by Robin Cook
Spit swung around and took the gun. He showed it to David, who whistled in admiration. “That’s the new model,” he commented.
With little talk the threesome drove north to 106th Street and turned right. David braked across from the playground. The basketball game was still in progress.
“Wait here,” Spit said. He got out of the car and headed into the playground.
Jack watched Spit as he walked to the basketball court and stood on the sidelines as the game swept back and forth in front of him. Jack was tempted to ask David what was happening, but his intuition told him to keep still. Eventually Spit got Warren’s attention and Warren stopped the game.
After a brief conversation during which Spit passed Reginald’s wallet to Warren, the two men came back to David’s car. David lowered the window. Warren stuck his head in and looked at Jack. “What the hell have you been doing?” he demanded angrily.
“Nothing,” Jack said. “I’m the victim here. Why be angry with me?”
Warren didn’t answer. Instead, he ran his tongue around the inside of his dry mouth while he thought. Perspiration lined his forehead. All at once he stood up and opened the door for Jack. “Get out,” he said. “We have to talk. Let’s go up to your place.”
Jack slid out of the car. He tried to look Warren in the eye, but Warren avoided his stare. Warren started out across the street, and Jack followed. Spit came behind Jack.
They climbed Jack’s stairs in silence.
“You got anything to drink?” Warren asked once they were inside.
“Gatorade or beer,” Jack said. He had restocked his refrigerator.
“Gatorade,” Warren said. He walked over to Jack’s couch and sat heavily.
Jack offered Spit the same choices. He took beer.
After Jack had provided the drinks he sat in the chair opposite the couch. Spit preferred to lean against the desk.
“I want to know what’s going on,” Warren said.
“You and I both,” Jack said.
“I don’t want to hear any shit,” Warren said. “’Cause you haven’t been straight with me.”
“What do you mean?” Jack asked.
“Saturday you asked me about the Black Kings,” Warren reminded him. “You said you were just curious. Now tonight one of those mothers tries to knock you off. Now I know something about those losers. They’re into drugs big time. You catch my drift? What I want you to know is if you’re mixed up with dealing, I don’t want you in this neighborhood. It’s as simple as that.”
Jack let out a short laugh of incredulity. “Is that what this is about?” he asked. “You think I’m dealing drugs?”
“Doc, listen to me,” Warren said. “You’re a strange dude. I never understood why you’re living here. But it’s okay as long as you don’t screw up the neighborhood. But if you’re here because of drugs, you gotta rethink your situation.”
Jack cleared his throat. He then admitted to Warren that he’d not been truthful with him when he’d asked about the Black Kings. He told him that the Black Kings had beaten him up, but that it involved something concerning his work that even he didn’t totally understand.
“You sure you’re not dealing?” Warren asked again. He looked at Jack out of the corner of his eye. “’Cause if you’re not straight with me now you’re going to be one sorry shit.”
“I’m being entirely truthful,” Jack assured him.
“Well, then you’re a lucky man,” Warren said. “Had David and Spit not recognized that dude who came cruising around the neighborhood in his Camaro, you’d be history right now. Spit says he was fixing to blow you away.”
Jack looked up at Spit. “I’m very grateful,” he said.
“It was nothing, man,” Spit said. “That mother was so fixed on getting you that he never once looked behind him. We’d been on his tail almost the moment he turned on a Hundred and Sixth.”
Jack rubbed his head and sighed. Only now was he truly beginning to calm down. “What a night,” he said. “But it’s not over. We’ve got to go to the police.”
“Hell we do,” Warren said, his anger returning. “Nobody’s going to the police.”
“But there’s someone dead,” Jack said. “Maybe two or three, counting those homeless guys.”
“There’ll be four if you go,” Warren warned. “Listen, Doc, don’t get yourself involved in gang business, and this has become gang business. This Reginald dude knew he wasn’t supposed to be up here. No way. I mean, we can’t have them thinking they can just breeze into our neighborhood and knock somebody off, even if it is only you. Next they’d be icing one of the brothers. Leave it be, Doc. The police don’t give a shit anyway. They’re happy when us brothers are knocking each other off. All you can do is cause you and us trouble, and if you go to the police, you’re no friend of ours, no way.”
“But leaving the scene of a crime is a—” Jack began.
“Yeah, I know,” Warren interrupted. “It’s a felony. Big deal. Who the hell cares? And let me tell you something else. You still got a problem. If the Black Kings want you dead, you’d better be our friend, because we’re the only ones who can keep you alive. The cops can’t, believe me.”
Jack started to say something, but he changed his mind. With his knowledge of gang life in New York City, he knew that Warren was right. If the Kings wanted him dead, which they apparently did—and would all the more now with Reginald’s death—there was no way for the police to prevent it short of secret-service-type twenty-four-hour guard.
Warren looked up at Spit. “Somebody’s going to have to stick tight to Doc for the next few days,” he said.
Spit nodded. “No problem,” he said.
Warren stood up and stretched. “What pisses me off is that I had the best team I’ve had in weeks tonight, and this shit has cut it short.”
“I’m sorry,” Jack said. “I’ll let you win next time I play against you.”
Warren laughed. “One thing I can say about you, Doc,” he said. “You can sure rap with the best of them.”
Warren motioned to Spit to leave. “We’ll be seeing you, Doc,” Warren said at the door. “Now don’t do anything foolish. You going to run tomorrow night?”
“Maybe,” Jack said. He didn’t know what he was going to do in the next five minutes, much less the following night.
With a final wave Warren and Spit departed. The door closed behind them.
Jack sat for a few minutes. He felt shell-shocked. Then he got up, went into the bathroom. When he looked into the mirror he cringed. At the time he and Spit had been waiting for David to arrive with the car, a few people had glanced at Jack, but no one had stared. Now Jack wondered why they hadn’t. Jack’s face and sweater were spattered with blood, presumably from the vagrant. There was also a nasty series of parallel scratches from the vagrant’s fingernails down his forehead and over his nose. A cross-hatching of scratches marred his cheeks, from the underbrush, no doubt. He looked like he’d been in a war.
Jack climbed into his tub and took a shower. By then his mind was going a mile a minute. He couldn’t remember ever being in such a state of confusion, except after his family had perished. But that was different. He’d been depressed then. Now he was just confused.
Jack got out of the shower and dried himself off. He was still half debating whether or not to contact the police. In a state of indecision, he went to the phone. That’s when he noticed that his answering machine was blinking. He pushed the play button and listened to Beth Holderness’s disturbing message. Instantly he called her back. He let her phone ring ten times before giving up. What could she have found? he wondered. He also felt responsible for her having been fired. Somehow he was sure he was to blame.
Jack got a beer and took it into the living room. Sitting on the windowsill, he could see a sliver of 106th Street. There was the usual traffic and parade of people. He watched with unseeing eyes as he wrestled with his dilemma regarding calling the police.
Hours passed. Jack
realized that by not making a decision he was in essence making one. By not calling the police he was agreeing with Warren. He’d become a felon.
Jack went back to the phone and tried Beth for the tenth time. It was now after midnight. The phone rang interminably. Jack started to worry. He hoped she’d simply fled to a friend’s house for solace after losing her job. Yet not being able to get in touch with her nagged at him along with everything else.
27
TUESDAY, 7:30 A.M., MARCH 26, 1996
NEW YORK CITY
The first thing Jack did when he woke up was to try calling Beth Holderness. When she’d still not answered he’d tried to be optimistic about her visiting a friend, but in the face of everything that had happened, the inability to get ahold of her was progressively more distressing.
Still without a bike, Jack was forced back into the subway for his commute. But he wasn’t alone. From the moment Jack had emerged from his tenement he’d been trailed by one of the younger members of the local gang. His name was Slam, in deference to his dunking ability with the basketball. Even though he was Jack’s height, he could outjump Jack by at least twelve inches.
Jack and Slam did not talk during the train ride. They sat opposite each other, and although Slam didn’t try to avoid eye contact, his expression never changed from one of total indifference. He was dressed like most of the younger African-Americans in the city, with oversized clothes. His sweatshirt was tentlike, and Jack preferred not to imagine what it concealed. Jack didn’t believe that Warren would have sent the young man out to protect Jack without some significant weaponry.
As Jack crossed First Avenue and mounted the steps in front of the medical examiner’s office, he glanced behind him. Slam had paused on the sidewalk, obviously confused as to what he should do. Jack hesitated as well. The unreasonable thought went through Jack’s mind of inviting the man in so that he could pass the time in the second-floor canteen, but that was clearly out of the question.
Jack shrugged. Although he appreciated Slam’s efforts on his behalf, it was Slam’s problem what he was going to do for the day.
Jack turned back to the building, steeling himself for the possibility of having to face one or more bodies in whose death he somehow felt complicit.
Gathering his courage, Jack pulled open the door and entered.
Even though he was scheduled for a “paper day” and no autopsies, Jack wanted to see what had come in during the night. Not only was he concerned about Reginald and the vagrants, he was also concerned about the possibility of more meningococcus cases.
Jack had the receptionist buzz him into the ID area. Walking into the scheduling room, Jack knew instantly that it was not going to be a normal day. Vinnie was not sitting in his usual location with his morning newspaper.
“Where’s Vinnie?” Jack asked George.
Without looking up, George told Jack that Vinnie was already in the pit with Bingham.
Jack’s pulse quickened. Given his guilt about the previous evening’s events, he had the irrational thought that Bingham could have been called in to do Reginald. At this stage of his career Bingham rarely did autopsies unless they were of particular interest or importance.
“What’s Bingham doing in this early?” Jack asked, trying to sound disinterested.
“It’s been a busy night,” George said. “There was another infectious death over at the General. Apparently it’s got the city all worked up. During the night the city epidemiologist called the Commissioner of Health, who called Bingham.”
“Another meningococcus?” Jack asked.
“Nope,” George said. “They think this one is a viral pneumonia.”
Jack nodded and felt a chill descend his spine. His immediate concern was hantavirus. He knew there had been a case on Long Island the previous year in the early spring. Hantavirus was a scary proposition, although it was still not an illness with much patient-to-patient spread.
Jack could see there were more than the usual number of folders on the desk in front of George. “Anything else interesting last night?” Jack asked. He shuffled through the folders looking for Reginald’s name.
“Hey,” George complained. “I got these things in order.” He looked up, then did a double take. “What the hell happened to you?”
Jack had forgotten how bad his face looked.
“I tripped when I was out jogging last night,” Jack said. Jack didn’t like to lie. What he said was true, but hardly the whole story.
“What did you fall into?” George asked. “A roll of barbed wire?”
“Any gunshot wounds last night?” Jack asked, to change the subject.
“You’d better believe it,” George said. “We got four. Too bad it’s a paper day for you. I’d give you one.”
“Which ones are they?” Jack asked. He glanced around the desk.
George tapped the top of one of his stacks of folders.
Jack reached over and picked up the first one. When he opened the cover, his heart sank. He had to reach out and steady himself against the desk. The name was Beth Holderness.
“Oh, God, no,” Jack murmured.
George’s head shot up again. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Hey, you’re as white as a sheet. You okay?”
Jack sat in a nearby chair and put his head down between his legs. He felt dizzy.
“Is it someone you know?” George asked with concern.
Jack straightened up. The dizziness had passed. He took a deep breath and nodded. “She was an acquaintance,” he said. “But I’d spoken with her just yesterday.” Jack shook his head. “I can’t believe it.”
George reached over and took the folder from Jack’s hands. He opened it up. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “This is the lab tech from over at the General. Sad! She was only twenty-eight. Supposedly shot through the forehead for a TV and some cheap jewelry. What a waste.”
“What are the other gunshot wounds?” Jack asked. For the moment he remained seated.
George consulted his master sheet. “I’ve got a Hector Lopez, West Hundred and Sixtieth Street, a Mustafa Aboud, East Nineteenth Street, and Reginald Winthrope, Central Park.”
“Let me see Winthrope,” Jack said.
George handed Jack the folder.
Jack opened it up. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular, but his sense of involvement made him want to check the case. The strangest thing was that had it not been for Spit, Jack himself would have been represented there on George’s desk with his own folder. Jack shuddered. He handed Reginald’s folder back to George.
“Is Laurie here yet?” Jack asked.
“She came in just before you did,” George said. “She wanted some folders, but I told her that I’d not made out the schedule yet.”
“Where is she?” Jack asked.
“Up in her office, I guess,” George said. “I really don’t know.”
“Assign her the Holderness and the Winthrope cases,” Jack said. Jack stood up. He anticipated feeling dizzy again, but he didn’t.
“How come?” George asked.
“George, just do it,” Jack said.
“All right, don’t get mad,” George said.
“I’m sorry,” Jack said. “I’m not mad. Just preoccupied.”
Jack walked back through communications. He passed Janice’s office, where she was putting in her usual overtime. Jack didn’t bother her. He was too absorbed by his own thoughts. Beth Holderness’s death made him feel unhinged. Feeling guilty about his complicity in her losing her job was bad enough; the idea that she might have lost her life because of his actions was unthinkable.
Jack pressed the button for the elevator and waited. The attempt on his own life the night before had given more weight to his suspicions. Someone had tried to kill him after he refused to heed the warning. The very same night Beth Holderness had been murdered. Could it have been in the course of an unrelated robbery or could it have been because of Jack, and, if so, what did that mean about Martin Cheveau? Jack did
n’t know. But what he did know was that he could not involve anyone else in this affair for fear of putting them in jeopardy. From that moment on, Jack knew he had to keep everything to himself.
As George had surmised, Laurie was in her office. While waiting for George to assign the day’s cases, she was using the time profitably, working on some of her uncompleted cases. She took one look at Jack and recoiled. Jack offered the same explanation he’d given George, but he could tell that Laurie wasn’t quite convinced.
“Did you hear that Bingham is down in the pit?” Jack asked, to move the conversation away from his previous night’s experiences.
“I did,” Laurie said. “I was shocked. I didn’t think there was anything that could get him here before eight, much less in the autopsy room.”
“Do you know anything about the case?” Jack asked.
“Just that it was atypical pneumonia,” Laurie said. “I spoke with Janice for a moment. She said they’d had preliminary confirmation it was influenza.”
“Uh-oh!” Jack said.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Laurie said, wagging her finger. “Influenza was one of the diseases you said you’d use if you were a terrorist type trying to start an epidemic. But before you go jumping off using this as confirmation of your theory, just remember that it is still influenza season.”
“Primary influenza pneumonia is not very common,” Jack said, trying to stay calm. The mention of the word “influenza” had his pulse racing again.
“We see it every year,” Laurie said.
“Maybe so,” Jack said. “But I tell you what. How about calling that internist friend of yours and asking if there are any more cases?”
“Right now?” Laurie asked. She glanced at her watch.
“It’s as good a time as any,” Jack said. “She’ll probably be making her rounds. She can use the computer terminal at one of the nurses’ stations.”
