Tailspin

by Sandra Brown

  “You think large, Nate,” Richard said.

  “If I didn’t, Delores would soon be a widow. See you in a bit.”

  Delores clicked off. Richard frowned. “With what we’ve paid him, he could buy his own hospital wing. Cocky bastard.”

  She unbuckled her seat belt and scooted across the back seat to snuggle against him. “He is. But he’s our cocky bastard, and it’s always beneficial to have one indebted.”

  Chapter 17

  5:43 p.m.

  After ending his conversation with the Hunts, Nate went into the bathroom in his office. He took the box with him. He was not letting it out of his sight again.

  He washed his hands and brushed his teeth. He checked his head and reasoned he had time to shave it. He took off his tie and shirt and went about the ritual proficiently.

  He was buffing his sleek head with a towel when he realized that Brynn was taking an awfully long time in the garage. He called her to alert her that they would be leaving promptly for the Hunts’ estate.

  She didn’t answer. She was probably in the elevator.

  He selected a fresh shirt and tie that were understated but should show up well on camera. With the stipulation that it would be for private viewing only, the Hunts had granted him permission to make a video, with his narration, as Richard was getting the infusion.

  Although after Richard became a first in medical history, they might change their minds about keeping it from the public. Nate surmised that they would want to milk it for all it was worth. In which case, he would have documentation.

  After checking his reflection in the mirror one last time, he went back into his office. He set the black box on his desk and was pulling on his suit jacket when he heard carpet-muffled footsteps approaching the door.

  Brynn. He pulled open the door and was about to say, It’s about time, but the words died on his lips. He blinked several times in bafflement.

  One of the two uniformed men said, “Dr. Nathan Lambert?”

  “Yes. Who are you? What do you want?”

  “I’m Deputy Wilson. Rawlins,” he said of his companion. “We spoke to you on the phone in the wee hours this morning.” He then aimed his finger beyond Nate’s shoulder toward the desk. “What we want is to take a second look inside that box.”

  Nate’s knees turned to jelly. “I was just on my way out. Can this keep?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Wilson said. “We’ve come all the way from Howardville to see you.”

  Nate crossed his arms. “Which brings me to my second question. Aren’t you out of your jurisdiction?”

  “We called ahead to the DeKalb County Sheriff’s Office. They’re aware of why we’re here.”

  “Well then, the sheriff’s office is one up on me,” Nate said. “I thought we had cleared up this issue over the phone.”

  “We did, too.” Those were the first words out of Rawlins’s mouth, but Nate had been uncomfortably aware of the deputy’s suspicious scrutiny. “The situation has grown more serious.”

  “How so?”

  “To start with, Brady White has—”

  “Who is Brady White?”

  “The man who was assaulted at the airfield.”

  “Ah, I don’t recall ever having been given his name. Proceed.”

  Rawlins waited a beat or two. “Mr. White’s condition hasn’t improved all that much.”

  “I’m terribly sorry to hear that,” Nate said. “But it still doesn’t explain why you’ve come to me.”

  “Reason we’ve come to you is because if Mr. White doesn’t make it, then Rye Mallett and your colleague Dr. O’Neal are upped to material witnesses in a homicide investigation. And, by extension, you.”

  “Me?”

  Wilson used the hat he held in his hand to point toward Nate’s desk. “That’s your box, and we think it contributed to the motive of whoever assaulted Mr. White.”

  Nate’s palms began to sweat, but he maintained his imperious expression. “I can accept that this Mallett character might very well be involved in criminal activity. But Brynn O’Neal? Never.”

  Rawlins said, “Even though it runs in her family?”

  “Criminal activity?”

  “Her father. He has a record as long as your arm.”

  Nate’s ears began to buzz. “I wouldn’t know that, because I know nothing of Brynn’s personal history. She and I are nothing more than colleagues. Not family, not really friends. Our patients occasionally overlap, requiring us to consult on their diagnoses and treatments. That’s the extent of our relationship.”

  The two deputies exchanged a look. Even to Nate, that had sounded like cover-your-ass backpedaling.

  Rawlins asked, “When’s the last time you saw her?”

  Nate looked at his watch and only then realized how much time had passed since Brynn had gone down to the garage. “She returned from Howardville around four-thirty. She and I are due to begin testing the blood samples right away. That’s where I’m off to.”

  “So…?” Wilson looked past him. “She here?”

  “In the building, yes. But she was summoned down to the parking garage to deal with the return of her car.”

  The officers exchanged another look, a convention he found annoying. “What?”

  “Dr. O’Neal’s car is still hooked up to the tow truck, waiting for the body shop in Howardville to reopen after the holiday weekend. Monday, seven a.m.”

  Blood rushed to Nate’s head. He would kill her. He would absolutely eviscerate her and hang her carcass out to dry.

  “Then she lied to me,” he said. “She received a text and dashed out. All I know about it is that she arrived here at—”

  “How?”

  “How what?”

  “How did she arrive?”

  “An interested party had sent a car and driver to bring her back to Atlanta.”

  “Did this driver drive a black Mercedes?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “License plate number—”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t make the arrangements.”

  “Who’s the interested party?”

  “My patient. Whose life is hanging in the balance while you’re asking irrelevant questions about motor vehicles.”

  “Did you see the driver?”

  “He escorted Brynn to this door.”

  “Big Hispanic guy? Little fellow with him?”

  “That’s them. The pilot was also tagging along.” Nate didn’t conceal his low regard for Rye Mallett as he told them about the FAA-required signature. “To be frank, I think he made it up.”

  “What for?”

  “First off, to be ornery. And possibly because he was hounding Brynn. He and she had a tryst.”

  “In a cabin,” Wilson said. “We know about it.”

  Nate sniffed. “It demonstrated a disturbing lack of discrimination and judgment on her part. Which is why someone was sent to retrieve her.”

  “Her, or the box?”

  “Both. You know about its importance.”

  “I’m not sure we do.”

  “I explained it to you this morning.”

  Rawlins said, “Yeah, but we’d like to take another look inside.”

  “I can’t risk exposing the contents to light and air again until I’m in a sterile environment.”

  “Fine. We’re free now.” Rawlins motioned down the hallway toward the elevator. “Is your car in the garage here? I’ll ride with you. Wilson can follow us.”

  Nate tried to conceal his alarm. Meanwhile his mind was darting about in search of an excuse. He took a deep breath and drew himself up. “Gentlemen, Brynn’s conduct this morning is uncharacteristic of the professional I know. But I don’t believe for a moment that she was involved in any law-breaking activity last night, or today, or at any time, although I don’t have the same confidence in the integrity of the man with whom she shared several hours in a cabin.

  “I’m certain that Brynn will soon come to her senses and resume her responsibil
ities to our patient. If she doesn’t, she’ll suffer consequences which could impact her professional future. I have a substantial amount of influence at the medical facility with which we’re both affiliated.”

  He looked at his watch, then shot his cuffs.

  “Now, I appreciate your commitment to your duty. I admire you for conducting such a thorough investigation into the assault on Mr. White. But, presently, you really must excuse me. I have an appointment.”

  “And we have a search warrant,” Rawlins said.

  Nate’s sphincter clenched. “You have a search warrant?”

  “For the box.”

  “Wh…why did you feel it necessary to obtain a search warrant on Thanksgiving night?”

  “Because we thought you might balk.”

  “I beg your pardon. I do not balk.”

  “Sheriff’s office here cooperated,” Wilson said. “We stopped at the judge’s house to get the warrant signed.”

  Rawlins produced it from an inside breast pocket of his puffer jacket, unfolded it, and held it out for Nate to read. “Open the box, Dr. Lambert.”

  The more he protested, the worse it would look for him. Recognizing that, he backed into the office and motioned them toward the desk. Trying to keep his hands steady, he scrolled the dials on the padlock and opened it. He raised the metal lid.

  Rawlins pulled on a pair of latex gloves and methodically removed the sealed test tubes, examining each one before placing it on the desk, leaving four circular cutouts in the foam.

  “There,” Nate said. “What did you expect to find?”

  Ignoring him, Rawlins dug his fingers into the edge of the foam and began working it up and away from the metal. “Let’s see what’s under here.” He pulled the lining up and out.

  Nate’s slick, shiny head broke a sweat.

  6:02 p.m.

  The room had been booked in Dash’s name, his real name, the one on his platinum card. That could be advantageous if anyone were to canvass local hotels in search of a Rye Mallett or Brynn O’Neal.

  It was a chain hotel near the airport. Rye had to show the check-in clerk his photo ID, but the harried young man gave it only a cursory glance, which he wasn’t likely to remember. He was overrun with demanding complainers who had set up camp in his lobby while waiting for either a room to become available or for the airlines to put them on a flight, whichever came first.

  Rye wouldn’t have been all that surprised if Brynn had pulled a vanishing act while he was checking in, but she was waiting for him at the elevator bank as agreed. They rode up in silence and got out on the seventh floor, which was blessedly quiet compared to the mob scene in the lobby.

  They went into the room. Rye flipped the bolt. She switched on a lamp on the nightstand, then faced him, bristling. “Was it really necessary to throw my phone away?”

  On the drive from downtown, he had asked to see her phone. Without asking why, she’d handed it over. Then before she could stop him, he removed the SIM card and tossed the phone out the car window.

  “You want Goliad and Timmy coming after you again?”

  “Their company might be preferable.”

  He tapped his chest. “I’m the one who has the right to be angry. You don’t get to be mad till I’m finished.”

  “Then get on with it.”

  He tossed his coat onto the bed. “Your SIM card is intact. You’ve got all your data. You can buy a new phone tomorrow.”

  “In the meantime a patient could have an emergency.”

  “So check in with your answering service periodically. I’ll lend you my phone to call them.”

  She simmered, and he let her. Then she asked, “How did you get my number to text me?”

  “I asked Marlene for it. Told her I would let you know when I’d be going back up there to take Brady flying.”

  “Have you gotten an update on him from her?”

  “No. You?”

  She shook her head. “I suppose it was she who told you about my dad?”

  “I had assumed he was a cop. Ha!”

  “You heard he was a thief, and thought ‘like father, like daughter.’”

  “Prove me wrong, Brynn.”

  “I don’t have to prove a damn thing to you.”

  In angry strides, he walked toward her. “Aren’t I entitled to know what you dragged me into?”

  “It’s irrelevant now.”

  “Is it?”

  “Nate has the box, doesn’t he?”

  “What excuse did you give him for cutting out? Did you tell him you were meeting me?”

  “No. I lied.”

  “You’re good at that.”

  Rather than taking offense as he expected, she looked chagrined and actually backed up to sit on the foot of the bed, shoulders slumped, head drooping. “Obviously not all that good,” she said ruefully. “You saw through me from the start.”

  “Well, I was looking close.”

  Her head came up. Their eyes met. Though neither moved, the space between them seemed to shrink. The atmosphere became weighty, teeming with the memory of one kiss.

  “You had signed off,” she said, her voice barely audible. “Free to go. Why did you come back?”

  He approached her slowly and, when he reached her, pushed the fingers of his right hand up through her hair and tilted her head back. “You know one reason.” He looked into her eyes in a way she couldn’t possibly mistake.

  “You haven’t acted on it,” she whispered.

  His body was demanding that he do. He wanted to immerse himself in the passion promised by her uninhibited kiss, longed to lose himself in her, seek and find a few minutes of oblivion and peace. It took every ounce of willpower he possessed to resist the temptation.

  “And I won’t.” He let go of her hair and withdrew his hand. “If somebody fucks with my freedom to fly airplanes, they’re fucking with my life, because flying is all I’ve got. You put it in jeopardy, Brynn.”

  “Not intentionally.”

  “Not at first, maybe. But you haven’t told me the whole of it.”

  “I have,” she protested, her voice wavering. “You know what’s in the box, and why I went to extremes to safeguard it.”

  “The drug.”

  “Yes.”

  “Meant for Hunt.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you tried to steal it. Why?” He planted his fists on either side of her hips and leaned over her. “Black market?”

  “I’m not a criminal!”

  “You and your old man—”

  “No!”

  “Then tell me, dammit. Why were you trying to keep it from Lambert? Professional jealousy? To prevent him from getting the glory?”

  “No.”

  “To prevent Hunt from getting the drug?”

  Her lips parted, but nothing came out.

  He reacted with a start, and said again, “To prevent Hunt from getting the drug?”

  Her eyes misted.

  “Brynn? Why didn’t you want him to get it?”

  On a sob, she said, “Because I wanted it for someone else.”

  Violet

  My name is Violet Griffin, and I have cancer.”

  I practiced saying it a lot of times before I stood in front of my kindergarten class and told all the kids at one time.

  The reason was because I had come back to school after getting chemo and my hair had come out. My doctor—not Dr. O’Neal, because I didn’t know her yet. My first doctor told me I would lose my hair, so it wasn’t a surprise. But I cried anyway. So did Mom. Not when she was brushing my hair and big wads of it got stuck in my brush. But after, when she and my dad went to bed, I heard her crying. She had told me over and over that I was beautiful and that hair doesn’t matter.

  But it sorta does. Especially when it’s all gone and you have to go back to school and make a speech about it in front of the class.

  Miss Wheeler, my teacher, patted my arm and told me, “Embrace it, Violet.” I wasn’t sure what embrace meant,
but when she said, “Own it,” I knew she meant that none of the kids at school would make fun of my bald head if they knew I was sick.

  I didn’t want to be the only kid in my school with cancer, but I was.

  When you’ve got cancer, people talk to you different. Sometimes they whisper. I want to tell them that cancer doesn’t hurt my ears, and that it’s okay for them to talk normal.

  Since I got cancer, my brothers have turned all weird, too. I think Daddy had a talk with them. They used to hide my dolls, and throw the ball too high for me to catch, and laugh when I did a ballet twirl and fell down, but now they don’t do any of that stuff. I wish they still did. I don’t want them to be nice to me just because they think I’ll die before them.

  That day I had to tell the kids at school that I had cancer was two years ago. I’m in second grade now. Only I can’t go to school these days. If I get well, I’ll have a lot to catch up on.

  I was thinking about that day in kindergarten because today is Thanksgiving, and Mom said we should count our blessings, and the main one, she said, is that we’re here in Atlanta so I can get well. We missed having turkey with my brothers and Daddy, though. They’re at home. Mom and I FaceTimed with them, then she went out in the hall with the phone and talked to Daddy by herself, and when she came back in, she smiled the way she does when she’s sad and doesn’t want me to know it. But I know it anyway.

  She laid down with me, and pulled me close to her, and we watched the parade on TV. I wish I could go to that parade and see the Rockettes. Mom said we will next Thanksgiving. But I don’t think we will because Dr. O’Neal would have to kill my cancer first.

  She’s a special doctor for my kind of cancer. There are all different kinds, you know. Mine is in my bones and blood, and it’s a bad kind to have.

  But Dr. O’Neal can kick its butt. That’s what Daddy told me when I left to come to the hospital here. He winked at me. Probably because he said “butt.”

  When Dr. O’Neal and Mom talk about my cancer, they go outside my room in the hall. Sometimes Dr. O’Neal puts her hand on Mom’s back and rubs it and looks sad. That’s when I know the news isn’t good. Not as successful as we’d hoped. That’s how the doctors say that the cancer is getting worse.