Allison (A Kane Novel)

by Steve Gannon

  “Don’t threaten the children, Dan,” laughed Mom. “That’s my job. Speaking of which, while I’m gone I want all three of you kids to help around the house and do whatever Grandma Dorothy says. That goes double for you, Nate.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And Allison, I want you to come home as often as possible, despite the demands of this … job you’ve taken.”

  “Okay, Mom,” I said, stung by her tone but determined not to show it.

  “I’ll help, too,” said Nate.

  “I know you will,” Mom said, again referring to her list. “In fact, as Travis and Allison will be gone a lot, you’ll have to work especially hard. It’ll be your job to see that Callie is fed and walked every day. And don’t forget to keep her water bowl filled.”

  “I won’t,” Nate promised, reaching behind him to stroke Callie, who was curled comfortably in the rear luggage compartment. “Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of her.”

  “Good. Another thing, don’t forget to—”

  “Put away your list, Kate,” Dad interrupted. “Please, sugar. Everything is going to be fine.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. You just get better. I’ll tend to the troops.”

  After taking West Channel Road to San Vicente Boulevard, Dad jogged right on 20th Street, taking a back route to the hospital. Minutes later, as the walls of St. John’s Health Center rose into view, a premonition of doom gripped me. As had all the Kane children, I’d been born at St. John’s, but I had rarely visited since. I vaguely remembered accompanying Dad and my older brothers years back when we had picked up Mom and newborn Nate. Then, the multistoried building with its rows of windows and curving glass columns had been filled with promise. Now, following a recent round of reconstruction that had all but obliterated any vestige of the old health center, it seemed as if a pall had settled upon the impersonal-looking new structure, threatening heartache and sorrow for any who dared to enter its walls.

  Dad pulled up at the curb, dropping us off near the entrance. Then, after snagging a rare parking spot on Santa Monica Boulevard and jamming a fistful of coins into the meter, he rejoined us. When we arrived in the lobby, we found Dr. Kratovil already there waiting by the information desk.

  “Sorry we’re late,” Mom apologized as we hurried in.

  “Don’t give it a thought.” Dr. Kratovil nodded warmly to Dad, then turned to us. “I’m Dr. Kratovil,” she said, extending a hand to Nate.

  Nate, who had insisted on carrying Mom’s bag into the hospital, set the small suitcase on the floor and shook the physician’s hand. “I’m Nate Kane,” he replied gravely.

  “And you must be Allison and Travis.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Travis.

  Not trusting myself to speak, I remained silent.

  “Your mom is going to spend some time getting checked in,” Dr. Kratovil continued. “In the meantime, there’s a good cafeteria here, at least it’s pretty good. If you want, we could go get a hot chocolate or a bite to eat, then see your mom in her room upstairs.”

  “Do we have to?” asked Nate, sidling closer to Mom.

  “No, of course not,” answered Dr. Kratovil. “But I thought it might give us time to talk.”

  “C’mon, Nate. I’ve never known you to turn down food,” I said lightly. “We’ll see Mom when she’s done.”

  “You’re not getting out of here without saying good-bye, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Mom added. “Go on, Nate. I’ll see you shortly.”

  With Nate reluctantly bringing up the rear, we followed Dr. Kratovil down a broad corridor and took an elevator to a brightly lit cafeteria on the second floor. Though no one was hungry, Travis and Dr. Kratovil got steaming mugs of strong black coffee. Nate opted for hot chocolate. My stomach tied in knots, I had nothing.

  “So,” said Dr. Kratovil after we had seated ourselves at a table near the door. “You must all have questions. Who wants to begin?”

  No one spoke.

  “It’s all right. You can ask anything you want.”

  “Is Mom going be all right?” Nate finally ventured, cutting to the heart of the matter with childlike simplicity.

  Dr. Kratovil paused before answering, three pairs of eyes upon her, awaiting her response. Finally she spoke. “When talking with family members about a disease such as your mother’s, I don’t believe in sugar-coating the risks,” she said. “I don’t know for certain whether your mother will recover, but she has a good chance. She’s young and strong. We caught her leukemia early, and she has a type that’s amenable to treatment.”

  “Mom said the chemotherapy will make her sick,” said Travis. “How sick?”

  “Very. We’ll be giving her extremely toxic chemicals designed to kill cancerous cells, but their effect on the rest of her body will be devastating. She’ll need all the support we can give her. A month from now when she’s in remission, she’ll be able to go home for a while. Then she’ll come back for another course of treatment. After that, depending on how things go, further therapy may be required.”

  “Like what?”

  “Possibly a third and even a fourth round of chemo, which may or may not be combined with radiation and a bone-marrow transplant,” answered Dr. Kratovil. “But those are decisions we’ll make later. Which reminds me—before we rejoin your mother, I want you all to swing by the hospital laboratory with me.”

  “For HLA testing to see whether any of us are a human leukocyte antigen match for Mom,” I said, recalling some research I had done on the internet. “In case she needs an allogenic marrow graft.”

  Dr. Kratovil regarded me curiously. “How do you know those terms?”

  I shrugged. “I did some checking last night. Am I right?”

  Dr. Kratovil nodded. “You are. The chances are extremely slim that any of you will be an acceptable match, but as your mother has no siblings, testing you three children for HLA compatibility is worth doing. With any luck, however, if a transplant is needed Catheryn may be able serve as her own donor by using what is known as an autologous or ‘rescue’ graft—employing her own purified cells to reestablish her immune system. There’s a national donor registry too, if we need allogenic, or nonrelated, marrow from someone else.”

  “Will she have tubes and needles stuck in her arms?” asked Nate.

  “We have a better way now, Nate. We’ll place something called a Hickman catheter into your mother’s chest, and it’ll stay there the whole time. It’s easier than repeatedly starting new IVs, and the catheter has three separate channels for administering drugs, drawing blood, and giving IV nutrients.”

  “How about hospital visiting hours?” asked Travis. “Can we come whenever we want?”

  “You can, within reason, but please don’t visit if you have a cold or the flu or anything contagious,” cautioned Dr. Kratovil. “Along those lines, many physicians require that visitors wear latex gloves. I think touching and hand contact are important, so we can dispense with the gloves as long as you wash your hands thoroughly with alcohol when you arrive. Another thing. No flowers.”

  “Bacteria in the water?” I guessed.

  “Correct. Balloons are fine, as are pictures, drawings, books, and videos. And a cot can be set up in your mother’s room, making it possible for a family member to occasionally stay overnight.”

  “I’ll stay with Mom,” offered Nate.

  “I think Dad will have dibs on that,” I said. “But maybe we can take turns,” I added, noting Nate’s crestfallen expression.

  Dr. Kratovil finished her coffee and set down her cup. “Any other questions?”

  All three of us shook our heads.

  “In that case, it’s time for me to get to work. I think your parents should be done registering by now, so let’s stop at the lab and then see how they’re doing.”

  After having blood drawn at the hospital laboratory, Travis, Nate, and I returned with Dr. Kratovil to the main lobby. The doctor stopped briefly at the registrati
on desk, then accompanied us to the oncology unit on the fourth floor. There we rejoined Mom and Dad in a hospital room overlooking the city of Santa Monica and the Pacific Ocean beyond. To the right of the door into Mom’s room lay a large bathroom; straight ahead, facing a television mounted on the opposite wall, was a hospital bed attended by several chairs, a bedside stand, and a brace of complicated-looking monitoring machines.

  When we arrived Mom was still unpacking, laying out toiletries and a few articles of clothing on the bed. Dad stood to one side, hands sunk deep in his pockets.

  “Hi, Mom,” I said. “Getting settled?”

  “Hi, Ali,” she replied. “Yes, I’m making myself at home. It’s a wonderful room, don’t you think? It has a much better view than the ones in the old maternity ward.”

  “It’s great,” I agreed, the room suddenly seeming too small. “What’s next?” I asked, wishing our entire family, including mom, could simply get up and leave and never come back.

  “Your mother has a number of preliminary tests scheduled,” Dr. Kratovil answered, checking her watch. “As they’ll take several hours, this might be as good a time as any for you all to say good-bye.”

  “Already?” asked Nate.

  Mom smiled reassuringly. “You can visit tomorrow when I have more time, honey. Come here and give me a hug.”

  His chin trembling, Nate crossed the room and threw his arms around Mom’s neck. “’Bye, Mom.”

  “We’ll visit first thing tomorrow,” said Travis, bending to kiss Mom on the cheek.

  “You’d better,” she warned with a mock frown. “Ali?”

  “What, Mom?”

  “Come here and say good-bye.”

  Slowly, I walked to the bed. Once more feeling as if I were trapped in some unspeakable nightmare, I placed my arms around my mother and gave her a hug. “See you tomorrow,” I said softly.

  14

  Our entire family visited Mom at the hospital on Saturday and again on Sunday. Both times my father, preoccupied with my mother’s worsening reaction to her chemotherapy, had little to say to any of us, including me. As he still hadn’t mentioned my role in a CBS news crew being present at the Frenches’ house on Tuesday, I was beginning to believe he hadn’t made the connection.

  Monday morning, following a mostly sleepless weekend, I left for CBS before 6 AM to avoid rush-hour traffic. When I arrived at the newsroom, Lauren Van Owen was already present. “Quite the early bird, aren’t you?” the bureau chief remarked as I entered.

  I shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep. Figured I might as well get something done.”

  “A compulsive worker,” Lauren noted approvingly. “I like that in an employee. Speaking of which, I want to compliment you again on that tip you gave Brent. Your hunch about the police search really paid off. Our share numbers were up dramatically on that story.”

  Despite conflicting feelings on the subject, I allowed myself a brief moment of pride at the bureau chief’s praise.

  “Speaking of which, I need a body to sit on the Frenches’ house today,” Lauren continued. “Think you can handle it?”

  I stared in surprise. “You want me to go?”

  Lauren smiled. “Unless you have something you would rather do.”

  “No. I mean … I’ll be glad to go. What do you want me to do?”

  “Like I said, you’re just a body. Take a cameraman up there and watch the house. If anything develops—another police visit, for instance—have the cameraman start shooting and call for reinforcements. Brent is covering the President’s California campaign trip, but he can be reached if something breaks. Stay in touch.”

  “I will. And thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. You earned it.”

  Three quarters of an hour later I turned off Sunset Boulevard and headed up Mandeville Canyon. Sitting beside me in the Bronco, Max Riemann, one of the CBS staff cameramen, finished the dregs of his coffee and glanced out the window. “Ain’t been up here in years,” the older man noted idly. “Sure a lotta goddamned trees.” Then, seeming embarrassed, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to cuss.”

  “Forget it,” I said. “I have older brothers. Plus my dad’s a cop.”

  Riemann nodded. “I heard that. Lead investigator on the French case. Your covering this story causing any trouble at home?”

  “A bit,” I admitted, turning on Westridge Road. “Concerning my working for CBS, my dad’s attitude can be summed up in one simple word: stupid.”

  But as I proceeded up the twisting canyon lane, I felt a renewed sense of unease, wondering whether Lauren’s motives for sending me to the Frenches’ house had more to do with my father than me. Stubbornly, I pushed away my doubts. What difference does it make? I asked myself. Lauren is giving me a chance, and I’m taking it. Period.

  Just before 8 AM, I eased the Bronco to a stop in front of the Frenches’ wrought-iron gate. Deciding a position across the street would provide the best vantage point, I parked in a vacant lot opposite the house. As I killed the engine, I noticed a late-model maroon Ford partially concealed behind a clump of oleander bushes near the rear of the property. Leaving Max to ready his video equipment, I climbed from behind the wheel, wondering about the Ford. It appeared too new to be abandoned, so why would someone leave it parked there?

  Curious, I made my way across the vacant lot, approaching the vehicle from the side. When I was a dozen yards away from the car, I saw that two men were sitting in the front seat. I stopped, not having considered that the Ford might be occupied. All at once I recognized one of the men in the car: Detective Paul Deluca.

  Puzzled, I began walking again. As I neared the Ford, I saw that Deluca had been following my progress. The man beside Deluca said something. Deluca shook his head.

  Upon arriving, I gave Detective Deluca a sunny smile, feeling a bit foolish for my stealthy approach. “ Hi, Paul. What brings you out here?”

  “Morning, Ali,” Deluca replied, lowering his window. “If I didn’t already know you were working for the media, I might ask you the same thing. Speaking of which, you should have mentioned your new job the other day when you called the squad room.”

  “Sorry,” I said, realizing from his tone that Deluca must have figured out who tipped the CBS news crew on the day of the search, meaning my father knew as well. “At the time I was just trying to locate my dad,” I explained lamely. “After that things sort of snowballed.”

  “Snowballed, huh?”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “Don’t be so defensive,” said Deluca. “I believe you. By the way, I’m really sorry about your mom. I hope she’s gonna be okay.”

  My stomach dropped at the mention of Mom. “Thanks, Paul,” I said numbly. Then, changing the subject, “So what are you doing here? Think the kidnapper might come back?”

  Deluca hesitated. “Off the record?” he said evasively.

  “Of course. I know better than to blow a police stakeout.”

  “Fine. Off the record, we think whoever did it might come back. Happens all the time. We’re checking for cars cruising the area, people who don’t belong, anything out of the ordinary.”

  Deluca’s partner, a heavyset man with sagging jowls and a florid complexion, raised a pair of binoculars. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “Now he’s comin’ back from the other direction. How’d he manage that?”

  I turned to see a large, muscular man wearing a brightly colored wind shirt, biking shorts, and helmet, pedaling a mountain bike toward the Frenches’ gate. Without removing his feet from the pedal clips, the man steadied himself on the gate keypad and punched in several numbers. The metal barrier swung open. Moments later the biker coasted through the opening and down the long driveway, vanishing around the side of the garage.

  “Mr. French?” I guessed, watching the gate swing closed.

  Deluca nodded. “He took off around an hour ago, going up the hill when he left. Must’ve made a loop.”

  “Well, we’ll never know, seeing as how we couldn’t get past the
dead-end at Queensferry,” the other officer complained.

  “You followed him?” I said, surprised.

  “We trailed him,” explained Deluca, shooting his partner a look of exasperation.

  “Why?”

  “To make sure no one else was following. Listen, Ali, we have work to do, so why don’t you—” Stopping midsentence, Deluca stared over my shoulder. “Aw, hell. This thing’s turning into a circus.”

  I glanced toward the street, noting a caravan of media vehicles pulling into the lot beside my car. One was an NBC news van, another had a CNN logo.

  Deluca grabbed a cell phone from the dashboard. “Beat it, Ali.”

  “Right, Paul. See you later.”

  Mulling over my puzzling exchange with Deluca, I returned to my car. Something was wrong. Granted, it made sense for detectives to be watching the Frenches’ estate. I had taken an active interest in many of my dad’s cases over the years, and I knew that criminals—especially those who had engaged in a killing that involved rape or sexual rage—often returned to the scene to gloat, to relive their act, or even to taunt authorities. Although the coroner’s report had yet to be released, because Jordan’s body had been found nude, it was being widely speculated in the press that a sexual assault had taken place. But that didn’t explain why Deluca and his partner had followed Mr. French. Watching to see whether someone else was following him didn’t add up, either. What interest would the killer have in Mr. French? Before I could come up with an answer, I heard a car engine cough to life. An instant later Deluca’s maroon Ford rumbled past, fishtailed onto the street, and headed down the hill.

  Max regarded me curiously as I slipped back behind the wheel. “Anybody we know?”

  “Cops,” I said, rolling down my window. Though the morning was just beginning, the temperature had already risen into the seventies, promising another day of sun and smog for the Southland. “I think we just blew their stakeout.”

  “We weren’t the only ones,” Max remarked as another news van, this one from KCBS, slowed in front of the Frenches’ gate.

  The Channel 2 van stopped, backed, and turned into the lot, parking next to me. Seconds later the side door opened and three men piled out. One of them Mike Cortese. He started toward the rear of the van, smiling in surprise when he noticed me in the Bronco. “Hi, Ali,” he said.