Harmful Intent

by Robin Cook

  “Finding a toxin in Henry Noble would solve Chris’s case and clear his name, but it wouldn’t implicate Trent. Trent is the key to this whole grisly affair.”

  “But it will be dangerous—and don’t tell me again that nothing will go wrong. I know better.”

  “I’ll admit there is some danger. I think it would be foolish to think otherwise. At least we’ll be meeting in public. I don’t think Trent will try anything in a crowd.”

  “You’re forgetting one big difference. You’re thinking rationally. Harding isn’t.”

  “He’s been a very shrewd killer so far,” Jeffrey reminded her.

  “And now he’s a very desperate one. Who knows what he’ll try?”

  Jeffrey pulled her to him. “Look,” he said. “Seibert’s coming up with nothing. I’ve got to try. It’s our only hope. And I don’t have much time.”

  “And just how am I supposed to eavesdrop? Even if you get lucky and Harding confesses, you’ll still be without your precious proof.”

  Jeffrey sighed. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “You didn’t think of a lot of things,” Kelly said through tears of frustration. “Like the fact that I don’t want to lose you.”

  “You’ll be losing me if we can’t prove Harding’s our man,” Jeffrey said. “We have to figure a way for you to hear our conversation. Maybe if I took Harding for a walk . . .” His voice trailed off. He really didn’t have any idea.

  The two of them sat in glum silence.

  “I know,” Kelly said at last. “At least, it’s an idea.”

  “What?”

  “Well, don’t laugh, but there’s a gizmo I saw, browsing through the Sharper Image catalogue. It’s a thing called the Listenaider. It looks like a Walkman, but what it does is pick up sound and amplify it. Hunters and bird-watchers use it. Theater-goers too. It might work perfectly if you are standing on the Hatch Shell stage.”

  “Sounds fantastic,” Jeffrey said, suddenly enthused. “Where’s the closest store?”

  “There’s one at Copley Place.”

  “Great,” Jeffrey said. “We can pick it up on our way.”

  “There’s still one problem.”

  “What?”

  “Keeping you safe!”

  “No guts, no glory,” Jeffrey said with a wry smile.

  “I’m serious,” Kelly said.

  “Okay, I’ll take something under my coat in case he gets unruly.”

  “Like what? An elephant gun?”

  “Hardly,” Jeffrey said. “Do you have a tire iron in your car?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Jeffrey said. “I’ll take that. It will give me something ‘up my sleeve’ so that if he gets abusive, I can get the hell out of there. But I honestly don’t think Harding will try anything in public.”

  “And if he does?”

  “Let’s not worry about it. We can’t eliminate all risk. If he does try anything, it might give us a leg up on establishing that proof. But come on. We don’t have much time. We’ve got to be at the Hatch Shell by nine-thirty and we have to stop off at Copley Place in the meantime.”

  “Goddammit!” Trent roared. He cocked his arm and made a fist, then drove it like a piledriver against the wall above the telephone. With a crunch that surprised him, his fist went clean through the plaster wall and lath. Pulling his hand free, he inspected his knuckles for damage. There wasn’t even a scrape.

  Turning into the room, Trent kicked his coffee table, snapping off one of its legs and sending the rest of it hurtling across the floor to crash into the wall. Magazines, handcuffs, and several books went flying.

  Looking around for something else to give vent to his rage, he spotted an empty beer bottle. He snatched it and threw it against the wall of the kitchen with all his might. It shattered, spraying shards of glass across the floor. Only then did Trent begin to regain control of himself.

  How had this happened? he wondered. He’d been so careful. He’d thought of every angle. First it had been that goddamn nurse and now it was this crazy-ass doctor. How the hell did he know so much? And now he had those Polaroids. Trent knew he shouldn’t have taken them. He’d just been fooling around. He’d only wanted to see how he’d look . . . Not that anyone would understand. He just had to get those pictures back from that damn doctor. He couldn’t believe the guy had actually had the nerve to search his place.

  Trent froze in his tracks. Another horrid thought suddenly dawned on him. With a new surge of panic, he rushed to his kitchen. He threw open the door to the cabinet next to the refrigerator and pulled the glasses out in one quick swipe. Several smashed as they fell to the countertop.

  With trembling fingers he removed the false back and peered into his hiding place. He sighed a breath of relief. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed. All was in order.

  Reaching in, Trent lifted out his beloved .45 pistol. He wiped the barrel on the front of his shirt. The gun was clean, oiled, and ready for work. Reaching back into the hiding place, he pulled out the clip. After checking that it was fully loaded, he shoved it into the handle until there was a resounding click.

  Trent’s biggest worry was whether Jeffrey had told anyone else what he’d learned. The guy was a fugitive, so Trent figured that he probably hadn’t. Trent would try to find out for certain. But either way, Rhodes had to go. Trent laughed. Rhodes clearly had no idea who he was dealing with.

  Returning to his makeshift safe, Trent removed a small 5 cc syringe and, just as he’d done for Gail Shaffer, drew up a tiny bit of the yellow fluid and diluted it with sterile water. Then he replaced the vial. In his mind’s eye he could see Jeffrey Rhodes having a grand mal seizure on the Hatch Shell stage. The image brought a smile to his lips. It would be quite a performance.

  Picking up the piece of plywood, Trent carefully fitted it into the back of the cabinet and replaced the glasses that hadn’t broken. The rest he left as they lay; he’d clean the place up after he got back from the Esplanade.

  With his preparations complete, Trent checked the time. He still had an hour and a half until the rendezvous. Moving into the living room, he eyed the telephone and wondered what he should do. Rhodes’s meddling was the kind of potential interference Trent had been warned about. He debated whether or not to call. In the end, he picked up the receiver. He was calling as instructed, he told himself as he dialed, to notify, not for help.

  14

  FRIDAY,

  MAY 19, 1989

  8:42 P.M.

  “Ah, here we go,” Devlin whispered to himself as he saw Kelly’s garage door beginning to rise. Kelly’s Honda shook as the engine started. Then the car backed out into the street at twice the expected speed. Laying a patch of rubber, it barreled off toward Boston.

  Devlin fumbled with the ignition of his car. He’d not expected to see her leave so fast. By the time he got going, Kelly’s car was almost out of sight. Devlin had to gun his Buick to catch up.

  “Well, well!” Devlin said once they’d gotten several miles from Kelly’s home. A second head had mysteriously popped up in the backseat. Then the figure had climbed over the seat to join Kelly in the front.

  Devlin warned himself not to get too excited about this unexpected but interesting development, but he needn’t have bothered. When Kelly pulled up to the front entrance of the Copley Place shopping mall, Jeffrey Rhodes jumped out and ran inside.

  “Goodie, goodie,” Devlin said ecstatically as he pulled past Kelly and over to the curb. He thought his luck had finally changed. Jeffrey was already well inside, halfway up the escalator, as Devlin cut his engine and slid across the front seat. Devlin was about to get out of his car when he noticed the window had suddenly filled with a patch of navy blue. There was also a black leather belt and holstered .38 Smith and Wesson.

  “Sorry, but there’s no parking here,” the policeman said.

  Devlin looked the patrolman in the eye. He appeared about eighteen. A rookie, thought Devlin, bu
t then who else would get such a beat on a Friday evening? Devlin groped for the card that allowed him to park anywhere in the city, but the rookie refused to look at it.

  “Move on,” he said with less cordiality.

  “But, I’m . . .” Devlin started to explain who he was. Yet it was no longer important. Jeffrey had disappeared from view.

  “I wouldn’t care if you were Governor Dukakis,” the young policeman said. “You can’t park. Now move on!” He pointed forward with his nightstick.

  Resigned to a change in plans, Devlin slid back across the seat and restarted the car. Quickly he drove around the block. Seeing Kelly’s car, he stopped worrying. The little run-in with the policeman might have been for the better. Devlin might not have lost Rhodes in the shopping-mall crowd, after all. Instead, he pulled up to the curb half a block behind Kelly’s car and again cut his engine. Then the two of them—Devlin in his car and Kelly, unaware, in hers—waited for Jeffrey to reappear.

  Putting on the earphones, the salesperson directed Jeffrey to turn the unit on. Jeffrey turned the small knob. Then the salesperson told Jeffrey to point the unit toward a couple at the opposite end of the store. Jeffrey did as he was told.

  “Wouldn’t that look impressive on our coffee table?” the man asked the woman. They were standing in front of a glass sphere that looked like it belonged on the set of an old Frankenstein movie. It contained a plasma that was emitting light like miniature bolts of blue lightning.

  “Yeah,” the woman said, “but look at the price. I could get a pair of Ferragamo shoes for that.”

  Jeffrey was impressed. He’d also heard the dull murmur of other peripheral voices as well, but he’d been able to understand every word of the couple’s conversation.

  “Do you know the Hatch Shell on the Esplanade?” Jeffrey asked the salesperson.

  “Sure do.”

  “What do you think you could hear with this thing back by the concession stand?”

  “A pin drop.”

  Jeffrey bought the device, then jogged back to Kelly’s car. She was in the same spot he’d left her in.

  “Did you get it?” she asked as he closed his door.

  Jeffrey held up the parcel. “We’re all set,” he said. “It really works. I had a demonstration.”

  Kelly pulled away and headed for the Esplanade.

  Neither of them looked back. They remained unaware of the black Buick Regal following them three cars behind.

  Kelly took Storrow Drive to get to Beacon Hill. Just after they emerged from an underpass, Jeffrey caught a brief glimpse of the grassy area in front of the Hatch Shell on the Esplanade. The sun had set, but it was still light out, and Jeffrey was able to see plenty of people enjoying the spring weather. That made him feel a bit more at ease.

  They turned right on Revere Street, then again on Charles. They passed most of the shops on Charles Street and turned right again on Chestnut. They parked near the foot of Chestnut Street and got out of the car.

  For the last few minutes of driving neither had spoken. The excitement of the preparations and of getting there had abated and was being replaced by anxiety about whether things would go as planned. Jeffrey broke the silence by asking to use the car keys. Kelly flipped them to him over the top of the car. She’d just locked the doors.

  “Forget something?” she asked.

  “The tire iron,” Jeffrey said. He went around to the trunk and opened it. It wasn’t a tire iron. It was a combination wrench for the lug bolts and an arm to operate the jack. It was a steel rod about eighteen inches in length. Jeffrey slapped it into the palm of his hand. It would do fine if he needed it. A good whack across the shins would slow anybody down. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

  They crossed to the Esplanade by way of the Arthur Fiedler pedestrian bridge. It was a pleasant midspring evening. Jeffrey noticed the colorful sails of a few sailboats heading for their respective yacht clubs. In the distance, an MBTA train rumbled across the Longfellow Bridge.

  Devlin cursed. It was even hard to find a free parking spot by a hydrant on Beacon Hill. By the time he found an empty no-parking zone on the entrance onto Storrow Drive, Jeffrey and Kelly were heading across the footbridge over to the Esplanade. Devlin grabbed his handcuffs from the car and ran down to the base of the bridge.

  Devlin was mystified as to what the hell was going on. He thought an evening along the Esplanade was strange behavior for a convicted felon and a fugitive who knew he was being pursued by a professional bounty hunter. With the girl in tow, Jeffrey acted like he was on a date. Devlin had a strong suspicion that something was about to happen, and his curiosity was piqued. He could remember telling Mosconi that he thought Jeffrey was up to something. Maybe this was it.

  Crossing the bridge, Devlin descended the off ramp and stepped out onto the lip of green spring grass. He didn’t feel like he had to rush to apprehend Jeffrey, since the location was so perfect. He effectively had Jeffrey cornered between the Charles River on one side and Storrow Drive on the other. Besides, the Charles Street Jail was conveniently located only a stone’s throw away, just beyond Charles Circle. So Devlin didn’t mind indulging his curiosity for a few minutes to try to figure out exactly what Jeffrey was up to.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Devlin saw something coming at him from behind and to his right. By reflex he moved to his left, whirling around to a crouch position. His hand shot into his denim jacket and onto the butt of the pistol tucked in his shoulder holster.

  Devlin felt his face redden as a Frisbee sailed past him, followed closely by a black Lab, who caught it before it hit the ground.

  Devlin straightened and took a breath. He hadn’t realized how keyed up he was.

  The Esplanade was occupied by two or three dozen people, all doing their thing at the twilight of the day. Besides the Frisbee players, there were people playing touch football and a group kicking around a Hacky Sack. Directly across the expanse of grass, on the pavement in the front of the Hatch Shell, was a group of roller skaters moving to the beat of a ghetto box cassette player; on the macadam walkway were the joggers and cyclists.

  Devlin took in the whole scene, wondering what had brought Jeffrey and Kelly. They weren’t participating in any of these activities. Instead they were just standing and talking with each other in the shadows of the trees surrounding the closed concession stand. Devlin could just make out Jeffrey helping Kelly put on a Walkman-like cassette player.

  Devlin put his hands on his hips. What the hell was going on? While he watched, he saw Jeffrey do something else unexpected. He saw Jeffrey bend down and kiss Kelly. “Naughty, naughty,” Devlin whispered. For a moment Jeffrey and Kelly held hands with their arms outstretched. Finally Jeffrey let go. Then he bent down and picked up a thin rod from the ground.

  With the rod in his hand, Jeffrey started to run eagerly out across the grass toward the stage. Devlin started to make a move to follow, afraid Rhodes might disappear around the Hatch Shell, but he stopped when Rhodes ran up to the stage and mounted it from the right side.

  While Devlin looked on, his curiosity deepening, Jeffrey went directly to the center of the stage. Facing toward the concession stand, he started to speak. Devlin couldn’t hear him, but his lips were moving.

  From the concession stand, Kelly shot Rhodes an emphatic thumbs up. What was going on? Devlin wondered. Was the guy reciting Shakespeare? And if he was, what was Kelly doing? The girl still had the Walkman on. Devlin scratched his head. This case was getting weirder by the minute.

  Trent Harding tucked his .45 automatic in his belt exactly as he had when he’d gone off to Gail Shaffer’s. He put the syringe, its cap tightly in place, in his right front pocket. He checked the time. It was a little after nine. Time to get going.

  Trent walked down to Charles Circle via Revere Street. To get over to the Charles River embankment, he took the footbridge just west of the Longfellow Bridge.

  It was late evening as he walked down the darkened walkway lined with granite ba
lustrades. Above was a dense canopy of newly leafed trees. The Charles River shimmered, aglow with the reflected dusty-rose light of the evening sky. The sun had set about a half hour before.

  Earlier, Trent had been nervous and upset about this Jeffrey Rhodes debacle, not knowing what the man wanted. His blackmail threat was as unexpected as it was shocking. But now that he was prepared, Trent’s anxiety had abated considerably. He wanted his photos, and he wanted to be sure that Rhodes was acting on his own. Beyond that, Trent wasn’t interested in the man, and he’d give him the injection. Having seen what it did to Gail Shaffer, he knew it would work quickly and effectively. Someone would call an ambulance and that would be that.

  A pair of joggers whisked past Trent in the half-light and made him jump. He felt like pulling out his pistol and dropping the bastards in their tracks. He’d do it just the way they did on Miami Vice: legs spread apart, arms stiff, both hands holding the gun.

  Ahead loomed the huge hemisphere of the Hatch Shell. Trent was approaching the stage from the convex rear. He felt a sudden thrill as adrenaline coursed through his system. He was looking forward to meeting Dr. Jeffrey Rhodes. Reaching back under his jacket, his hand closed around the handle of his .45. His finger slipped around the trigger. It felt terrific. Rhodes was in for one hell of a surprise.

  Trent stopped. He had to make a decision. Should he go around the right or left side of the Hatch Shell? He tried to remember the layout of the stage, wondering if it made any difference. He decided he’d prefer to have Storrow Drive to his back. After he’d taken care of Jeffrey, if he had to run, he’d make a run for the highway.

  Jeffrey nervously paced the stage, staying to the right of center. The skaters who’d congregated in the small expanse of macadam between the stage and the grass also stayed to the right, and Jeffrey wanted to be as close to them as possible without making Trent feel they could overhear. At first the skaters had eyed Jeffrey suspiciously. But after a few minutes they’d ignored him.