The Domino Effect

by Davis Bunn

  “No, please—”

  “He knows where to find me.” She signaled for the agents to remain in the lobby, walked down the corridor, and entered her brother’s room. “Hello, Nathan.”

  The pleasure and sorrow over seeing him again were equally intense. Nathan had already shifted his head away, so his closed eyes were pointed toward the window opposite the doorway. Only a slight lifting and lowering of the covers over his chest showed that he lived at all. His features looked far more flaccid than the last time she saw him. Or perhaps the harrowing hours had granted her a distance she previously had not realized.

  “Esther. Good morning.” To her surprise, it was not Cleveland who greeted her, but Donald Saunders. He asked, “How did you sleep?”

  “Fine. Thank you again for your family’s hospitality.”

  “Please take your seat. Carter?”

  Carter Cleveland positioned himself in the doorway, only partway inside the room. He refused to look Esther in the eyes. “I’m good here.”

  “Excuse me a moment.” Donald stepped out and returned with a chair from another room. During his absence, Cleveland neither moved nor looked her way.

  Donald Saunders seated himself by the foot of Nathan’s bed. “The description you gave me of your brother’s condition made me wonder if perhaps we might need to look in a different direction. Which is why I asked permission to run a few tests.”

  “What did you find?”

  But Donald was not to be rushed. “An accident serious enough to kill Nathan’s wife suggests the possibility of serious head trauma to the survivor.”

  “There was no indication of any such injury in the patient’s records,” Cleveland snapped. “The spine and head were inspected via X-ray and MRI. Nothing was noted.”

  Donald did not give any indication that Cleveland had spoken. “Recent developments in scanning procedures have revealed that even when the skull and spine have shown no direct harm, it is possible for the brain itself to be injured. Think of it as an extremely severe bruise. Soft tissue can sometimes mask such trauma from noninvasive imaging. Even so, the injury can be so acute that healing is never complete.”

  “Again,” Cleveland interrupted, “no swelling. No indication of any kind that this occurred.”

  Donald smiled thinly at Esther. It was just the two of them now. Carter Cleveland was nothing more than a minor interference. “I injected a very sensitive dye into Nathan’s system, one designed to pass through the blood-brain barrier. What I discovered is not conclusive, but it suggests—”

  “Conjecture,” Cleveland said, cutting him off. “Supposition, and highly objectionable.”

  Donald waited him out, then continued, “It suggests that your brother has suffered a series of mini-strokes.”

  Cleveland snorted and crossed his arms.

  “We won’t know for certain until or unless an autopsy is performed. But Nathan’s condition contains a textbook collection of related symptoms.”

  Esther heard herself ask weakly, “What does this mean?”

  “What we know,” Donald said, his voice growing gentler still, “is that such minor strokes rarely if ever are solitary events. They form a repetitive pattern. These mini-strokes can impact a single capillary, an incident so small we have no way of tracking it. There is no direct evidence to any one stroke. All we can see is a gradual decline, a collection of symptoms that together show us that the first stroke has now been followed by others. In your brother’s case, it suggests he has suffered a large cluster of mini-strokes.”

  Cleveland snorted again, scowling at the floor between his feet.

  Donald pointed at the other doctor with his chin, his eyes conveying a message that Esther caught, despite her growing distress. She nodded once and asked, “You’re saying he has been experiencing these mini-strokes repeatedly since the accident?”

  “That is my professional opinion, yes.”

  Cleveland snorted again, more softly this time.

  “If we had recognized this earlier,” Esther said, “is there a possibility that Nathan might have been treated and his symptoms corrected?”

  Donald leaned back, satisfied that she understood the deeper significance. “The evidence is inconclusive. But in some cases . . . yes, there is that possibility.”

  Esther looked directly at Dr. Cleveland. “Do I need a lawyer?”

  Cleveland pushed himself away from the door and stormed down the hall.

  Esther turned back to Donald, who replied, “I can introduce you to an attorney who specializes in medical issues.”

  “I don’t want to sue anybody. All I want is for Nathan to be allowed to stay here for the rest of his days.”

  Donald leaned forward, silent.

  Again, Esther understood what he was restricted from saying. “For free.”

  Donald nodded and jerked his chin at the same time, as though hearing words she had not yet spoken.

  She added, “And be repaid for what I’ve already spent here.”

  “Some of it,” he responded. “Perhaps.”

  She drew in a hard breath. “How long does he have?”

  “Impossible to say. But given what we are seeing, and assuming my diagnosis is accurate, I think we should measure Nathan’s remaining life-span in terms of a week or two.” Donald rose to his feet. “Perhaps you’d like a few moments alone with your brother.”

  Esther stood and hugged the doctor. “I can’t tell you what this means.”

  She shut the door after he departed and drew her chair in closer to the bed. Esther took Nathan’s hand in both of hers, leaned her head on his arm, and wept. Hugs were not the only thing coming far more easily these days.

  49

  Esther left the clinic for the station less than twenty minutes later. She was surprised at her response to the news that Nathan’s treatment had been based on a false premise. Esther had no doubt that Donald was correct in his diagnosis. Looking back, she could detect subtle indications of Nathan’s decline that she had chosen to ignore.

  Esther stared at the passing cars and recalled moments that she had misinterpreted because, just like the clinic’s doctor, she had not seen them through the right lens. It would be so easy to blame Dr. Cleveland and his air of superiority. Drag his clinic through the courts. Bleed him. Make him pay.

  But Esther felt no desire for revenge. Nothing she did would bring Nathan back. And from what Donald said, the entire issue of mini-strokes was mostly conjecture. There was no way to tell for certain without an autopsy. Cleveland was not wrong. He had simply been conveniently blind.

  Despite this, her mental dialogue was not the full reason for her calm.

  She simply did not have any desire to take the path of rage and retribution. It was like listening to thoughts from someone else’s life. Her entire focus was not on punishment. It was on saving others.

  Her phone rang. Once again, the number was blocked. “This is Esther Larsen.”

  “And this is your one and only warning.”

  There were moments in her professional career when a flash of unexpected data sent her into hyperdrive. When she felt as though her mind could actually compete with the algo trader’s supercomputers. She now parsed the seconds in a manner that left the entire concept of physical time unimportant.

  She raised her voice and almost shouted, “Sorry, I can’t hear . . . You’re breaking . . . Who is this?”

  While she spoke, she hit both the phone’s speaker button and its recording app and jammed the device in between the front seats. When the voice returned, the man was much angrier. His accent was a smooth lilt turned sour by his fury. “You listen. You have one chance to live.”

  “Hello?” Esther raised her voice higher.

  As Esther yelled her response, the driver slipped across two lanes, eliciting honks from several cars, and parked by a hydrant. The female agent turned so she could crouch over the phone. Esther said loudly, “It’s very hard to understand—”

  “If you don’t stop
with all this talk and the interviews, you are gone. You and your brother and your pals, finished.”

  “Look, I’m sorry, but whoever this is, I’m not hearing . . . Could you please call back? Hello?”

  The man cursed and cut the connection.

  The woman said, “You handled that like a pro.”

  The driver asked, “What accent was that?”

  “Bahamian, Bermuda, both sound similar at times. I’ve vacationed in both spots.”

  The female agent was already dialing. She said into her phone, “Detective Sanchez, please. It’s urgent.”

  Twelve minutes later, Sanchez reported, “Three members of the Bermuda mob, such as it is, passed through customs at Dulles Airport the day before yesterday.”

  Sanchez had called back on the security agent’s phone, which she had already connected via Bluetooth to the car’s stereo system. Their driver asked, “Bermuda has a mafia?”

  “Small but fairly active. Bermuda is a focal point for shipping brokers and insurance groups. The mob plays a significant role in drug and human trafficking. These three recent arrivals are known to the authorities, though their records are clean. Bermuda lists them as very violent. Esther, I’m emailing you photos as an attachment. See if you recognize any of them.”

  They pulled into the station’s parking lot. Nine of the cars sported bumper stickers urging the world to stop feeding the beast. One of them was Suzie McManning’s Audi. Under different circumstances, Esther would have found that mildly thrilling. “I will.”

  The woman agent said, “We think additional protection is required, and Talmadge agrees. We’ve put a security detail on the Saunders family and doubled the agents handling Nathan.”

  Esther nodded. “What about Craig Wessex and his daughters?”

  The woman took out her phone. “I’m on it.”

  As she left the car, Esther heard a faint hiss, like a distant kettle letting off steam, or perhaps the charged emission of a high-voltage power line. Only when the hiss followed her into the building did Esther realize the sound was internal.

  She knew she was amped. She could feel the sense of urgency like a force building in the air around her. When they passed the makeup room and Suzie McManning called her name, Esther had to resist the urge to ask if the newscaster heard the sound as well.

  Suzie asked, “What took you so long?”

  “Meeting with doctors.”

  Suzie pushed away the cosmetician’s hand. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s my brother. Last year he was in a bad accident. He’s . . .” Esther stepped fully into the room and shut the door. “He’s dying.”

  The two women shared the same grave look. The cosmetician said, “You poor thing.”

  Suzie asked, “Are you okay?”

  “Look at the woman,” the cosmetician said. “She’s anything but okay.”

  Esther tasted the words as they were formed, measuring how it felt to be so open. “I keep waiting for something to kick in. Guilt. Recrimination. Anger. Sorrow. Something. I’ve been living with this for seven months. All I feel right now is . . .”

  Suzie waited, then pressed, “What?”

  “I feel ready,” Esther said. “Is that terrible?”

  In response, Suzie rose from her chair, stripped off the napkin draped around her neck, walked over, and embraced Esther. “You are a better woman than you give yourself credit for.” She released Esther and turned around. “Doris, do your magic.”

  She patted the chair back. “Let’s get started, hon.”

  Esther glanced in the mirror. She looked washed out. She said to Doris, “The smell of cigarette smoke makes me nauseous. It always has. I’m so sorry.”

  “For what? Hon, my daughter’s been after me for years. She won’t even let me set foot in her kitchen until I wash up and change tops. I’ll put on a fresh jacket and gloves. Now come sit down.”

  Esther did as she was told. “Do you mind if I check my messages?”

  “Long as you use the speaker, it’s fine by me. I can’t work with your hand by your face.” Doris finished snapping on the latex gloves, then extended them toward Esther. “How’s that, hon.”

  “It’s fine, thank you.” Esther could still smell ash, but the odor was fainter now. Her reflection showed an undeniable need for Doris’s help. She looked as fragile as a china cup. She said to the woman in the mirror, “I have to be strong today.”

  “No, hon.” Doris brushed her hair back with strong, sure strokes. “You have to look strong.”

  Esther pulled up the emails on her phone. The first was from Jasmine, reporting that she was settled into Talmadge’s office complex. His techie had duplicated Esther’s data stream on the system in Jasmine’s new office. She even had an assistant.

  Esther then opened the email from Sanchez and downloaded the three photos. The instant she saw the second photo, she placed the call.

  “Sanchez.”

  “The second picture. It’s him.”

  “Hold on. Okay, I’m recording this. Say again.” When Esther did so, Sanchez asked, “How certain are you, on a scale of one to ten, ten being as sure as you are of your own name.”

  “Eleven.”

  “Tell me why.”

  “His features. When I saw him in the streetlight, I was reminded of old photos of Plains Indian warriors. He is that striking.”

  “Okay, that’s good. He is in fact part Carib. His name . . .”

  “Do I really need to hear this now?”

  “No. But you do need to be aware that he’s extremely dangerous. He’s never been convicted, but he’s been questioned in regard to several murders.”

  Esther felt Doris’s hands tremble slightly. “Understood.”

  “What about the other two?” Sanchez asked.

  “I can’t be certain. He was the only one who stepped into the light.”

  “Never mind, this is still very useful. I’ll speak with your security. Take care, Esther, and stay in touch.”

  50

  Esther switched from email to her voicemail. It was good to use this as a distraction, as it kept her from visualizing the killer’s face. Keith Sterling had called seven times. The last two included reminders that he was on spring recess—a quiet means of urging her to call him without delay. Esther looked at Doris in the mirror. “Can I hold the phone to my ear now? This might get personal.”

  “Use your right side. When I touch your shoulder, shift hands.”

  When Keith came on the line, he asked, “Are you aware of the traffic on your website?”

  Esther tried to keep the impatience from her voice. “I don’t have time for that right now.”

  “Well, you need to make time. Esther, you’ve had almost four million unique visitors.”

  She wanted to ask him what unique actually meant. Then she decided this was another of those details that would just have to wait. “That’s amazing, but why is it urgent?”

  “Have you looked at the account you set up for your hedge fund?”

  “Different question, same answer,” she replied.

  “Because they deposit through the online system, we’ve got a fairly accurate measure of the first investments.”

  Esther spoke so he would know she understood. “If they invest again and go directly to the account, your system doesn’t register.”

  “Right. Esther, your followers have deposited more than one hundred and eighteen million in the escrow account.”

  That explained the nine calls from her bank manager. “Say that again.”

  “Wait, it’s just topped one nineteen. You’ve had a cluster of really large chunks, then the rest comes in at mostly between five and twenty thousand per investor, some fifties, a few up to a quarter mil.” Keith was clearly enjoying this. “The counter just keeps clicking along.”

  Talmadge answered on the first ring. “How are you holding up?”

  “Fair. I look worse than I feel. I have a makeup artist making a lie of my face.”

 
“That assistant of yours is a firecracker with the fuse lit.”

  “Jasmine is also a good friend.”

  “Yeah, I got that much. She asked me if I thought she needed to worry about you. I said not just yet. Was I right?”

  Esther felt the lump develop in her throat. “I’m surrounded by people who care.”

  “Glad you got that memo.”

  “Starting with you.”

  Talmadge was clearly enjoying this exchange. “You ready to start calling me Cricket?”

  “I would rather have a root canal.” She relished the sound of his laughter. “Talmadge, how much have your investors put in the fund’s escrow account?”

  “Hang on, let’s have a look . . . Ninety-three mil.”

  “Don’t I recall you mentioning something about twenty-five?”

  “That was before you talked them through yesterday’s roller coaster. They’ve been scrambling ever since, hunting down their loose pennies.”

  “But it’s not just them, is it?”

  “I might’ve mentioned it to a few more folks. I had to, since your security is costing me an arm and my good leg. Either I upped the ante or I started renting rooms in my home.”

  “I’ll pay you back.”

  “Lady, you already have. You just concentrate on saving the world. Leave the rest to me.”

  Esther cut the connection and cradled the phone with both hands. She planned a little, but mostly she sat listening to that same inner hiss. She knew it was her imagination, but she also had the sense that it represented something much greater than her own internal musings.

  The station director came in and asked Doris how much longer she needed. The cosmetician said something in response that Esther did not bother to hear. When the door sighed shut, Esther placed a call to Craig. “Where are you?”

  “I’m driving my two spring-break beauties for a pancake extravaganza. Their mom is driving them to dance afterward. After I bring them home, I plan on popping over to the local television station and visiting with this famous person we know. We’re traveling with an armed escort. Two of them, in the car behind us. Seriously, is that really necessary?”