PATIENT SHOULD REMAIN HOSPITALIZED FOR AT LEAST ANOTHER WEEK
God bless him! Why hadn't he thought of this before? The drugs. His poor system had been subjected to more narcotics in the past week than he'd taken in a lifetime. His lapses in memory and judgment could be blamed on the chemicals.
He needed desperately to get a copy of his release to Sandy so that a nice little bed could be prepared for him, preferably in a private room with nurses running back and forth. That was the incarceration he had in mind. Put ten cops by the door, he didn't care. Just fix him up with an adjustable bed and remote control, and by all means keep him away from the common criminals.
"I need to make a phone call," he said, past the MP's, in the general direction of the driver. There was no response.
They stopped at a large hangar with a cargo jet parked in front of it. The MP's waited outside, in the sun, while Patrick and Agent Myers went inside the small office and haggled over whether there existed a constitutional right for an accused to not only make a phone call to his attorney but also to fax along a document.
Patrick prevailed after calmly threatening all sorts of vile litigation against Brent, and the doctor's release instructions were faxed to the law office of Sandy Mc-Dennott in New Orleans.
After a long visit to the men's room, Patrick rejoined his escorts and slowly climbed the steps into the Air Force cargo plane.
FT LANDED at Keesler Air Force Base at twenty minutes before noon. Much to Patrick's surprise, and a little to his dismay, there were no festivities awaiting his arrival. No throng of cameras and reporters. No mob of old friends rushing forth to offer assistance in his hour of need.
The landing field had been sealed off for the moment by higher orders. The press had been excluded. A large group congregated near the front gate, a mile and a half away, and for good measure taped and photographed the plane as it flew over. They were greatly disappointed, too.
Frankly, Patrick wanted the press to see him as he emerged from the plane in his carefully selected surgeon's scrubs, and awkwardly limped his way down the steps to the tarmac, and then shuffled like a crippled dog in leg chains and handcuffs. It could have been a powerful image, the first seen by all tibose potential jurors out there.
As expected, the Coast's morning paper had run the story of his lawsuit against the FBI on the front page, as the lead story, with the pictures large and in color. Only the meanest of souls couldn't muster a trace of sympathy for Patrick, at least at this moment. The other side-the government, the prosecutors, the investigators-had been softened by the blow. It was to have been a glorious day for law enforcement; the return of a master thief, and a lawyer at that! Instead, the local office of the FBI had its phones unplugged and doors locked to keep reporters out. Only Cutter ventured forth, and he did so secretively. It was his duty to meet Patrick as soon as he touched ground.
Cutter was waiting with Sheriff Sweeney, two Air Force officers from the base, and Sandy.
"Hello, Patrick. Welcome home," the Sheriff said.
Patrick extended his hands, cuffed at the wrist, and tried to shake hands. "Hello, Raymond," he answered with a smile. They knew each other well, a common acquaintance between local cops and local lawyers. Raymond Sweeney had been the chief deputy of Har-rison County nine years earlier when Patrick arrived in town.
Cutter stepped forward to introduce himself, but as soon as Patrick heard "FBI" he turned his face and nodded at Sandy. A navy van, one remarkably similar to the van that had just deposited him at the plane in Puerto Rico, was nearby. They piled in, with Patrick in the back next to his lawyer.
"Where are we going?" Patrick whispered.
"To the base hospital," Sandy whispered back. "For medical reasons."
"Good job."
The van puttered along at a snail's pace, past a checkpoint where the guard lifted his eyes from the sports page just for a second, then down a quiet street with officers' quarters on both sides.
Life on the run was filled with dreams, some at night during sleep, real dreams, and some when the mind was awake but drifting. Most were terrifying, the nightmares of die shadows growing bolder and larger. Others were pleasant wishes of a rosy future, free of the past. These were rare, Patrick had learned. Life on the run was life in the past. There was no closure.
Other dreams were intriguing musings of the return home. Who would be there to greet him? Would the Gulf air feel and smell the same? When would he return, in what season? How many friends would seek him, and how many would avoid him? He could think of a handful of people he wanted to see, but he was not sure if they wanted to see him. Was he a leper now? Or a celebrity to be embraced? Probably neither.
There was a certain, very small comfort in the end of the chase. Horrendous problems lay ahead, but for now he could ignore what was behind. The truth was, Patrick had never been able to completely relax and enjoy his new life. Not even the money could calm his fears. This very day was inevitable; he'd known it all along. He had stolen too much money. A lot less, and the victims might not have been so determined.
He noticed small things as he rode along. The driveways were paved, which was quite rare in Brazil, at least in Ponta Pora. And the children wore sneakers as they played. In Brazil, they were always barefoot, the soles of their feet as tough as rubber. He suddenly missed his quiet street, Rua Tiradentes, with the groups of boys dribbling soccer balls in search of a game.
"Are you okay?" Sandy asked. He nodded, still wearing the aviator shades. Sandy reached into his briefcase and removed a copy of the Coast paper. The headline screamed,
LANIGAN SUES FBI FOR TORTURE AND ABUSE
The two photos consumed half the front page.
Patrick admired it for a moment. "I'll read it later."
Cutter sat directly in front of Patrick, and of course he was listening to his prisoner breathe. Conversation was out of the question, which suited Patrick fine. The van entered the parking lot of the base hospital, and stopped at the emergency entrance. They took Patrick through a service door, then along a hallway where the nurses were waiting for a quick inspection of their new patient. Two lab technicians stopped ahead of them, and one actually said, "Welcome home, Patrick." A real smartass.
No red tape here. No preadmission forms. No questions about insurance or who's paying for what. He was taken straight to the third floor and placed in a room at the end of the hall. Cutter had a few banal comments and instructions, as did the Sheriff. Limited phone use, guards by the door, meals in the room. What else can you say to a prisoner? They left, and only Sandy remained.
Patrick sat on the edge of his bed, his feet dangling. "I'd like to see my mother," he said.
"She's on her way. She'll be here at one."
"Thanks."
"What about your wife and daughter?"
"I'd like to see Ashley Nicole, but not now. I'm sure she doesn't remember me. By now, she thinks I'm a monster. For obvious reasons, I'd rather not see Trudy."
There was a loud knock on the door, and Sheriff Sweeney was back, now holding a rather thick stack of papers. "Sorry to disturb, Patrick, but this is business. I thought it best to get this over with."
"Sure, Sheriff," Patrick said, bracing for the onslaught.
"I need to serve these on you. First, this here is an indictment returned by the grand jury of Harrison County for capital murder."
Patrick took it and, without looking at it, handed it to Sandy.
"This here is a summons and a complaint for divorce, filed by Trudy Lanigan over in Mobile."