11

Minneapolis, MN—Thursday, 2:30 p.m. CST

“What are you doing calling me?” Terry asked, his voice a harsh whisper.

Adjusting to the muggy heat of the Midwest summer, Lyman Bishop removed the sweatshirt he’d worn earlier and leaned back on the park bench. It was so nice to feel the sun on his face and to know he’d never have to encounter another nurse or doctor from Beacon Point Mental Hospital. “I made it to the bank and withdrew the money, but I couldn’t get a flight out until Saturday morning. Even then, the ticket was outrageously expensive.”

“Last-minute plane fares usually are.”

“I should’ve had you make the reservation for me. I bet it would’ve saved three hundred dollars.”

“Hey, I fronted you too much dough already trying to get your damaged ass out of that place. What do you think, I’m made of money?”

Bishop stiffened. Terry’s mood certainly hadn’t improved since last night. “It’s an unnecessary loss. That’s all. I’m not finding fault with you; I just hate waste.”

“Doesn’t everyone? Welcome to the real world, buddy. I guess now that you’re no longer a big cancer researcher you gotta live like the rest of us.”

Lyman grimaced. How could Terry say that after what he’d been through? Sometimes he didn’t like the janitor very much—and yet Terry had been just about the best friend Lyman had ever had. He doubted anyone else would’ve helped him get out of Beacon Point. The orderlies and other medical staff had treated him like some kind of leper. One, in particular, always mentioned the lobotomies and said it was poetic justice that he’d lost his mind.

“I still have the intellect that made me a cancer researcher in the first place,” he pointed out, which was more than he could say for Terry. What had Terry accomplished? Nothing. He wasn’t very smart. He didn’t know that his wife was going to leave him, even though, judging from what Lyman had heard of their arguments, he could tell that she was halfway out the door.

“I’m happy for you,” Terry said sarcastically. “But I can’t sit around and chitchat. Bridget will be home with the kids any minute. I’ve got to figure out a way to tell her I lost my job without it turning into another knock-down, drag-out.”

“Oh. Okay. No problem. I just thought that maybe, since I’m here for the day anyway, you’d want to meet me and get your money. I was hoping it might help to have a wad of cash on hand when you talked to Bridget. That’s why I called.”

“You think we should meet up?” He sounded more interested. “I thought you said that would be too risky.”

“It won’t be if we can find a secluded spot. We wouldn’t want anyone to see us together, but—”

“That won’t be a problem,” he broke in. “I’ll leave a note for Bridget, tell her I had to run a quick errand. Where are you? Where should we meet?”