The Last Temptation

by Gerrie Ferris Finger

  “No.”

  “Did you see those two men pass us when they put Lake into the ambulance?”

  “No.”

  “They’ll be taking charge of Whitney’s body. The feds never traced the money, except for the few hundred under the body in the New Orleans fire. What in hell took Harry and Whitney so long before they started spending it? And how did they launder it?”

  “Their patience was due to Whitney’s genius. But Harry was no slouch in the diligence department. The laundry trail is probably cold by now, but while they washed their cash, Whitney worked his way through college, and the brother went off to Louisiana, or wherever to do whatever. Remember he’s supposed to be dead in a fire.”

  “Hmmm, well, we don’t know for sure that he isn’t, but we have DNA now, and the FBI doesn’t close armored car robberies until all the participants are rounded up, and all the money is accounted for.”

  “But you see, Dewey had a new name, lived in a new town, became an academic, lived a clean life, married, had a child . . .”

  “And started a club for penitent deviants. Wonder how many people he’s killed in his lifetime?”

  “He says none.”

  “You believe that?”

  “He had a brother and a sister willing to kill for him. Dewey was the genius. Their savior. He promised them he’d get them out of poverty. And he did. He planned the robbery, and they were rich for it. So they did what he asked them to.”

  Haskell took in a great lungful of air. “You know Whitney didn’t have a gun when you shot him.”

  “I saw—after I shot.”

  He made a right into the emergency entrance and stopped behind the ambulance.

  “I’m keeping your name quiet for as long as I can.”

  “I’m not sorry I killed him.”

  He gave a brisk head bob, and we got out of the car. He clutched my shoulder as we walked through the double doors of the emergency room. “Get in there and get Lake well.”

  I caught up with the gurney as it was pushed into an elevator.

  Lake was covered in white to his neck. An oxygen mask hid his lower face. His forehead was wet with sweat.

  I said, more to myself than to anyone there, “He’s sweating. A good sign.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” a doctor said.

  I looked at him. His name tag read W. WILLIAMS.

  “How’re his vitals?” I asked.

  “Weak.”

  They wheeled him into an operating room. I was led to a grim room with ripped seats and torn magazines to wait. I sat uneasily on the edge of my chair. People came and went. I talked, but don’t remember what I said. They asked me for Lake’s relatives’ names. I told them Lake’s parents were dead. Then Portia came in. She sat quietly beside me and held my hand. Dawn showed through the blinds. The waiting room was overflowing with apprehensive people. Cops hovered over me.

  Doctor W. Williams suddenly came through the door. Heads jerked up. Word was coming. He walked toward Portia and me. We jumped up. He said, “Let’s go talk.”

  We followed. I held my breath for the seconds it took to get to a tiny private room. This is where they give you the bad news.

  He faced me, his eyes shining. “Whew. Talk about ‘the nick of time.’”

  The ten-ton weight on my soul lifted. “He’s all right?”

  “For now.”

  Portia said, “What’s that mean, for now?”

  “We’ve neutralized the cyanide, but he’s not breathing on his own yet.”

  “He’ll live?” she asked.

  “Unless there’s complications caused by the poisons.”

  I found my voice. “What complications?”

  “Respiratory damage, nerve damage, heart damage. But we won’t worry about those now. He’s on oxygen. The barbiturates are complicating things. They’ll take longer to get out of his system.”

  “Can we see him?”

  “Yes.”

  As we walked down the wide hall toward the critical care unit, suddenly I noticed that policemen lined the walls. They began to clap, and the noise rose to a crescendo.

  A nurse came rushing through the swinging doors and waved her hands. “Shhhhhhhhh.”

  The clapping stopped, but laughter bubbled through the crowd. The doctor raised his hands and spoke. “We have cause to celebrate, but let’s do it quietly.” He answered questions readily.

  Finally, it sunk in. Lake was going to live. We’d worry about complications later.

  After the impromptu conference, the doctor put his arm around my waist and led me through the swinging doors. I turned to wave at Porsh.

  Lake lay on a bed, arms to his side, a mask covering most of his face.

  “His face?” I said. “It’s red.”

  “It’ll go away. Cyanide makes the venal blood pop red when it flows. He’ll excrete it in his urine.”

  I sat on the bed and picked up his hand. “Can you hear me, Lake?”

  “He might be able to,” the doctor said. “He came out of the coma briefly.”

  I tickled Lake’s palm, and his hand jerked. I struggled to get a handle on my emotions, and the wise doctor left the room.

  “I love you, Lake,” I whispered. “Hear me? I love you.”

  His eyelids fluttered. He moaned, and then his eyes fixed into slits. Water trickled from the corners.

  I don’t know how long I watched the man I loved so much, but nearly lost. Thoughts of love so casually disregarded, and then tossed away in arrogance, only to be realized in peril, filled my heart. Thankfully, no one came in. I laid my head on his chest, and, after a while, fell into a nervous sleep. Next thing I knew an attendant came in and woke me. I waited as doctors came and went. They examined and left, but none looked dour. One said, “Miracle.”

  Lake was moved to a private room, with two beds, one for me. I didn’t think I could sleep, but I did for a while, and then I woke to see that it was dark outside.

  Suddenly Lake sat up and tore the mask from his face. I jerked up and reached out. He swung his feet to the side of the bed and leaned forward to stand. He stooped and reached out. I took his hand and pulled him toward me, into my bed. His face fell on my chest.

  As expected, bells and whistles went off at the nurse’s station, and they came running. A large nurse’s aide was astonished. An LPN fussed, “Lordamighty, Mister Lake, the doctor’s going to have a heart attack, he sees you without your mask.”

  “I’m fine,” Lake said, lifting his head. “I’m tired. I don’t need the mask. I need to be right here.” His head flopped back on my breast.

  Five minutes later, Williams came in. “Well, my miracle man is throwing off the paraphernalia of the medical profession for the arms of a lovely woman. Best medicine there is.” Before he’d finished his pronouncement, Lake was asleep.

  “Barbiturates,” the doctor said. “They’re still running through his body.”

  The medical trio decamped. My fingers twined Lake’s hair, and I listened to the life-affirming snorts and wheezes as he breathed to the rhythm of my heart.

  54

  The next morning, Doctor Williams checked Lake’s vitals. His heart skipped beats, and Williams couldn’t explain why. His blood pressure hit low points, and he looked lethargic. He also craved candy. So what was new? An LPN put a glucose bag on an IV pole. Doctor Williams looked at the glucose bag. He said to Lake, “There’s something odd about your survival.”

  “What?” Lake got to a sitting position as if to prove he could survive anything—odd or not.

  Williams watched Lake’s small struggle. “You had several needle marks in your arms. The barbs were injected, as was the cyanide. A lethal mix was running through your veins. While I’m glad to see you sitting up now, you shouldn’t have survived.”

  Lake swung his feet over the side of the bed. He looked shaky, but Williams didn’t caution him. “No way was I going to die and let Dru down. It happened once before. I wasn’t going to let it happen again.”

 
The doctor cocked his head, apparently seeking more information. I said, “Lake’s referring to a man I was engaged to marry. He was killed in a drive-by.”

  Lake reached for my hand. “No way in hell was she going through that again.” Although I was giddy with tender pride, it was so unlike Lake to be open about his feelings.

  Williams fingered the glucose bag. “Did you know that glucose is an antidote for cyanide?” Lake and I looked at one another. The doctor went on, “You remember the story of Rasputin?”

  “Is this a ‘Once Upon a Time’?” Lake said with a grin.

  I said, “I remember a bit about him, thanks to my expensive education at the community college.” Lake always got a kick out of my saying that like it was Harvard. “The Russian court got tired of Rasputin’s arrogance and poisoned his wine with cyanide. It’s said that he drank enough to kill ten men, but kept going all night long. Then they shot him and finally had to drown him in the river.”

  Williams said, “Wine can be very sweet.”

  I asked Lake, “What did you eat at The Cloisters?”

  “Squab. I don’t remember what it tasted like.”

  “Wine?”

  “The whole bottle, myself. A nice fruity white.”

  “And for dessert?”

  “Napoleons and brandy.”

  Williams held out his hands. “There you are. Sugar laced with sugar. You ate sugar and drank sugar, then they stuck you with barbiturates. Barbs slow digestion. Then they injected the cyanide. Your wine and Napoleons saved your life.”

  “He was already laced with sugar,” I said, winking at him. “I went to your loft. Before your nap, and probably afterward, you ate peach pie and a dozen donut holes.”

  Lake’s lopsided grin ravaged my heart. “I told you, Doc, all that doesn’t matter. I wasn’t about to die—simple as that.”

  I thought about Dr. Brommer and his suicide. “Maybe someone gave Lake a shot of glucose while he lay on the altar?”

  Lake frowned and rubbed his chin. “I came to, once. Someone was there. I don’t know who. It wasn’t the woman. It wasn’t Whitney. I never saw Whitney.”

  About that time, we noticed Haskell standing in the doorway.

  Doctor Williams greeted the police commander, waved to us, and went out the door.

  Haskell and Lake exchanged the usual chatter: How’re you feeling? The press is being obnoxious. The work load is piling up. Then Haskell said, “I heard a little of what you were talking to the doc about—the poisons. We did a fingerprint-backgrounder on Fredrica Lyman. She was a medical technician at the Louisiana State Prison in Angola. I think it’s safe to assume she knew how to concoct a lethal injection without subjecting herself to cyanosis while handling the stuff.”

  “I wondered about that,” I said. “I know getting it on your skin is toxic, and breathing it is, too.”

  “They had an execution chamber going,” Haskell said.

  I said, “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it, if McCracken and Rossi were the only recidivists who had to die?”

  “We may find out some day,” Haskell said. He looked from Lake to me. “Strange man, strange place. You should have seen the rooms off the corridors. Like shrinks’ offices and classrooms. A little dais was set up in front. There were all these case studies, and big charts and graphs, and then there was religious stuff. These guys apparently were taking classes to learn how to get over their addictions. They also had a couple of bedrooms with condoms and dildos—physical therapy, you might say. You can admire his attempt to heal addictions, but his attitude about failure was monstrous.”

  “Failure was a death sentence,” I said.

  “Which,” Lake added, “McCracken would have gotten if we’d caught him. Whitney hastened his execution by twenty years.”

  Haskell said, “Imagine cloisters like that all over the US. Some nutcase thinks he’s God.”

  “He won’t be the last,” Lake said.

  The commander agreed, wished Lake well, and said he’d be in to see him tomorrow. He left, and I gently pushed Lake back down onto his back, kissed him until he was losing his lethargy, and said, “Later, baby, rest now.” Resting my head on his chest, I listened to his measured breathing and then his snoring, which was crescendo-ing enough to wake the—not going there. I’ll never gripe about his snoring again.

  * * * * *

  Lake was raring to go the next morning. He was stuffing his foot in a shoe when the doctor came in and scowled. “What is this?”

  Lake looked up. “I peed it all out, like you said, Doc.” He finished tying a shoe. “Time to go get the bad guys.”

  “Up,” the doctor ordered, and Lake stood. “Open your shirt.”

  Williams laid a stethoscope against Lake’s bare chest. “The bad guys were killed last I heard. Breathe deeply. Now deeper. Again. Again.” He let the stethoscope fall to his waist.

  “Two are dead,” Lake said. “There’s another from the litter, just as nasty. They slithered out of the same womb.”

  The doctor pried Lake’s lower eyelid. He said, “Let your colleagues get him.”

  “Nope,” Lake said, and we exchanged glances. We’d been up since dawn and laid our plans after we discovered that it was going to take a while for Lake to be up to his usual full-bodied lust. “This is personal for me,” he said.

  By the looks exchanged between Lake and the doctor, I assumed the doctor understood the inference.

  Lake went on, “And it’s personal for Dru. They poisoned her, too.”

  Williams cast a quizzical glance at me. I said, “Datura. Next to cyanide, kid’s stuff.”

  Williams examined Lake’s throat. “Can I talk you into one more night? Three free meals. No dirty dishes. Clean linens.”

  “Thanks for your hospitality, Doc, but no.” Lake reached for his new jacket. I’d gone to a shop on Marietta Street and bought clothes. The shop was famous for its zoot suits. I picked out the most conservative I could find.

  “Well, if you’re going to be like that, go on then,” Williams said. “We need the bed. Go get your bad guys. And don’t come back.”

  Lake stuck out a hand. The doctor grabbed his arm and hugged him. When Williams looked at me, his eyes were glossy. On his way out, he said to Lake, “And I don’t want you caught dead wearing that suit.”

  When the door closed, I put my arms around Lake’s waist and looked into his eyes. How did he manage to look exhausted, vibrant, and sexy all at once? “You know,” I said, “saving someone from the grim reaper means you’re responsible for that someone for the rest your life.”

  He put his arms around me and kissed my forehead. “Hmmm. Who said that?”

  “Shakespeare. He said everything.”

  “That’s a heavy load,” he said, bending to kiss my ear.

  Our lips met, and I reveled in his improving vitality. Pulling away, I said, “I’m up for it.”

  * * * * *

  Commander Haskell caught up with us as we were about to board the plane. “Goddamn it, Lake. Have you lost your friggin’ mind. You can’t go out there like some Wild West cowboy.”

  “I’m on sick leave,” Lake said. “First time in ten years. I’m gong out there to help Dru bring a little girl back home.”

  Haskell gave up on Lake and looked critically at me. “Tell the FBI what you’re holding back.”

  “I’m not talking to Gila Joe or anyone in PS law enforcement.”

  “Tell the LA FBI office.”

  “I might, after . . .”

  Lake and I stood like statues, intransigent and determined.

  Haskell reached out with both hands and took Lake by his biceps. “If I can’t stop you, then—Lieutenant Lake—stay well.”

  They shook hands. Haskell gave me a squeeze and disappeared down the concourse.

  55

  Gila Joe and Dartagnan were waiting for us when we deplaned. Gila Joe’s native face had that stern, cigar-store-Indian aspect, and Dartagnan hadn’t shaved; his hair was greasy and his eyelids dro
oped.

  “Imagine that creep, Whitney,” Dartagnan said. “Trying to kill a cop—with the cops on the way.”

  Lake met with the rental agent and filled out the paperwork. We walked four abreast to our rented four-wheeler. Dartagnan said, “Where to?”

  Lake said, “The Palkott.”

  “Arlo’s in town,” Dartagnan said. “He wants to talk to you, Miss Dru.”

  “I know,” I said. “He filled my voice mail.”

  Gila Joe said, “He hasn’t cooperated with me.”

  Lake asked, “What’d you find in his house?”

  “Blood. Most in the foyer, even up on the chandelier. Indistinct footprints leading into the kitchen. It’s Eileen’s type. We’re doing DNA now.”

  “What’s Arlo saying?”

  “He’s cussing everyone, but not much of substance.”

  I asked, “No clue where Kinley is?” We were standing at the four-wheeler. Lake had unlocked it.

  “Not yet,” Gila Joe said. “We’re putting the pressure on Arlo’s family and friends.”

  Lake said, “If Arlo didn’t do the crime, when he’s exonerated he’ll be famous. Isn’t that how Hollywood works?”

  Dartagnan laughed. “Most write a book. Arlo’ll make a movie.”

  “Will you be in it?” I asked.

  “Play myself, you mean?”

  Lake said, “I’d choose a stage name flashier than Dartagnan.”

  Dartagnan missed a half step, but then he grinned.

  Gila Joe looked at me. “When you talk to Arlo, I’d like you to wear a wire.”

  Lake shook his head. “She’d have to tell him she’s wearing. In my state, you can’t entrap.”

  “Here, too,” Dartagnan said.

  “I’m a fed,” Gila Joe said. “I can get a warrant.”

  “And Arlo can get his lawyer,” I said. “Look, I just want to get Kinley back home. Arlo’s the key. You’ve already said he won’t cooperate with you. He can’t be intimidated.” I looked at Dartagnan. “He knows where the bodies are buried, doesn’t he?”

  Dartagnan feigned a boxing move. “That don’t mean he’s going to tell,” he said. “He’s had twenty-five years experience at not telling.”