by Robin Cook
She put the phone down on the night table and warily approached the door. “Who is it?”
“A delivery for Miss Kendrick.” Marissa opened the door a crack but kept the safety catch on. One of the uniformed bellmen was standing there, holding a large package covered with white paper.
Flustered, she told the bellman to wait while she went back to the phone. She told Ralph that someone was at her door and that she’d call back as soon as she knew what flight she was taking home to Atlanta that evening.
“You promise?” asked Ralph.
“Yes!” said Marissa.
Returning to the door, Marissa looked out into the hall again. The bellman was leaning against the wall opposite, still holding the package. Who could have sent “Miss Kendrick” flowers when as far as Marissa knew her friend was living happily on the West Coast?
Returning to the phone, she called the desk and asked if she’d gotten any flowers. The concierge said, yes, they were on their way up.
Marissa felt a little better, but not enough to take off the chain. Instead, she called through the crack, “I’m terribly sorry, but would you mind leaving the flowers? I’ll get them in a few minutes.”
“My pleasure, madam,” said the bellman, setting down the package. Then he touched his hat and disappeared down the hall.
Removing the chain, Marissa quickly picked up the basket and relocked the door. She ripped off the paper and found a spectacular arrangement of spring blossoms. On a green stake pushed into the Styrofoam base was an envelope addressed to Lisa Kendrick.
Removing it, Marissa pulled out a folded card addressed to Marissa Blumenthal! Her heart skipped a beat as she began to read:
Dear Dr. Blumenthal,
Congratulations on your performance this morning. We were all impressed. Of course, we will have to make a return visit unless you are willing to be reasonable. Obviously, we know where you are at all times, but we will leave you alone if you return the piece of medical equipment you borrowed.
Terror washed over Marissa. For a moment she stood transfixed in front of the flowers, looking at them in disbelief. Then in a sudden burst of activity, she began to pack her belongings, opening the drawers of the bureau, pulling out the few things that she’d placed there. But then she stopped. Nothing was exactly where she’d left it. They had been in her room, searching through her belongings! Oh, God! She had to get away from there.
Rushing into the bathroom, she snatched up her cosmetics, dumping them haphazardly into her bag. Then she stopped again. The implications of the note finally dawned on her. If they did not have the vaccination gun, that meant Tad was not involved. And neither he nor anyone else knew she was staying at the Essex House under a second assumed name. The only way they could have found her was by following her from the airport in Chicago.
The sooner she was out of the Essex House the better. After flinging the rest of her things into her suitcase, she found she had packed so badly it wouldn’t close. As she sat on it, struggling with the latch, her eyes drifted back to the flowers. All at once she understood. Their purpose was to frighten her into leading her assailants to the vaccination gun, which was probably just what she would have done.
She sat on the bed and forced herself to think calmly. Since her adversaries knew she didn’t have the vaccination gun with her, and were hoping she would lead them to it, she felt she had a little room to maneuver. Marissa decided not to bother taking the suitcase with her. She stuffed a few essentials in her purse and pulled the various papers she needed from her briefcase so she could leave that, too.
The only thing that Marissa felt absolutely certain of was that she would be followed. Undoubtedly her pursuers expected her to leave in a panic, making it that much easier for them. Well, thought Marissa, they were in for a surprise.
Looking again at the magnificent flowers, she decided she might well use the same strategy her enemies had. Thinking along those lines, she began to develop a plan that might give the answers that would provide the solution to the whole affair.
Unfolding the list of officers of the Physicians’ Action Congress, Marissa reassured herself that the secretary was based in New York. His name was Jack Krause, and he lived at 426 East Eighty-fourth Street. Marissa decided that she’d pay the man an unannounced visit. Maybe all the doctors didn’t know what was going on. It was hard to think of a group of physicians being willing to spread plague. In any case, her appearance on his doorstep should spread a lot more panic than any bouquet.
Meanwhile, she decided to take some steps to protect her departure. Going to the phone, she called the hotel manager, and in an irritated voice, complained that the desk had given her room number to her estranged boyfriend and that the man had been bothering her.
“That’s impossible,” said the manager. “We do not give out room numbers.”
“I have no intention of arguing with you,” snapped Marissa. “The fact of the matter is that it happened. Since the reason I stopped seeing him was because of his violent nature, I’m terrified.”
“What would you like us to do?” asked the manager, sensing that Marissa had something specific in mind.
“I think you could at least move me to another room,” said Marissa.
“I’ll see to it myself,” said the manager.
“One other thing,” said Marissa. “My boyfriend is blond, athletic looking, sharp features. Perhaps you could alert your people.”
“Certainly,” said the manager.
Alphonse Hicktman took one last draw on his cigarette and tossed it over the granite wall that separated Central Park from the sidewalk. Looking back at the taxi with its off-duty light on, Al could just make out George’s features. He was hunkered down, relaxed as usual. Waiting never seemed to bother the man. Looking across the street at the Essex House entrance, Al hoped to God that Jake was properly situated in the lobby so that Marissa could not leave unseen by a back entrance.
Al had been so sure that the flowers would send the woman flying out of the hotel. Now he was mystified. Either she was super smart or super stupid.
Walking over to the taxi, he whacked its roof with an open palm, making a noise like a kettledrum. George was instantly half out of the car on the other side.
Al smiled at him. “Little tense, George?” His patience made Al’s frustration that much harder to bear.
“Jesus Christ!” exclaimed George.
The two men got into the cab.
“What time is it?” asked Al, taking out another cigarette. He’d already gone through most of a pack that afternoon.
“Seven-thirty.”
Al flicked the used match out the open window. The job was not going well. Since the vaccination gun had not been in the woman’s hotel room, his orders were to follow her until she retrieved it, but it was all too apparent that Dr. Blumenthal was not about to accommodate them, at least not immediately.
At that moment a group of revelers came stumbling out of the Essex House, arm in arm, swaying, laughing and generally making fools of themselves. They were obviously conventioneers, dressed in dark suits with name tags, and wearing plastic sun visors that said SANYO.
The doorman signaled a group of limousines waiting just up the street. One by one, they drove to the door to pick up their quota.
Al slapped George on the shoulder, frantically pointing toward the largest group to emerge through the revolving door. Among them two men were supporting a woman wearing a Sanyo visor who seemed too drunk to walk. “Is that the mark hanging onto those guys?” he asked.
George squinted, and before he could answer, the woman in question disappeared into one of the limousines. He turned back to Al. “I don’t think so. Her hair was different. But I couldn’t be sure.”
“Damn!” said Al. “Neither could I.” After a moment’s hesitation, Al jumped out of the taxi. “If she comes out, follow her.” Al then dodged the traffic and raced across to get in another cab.
From the back of the limousine, Marissa watched
the entrance to the hotel. Out of the corner of her eye she saw someone alight from a parked taxi and run across the street. Just as her limousine pulled in front of a bus, blocking her view, she saw the man climbing into another taxi, a vintage Checker.
Marissa turned to face forward. She was certain she was being followed. She had several options, but with almost a full block’s head start, she decided it would be best to get out.
As soon as the limousine turned on Fifth, Marissa shocked her companions by shouting at the driver to pull over.
The driver complied, figuring she was about to be sick, but before any of the men knew what was happening, she had the door open and jumped out, telling the driver to go on without her.
Spying a Doubleday bookstore, which, happily, was keeping late hours, she ducked inside. From the store window she saw the Checker cab speed by and caught a glimpse of a blond head in the backseat. The man was sitting forward, staring straight ahead.
The house looked more like a medieval fortress than a New York luxury townhouse. Its leaded windows were narrow and covered with twisted wrought-iron grilles. The front door was protected by a stout iron gate that was fashioned after a portcullis. The fifth floor was set back and the resulting terrace was crenellated like a castle tower.
Marissa eyed the building from across the street. It was hardly a hospitable sight, and for a moment she had second thoughts about visiting Dr. Krause. But safely ensconced in her new room at the Essex House that afternoon, she’d made some calls and learned that he was a prominent Park Avenue internist. She could not imagine that he would be capable of harming her directly. Perhaps through an organization like PAC, but not with his own two hands.
She crossed the street and climbed the front steps. Casting one last glance up and down the quiet street, she rang the bell. Behind the gate was the heavy wooden door, its center decorated with a family crest carved in relief.
She waited a minute and rang again. All at once a bright light went on, blinding her so that she could not see who was opening the door.
“Yes?” said a woman’s voice.
“I would like to see Dr. Krause,” said Marissa, trying to sound authoritative.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No,” admitted Marissa. “But tell the doctor that I’m here on emergency Physicians’ Action Congress business. I think he’ll see me.”
Marissa heard the door close. The hard light illuminated most of the street. After a couple of minutes, the door was reopened.
“The doctor will see you.” Then there was the painful sound of the iron gate opening on hinges that needed oil.
Marissa went inside, relieved to get away from the glare. She watched the woman, who was dressed in a maid’s black uniform, close the gate, then come toward her.
“If you’ll follow me, please.”
Marissa was led through a marbled and chandeliered entrance, down a short corridor to a paneled library.
“If you’ll wait here,” said the woman, “the doctor will be with you shortly.”
Marissa glanced around the room, which was beautifully furnished with antiques. Bookcases lined three of the walls.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” said a mellow voice.
Marissa turned to look at Dr. Krause. He had a fleshy face with deep lines, and as he gestured for her to sit, she noticed his hands were unusually large and square, like those of an immigrant laborer. When they were sitting, she could see him better. The eyes were those of an intelligent, sympathetic man, reminding her of some of her internal medicine professors. Marissa was amazed that he could have gotten mixed up in something like the Physicians’ Action Congress.
“I’m sorry to bother you at such an hour,” she began.
“No problem,” said Dr. Krause. “I was just reading. What can I do for you?”
Marissa leaned forward to watch the man’s face. “My name is Dr. Marissa Blumenthal.”
There was a pause as Dr. Krause waited for Marissa to continue. His expression did not change. Either he was a good actor or her name was not familiar.
“I’m an Epidemiology Intelligence Service officer at the CDC,” added Marissa. His eyes narrowed just a tad.
“My maid said that you were here on PAC business,” said Dr. Krause, a measure of the hospitality disappearing from his voice.
“I am,” said Marissa. “Perhaps I should ask if you are aware of anything that PAC might be doing that could concern the CDC.”
This time, Krause’s jaw visibly tightened. He took a deep breath, started to speak, then changed his mind. Marissa waited as if she had all the time in the world.
Finally, Dr. Krause cleared his throat. “PAC is trying to rescue American medicine from the economic forces that are trying to destroy it. That’s been its goal from the start.”
“A noble goal,” admitted Marissa. “But how is PAC attempting to accomplish this mission?”
“By backing responsible and sensible legislation,” said Dr. Krause. He stood up, presumably to escape Marissa’s stare. “PAC is providing an opportunity for more conservative elements to exert some influence. And it’s about time; the profession of medicine is like a runaway train.” He moved over to the fireplace, his face lost in shadow.
“Unfortunately, it seems PAC is doing more than sponsoring legislation,” said Marissa. “That’s what concerns the CDC.”
“I think we have nothing more to discuss,” said Dr. Krause. “If you’ll excuse me—”
“I believe PAC is responsible for the Ebola outbreaks,” blurted Marissa, standing up herself. “You people have some misguided idea that spreading disease in HMOs will further your cause.”
“That’s absurd!” said Dr. Krause.
“I couldn’t agree more,” said Marissa. “But I have papers linking you and the other officers of PAC to Professional Labs in Grayson, Georgia, which has recently purchased equipment to handle the virus. I even have the vaccination gun used to infect the index cases.”
“Get out of here,” ordered Dr. Krause.
“Gladly,” said Marissa. “But first let me say that I intend to visit all the officers of PAC. I can’t imagine they all agreed to this idiotic scheme. In fact, it’s hard for me to imagine that a physician like yourself—any physician—could have allowed it.”
Maintaining a calm she did not feel, Marissa walked to the door. Dr. Krause did not move from the fireplace. “Thank you for seeing me,” said Marissa. “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you. But I’m confident that one of the PAC officers I see will want to help stop this horror. Perhaps by turning state’s evidence. It could be you. I hope so. Good night, Dr. Krause.”
Marissa forced herself to walk slowly down the short corridor to the foyer. What if she misjudged the man and he came after her? Luckily, the maid materialized and let her out. As soon as Marissa was beyond the cone of light, she broke into a run.
For a few moments Dr. Krause didn’t move. It was as if his worst nightmare were coming true. He had a gun upstairs. Maybe he should just kill himself. Or he could call his lawyer and ask for immunity in return for turning state’s evidence. But he had no idea what that really meant.
Panic followed paralysis. He rushed to his desk, opened his address book and, after looking up a number, placed a call to Atlanta.
The phone rang almost ten times before it was picked up. Joshua Jackson’s smooth accent oiled its way along the wires as he said hello and asked who was calling.
“Jack Krause,” said the distraught doctor. “What the hell is going on? You swore that aside from Los Angeles, PAC had nothing to do with the outbreaks of Ebola. That the further outbreaks sprang from accidental contact with the initial patients. Joshua, you gave me your word.”
“Calm down,” said Jackson. “Get ahold of yourself!”
“Who is Marissa Blumenthal?” asked Krause in a quieter voice.
“That’s better,” said Jackson. “Why do you ask?”
“Because the woman just showed up on my doorstep ac
cusing me and PAC of starting all the Ebola epidemics.”
“Is she still there?”
“No. She’s gone,” said Krause. “But who the hell is she?”
“An epidemiologist from the CDC who got lucky. But don’t worry, Heberling is taking care of her.”
“This affair is turning into a nightmare,” said Krause. “I should remind you that I was against the project even when it only involved influenza.”
“What did the Blumenthal girl want with you?” asked Jackson.
“She wanted to frighten me,” said Krause. “And she did a damn good job. She said she has the names and addresses of all the PAC officers, and she implied that she was about to visit each one.”
“Did she say who was next?”
“Of course she didn’t. She’s not stupid,” said Krause. “In fact she’s extremely clever. She played me like a finely tuned instrument. If she sees us all, somebody’s going to fold. Remember Tieman in San Fran? He was even more adamantly against the project than I was.”
“Try to relax,” urged Jackson. “I understand why you’re upset. But let me remind you that there is no real evidence to implicate anyone. And as a precautionary measure, Heberling has cleaned out his whole lab except for his bacterial studies. I’ll tell him that the girl plans to visit the other officers. I’m sure that will help. In the meantime, we’ll take extra precautions to keep her away from Tieman.”
Krause hung up. He felt a little less anxious, but as he stood up and turned off the desk lamp, he decided he’d phone his attorney in the morning. It couldn’t hurt to inquire about the procedure for turning state’s evidence.
As her cab whizzed over the Triborough Bridge, Marissa was mesmerized by Manhattan’s nighttime skyline. From that distance it was beautiful. But it soon dropped behind, then out of sight altogether as the car descended into the sunken portion of the Long Island Expressway. Marissa forced her eyes back to the list of names and addresses of the PAC officers, which she had taken from her purse. They were hard to make out as the taxi shot from one highway light to the next.