Two minutes after the fax went through, Mindy buzzed Mac, who spoke first. “It’s Joe Whetstone on the phone, isn’t it?”
“How did you know?” Mindy asked.
“Practice. You’ll be able to do it every time if you stay here long enough.”
Mac punched the phone button.
“Hello.”
“If this is your idea of a joke, it’s not funny!” Joe said sharply.
“Who said anything about a joke?”
“This report. Thomason as a kidney donor. It’s ludicrous.”
“Call the pathologist at the hospital yourself.”
“Why would Thomason do this?” Joe continued. “It won’t change his sentence.”
“He knows that,” Mac replied. “All I can tell you is that he has volunteered to donate a kidney to Alex Hightower, if he will accept it. The judge approved a series of donor suitability tests, and the doctor turned up the information in your hand.”
There was silence on the line. “So this is on the level?”
“Alex Hightower’s doctors may want to run their own tests, but for his sake I hope they turn out the same. I thought you might want to be the one to make the offer to the Hightower family.”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“There’s no way to know how they will react to this.”
“So what?”
“This thing could be a big blowup. I’m not sure—” Joe stopped.
“That this is going to be good for you?” Mac finished Joe’s thought.
Joe bristled. “Hey, it’s a touchy situation. What if Thomason backs out?”
“I don’t think he will,” Mac answered. “But if you don’t want to talk to the Hightowers, I’ll ask the local doctor who did the testing to work through the medical channels.”
“I think that would be the best. I don’t want to be in the loop on this one.”
“Okay. I’ll handle it from this end.”
“Spencer can’t be a kidney donor for Alex,” Dr. Newburn told Sarah when she answered the phone. “The blood types are different, so it’s medically unfeasible.”
“Do you think he wanted to help?” Sarah asked.
“I think I could have brought him around. I gave him the letter you wrote, and he seemed receptive to a reconciliation.”
Sarah sighed. “I guess we need to do that soon, but Alex isn’t up to it yet.”
“How is he doing?” the psychiatrist asked.
“Weak. He’s been asleep most of the day, and I’m exhausted myself.”
“Why don’t you go home for a few hours and rest?”
“Good idea. Thanks for talking with Spencer.”
“You’re very welcome. Everything will work out if we’re patient.”
Dr. Newburn hung up the phone then immediately called Spencer.
“Can you meet me at the hospital in forty-five minutes?”
“Why?”
“I talked to Sarah. Alex is alert and ready to talk to you.”
“I hope he’s humble enough.”
“She said he’s in tears.”
“Crying? This I have to see.”
“I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
Dr. Newburn put on his white medical jacket and picked up an old leather satchel he carried when making his rounds at the hospital. Carefully positioned between several sheets of paper in the satchel was a small hypodermic needle and syringe. In the syringe was a 50 cc dose of Cardiotoxin CTXI, a potent snake poison that causes severe constriction of the heart muscle and mimics with remarkable accuracy the symptoms of cardiac arrest. Given Alex Hightower’s weakened condition, the dosage would finish the job botched by Mike and Bart.
Spencer would be there as an alibi, or at least an alternate object of blame. In the right time, Spencer could become the focus of a criminal investigation. But not yet.
45
Out of the jaws of death.
TWELFTH NIGHT, ACT 3, SCENE 4
Since early in the morning, Ray and Harry had been visiting car dealers who sold Lincolns.
“They sell more cars in Atlanta than I thought,” Harry said, as they pulled out of a lot in East Point.
“At five o’clock on I-285 you’d believe it,” Ray responded. “Ten lanes solid for miles. It’s like pictures of L.A.”
The next stop on their tour was a dealership in Peachtree City, a planned community patterned after Columbia, Maryland. Both Ray and Harry spotted the big vehicle at the same time.
“There it is!” Harry shouted.
In the front row of the used-car section was a dark-colored Lincoln sedan. Ray parked beside it.
“Here’s where they scraped Mr. McFarland’s truck.” Ray said, running his finger along a section above the front left tire. “It’s been repaired, but there is a slight indention.”
Harry was writing down the serial number from the number plate on the dashboard when a hefty, dark-headed salesman walked up.
“It’s a beauty. Just took it in a couple of days ago.”
“What can you tell me about it?” Ray asked.
“One owner. Low miles. Never a scratch on it.”
“Did you handle the trade-in?”
“Yeah. I’d sold it new to a guy who kept it in a garage for a few months then decided he wanted something he could take off-road and bought a Nissan SUV.” Patting the big car, he said, “This baby is built to be king of the highway, not slog through a mudhole.”
“Could I give the previous owner a call and find out if he had any problems with it?”
“I don’t know,” the salesman hesitated. “That depends how serious you are about buying it. Why don’t you take it out for a drive and then we can talk? You’ll be amazed how few pennies it will take to put you in this beauty.”
“Okay. Get the key.”
While the salesman went inside, Harry asked, “You’re not going to buy it, are you?”
Ray grinned. “I didn’t hear Mac put a dollar limit on us.”
Harry drove while Ray opened the glove box and ran his hand under the seats.
“Here’s a French fry.” He held up a yellow stick which had once been edible.
Glancing over, Harry said, “Burger King.”
“How do you know?”
“French fries are like fingerprints. Every one is different to an experienced eye like mine.”
Ray retrieved a lottery ticket with the choices rubbed off and an unopened straw in a white wrapper.
“Hardee’s,” Harry said after a quick look at the straw.
“Speaking of fingerprints, there may be one or two on this lottery ticket.” Ray carefully slipped the ticket in his pocket.
They pulled back into the lot. “Let’s take this deal to the next level,” Ray said.
Sitting in the salesman’s cubicle, Ray asked, “What color is the paint on the car? My buddy thinks it’s burgundy. I think it’s more of a midnight purple.”
“Midnight purple? Let me look at the specifications.”
The salesman flipped over his information sheet about the car.
“You’re right. Midnight purple.”
Ray sat back satisfied. “I told you, Harry.”
Ready to close the sale, the salesman took out several sheets of paper. “If you’re ready to deal, I’m ready to put you behind the wheel.”
“I still need to talk to the prior owner,” Ray persisted. “I never buy a car without checking out its history.”
“Okay, okay.” The salesman opened a file drawer and pulled out a manila folder. “Here it is. I remember the guy. Came in with his brother.”
Ray held his breath.
“Sorry, there’s no phone number listed. We didn’t do any financing on the car and didn’t require a phone number.”
Ray stood up. “I’m not interested. Thanks for your time.”
“Wait a minute, sit down and don’t be in such a hurry. I have the name and address—Mike Conan, 4873B Palomino Apartments. I’ll check the phone book.”
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While the salesman flipped the pages of the big white book, Ray and Harry silently repeated the address until they had it memorized.
“Must be a nonpublished number. But you don’t need to talk to anyone. You can see the condition of the car. It’s a cream puff. Never been scratched.”
Ray shook his head. “Sorry. There was a bad odor in the car.”
“Odor? We had the car cleaned by our detail shop.” The salesman huffed, not ready to give up the fight. “We don’t put anything on the lot until it’s better than new.”
“Maybe, but to me, it smelled like death.”
Dr. Newburn was waiting in the hospital lobby. “Thanks for coming,” he said when Spencer came through the main entrance. “Ready?” he asked.
“I’m ready to see big brother eat crow. Is Sarah still here?”
“No. She’s gone home to rest. We’ll have Alex to ourselves for a few minutes.”
They rode up the elevator together. Alex had been moved from intensive care to a room on the orthopedic wing of the hospital. They passed two patients in wheelchairs and a young boy moving slowly on crutches.
Dr. Newburn stopped at the nurse’s station.
“I’m here to see Alex Hightower in room 3892. Could I review his chart for a moment?”
The nurse glanced at the doctor’s name on his jacket and handed him the chart. He quickly checked the nurse’s schedule for monitoring Alex’s temperature and blood pressure. Just completed. There would be no interruptions. IV in place.
“Thank you.”
They walked down the hall and pushed open the door. Spencer was not prepared for what he saw. On the drive over to the hospital, he had imagined Alex channel-surfing the TV while he ordering underlings to do his bidding. He couldn’t have been more wrong.
A pale, weak-looking image of his brother lay completely immobile on the bed. It wasn’t even apparent that Alex was breathing. The entire left side of his head was discolored from the bruising and swelling caused by the crushing blow. His right leg was suspended in a knee-high cast and his left arm was immobilized by his side. Tubes were everywhere.
Spencer stopped in his tracks. “Alex,” he said softly.
Dr. Newburn brushed by him into the room.
“Looks like he’s gone back to sleep for a minute. Spencer, please go to the nurse’s station and get a refill on the ice bucket. We’ll wake him up and give him a drink of water so you two can talk.”
Shaken, Spencer backed out of the room.
As soon as the door clicked shut, Dr. Newburn took the needle and syringe out of his satchel. The best way to administer the drug would be into the IV tube access port where Alex received pain and antibiotic medication. That would eliminate the remote possibility of a needle prick awakening Alex or leaving any evidence of an injection on his skin. Newburn would inject the poison, leave the room, and let Spencer try to awaken his brother. By the time Alex’s heart succumbed to the poison and constricted for the last time, the psychiatrist would be in his car driving away from the hospital. He inserted the needle into the port and put his thumb on the end of the syringe. It would all be over in the next fifteen seconds.
The door opened.
“Dr. Newburn!” Sarah came in. “I didn’t know you were coming by.”
In his haste to withdraw the needle, Newburn almost dropped it on the floor. Coughing, he bent over and transferred the still-full syringe to the right front pocket of his white jacket.
“Good to see you, Sarah,” he managed as he straightened up. “I thought you were going home to rest.” Newburn fought off an urge to run out of the room.
“The hospital called as soon as I walked through the door. They may have located a donor for Alex and asked me to meet with the kidney specialist. He should be here any minute.”
“Excellent.” The psychiatrist smiled crookedly.
“Do you want to wait until the doctor arrives?”
“No, uh, I need to get back to the office.” Dr. Newburn made a hasty retreat.
Spencer came into the room with the ice bucket. He saw Sarah and stopped.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I had no idea how bad—”
“He’s better than he was,” Sarah said. “It’s been horrible.”
“Can I stay for a few minutes?” he asked, still visibly unnerved by the sight of his brother swathed in bandages and casts.
“Yes.”
Sarah and Spencer sat beside Alex on opposite sides of the bed. Neither spoke for several minutes. Alexander’s chest slightly rose and fell in a steady rhythm.
“I’m really sorry,” Spencer said, glancing up at Sarah’s face.
“He’s going to make it,” Sarah said. “The worst part was the head injury, and if he gets a new kidney, there’s hope for a good recovery. ”
“No. I’m sorry for harassing Angela.”
Sarah quickly looked away.
Spencer spoke slowly, “There was nothing to it except meanness on my part. I treated it as a game, but it was wrong to tease her. I guess it was a way to get back at Alex.”
Sarah reached over and laid her hand on her husband’s motionless arm, “Spencer, it’s going to take time for Alex and me—”
The door opened and one of the floor nurses ushered in a group of physicians. A robust, dark-skinned man with a narrow mustache and gold-rimmed glasses stepped forward.
“Mrs. Hightower?”
“Yes.” Sarah stood up.
“I’m Dr. Godfrey Banforth, head of the kidney transplant team,” he said with an accent that combined the sounds of London and Kinshasa. “Could you come down the hall to the consultation room so we can discuss your husband’s case?”
As they filed out of the room, Spencer held back. Turning, Sarah said, “You, too, Spencer. You need to be in on this. You’re his brother.”
46
We thought it was Judgment Day.
THOMAS HARDY
Spencer was speechless, and Sarah felt lightheaded and faint when Dr. Banforth finished telling them about Peter Thomason’s offer.
She sat in a chair and someone brought her a glass of water.
“But he murdered my daughter,” she said. “The idea that part of him would be in my husband—”
“Can the decision wait until we discuss this with Alex?” Spencer interrupted.
“Of course. We can’t schedule the surgery until Mr. Hightower’s medical condition is more stable.”
“And he’s a drug user,” Sarah mumbled.
“What?” Dr. Banforth asked.
“Thomason is a drug user. I don’t want my husband to receive a kidney that has been damaged by drugs.”
“Of course, more tests need to be performed to make sure the donor kidney is healthy. But regardless of the personal issues, the chances of finding a similar donor are a thousand to one. The long-term success of the transplant is directly related to the compatibility of donor and recipient.”
“I don’t know,” Sarah closed her eyes and shook her head.
When she opened them, Dr. Banforth looked down at her and smiled. “Mrs. Hightower, when I was a little boy, I saw many people die in my country because there was no medical help available for them. I decided to become a doctor to save lives that might otherwise be lost. Life is a precious gift and we must preserve it. A transplant is much better than depending on a dialysis machine. Whatever this man has done in the past, he is making a remarkable offer in the present, an offer that could add many years to your husband’s life.”
The room was silent. Sarah nodded. “We’ll give it serious consideration. Thank you.”
“Let me know your decision as soon as possible,” the doctor said. He and his entourage left the room.
Sarah and Spencer returned to Alex’s bedside. Afternoon shadows came into the room.
Spencer lifted his head and broke the silence, “Today, I realized I care about my brother. When I saw Alex lying here, so pale, so hurt, so weak . . .” he paused. “I don’t know. Something happ
ened. And when the doctor talked about someone giving a kidney to Alex, I wished I could do it instead.”
“If only Alex could hear you say that.”
“He will,” Spencer said. “I have several things I need to say to him.”
Ray and Harry had been parked under a tree at the Palomino Apartments all afternoon. There was no sign of Mike or Bart. Harry nodded off and began to snore, and Ray’s eyelids were drooping lower and lower when the white Nissan SUV came into view. Ray was instantly awake. He nudged Harry with his foot.
“Uh,” Harry grunted.
“Wake up.”
Each carrying a twelve-pack of beer, the two blond-haired men got out and went into a ground-floor apartment.
Telephoto lens in place on his camera, Ray rapidly took six pictures of the brothers walking up the sidewalk.
“They’re big boys, aren’t they?” Harry said. “With poor taste in beer, I might add.”
“Really? I thought you drank anything that didn’t run away.”
“Almost, but even I had standards.”
Ray wrote down the license plate number of the Nissan on a slip of paper.
“What do we do now?” Harry asked.
“You seemed pretty comfortable a few minutes ago. Why don’t we camp out together under this tree? Now that we’ve found our prey, I’d hate to go back and start over.”
“Is this what they call a stakeout?”
“I guess so. We’ll watch them tonight and tomorrow morning. If nothing happens, we’ll go home.”
“What do you think they’re going to do?”
Ray turned toward Harry. “How long have I been training you?
“Four days.”
“I knew it was a long time. Haven’t I trained you better than to ask a question like that? Think. What would you say if I asked you that question?”
Harry looked out the window of the car for a moment. “They’re going to drink beer.”
“Brilliant. What are we going to do?”
“That’s easy. Go back to the Chinese restaurant we passed down the road and order takeout.”
“Good. You had me worried. I need a partner I can trust.”
The Trial Page 39
