by Gayle Lynds
The man bowed his head. Two tears slid down his cheeks. The nurses offered their sympathies and told him to go home, that there was nothing more he could do. He nodded, unable to speak, and trudged from the hospital.
A half-hour later he arrived at his multimillion-dollar estate in Chevy Chase, set deep in thick woods and hidden from the road. Considering the enormity of the day's events and the radical action he had been forced to take as a consequence, he should have been weary to the bone. Instead, he was exhilarated.
At the house's side entrance, the one most convenient to the garage, he tapped his code into the security system, opened the door, and strode through the kitchen and down the hall toward his den and home office. As he passed his bedroom, he caught a glimpse of himself in the long mirror of his closet.
He stopped in the doorway and appraised what he saw: A handsome older man in a dark Saville Row suit and silk tie. He moved his wrist, and his gold cufflink and Rolex watch caught the hall light and glittered. His face seemed full and prosperous, the chin lifted as if life's wealth were his due. His carriage was not haughty so much as positive, certain. He gave every appearance of solidity, a man of his time who would offer no surprises and could be utterly relied upon. It was the image he cultivated in this new world. The once-powerful official; now the successful businessman, the gentleman who might be a wealthy philanthropist, certainly a pillar of the community.
Satisfied, he continued down the corridor, allowing himself to grow taller, straighter, thinner, more athletic. To do this, he stripped away the inward pretenses of his current character. Like any accomplished actor, he had no need to stare into a mirror to see how this changed him as he knew exactly what he really looked like. More importantly, he understood who he was, despite the different appearances he presented to different audiences. This was a reality he allowed only those closest to him to witness. They were few, his true friends and associates, and always had been. Fewer every year. A man who did great things could not have friends.
He smiled to himself as he walked into his den, picked up the telephone, and dialed. As soon as his associate answered, he spoke in rapid Russian: "Da, it's me. The fools believed it all. Everything's fine. We can proceed."
The heart pounded against her ribs like a mighty fist. Its insistent beat drove her to swim up from the darkness. For a moment, terror shook her, and she had no idea where she was. She fought confusion, forced herself to pay attention: She could hear the whoosh and click of many machines. The air was cool, and her nose stung with the smell of antiseptic. . . .
A man's voice penetrated her grogginess: "Ms. Convey? Wake up. You're in the cardiac intensive care unit now. Do you know your name? Ms. Convey?"
Her words were a whisper. "Sure I do. But it's a secret. Shhhhhh . . . You have to tell me yours first."
The transplant surgeon chuckled. "Travis Jackson here. Remember? You came through the surgery with flying colors, Beth. You've got a healthy new heart. Open your eyes. What do you think about all this?"
She was aware of pain muted by morphine. She pushed away the feelings of disorientation . . . and concentrated on her chest: The cadence of her old heart—erratic and sometimes no more than a frail pulse—was gone, replaced by a beat so strong it seemed almost to thunder. Exhausted joy swept through her, and she lay motionless, smiling. She had a new heart.
She opened her eyes and let out a long stream of air, aware of how—suddenly—she could breathe easily again. "Love this heart, Travis. It's got rhythm. I want to keep it forever."
"That's what I like to hear." He was in his sixties. His face was lined, and he smiled down at her through rimless eyeglasses perched on the end of a slightly hooked nose. "It's a healthy heart, a first-rate match for you. I didn't even need to give it an electric shock to get it started. And your first biopsy shows no sign of rejection."
Her head was clearing, the grogginess abating as a sober awareness of what had happened took hold.
"How can I ever thank you enough?"
"I know it seems trite, but the answer is by living a long and healthy life. That's what I care about, and that's my reward." His voice was warm. "You're young. We've caught this thing so fast the rest of your body hasn't had time to deteriorate. I expect you to have a natural life span."
"I'm so sorry about my donor's death. But I'm so very grateful, too. . ."
"I know. Of course you are."
Her smile faded as the morphine swept her back toward unconsciousness. As her eyelids closed, the surgeon studied her, feeling the awe and triumph that kept him excited about this grueling area of medicine. A month ago, Beth Convey had been barely alive, rushed in from the courthouse by paramedics, who had used a portable defibrillator to restart her heart. Because she had no history of heart problems, her internist had been sloppy; he had wrongly diagnosed stress as the cause of her shortness of breath and racing heart, when the reality was that her ventricles were diseased and she was in end-stage heart failure, probably from a viral infection she and her internist had both brushed off the previous winter as a lingering cold.
He remembered how pale she had been when he first examined her. Ghostly white, really. But that was not the worst of it. As the weeks passed, her skin turned a bilious yellow, her mind grew confused, and she had weakened to the point where she had trouble chewing food. All the result of a heart that could no longer pump adequate amounts of blood and oxygen.
But now, just hours after surgery, their conversation showed her mind was functioning again. And, too, there was the color of her skin, now a healthy peach. To outsiders, this was evidence of the so-called miracle of a heart transplant, while to him it was simply what happened when everything went right.
He smiled with relief, thinking that she seemed especially alive, vital, as she dozed in the hospital bed. She was tall—five-foot-ten—and slim. A beautiful woman with a straight nose, sculpted cheekbones, and a crown of short golden hair who, judging by the way she had looked when she had arrived, wore little makeup and downplayed her attractiveness. The doctor found that intriguing—a woman who wanted to be judged by something other than her beauty.
The cardiac ICU always smelled of disinfectant. Beth had grown so accustomed to the odor over the past three days since her surgery that she hardly noticed it. She was thinking about this because the double doors had just swung open and the odor of percolating coffee was floating in, making her salivate.
Then she flinched. A stab of fear shot through her, and she tensed. Surprised, she stared at what she told herself was simply an odd sight: Two hospital aides dressed completely in surgical green were rolling an old exercise bicycle into her state-of-the-art intensive care room. But there was something about the first aide that had startled her. Made her a little afraid. She studied him, his assured movements, the aggressive shoulders. Now she remembered him from before her surgery. His name was Dave, and he had a gentle touch. He had never been anything but kind.
Her fear made no sense. She forced herself to smile. "You've got to be kidding, Dave. An exercise bike? It's for me, isn't it?" She continued to study him, still feeling uneasy.
"Yes, ma'am. It surely is for you."
As he and the other aide locked it into place, her doctor, Travis Jackson, arrived. "Your new biopsies look good." She had convinced him to give her a report as soon as he arrived to see her. Patience was not her strong suit. "No sign of rejection or infection. Temperature, pulse, respiration are normal. Everything's on track."
"Thank God," she breathed. She eyed the bike suspiciously. "Dave says this is for me."
"Remember the bargain: You get a new heart, but in exchange you have to take excellent care of it. Come on. The bike's been disinfected. We'll help you."
She was incredulous. "Now? But it's only been three days. I mean—"
"I know. Everyone thinks it's going to take weeks to get strong enough to begin exercising. Maybe even months. Not true. Three days is standard operating procedure for transplants that go well, and yours h
as gone exceedingly well. Come on. Up with you. This is the beginning of your daily workouts."
Nervously she eased her legs over the side of the bed. The second aide put sanitized tennis shoes on her feet. She stood up, tethered by hoses and tubes and strapped up with electrodes and radios that would signal if her heart faltered. She had a long surgical wound down her chest, hidden beneath her hospital gown. Sharp pains radiated from it and then dulled, assuaged by morphine.
The doctor took one arm, and Dave was suddenly at her side to take the other. Again she flinched. She was definitely acting strangely. A cold draft shot up her naked backside. She struggled to reach behind to close her gown.
She sighed. "Oh, the indignity of it all."
"Reminds you you're alive." Dr. Jackson chuckled. "That's not too bad a payoff."
They helped her to the bicycle. Even the simple act of walking two yards was a production, but she was surprised at how strong she felt. Once she was astride the bike, Dave headed for the door. Her gaze followed him, relieved to see him go.
"Show me what you can do," the doctor said.
She pedaled slowly, and sweat broke out on her face. "Isn't this enough?" she panted. "You want me to bike up Mount Everest in my condition? Have you forgotten I almost died?"
"You did die. You're doing fine." His gaze alternated between studying her and checking his wristwatch. "Okay, stop. That's enough."
Sweating, she sat back and let her feet circle to a stop. She watched as he analyzed the effects on her heart. At last, she gave in to her nervousness and asked, "How are my readings?"
"Good. Actually, beautiful. If I were less modest, I'd congratulate myself."
"I appreciate your modesty. It becomes you."
He laughed. "My wife says something similar." His glasses caught the glare from the fluorescent lights and glinted as he wrote on his clipboard.
"I know it seems too soon to ask, but I'd like to know what I'm facing." She hesitated. It seemed to her that she had arisen from the dead like a phoenix, and it all had made her feel oddly, uncomfortably, transformed. A sense of longing for her familiar past swept over her. "When can I go back to work?"
"You miss it, don't you? Well, I don't blame you. I'd feel the same. But first we've got to make sure all your medicines are regulated, and you've got to get on an exercise-food-sleep regimen so you can regain your strength and we can fine-tune for future problems. That way, when you go back to the office, you'll be in great shape, and we won't have to worry about organ rejection, infection, or any of that sort of unpleasantness." He gave her a smile of understanding. "That means you've got to figure on at least a year for recuperation."
She was shocked. "A year? My firm's going to forget who I am!"
"I doubt it. From what I hear, you're something of a hotshot."
She did not contradict him, but he obviously knew little about high-stakes Washington law firms. The city was littered with the corpses of last year's young hotshots.
As he and the second aide helped her off the bicycle and back into bed, the doctor asked, "Is there anything you'd especially like now?"
She nodded. "A drink. Vodka. Stolichnaya." She hesitated. Where had that come from?
The doctor laughed. "Vodka's a little much for now. Besides, I thought you were a wine drinker."
Puzzled, she added lamely, "You're right. I guess I was just thinking we should celebrate with something stronger. I'll have fruit juice. Mango." She no longer drank hard alcohol of any kind. The last time she'd had vodka was in law school, when she had been an aficionado of it, but as the surgeon and aide left, she could taste its white-hot fire in her mouth, as fresh as if she had just downed a shot.
2
The night was black, and she was running, sweating, her feet pounding as she searched for an address. When she found the numbers on a wrought-iron mail box, she stopped and stared up a stone walk that led past a weeping willow tree to a long, ranch-style house and detached garage. Panting, she studied the house: The dark windows seemed like black holes, and the expensive property gave off an eerie air of abandonment.
Warily, she ran up the drive. As she approached the buildings, the garage door rose, and she heard the engine of a motorcycle roar to life. The great machine rolled out, riderless, and stopped, erect, bathed in moonlight. Like a Robert Rauschenberg sculpture, it waited poised in perfect balance, inviting speculation. Its chrome gleamed. Exhaust puffed out from its tailpipe in a shimmering cloud. For perhaps thirty seconds she stared, captured by the odd sight of the powerful machine, as proud as if its favorite rider were aboard.
Then with the blink of an eye, she found herself astride it. Instinctively she grabbed the handlebars, and the motorcycle tore off down the drive. As she fought to control it, a man appeared in front of her. Standing stock-still, he stared at her, then he shouted something and ran.
The motorcycle continued its headlong rush, now directed at him. She screamed. She could not stop the bike. She could not turn it. Its motor pulsing, the big motorcycle slammed into the man's back.
She screamed again. The impact hurled him up in a backward somersault toward the black sky. She could not tear her horrified gaze from his pain-filled face. He had a broad forehead, a snub nose, and a shock of gray hair that flew wild. Sickened, she watched him crash head-first onto the pavement.
She awoke in a pool of cold sweat, shuddering, feeling guilty. The nightmare had left her with a metallic taste in her mouth. She knew she had killed that poor man. Where had it come from, this awful dream that seemed so real?
She was beginning not to recognize parts of herself. The hospital aide, Dave, still made her nervous, although he had yet to say or do anything that could remotely be considered threatening, to her or anyone else. But then, she found herself watching many people suspiciously now, particularly men, as if she were the sole defender of a castle under siege, or perhaps held prisoner there, awaiting torture. Her disquiet made no sense. It was irrational, and she kept reminding herself she had nothing to fear.
There were other aberrations. Although she had always been a coffee drinker, now she yearned for cups of strong black tea and drank several every day. She could not seem to eat enough fresh, sliced tomatoes, and she wanted them served with both salt and sugar. The dietician had laughed and asked where she had acquired such an unusual taste. She had no answer.
One day a nurse stopped in the doorway of her room, carrying a tall Saks Fifth Avenue shopping bag. The pewter-colored bag had the exclusive chain's name printed in white letters on the side, familiar from a hundred shopping expeditions of her own. From her bed, she could not see what the bag contained.
"Good morning, Ms. Convey." The nurse had a cheery face with pink cheeks and bright blue eyes. Her manner was brusque but pleasant. "I have something for you." The bag was clasped in her right hand, her right shoulder lower than the other, indicating the bag's contents were heavy.
Cold sweat drenched Beth. . . . A city street at twilight, the pavement wet and shiny from a recent rain. Ornate iron lamps cast wavering pools of light, which a woman wearing a long coat, a floppy hat, and battered tennis shoes ambled through. She, too, carried a large, bulging shopping bag that was obviously heavy. While she blended with other pedestrians, a man hurried behind to keep her in sight. Although frightened, she never looked back. She turned nonchalantly into a busy bus station.
Before the man who followed could reach the station door, she had increased her speed and pushed into the women's restroom. Inside a stall, she swiftly took a straight pin from her hat and flushed the toilet to cover the noise as she deflated the three balloons in the shopping bag, put there to give the appearance of bulk. As she kicked off her sneakers, she removed the only other contents from the bag—a pair of new pumps. She stepped into them and, with practiced skill, yanked off her hat and long coat and stuffed them into the bag. The city's poor frequented this station, so she tucked the bag behind the stool, as if it were a donation for them.
Outside, she w
ashed her hands and looked into the mirror. Without the hat, and now wearing the fashionable coat that had been hidden beneath the long overcoat, her makeup impeccable, her wig in place, she was a completely different woman. Except she was no woman at all. He had used this disguise many times.
Perfectly balanced on his pumps, he waited until the next woman left the restroom. Following, he asked her the time, and they entered the lobby of the teeming station as if they were two old friends, chatting about the weather, while covertly his gaze scanned all around.
Although not surprised, he was relieved when the killer's gaze settled on him, dismissed him, then resumed searching for his quarry. His cover—the woman beside him—was still talking. He said a polite goodbye and walked casually to the door and out into the safety of the night. . . .
"Ms. Convey?" The nurse was staring worriedly into her eyes. "Are you all right?"
She swallowed. Blinked. "Of course. Sure, I'm fine. Just a little daydreaming, that's all. You said you have something in your shopping bag for me." She hesitated. "It's not balloons, is it?"
The nurse straightened and laughed. "Balloons? No, no. What a silly idea. No, I heard you liked to read. We just had a donation of books, and I thought you might like to borrow one. We have all kinds." As she pulled out volumes to display, she said, "Westerns, romances, mysteries, spy thrillers. Name your poison."
Beth sighed, ran her fingers through her hair, and gave a nervous laugh. She was an idiot. A paranoid fool. "Yes, a good book to read. Give me a mystery. Just what I need. A mystery, with an ending that explains everything."
After two weeks in intensive care, she was transferred to a sunny private room. Flowers began arriving. One very large arrangement was from a very grateful Michelle Philmalee. Every time Beth looked at it, she grinned: The judge had issued his ruling, giving Michelle far more than Beth had asked—majority control of the Philmalee Group. In the end, Joel Philmalee's uncontrollable rage had cost him his case, just as she had hoped. He was out, and Michelle was now—despite a few glitches here and there—in charge of the entire, billion-dollar Philmalee Group.
