Covenant

30

Lucas Tyrell disliked most all medical institutions. But more than that he disliked the clinically insane who haunted them, those who had crossed the line between reality and oblivion. The fact that the Evangelical Institute reminded him of the hospital in which his brother had died so many years ago did nothing to comfort him.

The building was modern, smoked-glass windows stark against white paneled walls blazing in the midday sun, overlooking freshly mown lawns and quiet, shady gardens. He followed Nicola Lopez through a reinforced glass door into the interior of the hospital, more like a rest home than a refuge for the crazies. Gone were the days of iron bars and locks. A sign on a wall in flowing script caught his attention as he passed by.

We do not restrict or restrain. We rehabilitate.

“How many patients do you have here?” Lopez asked the female nurse who met them at the reception desk and led them down an immaculate white corridor.

“One hundred twenty-eight at the moment,” came the serene reply, as though even the staff were strung out on sedatives.

“No murderers or other felons?”

“No, although some of our clients are former convicts who suffered breakdowns in the prison system. We analyze them first to ensure they’re not playing the mental card to get onto the wards permanently.” She smiled. “Many find God while in our care.”

Tyrell glanced around as they walked, seeing frail-looking patients who were being guided gently along by orderlies. Soft instrumental music played through speakers concealed in the ceiling panels.

“What’s Daniel Neville’s history?” he asked the nurse.

“He was brought here four months ago by the MPD after a drug incident over on Logan. He’d been found near death in a crack den and rushed to General Hospital Southeast. They managed to stabilize him, but by then the damage was done.”

“What’s his condition?” Lopez asked.

“Daniel Neville suffered oxygen starvation to the cerebral cortex as a result of heart failure brought on by his overdose. He has lost some motor function and suffers from various psychological and physical disorders.”

“What sort of medication is he on?” Tyrell pressed. “Can he be considered a suitable witness in a court case?”

The nurse frowned.

“Daniel is currently on a prescription of lithium to maintain the chemical balance in his brain, but his concepts of time, space, and judgment are severely distorted. His bouts of depression produce symptoms of mania and extreme paranoia that are difficult to control. I’d imagine most attorneys would reject any testimony from him.”

Lopez cast a doubtful glance at Tyrell.

“What blood group is Daniel?” Tyrell asked.

“O-negative, the rarest type.”

Tyrell and Lopez exchanged a look but said nothing more as they turned left into another corridor that led to a set of steel gates blocking their path to the corridor beyond. A tall, rangy man in a blue jumpsuit swabbed the floors as they walked past, his face hidden behind a mop of shaggy blond hair. Outside the gates stood a robust-looking man in a security guard’s outfit; he moved to meet them.

“These detectives are here to question Daniel Neville,” the nurse explained to the security guard.

The guard shook his head.

“I’m afraid Daniel Neville is required to remain in isolation,” he said politely.

“On whose orders?” the nurse asked, surprised.

“Chief medical officer,” the guard responded calmly. “Doctor and patient confidentiality.”

“And you are?” Tyrell inquired.

“Michael Shaw. I’m responsible for security here on the ward.”

“We need to speak with Daniel Neville,” Tyrell insisted. “We can arrange warrants if we have to, but we’d prefer to do this on a voluntary bas—”

“Mr. Neville signed a confidentiality agreement with his doctor upon his admission,” Shaw said firmly. “I doubt that warrants would have any effect.”

“We can obtain a subpoena from the district attorney,” Lopez challenged.

Michael Shaw looked apologetic but shrugged his broad shoulders.

“I’m sorry, I’ve got my orders and I just can’t let you guys in.”

“Lives could depend on what Daniel Neville may know,” Tyrell pressed.

Michael Shaw was about to reply, but the voice that Tyrell heard boomed like thunder down the corridor from behind them.

“You get your hands off m’boy!”