Deadline

“I know who he is. Why’s he here?”

“To dispel any of Wingert’s bullshit.”

The two marshals exchanged another uneasy glance, then one worked up enough courage to challenge him. “Sorry, sir. I can’t let you go in without—”

“Authorization?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fine.” His cell phone was lying in his lap. He nodded down to it. “The AG’s number is programmed under the numeral eight. Wake up our boss and tell him that you’re denying me access to a fugitive that I and the entire Department of Justice have been chasing down for nearly forty years.” Smiling benignly, he added, “He’ll probably be tickled to hear from you.”

It took the marshal about three seconds to decide. He left the phone where it was. “Are you armed, sir?”

“Yes. With a catheter up my dick and the bag into which my bladder is draining. You’re welcome to check.” Again he nodded down at his lap, covered only by the flimsy hospital gown.

The marshal said, “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

“Son, even if I had a weapon, I can’t move my hands.”

Meanwhile the other marshal had been patting down Dawson. “He’s good.”

One of them held open the door as Dawson wheeled Headly into the room where Carl Wingert was strapped to the bed not only by restraints but also by a network of medical paraphernalia.

Dawson pushed the wheelchair to the bedside. Carl’s eyes were closed. Headly said his name, and when he failed to respond, he told Dawson to poke him. None too gently, Dawson prodded Carl’s elevated bandaged leg. Groaning, he opened his eyes to slits. They flared wide when he saw the two of them.

Being this close to him again, Dawson suddenly felt claustrophobic. The sound of a thousand bees buzzed inside his head, their racket underscoring the blips and beeps of the various machines and IV drips that Carl was hooked up to. Their tubing created the same tangle at the side of the bed that Dawson had remarked on in Headly’s room.

Carl was the first to speak. “Well, well,” he said to Headly. “At last we meet.” He took note of the wheelchair. “In the flesh, you don’t look so tough.”

“You don’t either.”

“I’ve had better days.”

Headly shot him a grin. “I haven’t.”

“Chalk one up for you. You figured me out today.”

“You’re getting old, Carl. No longer as smart as you think.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” He spoke in a musical, disarming tone reminiscent of Bernie.

“Do you hurt?”

“All over.”

“Good.”

“Why didn’t they kill me?”

“Because I ordered them not to.”

“I wonder why?” Again, another sly smile, then he focused on Dawson. “Tell me, boy, how does it feel?”

Dawson had been following their exchange, but also studying the nest of plastic tubing at Carl’s bedside. Now he looked at the man. “How does what feel?”

“Fucking your dead brother’s wife.”

It took incredible control for him not to lunge at the man and wrap his fingers around his throat. Instead, he leaned down until his face was within inches of Carl’s. “You left me to die.”