What Doesn't Kill Us--A McKenzie Novel by David Housewright (best books for 7th graders TXT) 📕

convinced the guard would have reached for it, too, except at that moment another vehicle entered the lot and maneuvered to a stop just a couple of parking slots away. The two guards and Schroeder watched as the driver slid out of the car and approached them.

“Can I help you, sir?” The second guard’s words were polite but his tone not so much.

The driver pulled a wallet of his own from his suit pocket, opened it, and held it near his face as if he wanted to convince the crowd that it matched the picture on his identification.

“Special Agent Brian Wilson, Federal Bureau of Investigation,” he said.

Schroeder opened his car door. The guard was startled by the sound and glared at him.

“The friend I was telling you about,” Schroeder said.

“Fuck,” the guard said.

“Now that’s a word that nearly everyone uses.”

I never did learn her name, the admin who manned—womanned?—the reception desk in the Surgical Intensive Care Unit at Regions Hospital, the one that Shelby said wasn’t afraid of God much less Bobby Dunston. I picture her, though, looking a little like a feisty librarian, wearing her white linen coat, and sitting behind her desk. I picture her looking over the lenses of her reading glasses at the man who appeared in front of her.

He was a big man, but that didn’t impress the admin, and he wore a blue blazer, white shirt with blue tie, and gray slacks, which didn’t impress her either.

“I’d like to see a patient named McKenzie,” he said.

“Mr. McKenzie is not accepting visitors,” the admin answered.

“I need to speak to him.”

“What is your relationship to the patient?”

“Excuse me?”

“Are you a relative?”

“A relative? Yes. We’re cousins.”

“What is your name?”

“Look, lady, all I want is five minutes with the man.”

“Mr. McKenzie is not receiving visitors.”

“If he’s asleep I can come back…”

“He won’t be receiving visitors then, either.”

“What exactly is wrong with him?”

“We do not release patient information except to immediate family.”

“I’m his cousin.”

“Then you should contact his wife.”

“Nina Truhler.” The man spoke as if he had just won a trivia contest. “See, I know McKenzie’s wife.”

“I’m sure she knows you, too,” a voice said.

Both the man and the admin turned to find Dr. Lillian Linder approaching the desk. She gestured at the bruise and slight swelling at the side of the man’s mouth.

“Is that where Nina punched you?” Lilly asked.

The admin scooped up the handset of her telephone and punched a button on the base.

“Security to SICU,” she said.

The man’s head pivoted from Lilly to the admin and back to Lilly again. He turned and made for the exit. Once he departed, the admin hung up the phone.

“I haven’t had this much fun since the virus,” she said. “How about you?”

I love Harry, the nickname bestowed on Special Agent Brian Wilson because of his uncanny resemblance to the character actor Harry Dean Stanton. Harry didn’t particularly care for the nickname; okay, I’m the one who gave it to him. Only it was better than some of the other things he had been called by friends and colleagues alike, the worst being Surfer Girl when he was at Quantico, because he shared the same name as the man who co-founded the Beach Boys. Also Kokomo. “Hey, Kokomo.” He hated that, too. We became pals about eight years ago when I helped the FBI and ATF bust a gun-running operation out of Lakeville, Minnesota, mostly by accident. It’s a long story.

Harry waved his credentials at the security guards standing with their mouths hanging open in the parking lot of KTech Tower.

“Two days ago, a man named Rushmore McKenzie was escorted from a shareholders’ meeting held in the auditorium of this building.” That was pretty much Harry’s style, no chitchat; getting directly to the point. “Would you two gentlemen happen to know anything about that?”

The guards glanced at each other. It was the first guard who spoke.

“No license holder shall divulge to anyone other than the employer, or as the employer may direct, except as required by law, any information acquired during—”

Harry raised his hand like he was stopping traffic.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said.

The guard pointed at Greg Schroeder.

“He’s the one who brought up the board of Private Detective and Protective Agent Services,” he said.

“You Schroeder?” Harry asked.

Schroeder nodded.

“Let’s see some ID,” Harry said.

That caused Schroeder to crawl inside his vehicle to retrieve the wallet the first guard had tossed there. He handed it to Harry who couldn’t help but notice the scuff marks and dirt on the outside and the dented badge and creased plastic identification card on the inside.

Schroeder gestured at the guard.

“He stepped on it,” he said.

“It was an accident,” the guard said.

“What are you guys, eleven?” Harry tossed the wallet back to Schroeder and pointed his jaw at the guard. “Let’s go talk to your employer.”

“Wait,” the guard said.

Only Harry didn’t wait. He marched directly to the entrance of the Tower, Schroeder and the two guards following behind. He stepped inside the building and moved in a straight line to the desk, where two security guards in matching suits were sitting. Harry flashed his own ID again; I think he enjoyed doing that as much as Shipman did.

“Special Agent Brian Wilson, Federal Bureau of Investigation,” he said. “I’d like to speak to the supervisor.”

One of the two guards stood and offered his hand.

“Travis Toft,” he said. “I’m the watch commander.”

Harry liked hearing that, watch commander. It was a police term. It meant Toft was an ex-cop; a professional.

“Two days ago, a man named Rushmore McKenzie was escorted from a shareholders’ meeting held in the auditorium of this building,” Harry repeated.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“He violated the golden rule,” Toft said.

“He who has the gold makes the rules?”

“That’s the one.”

“Could you be more specific?”

“It was a private meeting, held only for shareholders and invited guests. Our employer believed that Mr. McKenzie was there under false pretenses. We were asked to remove him and hold him until his identity and intentions could be verified.”

“Hold him?”

“We have a—a private