by Robin Cook
“Some coffee or a soft drink?” Dudley offered. Jeffrey decided he’d be better off without caffeine. He told Dudley some juice would be fine. He thought it best to give his hands something to do. Dudley smiled and said, “Sure thing.” The man was being so cordial, Jeffrey was afraid it was a trap.
“I’ll be right back with the cash,” Dudley said after handing Jeffrey a glass of orange juice. He returned in a few minutes carrying a soiled canvas money bag. He dumped the contents onto his desk. There were nine packets of hundred-dollar bills, each containing fifty bills. Jeffrey had never seen so much money in one place. He felt increasingly uneasy.
“It took us a little doing to get this together so quickly,” Dudley told him.
“I appreciate your effort,” Jeffrey said.
“I suppose you’ll want to count it,” Dudley said, but Jeffrey declined.
Dudley had Jeffrey sign a receipt for the cash. “Are you sure you don’t want a cashier’s check?” Dudley asked as he took the signed paper from Jeffrey. “It’s not safe carrying this kind of cash around. You could call your bail bondsman and have him pick it up here. And you know, a cashier’s check is as good as cash. He could then go into one of our Boston offices and get cash if that’s what he’s after. It would make it safer for you.”
“He said cash, so I’m giving him cash,” Jeffrey said. He was actually touched by Dudley’s concern. “His office isn’t far,” he explained.
“And you’re sure you don’t want to count it?”
Jeffrey’s tension was beginning to evoke irritation, but he forced a smile. “No time. I was supposed to have this money in town before noon. I’m already late. Besides, I’ve been doing business long enough with you.” He packed the money into his briefcase and stood up.
“If I’d known you weren’t going to count it, I would have taken a few bills from each packet.” Dudley laughed.
Jeffrey hurried out to the car, tossed in the briefcase, and drove out of the parking lot with extra care. All he needed was a speeding ticket! He checked the rearview mirror to make sure he wasn’t being followed. So far so good.
Jeffrey drove directly to the airport and parked on the roof of the central parking building. He left the parking stub in the car’s ashtray. When he called Carol from wherever, he’d tell her to pick the car up.
With the briefcase in one hand and the suitcase in the other, Jeffrey walked to the Pan Am ticket counter. He tried to behave like any businessman going off on a trip, but his nerves were shot; his stomach was in agony. If anyone recognized him, they’d know he was jumping bail. He’d been specifically told not to leave the state of Massachusetts.
Jeffrey’s anxiety went up a notch every minute he waited in the ticket line. When his turn finally came, he bought a ticket for the New York to Rio flight as well as one for the 1:30 P.M. shuttle. The agent tried to convince him it would be far easier to take one of their late afternoon flights directly to Kennedy. That way Jeffrey wouldn’t have to take the bus from LaGuardia to Kennedy. But Jeffrey wanted to go on the shuttle. He felt the sooner he got out of Boston, the better he would feel.
Leaving the ticket area, Jeffrey approached security’s X-ray machine. There was a uniformed state police officer casually lounging just beyond it. It was all Jeffrey could do not to turn around and run.
Right after he hoisted his briefcase and then the suitcase onto the conveyer belt and watched them disappear into the machine, Jeffrey had a sudden fright. What about the syringes and the ampule of morphine? What if they showed up on the X-ray, and he had to open the briefcase? Then they’d discover the stacks of money! What would they think of all that cash?
Jeffrey thought about trying to reach into the X-ray machine to yank his briefcase back, but it was too late. He glanced at the woman studying the screen. Her face was illuminated eerily by the light, but her eyes were glazed with boredom. Jeffrey felt himself being subtly urged on by the people waiting behind. He stepped through the metal detector, eyes on the policeman the whole time. The policeman caught his eye and smiled; Jeffrey managed a crooked smile in return. Jeffrey looked back at the woman studying the screen. Her blank face looked suddenly puzzled by something. She had stopped the conveyor belt and was motioning for another woman to look at the screen.
Jeffrey’s heart sank. The two were examining the contents of his briefcase as it appeared on the screen. The policeman hadn’t noticed yet. Jeffrey caught him yawning.
Then the conveyor belt started again. The briefcase came out, but the second of the two women stepped over and put her hand on it.
“Is this yours?” she asked Jeffrey.
Jeffrey hesitated, but there was no denying it was his. His passport was in it.
“Yes,” he said weakly.
“Do you have a Dopp Kit in there with a small pair of scissors?”
Jeffrey nodded.
“Okay,” she said, giving the briefcase a push toward him.
Stunned but relieved, Jeffrey quickly took his belongings to a far corner of the waiting area and sat down. He picked up a discarded newspaper and hid behind it. If he hadn’t felt like a criminal when the jury handed down its verdict, he felt like one now.
As soon as his flight was called, Jeffrey pressed to get on. He couldn’t wait to get on the plane. Once he was on, he couldn’t wait to take his seat.
Jeffrey was in an aisle seat fairly close to the front of the plane. With his suitcase secured in the overhead compartment and his briefcase tucked under his feet, Jeffrey leaned back and closed his eyes. His heart was still racing but at least he could now try to relax. He had just about made it.
But it was difficult to calm down. Sitting there in that plane, the seriousness and irreversibility of what he was about to do finally began to sink in. So far, he hadn’t broken any law. But as soon as the plane crossed from Massachusetts into another state, he would have. And there would be no turning back.
Jeffrey checked his watch. He began to perspire. It was one twenty-seven. Only three minutes to go before the door would be sealed. Then takeoff. Was he doing the right thing? For the first time since he’d come to this decision that morning, Jeffrey felt real doubt. The experience of a lifetime argued against it. He’d always followed the law and respected authority.
Jeffrey began to shake all over. He’d never experienced such agonizing indecision and confusion. He looked at his watch again. It was twenty-nine after the hour. The cabin attendants were busy slamming all the overhead compartments, and the crashing noise threatened to drive him mad. The door to the cockpit was closed with a resounding click. A gate agent came onto the plane and gave a final manifest. All the passengers were in their seats. In a way he was ending the life he had always known, as surely as if he’d released the stopcock the night before.
He wondered how running away would affect his appeal. Wouldn’t it make him appear the guiltier? And if he was ever brought to justice, would he have to serve extra time for fleeing? Just what did he plan to do in South America? He didn’t even speak Spanish or Portuguese. In a flash, the full horror of his action hit home. He just couldn’t go through with it.
“Wait!” Jeffrey shouted as he heard the sounds of the plane’s door closing. All eyes turned on him. “Wait! I have to get off!” He undid the seat belt, then tried to pull his briefcase from under the seat. It opened and some of the contents, including a stack of hundred-dollar bills, fell out. Hastily, he jammed the things back inside, then got his suitcase from the overhead compartment. No one spoke. Everyone was watching Jeffrey’s panic with stunned curiosity.
Jeffrey rushed forward and confronted the cabin attendant. “I have to get off!” he repeated. Perspiration was running down his forehead, blurring his vision. He looked crazed. “I’m a doctor,” he added, as if to explain. “It’s an emergency.”
“Okay, okay,” the cabin attendant said calmly. She pounded on the door, then made a gesture through the window at the gate agent who was still standing on the jetway on the other side. The do
or was opened, too slowly for Jeffrey’s taste.
As soon as the passage was clear, Jeffrey rushed from the plane. Luckily, no one confronted him to ask for his reasons for deplaning. He ran up the jetway. The door to the terminal was closed, but it was unlocked. He started across the boarding area, but he didn’t get far. The gate agent called him over to the boarding podium.
“Your name, please?” he asked with no expression.
Jeffrey hesitated. He hated to say. He didn’t want to have to explain himself to the authorities.
“I can’t give you your ticket back unless you give me your name,” the agent said, slightly irritated.
Jeffrey relented, and the gate agent returned his ticket. Pushing it hastily into his pocket, he then walked past the security check and went into the men’s room. He had to calm down. He was a nervous wreck. He put down his hand luggage and leaned on the edge of the sink. He hated himself for vacillating, first with suicide, now with fleeing. In both cases Jeffrey still felt he made the right choice, but now what were his options? He felt depression threaten to return but he fought against it.
At least Chris Everson had had the fortitude to follow through with his decision, albeit a misguided one. Jeffrey cursed himself again for not having been a better friend. If only he knew then what he knew now, he might have been able to save the man. Only now did Jeffrey have an appreciation of what Chris had been going through. Jeffrey hated himself for not having called the man, and for compounding the oversight by failing to call his young widow, Kelly.
Jeffrey splashed his face with cold water. When he’d regained some semblance of composure, he picked up his belongings and emerged from the rest room. Despite the bustle of the airport, he felt horribly alone and isolated. The thought of going home to an empty house was oppressive. But he didn’t know where else to go. Directionless, he headed for the parking garage.
Reaching his car, Jeffrey put the suitcase in the trunk and the briefcase on the passenger-side seat. He got in behind the wheel and sat, blankly staring ahead, waiting for inspiration.
For several hours he sat there running through all his failings. Never had he been so low. Obsessed about Chris Everson, he eventually began to wonder what had happened to Kelly Everson. He’d met her on three or four social occasions prior to Chris’s death. He could even remember having made some complimentary remarks about her to Carol. Carol hadn’t been pleased to hear them at the time.
Jeffrey wondered if Kelly still worked at Valley Hospital, or, for that matter, if she still lived in the Boston vicinity. He remembered her as being about five-four or five, with a slim, athletic build. Her hair had been brown with highlights of red and gold, which she’d wear long, clasped with a single barrette. He recalled her face as being broad with dark brown eyes and small, full features that frequently broke into a bright smile. But what he remembered most was her aura. She’d had a playfulness that had melded wonderfully with a feminine warmth and sincerity that made people like her instantly.
As Jeffrey’s thoughts switched from Chris to Kelly, he found himself thinking that she, more than anyone else, would have some insight into what Jeffrey was now going through. Having lost a husband through the emotional devastation caused by a malpractice case, she’d probably be acutely sensitive to Jeffrey’s emotional plight. She might even have some suggestions for dealing with it. At the very least she might provide some much needed sympathy. And if nothing else, at least his conscience would be assuaged by finally making a call he’d been vaguely meaning to make.
Jeffrey returned to the terminal. At the first bank of phones he came to, he used a directory to look up Kelly Everson. He held his breath as his index finger trailed down the names. He stopped on K. C. Everson in Brookline. That was promising. He put in his coin and dialed. The phone rang once, twice, then a third time. He was about to hang up when someone at the other end picked up. A cheerful voice came through the receiver.
Jeffrey realized he hadn’t given a thought as to how to begin. Abruptly, he said hello and gave his name. He was so unsure of himself, he was afraid she wouldn’t remember him, but before he could offer something to jog her memory, he heard her ebullient “Hello, Jeffrey!” She sounded genuinely glad to hear from him and didn’t sound at all surprised.
“I’m so pleased you called,” she said. “I’d thought about calling you when I read about your legal problems, but I just couldn’t get myself to do it. I was afraid you might not even remember me.”
Afraid that he wouldn’t remember her! Jeffrey assured her that wouldn’t have been the case. Taking her lead, he apologized profusely for not having called her sooner as he’d promised.
“You don’t have to apologize,” she said. “I know tragedies intimidate people, the way cancer does, or used to. And I know that doctors have a hard time dealing with a suicide of a colleague. I didn’t expect you to call, but I was moved you’d taken the time to come to the funeral. Chris would have been pleased to know you cared. He really respected you. He once told me that he thought you were the best anesthesiologist he knew. So I was honored you were there. A few of his other friends didn’t come. But I understood.”
Jeffrey didn’t know what to say. Here Kelly was forgiving him completely, even complimenting him. Yet the more she said, the more he felt like a heel. Not knowing how to respond, he changed the subject. He said he was glad to find her home.
“This is a good time to catch me. I just got home from work. I guess you know I don’t work at the Valley anymore.”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“After Chris’s death I thought it would be healthy for me to go elsewhere,” Kelly said. “So I moved into town. I’m working at St. Joe’s now. In the intensive care unit. I like it better than recovery. I guess you’re still at Boston Memorial?”
“Sort of,” Jeffrey said evasively. He felt awkward and indecisive. He was afraid she’d refuse to see him. After all, what did she owe him? She had a life of her own. But he’d gotten this far; he had to try. “Kelly,” he said at last, “I was wondering if I could drop by and talk with you for a moment.”
“When did you have in mind?” Kelly asked without missing a beat.
“Whenever’s good for you. I . . . I could come by now if you’re not too busy.”
“Well, sure,” Kelly said.
“If it’s inconvenient, I could . . .”
“No, no! It’s fine. Come on over,” Kelly said before Jeffrey had a chance to finish. Then she gave him directions to her house.
Michael Mosconi had Jeffrey’s check on his blotter in front of him when he placed the call to Owen Shatterly at the Boston National Bank. He didn’t think he’d be nervous, but his stomach filled with butterflies the instant he dialed. He had taken a personal check only once before in his bail bondsman career. That transaction had turned out fine. He hadn’t been burned. But Michael had heard horror stories from colleagues. Of course if anything did go wrong, Mosconi’s biggest problem was that his underwriting company forbade him to take checks in the first place. As Michael had explained it to Jeffrey, he was putting his ass on the line. He didn’t know why he was getting to be such a soft touch. Then again, it was a unique case. The guy was a doctor, for chrissake. Also, a $45,000 fee came along only once in a blue moon. Michael had not wanted to lose the case to his competition. So, in his way, he’d offered better terms. It had been an executive decision.
Someone at the bank answered, then put Michael on hold. Muzak floated out of the receiver. Michael drummed his fingers on the desk top. It was close to four in the afternoon. All he wanted to do was make sure the doc’s check would clear before he deposited it. Shatterly had been a friend for a long time; Michael knew there would be no problem finding out from him.
When Shatterly came on the line, Michael explained the information he needed. He didn’t have to say more. Shatterly only said, “Just a sec.” Michael could hear him tapping his computer keys.
“How much is the check?” Shatterly asked.
> “Forty-five grand,” Michael said.
Shatterly laughed. “The account only has twenty-three dollars and change.”
There was a pause. Michael stopped his drumming. He got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “You sure there’s been no deposits today?” he asked.
“Nothing like $45,000,” Shatterly said.
Michael hung up the phone.
“Trouble?” Devlin O’Shea asked, peering over the top of an old Penthouse magazine. Devlin was a big man who looked more like a sixties-style biker than a former Boston policeman. Dangling from his left earlobe was a small, gold Maltese cross earring. He even wore his hair in a neat little ponytail. Besides helping with his work, his appearance was his small way of thumbing his nose at authority now that he didn’t have to trouble himself with rules like dress codes anymore. O’Shea had been dropped from the force after a bribery conviction.
Devlin was making himself comfortable on a vinyl couch facing Michael’s desk. He was dressed in the clothes that had pretty much become his uniform since his leaving the force: a denim jacket, acid-washed jeans, and black cowboy boots.
Michael didn’t say anything, which was enough of an answer for Devlin. “Anything I can help with?” Devlin asked.
Michael studied Devlin, taking in the man’s massive forearms and their lattice of tattoos. One of Devlin’s front teeth was gone, giving him the look of the barroom brawler he occasionally was.
“Maybe,” Michael said. He was beginning to form a plan.
Devlin had dropped by Mosconi’s office that afternoon because he was between jobs. He’d just brought back a killer who’d jumped bail and fled to Canada. Devlin was one of the bounty hunters that Michael used when the need arose.
Michael felt that Devlin was just the man to send to remind Jeffrey about his obligation. Michael thought that Devlin would be far more persuasive than he could be.
Leaning back in his desk chair, Michael explained the situation. Devlin tossed the Penthouse aside and stood up. He was six-foot-five and weighed two hundred and sixty-eight pounds. His rotund belly spilled over the large silver buckle of his belt. But underneath the layer of fat was a lot of muscle.
