Mortal Fear

by Robin Cook

  “Any other trips?”

  “I got to go to Seattle.”

  “When was that?”

  “In the middle of July. Apparently old Helene wasn’t feeling up to par, and Alvin needed a driver.”

  “A driver?”

  “That was another weird thing about Alvin,” Carol said. “He couldn’t drive. He said he’d never learned and never would.”

  Jason recalled the police commenting the night he died that Hayes had no driver’s license.

  “What happened in Seattle?”

  “Not a lot. We were only in the city a couple of days. We did visit the University of Washington. Then we headed up into the Cascades. Now, that’s beautiful country, but if you think it rains a lot in Boston, wait until you visit the Pacific Northwest. Have you?”

  “No,” Jason said absently. He tried to imagine a discovery that would involve trips to Seattle and Australia.

  “How long were you away?”

  “Which time?”

  “You went more than once?”

  “Twice,” Carol said. “The first trip was for five days. We visited the University of Washington and saw the sights. On the second trip, which was several weeks later, we only stayed two nights.”

  “Did you do the same things both times?”

  Carol shook her head. “The second trip we bypassed Seattle and went directly into the Cascades.”

  “What on earth did you do?”

  “I just hung out, relaxed. We went to a lodge. It was gorgeous.”

  “What about Alvin? What did he do?”

  “About the same. But he was interested in the ecology and all that stuff. You know, always the scientist.”

  “So it was like a vacation?” Jason asked, thoroughly perplexed.

  “I suppose.” She tossed another stone.

  “What did Alvin do at the University of Washington?” Jason asked.

  “He saw an old friend, Can’t think of his name. Someone he trained with at Columbia.”

  “A molecular geneticist like Alvin?”

  “I believe so. But we weren’t there very long. I visited the Psychology Department while they were talking.”

  “That must have been interesting.” Jason smiled, thinking the Psychology Department would have enjoyed getting their academic hands on the likes of Carol Donner.

  “Damn,” she said, suddenly checking her watch. “I’ve got to run. I have another appointment.”

  Jason stood up, taking her hand. He was impressed by the delicacy with which Carol described her work. “An appointment” sounded so professional. They walked to the edge of the park.

  Refusing a ride, Carol said good-bye and started up Beacon Street. Jason watched as her figure receded in the distance. She seemed so carefree and happy. What a tragedy, he thought. Time, which seems boundless to her youthful mind, will soon catch

  up with her. What kind of life was topless dancing and dates with men? He didn’t like to think about it. Turning in the opposite direction, Jason walked to De Luca’s Market and bought the makings for a simple supper: barbecued chicken and salad greens. All the while he went over his conversation with Carol. He had a lot more information, but it provided more questions than conclusions. Still, he was now sure of two things. One, Hayes had definitely made a discovery, and two, the key was Helene Brennquivist.

  * * *

  In less than twenty-four hours, Juan had the whole scenario planned out. Since this was not supposed to look like a traditional hit, it required more thought. The usual ploy was to nail the victim in a crowd, putting a low-caliber pistol to the head, and pow, it was all over. That kind of operation needed little planning, only the right circumstances. The whole performance relied on the peculiar mentality of crowds. After any shocking event, everyone was so intent on the victim that the perpetrator could melt away unnoticed, even pretending to be one of the curious onlookers. All he had to do was drop the gun.

  But the instructions on this job were different. The hit was to be staged as a rape, Juan’s specialty. He smiled to himself, amazed that he could get paid for something he used to do as a sport. The United States was a strange and wonderful place, where the law often gave the felon more consideration than the victim.

  This time Juan realized he’d have to get his victim alone. That was what made it a challenge. It was also what made it fun, because without witnesses he could do what he liked with the woman, as long as when he left she was dead.

  Juan decided to follow the victim and accost her in the foyer of her building. The threat of immediate bodily injury made in a soft, reasonable voice should be enough to persuade her to take him up to her apartment. Once inside, it would be all fun and games.

  He followed the mark on a short shopping excursion in Harvard Square. She bought a magazine at a corner kiosk, then headed for a grocery store called Sages. Juan lingered across the street, examining the window of a bookstore, surprised the place was open on Sunday. The mark came out of the grocery store with a plastic shopping bag, cut diagonally across the street, and disappeared into a bakery café, Juan followed — coffee sounded good, even if it was the American kind. He preferred Cuban coffee: thick, sweet, and rich.

  While he sipped the watery brew, he stared at his. victim. He was astounded at his good luck. The woman was beautiful. He guessed mid-twenties. What a deal, he thought. He could already feel himself getting hard. He wouldn’t have to fake this one.

  Half an hour later, the mark finished, paid, and walked out of the café. Juan tossed a ten-dollar bill on the table. He felt generous. After all, he’d be five thousand richer when he got back to Miami.

  To his delight, the woman continued up Brattle Street. Juan slowed his pace, content to just keep her in view. When she turned onto Concord, he speeded up, knowing she was almost home. When she reached Craigie Arms Apartment Complex, Juan was right behind her. A quick glance up and down Concord Avenue suggested the timing was perfect. Now it depended on what was happening inside the building.

  Juan paused long enough to be sure the inner door had been opened. With split-second timing he was in the foyer and had one foot over the threshold of the inner door. It was then that he spoke.

  “Miss Brennquivist?”

  Momentarily startled, Helene looked into Juan’s darkly handsome Hispanic face.

  “Ja,” she said with her Scandinavian accent, thinking he must be a fellow tenant.

  “I’ve been dying to meet you. My name is Carlos.”

  Helene paused fatally, her keys still in her hand. “Do you live here?” she asked.

  “Sure do,” Juan said with practiced ease. “Second floor. How about you?”

  “Third,” Helene said. She stepped through the door, Juan directly behind her.

  “Nice to meet you,” she added. She debated using the stairs or the elevator. Juan’s presence made her feel uncomfortable.

  “I was hoping we could talk,” Juan said, coming alongside her. “How about inviting me up for a drink?”

  “I don’t think that…” Helene saw the gun and gasped.

  “Please don’t make me angry, miss,” Juan said in a soothing voice. “I do things I regret when I’m angry.” He hit the elevator button. The doors opened. He motioned for Helene to enter and stepped in behind her. Everything was working perfectly.

  As the elevator clanked and thumped upward, Juan smiled warmly. It was best to keep everything calm.

  Helene was paralyzed by panic. Not knowing what to do, she did nothing. The man terrified her, yet he seemed reasonable, and he was very well dressed. He looked like a successful businessman. Maybe he was associated with Gene, Inc., and they wanted to search her apartment. She thought briefly about screaming or trying to run, but then she remembered the gun.

  The elevator grated open on the third floor. Juan graciously motioned for her to proceed. With her keys in her shaking hand, she walked toward her door and opened it. Juan immediately put his foot over the threshold, just as he’d done downstairs. After the
y’d both entered, he closed the door and locked it, using all three latches. Helene stood dumbly in the small entrance hall, unable to move.

  “Please,” Juan said, politely motioning for her to enter the living room. To his surprise, a plump blonde was sitting on the sofa. Juan had been told Helene lived alone. Never mind, he thought. “What is that saying you people have?” he murmured. “When it rains, it pours. This party is going to be twice as good as I expected.”

  He brandished his weapon, motioning for Helene to sit opposite her roommate. The women exchanged anxious looks. Then Juan yanked the telephone line from the wall, leaving the three color-coded wires to dangle nakedly in the air. He went over to Helene’s stereo and turned on the tuner. A classical station came on. Figuring out the digital controls, he switched to a hard-rock station and turned up the volume.

  “What kind of party is it without some music?” he shouted as he took some thin rope out of his pocket.

  CHAPTER 10

  Jason got to the hospital early Monday morning and suffered through rounds. No one was doing well. After he got to his office, he began calling Helene at every spare moment. She never answered. At midmorning he even ran up to the sixth floor lab only to find it dark and deserted. Returning to his office, Jason was irritated. He felt that Helene had been obstructive from the start, and now by not making herself available, she was compounding the problem.

  Jason picked up the telephone, called personnel, and got Helene’s home address and phone number. He called immediately. After the phone rang about ten times, he slammed the receiver down in frustration. He then called personnel and asked to speak to the director, Jean Clarkson. When she came on the line, Jason inquired about Helene Brennquivist: “Has she called in sick? I’ve been trying to reach her all morning.”

  “I’m surprised,” Ms. Clarkson said. “We haven’t heard from her, and she’s always been dependable. I don’t think she’s missed a day in a year and a half.”

  “But if she were ill,” Jason asked, “you would expect her to call?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Jason hung up the phone. His irritation changed to concern. He had a bad feeling about Helene’s absence.

  His office door opened and Claudia stuck her head in. “Dr. Danforth’s on line two. Do you want to talk with her?”

  Jason nodded.

  “Do you need someone’s chart?”

  “No, thanks,” Jason said as he lifted the phone.

  Dr. Danforth’s resonant voice came over the line: “I’d say Good Health had better start screening their patients. I’ve never seen corpses in such bad shape. Gerald Farr is as bad as the rest. He didn’t have an organ that appeared less than one hundred years old!”

  Jason didn’t answer.

  “Hello?” Margaret said.

  “I’m here,” Jason said. Once again he was embarrassed to tell Margaret that a month ago he’d done a complete physical on Farr and found nothing wrong despite the man’s unhealthy lifestyle.

  “I’m surprised he didn’t have a stroke several years ago,” Margaret said. “All his vessels were atheromatous. The carotids were barely open.”

  “What about Roger Wanamaker’s patient?” Jason asked.

  “What was the name?” “I don’t know,” he admitted. “The man died on Friday of a stroke. Roger said you were getting the case.”

  “Oh, yes. He also presented almost total degeneration. I thought health plans were supposed to provide largely preventive medicine. You people aren’t going to make much money if you sign up such sick patients.” Margaret laughed. “Kidding aside, it was another case of multisystem disease.”

  “Do you people do routine toxicology?” Jason asked suddenly.

  “Sure. Especially nowadays. We test for cocaine, that sort of stuff.”

  “What about doing more toxicology on Gerald Farr? Would that be possible?”

  “I think we still have blood and urine,” Margaret said. “What do you want us to look for?”

  “Just about everything. I’m fishing, but I have no idea what’s going on here.”

  “I’ll be happy to run a battery of tests,” Margaret said, “but Gerald Farr wasn’t poisoned, I can tell you that. He just ran out of time. It was as if he were thirty years older than his actual age. I know that doesn’t sound very scientific, but it’s the truth.”

  “I’d appreciate the toxicology tests just the same.” “Will do,” Margaret said. “And we’ll be sending some specimens for your people to process. I’m sorry it takes us so long to do our microscopics.”

  Jason hung up and went back to work, vacillating between self-doubt and the discomfiting sense that something was going on that was beyond his comprehension. Every time he got a moment, he dialed Hayes’s lab. There was still no answer. He called Jean Clarkson again, who said that she’d call if she heard from Miss Brennquivist and to please stop bothering her. Then she slammed down the phone. Nostalgically Jason remembered those days when he got more respect from the hospital staff.

  After seeing the last morning patient, Jason sat at his desk nervously drumming his fingers. All at once a wave of certainty spread through him, telling him that Helene’s absence was not only significant, it was serious. In fact, he was convinced that it was so serious that he should inform the police immediately.

  Jason traded his white coat for his suit jacket, and went to his car. He decided he’d better see Detective Curran in person. After their last encounter, he didn’t think Curran would take him seriously over the phone.

  Jason remembered the way to Curran’s office without difficulty. Glancing into the sparsely furnished room, he saw the detective working over a form at his metal desk, his large fist gripping his pencil as if it were a prisoner trying to escape.

  “Curran,” Jason said, hoping the man would be in a better mood than he’d been the other night.

  Curran glared up. “Oh, no!” he exclaimed, tossing his pencil onto the uncompleted form. “My favorite doctor!” He made an exaggerated expression of exasperation, then waved Jason into his office.

  Jason pulled a metal-backed chair over to Curran’s desk. The detective eyed him with obvious misgiving.

  “There’s been a new development,” Jason said. “I thought you should know.”

  “I thought you were going back to doctoring.”

  Ignoring the cut, Jason went on. “Helene Brennquivist hasn’t been at work all day.”

  “Maybe she’s sick. Maybe she’s tired. Maybe she’s been sick and tired of you and all your questions.”

  Jason tried to hold on to his temper. “Personnel says she’s extremely reliable. She’d never take a day off without calling. And when I tried her apartment, there was no answer.”

  Detective Curran gave Jason a disdainful look. “Have you considered the possibility that the attractive young lady might have taken a long weekend with a boyfriend?”

  “I don’t think so. Since I saw you I’ve learned she was having an affair with Hayes.”

  Curran sat up and for the first time gave Jason his full attention.

  “I always felt she was covering for Hayes,” Jason continued. “Now I know why. And I also believe she knows a lot more about his work than she’s saying, and why his places were searched. I think Hayes made a major breakthrough and someone is after his notes—”

  “If there was a breakthrough.”

  “I’m sure there was,” Jason said. “And it adds to my suspicions about Hayes’s death. It was too convenient.”

  “You’re jumping to conclusions.”

  “Hayes said someone was trying to kill him,” Jason said. “I think he made a major scientific discovery and was murdered because of it.”

  “Hold on!” Curran shouted, banging his fist on his desk. “The medical examiner determined that Dr. Alvin Hayes died of natural causes.”

  “An aneurysm, to be exact. But he was still being followed.”

  “He thought he was,” Curran corrected, his voice rising in anger.
/>   “I think he was too,” Jason said with equal vehemence. “That would explain why someone ransacked his apartment and his—”

  “We know why his apartment was tossed,” Curran interrupted. “Only we found the drugs and the money first!”

  “Hayes may have used cocaine.” Jason was shouting now. “But he wasn’t a dealer! And I think those drugs were planted, and—” He started to mention his conversation with Carol, then stopped. He wasn’t ready to tell Curran that he had persisted in seeing the dancer, “In any case,” he said more quietly, “I think the reason the lab was torn apart was that someone was searching for his lab books.”

  “What was that about a lab?” Curran’s heavy-lidded eyes opened wide and his face turned a mottled red.

  Jason swallowed.

  “Dammit!” Curran yelled. “You mean to tell me Hayes’s lab was tossed and it wasn’t reported? What do you people think you’re doing?”

  “The clinic was concerned about negative press,” Jason said, forced to defend the decision he did not condone.

  “When did this happen?”

  “Friday night.”

  “What was taken?”

  “Several data books and some bacterial cultures. But none of the valuable equipment. And it wasn’t a robbery.” Jason watched Curran’s hound-dog face for some sign his concern for Helene was vindicated.

  “Any damage, vandalism?” was all he said.

  “Well, they turned the place upside down and dumped everything on the floor. So the lab was a mess. But the only deliberate destruction involved those, uh, animals.”

  “Good,” Curran said. “Those monsters should have been destroyed. They made me sick. How were they killed?”

  “Probably poisoned. Our pathology department is checking that out.”

  Detective Curran ran his thick fingers through his once-red hair. “You know something?” he asked rhetorically. “With the amount of cooperation I’ve gotten from you eggheads, I’m goddamned glad I turned this case over to Vice. They can have it. Maybe you’d like to go down the hall and rant and rage at them. Maybe they’ll get a charge out of the fact that your mad scientist was humping his lab assistant as well as the exotic dancer—”