by Robin Cook
In the center of the reading room was a low, two-sided bookcase containing more than fifty years of Brownfield High School yearbooks. Noah took the volume for 2000 and sat down at an oak table.
He first looked at Ava London’s photo. He was surprised because the woman in the black-and-white photo did resemble the Ava he knew, with streaked blond hair, remarkably white teeth, a small sculpted nose, and a strong chin line. She also reflected Ava’s confident stare. Beneath the photo was an impressive résumé of activities including cheerleading captain, student council, senior play, and many clubs. Below that was a short in memoriam, mentioning her death on April 14, 2000.
Noah’s eyes went back to study the photo. He again admitted to himself the individual did look surprisingly similar to his Ava, but he wasn’t sure he would have been able to pick her out if there hadn’t been a name. But he didn’t find that surprising, as it was rare in his experience for someone to resemble their high school photo.
Moving on, he looked at the photo of Gail Shafter. The general features were not too dissimilar, although Gail’s nose was larger and appeared as if it were slightly aquiline, and the hair was definitely brunette with just a few blond streaks. Of particular similarity was the way the young woman looked directly into the camera with obvious self-confidence, although with Gail it bordered on brassiness. What was obviously different about the two women was Gail’s lack of social activities.
Taking his cell phone out of his backpack, Noah replaced the battery just long enough to take a couple photos of the two women. He had wanted Roberta Hinkle to send him the photos, and now he had them. As he put the yearbook back in the bookshelf, thinking about the private investigator made him wonder what Detective Moore would say if he knew Noah was in the area. It wasn’t a pleasant thought, and as best as he could, he put it out of his mind. He didn’t want to think about Roberta Hinkle’s untimely end.
Noah returned to the circulation desk and asked the librarian where he could find back issues of The Brownfield Gazette. She directed him to return to the reading room and to look in the shelving against the near wall. She said there were bound volumes of the paper going back to the year it was founded.
It took Noah only a moment to find the correct volume that contained the April 17, 2000, and the April 24, 2000, issues. He took it back to the same seat. As far as he could tell, he was the only visitor in the library.
As Roberta Hinkle had mentioned in her email, there were many articles on Ava London’s suicide, coming as it did almost a year after her father’s. It was quickly apparent to Noah that both father and daughter were indeed local celebrities with the father an active town philanthropist and the daughter a popular teen, cheerleading captain, and junior prom queen. It was also said that the two were very close after the death of the wife/mother from breast cancer two years before.
What Noah found the most interesting from his reading was the apparent role the journalists believed social media had played in goading Ava London to follow in her father’s footsteps. Numerous emails, messages, and group chats were cited blaming her for her father’s suicide and saying she should do the same. The most consistent authors of this progressively relentless harassment were Connie Dugan, Cynthia Sanchez, and Gail Shafter, as Roberta Hinkle had mentioned in her email, although there were other people involved as well, particularly in the group chats. One article claimed that Ava London had become so despondent from this media attention that she had been unable to attend school for the week prior to her suicide. The two social-media sites implicated were SixDegrees and AOL Instant Messenger.
Noah could only imagine the trauma the small town had endured with the tragic loss of two popular members of the community. The fact that the current Ava’s favorite pastime was social media wasn’t lost on Noah. There was no doubt in his mind that once things returned to some semblance of normal with her, he would need to bring up all of this. As personally generous as he considered Ava, he thought he had to give her the benefit of doubt and hear her side of the story. It certainly was a bizarre situation.
Noticing that there was an index at the end of the volume, Noah went back to the shelf and got the volume for 2002. Checking the index, he found multiple articles on Dr. Winston Herbert, the dentist that Ava had said she’d worked for after high school. Noah skimmed the articles and confirmed that Dr. Winston Herbert had been drafted to start the Brazos University School of Dentistry just as Ava had said. With that information, Noah felt encouraged. He wanted to believe in Ava despite the oddball name change.
After returning the two bound volumes back to the shelf and thanking the librarian, Noah stepped out into full West Texas summer heat. He had one more destination in Brownfield before tackling Brazos University Medical Center, and that was the Terry County Courthouse.
—
“HIS PHONE WAS on long enough to get an approximate fix on him,” Keyon said, looking up from his laptop screen. “That’s the good news. The bad news is that he’s already gone back off the grid. At least we now know he’s in Brownfield. What are your thoughts? There’s only one road between Brownfield and Lubbock, and we know he’s driving a gray Ford Fusion.”
“What does Google Maps say about driving to Brownfield?” George asked. “How long?”
“About an hour from where we are sitting,” Keyon said. He reached back and put away his laptop.
“I think we should just hang here and wait,” George said. “If we try to go to Brownfield, we take the risk of missing him, even if Brownfield might be a safer place for us to do what we need to do.”
After determining that Noah Rothauser was not in his hotel that morning, Keyon and George had debated their course of action. Ultimately, they decided to drive to the medical center, where they searched for Noah’s car in the hospital’s parking lot. They’d been relieved when they didn’t find any gray Ford Fusions. At that point they’d parked where they could see the front of the hospital and the entrance to the parking lot at the same time, waiting for Noah Rothauser to show up. They had the engine idling to keep on the air-conditioning.
“I think you’re right,” Keyon said. He lowered the back of his seat and replaced his feet on the dashboard, where they had been before he’d gotten the signal Noah’s phone had been turned on. His view out the right of the SUV was of the front of the hospital, which was moderately busy with people coming and going.
From the driver’s seat, George could see the parking lot entrance out his side window. Although the lot was almost full, there wasn’t as much activity as there had been when they first arrived just before 8:00 A.M. It was apparent that the people coming on duty had arrived, and the people going off duty had already left. It was the doldrums of the morning.
“Do you think we should let Hank know what’s up?” Keyon said. Hank Anderson was the controller for Keyon and George. He worked directly under Morton Colman, the CEO of ABC Security.
“No,” George said. “We already clued him in there was a problem making contact. He’ll get in touch with us if he wants an update.”
—
THE TERRY COUNTY COURTHOUSE reminded Noah of his high school. It was a three-story structure constructed of yellow brick with some engaged columns over the front entrance. In contrast with the few times he’d had to visit government offices in Boston, he found the people in the courthouse in Brownfield pleasant and eager to help. Noah was interested in finding whether there were any court records for Gail Shafter legally changing her name. It didn’t take long. There were no such records.
Back out in his rental, Noah retraced his route to Brazos University Medical Center, traveling back up Route 62 toward Lubbock. He felt as if he was making significant progress but knew that the more challenging part was coming up. His plan was to go into the hospital and have Dr. Labat paged. If the Argentine wasn’t in surgery, Noah felt he’d be the best way to start getting introduced to some of the anesthesia residents.
THURSDAY, AUGUST 17, 11:20 A.M.
As Noah pulled into the hospital entrance, he passed the turnoff to the right that went to the Emergency Department. The hospital porte-cochere as well as the expansive, general parking lot was to the left. As he entered the nearly full parking lot itself, Noah slowed, searching for a free slot. There were a few people walking to and from the hospital. A short distance ahead he saw a woman with a small child duck between two cars. Noah stopped. As he anticipated, the woman was clearly about to leave as she opened the rear door of one of the cars and proceeded to put the child into a car seat. She then went around to get into the driver’s seat.
Noah put on his blinker to indicate he intended to take the spot once the woman had vacated. Part of the reason he used the blinker was that he’d noticed in the rearview mirror that a large black SUV was coming slowly in his direction, which he assumed was looking for a spot as well. The slot soon to be freed was conveniently located close to the hospital entrance, and Noah wanted it known he planned on taking it.
The moment the woman backed up and then pulled past Noah on her way out of the parking lot, Noah slipped the Ford Fusion into the newly vacated spot.
As he turned off the ignition, he noticed something odd. The black SUV that had been behind him had pulled forward and had now stopped, effectively blocking him from pulling back out if he was so inclined. Noah turned around, confused as to why the vehicle would stop as it did and worried it might be an episode of misdirected road rage over the parking place, something he’d been told that happened in Boston on occasion. What he saw made his blood run cold. A man had exited out of the vehicle’s passenger seat even before the vehicle was completely stopped and was now running around its rear. Noah immediately recognized him. It was the African American who had been tailing him around Boston. In the next instant, a man Noah assumed was the Caucasian leaped from the driver’s seat. As the African American came along the driver’s side of Noah’s car, his colleague went to the passenger side.
Noah reacted by reflex and hit the door-lock button to make sure the doors were secure. He then fumbled with his cell phone to get it out of his pocket and try to get the battery back in. There was no doubt in his mind. He needed to dial 911.
“Open the door!” one of the men shouted. “FBI!” Someone pounded on the top of Noah’s car.
Noah turned and looked up into the face of the African American who was holding an FBI badge against the car window. Looking in the opposite direction, he saw the Caucasian was doing the same with his badge. Thinking he had no choice with law enforcement involved, Noah reached for the door release handle, but as he did so he heard his phone indicate it was on.
Another glance at the African American’s face made Noah hesitate. There was an expression of anger that seemed inappropriate for the situation. Instead of opening his door, Noah hastily began punching 911 into his phone.
Before Noah was even finished with the three digits, there was the sound of shattering glass and small shards rained down along the side of his face. Looking up, Noah could see that the African American was using the butt of an automatic pistol in an attempt to punch through the driver’s-side window. Luckily, the window was resisting, but it wasn’t going to last. In desperation, Noah threw his torso to the right to extract his left leg from beneath the steering wheel. Placing his foot against the door and releasing the lock at the same time, Noah straightened his leg with as much force as he could possibly muster. The door slammed against the African American, pinning him for a fleeting moment against the neighboring car.
In the next instant Noah was out of the car. His only hope was to get inside the hospital and let hospital security deal with these two men, whether they were real FBI agents or not. But he didn’t get far. Although the African American had been momentarily stunned, Noah was aware he’d recovered quickly enough to get a hold of Noah’s shirt, slowing Noah enough so that the Caucasian was able to come around the back of Noah’s car and join the melee. The Caucasian grabbed Noah’s neck with his right hand and Noah’s arm with his left. Despite Noah’s attempt to free himself, he was forced down onto the hot, dusty pavement face-first.
Noah tried to cry out for help, but a hand was roughly clasped over his mouth, holding his jaw tightly closed. In the next instant Noah’s arms were wrenched behind him and his wrists clasped with handcuffs. A moment later he felt a sharp, stinging sensation in his buttocks, followed by a sudden localized pain. As a physician, he knew he’d been injected. Within seconds he felt like he was falling, and then blackness.
—
“SHIT,” KEYON SAID through clenched teeth. “He’s feisty!” He and George together hoisted Noah up to his feet using their hands under Noah’s armpits. Once they had him upright, they started toward the Suburban. Keyon had to walk awkwardly with his legs apart, since Noah’s trick with the car door had caught him in the testicles. Noah was semiconscious from the powerful tranquilizer and would have fallen into a heap had he not been supported. A few people either going or coming from the hospital had stopped to watch the rapidly unfolding spectacle. They were all dumbfounded. It had happened so quickly and unexpectedly.
“FBI!” George called out, holding his fake badge up for all to see. “Everything is under control here. Sorry for the scene. This man is wanted in a half-dozen states.”
Reaching the Suburban, Keyon and George quickly got Noah into the backseat and buckled him in with the seat belt. Noah’s head lolled forward.
“Do you think he should be kept upright?” George said.
“How the hell am I supposed to know?” Keyon complained.
“That was a walloping dose we gave him. What’s that going to do to his blood pressure?”
“Oh, all right,” Keyon said with resignation. He lifted the shoulder strap over Noah’s head, leaving the waist belt in place. Noah slumped over on his side. “Satisfied?”
“Hey, we both know that if this bastard was delivered as damaged goods, we’d most likely be out of a job.”
42
THURSDAY, AUGUST 17, 10:38 P.M.
Noah became aware of his surroundings gradually, just the opposite of how he had lost consciousness that morning almost twelve hours ago, something he wasn’t going to learn until later. The first thing he realized was that he was on a much more comfortable surface than the macadam he’d been on when the proverbial lights went out. With his left hand he could feel it was a bed. His right hand was shackled over his head, and when he tried to move it, the binding cut into his wrist. He tried to open his eyes, but they refused to open, even when he strained to use his forehead muscles as an additional aid.
Forcing himself to calm down and relax, he took a few deep breaths. It was a good ploy. A moment later his eyes opened on their own, and he found himself looking up at a plaster ceiling. Raising his head, he could see he was in a narrow, elongated bedroom that was tastefully decorated with chintz curtains and flowery wallpaper. A moment later he realized he wasn’t alone. There was a man dressed in a dark suit in a nearby club chair, his face hidden behind a newspaper.
Glancing up over his head, he could see that his wrist was in a pair of handcuffs that was also attached to a brass headboard. As Noah’s mind continued to clear, he could see he was still wearing the clothes he’d put on that morning, which brought back where he’d been. My God, he thought, I’m in Texas! Then, like an avalanche of bad memories, he recalled the details of the terrorizing episode of his being boxed in by the black SUV, the men flashing FBI badges at his windows, his car window being busted in, and his vain attempt to flee. It was like reliving a bad dream.
With some effort, Noah tried to shift his position, which caused the handcuffs to rattle against the brass headboard. At the sound, the man in the chair lowered his paper. Noah recognized him. He was the African American, and as Noah watched, he tossed his paper aside and got to his feet. But he didn’t say anything. He merely
walked out of the room.
“Hey,” Noah called out. “Come back here! Where am I? Are you really FBI?” It was adding insult to injury that the man ignored him. If the man was FBI, what in God’s name was Noah doing fettered in an upscale bedroom?
Left on his own, Noah tried to sit up by throwing his legs over the right side of the bed. As soon as he did so, he felt a wave of dizziness overwhelm him, forcing him to lie down and raise his feet back onto the bed. He closed his eyes and hoped for the dizziness to subside.
“You have decided to wake up and join us,” a familiar female voice said a few minutes later in a solicitous tone. “I’m so pleased. I was a little worried you’d been severely overdosed.”
With a sense of shock and fearing he was hallucinating, Noah’s eyes popped open. Standing at the bedside, hands on hips, was Dr. Ava London. Noah stared at her, half expecting her to disappear like an apparition, but she didn’t. Behind her appeared the African American, whose presence quickly assured him he wasn’t hallucinating.
“What are you doing here?” Noah managed.
Ava laughed her unique lucent laugh. “Where do you think ‘here’ is?”
“Someplace in Lubbock, Texas,” Noah said.
Ava laughed again. It was natural and spontaneous. “Sorry to disappoint you,” she said. “We’re not in Lubbock. We are in Boston—more specifically, in my house. You’ve been sleeping off your tranquilizer doses in one of my guest bedrooms.”
Noah could see that the African American was standing off to the side.
“Who is that man?” Noah demanded.
“This Keyon Dexter,” Ava said, gesturing over her shoulder.
“Does he work for you?” Noah said.
Ava laughed yet again. “No, he doesn’t work for me.”
“Is he with the FBI?” Noah asked.
