A side compartment sewed into the interior of the bag held three syringes marked with blue duct tape, each filled with enough ketamine to sedate and immobilize Wilson within a few minutes; two syringes marked with yellow tape, each filled with a 100-milligram ketamine “booster,” just in case the 300 milligrams in the blue-taped doses didn’t do the job; a short roll of beige-colored duct tape to keep Wilson from screaming; and a half dozen heavy-duty black zip-tie handcuffs to keep him tethered to his wheelchair. A watered-down agency abduction kit.

The walk to the entrance ate close to a minute of her time. She’d parked in the far reaches of the parking lot, near the southern end of the main building, for a strategic reason. Entering and traversing the facility unchallenged was surprisingly simple. She’d conducted four walk-throughs over the past year, carrying the same tote bag, and had never been questioned, either at the front desk or while walking the hallways. Getting out with Wilson was the hard part. She couldn’t wheel him through the facility and past the front desk without drawing the wrong kind of attention. Especially when he appeared semiconscious. The sidewalk directly in front of the parking lot wound around the building, eventually connecting with the rear patio. She planned to use the walkway to discreetly remove him from the premises, away from the prying eyes of the staff.

When she reached the entrance, she paused in front of the automatic sliding doors to give them time to open, and quickly scanned the lobby. Helen recognized the woman at the desk from her last visit. Two gentlemen engaged in conversation sat in high-back chairs near the grand piano. As she started inside, a gray-haired woman in a motorized wheelchair turned the corner behind the reception desk and called out to the attendant. Perfect timing.

Helen made it through the lobby without drawing more than a casual glance from the two men. She navigated a short series of carpeted hallways to a sun-blasted space with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out onto the patio. A modest mahogany bar, with a severely limited selection of booze to match its three empty stools and moping bartender, stood against the wall on the opposite side of the cramped room. A faded HAPPY HOUR sign was taped to the wall next to the bar, completing the mortuary vibe. The bartender never looked up as she crossed the room and opened the patio door.