by C. J. Lyons
She opened her mouth to protest, but he shoved a roll of cotton gauze inside, quickly winding surgical tape around her face. She flung her head to block his movements. It did no good; he simply grabbed her hair at the roots, holding her in place.
Once he was finished, she was left gagging, forced to take small, quick breaths through her nose, the raspy scratch of the gauze filling her mouth. He opened the door beside his desk—a private bathroom—and wheeled her inside.
“Not a word now,” he said, raising one finger to his lips. He locked the wheelchair in place and closed the door behind him, leaving her in darkness.
She’d faced death many times before, but never, not even when flying off the side of a mountain, her father’s knife pressed to her heart, had she felt like this.
Afraid. Weak. Powerless.
Human.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Nick and Andre left Jenna and Micah at the diner and drove back to Angels, plotting their approach to Paterson.
“You should do the talking,” Andre said. “She’s so buttoned up, always the professional. Challenge that.”
Nick agreed. Andre was a damn fine observer—a lot like Morgan that way, seeing past people’s façades.
He called Paterson. “It’s Nick Callahan. I’ve been researching Dr. Lazarus’s work on his syndrome and discovered some discrepancies I’d like to discuss with you.”
“I’ve just left for the night. Can we schedule this for tomorrow, Dr. Callahan?”
“I think it’d be best to deal with this now. I’m sure there’s no real impropriety, but if you could simply clear up a few inconsistencies… Or maybe I should go directly to Dr. Lazarus?”
“No. No need to disturb Dr. Lazarus.” Her words were rushed, and Nick knew he’d found her weak spot. “Where are you?”
“We’re almost to the clinic. Should we meet at your office?”
“No. Not where—” She paused. “I have a research lab in the cottage beside Dr. Lazarus’s house.”
“I know the place.” He’d noticed the small white-framed building but assumed it was a garage or toolshed. “We’ll be there in five minutes.” He hung up and turned to Andre. “What do you think?”
“I think she sounds scared.” Andre’s smile was anything but genuine. “Which means I get to play bad cop, right? A little of the unhinged black man to play on her fears. Between you attacking her career and her mentor and me going after her on an emotional front, we can back her into a corner pretty fast.”
Nick hated the idea of manipulating anyone this way.
Andre sensed his reluctance. “If she’s innocent, has nothing to hide, no harm done. We’ll apologize. Plus, if she’s innocent, she’ll understand that we’re only trying to protect her patients. What doctor wouldn’t want that?”
Nick steered the Ford into the clinic parking lot. Paterson was pacing in front of the path to her lab on the far side of the parking lot. There were no cars there, and the lights of the clinic didn’t reach far enough to do more than outline her figure. But there was no mistaking her rigid posture.
They left the car and approached her. Andre quickened his stride to reach her before Nick.
“Why?” Andre’s voice wasn’t loud but somehow that only underscored his fury. Paterson snapped her head up at the sudden attack. “Why would you put those children in harm’s way like that? Not to mention their families. You’re a doctor, for god’s sake.”
Paterson said nothing, merely stared him down with a defiant glare. Why wasn’t she protesting or asking Andre what he was talking about? Not the actions of an innocent woman.
Then Nick realized it wasn’t bravado. She was protecting something—no, someone. “You think Dr. Lazarus is responsible.”
“Amos would never—”
“Not intentionally. He’s been using off-label treatments, trying to reverse his so-called Lazarus Syndrome, hasn’t he?” Nick pressed her, realizing she was close to breaking. The opposite of his usual approach; it felt awkward, but necessary.
“How did you know—”
“Does he even realize it’s not a real syndrome at all? That you’ve been feeding his delusion by killing patients with adverse reactions to cover his malpractice and protect his reputation?” It was a total guess.
The slap took Nick by surprise. Then Paterson began to sob. “I didn’t kill anyone. I thought—I thought—”
She sank to the ground. Nick joined her, ignoring Andre who suddenly looked shamefaced, appalled by how easily they’d broken her. But Nick understood they hadn’t broken her—she’d already done that herself. Good to know she still had a conscience, enough to feel guilt as well as love. “You’re in love with him. How long has it been going on?”
“Since I became his research fellow. Almost two decades.”
“No. I mean his obsession with Lazarus Syndrome being fatal, with finding a cure.”
“He thought it was his legacy. Most of the medical community doesn’t even believe it exists. But Amos has devoted his life—I couldn’t let him fail, or let his clinic fail either, if anyone found out about his experimental treatments.”
“So you covered for him?” Andre accused her.
She grabbed onto Nick, clinging to him. “I didn’t hurt anyone. All I did was alter their records. Make it seem like they fit the pattern he was searching for. Suggest that he add them to his case studies. Please, don’t tell Amos. He’s convinced that with a little more time, he’ll be able to prove himself to the world. Please, give him that. How could it hurt?”
“How could it hurt? You let him treat patients for a disease that doesn’t even exist. And what about those dead kids?” Andre thundered.
Nick remained silent, allowing him to play bad cop while Nick comforted Paterson.
She looked to Nick, not Andre, seeking compassion. “I—I don’t understand. Who died?”
Andre face filled with rage. “Six children are dead!”
Now she jerked her head back to meet Andre’s eyes. “You think I—Amos—someone—you think someone is killing our patients?” Her mouth opened wordlessly, her head shaking. “No. No. Never. It’s impossible.”
Nick believed her. He left Paterson on the ground and stood. “If she and Dr. Lazarus didn’t kill those children, what did?”
Andre frowned, glancing toward the brightly lit clinic on the other side of the parking lot. “More important—who did?”
“We need to talk to Lazarus.” He reached an arm to help Paterson to her feet. “Come with us. We need to straighten this out.”
She was reluctant, barely shuffling her feet as he tugged her arm. “It’s going to kill him, knowing I interfered with his research. We can’t tell him.”
“Lady,” Andre said, not bothering to lower his voice, “we don’t give a shit about your fake research. We want to know what happened to those kids.” They reached the walkway that led to Lazarus’s house.
Paterson shook loose of Nick’s hand and straightened her posture. “We can clear this all up. The treatments Amos is studying are harmless. And there’s nothing suspicious about any of our patients’ deaths—in fact, our mortality rate is much lower than at other similar facilities.” She pushed the gate to the walk open and now was leading them. “But that’s all we’ll discuss. Agree?”
Andre glowered, not making any promises, but tilted his chin the tiniest bit—enough to satisfy Paterson, who was obviously searching for any way possible to protect Lazarus and his clinic. Nick wouldn’t be surprised if she’d sacrifice her own career if it came down to it. All for the sake of the man she loved—and who barely knew she was alive.
People. You just could never predict exactly what they’d do next. It was what made his job so fascinating.
Paterson knocked on the door and opened it without waiting for an answer. “He’s hard of hearing, and the bell doesn’t work,” she explained. “Amos!”
Her voice echoed through the cavernous space. The foyer opened up to the staircase leading to the
second floor where Nick could see a balcony. It also opened to wide arches on either side, one leading to a formal sitting room, the other to a library—where Amos Lazarus was ensconced, bent over a computer, surrounded by reams of paper piled high.
“Amos,” Paterson repeated.
Lazarus waved a hand. “Yes, yes, I heard you the first time. Come in, help me with—”
“I’ve brought Dr. Callahan and his associate, Mr. Stone,” she continued, stepping forward to usher Nick and Andre into the large room.
The front wall was floor-to-ceiling windows, the other three floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, brimming with volumes stacked on top of each other. A desk the size of Nick’s dining room table was situated in the center of the room. The Oriental rug showed distinct signs of wear in a path paced around the desk. There was only one chair—the one Lazarus occupied.
He looked up, squinted at both Nick and Andre, and frowned at Paterson. “Why on earth did you bring them here? You should know better. I’m sorry, gentlemen, this is my private sanctuary. Any further discussion of Miss Ames can take place tomorrow during regular business hours.”
“They’re not here about Morgan Ames,” Paterson replied. “They’re concerned about the patients who’ve died recently.”
“Specifically the little girl from last night,” Nick added, risking Lazarus’s wrath. “Honey?”
That sparked his interest. Lazarus pushed his chair back, a stream of narrow paper flowing down the desk like a waterfall.
“Exactly,” he said. “It makes no sense.” Then he frowned. “How did you know?”
“So she didn’t die of Lazarus Syndrome?” Andre asked.
“No, of course not. Honey arrived in a minimally responsive state—she never progressed. What makes you think she had Lazarus Syndrome? She doesn’t meet the clinical criteria, not at all.” He waved his hand in dismissal.
“Exactly.” Nick mirrored the older man’s tone, joining Lazarus on the other side of the desk and retrieving the spilled paper stream.
It was an EEG tracing a patient’s brainwaves. He saw the classic spikes indicative of seizure activity—seizures so bad they stacked almost on top of each other, the pen strokes leaping higher and higher, ink blots like spittle as the recorder tried to keep up with the frenzied electrical storm raging inside Honey’s brain.
“Status epilepticus.” He pointed to the end of the tracing, where the pens quieted and there was no activity. “This is when she died.”
Lazarus yanked the paper from him. “Of course, any idiot can see that. What I don’t understand is here.” He shuffled through the paper and pointed to a spike in electricity that preceded the seizure. Paterson joined them, looking over Lazarus’s shoulder.
“I tried to tell you earlier,” he said to her, “but you and John were too busy haranguing me over money. Look at this.” He tapped the spike so hard the paper shook.
“It must be artifact,” Paterson said. “Look at the originating location—right frontal, nowhere near her known epileptic foci.”
She took the paper and held it close, squinting as if the ink strokes contained a hidden code. “This reminds me of a study I read—transcutaneous cranial stimulation.”
“You mean those people who willingly shock their heads in the hopes of increasing their memory and focus?” Andre asked, reminding Nick that even if Andre preferred to watch and listen, the former Marine was as sharp as they came.
Paterson turned to him and nodded. “Yes, exactly. Given that there are so many so-called brain-hacking hobbyists zapping themselves with god-knows what at home, researchers brought them into the lab and monitored them. The participants hoped to validate their individual methods via the clinical findings, but what the researchers mainly found was that most of it did no good, and quite a few of the techniques actually had the potential to do serious damage.”
“Like causing seizures?” Nick asked. “Especially in a patient prone to them?”
“Yes, exactly,” Lazarus said. “You might be on to something. Paterson, find me that research so we can compare it.”
Nick felt sorry for Paterson—Lazarus didn’t even call her by her first name, much less look at her as other than a tool to make his work easier.
She took the seat Lazarus had abandoned and sat at the computer. A few moments later, she turned the screen to Lazarus. It was filled with a variety of EEG tracings. “These top two are from direct current electrical stimulation. The first subject applied two 9-volt battery powered electromagnets to each temple.”
When he was a kid back in Virginia, Nick remembered winning a dare by touching his tongue to a 9-volt battery. Almost burnt it—he still couldn’t taste as well as he used to.
“Sounds like that idiot deserved what he gets,” Andre said.
“In this case, what the idiot got was a tonic-clonic seizure,” Paterson answered, pointing to the second tracing.
“The initial spike doesn’t match what we’re seeing,” Lazarus said. “Not that I believe for a moment that anyone here applied live batteries or magnets to a patient—the process is too cumbersome. Besides, it would have been picked up by the safety camera and its babysitter.”
Nick noted that the good doctor didn’t seem to dismiss the idea of someone in his clinic purposefully causing harm to a patient; rather, he seemed more concerned with the thought that they do it in an intelligent and efficient manner.
No matter what they found here, tonight was Morgan’s last night here, he vowed. This man, in his own way, was as much a psychopath as she was—and maybe even more dangerous, as Lazarus seemed blind to his own lack of empathy.
“Here’s another one,” Paterson continued, scrolling through the images. “A collection of four over-the-counter TENS devices applied to the cranium with the safety features overridden to increase the current.”
“Enlarge that,” Andre said, pointing to the initial spike. “That looks a lot like ours, doesn’t it?”
“Close,” Lazarus allowed.
“What about the neuromuscular stimulators you use in the clinic?” Nick asked. Her first weeks here, Morgan had bristled with the small electrodes designed to keep her muscles from wasting away. “Those are similar to TENS units. I’m pretty sure I saw those used on Honey.”
“Of course,” Paterson said. “Standard procedure for a minimally responsive—”
“How difficult would it be to simply move one or two up to her head, increase the current, and zap a patient?” Andre interrupted. “It would only take a second or two, right? Not enough to set off any kind alarm on the safety video surveillance, and let’s face it, your video babysitter wouldn’t be paying much attention to someone like Honey—not unless the video picked up excessive movement with its motion sensors.”
“And then when she went into status,” Nick continued, “the electrode would have been jerked off, fallen away, discarded with the rest of the medical debris after she died.”
He turned to Paterson, who looked stunned, her gaze fixed on the EEG tracing. “Morgan said she heard a man’s footsteps. Not just last night but several times. And she said every time he visited, Honey had a seizure. We need to check the security tapes, see who went in her room and correlate it with her seizures and her death.”
“Of course,” Lazarus said. “To think that someone might be interfering with my treatment…it’s outrageous! Paterson, you have the codes to the video footage. Please pull up the night in question.”
Paterson didn’t look up. Instead, she pulled her hands away from the computer keyboard, slowly, warily, as if waiting for a serpent to strike. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir.”
“Excuse me? Why not?”
She swallowed. Finally she looked up at Lazarus but only with her eyes, not her full face. “They were turned off.”
“Turned off? Why? How?”
“Just for last night?” Andre asked. “We could go back earlier in the week—”
Paterson shook her head, tears slipping down her cheeks. “I was
only trying to help.”
“Help who?” Nick asked softly, crouching down to her level so she could focus on him and not Lazarus.
“Justin’s father. Frank Hale. He paid me to let him come see his son at night when his wife wasn’t here.” She covered her face with her hands. “I never dreamed—”
“You accepted a bribe from a parent?” Lazarus thundered. Then he thought for a moment. “Is that why you insisted Justin Hale be entered into my research study? Did you fake his symptoms so he’d earn a diagnosis of Lazarus Syndrome? Just for a little extra cash?”
“No, no. You don’t understand.” She unfolded herself from the chair and stood, hands gripping the hem of her white coat.
Finally, she faced Lazarus. “I was trying to help you. We’re broke, Amos. You don’t listen to John, you don’t listen to me. But we’re going to lose everything. So when Mr. Hale asked me for a way for Justin to stay here longer, and offered to pay us enough to keep things running for another quarter… All I could think of was you, Amos. I couldn’t bear the thought of you losing this place. I did it for you.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Darkness imprisoned Morgan as much as the restraints binding her wrists. It was a heavy shroud, clinging to her like the fog that had clouded her brain and paralyzed her muscles when she first woke. Except this black void was of her own creation, born of terror and anguish. Being dead was so much easier than being afraid.
If it weren’t for the gag, she would have laughed at the irony. Because it wasn’t John Lazarus she was afraid of—it was herself. Who was she? Predator or prey? Wolf or Sheep?
Her father’s daughter or her father’s victim?
Even as her mind roiled, her body kept working the problem. The Velcro restraints were too strong for her to break open without leverage. She tried throwing her weight from one side to the other, but they were tied down at the wrong angle. Because of the gag and tape over her mouth, she couldn’t rip them free with her teeth. If she could wedge something between the Velcro layers, break their bond…
