Page 83

“What?” The redhead wrinkled her nose. “Fans?”
“I know. Really? It’s an Internet thing, I think. This group of people—women, mostly—think he was falsely accused and convicted and have been trying to get his conviction overturned. For years. Real nutcases, if you ask me. The guy cut up his whole damned family.”
“Nuh-huh.” Thin Ponytail was working through her mound of greens drizzled with thick dressing. “Imprisoned incorrectly.”
“Yeah, right. Tell that to his dead attorney and the poor bastard driving the semi who has been fighting for his life.” He took another bite of his apple and leaned back in his plastic chair. “The way I figure it, whatever happens, it’s his damned fault.”
“And that doesn’t count his family,” the redhead pointed out as the male nurse tossed his apple core into a nearby bin and the rosy-cheeked nurse with the ponytail mowed through her bowl of limp-looking lettuce.
“A shame, that’s what it is,” Redhead said. “If you ask me, he should never have been released.”
“Lots of people agree.” Male Nurse was nodding as he unwrapped a toothpick and started working on his teeth. “Except for the fan club. They’re all about him being free. You know, for justice.”
“Give me a break.” Redhead crumpled her chip bag in a small fist.
“Tell that to the entire McIntyre family.”
“Uh-oh. I gotta go—duty calls,” the nurse with the ponytail said suddenly. She forked a final bit of her salad into her mouth, then scooped up her tray and scraped back her chair, nearly pushing into Tate.
“Sorry,” she said without even looking in his direction.
“Break’s not over for another ten,” the male nurse pointed out while tapping the face of his watch.
“I know, but I have to call the sitter.” Ponytail held up her phone. “Problems at the old hacienda.” Rolling her eyes, she tossed the remains of her salad into a garbage container. “She just texted me for, like, the third time. Jake’s cold is worse. He stayed home from school today and now he’s crabby.” She made a face. “Besides”—she leaned over and stage-whispered—“Ineeda ciggy. Don’t tell Darlene, okay? She’s already on my case.”
He laughed. He said, “I’ll come with. Trying to quit, but you know . . .” Together they headed out and the redhead managed to say, “See you in a few,” but never looked up from her cell.
Tate felt like a sitting duck as he noticed two cameras covering the wide dining area with people clustered around plastic tables, talking, eating, reading or hooked into laptops or phones. He caught bits of conversation over the rattling of trays and shuffling of feet, but if anyone was talking about the accident in the mountains and the infamous patient on the third floor, he didn’t catch it.
He was clearing his tray when he spied two security guards file through the line and grab diet sodas and packages of snacks. Both were male, one short and stout, the other a little taller with the physique of a bodybuilder, his shirt stretching at the shoulders, his expression hard.
Tate lingered for a couple of minutes, then stood. He hoped he didn’t appear too obvious sorting his recycling from his trash at the bins as the guards took chairs at a table across the room. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself, but he wended his way through the tables and took a seat nearby, clearing the table of trash someone had left.
No one seemed to notice as the cafeteria began to fill, people began stacking up, trays in hand, the smell of Italian herb mingling with the lingering scent of fish. Burgers sizzled on a grill and customers yelled their orders over the general buzz of conversation.
Tate pulled out his phone and pretended to text, but watched the two guards from the corner of his eye.
And he hit pay dirt.
“I know. It’s a frickin’ shit show,” the shorter guy said. He was bald, his pate shining under the lights, a three-day growth of reddish beard covering his jaw, a chocolate-covered donut and bottle of pinkish vitamin water on his tray. “They never should have let that cocksucker out, if you ask me.”
Tate swallowed a smile. Obviously they were talking about Jonas McIntyre.
“But they did and he’s here.” Bodybuilder dug into what looked like a ham on rye sandwich. “But won’t be for long.”
“You think? Is that what you heard?” The bearded guy cracked open the bottle and took a sip of the pink liquid.
“Yeah. Even though the prick wasn’t wearing a seat belt, he lucked out, got banged up, has maybe a busted rib or two and a slight head injury or somethin’, but not much more. Lucky SOB, if you ask me. Would’ve been better if he just woulda died in the accident. Serve him right for what he did to his family. Prison’s too good for him.” He washed down another bite with a swallow of Diet Pepsi. “The way I see it, the loser should either die or end up a vegetable.”
“Geez, man—”
“It’d be cheaper for the state if he just checked out, if you know what I mean.” As if he realized he was talking too loud, he took a quick look around and wiped a bit of mustard from his chin.
“What about the other one—the woman on two?”
“The sister?” Bodybuilder asked, eyebrows drawing into one thick line.
“Yeah. Her.”