Shadowfires

he had cleaned
with paper towels but which remained smeary-looking. And because of
his trouser legs: Having gotten wet, the material had dried baggy and
wrinkled. You could not be taken seriously, be respected, or become a
legend if you looked as if you'd just slopped pigs.
    An hour after dawn, at the third hospital, Desert General, he hit
pay dirt in spite of his sartorial inadequacies. Sarah Kiel had been
admitted for treatment during the night. She was still a patient.
    The head nurse, Alma Dunn, was a sturdy white-haired woman of
about fifty-five, unimpressed with
Peake's credentials and incapable of being intimidated. After checking on Sarah Kiel, she returned to the nurses'
station, where she'd made Peake wait, and she said, “The poor girl's
still sleeping. She was… sedated only a few hours ago, so I
don't expect she'll be awake for another few hours.”
    “Wake her, please. This is an urgent national security matter.”
    “I'll do no such thing,” Nurse Dunn said. “The girl was hurt. She needs her rest. You'll
have to wait.”
    “Then I'll wait in her room.”
    Nurse
Dunn's jaw muscles bulged, and her merry blue eyes turned cold. “You certainly will not. You'll
wait in the visitors' lounge.”
    Peake knew he would get nowhere with Alma Dunn because she looked
like Jane Marple, Agatha
Christie's indomitable amateur detective, and no one who looked like Miss Marple would be intimidated. “Listen, if you're
going to be uncooperative, I'll have to talk to your superior.”
    “That's fine with me,” she said, glancing down disapprovingly at his shoes. “I'll
get Dr. Werfell.”
Beneath the earth in Riverside, Anson Sharp
slept for one hour on the Ultrasuede sofa in Vincent Baresco's office, showered in the small adjacent bathroom, and changed into a fresh suit of clothes from the suitcase that he had kept with him on every leg of his zigzagging route through southern California the previous night. He was blessed with the ability to fall asleep at will in a minute or less, without fail, and to feel rested and alert after only a nap. He could sleep anywhere he chose, regardless of background noise. He believed this ability was just one more proof that he was destined to climb to the top, where he longed to be, proof that he was superior to other men.
    Refreshed, he made a few calls, speaking with agents guarding the
Geneplan partners and research chiefs at various points in three
counties. He also received reports from other men at the Geneplan
offices in Newport Beach, Eric
Leben's house in Villa Park, and Mrs. Leben's place in Placentia.
    From the agents guarding Baresco at the U.S. Marine Air Station in
El Toro, Sharp learned that Ben Shadway had taken a Smith &
Wesson.357 Magnum off the scientist in the Geneplan office last
night, and that the revolver could not be located anywhere in that
building. Shadway had not left it behind, had not disposed of it in a
nearby trash container or hallway, but apparently had chosen to hold
on to it. Furthermore, agents in Placentia reported that a.32-caliber
semiautomatic pistol, registered to Rachael Leben, could be found
nowhere in her house, and the assumption was that she was carrying
it, though she did not possess a permit to carry.
    Sharp was delighted to learn that both Shadway and the woman were
armed, for that contributed to the justification of an arrest
warrant. And when he cornered them, he could shoot them down and
claim, with a measure of credibility, that they had opened fire on
him first.
As Jerry Peake waited at the nurses' station for Alma Dunn to return with Dr. Werfell, the hospital came alive for the day. The empty halls grew busy with nurses conveying medicines to patients, with orderlies transporting patients in wheelchairs and on gurneys to various departments and operating theaters, and with a few doctors making very early rounds. The pervading scent of pine disinfectant was increasingly overlaid with others-alcohol, clove oil, urine, vomit-as if the busily scurrying staff had stirred stagnant odors out of every corner of the building.
    In ten minutes, Nurse Dunn returned with a tall man in a white lab
coat. He had handsome hawkish features, thick salt-and-pepper hair,
and a neat mustache. He seemed familiar, though Peake was not sure
why. Alma Dunn introduced him as Dr. Hans Werfell, supervising
physician of the morning shift.
    Looking down at
Peake's muddy shoes and badly wrinkled trousers, Dr. Werfell said,