“Like his tirade at American University,” she supplied, but silently considered the strange emails on his computer. Ani Is in the River. Find Ani. Perhaps not a real message at all. “Would he be prone to less public displays?”
“Yes,” Dr. Knox answered. “A number of patients develop fairly elaborate hallucinations, grounded in their realities. Do you remember something?”
Caution made her respond, “No, I don’t.”
Clearly skeptical, the doctor continued: “Boursin’s affects the emotional centers of the brain, but it does not harm the patient’s intellectual capacity at first. Most of the time, he would appear unaffected.”
“What happens now? How long will he be in a coma?”
Dr. Knox exchanged a solemn look with Dr. Toca, who gave a slight nod. “Avery, Justice Wynn is unlikely to ever wake up. When he developed the tumor, his best option was to undergo radiation therapy to slow the metastases. He refused.”
“Because of the time it would take away from the Court,” Avery guessed.
“He was immovable on that point,” Dr. Knox confirmed. “Justice Wynn’s sense of self-importance is”—she searched for a polite phrase—“formidable—even to doctors. He claimed his absence would set the course of jurisprudence back a century.”
Avery could well imagine the argument, and she cracked a smile. “Maybe not that far, but he did author some critical opinions this term.”
“He allowed the tumor to go untreated,” Dr. Knox retorted. “Against our very strong recommendations.”
Avery nodded. “He’s stubborn.”
“This coma, coupled with the size of the tumor, makes an operation ill-advised. Radiation therapy will not reduce or reverse the damage already caused. Dr. Toca and I believe that at this stage, Justice Wynn’s illness is cutting off oxygen to his brain.”
“Celeste said she wants to disconnect him from life support.” Avery leaned forward. “But based on what you’ve told me, he’s in serious condition, but Justice Wynn isn’t dead yet. Brain-dead, I mean.”
“No, he’s not,” Dr. Toca said quickly. “According to our tests, though, his brain wave patterns are markedly reduced. The tumor is now pressing against his spinal column and reducing the flow of blood throughout his body. He’s on a respirator, and most of his bodily functions are being assisted.”
“Will he recover? Even temporarily?”
“I don’t know,” Dr. Knox answered. “But the prognosis is not positive. He’s in a deep coma.”
“Other people have come out of comas.” Even as she made the arguments, Avery reeled from the implications. Those people had been in car accidents or plane crashes. They hadn’t ignored a massive growth laying siege to their brains like invading armies. They hadn’t been stubborn old men who imagined themselves to be gods of jurisprudence, invaluable to the progress of humankind and the virility of democracy. The traitorous thoughts shamed her. So much for loyalty.
Looking at the physicians, Avery pleaded, “You have to do something to help him. People do wake up.”
Dr. Toca answered gently, “It is unlikely, Avery.”
Pressing the point home, Dr. Knox added, “For all the progress of medical science, we cannot reverse his condition. He is barely alive.”
“But I just saw him last week. Did he know it would be this sudden?”
Both physicians looked at Mumford, who shook his head. Avery caught the exchange and demanded, “What is it? What aren’t you telling me?”
“We don’t have sufficient information—” Mumford began.
“Tell me.”
Dr. Toca placed a hand on her shoulder. “When Justice Wynn was brought in last night, he showed signs of a drug overdose. Nurse Lewis brought in a pill bottle she found at his bedside. It appears he may have attempted suicide.”
“No.” Avery jerked away from Dr. Toca. “Justice Wynn wouldn’t do something like that.”
“He was getting worse, Avery.” Dr. Knox moved to her other side, but did not touch her. “Howard might have wanted to accelerate the end.”
As though waiting for his cue, Mumford spoke: “The question of the hour is how long he stays in this netherworld, Ms. Keene.” He folded his arms, examining her closely. “Assuming you are his legal guardian, it appears you have the power to decide how long he remains on the machines keeping his body operating.”
Avery caught the intentional note of doubt. “ ‘Assuming’? ‘It appears’?” she repeated, her back stiffening. “Do you have something to say to me, Mr. Mumford?”
“Appropriate questions have been raised by Justice Wynn’s next of kin about the validity of his power of attorney. As you know, Mrs. Turner-Wynn is planning to contest the document. I’ve already received calls from her attorneys.”
“The power of attorney is valid, and your concerns are noted,” Avery replied stiffly.
“My concern is family squabbles being played out on the grounds of this hospital,” he huffed. “It is highly unusual for the next of kin to be passed over in this manner.”
“Justice Wynn has the right to choose whomever he wants to speak for him.”
“Ms. Keene, this hospital has never had to wage a public relations battle about one of its patients, despite the caliber of clientele we receive. I have never before had occasion to dispel the media from the lobby.”
“I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”
“As you should be.” His chest puffed out as he continued: “I must admit that I am dubious about why a venerable justice of our nation’s highest court would select his law clerk to make life-or-death decisions for him. He could do better.”
“Robert!” Dr. Toca glared at the attorney as Avery stood. The chair toppled behind her, while Dr. Toca chastised, “We discussed this. For now, this is our patient’s chosen representative. You will show her due respect.”
“Forgive me, Michael, but I’m the only one in this room responsible for the reputation of this facility. Your job is to treat the patients, even suicidal ones, but I am charged with keeping the hospital out of the courts. And allowing this woman to decide the fate of one of this country’s leaders who clearly suffered from mental distress is absurd.” He crossed to a stack of files and jerked a sheaf of pages free. “A power of attorney conferring unlimited authority on a child. This is either an act of senility or an act of romantic stupidity. Either way, this hospital will not be the pawn in her melodrama.”
“I’m twenty-six,” Avery corrected coolly, her hands hanging loosely at her sides, lest she lunge for the squat attorney’s throat. “And I, for the moment, am his guardian. Justice Wynn was many things, but never senile and never stupid.”
“Was he suicidal?” Dr. Knox broached the question quietly, holding up a hand to forestall Avery’s angry response. “Ms. Keene—Avery—if you did have a more personal relationship with him, you might have better insight into his behavior. Why he refused treatment and why he chose to vest control with you rather than his wife or son. Why he took an overdose last night. If you had a—deeper—relationship with him, we should know. It might help us.”
“I have never had any relationship with Justice Wynn other than that of mentor and employer, nor have I ever considered any other. He’s married, and despite your colleague’s insinuations, he held those vows to be very sacred.”
“How do you know?” snapped Mumford.
“Because he took every oath as sacred. Especially his oath as a judge.” Avery couldn’t explain the pills, but she could explain what she knew of the man. “Justice Wynn has been the swing vote on most major decisions in recent years on the Court. Without him present to vote, decades of his work would have been lost. He’d hold that responsibility to be graver than any medical crisis. I know this because it is my job to know,” she added, anticipating Mumford’s reaction. “I wrote his opinions, vetted his decisions. I know Howard Wynn
.”
“Then do you know if he wants to remain on life support indefinitely?” Dr. Toca asked quietly. “If removing him from life support becomes a viable question, what were his wishes?”
Avery focused on the kindly face and the suspicious eyes. And answered honestly: “I have no idea.”
TWELVE
Sitting in her darkened office in the late afternoon lull, Avery struggled to make sense of her day. She wouldn’t meet with Jared Wynn until midnight, and focusing on work seemed impossible. She wanted to return to Justice Wynn’s office, but now the Court vultures were starting to circle. Avery tipped her chair back on protesting springs and stared at the ceiling. In the corner of her eye, her message light flashed insistently. Sighing, she reached across the desk and punched the button.
Messages played from latest to earliest—a preference she’d developed after discovering Justice Wynn’s penchant for long diatribes that resulted in an edict by the tenth pronouncement. Better to cut to the chase.
Calls had come from friends who knew she worked for Justice Wynn, and those who had a passing awareness of her existence. Interspersed among them were requests for comment by news organizations that usually ignored the field of law clerks. Absently, she noted the names and numbers, her eyes reading through the onslaught of emails that filled her in-box.
As soon as she’d met with the Chief and Justice Wynn’s lawyers, she’d start making return calls and replying. The mechanical voice announced a message, received at minutes past midnight. Avery looked at the phone, wondering if Rita had called her here before waking her at home last night.
But the woman’s voice was not her mother’s.
“Ms. Keene, this is Jamie Lewis. Justice Wynn’s nurse. He asked me to call.” The voice halted, and Avery heard the tightness of a swallow. “He said that you have to save us. Then he said, ‘Look to the East for answers. Look to the river. In the square.’ He said it a couple of times, like it was very important. He also mentioned someone named Las Bauer. Said you should remember him.” The message paused again; then Jamie added, “Avery, he said, Forgive me.”
Avery heard the voicemail announcement reminding her to save or erase, and, out of habit, she deleted the message. She knew she wouldn’t forget. Save us. And the last. Forgive me.
The same message she’d found in his emails. Dumas. But she had no idea who Ani was. She pulled out the pages she’d printed from his computer. Ani Is in the River. Dumas Find Ani. And Jamie’s message: Look to the East for answers. Look to the river. In the square.
But staring at what she’d found so far did not make his message any clearer.
Maybe Nurse Lewis could tell her what all this meant. Avery grabbed her purse and keys. Outside her office, Matt and a handful of clerks hovered around the main area, talking. As soon as she emerged, the conversation ceased. They watched her as she crossed to the secretary’s desk. “Does anyone know where Ms. Hallberg is?”
Chelsey, one of Justice Lawrence-Hardy’s clerks, offered, “I saw her with the other support staff a few minutes ago. She was still pretty upset.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” Matt said. “What’s going on, Avery?”
She glanced at Matt and the others. Scott Curlee’s report of her new status had clearly made it back to the Court. “What do you mean?”
“Where are you going?” Matt replied with a pointed look at her bag. “Running back to Justice Wynn’s bedside?”
She tightened her fingers. “Actually, I was about to look for a phone number.”
“For whom? His banker or his broker?” The snide comment came from one of Justice Bringman’s clerks. “How’d you manage to pull this one off, Keene?”
“Shut up, Caryn.” The mild rebuke was offered by Justice Lawrence-Hardy’s clerk. “Anything we can help with?”
“No, thank you, Chelsey.” Avery moved behind the secretary’s desk, where an old-fashioned Rolodex sat on the far corner. Justice Wynn embraced technology, but he rarely trusted it, so his secretaries kept a paper file of everything. While the group watched, she found the card she sought.
Jamie Lewis’s name and address had been carefully written in her handwriting. Her cell phone number had been outlined in a red box. She quickly committed the card to memory, then flipped through to another name, and a third, in case anyone tried to determine whose name she sought. Boursin’s syndrome may have been the cause of Justice Wynn’s hyper-secrecy; but, Avery conceded as she glanced over her shoulder, paranoia was contagious.
For the second time that day, she headed downstairs. Evading reporters came more easily this time. Instead of a cab, she made her way to her car. Parking at the Court was difficult, which meant few managed the feat. She’d head to Jamie’s home in Tacoma Park first and then go over to see the attorney who’d drafted Justice Wynn’s guardianship papers.
Half an hour later, she pulled up in front of a squat brown apartment building with a stingy lawn struggling against weeds. Dark patches showed where foot traffic ignored the broken flagstones leading to the main walk. Some hopeful neighbor had hung a pot filled with irises from the overhang. Shabby fought with desperate and managed to stay in the fight. Jamie Lewis had found one of those buildings where the middle class clung by its fingernails, unable to afford a house but too proud to move deeper into Maryland.
The open apartment style offered no protective call box or secured gate. Avery rushed along the interior walkway, then up the stairs to the second level. At the nurse’s door, she knocked in quick staccato bursts. No response. She tried again, but the apartment remained silent.
Undaunted, Avery removed her phone and called the cell number from the card. The jazzy summons echoed in the apartment and out to where Avery waited. Despite the sound, no one answered.
Maybe she’s sleeping, Avery thought as the call rolled into voicemail. Normally she’d leave a message, but she needed answers now. She disconnected and dialed again. Once more, the ringtone warbled out into the corridor.
Thinking Nurse Lewis might have left her phone at home, Avery dialed her employer’s number at Covenant House.
When the operator answered, Avery asked, “Is Jamie Lewis in today?”
“No, she isn’t.”
“Can you tell me when she’ll be back?”
The operator hesitated. “May I ask who’s calling?”
“I work for Justice Wynn. I really need to find her.”
“I’m sorry, miss, but Jamie resigned. We got a message this morning. Can I help you?”
“No, thank you.” Disappointed, Avery ended the call and turned toward the steps to leave, then stopped.
Jamie Lewis had called and left her a strange message, and now she wasn’t at work or answering her phone or her door. She could leave, or she could find answers. Checking around, but seeing no one, Avery tried the knob to the apartment. The door was locked. She looked around again, then, making a quick decision, knelt low.
Rummaging in her bag, she found a manicure kit. One of Rita’s ex-boyfriends had entertained a ten-year-old Avery with lock-picking tricks. He’d also taught her about fingerprints and how they could land you in jail on a B-and-E charge. With a few practiced motions, the lock on the door gave way. She removed a tissue and hand sanitizer from her bag, spritzed the metal, wiped, and turned the knob.
Avery waited for the sound of an alarm, and, hearing nothing, she eased inside. A blast of frigid air hit her in a solid wall, and she shivered in the doorway. Stepping fully into the apartment, she noted the boxes leaning against the wall and the muted murmur of the television. “Nurse Lewis?”
She moved into the living room slowly, calling out a second time: “Hello? Nurse Lewis?” Rounding the couch, she saw a low table and a mug sitting on top. Her gaze slipped over the top and toward the wall leading to the open kitchen. A single hole stood in stark relief. Then she saw the blood.
“Oh, God.” Avery dashed around the table toward the kitchen. On the flowered carpet, a woman sprawled facedown. Dropping to her knees, Avery knew instantly that the woman was dead from the blood that haloed her prone form. Bile rose and lodged in Avery’s throat, and she clapped her hand over her mouth. She braced her free hand on the carpet. The wet, sticky surface had her recoiling, and she scrabbled back along the carpet, streaking blood across faded yellow flowers.
Terror drove Avery to her feet, and she stumbled out the open door. She dragged the tail of her shirt out to jerk the door closed behind her. Avery hurried to her car, and her wet fingers slipped against the metal handle. She snatched it back, cursing. With her other hand, she managed to unlock the door and scramble inside. She plucked the hand sanitizer from her purse, saw a discarded napkin on the floor. Quickly, she doused the napkin and wiped at the blood.
Avery forced herself to calm. She pushed the key into the ignition and stared out the car window at the apartment building. She needed to report that she’d found Jamie Lewis’s body.
In the next instant, she balked. What would Major Vance make of her discovery? What would the Chief think? First Wynn goes into a coma, and then the last person to speak with him is dead.
She had to leave. Now. Once she was away, she’d go to a pay phone, call the police, and report the body, anonymously. The murder. Because she’d seen gunshot victims before.
“Oh, God. Justice Wynn.” He could be next, she realized.
Avery revved the engine and headed for Bethesda, never noticing the dark blue sedan that followed her onto the street.
THIRTEEN
The hospital ward housing Justice Wynn had been cordoned off years before for the high-profile clientele whom Bethesda served. Gone were the impersonal bays of nurses who ignored the distraught families who wandered through, checking for their loved one’s name on a dry-erase board beyond the room. Instead, a single attendant monitored the elevator that opened onto the ninth floor. Before being allowed beyond the sentinel, a guest was required to provide identification, a thumbprint, and have a photo taken.
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