Fatal

by Michael Palmer

  It was then that Matt spotted the opening up ahead. It was a massive, corrugated steel tunnel built through the embankment on their right. The opening was about six feet across, and the floor was three feet or so above the stony track where they were riding. From the way it was positioned, it had to have been constructed to empty the lake. He judged that there was enough of a slope up to the floor so that they could make it over the edge and inside—provided they came at it head-on, through the water. If the depth at the center of the lake was greater than a foot, though, they probably wouldn’t make it across on the Harley. Matt thought about looping out into the lake and then back toward the tunnel, but that would still leave Grimes and Verne directly above them. Riding across from the other side made more sense—provided, of course, they made it.

  He switched on the high beam of the Harley, checked the odometer as they passed the tunnel, and accelerated again. The shifting stones made it challenging to keep the bike upright. Thirty felt barely controllable, but he pushed the bike to thirty-five. Overhead, the Land Rover kept pace.

  Nikki continued to be the perfect passenger, holding on tightly, yet staying relaxed enough not to affect Matt’s delicate balancing act. The woman was tough.

  To their right, the embankment continued steep and high. The slim hope that there would be a gentler slope at the end of the lake vanished. If anything, the grade was even sharper. As they passed the hairpin end and sped down the other side, Matt watched the odometer until he was at the point directly across the lake from the tunnel. Then he cut off his headlight and made a sharp left-hand turn into the water. If Nikki was startled at the move, she hid it well. Matt plowed ahead as fast as he dared. The water—probably from recent heavy rains—was six or so inches deep, and the stony bottom was identical to the track on which they had been riding. If the depth increased much, passage would probably be impossible. If they stalled and couldn’t get restarted, Matt had decided to leave the bike where it was and try to make it to the tunnel on foot.

  “Come on, baby,” he urged. “You can do this.”

  Through his rearview, he could see the lights of the Rover shining directly out over the lake. Confusion at last, he thought, smiling.

  Come on, bike!

  They were at least at the center of the lake now and the depth was holding. If he could keep the Harley upright while maintaining his speed slow enough to prevent water from splashing up into the electrical system, they were going to make it across. His fear now was that even though he entered the water at the right spot, he hadn’t held a straight enough line during the crossing. Behind them, the Land Rover was on the move again, continuing around the lake toward the spot where they had started. With luck, neither Verne nor Grimes knew anything about the tunnel. If that was the case, in Matt’s perfect scenario, he, Nikki, and the Harley would vanish like something straight out of Siegfried and Roy.

  He waited as long as he dared, then flicked on the headlight. They were no more than fifty yards from shore, and the tunnel was there, just twenty feet or so to the right.

  “Hang on tight!” he hollered over his shoulder.

  The arms around him tightened a notch. He swung right, straightening the path to the opening, and called on the Harley for some more speed. Engine screaming, they exploded out of the water, up the low bank, and hurtled into the tunnel. The corrugated steel ceiling flashed past less than a foot above their heads. The bike jounced viciously over the floor. Ahead, there was only darkness. Ten yards, twenty, fifty. Matt slowed. The end of the tunnel was just ahead. He cut the light and rolled out into a dry streambed that sloped gently downhill. Braking to a stop, he checked behind them. The metal tunnel was built into concrete, with a massive metal door that was, gratefully, open all the way. It seemed that Shady Lake was something of an engineering marvel—a reservoir that provided recreation and a source of water for the pools and golf course. It wasn’t clear where the water to fill the lake would be diverted from. Maybe that’s why the construction had stalled, Matt mused, smiling.

  Lights off, they cautiously followed the streambed through the rolling outline of what one day was to have been the golf course. Behind them, toward the lake, there was only darkness.

  “How are we doing?” Nikki asked softly, her cheek still pressed against Matt’s back.

  “Well, I think we’re going to make it out of this place,” he said, mopping sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. “The question now is: Where to from here?”

  “Boston,” she said firmly. “Take us to Boston.”

  CHAPTER 22

  WITH ONE EYE ON THE REARVIEW MIRROR, MATT rode the nearly dry streambed into the forest, where it merged with a running brook. He paralleled the brook for nearly a mile before they heard traffic noises. The two-lane road was one Matt didn’t know well, and in fact, they headed south for several minutes before he realized his misjudgment and turned around. By then, despite wearing Matt’s jacket, Nikki’s teeth were chattering. He offered his socks to cover her bare feet, but she insisted he push on until he was certain they were out of danger.

  She was absolutely beat, but hung on gamely for almost twenty miles more until Matt felt it was reasonably safe to stop. At a Target store they picked up a hairbrush, some toiletries and clothes for both of them, and sneakers for Nikki, and at the Sunoco station next door they got gas and a road map. From there they found a back road that paralleled the highway, and headed north.

  A few miles past the Target store they spotted a railroad car diner dropped, it seemed, in the middle of no place. Nikki had changed at the store into jeans and a flannel hunting shirt, with a red bandanna tied loosely around her neck. Her lips were dry and cracked, and there was a lattice of healing scratches across her face. Dark shadows enveloped her eyes. Still, there was a gentle beauty and intelligence about her that Matt found totally appealing. The few occasions over the past year that he had been with a woman he had been so totally disinterested and distracted that at times he was actually embarrassed to the point of apologizing. The fullness in his throat and his keenness to learn more about Nikki Solari were as threatening as they were exciting, as bewildering as they were pleasant. His memories of Ginny were no less vivid than they ever had been. But over just two days, he knew that something inside him had changed.

  Is it that enough time has passed? he wondered. Or is it this one woman?

  “You all right?” he asked.

  “I’m not ready for the obits, if that’s what you mean, but I might be a candidate for the comics. This is totally unreal. Matt, we’ve got to go to the police or . . . or the FBI. Isn’t kidnapping a federal offense?”

  “It is, yes,” he replied. “I have no idea what it would be like trying to bring charges against a police chief, even as two physicians sharing the same story. Despite losing to us tonight, Grimes is far from dumb. He’s a killer, and now he’s desperate. I’m sure he’ll come up with some sort of countercharges, like maybe I kidnapped you and then brainwashed you with drugs or something. Weirder things have happened.”

  “What else can we do?”

  “I don’t know. For the moment I really want to move against the mine before they have a chance to empty that dump. Now that they’ve lost both of us, that might be the direction they go in. If we suddenly get embroiled in charges and countercharges with Grimes and some police department or FBI office, I think we might end up losing. Besides, once we come out into the open, Grimes has another shot at us both.”

  “I guess I understand. So, then, now what?”

  “I don’t know. Connect with some family or friends or . . . or maybe a lawyer. Tell them what happened. Form some kind of strategy. Then maybe go see the police. I’d really like to come up with some approach to dealing with the mine people before we make any other move.”

  “Okay. I’m not sure I agree, but I am sure you just saved my life. For now we do it your way, starting with my boss.”

  “Great, and then maybe my uncle, Hal Sawyer, the pathologist. Some way, some
how, we’ll get to the police. I promise.”

  Nikki ordered black coffee and anything that was greasy and hot. Matt went for the chili. After the waitress had left, Nikki shared the stunning details of Kathy Wilson’s illness and death.

  “Her condition was all Grimes wanted to know about,” she said. “He never explained why. All he kept asking was, ‘Who else knows about her? Who else knows about her?’ ”

  It was astonishing for Matt to hear the description of Kathy’s facial nodules and mental deterioration. Nikki could just as easily have been speaking of Darryl Teague or Teddy Rideout. But there was a problem. Kathy Wilson had never worked at or near any facility of the Belinda Coal and Coke Company, and had left home to follow her destiny in music nearly nine years ago.

  “Are you sure she hasn’t been back to Belinda since she left?” Matt asked.

  “Maybe before she and I met she had, or maybe for a day or two here and there when she and the band were on the road.”

  “But nothing extended.”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “And what did you tell Grimes at the church?”

  “I can’t seem to remember the details of anything he and I spoke about.”

  “That’s understandable. With the sort of concussion you suffered it could be weeks or months before you recall some recent things—or even never.”

  “Up at that . . . that cabin, he just kept hammering away at the same thing, asking who else knew about Kathy’s condition besides me. He seemed especially interested in what I had told you.”

  “I’ll bet he was.”

  It was Matt’s turn to share what he knew, including his ill-fated trip into the mountain with Lewis and his subsequent treatment of Lewis’s collapsed lung. When he finished, Nikki merely shook her head and shrugged.

  “It doesn’t sound like any toxic syndrome I know of,” she said. “But I suppose it’s possible.”

  “What could it be, then? Three people from the same town with such a bizarre syndrome, coupled with a nearby toxic waste dump that has a river running right through it.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Nikki said pensively, “maybe the groundwater is contaminated from the dump, and maybe Kathy somehow did get exposed. The gun on the wall is certainly smoking. But it all still sounds a little shaky to me.”

  “If she really never worked at the mine, groundwater contamination’s got to be it.”

  “I’m curious. What did the pathology of those two miners’ brains show?”

  “My uncle, Hal Sawyer, is the ME and actually did the posts. He reported that the lumps were standard issue neurofibromas, and that both men’s brains were grossly normal, so he didn’t bother doing a microscopic.”

  “I don’t blame him,” she said, “but a number of devastating central-nervous-system conditions have brains that look fairly or totally normal on gross inspection. Maybe we’ll learn something from Kathy’s microscopic.”

  “You did one?”

  “My boss, Joe Keller, did. I insisted on it. I’ve never done well with loose ends, even tiny ones.”

  “I’ll be anxious to hear what he found. Maybe he can order some sort of toxicology on the tissue. I’m still certain the mine is at the bottom of all this.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me,” Nikki said, draining the last of her second cup. “Besides, who am I to question the clinical acumen of a doctor who saves his patients’ lives with unrolled condoms?”

  THE STARLIGHT MOTEL in Red Wolf, Pennsylvania, was just the sort of place Matt hoped to find. It was a mom-and-pop operation, far from any main drag. Room 212 was on the second floor in the rear, overlooking a small pond. He gathered their things and helped Nikki up the stairs. The room held the must of years of service, plus a hint of smoke. Nikki went into the bathroom and emerged wearing a pair of thin sweats and a Champion-logo T. Bracing herself against the wall, she pulled down one side of the bedcovers and crumpled onto her side, breathing heavily.

  “Here, lift up your tongue,” Matt said. “I want to check your temperature.”

  “Sleep. I need to sleep.”

  “I know. One more minute.”

  Matt slipped the digital thermometer beneath her tongue—100.5. He brought up his stethoscope and listened to her chest and back—a few crackles suggesting some low-grade pneumonia, but nothing that needed immediate attention.

  “Hop in,” she said weakly. “You saved my life twice in two days. That means you don’t have to sleep on the floor.”

  “I’ll try not to kick too much.” He shut off the lamp, but some light filtered through the gauzy curtains. He rolled onto his back next to her and pulled the sheet and thin blanket over both of them. “You know,” he went on, “I’ve been trying to figure out how Kathy might have gotten exposed to the toxins from the mine. It seems possible that she might have been in the wrong place at the time of a particularly dense spill. Maybe the two other cases were there at exactly that time, too. Do you think that’s possible? . . . Nikki?”

  Her eyes were closed, her respirations raspy, but even. She had hung on as long and as hard as she could.

  Matt turned onto his side, facing her. For a time, he studied her face in the dim glow, breathing in the scent of her.

  “Good night, pal,” he whispered finally. “I promise, next time we go to a nice quiet museum.”

  “HERE COMES ANOTHER contraction.”

  “Okay, hon, you know what to do.”

  “I’m okay. . . . I’m okay, Donny. . . . I got this one. No sweat . . . No sweat . . . I got it.”

  Her friends and family had told her how hard it was going to be. How painful. The nurse in charge of the birthing class had begun the class on labor and delivery by saying, “Whoever named labor had clearly been through it.”

  Sherrie Cleary, now in her ninth hour of serious labor, just focused her thoughts on all the doomsayers and naysayers and smiled. Sure, the contractions hurt. Sometimes they hurt like hell. But pain was just that, she told herself over and over again, nothing more, and she was still hanging in there. At twenty-six, this was her first baby, and she was most definitely not going to be her last. Her husband, Don, had gotten a nice raise at the body shop, and thanks to an uneventful pregnancy, she had been able to waitress until just three weeks ago. They were still living in the Anacostia projects, but the people from Fannie Mae were optimistic that before long they would qualify for a mortgage. Could anyone blame her for wanting more kids?

  Margie Briscoe, the midwife, breezed into the birthing room, checked the baby monitor, and then came to the bedside.

  “Looks great,” she said. “How you doing, Sher?”

  “I can handle the contractions, at least so far, but I am getting a little impatient.”

  “You wouldn’t be normal if you weren’t. Here, let me check you. Just relax and let your knees flop apart. . . . Perfect . . . You’re stretched out nicely, too. Because of all that preparation you did, I don’t believe we’re going to have to make that episiotomy cut.”

  “That’s great.”

  “Not much longer, my friend. Not much longer at all.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “You still going with Donelle?”

  “Donelle Elizabeth Cleary. She was going to be Donald Junior if she was a boy. Elizabeth was my grandmother’s name.”

  “It’s a beautiful name.”

  “She’s going to be a beautiful baby. Oh, Donny, here comes another one. . . . Goodness . . . Oh, my, this is a little worse than the others. . . . No, wait . . . Oh, Lord, make that a lot worse. . . . Oh!”

  Margie set her hands on the volleyball-sized rock that was Sherrie’s contracting uterus and watched as the monitor screen showed nothing more than the expected slowing of the fetal heart rate. One minute, two, three. Sherrie groaned and gasped continuously.

  “I . . . don’t . . . know . . . if . . . I . . . can . . . Wait, wait, it’s getting a little better. It’s going away. Oh, gosh . . .”

  “The contraction will be
right back,” Margie exclaimed, “because it’s happening! Little Donelle is on her way. Don, will you poke your head out the door, please, and tell Sue it’s time. Sherrie, I’m just going to do a little more stretching of your skin to help your baby get on out here. . . . Great. You’ve made it, Sher. You’ve made it all the way without any medication. Now, just continue your rapid breathing and get ready to push. Everyone set? Pediatrician on his way, Sue? . . . Terrific. Don, get those gloves on and get over here and take my place. I’ll be right next to you. You’re going to bring this daughter of yours into the world. Ready?”

  “I . . . I think so.”

  “You’ll do fine. Sherrie, get ready to push. Get set. Okay, here comes her head. Push, Sherrie, push! . . . Here she is, Don. First her head, now I’m going to bring her little shoulder out. You got her? . . . Great! Now the other shoulder, and here she is. Beautiful. Just beautiful. Nine-fifteen P.M. Sue, suction, please.”

  The bleating cries of Donelle Elizabeth Cleary filled the birthing room. Don Cleary, who had the muscled physique and stoicism of a longshoreman, was openly weeping as the nurse took his daughter, wrapped her, and brought her up to rest on Sherrie, who was beaming like the midday sun, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “I told you,” she said to everyone and no one in particular. “I told you it was going to be incredible.”

  Three hours later, when the nurse Sue came into her room, Sherrie was dozing but still smiling. Her husband, sitting off to her right, was gazing in awe into the bassinet at the perfection that was their child.