospital—midthirties, reddish hair—and headed for a zinc Toyota SUV.
    He verified the license plate. The son.
    An older woman followed. The wife. Her face matched the black-and-white photo in the file.
    What a joy to be prepared.
    Kirk ran like hell from the lizard, but Smith knew he wouldn’t get far. A showdown was coming.
    Same as here.
    Room 245 should now be empty.
    He knew the hospital was a regional facility, its two operating rooms utilized around the clock, the emergency room accommodating EMS trucks from at least four other counties. Plenty of activity, all of which should allow Smith, dressed as an orderly, to easily move about.
    He left the car and strolled through the main entrance.
    The lobby reception desk was unoccupied. He knew the employee went off duty at five PM and would not to return until seven AM tomorrow. A few visitors strolled toward the parking lot. Visiting hours ended at five, but the file had reminded him that most people did not clear out until nearly six.
    He passed the elevators and followed shiny terrazzo to the far side of the ground floor, stopping in the laundry room. Five minutes later he confidently strode off the second-floor elevator, the rubber soles of his Nurse Mates silent on the shiny tile. The halls to his left and right were quiet, doors to the occupied rooms closed. The nurses’ station directly ahead was occupied by two older women, who sat and worked on files.
    He carried an armful of neatly folded bedsheets. Downstairs in the laundry room he’d learned that rooms 248 and 250, the closest to 245, could use fresh sheets.
    The only difficult decisions he’d faced all day came when choosing what to upload on his iPhone and the actual means of death. Luckily, the hospital’s main computer had provided convenient access to the patient’s medical records. Though enough internal trauma was present to justify heart or liver failure—his two favorite mechanisms—low blood pressure seemed the doctors’ current concern. Medication had already been prescribed to counter the problem, but a note indicated they were waiting for morning before administering the dosage to give the patient time to regain his strength.
    Perfect.
    He’d already checked Virginia’s law on autopsies. Unless death resulted from an act of violence, via suicide, suddenly when in good health, unattended by a physician, or in any suspicious or unusual manner, there’d be no autopsy.
    He loved it when rules worked in his favor.
    He entered room 248 and tossed the sheets on the bare mattress. He quickly made the bed, tucking tight hospital corners. He then turned his attention across the hall. A gaze in both directions confirmed that all was quiet.
    With three steps he entered room 245.
    A low-wattage fixture tossed cool white light onto a papered wall. The heart monitor beeped. A respirator hissed. The nurses’ station continuously monitored both, so he was careful not to upset either.
    The patient lay on the bed—skull, face, arms, and legs heavily bandaged. According to the records, when first brought in by ambulance and rushed into the trauma center, there had been a fractured skull, lacerations, and intestinal damage. Miraculously, though, the spinal cord had not been damaged.