“There are two ways this can go, uh, Lamy. I can knock you on your ass and embarrass you, and who knows the repercussions. You may be tougher than you look, in which case I will be forced to hurt you. Maybe more than I want to. Or you can go with me up the stairs and see that I’m just going to look in on a patient, making sure that the patient is okay, and then come right back down again.”

“Sir, I must insist—”

“Your call.”

Myron didn’t give the guard time. He rushed past him and started sprinting up the stairs. The security guard hurried after him, but there wasn’t much jump in his step.

“Stop! Desk Two calling for assistance! Intruder in the stairwell.”

Myron didn’t bother to slow down. He ran up the stairs. His knee, the one that had ended his career so long ago, ached a bit, but that didn’t slow him. He didn’t know if Brooke or Chick were behind him. He didn’t much care. The guard would call for backup. They would get there or they wouldn’t. They’d arrest him or they wouldn’t. But either way, they wouldn’t be able to stop him in time.

He pushed open the door at the third floor. Room 302 was in front of him. He turned to the right and sprinted past room 304. Behind him he heard someone yell, “Stop! Stop now!”

He didn’t listen.

He ran until he reached room 322. He opened the door and stepped inside as he heard more footsteps approach him. He didn’t move. He stood and waited, but it was just as he had suspected.

The bed—and indeed the room—was empty.

Chapter 11

There were some hassles with the guards, but not many.

Myron backed out of the room and started back toward the exit, hands raised. The guards weren’t sure what to do about this intrusion. The man had run into an empty room. Was that reason to try to hold him? Myron explained that he wasn’t going anywhere anyway, and that seemed to satisfy them.

Chick went crazy, especially when the cops’ reaction was one of utter calm: They couldn’t hold Patrick; he was a victim, not a criminal, and he wanted to go home with his parents.

“Did you ask him about my son?” Chick screamed.

Of course they had, the cops told him in measured voices. Patrick and his parents claimed he didn’t know anything relevant and was too traumatized to talk about it.

Chick: “And you let that slide?”

The cops gave a polite sigh and a small shrug. They did not let it slide. But at the end of the day, they couldn’t force a traumatized and injured teenager to talk to them. The boy indicated that he wanted to return to the United States with his parents. The doctors agreed that might be best. There was no legal reason to hold him against his will.

It went on for some time, but it was pointless.