Final Mercy

by Frank J Edwards

  She called a cab directly from the restaurant, leaving him high-and-dry, and went to the hospital, where she’d been given carte blanche to see the old man whenever she wanted. Striding down the seventh-floor corridor, she said hello to the nurse and was about to pass by when the young woman held up something.

  “I’m afraid this got misplaced, Mrs. Gavin.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a letter Dr. Gavin had with him when he got hurt.”

  Daphne halted and stared at her.

  “What did you say?”

  The nurse repeated her words.

  Daphne stepped up to the desk, her heart beginning to beat faster.

  “Are you certain?” she said.

  “Yes. The SICU clerk just brought it up. Should I have security put it with his other things?”

  “For heaven’s sake, no,” she said. “I mean, I’ll be glad to take it. I’m sure Dr. Gavin would want me to keep it for him. Thank you.”

  It was all she could do to keep from snatching it out of the woman’s hand.

  “Our apologies,” said the nurse, passing the letter over.

  “Not a problem,” Daphne said, smiling. “These things happen.”

  She took a few steps toward Gavin’s room and studied the envelope. The name on the return address was Lester Zyman, MD, PhD. The envelope had been cut open along the top edge then taped shut.

  “Do you know what it’s about?” she asked, glancing back at the nurse.

  “What—the letter?” said the nurse. “No, of course not, Mrs. Gavin.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Daphne. “I didn’t mean to imply you were a mail snoop. It’s been a long few days.”

  “I understand.”

  “Oh, by the way, any change in his condition?”

  After being assured there was none, Daphne thanked her again—If you only knew how thankful I really am—said good evening to the hospital security guard sitting in a chair by Gavin’s door, reading a magazine and trying to stay awake. The guard returned her greeting, and she entered the room.

  The light was dim, and the acrid-sweet smell of a sickroom made her throat tighten. It was exactly how Colin’s room had smelled when he could barely lift his hand off the sheet anymore.

  She went to the bedside and stared down at the father of her dead husband, so very close to death himself; it was the first time she’d laid eyes on him in three years. The change was shocking. He had lost weight, was almost skeletal, the outline of his skull visible, and something uncomfortable stirred in her. He looked more than ever like his son.

  She spun away, draped her coat over a chair and switched on the overhead lights. Using her long fingernail, she peeled away the tape and yanked the letter out.

  “My God,” she whispered, her heart pounding.

  There was no question this would get the police interested. It was the smoking gun. Zyman had seen Witner and Hinkle together the day before McCarthy died, and he speculated how and why Hinkle might have caused McCarthy’s death. He also suspected that Witner was planning something for him. He had seen Hinkle lurking near his home that morning.

  She heard footsteps approaching the door, followed by the security guard’s voice. She didn’t have time to put the letter back in the envelope, so she crumpled them together and tucked them between her breasts just as the latch clicked and the door swung open.

  Bryson Witner closed the door solidly behind him.

  “Hello, Daphne,” he said.

  “May I flatter myself and think you’re here early because you couldn’t wait to see me? Or is it just your compulsive nature.”

  “Maybe a little of both,” he said, approaching.

  She closed the distance, took his head with both hands and kissed him, hard. They stood glued together for a long moment.

  “You don’t know how lonely I’ve been, Bryson,” she said. “I hope you’re not still angry with me for coming like this.”

  He stepped back to arm’s-length.

  “I don’t like surprises, Daphne. You should know that by now.”

  “Oh, Bryson, you just would have told me to stay away,” she said with a pout. “Like you always do.

  “Maybe not.”

  “We’ve been extremely careful. We deserve some time together.”

  “And will have it. But you must be patient.”

  “I have been patient. I called you the minute the plane landed.”

  “In any case, I think this is going to work out for the best. Do you have any news for me? Did you approach the Andersen woman at the hotel like I suggested?”

  “Of course, I did, for God’s sake. Do you take me for a bimbo?”

  “What did you find out?”

  “I talked with both with her and Jack Forester. At length.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, you’d better thank your lucky stars I came.”

  “We’re running out of time.”

  “Don’t give me that look, Bryson.”

  “Please, my love. Share it now.”

  She leveled a stare at him, her face turning grave.

  “You were absolutely right to be concerned, Bryson. They are putting things together.”

  “I want to know every detail.”

  Her words tumbled out as she gave him every word of the conversation. His face grew tight and pale.

  “How the devil did they connect me with Hinkle?”

  “I’m not sure. But it doesn’t matter how. The fact is, they did.”

  “Of course, it matters how.”

  “This is not good, Bryson.”

  “Be quiet, I’m thinking.”

  “Thinking what? Don’t shut me out.”

  Witner went on rubbing his chin, staring at the corner of the room.

  “Say something,” she insisted, rubbing his shoulder.

  He looked at her, distractedly at first. Then his eyes relaxed, and something approaching a smile came to his mouth. He reached up and traced the outline of her face with his finger.

  “Daphne. You are among the…“ He paused, as if searching for the right adjective. “Among the most competent people I’ve ever known.”

  She grimaced.

  “For God’s sake, is that the best you can do?”

  He smiled, almost teasingly.

  “And wonderful and resourceful,” he added. “And beautiful.” He pulled her close and kissed her.

  “That’s better, Bryson. Much better.”

  “The end is in sight,” he said, breaking away and pecking her forehead.

  “I hope so. This hasn’t been easy. All these damn games.”

  “But how well you’ve worked behind the scenes, Daphne. The Medical Media program would have been impossible without your help. I only wish I could have acknowledged you. But…in time.”

  “I can deal with delayed gratification, for God’s sake, but things are getting very tight for me financially. I know you don’t like to talk about it, but that’s one of the reasons I did this. Along with seeing you, of course. I just hate asking you for money, but my attorney says, given what happened here, the obvious mistake and all, I just have to hold out my hand.”

  “And I’m sure he’s right in that regard.”

  “I hate sponging off you like some mistress. This was a clever and thrifty way of getting to see you, so please don’t be angry with me. Look how much I’ve helped already.” She kissed him again. “Now, after you become the dean and I’m your wife, buster, watch out,” she added. “You’ll need to hide the checkbook. You’re not jealous of my young lawyer, are you?”

  He brushed off the flirtation.

  “Daphne, don’t get careless. We cannot take the slightest chance of being revealed.”

  “I’ve saved the best for last, Bryson,” she said, nuzzling his cheek. “I’ve got a little present for you.”

  “Daphne, this isn’t the time or place for fooling around.”

  “No, not that, silly. This.” She pulled the letter from her cleavage and wave
d it in his face. “This is the letter Jack Forester was looking for, Bryson. He was right. The old man had it on him when he bit the dust. The nurse out front just handed it to me. They mislaid it when he was admitted.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “You’d better read it.”

  “Has anyone else opened this?” he demanded when he’d finished, glaring at her.

  “Don’t be crazy. If anyone read it, do you think they’d have simply turned it over to me? Of course not, Bryson.”

  “No, you’re right.” He shook his head and his face relaxed, a smile returning. “You are a clever creature. We are following a path laid out in advance. We cannot fail.”

  “Bryson, do us both a favor, and keep those predestination ideas to yourself. It creeps me out when you talk like that. You’ve been taking your medications?”

  “Of course.” He strode into the bathroom, and she heard the sound of paper ripping and the toilet flushing.

  When he returned, he put his hands on her shoulders and gazed into her eyes.

  “You say they are putting the details together?”

  “They are. But without the letter, I don’t see what more they can do.”

  “Nonetheless, Daphne, I believe I’m going to need Hinkle’s help again.”

  She sighed and turned away.

  “Bryson, I don’t like that man. I don’t trust him.”

  “You trust me, don’t you?”

  She looked back up at him.

  “Not completely, but enough. Hinkle is the only one who can implicate us.”

  Witner’s eyebrows arched, and he crooked one corner of his mouth.

  “Actually, he’s not the only one now who knows everything.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He nodded in the direction of the bed.

  “Your father-in-law knows,” he said.

  “How? He’s in a coma.”

  “No, he just appears to be in a coma, Daphne. He is under the influence of two medications—a sedative and a paralytic agent. Otherwise, he’s recovering quite well. You see, toward the end of a dosing cycle of the sedative, such as right now, he’s capable of sensing the outside world, though thanks to the paralytic, which is longer acting, he can’t move a muscle. It’s possible he’s overheard this conversation.”

  She frowned and stepped away.

  “You mean you’re keeping him alive, but out of it?”

  He nodded.

  “Bryson, that’s not funny. Why don’t you just put him out of his misery?”

  “The time’s not right, Daphne. But I do need to medicate him now.”

  He removed two syringes from the pocket of his lab coat. Ripping open an alcohol swab, he cleaned the IV injection port and injected the contents of each.

  “Bryson, this is not only weird it’s risky. Seriously, why don’t you just finish him off?”

  “Because, obviously, I’ve got a reputation to protect. I can’t have my star patient die this soon after I’ve assumed his care.”

  XXX

  Night Mission

  Fred Hinkle drove up an old timber road out of sight of the main highway, then killed the lights, drove a little farther and shut off the engine. Before getting out, he rolled down the window and smoked a cigarette. The occasional hiss of cars passing on the highway was muffled by the trees and the snow that continued to fall. It was almost midnight. He thought of the warm bed where he’d left Martine, and he flicked the butt out into the snow and opened his pack.

  Having no specific plan, he’d stuffed it with everything—knife, pistol, pepper spray, rope, flashlight, tool kit, garrote, duct tape, matches, hatchet. At the last moment, he’d even stuck some C4 into a plastic sandwich bag and put it in one of Martine’s Tupperware containers, along with a blasting cap, wire and timer. But after driving around for the past hour, thinking hard as he reconnoitered, a good scenario had finally materialized. He knew the way forward now. It was almost certain to work, and would be fairly easy to accomplish.

  He had to hike nearly two miles up the narrow road until he reached a point from which he could see Forester’s house. It was still snowing, and that was good. His tracks would be covered. On the way back, though, it would be safer to return through the woods and avoid the road entirely.

  Breathing heavily, he gazed at the house and calculated the distance between it and the garage. There was a barn out back, but the driveway led to the garage. That’s where the vehicles had to be.

  Everything was dark. Very dark. That was good. Now, a little break before the assault.

  He stepped from the shoulder well back into the trees. Reaching around to the pack, he removed a handful of M&Ms from a side pocket. He popped them into his mouth. Then he lit a cigarette.

  If life was fair, and he could do as he pleased, he’d far rather be targeting Witner. The more Witner got his hooks into him, the more he realized the man was a genuine maniac. If anything, Hinkle had a soft spot for Jack Forester, a guy who had gone out of his way to help Katrina. But, at least for now, he couldn’t cross Witner and hope to survive. There was no other choice, and there was also no doubt that someday Witner would get what he deserved. In the meantime, life just wasn’t fair.

  He’d been tempted to invite Witner along this evening, just to fuck with him, but in truth, he’d much rather be working alone. And he much preferred to do the planning himself. Granted, the Gavin hit could have come off better, but few missions went as smoothly as the first one—Dr. McCarthy. Witner, discovering McCarthy was an avid underwater cave diver, had steered him Hinkle’s way; but the idea to trap him in a cave had been one hundred-percent Hinkle’s, and it had gone off without a hitch.

  They’d made the descent, and Hinkle led him to the cave, telling him to check it out first. After McCarthy went in, Hinkle wedged four beam jacks he’d planted behind a boulder into the rock at the entrance, and there was no way anyone larger than a muskrat was getting out. All he had to do was wait until McCarthy’s air ran out and dispose of the jacks. Clean as could be.

  But he’d taken no pleasure in it. It would have been a shitty way to go—trying to squeeze though the bars and seeing the light bouncing off the surface only seventy-five feet up. McCarthy might even have been able to see the bottom of the boat where his wife and son were waiting for him. How could you not feel sorry for the poor son of a bitch? It was one thing shooting someone who was trying to kill you, but there was no satisfaction in this sort of thing.

  And Witner—where had he been? Sitting in his office safe as a bug in a rug, just like he was probably snoring in the sack right now.

  Hinkle shook off thoughts of McCarthy and Witner and went back to this evening’s task. He’d gone through a hell of a lot of options, but most of them were lousy. Forester was too young for a heart attack, like they’d staged with Zyman, and there had already been too many suicides. It was going to have to be an accident, and after weighing many possibilities, he’d settled on good old-fashioned brake failure.

  During his trek up the hill, he’d confirmed the road made a ninety-degree turn shortly before intersecting the main highway and that, above the turn, was a steep, straight stretch of road a tenth of a mile long. A vehicle coming down that stretch without the benefit of brakes would hit the curve doing sixty or better. At that speed, there’d be no way to negotiate the bend, especially if the road were wet or icy, as would be the case tomorrow morning. It would sail through the rail and plummet fifty feet down into a streambed strewn with boulders. If Forester tried to pull off onto the shoulder, the ditch was deep and rocky; the vehicle would be very hard to control. It would roll and slam into the woods.

  Either way, Hinkle would be waiting in the trees with a blunt object to perform a coup de grace if needed.

  He stubbed the cigarette against a tree and tore the butt into filaments of paper and filter. Then, making his final approach through the trees, he inched forward, keeping the garage between him and the house, all senses alert. The side entrance
to the garage was on the wall facing the house. It was unlocked.

  He closed the door and flicked on his penlight. There were two vehicles—the Jaguar, the one Forester’d driven to the marina, and an old Ford pickup. Given the snow, Forester would probably opt for the truck. Poking around the underside of an F-150 was like playing in his own back yard. Nonetheless, he needed to make sure Forester would take it.

  Using a rubber mallet padded with a rag, he drove a couple of roofing nails into the left front tire on the Jag. He unscrewed the valve stem then, when the hissing stopped, screwed it back in. He did the same to the left rear tire. The Jag was going nowhere, which was good. Forester had done a decent job restoring it.

  That done, he slipped underneath the Ford, dragging the pack next to him. The trick would be to leave enough pressure in the system so the brakes would feel reasonably normal for a few minutes. Not hard to do at all. Taking a set of vise grips and a rag to pad the fitting and prevent the appearance of fresh marks, he stuck the penlight between his teeth.

  He was poised to grab the fitting with the pliers when he heard movement. He doused the light and listened. Shit. The damn door was opening. As quietly as possible, he reached into the bag and pulled out the nine-millimeter, simultaneously tucking his legs under the truck so he was completely hidden.

  The garage light came on, and he heard footfalls on the cement. Witner, I wish you were here to enjoy this.

  The Jaguar was between him and the intruder. From his vantage under the truck, however, Hinkle could see the intruder’s boots on the far side of the Jag. They were old and mud-caked, and the pant legs were ragged and filthy. Was this the brother? Probably so.

  Though he tried to muffle it with his palm, the click made by the nine-millimeter’s safety was loud. Crap. He hadn’t oiled it in months. The boots stopped shuffling. Then they turned and began coming around the front of the Jag toward the pickup.

  But wait. If he could just incapacitate him, all might not be lost, and he might still salvage the mission. Or at least there wouldn’t be a murder investigation to make future missions more difficult. Hinkle set down the pistol and got out the can of pepper spray. Just let the bastard get his face down here. One good long spritz, and he’ll be outside rolling in the snow.