Demon Jack by Patrick Donovan Page B

them worth a whole shit ton more money than I’d see in a lifetime. An ambulance drifted in, lights flashing without the siren. It rode smoothly towards the back of the hospital and out of sight.
    “‘Ere we are,” Maggie said as we got out of the car.
    “What hospital is this?” I asked
    “It’s private. The girl’s parents are loaded. Found out about what ‘appened and ‘ad ‘er sent ‘ere.”
    “Huh,” I said. They’d have to, to have the kind of money that got TV lawyers to pull those kinds of strings. “And she’s a street kid?”
    Maggie just shrugged.
    “You know about as much as I do, mate,” she said.
    I’d seen it before, the spoiled kid wants to get away from whatever heart crushing problems are sludging up her perfect life. So, she decides to run away from home. I’d also seen it end badly more than once. They end up bailing because they didn’t get a new BMW for their birthday and refused to settle on the Mercedes and within a year they're strung out and turning tricks.
    Walking in, I was reminded just how alien hospitals had always felt to me. There was something about the smell of the sanitized air. It was something so fake and stifling that it seemed to permeate everything from the pastel tiled floor to the false cheer of the building's staff. There was more to it than that though. When I was four, I had sat next to my mother’s bed while cancer ravaged her body. I’d held her hand, amazingly fragile and tiny even to a kid like me. It felt like, even that young, that if I’d wanted to I could shatter it just by squeezing. I’d been there when she died. It had been storming outside, the beeping machines playing counterpoint to the peals of thunder. One minute, she was looking at me, smiling. The next, she just wasn’t there anymore.
    I shook my head, chasing the memory away. I didn’t like to think about it, even now.
    Maggie led the way past a large circular reception desk set in the middle of a lobby bathed in rich browns and faux leathers. The lighting here was dim, almost subdued, giving everything a slight golden glow. A fish tank bubbled in the corner, colorful saltwater fish chasing each other through a miniature maze of living plants and coral. There were a few people seated here and there in overstuffed chairs, eyes perched on magazines or staring into the distance.
    Maggie stopped at the reception desk, striking up a conversation with a woman who looked liked she had spent her childhood frolicking in the fields of the Paleozoic era. She reached into her pocket and withdrew a slim black wallet. She flipped it open towards the women. A badge, bright gold and gleaming in contrast to the subdued light, rested in its center. They talked for a few more moments, the woman giving up a wheezing laugh. Maggie smiled, patted the old woman's hand, and started towards the elevator. She motioned for me to follow and I fell into step beside her.
    “You’re a cop?” I asked, barely masking my disgust.
    “Was,” she said, stabbing a finger into the “up” button.
    “Was?”
    “Yes. Was. In the sixties.”
    “How fucking old are you?”
    She cut me a glare and I backed off. Quick.
    “What’d you find out?” I asked.
    We slipped into the elevator, and Maggie pulled the file from her bag, flipped it open to check the floor and then pushed the corresponding button on the elevator’s panel.
    “That she’s lucid, and we’re going to be talking to her about what happened.”
    “Well that’s... sparse,” I muttered.
    Maggie’s glare intensified.
    A moment later the doors slid open on silent tracks. We stepped out onto the third floor. I kept my head down, face hidden in the shadows of my sweatshirt’s hood. Being scarred as I was it was hard to keep a low profile in places like this, or well, anywhere. So, I did my best to be as unobtrusive and not hideous as possible. The decor here was a drastic change from the warm glow of the lobby. Everything here was meant to be safe,