There was another channel of water and a stand of trees to contend with before we reached the outer perimeter of the hospital grounds. A fence of interwoven branches made a windbreak to keep some of the smells of the swamp at bay, but as a security measure it was hopeless. The wood was so dry and brittle that anyone could push it over or dive directly through it. We weren’t intending to go to such extremes; we just followed the fence to a point where a gate had been erected. Here a track led from the hospital grounds and into the woods. There was a small cluster of sheds, one of which was a parking garage for the sit-on lawn mowers that the groundskeepers used. A small fenced compound held a variety of abandoned office furniture items, and also the remains of a fire pit where combustible waste had once been burned. It was mad to bypass the workspace without checking it out first. Could be a gardener lurking around who might spot us.

The area was clear of people, so we moved to the gate and scanned the lawns and the huddle of buildings that formed the hospital. Clinic might have been a better description, or maybe holiday retreat. From the map Harvey supplied I’d been expecting a modern structure of preformed concrete and glass, but the hospital looked more like it had once been at the center of a wealthy estate or plantation. It brought to my mind the glossy magazine adverts for Southern Comfort. It was obvious from the plushness of the buildings and their surroundings that the AKMC was a strictly fee-paying and very private facility. What surprised me most was that this beautiful old building had been selected: it made me wonder who the actual owners of the hospital were. CIA, I decided, seeing as Walter had given his blessing for us to stage our war with Luke Rickard here.

Chapter 42

42

A stack of twenty-dollar bills on the counter were all that stood between Rickard’s anonymity and the doctor’s hopes for a long life. It would be a shame if he had to kill the doc; he was one of the few people that Rickard actually liked.

“Two thousand,” Rickard said. “It’s the fee you always asked for before.”

Adam Rothman, the disgraced surgeon who had once numbered the social elite of Florida among his clients, picked up the thick wad of notes and riffled them between his long, almost feminine fingers. “Times change, Luke, and so does my expense bill.”

“It’s more than you make performing illegal abortions and cutting gangrenous limbs from junkies poisoned by dirty needles.”