The John Milton Series: Books 1-3 by Dawson Mark

Author:Dawson, Mark [Dawson, Mark]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Black Dog Publishing
Published: 2014-01-12T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Five

BEAU’S SNAKESKIN cowboy boots clipped and clopped as he stepped out of the red Jeep Cherokee and walked across the pavement and into the hospital. There was a florist in the reception—a pathetic display of flowers, most of them half-dead and fading away in the broil of the early morning sun—but he found a halfway decent bunch of bougainvillea, then went to the shop and supplemented it with a bag of withered and juiceless grapes. He went to the desk and, putting on his friendliest smile, said he was looking for the girl who had survived the shooting at the restaurant last night, said he was her brother. The nurse looked down to the bouquet, bright colours against the blue of the suit, looked up at the warm smile, bought the story all the way, and told him that he could find her on the sixth floor, towards the back of the building, and that he hoped he had a nice day. Beau thanked her most kindly and made his way to the elevator.

He got in and pressed the button for the second floor. The doors closed and the elevator ascended. He stood with his back to the wall, looked down at the toe of his boot, lifted his leg and rubbed the toe against the back of his jeans to clean it off. The lights for each passing floor glowed on the display until the elevator reached the sixth. The doors opened. He reached inside his jacket, his fingers brushing against the inlaid handle of the revolver that was holstered to his belt, and stepped out.

The place smelt of hospitals: detergent and, beneath that, rot. The girl was in a room at the end of a corridor. Beau walked easily down towards it, his heels striking the floor noisily. As he approached, a man who had been leaning against the door jamb, just out of sight, peeled off the wall and stepped out into the corridor. He took a step forwards and blocked the way.

“Who are you?” the man said.

“Beau Baxter. Who are you?”

“Smith.”

Beau grinned. “Mr. Smith—?”

The man smiled, or at least, his taut, thin lips rose a little at the edges. “John Smith. What do you do, Mr. Baxter?”

Beau looked him over. Not much to him, really, at least on the surface: a little taller than average, a little slimmer than average for someone his size, running two hundred, maybe two ten. Caucasian, a nasty scar on his face. Salt-and-pepper hair. Heavy, untidy beard. Around forty, maybe. The kind of man who’d be swallowed up by the crowd. He knew that sort. He was anonymous, at least until you looked a little harder. His eyes were different; they were cold and dark, enough to give a man a moment of reflection, a chance to think about things.

Beau shrugged. “I’m thinking you know what I do. Me and you, I’m guessing we’re in the same line of work.”

“I doubt that. Let me put it a different way: what are you doing here?”

He held up the wilting bouquet.

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