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The guy managed a beatific smile. “My authority comes from God,” he said disdainfully. “Only God. And you”—he motioned toward the guards—“you all need to leave us be. I know what I can and cannot do.” There was a hard edge to his practiced piety. “The last I heard freedom of assembly was still valid in this country!”
Thomas stepped closer to him and, eyes narrowed, said sternly, “I’m asking you to leave. And I’m asking you politely. That might not last.”
“And I’m telling you to butt out.” All of the guy’s faux serenity fell away. “I know my rights.” His muscles tensed and for a second Thomas thought the guy might throw a punch. Well, come on. He was spoiling for a fight.
Apparently Thomas radiated that feeling because the blow never came. Instead, the sanctimonious prick spat on the ground at Thomas’s feet before spinning quickly, edging past a determined, heavy-set woman. He bumped into her and she yelled, “Hey! Watch it, moron.” She was holding a yellow picket sign with Jonas’s name emblazoned over a field of tiny crosses.
Thomas was about to take off after the jerk.
“Let it go,” Johnson warned, a hand on his elbow.
“The Whimstick Department said they are sending backup,” Mullins said, his voice raised to be heard over the din, his eyes still scanning the crowd. “There’s already a couple of cops here, so maybe we can get some of them to disperse. If the leaders do, the rest might follow.”
“Other cops?” Thomas repeated. “Here . . . at the hospital?”
“Yeah, a couple of deputies.”
Thomas’s stomach clenched. As far as he knew, the only other officers at the hospital were supposed to be guarding Jonas.
Mullins was looking around over a sea of capped heads. “So where the hell is the backup? Shit!” A woman in a long overcoat and bangle bracelets pushed forward, trying to slip past Mullins. “Hey, lady,” he said. “Why don’t you please turn around and go home.”
“Fuck you!” she spat, and shouldered her way past.
“Goddamn—”
“The cops that are here now?” Thomas said, recapturing Mullins’s attention. “Why were they here?”
“Assignment. Guarding McIntyre.”
“Shit.” Thomas caught a glimpse of Johnson on her cell, holding a finger to one ear and instructing whoever was on the other end to get to Whimstick General ASAP. “That’s right. I mean now! This is about to become a riot!”
And she wasn’t wrong. The crowd’s mood had turned from anticipatory to impatient and rebellious. Beyond angry. A shifting and undulating energy pulsing through the wintry air. He saw a couple of uniforms exiting the elevator and racing toward the door. Deputies he recognized. Deputies assigned to guard Jonas McIntyre.
Fuck!This was all wrong. He felt as if he was being played.
“We need to break this up,” he said to Johnson just as the sound of sirens split the air.
“The cavalry,” she said as the wail of the sirens increased.
“The cops! Someone called the cops!” a woman in a bright yellow beret announced furiously.
Another woman in jeans and a down vest cried, “Jonas is coming! He’s coming down to see us!”
“How do you know?”
She was beaming, cradling a coffee cup. “I just talked to a doctor and he said Jonas is being brought down. Here. To see us.”
“That doesn’t sound right,” an unseen skeptic said as Thomas noted the camera crew disembarking from the van in the lot, a reporter he recognized from Channel 3. Sheila Keegan, in a heavy red ski jacket, her curly hair catching snowflakes, was scanning the crowd as she hurried forward, a cameraman on her heels. He, too, was in the red Channel 3 jacket, a bulky camera hoisted onto his shoulder.
“He’s coming! Jonas is coming!” other voices chimed.
At that the reporter looked up sharply and zeroed in on the vested woman.
And the first woman, breathless and starry-eyed, nodded. “A doctor just told me: He’s coming!”
“That’s impossible,” Mullins said. “The guy’s sedated. McIntyre, I mean.” He held up his hands as the crowd pushed forward. “No one goes inside unless they are patients of Whimstick General and—”
“He’s coming! He’s coming!” another couple of women cried, rushing the doors.