“Followers. Fans. Whatever. They think Jonas being released from prison is like the Second Coming.” Johnson had to shout to be heard and noticed that traffic around the lot was slowing, more and more vehicles arriving, more women dashing over the berm surrounding the parking lot to join the ever-growing throng.
“Oh, for the love of God,” he muttered.
“Exactly! That’s what they think.” And he saw it then, some of the placards with Biblical phrases or Christ’s image along with Jonas’s.
“This is sick!”
“That doesn’t always mean what you think it does.”
“You know what I’m saying,” he bit out.
Johnson shook her head as the chanting continued, the crowd getting louder. “I’m just sayin’。”
“Hey!” one of the guards, a burly Black man with a badge identifying him as Bertrand Mullins was keeping the crowd at bay as Thomas and Johnson pushed their way through the undulating mass. “You the cops?” Mullins asked. He was sweating despite the frigid temperature. “Help us out here, will ya?”
“We’re here to see Jonas McIntyre.”
“You and the rest of the damned world. Hey, hey, hey!” He turned to a scrawny woman with bleached hair who was trying to wriggle past. “Ma’am, unless you’re a patient you can’t go inside.”
“Then I’m a patient,” she threw back, her eyes blazing.
“I don’t think so,” Mullins argued.
Johnson said, “She’s on something.”
As Mullins was dealing with the thin woman, two other security guards, one so muscular his uniform was stretched over his back and biceps, another shorter, a spark plug of a guy with a thin red beard, appeared. They charged through a side door and started trying to hold the mob back. The bigger guy was on a walkie-talkie, the shorter one inserting himself between the building and three women with signs.
Jostled, Thomas asked Mullins, “You called the PD?”
“Ten minutes ago. And you all took your damned sweet time!”
Thomas shook his head. “We didn’t take the call. Hey—” He felt an elbow in his back, whirled and faced a man in a flannel jacket who had pushed past him but was stalled by the throng ahead of him. “Sir, you need to leave. Now.”
“What? Who gives you the authority to tell me what to do?” the guy, clean-shaven with wire-rimmed glasses and a pinched expression, tried to stare him down.
It didn’t work. “Detective Cole Thomas.” He flipped out his ID. “Hatfield County Sheriff’s Department. I suggest you leave now.”
The guy managed a beatific smile. “My authority comes from God,” he said disdainfully. “Only God. And you”—he motioned toward the group of cops—“you all need to leave us be. I know what I can and cannot do.” There was a hard edge to his practiced piety. “The last I heard freedom of assembly was still valid in this country!”
Thomas stepped closer to him and, eyes narrowed, said sternly. “I’m asking you to leave. And I’m asking you politely. That might not last.”
“And I’m telling you to butt out.” All of the guy’s faux serenity fell away. “I know my rights.” His muscles tensed and for a second Thomas thought the guy might throw a punch. Well, come on. He was spoiling for a fight.
Apparently Thomas radiated that feeling because the blow never came. Instead, the sanctimonious prick spat on the ground at Thomas’s feet before spinning quickly, edging past a determined, heavy-set woman. He bumped into her and she yelled. “Hey! Watch it, moron.” She was holding a yellow picket sign with Jonas’s name emblazoned over a field of tiny crosses.
Thomas was about to take off after the jerk.
“Let it go,” Johnson warned, a hand on his elbow.
“The Whimstick Department said they are sending backup,” Mullins said, his voice raised to be heard over the din, his eyes skill scanning the crowd. “There’s already a couple of cops here, so maybe we can get some of them to disperse. If the leaders do, the rest might follow.”
“Other cops?” Thomas repeated. “Here . . . at the hospital?”
“Yeah, a couple of deputies.”
Thomas’s stomach clenched. As far as he knew, the only other officers at the hospital were supposed to be guarding Jonas.
Mullins was looking around over a sea of capped heads. “So where the hell is the backup? Shit!” A woman in a long overcoat and bangling bracelets pushed forward, trying to slip past Mullins. “Hey, lady,” he said. “Why don’t you please turn around and go home.”