The Ferryman by Christopher Golden Page A

within, likely doctors and nurses checking on all the patients. One of the units had been thoroughly trashed, monitors shattered, a crash cart overturned, tubes and things scattered on the floor. Even as Shane glanced at it, the light in that unit was turned out.
    The cleanup would have to wait until after the police had a look at it, he knew.
    In the main traffic area, things were even uglier.A doctor with thinning hair and round glasses with one lens cracked was having stitches sewn into his lip while another doctor checked his left arm and wrist for bone damage.
    The worst was the nurse, though. A cute little thing Shane had noticed plenty of times around the hospital, she lay unconscious on a gurney while Nelson Ramos, a doctor Shane knew, plucked small shards of glass from her face.
    â€œWhat the hell ...” he began.
    But Noah had already questioned the doc with the stitches in his mouth. The man had been a real sourpuss, but Shane could not blame him. Those stitches had to hurt like a son of a bitch. The nurse tied off the stitches, and the doc turned to them, his brow furrowing with anger.
    â€œWhat the hell you standing here for?” he asked, his voice muffled by the swelling of his lower lip and his effort not to move it too much.
    â€œDr. Pulaski,” Noah replied, “if you could just—”
    â€œGeoffrey Haupt, seventy-six. He’s a cancer patient. He just took off a couple of minutes ago, but he can’t get far. He’s dying. Hell, we thought he was already dead.”
    With his right hand, Shane reached up to cover his mouth to hide the grin that spread across his face. All this trouble over some poor old guy about to die from cancer; it was pretty absurd. On the other hand, it was not the first story he’d heard about people at death’s door going on a short walkabout before finally heaving their last. The doc was right about one thing, though: Haupt wouldn’t get far.
    â€œI’ll go after him, Noah,” he offered. “If he’s not on this floor, he must have taken the stairs. Probably collapsed on the stairwell somewhere.”
    With a sigh, Shane strode out into the corridor again. Nurses and orderlies cleared out of his way. He glanced around at them, searching for eyes that held answers instead of questions. Every single one of the onlookers had an identical, mystified expression on their faces; all save one.
    The vulture, the older nurse who had seemed almost too interested when they arrived, stood against the wall across the corridor. The corners of Shane’s mouth twitched up in a rough approximation of a smile.
    â€œWhich way?” he asked.
    As though she had never imagined such a piece of information might be important, the woman blinked several times, then slowly pointed along the hall toward the exit door at the far end.
    â€œHe went for the stairs?” Shane asked.
    She nodded. “But ... he was dead,” the woman rasped. He studied her eyes and began to wonder if whatever she had witnessed here had put her into a state of shock.
    On the other hand, that wasn’t his job. They were in a building filled with people who were supposed to worry about such things, but he was not one of them.
    â€œThanks,” he replied, smiling politely.
    â€œHe was,” she chided, a bit defensively. “I saw him go. His heart stopped.”
    â€œThen it shouldn’t be too hard to catch up with him, huh?” Shane asked.
    He jogged down the corridor, grateful that the disturbed woman had seen the man make his exit. The last thing he wanted to have to do was check all the rooms up here.
    When he banged through the door to the stairs, the lights flickered on the landing. Shane had expected to see the old man right off, and frowned when he realized the place was empty. Out of reflex, he took a quick look up, but gave little credence to the idea that the patient might have gone that way. The guy was on his last legs. Taking off