Holding the prong so it couldn’t latch, she rested her head on her arm and endured the shivering, maintaining a crack of about a quarter-inch, just enough to let in air. She must find a telephone and reach Jack. By now, he must know something’s wrong. He would be worried for her, she knew it, and he was in personal danger as long as Witner was out there somewhere. Then she had to get away from this place. Daphne’s car keys shouldn’t be hard to find. Even with the cuffs and leg shackles, she could drive.
She began counting, her body increasingly racked by shivering. When she’d reached thirty-two hundred seconds—twenty minutes—she opened the lid, grabbed the edge and raised herself just enough to peer out.
From overhead she heard, very faintly, the sound of footsteps. She was just about to duck back inside when she realized they were moving toward the front of the house. Then she heard the sound of a door shutting. If only she could hear well enough from here to know when—and if—he drove away. She would just have to rely on hope.
She counted to five hundred and sat up. Her legs were numb and all but useless at first, but she managed to maneuver them until she could perch on the rim of the freezer, How good it felt to breath clean air and feel the warmth. She didn’t look back inside.
Gradually, so as not to lose her balance, she swung her legs, flexing her knees and ankles until she could feel them again, then eased to the floor, swaying, leaning back against the freezer until she felt steady enough to move.
She would have to go back upstairs, but the thought she might have misheard, that Witner could still be there, caused a wave of panic to flow through her chest. She began counting again, straining her ears to hear. She reached five hundred again—nothing.
By now, the urge to warn Jack and then flee this place forever had finally overcome her terror. Anyway, she had no choice. She would go upstairs, call Jack Forester and search for Daphne’s purse. Maybe the gun was still there, too. That thought energized her.
She was hobbling toward the stairs when her eyes lit on a ball peen hammer lying on top of a cabinet. She thought crazily for a moment of using it to destroy the lock on the freezer, but…was she losing her mind? That would be noisy and pointless.
Then she noticed something else, something she’d seen earlier that morning that hadn’t registered when Witner brought her down here. It was a door. What now drew her attention was that she could see light filtering though a dark-orange curtain snugged to the top half. It had a window, so the basement must be above ground level at that side of the house.
She had noticed as they’d arrived—could it only have been last evening?—that the grounds sloped sharply down to the lake. This would be the back of the house, then. It might be another way out, and she decided to have a look.
She moved the curtain aside. A lawn outside sloped down to the water about a hundred feet away. The lake was gray, and churning with whitecaps under an overcast sky. She could just make out the far shore. A brick path led down the lawn to a little boathouse and a dock, where an old-fashioned-looking speedboat was moored. A driveway ran down toward the boathouse.
A key hung from a nail driven into the door frame. It was too small for a car key, and was attached by a beaded chain to a little red-and-white plastic float. It had to be for the boat. If she couldn’t find a car key, she might be able to use this. So, there were multiple potential ways of escape, and with that realization, her confidence rose.
As she was letting the curtain close she noticed a blur of movement out the window, and her heart pounded. A car came down the driveway and eased toward the boathouse. For a moment, she fantasized that it might be Jack. It was a large black SUV, and there was lettering on the door. Straining to read, she made out the words Deepwater Marina.
It was Fred Hinkle.
Her mind raced, and again she willed herself not to panic. He got out of the truck and headed up the slope directly toward this part of the house. He must intend coming in this back door. She dropped the curtain and spun around. She had to hide. It was okay. He would come, he would go. She could still get out. All wasn’t over. If only she had that gun. But there was no time to look now.
She remembered the hammer, and she hobbled over and grasped it by the handle. It was heavier than she’d expected. She spied a bunch of winter coats hanging from a wire beneath the staircase. She had just managed to stagger over and slide behind them when she heard the sound of someone working the doorknob—a clicking, as if he were trying keys. Trembling, she worked herself farther back into the garments and the shadows, inhaling the odor of Witner’s aftershave, the same smell that permeated his office.
The door swung open. Footsteps. The door banged shut. She heard him wander around, stopping where Daphne had died and cursing. The footsteps went to the freezer. She could faintly hear the lid cracking open, then another curse.
Did he know she was supposed to be there, too?
She parted the coats just enough to see. He was closing the lid. Then he turned and sat on top of it, taking a cell phone out of his pocket and opening it. He was a short, very muscular man with short hair. He hadn’t turned on the overhead light, so she couldn’t make out his features.
He punched in some numbers then set the phone next to him on the freezer and folded his arms. Time passed achingly slow, during which she could hear and feel every beat of her heart. Finally, his phone rang, and he opened it.
“Witner, you said there were two in the freezer…Well, there’s only one. Nice work, Dr. Death.” He laughed. “Don’t get angry with me, Witner. I’m just telling you what I found. You asked me to come clean up, and that’s what I’m doing…How the hell should I know? She probably went out the back door. That’s what I’d do. Are there any guns around here she could get her hands on?…Where is it?…Alright, I’m going to check that out…No, the other car is still here…I’ll secure the gun, then I’ll take a look around. I don’t want anyone sneaking up on me.”
He hung up.
She heard him stroll around the basement, stopping every few steps. She willed her trembling to cease and her breathing to slow as he passed by her sanctuary. In a moment, he was climbing the stairs.
Did she have enough time to make the door? She leaned out and looked, her mind spinning, trying to judge the distance. It wasn’t far. It might be her only chance. But there’d be the run across the lawn, down to the lake. Maybe she could steal his truck? Or take the boat. Don’t be a coward. Do something. If only she didn’t have the shackles on.
Across from her sat the two mannequins, glaring stupidly at her, as if mocking her hesitation.
She heard his footsteps on the stairs, coming back down. She squeezed her eyes shut in an agony of self-castigation and fear. Don’t lose it. Don’t lose it. Wait it out. He’s going to search the basement. He’ll find me.
He’d reached the bottom of the steps, and he was definitely searching, going very slowly, stopping, moving things. She gritted her teeth and gripped the handle of the hammer. He was coming toward her hiding spot. Any fool would know to check behind the clothes. All he’d have to do was bend down and he’d see her legs in the shadows.
He was almost there.
She knew suddenly what to do.
Reaching up with the hammer, she rapped the bottom of one of the wooden steps—ra-ta-ta ta ta—and held her breath. In response came a burst of mechanical voices and a gale of crazy laughter.
This was it.
She slipped out between the coats. He was just a few feet away, his back to her, staring at the puppets.
“What the hell?” she heard him say as she raised the hammer.
XXXVIII
Swab Then Stick
Jack pulled into a handicapped spot near the emergency department, jogged inside, went to his locker and grabbed the ID badge off one of the lab coats he kept there. He was already halfway out the door when Tim hailed him.
“Hey, where you going? I thought we were supposed to meet?”
Jack glanced at this watch.
“Sorry, Tim, a little complication came up. I’ve got to pick up a letter at the Seneca Hotel. I’ll be back in ten minutes. I was going to call you.”
“This can’t wait.” Tim’s voice dropped to a whisper as a nurse strode by pushing a patient in a wheelchair. “I’ve got what you wanted, Jack.” He held up a plastic bag. “But I need to get it back pronto, or I’m a dead man. I’m technically on a coffee break.”
Jack pursed his lips and looked around.
“Okay, let’s go into the family grieving room. This shouldn’t take long.”
Luckily, it was empty. Jack ushered him inside and shut the door.
“My friend, you’re an unscrupulous genius.”
“Thanks. Will you feed me if I get fired?”
Jack pulled out the blue binder and began flipping pages, Tim peering over his shoulder.
“What do you see?”
Running his finger across rows of numbers on a sheet of graph paper, Jack turned to the next page, then the next.
“Interesting.”
“How so?”
“Well, look, Tim, there’s a recurrent variation in his vital signs, but it’s not diurnal.”
“Talk English. What’s diurnal?”
“Diurnal means daily. There’s a normal daily fluctuation in the body’s physiologic parameters. It’s regulated by the brainstem and various hormone levels. Our core temperature and blood pressure rise during the daylight hours, for example, then fall to a low point just before we wake up.”
“You mean his pattern is off?”
“If Gavin were brain-dead, we’d expect the cycle to be chaotic, or even absent completely. But look—every eight hours his blood pressure eases down then slowly rises again. It’s like clockwork. It’s too perfect.”
“Alright, but what’s it mean?”
“It’s got to be medication-related.”
“What kind of medication?”
“Let’s see what’s on the list.” Jack flipped to the drug chart. “It’s a shame this hospital doesn’t have a fully integrated computer information system yet. This would have been a lot easier, and you wouldn’t have had to steal his chart.”
“Speaking of that, I hate to rush you, pal.”
“I know. Okay, here’s the med chart.”
“Do you see any connections?”
Jack ran down the list.
“None whatsoever. There’s nothing here that would explain it.”
“You mean this is a dead end?”
Jack stared up.
“Just the opposite. It means I’m right. Witner has been slipping him something.”
“Such as?”
“It could be all sorts of things. The combination of a paralytic and a sedative would do it.” He flipped back to the vital sign record and pointed. “And it looks like Dr. Gavin is due for another dose.”
“Shall we call the police?”
“And have them question Witner, the psychopath with the silver tongue? No, I don’t think we have the time.”
“Speaking of time, I’ve got to get these back.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“What about the letter you had to pick up?”
“It’ll have to wait.” Jack faced his friend, handing him back the bag. “Listen, Tim, a shit storm is about to hit this place. I won’t hold it against you if you don’t want to be involved, my friend. You’ve already helped way beyond the call of duty.”
“Are you fucking crazy? No way.” Tim punched Jack’s shoulder. “You know me better than that.”
* * *
Jim Gavin was waking, aware of cool air against his skin and of the ventilator’s methodical hissing. He heard the door open and steeled himself, but instead of Witner’s taunting words, he heard the nurse’s soft-soled shoes. She came closer, humming, was so close now, right above his head. So close. He could almost make out the tune. If only he could signal her.
He heard her pressing buttons on the monitor.
Don’t go away. Look at me.
He tried to open his mouth, but his muscles were still in the paralytic’s grip and wouldn’t cooperate. Frustration crested inside him, almost physically painful.
The nurse moved away, and the door closed.
The medication wearing off meant Witner would arrive soon. That was the only certainty in his life—whenever he neared consciousness, Witner appeared to prevent it. Now, he knew why.
He had heard the entire conversation between Daphne and Witner, and no longer had to wonder what in God’s name had happened to him. He understood only too well.
Daphne. That had been the most shocking of all, to learn of her involvement. He’d always had many doubts about her character, from the first time Colin had brought her home. Poor reckless boy, always drawn to danger. Yet never would he have believed Daphne capable of being in league with the devil himself.
And he completely powerless in the face of it. Another wave of frustration surged through him.
But wait. What’s this?
He wasn’t imagining it—he could move his eyelids. He could see light. The paralytic was wearing off. Was it possible justice had finally caught up with the lunatic, that Witner was late because he’d been found out?
* * *
Fingering the syringes in his pocket, Bryson Witner waited impatiently for the elevator to reach the seventh floor. This had been a day full of complications. He’d been late leaving the house and, because of that, was tardy for rounds, which lasted longer than usual, thanks to several new patients. It was the one time he wished Randy Delancy hadn’t been so scrupulous about grabbing good cases. All this had thrown his routine well behind schedule, but it couldn’t be helped.
How in the blazes had Zellie Andersen gotten out of the freezer? It should never have happened. Never. Thank God he’d ordered Hinkle to go clean up. Hinkle was a born man-hunter. He’d find her.
The elevator door slid open. Directly in front of him stood a dumpy black-haired nurse, staring at him. It was an odd occurrence, and it unsettled him. Beware the unexpected. She was patently Infected.
Composing himself, he brushed past, avoiding physical contact, and strode down the hallway toward Gavin’s suite. Why was she staring at him? Why had she picked that particular elevator to wait for? Might there be a meaning of some kind there?
One cure for his anxiety would be to reach Hinkle again and receive reassurance no more complications had arisen. Yes. He slowed. Such a call was in order. It should probably be, come to think of it, the very next order of business. He was already late to medicate Gavin, but the old man wasn’t going anywhere. That could wait a few more minutes.
Where was the closest phone? At the nurse’s desk, of course. No, that wouldn’t do. He had already committed the indiscretion this morning of speaking to Hinkle from a phone in the public purview. No, he needed to get back to his office. It would be worth the delay. He would still be back in a jiffy.
Turning on his heel, he headed back for the elevators at a jog, and a short while later strode by Greta Carpenter at her desk in the anteroom. He ignored the look she gave him and went directly inside. Goodness, he was feeling a little out of breath. He must get back to regular workouts at the faculty club. They were much more satisfying now he’d stopped the infernal medications, which were part of the plot against him, after all, designed to rob him of strength. Daphne was in on that, and she’d paid the price. After today…after today…
Locking the door behind him, he dialed his home number. No answer. Damn!
A tingle worked its way across his scalp. Who was the nincompoop who’d said no news is good news? He hung up and tried Fred’s cell. No answer there, either. So, he called the marina. No one picked up.
Finally, he phoned Hinkle’s house, where Frau Hinkle greeted him with a snotty “How should I know where he is? I’m not his mother.”
Hinkle was unreachable, but that didn’t necessarily indicate a problem. He was probably in transit, or had stopped in a bar. Maybe h
e had a girlfriend on the side.
In any case, Witner decided he would have to drive home at lunchtime to check on things. So be it. No disaster. He’d forgotten to leave out food for the ferrets anyway. Two birds with one stone.
The intercom buzzed, startling him. Greta’s voice, even colder than usual.
“Can you take a call from Mr. Debussy on line three?”
Should he or shouldn’t he? He hadn’t spoken to Debussy in more than twenty-four hours, which was a record of some kind. There might be significant developments. He’d make it quick.
“Hello, Nelson, my friend.”
“Good morning, Bryson. Listen, we haven’t had a chance to catch up on things recently. Did you know Daphne Gavin brought her lawyer by yesterday and suggested I offer her a settlement! The cheek! The old doctor hasn’t even passed to the other side yet, and they’ve got their hands out. Lawyers. I agree with Shakespeare. Kill ’em all.”
Witner rolled his eyes.
“A settlement,” he agreed. “My Lord, such gall.”
They hung up, but just as one dust mote attracts more, the delays impeding him began to accumulate. Thirty seconds after he hung up, a producer from Viacom called with some inane question about the procedure scheduled two weeks away. Witner slumped in his chair and forced himself to chat for a moment.
Then, as he was opening the office door to leave, Jacob Hansen barged in, his face red, complaining about a shortage of staff in the operating room. They’d had to cancel three procedures.
“Why are you coming to me? Can’t you handle this yourself?”
Hansen was taken aback.
“What?”
Witner saw anger rising in the other man’s face. He needed to get back to the seventh floor and dose the old man, for God’s sake, before Gavin started moving.
Still, he couldn’t alienate the chief of surgery. Smile, now, be charming.
“Only kidding, Jacob. How can I be of service?” Summoning all his patience, he listened to Hansen snivel.
Final Mercy Page 31
