Warpath

Once he got directions to Algiers he grabbed a cab to the ferry and took the ride across. He used most of the rest of the day to check the area out, look for cops and, finally, locate Sangster’s house.

He was there long enough for the last ferry to have left, so he decided to spend the night outside of Sangster’s house. He wasn’t ready to go in. He was good at his job, and that meant learning all he could about his target, and the target’s environment.

That’s why he was there when the front door opened and Sangster came rushing out. The man got into an old Ford and drove off fast. The ferry still wasn’t running, but Quinlan had been told there was a bridge you could take back and forth. He didn’t have a car, though, so there was no way to follow Sangster. But that was okay. He needed to learn the set-up of the house, anyway. And he could do that while Sangster was gone.

Upon arrival at University Hospital on Perdido Street, Sangster parked the car he’d borrowed from in front of Burke’s house and sought out and found Nurse O’Malley, a pretty woman in her thirties with freckles and a mass of red curls that she’d tried to pin up under her nurse’s cap.

“Oh, yes, Mr. Stark,” she said. “Uh, your friend is still being treated. I’ll take you to talk to the doctor.”

“Thank you.”

“The police are here, as well.”

“The police?” Sangster asked. “Why?”

“Well, apparently your friend had been attacked,” she said, “and he had some sort of badge on him?”

“He’s a retired Sheriff,” Sangster said.

“I see.” She led Sangster deeper into the emergency room. Around him were people with all different sorts of injuries, a couple of which seemed to be pretty

bloody.

“You’re busy,” he observed.

“Yes, sir,” she said. “Since Katrina caused Charity Hospital to close down, we pick up a lot of extra cases. We pretty much split them with Tulane Hospital.”

The ex-hitman followed the nurse, hoping the police officers wouldn’t be too interested in who he was and he’d be able to get away with saying he was “a friend.”

As it turned out, he needn’t have worried. He saw two men talking to a tall, very skinny white-coated doctor, recognized them, immediately, and knew they would recognize him. The doctor was wearing a name tag that read, DR. JUDD, M.D.

“Doctor?” she said. “This is Mr. Burke’s emergency contact.”

The doctor and both detectives turned to face Sangster.

“Well, look who it is,” Detective Williams said. “Stark, right?”

“Mr. Stark,” Detective Aaron Telemaco said. “I should have realized—”

“How is Burke?” Sangster demanded.

The doctor looked at Telemaco for guidance, and the older detective nodded and said, “You can go ahead and answer, Doc.”

“Mr. Burke was attacked on the street,” the doctor said. His watery eyes studied Sangster from behind rimless wire-frame glasses. “He has a nasty lump on the back of his head, but no other obvious injuries.”

“What do you mean, ‘obvious injuries’?” Sangster asked.

“Well, just that,” the doctor said. “He’s in and out of consciousness.”

“Is that unusual with a head injury?” Sangster asked.

“Well, no . . .”

“But?”

“But this seems odd,” the doctor said. “I was just telling the detectives, we’ve taken x-rays and a cat scan, and we can’t see any reason for his condition.”

“He was hit on the head,” Sangster said.