The boots stopped no more than three feet away. He watched as a pair of knees eased down onto the floor. Hinkle extended his hand, finger poised on the button.
Come on, let me see your face.
There it was—a beard and long hair. The brother. Hinkle pressed the button but nothing happened. The canister was dead. Dammit. He grabbed the pistol and saw the brother start back and dart away so fast he didn’t have a chance to aim.
Cursing, he stuffed the pepper spray can and tools into the pack, rolled out and jumped to his feet, gun extended in one hand, pack in the other. The damned brother was nowhere to be seen, and the door was open. The mission was blown. His only priority now was getting the hell out.
Hinkle hit the door running and had almost made the tree line when he felt something hit the back of his left thigh, followed by searing pain. He hadn’t heard a shot, but obviously he’d been hit. It didn’t slow him, so it couldn’t be that bad.
He reached the edge of the woods and kept going as quickly as the darkness would allow, his hands outstretched to feel for trees, stopping every few minutes to listen for pursuit. After ten minutes, he slipped behind a huge tree and reached down to check the wound. He was startled to discover a shaft protruding from the back of his leg.
What the fuck?
It had to be an arrow. A gentle wiggle confirmed, thank God, that it was not lodged firmly. It was just in muscle, not bone, the penetration depth probably about two inches, the best he could tell. The weirdness of it almost made him laugh out loud.
Unbelievable. That son of a bitch can shoot, or he was awful lucky.
He removed his right glove with his teeth, took a deep breath and, at the count of three, jerked the shaft rearward. The arrow came free with an explosion of pain. It was a hunting broad tip. Jesus Christ.
Head spinning, he sank down and concentrated on breathing as quietly as possible while he sliced a rag into strips with his knife and bound the wound tightly until the bleeding stopped, all the while listening.
Nothing but the hiss of snow on branches and dead leaves.
He rose unsteadily to his feet, the arrow gripped in his hand. The mission may have failed, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to leave them a source of DNA.
XXXI
Second Thoughts
Jack met Zellie in the hotel restaurant. The previous night, when they’d driven home from the Bonadonnas’, she’d gone quiet. By the time they said goodnight, with just a perfunctory kiss at the elevator this time, she seemed to be avoiding his eyes. Though she smiled this morning as he approached, he could sense she was still reserved.
“Morning,” he said, beaming her a smile and sitting.
“I ordered you some coffee,” she said, leaning back in her chair.
Jack was certain it had nothing to do with the evening they’d spent with Tim and Sonia. She had obviously enjoyed their company, talking as much as anyone, laughing and telling stories.
“Coffee,” he said gratefully. “You’re a genius. Thank you.”
No, her reserve had to be related to that long kiss in the steeple, the kiss he had been re-imagining almost continuously since it had taken place.
“Sleep well?” he asked her.
“So-so. How about you?”
“Like a log.” It was only partly a lie. He’d tossed fitfully for an hour or so before sleep finally hit him.
That had to be it. The steeple. She was being cautious.
The waitress came up.
“My Lord, can you believe this weather?” she said. “So much for global warming. What can I get you two this morning?”
She didn’t want to leap into a relationship with someone she’d only known a few days.
“An English muffin for me,” Zellie said. “And a glass of grapefruit juice. You wouldn’t happen to have to have any grits, would you?”
Caution was something he could understand and respect. It would be like her.
“Darlin’, I’m not even sure what grits are. Pink or regular?”
She was smart. He wanted to reassure her it was all right.
“Pink or regular?” Zellie repeated.
“The grapefruit.”
“Ah—pink, please.”
She could set her own pace, and he would wait for her until hell froze over.
“And you, sir?”
The question was how to tell her without sounding aggressive and driving her further away.
“Let’s see,” Jack said, scanning the menu. “I think I’ll go for the the Lumberjack Special with bacon and home fries, please. And orange juice.”
“You got it. Over easy for the eggs?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Maple syrup?”
“Sure.”
Jack handed over the menu and saw Zellie watching him, her eyes glowing with amusement.
“What are you smiling at?” he said.
“Picturing you as a lumberjack. You look preoccupied this morning.”
“Can’t imagine why.”
Her hand strayed over to rest on his, causing Jack’s heart to suddenly roil with confusion and happiness. He wanted to lift it to his mouth and kiss it, but he checked himself.
“How’s Dr. Gavin doing this morning, by the way?” she said.
“Dr. Gavin? Oh, he was status quo when I called.”
“I guess that’s better than worse.”
“Listen, Zellie, I was able to reach George Spengler in Boston this morning.”
“Great. Can he help?”
“He thinks so, and he really wants to. George was very close to Dr. Gavin, too.”
“How much did you tell him?”
“Not much, at this point. That I needed to see Bryson Witner’s Harvard personnel file because of some strange behavior cropping up here. George said he knows somebody in the right place. I think we’re in luck.”
“Excellent, Jack. When will he call back?”
“As it happens, Sherlock, he’s invited us to Boston today.”
Her hand slid off his.
“Us?”
“You think I wouldn’t tell him about my partner in crime?”
“But…today?”
“Did you have something else going on?”
“I don’t know, Jack. What is it—a four-hour drive?”
“Closer to five, but I promise you’ll love them. Leah’s a cellist, and they have a four-year-old daughter.”
“It’s tempting,” she admitted, stirring her coffee.
“But…?”
“I don’t know, Jack, it’s…” Her voice trailed off, and she gazed out the window.
“Let me guess. You’re thinking this is too much, too fast.”
“What—you mean with you and me?”
He looked around in mock surprise. “Is there anyone else here?”
“Don’t tease. I’d just hate to barge in on your friends.”
“You can be honest.”
“Okay, I feel a little upside-down—I don’t know. I’d like some time to think. And I’ve got a lot of writing to get caught up on. I’ve been slacking off terribly. I have a lazy streak a mile wide, and you’ve been enabling it.”
Jack smiled and shook his head.
“You can write in the car.”
“I really don’t feel like going. If you think you need to, it’s all right. When will you be back?”
“Tomorrow. It’ll just be overnight.”
“Then I’ll see you tomorrow. Are you afraid I might run away or something?”
As the waitress came and set down their plates, Jack thought about that comment. There was some truth in it. He was half-afraid this whole thing would turn out to be an illusion, that she’d suddenly vanish from his life. His heart clenched at the thought. But that wasn’t the only reason.
“Freshen your coffee?”
“Please,” Jack said. When she’d left, he leaned forward. “Listen, I’ve got to tell you something, Zellie. The Jag had two flats this morning. There were nails in the tir
es, and the side door to the garage was wide open. What really got my attention was Tony. He looked upset, and he followed me around like a puppy before I left. I couldn’t get him to talk to me. This is very weird.”
“You think somebody broke in?”
“This is the first time I’ve had any problems like this.”
“You didn’t hear anything?”
“No, but Arbus is the opposite of a watchdog.”
“Jack, you should call the police.”
“I haven’t yet. It won’t do any good, but I will.”
“Don’t be like that.”
“Zellie, I don’t like the thought of you staying here alone.”
She frowned, grabbed up a muffin half and began spreading jam.
“You should know something,” she said, glancing up at him. “Just because we shared a kiss doesn’t mean you need to start hovering over me like my lord protector.”
He sat up straighter.
“I know that.”
“I really can take care of myself.”
“I wasn’t suggesting you can’t, Zellie.”
She dropped her muffin and took his hand again.
“Oh, Jack, I’ve hurt your feelings. I didn’t mean to. I appreciate your concern.”
“No, no, I understand.”
“Do you?”
“I do. I’ll just stay here.”
She let go of his hand and went back to her breakfast.
“No, Jack, you go. I mean it. I’ve got things to do.”
“I can just as easily do it over the phone. George won’t mind.”
“Jack, obviously, you thought it was important to see him personally.”
“Well, it might help.”
“Then do it, Watson. I’ll be fine.”
“But…”
“You’ll be back tomorrow?”
“Definitely.”
“When?”
“I’ll leave at noon, be here by five.”
“Then, if you like, we can go out to your place when you get back, and I’ll cook dinner this time. What do you say?”
Jack stared at her.
“Okay. I’ll shovel off the grill.”
“You’re very funny. Just do me a favor.”
“Which is?”
“Don’t stay away too long.”
She said that with a sincere smile, and he felt her reserve drop away. This time he obeyed the impulse, lifted her hand and gave it a kiss.
* * *
After Jack left, Zellie stayed in the restaurant to have another coffee and write in her journal. He hadn’t been gone five minutes when Daphne Gavin marched up.
“There you are,” she said. “Mind if I join you?”
Zellie closed the notebook and smiled.
“Please. I was just thinking of you. I was going to call you in a little while.”
“I’m going out, so I’m glad I caught you.” Daphne glanced down at the egg-stained plate across from Zellie. “Is Jack here?”
“We just had breakfast, but he had to leave.”
“I see. He’s such a lovely man.”
“I think so, too.”
Daphne gave her a conspiratorial grin.
“I’m sorry I missed him. But let me catch you up on what’s going on. Unfortunately, I haven’t had any luck getting my father-in-law assigned to a new doctor yet, but I’m working on it. The most exciting thing is that I talked with an old friend of mine who lives not far from Dr. Witner. She used to be an obstetrics nurse. She told me she’s seen some strange things going on at his place.”
Zellie's pulse increased.
“Like what?”
“Things like that Mr. Fred Hinkle has been visiting Witner a lot recently. And I mean a lot. She and I only talked for a few minutes, Zellie, but she’s invited all of us out to her house tonight. You and me and Jack.”
“Darn it. I’m afraid tonight won’t work, Daphne.”
“Why not? This could be very important.”
“Jack’s driving to Boston.”
“Boston?”
Zellie looked around, then leaned closer.
“Jack discovered something else about Dr. Witner yesterday.”
“For God’s sake, tell me.”
“He found a reference letter in your father-in-law’s house.”
“You mean he broke in?”
“He had a key.”
“That’s pretty gutsy. Good for him.”
Zellie went on to explain the contents of the letter, and that Jack had a friend at Harvard who could help him get more details.
“Oh, my God, Zellie,” the older woman cried. “This is excellent. This is just incredible. But does he have to leave today? Can’t you tell him to hold off until tomorrow?”
Zellie paused, studying the tablecloth and thinking. Why did she and Jack have to walk lockstep on this? It would be terrific to have Jack there, of course, but there was no reason she couldn’t gather information while he was gone.
“Daphne, he needs to follow up on this right away. I want him to go. But there’s no reason I can’t go with you tonight to visit your friend. Both of us don’t have to be there.”
Daphne pondered.
“I think you should call him and tell him to stay.”
“I really don’t see why.”
Daphne was silent for another moment, then shrugged and smiled.
“Okay, if that’s the way it has to be,” she said, patting Zellie’s arm. “We should strike while the iron’s hot.”
“That’s what I think, too.”
“Then, I’ll hook up with you later this afternoon, Zellie. Meanwhile, I’ve got to head over to the university. Mr. Mitchell and I have a little meeting with the president about my father-in-law’s accident. Mitchell says he’s come down with the flu, but I’m hauling him over there anyway. It’s probably just a hangover. I’ll call you, sweetie.”
XXXII
Missed Connections
It was mid-afternoon when Jack climbed the front steps of a two-story brick townhouse in Cambridge. He didn’t have a chance to touch the buzzer before the door swung open and a tall man with a shock of blond hair greeted him with a hug.
He followed his old friend into the kitchen, where Spengler proceeded to brew a pot of coffee from fresh beans, pulling containers and devices out of cupboards with a dexterity that suggested why he had become one of the most productive interventional cardiologists at the city, threading catheters into a dozen hearts a day and spinning off a research paper every month or two.
As they were catching up, Leah Spengler came into the kitchen and gave Jack a kiss. A small and beautiful dark-haired woman, Leah spoke with a Ukrainian accent.
“So, where is the girlfriend George said you were going to bring with you? He said you raved.”
“I said might be bringing with him,” Spengler protested.
“Was I really raving, George?”
“For you, yes.”
“She must be very special,” Leah added.
“And very independent,” Jack told her. “I couldn’t talk her into coming today. She wanted to stay close to the situation in New Canterbury.”
“Speaking of which,” Spengler said, “I’ve got a lot to tell you, my friend.”
“Listen, you two can have the solarium all to yourselves,” Leah said. “I’ve got to get Maria up from her nap. Jack, I want you to tell me all about her over dinner.”
Spengler led him to the rear of the house, where a hallway opened up into a new room with arching Plexiglas panels. Plants and orchids hung above, and the air was fresh and smelled of leaves and humus.
“Very nice,” Jack said.
“Leah’s idea—as are most of the good things around here. She calls it the oxygen factory.” He arranged a couple of chairs so they could face each other. “Jack, I was able to find out a lot more about this Bryson Witner character, and much faster than I’d expected. I was afraid you and I would be up half the night engaged in some unorthodox file searching,
but I got very lucky. I probably could have given you all this on the phone and saved you the trip.”
Jack felt a pang when he heard this. He hadn’t been able to shake off a sense of foreboding, mainly about Zellie staying back in New Canterbury.
“I’m glad you could visit, anyway,” Spengler continued. “I was able to slip away from the cath lab this morning, and the first person I talked to was Mel Vincent, who’s on the staff at McLean and knows how to access the records, and who owed me some favors. What I couldn’t find out there, I was able to learn from a peek at Witner’s old personnel records at Mass General.”
“I won’t ask how you managed to do that,” Jack said.
“I’m a nice guy—that’s all you need to know. In any case, here’s the lowdown. First of all, Witner was a prodigy. He entered Williams College when he was fifteen and graduated summa cum laude with a double major in biochemistry and psychology and a minor in drama.”
“Not bad.”
“After Williams, it was Harvard Med, where he made Alpha Omega Alpha, was third in his class and got a paper published in Science on nuclear magnetic resonance spectrometry before he graduated. This guy’s academic record makes the rest of us look like morons. There’s only one little blemish during his career as a medical student.”
“What was that?”
“He killed somebody.”
“Oh, really?”
“He was on the Harvard boxing club and gave one of his opponents an epidural hematoma. It must have been one hell of a punch. In any case, he wasn’t charged with anything, and it didn’t seem to slow him down.
“After getting his Harvard MD, he did an internal medicine residency at Hopkins, then a two-year geriatrics fellowship at Baylor, followed by a second fellowship in geriatric endocrinology at the University of Vienna. During those years, the man wrote no fewer than twenty-three papers.”
“He’s a machine.”
“So, it’s not surprising that Harvard recruited him back to join the endocrinology division. But something weird happened when he got back to Boston.”
Final Mercy Page 27
