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“The front desk clerk said he came in about two hours ago and hasn’t left.”
Decker knocked harder. “Mr. Hawkins? You okay?” He looked at the other two. “Maybe he’s in distress.”
“Maybe he died,” said Lancaster. “The guy’s terminal.”
“He might have just passed out,” suggested Jamison. “Or overdosed. He told us he was taking street drugs for the pain. They can be unpredictable.”
Decker tried the door. It was locked. He put his shoulder to the door and pushed once, then again. It bent under his considerable weight and then popped open.
They entered the room and looked around.
Sitting up in a chair across from the bed was Hawkins.
He was clearly dead.
But the cancer hadn’t taken him.
The bullet wound in the center of the man’s forehead had done the trick quite effectively.
