“Doctor,” she said, “you’re still working.”
“Esther, you go home, now. Please,” Ethan Kane said, pretending to be solicitous and caring, which couldn’t have been further from the truth. He considered the nurse inferior in every way, including the fact that she was female.
He was also exhausted from a surgical marathon: five major operations in a day. The elevator car finally arrived, the doors slid open, and he stepped inside.
“Good night, Esther,” he said, and showed the nurse a lot of very white teeth, but no genuine warmth, because there was none to show.
He straightened his tall body and wearily passed his hand over his longish blond hair, cleaned his wire-rimmed glasses on the tail of his lab coat, then rubbed his eyes before putting his glasses back on as he descended to the subbasement level.
One more thing to check on… always one more thing to do.
He walked half a dozen quick steps to a thick steel door and pushed it open with the palm of his hand.
He entered the dark and chilly atmosphere of a basement storage room. A pungent odor struck him.
There, lying on a double row of gurneys, were six naked bodies. Four men, two women, all in their late teens and early twenties. Each was brain-dead, each as good as gone, but each had served a worthy cause, a higher purpose. The plastic bracelets on their wrists said DONOR.
“You’re making the world a better place,” Kane whispered as he passed the bodies. “Take comfort in that.”
Dr. Kane strode to the far end of the room and pushed open another steel door, an exact duplicate of the first. This time rather than a chilly blast, he was met by a searing wave of hot air, the deafening roar of fire, and the unmistakable smell of death.
All three incinerators were going tonight. Two of his nighttime porters, their powerful workingman bodies glistening with grime and sweat, looked up as Dr. Kane entered the cinder-block chamber. The men nodded respectfully, but their eyes showed fear.
“Let’s pick up the pace, gentlemen. This is taking too long,” Kane called out. “Let’s go, let’s go! You’re being paid well for this scut work. Too well.”
He glanced at a naked young woman’s corpse laid out on the cement floor. She was white-blond, pretty in a music-video sort of way. The porters had probably been diddling with her. That’s why they were behind schedule, wasn’t it?
Gurneys were shoved haphazardly into one corner, like discarded shopping carts in a supermarket parking lot. Quite a spectacle. Hellish, to be sure.
As he watched, one of the sweat-glazed minions worked a wooden paddle under a young male’s body while the other swung open the heavy glass door of an oven. Together they pushed, shoved, slid the body into the fire as if it were a pizza.
The flames dampened for a moment, then as the porters locked down the door, the inferno flared again. The cremation chamber was called a “retort.” Each retort burned at 3,600 degrees, and it took just over fifteen minutes to reduce a human body to nothing but ashes.
To Dr. Ethan Kane, that meant one thing: no evidence of what was happening at the Hospital. Absolutely no evidence of Resurrection.
“Pick up the pace!” he yelled again. “Burn these bodies!”
The donors.
Part One
Child Custody
1
IT WAS BEING CALLED “the mother of all custody trials,” which might have explained why an extra fifty thousand people had poured into Denver on that warm day in early spring.
The case was also being billed as potentially more wrenching and explosive than Baby M, or Elian Gonzales, or O. J. Simpson’s battle against truth and decency. I happened to think that this time maybe the media hype was fitting and appropriate, even a tiny bit underplayed.
The fate of six extraordinary children was at stake.
Six children who had been created in a laboratory and made history, both scientific and philosophical.
Six adorable, good-hearted kids whom I loved as if they were my own.
Max, Matthew, Icarus, Ozymandias, Peter, and Wendy.
The actual trial was scheduled to begin in an hour in the City and County Building, a gleaming white neoclassical courthouse. Designed to appear unmistakably judicial-looking, it was crowned with a pointy pediment just like the one atop the U.S. Supreme Court Building. I could see it now.
Kit and I slumped down on the front seat of my dusty, trusty beat-up blue Suburban. It was parked down the block from the courthouse, where we could see and not be seen, at least so far.
I had chewed my nails down to the quick, and there was a pesky muscle twitching in Kit’s cheek.
“I know, Frannie,” he’d said just a moment before. “I’m twitching again.”
We were suing for custody of the children, and we knew that the full weight of the law was against us. We weren’t married, we weren’t related to the kids, and their biological parents were basically good people. Not too terrific for us.
What we did have going for us was our unshakable love for these children, with whom we’d gone through several degrees of hell, and their love for us.
Now all we had to do was prove that living with us was in the best interest of the children, and that meant I was going to have to tell a story that sounded crazy, even to my closest friends, sometimes even to myself.
But every word is true, so help me God.
Copyright © 2003 by James Patterson
About this Title
When the Wind Blows, the most brilliant and original “what if” suspense novel to come along in a decade has somehow surpassed the page turning chills of Cat and Mouse and Kiss the Girls. Frannie O’Neill, a young and talented veterinarian whose husband was recently murdered, comes across an amazing discovery near her animal hospital in the woods. Kit Harrison, a troubled and unconventional FBI agent soon arrives on her doorstep. And then, there is eleven-year old Max—Frannie’s amazing discovery—and one of the most unforgettable creations in thriller fiction.
When the Wind Blows will not just thrill readers, it will make their imaginations and hearts soar.
When the Wind Blows Page 29
