Deep Sleep (Devin Gray #1)(3)

In fact, as long as the skies were clear, he’d never missed a sunset here when the temperature equaled or exceeded sixty-seven degrees, and Helen’s car told her it was seventy-five. Sunset was in ten minutes, so he’d be a few bourbons into the evening by the time she arrived. Barring any unforeseen complications, she should be back at the car with Wilson in less than a half hour.

She got out of the car and removed a canvas tote bag from the back seat. Helen had filled it with handmade snacks, fruit, and a small bouquet of flowers, the assortment designed to lend an air of normalcy to anyone who gave her a closer look. Nearly everyone who showed up to visit this place brought something to leave with their loved ones.

A side compartment sewed into the interior of the bag held three syringes marked with blue duct tape, each filled with enough ketamine to sedate and immobilize Wilson within a few minutes; two syringes marked with yellow tape, each filled with a 100-milligram ketamine “booster,” just in case the 300 milligrams in the blue-taped doses didn’t do the job; a short roll of beige-colored duct tape to keep Wilson from screaming; and a half dozen heavy-duty black zip-tie handcuffs to keep him tethered to his wheelchair. A watered-down agency abduction kit.

The walk to the entrance ate close to a minute of her time. She’d parked in the far reaches of the parking lot, near the southern end of the main building, for a strategic reason. Entering and traversing the facility unchallenged was surprisingly simple. She’d conducted four walk-throughs over the past year, carrying the same tote bag, and had never been questioned, either at the front desk or while walking the hallways. Getting out with Wilson was the hard part. She couldn’t wheel him through the facility and past the front desk without drawing the wrong kind of attention. Especially when he appeared semiconscious. The sidewalk directly in front of the parking lot wound around the building, eventually connecting with the rear patio. She planned to use the walkway to discreetly remove him from the premises, away from the prying eyes of the staff.

When she reached the entrance, she paused in front of the automatic sliding doors to give them time to open, and quickly scanned the lobby. Helen recognized the woman at the desk from her last visit. Two gentlemen engaged in conversation sat in high-back chairs near the grand piano. As she started inside, a gray-haired woman in a motorized wheelchair turned the corner behind the reception desk and called out to the attendant. Perfect timing.

Helen made it through the lobby without drawing more than a casual glance from the two men. She navigated a short series of carpeted hallways to a sun-blasted space with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out onto the patio. A modest mahogany bar, with a severely limited selection of booze to match its three empty stools and moping bartender, stood against the wall on the opposite side of the cramped room. A faded HAPPY HOUR sign was taped to the wall next to the bar, completing the mortuary vibe. The bartender never looked up as she crossed the room and opened the patio door.

The patio was packed tonight. Four residents and a visitor—a middle-aged woman busy preparing a plate of cheese and crackers for her father. Or grandfather. Helen hoped to be long gone before she reached that golden age of ambiguity, and given the likely response to Wilson’s kidnapping, she stood a good chance of skipping the nursing-home stage altogether. If they caught up to her before she could convince the agency to protect her, she’d end up in a gently heated barrel of lye. Turned into a DNA slurry over the course of several days and unceremoniously poured down a drain. Still sounded marginally better than melting into a bed here over the course of several years.

The other residents were spread out along the spacious patio, having parked themselves in chairs facing west. None of them were particularly well positioned to witness what was about to happen to one of their elderly compatriots.

Wilson sat at the far-left edge of the patio in his wheelchair, drink dangling precariously over the right armrest. She had to squint to see him, the deep-orange sun still glaringly bright as it touched the top of the distant trees. Helen reached into the tote bag and readied one of the blue syringes, keeping it hidden inside until she was directly behind him.

She lightly jabbed Wilson’s upper-left shoulder with the syringe and injected its contents before sidestepping to the right. He muttered an obscenity and turned his head to examine the site of the injection, missing her entirely. She took the drink from his right hand and downed it in one gulp, tossing the plastic cup in his lap. Jack Daniel’s from the bar, if she had to guess, and slightly watered down. Still hit the spot. He glanced at the cup, then her, an entirely bewildered look on his face. For a brief moment, she had second thoughts about the kidnapping. A senile Donald Wilson would be useless.

“What the hell?” he said, his eyes quickly shifting back to the cup.

“You spilled your drink,” she said.

“I think something stung me,” he said, touching his left shoulder.

Wilson appeared to have recovered from his initial confusion.

“I have a bottle in my bag,” she said, reaching into the tote that hung from her shoulder. “Jack Daniel’s. They told me my dad was out here. I thought you were him for a second. Care for a refill?”

“Sure,” he said, lifting the cup a few inches.

She prepared an eight-inch strip of duct tape, gripping it by both ends.

“My dad drinks it straight. Sometimes right out of the bottle,” she said. “I don’t have any mixers.”