“Thank God, you’ve already been to the gym this morning or I’d have to wait for you to lift your bloody weights. I’m getting some coffee.”

Quinlan walked down to the small lounge at the end of the hall. It wasn’t that the fifth floor was ugly and inhospitable. It couldn’t be, since they let tourists get within a floor of them. It didn’t look all that institutional, just tired. The linoleum was still pale brown with years of grit walked deep into it.

He poured a cup of coffee, sniffed it first, then took a cautious sip. Yep, it still made his Adam’s apple shudder, but it kept the nerves finely tuned. Without it an agent would probably just fold up and die.

He needed Dillon. He knew that Dillon would set up an appropriate backup in case it turned out they couldn’t handle the job. He’d been tempted to go directly from Dulles to Maryland to that sanitarium, but he’d given the matter a good deal of thought. He was in this up to his neck, and he wanted to save Sally’s neck as well.

He had no idea about the security at Beadermeyer’s sanitarium, but Dillon would find out and then they’d get over there. He couldn’t take the chance of alerting his boss, Brammer. He couldn’t take the chance that Sally could be plowed under in this damned mess.

He drank more coffee, felt the caffeine jolt hit his brain and stomach at about the same time.

He wandered back into Dillon’s office. “It’s been ten minutes.”

“I’ve been waiting for you, Quinlan. Let’s go.”

“Just like that? No more arguments? No more telling me there’s a thirteen percent chance that one of us will end up in a ditch with a knife in his throat?”

“Nope,” Dill said cheerfully, pulled several sheets out of his printer, and rose.

“Here’s the layout for the sanitarium. I think I’ve found exactly where it’s safest for us to go in.”

“You made up your mind before you even kicked me out.”

“Sure. I wanted to get a look at the plans, didn’t really know if I could get my paws on them, but I did. Come here and let me show you the best way into this place. Tell me what you think.”

“Did you make her brush her teeth and wash her mouth out?”

“Yes, Doctor Beadermeyer. She spit the mouthwash on me, but she did get a bit of it in her mouth.”

“I hate the smell of vomit,” Beadermeyer said as he looked down at his shoes. He’d cleaned them as best he could. Just thinking about what she’d done made him want to hit her again, but it wouldn’t gain him any pleasure. She was unconscious.

“She’ll be out of it for a good four hours. Then I’ll lighten the dose to keep her pleasantly sedated.”

“I hope the dose isn’t too high.”

“Don’t be a fool. I have no intention of killing her, at least not yet. I just don’t know yet what will happen. I’m taking her out of here tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, before he comes to get her.”

“Why do you say that, Holland? How the hell do you know anything?”

“I was sitting beside her after you gave her the shot, and she was whispering that she knew he’d come here, she knew it.”

“She’s fucking crazy. You know that, Holland.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

Damnation. Quinlan could find out everything he wanted to know about the sanitarium within computer minutes. He felt the wet of his own sweat in his armpits. Damn, this shouldn’t have happened. He wondered if he should get her out of here tonight, right now.

They should have killed that damned agent while they’d had him, and because they’d been afraid to, now he would have to deal with it.

If he was smart, if he wanted to make sure he was safe, he’d get Sally out of here now.

Where to take her? Jesus, he was tired. He rubbed the back of his neck as he walked back to his office.

Mrs. Willard hadn’t left any coffee for him, damn her. He sat down behind the mahogany desk that kept patients a good three and a half feet from him and leaned back in his chair.

When would Quinlan and his FBI buddies show up? He would show up, Beadermeyer knew it. He’d followed her to The Cove. He would come here for sure. But how soon? How much time did he have? He picked up the telephone and dialed. They would have to make a decision now. There was no more time for playing games.

The night was black as pitch. He and Dillon left the Oldsmobile sedan about twenty yards down the road from the wide gates of the Beadermeyer sanitarium. The words were scrolled in fancy script letters on top of the black iron gates.