"Any on the circuit breakers for the lights in here?"
"No, sir. Can I get you another coffee?" The man had studiously kept Richard well supplied in caffeine all morning after initially taking a detailed statement from him regarding the attacker and what he'd said. That the creep had yelled "I am a soldier in the Legion of the Lord" seemed particularly to interest him, though he wouldn't say why. Following the interview the officer also managed to deal with the dozens of secretaries who'd been attempting to do their usual job of retrieving the hundreds of patient records needed upstairs. While trying to oblige them, he had to prevent their contaminating the crime scene. This meant limited access, missing files, and ultimately angry doctors showing up demanding their patients' records.
Since the rumor mill had already placed Richard at the center of everything that had happened overnight, he found himself the recipient of numerous sour looks whenever the door opened a crack and yet another furious supplicant demanding yet more records spotted him sitting there amidst piles of charts. "Hey," he felt like saying, "I'm not to blame for your troubles." Soon, though, the parade of tightly pursed faces so resembled one another, he found them ridiculous. He took to raising his cup in a toast and grinning at his accusers instead.But the young officer had handled them all with courteous aplomb, his composure as impeccable as his perfectly groomed appearance.
"They don't pay you enough," Richard told him.
"Pardon, sir?"
"Never mind. Sure, I'll have another coffee. To go." He already felt rewired and jump-started having drunk far too many cups. But after no sleep for over twenty-four hours, why the hell not? Getting to his feet, he remembered a bit of unfinished business. "By the way, did any of your people find my cell phone?"
"Not so far," the policeman answered from where he was boiling a kettle of water and opening up his jar of instant.
"How about you let me in there to have a look around myself?"
"Sorry, you know I can't do that until the crime lab people are done."
"But I'm finished with my work here, and I need it back."
"We'll get it eventually."Richard's temper, always kept on a tight spring at the best of times, lurched up a notch. "Detective McKnight assured me I'd have access to Medical Records—"
"Which is exactly what you've had, sir, for the last three hours, all the records you requested from your list." The young man handed him a fresh Styrofoam cup, its black contents sending up entrails of steam.
"But I want to look for my cell phone—"
"We found no phone, sir."
"Jesus Christ," he muttered, marching over to the nearest desk extension, setting down his drink, and punching in the cellular's number. "Son, when you hear it ringing, follow the noise, and just bring the damn thing to me, will you."
"Yes sir. Glad to be of help, sir."
Richard studied the young face for any hint of sarcasm as he waited for the call to connect. Christ, the boy was so sincere, he thought, unable to detect even the flicker of a smirk. Either that or he was a hell of a straight man.
From the receiver he heard the repeating one-second buzz that meant his portable should be beeping, but no such signal came from anywhere in the room, not even faintly. "Look, can you just walk around in there toward the back. The noise of the air-conditioning may be masking the sound."
"Sure, Doc," he said, as pleasantly as always, and headed into the stacks.
Jesus, he was so polite it was eerie.
About thirty seconds later a voice came through the receiver. "Hello?"
"Hey, you found it. Thanks a lot," Richard said into the mouthpiece.
There was no reply.
Thinking the policeman had already hung up, he started to ring off, when he heard, "Well, well, I was wondering when you'd call." It was a high-strung voice, not anything like the young cop's.
"Who's this?"
"The issue is who you are, Dr. Steele, as you account to the Lord for desecrating His Holy plan."
Richard's pulse slowed, his breathing went still. He looked around for one of theother officers, but they were all in the stacks. "You want to speak to me?" he said, keeping his voice smooth as he slipped into the same cool, clinical state of mind he adopted when addressing a violent patient.
"God wants to speak with you and your kind. I'm only His messenger."
"What's my kind?" He still couldn't see any cops.
"You would murder His seed."
"How do I do that?"
"Do you know what it feels like to have your seed murdered?"
The thin, high voice made him want to hold the receiver from his ear. "I don't know what you mean, uh, can you tell me your name?"
"Don't insult me, Steele. I'm not one of your crazies you can con."
"Of course you're not." Don't confront, don't antagonize, don't patronize, he taught the residents when they encountered agitated psychotics. It took seconds to say, years to learn. And the hardest lesson of all to master— no matter how off-the-wall, disgusting, or outright terrifying the person you're dealing with is— be sympathetic,never judgmental. "You sound like a very determined man."
"You haven't seen anything yet."
"Tell me."
A high-pitched laugh rattled over the line. "I'm not sure you want to hear this, Doctor."
"Sure I do."
"You know where I'm sitting?"
All at once a crescendo of traffic noises came from the background.
He must be holding the receiver toward the street, Richard thought. "Could be anywhere in any big city. Still in New York."
"Smart. Let me narrow it down for you. I'm at the corner of Lexington and Thirty-sixth."
Richard's mouth went dry."Cat got your tongue, Doctor? Better get it back, 'cause I've gotten lots of calls for you that you should return. It's been fun being your secretary."
"Calls?" The creep couldn't be where he said he was, couldn't be at his house. He prayed the man had just picked the location to rattle him simply because it was so near the hospital.
"Yeah, call ER. Call ER. Call ER. You don't get much variety in your phone life, do you."
"Tell me about it."
"Your son sounds nice though."
Oh, Jesus. "What do you mean?"
"He called to see how Dr. Sullivan is."
Icy fingers touched his heart. Chet didn't usually call him during the day. This creep had to be lying. Had to be! But he couldn't convince himself and fear suddenly smashed through his armor of professionalism. He jabbed the speaker button, then let loose. "Listen, you sick fuck, you stay away from my son—""You who would murder the Lord's seed expect Him to bless yours?" The high-pitch laugh revved up again and filled the room.
The young officer came running out of the stacks, a puzzled look on his face. A couple of his colleagues followed. Richard furiously beckoned them closer, then, whipping out his pen, scribbled one-handed on a nearby chart. It's him! He may be at my house. Lexington and Thirty-sixth. Send cars. "I don't know what you mean—"
"Oh yes you do. What I bet you are wondering is why your son phoned to inquire about Dr. Sullivan. Why would he interrupt his busy Daddy about stuff like that, especially since the bitch is doing so well?"
Waving his scribbled message before the startled officers, Richard kept his breathing steady, his voice under tight control. "Why don't you tell me?"
"But you won't want to hear this."
The expressions on the faces of the policemen went wide with surprise. The young one strode quickly out of earshot and started snapping orders into his handheld radio. Another ran to a bank of phones on a nearby desk and punched in a number. A third said, "I'll get McKnight," and headed out the door.
"I called his school, Lexington High," the man continued. "Left a message with his principal that he was to contact you right away, on your cellular. A family emergency . . ."
The man's words ripped deep into Richard's chest and took his breath away. How could he know all this about Chet?
&nb
sp; ". . . When he called me back, he was so concerned. Seems he thought something had happened to Dr. Sullivan. 'Yes,' I said, 'she's had another hemorrhage. I've got your father's cellular because he's in working on her. But don't come here. Your dad wants you to go home and keep Lisa company. She's in a terrible state about this, and can't stand being in the hospital while waiting for news,' I said it all breathless and earnest like. 'She needs you Chet. Hurry. It looks bad for her mother.' Bullshit like that. Anyway, he bought it—"
"You son of a bitch! Have you got my son? And how do you know about Lisa?"
The young policeman, still speaking into his radio, stared incredulously at the speakerphone as if he couldn't believe what he'd just heard. A few of the other officers who'd been listening with increasingly horrified looks on their faces immediately got on their walkie-talkies. Richard, his hand trembling, scrawled Call Lexington High. See if Chet Steele is still there, and showed it to the young cop.
He quickly nodded, moved off a few steps, and began speaking again into his radio. "Nice house, Steele. The red tint to the stone is attractive."
"Where's my son, you bastard?"
"Inside, waiting for you. See, I had this syringe of potassium chloride I never got to use—"
"No! Don't, please." He started to pace, wheeling in circles, a hundred choices avalanching through his head. Race to the house. Get to Chet. But what if the man were lying? He might not even have him. Or if he had, he could be holding him somewhere else.
"Your seed for the Lord's seed, Steele."
The cops were on the way. He'd keep the guy on the line until they got there. "Why are you doing this?" he yelled, his voice cracking.
"You and your geneticist friend are killing the Lord's innocents."
"We're what?"
The policeman stepped up and whispered, "I'm dispatched through to the principal's office at Lexington High School. Your son's not there. "The cold fingers that had been playing havoc with Richard's innards closed a fist around his throat.
"Hey, who else is with you, Steele?" said the voice. "Am I on a speaker-phone? Is someone calling the school to make sure my story checks out?" The screeching laugh once more reverberated through the room.
Richard reached out to take the policeman's radio. "Can I speak to them through this?"
He nodded, unplugging an earphone he'd been using to keep his conversation quiet, and the portable unit crackled to life.
"What do you mean my son's not there," said Richard.
"Dr. Steele?" a woman's voice answered, her fright amplified into the room as clearly as her words. "We got an urgent message from one of your residents, saying for Chet to reach you on your cellular, that there'd been a family emergency."
Richard clutched the radio so tightly he heard the plastic seams crack. "You let Chet go?"
"Yes, sir, the situation seemed so urgent. When we got him to the office so he coulduse a phone, your resident answered, and said Dr. Sullivan had had another stroke. I know how close Chet has grown to her— we met when she came to one of his parent-teacher nights—"
"What the hell did you do with Chet?" said Richard, cutting off the woman's babble.
"Well, since the young doctor who called had privy to your cell phone, it never crossed my mind he wasn't authentic. So I put Chet in a cab, and sent him home to be with Lisa. But that was an hour ago. Please, tell me what's going on."
"Please, tell me, what's going on," mocked the piercing thin voice of the man on the other end of the speakerphone. "Better get here, Dad, and see what I've done to your seed."
The taunt shredded whatever remnants of self-control Richard had left. He pushed away from the young cop, leaving him the walkie-talkie, and bolted for the door. "Damn you to hell," he roared over his shoulder.
A loud click followed by a buzzing dial tone was the response.
"No, he didn't mean you, ma'am," said the young policeman into the handheld unit.
"Are your cops at my house yet?" Richard shouted at him while sprinting through the exit.
"Excuse me ma'am, gotta go," he said, starting to follow, twirling a dial to change channels.
"I called them in," said one of the other officers.
"An ambulance is on the way as well," yelled another.
"The rest of us better stay here and keep this scene secure," added a third.
"Any respondent to Lexington and Thirty-sixth?" the young cop said into his receiver as he ran into the hallway a step behind Richard.
"That's a roger," rasped a man's voice through the hiss and spit of the unit's speaker. "But there's no answer at the address you gave us. Do we go in?"
"Yes!" said Richard, reaching the stairs and starting up two at a time. "Tell them there's a key on a magnet behind the street numbers. One of them is loose. But for God's sake, remember my son's inside."
"That's a roger," said the voice on the radio.
Chapter 13
Gridlock imprisoned the midday traffic that filled the streets outside the hospital exit closest to Second Avenue.
The young cop at his heels, Richard sprinted toward Thirty-fourth Street. He was across it and halfway to Thirty-fifth in twenty seconds, the crowds of people on the sidewalk regarding him queerly and parting readily in his path. Then he realized he looked like a fugitive in a white coat being chased by the police. He used the misleading impression to pour on even greater speed.
On the other side of the street, a man with a broad face wearing a loose-fitting jacket over a jogging outfit stepped out the doorway of a deli. He unlocked a bicycle chained to a meter, and began pedaling in the same direction Richard ran full-out. Although it was overcast he wore sunglasses, and even though it was late June and very warm, he'd pulled up his hood. He allowed Richard and the cop to stay a little ahead of him.
He hadn't expected the cop.
He took only occasional glances at the running men as he trailed them, keeping his face averted the rest of the time. With his picture having been all over local TV, the bike was the perfect vehicle for a quick getaway with so much traffic, in case someone recognized who he was and came after him. He'd be safer once he mastered the application of beards and wigs so they would pass muster up close.
Overpowering the boy had been easy. A knock on the door after the kid arrived home was all it took to get inside. The rest simply flowed from there.
And now he'd succeeded in sending Steele racing home in a state of panic and thinking only of his child. It should have been easy to come up on him from behind with the bike, draw the machete, and hack halfway through the back of his neck with a single stroke.
But the fucking cop changed all that.
In front of him the two men tore across Second Avenue and along Thirty-sixth. By the time he swung into the street after them, they were a quarter of the way up the block. They would have to cross Third Avenue, then Lexington, before reaching Steele's home.
He pedaled faster, quickly closing the gap. He'd planned his attack for the next intersection, intending to sweep in on his quarry, strike, and race away. A very public, very fitting execution.
But what about the cop? Could he take him out first? Surely a bystander would scream. Then Steele would stop and turn around. In that instant he could get in another swipe that would get the Doc. He grinned. Good plan.
Steele and the policeman were about thirty seconds away from the street corner.
He accelerated, closing in on them, threading the space between the oncoming traffic that jammed the center of the street and the line of cars parked along the curb, yet staying just outside their range of vision. A cacophony of horns continuously shredded the air, the gridlock seeming to have primed every motorist within blocks to within a hair of road rage. Continuing to steer with his left hand, he reached inside the coat for his weapon. Locking his fingers around the grip, he pedaled just a little faster, inching abreast of the two men.
Fifteen seconds, he estimated, until they reached the crossing.
He got ready,
and started to draw the blade.
He saw Steele glance south, checking the crush of vehicles coming from that direction.
Ten yards to go. He didn't hear the click ahead of him because of all the surrounding noise. The door of a car parked almost at the intersection opened without warning. He saw it in time to swerve partially out of its way, but his knee smashed into it, and he crashed to the pavement.
An old man with a cigar in his mouth got out and gaped at him. "Jesus, don't you damn cyclists ever watch what you're doing?" he said, and started to check the paint on his car door.
His hands and knees stinging from the scraping they'd gotten on the asphalt, he realized how lucky he had been not to have got the blade out fully. Managing to resheath it, with no one the wiser, and groaning, he got to his feet and limped over to the bike. No breaks. He could move easily. He wasn't able to say the same for the front wheel of his bike. It was folded over on itself, like a piece of pita.
His prey, he saw, was already well past Third Avenue. Thanks be to God for His having given him the sense to provide a backup plan, he thought, lurching after them on foot. Feeling in his pocket, he made sure the remote hadn't dropped out during his spill.
Three white-and-blue NYPD cars stood at crazy angles to the curb, their doors ajar. The other end of the street pulsed red where a solitary unit had blocked off the traffic. A uniformed woman stood on the steps before the open front door of Richard's house. She spoke quickly into her radio, and the alarm in her eyes along with the strained look on her face made Richard's gut contract with fear.
"Have you found him?" he called as he raced up to her.
She immediately broke off her radio communication. "Are you the father?"
Oh, God, no! he thought, pushing past her as he sensed she just used the question to gain a few seconds because the news was bad, the way he'd done so often when a frantic parent rushed into ER. He'd always taken that pause instinctively, caught in the grip of a crazy feeling that as long as he delayed the verdict, a mother's or father's last moments of hope for their child's life lived on. But the doctor in him would regain control and, as with a held breath, he'd have to let the moment go, tell them what they most feared, then watch their faces crumple, his words suctioning the life out of them.
Critical Condition Page 21
