Sudden Prey

the steering wheel with both hands, tears pouring down his face.
    LaChaise finally pushed himself up into the seat beside him and pointed the way: down to Washington, right, around a curve to a lighted sign that said several things, but concluded with “Jesus Saves,” down a ramp and onto a covered bridge.
    “Shut up, for Christ’s sakes, you do this right, I won’t hurt you.”
    “I know you,” the kid said, “you’re gonna kill me.”
    “I ain’t gonna fuckin’ kill you if you do right; I got no quarrel with you.”
    But the kid started up again and LaChaise said, “Jesus Christ,” in disgust, and they rolled off the bridge past the beer-can building, up the hill to Harvard Street.
    “Turn,” LaChaise said. The kid stopped weeping long enough to get around the corner, and before he could start again, LaChaise said, “Go straight ahead to that turnaround and then stop.”
    “You gonna kill me there?”
    “I’m not gonna fuckin’ kill you, unless you get smart,” LaChaise said. “Just stop there and let me out, and go on your way.”
    There were a half-dozen people on the street, coming and going from the hospital, slip-sliding down the side-walks. Operations took place early in the morning. LaChaise had had two operations himself, for an appendix and to get a skin patch put over a bad case of road rash, and both times, they’d woken him up at dawn for the trip down to the operating room.
    “Right there,” he said, “behind that red Chevy.”
    The kid pulled in behind the Chevy, and LaChaise eased himself out, the backs of his legs on fire. The kid was looking at the gun and LaChaise grinned at him and dug into his jeans, found the remnant of the cash they’d taken from Harp, pulled out the wad of bills and threw it on the passenger seat. A couple of thousand dollars, anyway. “Thanks for the ride,” he said, and he stepped away from the car and slammed the door, and walked up to the hospital entrance.
    He felt like a cowboy.
    He carried his own pistol, the ’dog .44, in his right hand, and pulled Martin’s pistol out of his left pocket, and pushed through the doors using his elbows.
    An information counter was just inside the doors to the right. A security guard sat behind the desk, watching a portable television. Three more people, two women and a man in a white medical jacket, were scattered around the lobby chairs, the women reading, the man staring sightlessly at the wall, as though he’d made an unforgivable error somewhere.
    LaChaise walked over to the guard, who looked up only at the last minute, a smile dying a sudden death. LaChaise pointed the two guns at the guard’s chest and said, “Walk me up to the operating rooms or I’ll kill you.”
    The guard looked at the guns, then at LaChaise, and then, slowly, stupidly, at the television: “They’re looking for you,” he said.
    “No shit. Now get out of there and walk me up to the operating rooms. You got five seconds, then I kill you.”
    “This way,” the guard said. He came out from behind the desk, his hands held at shoulder height. He was unarmed. The three people in the lobby were looking at them, but nobody moved from their seats. “There’s another guy coming in, in one second,” LaChaise said to the room in general. “If anybody’s moving, anybody’s standing up, he’ll kill you. Sit tight and you’ll be okay. I’m Dick LaChaise, that you seen on TV, and I’m here on business.”
    The sound of the line pleased him; it sounded cowboy-like. They walked a few feet down a corridor, around a corner to the right, to a bank of elevators. The guard pushed the elevator button and the doors slid open. “Three,” he said, as they got inside. “You gonna kill me?”
    “Not if you do what I tell you,” LaChaise said. “When we get to three, you stay in the car and ride until you get to the top.” LaChaise pushed all the buttons higher than three, and a bell rang and the door opened, and LaChaise waved the gun at the guard and said, “I’ll stand here until the doors are closed. If you get off before the top, somebody’ll shoot your ass. Got that?”
    “Yes, sir,” the guard said, as the doors closed.
     
     
     
    AT THE END of the hall, double doors led to the operating suite. To his right, an elderly man sat in a chair reading Modern Maturity. He looked up, sucked on his teeth, and looked back at the magazine. LaChaise had the odd impression that he hadn’t noticed the guns.
    Nobody else in sight.