Critical Judgment (1996)

by Michael Palmer

  With the driver allowing some daylight between them, Abby hoped he was simply giving up on her. But she knew that possibility was unlikely. She had to take action. There were no gas stations, houses, or restaurants along this stretch that she could remember, and there was no sense in trying to attract the attention of someone speeding the other way. Her choices were either to stop and run, or to find some way off the road.

  The roller coaster was going uphill in stages now--a rise, a small dip, another rise. The Mazda actually left the road at the top, slamming down hard enough to grind the chassis into the pavement. Abby's teeth snapped together, biting the inside of her cheek. She tasted her own blood and imagined it all ending right there with a ruptured gas tank and a fireball explosion. But after the vicious bounce the Mazda sped on.

  Suddenly, as Abby crested another hill, a car emerged from the woods beyond the right-hand soft shoulder not that far ahead. It hesitated for a fraction of a second, then sped across both lanes and vanished into the trees to the left. A crossroad of some sort! It had to be. She glanced in the rearview. The pickup was still some distance back but seemed to be gaining again. She might be able to make the turnoff before it crested the hill. No time to process. No time to reason. Just act.

  Holding her speed, Abby pulled off the road, skimming along the gravel shoulder just a few feet from the trees. She waited as long as she dared, then slammed on the brakes and swung the wheel sharply to the right. The antilock system stammered like a machine gun as the car skidded into what was nearly a perfect right-angle turn. Almost before she realized she had done it, she was jouncing mercilessly down a narrow dirt two-track logging road. She tried glancing behind her, but the turns were too treacherous. All she could do was barrel ahead and hope for the best. She was going forty now, but given the circumstances, that speed was nearly suicidal. She had to slow down. As she rounded a sharp curve, the dirt road forked. For no reason other than her right-handedness, she swung the wheel that way. The parallel tracks dropped quite steeply and looked for a moment as if they were going to end altogether. Branches whipped wildly at the windshield and scratched along the doors. The car lurched on, scraping rock as it bumped through a dry streambed, then shot upward on the other side.

  How long had it been since she'd left the highway--a minute? Five? Maybe thirty seconds. Reluctant to slow down, Abby continued to lean on the accelerator as hard as she dared. Her arms were aching horribly. Her hands felt welded to the wheel. Spewing dust and gravel, the Mazda bottomed out again and again. She tore up an embankment and once more became airborne. This time, though, the car slammed down on pavement. It was another road, even narrower than the two-laner she had been on, but fairly well maintained. She jerked the wheel hard to the left and skidded to a stop, shaking as if she had been dunked in icy water. The road was utterly deserted. With some effort she flicked off Tracy Chapman and opened the door. The silence was consuming. She turned her ear toward the dirt road she had left, straining to hear the truck's engine. Nothing. Still wary, she forced herself to stand on rubbery legs and opened the cooler, which was upside down, wedged between the rear and front seat. The tubes were intact.

  "Thank God for bubble wrap," she whispered.

  She breathed the oxygen-rich air. Gradually, her pulse rate slowed toward normal. Her trembling ceased. But her thoughts continued to race. Lyle Quinn, or someone sent by him, had just tried to kill her.

  Or had they?

  The truck, with its mammoth tires, was certainly capable of stopping, turning around, and catching her in the woods. Perhaps her pursuer had missed seeing her turn off the highway. Perhaps something mechanical had gone wrong with the truck. One thing was clear. Quinn knew of her cargo. He had to know. She patted the Mazda's roof, then slid back behind the wheel. Perhaps the Colstar security chief had just meant to send a message that would frighten her back to the city for good. If that was the case, he had misjudged her. The harder he pushed, the more committed she would become to seeing things through. It had always been that way for her, and it would be that way this time as well.

  Abby turned the key. The engine hummed to life as if nothing had happened. The light rain had stopped, and the smallest opening had appeared in the clouds. She took one final deep breath to purge the last of the shakes and drove toward what seemed to be east. The trip to San Francisco was going to take a little longer than she had intended. But, dammit, she was going to make it there ... and back.

  Lyle Quinn had just seen to it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  It was late afternoon when Abby arrived at Sandra Stuart's office in the pathology building at St. John's. The toxicologist whose lab was going to assay Willie Cardoza's blood for cadmium left a message that she was delivering a lecture and would meet Abby in the hospital library at five-thirty. Meanwhile, the librarian would have a bibliography and articles waiting for her to begin reviewing.

  After emerging from the narrow logging road, it had taken Abby nearly half an hour to locate a gas station and get pointed toward San Francisco. She had given some thought to reporting the attack to the state police but quickly discarded the notion. What could possibly come of it? They'd never find the truck, and she certainly didn't need the police to explain what had happened to her, and why.

  She was ensconced behind a fortress of bound journals when Sandy arrived at the library. To many the toxicologist seemed taciturn and introspective, but Abby had always found her to be droll, compassionate, and a terrific listener. And before a class she transformed into an animated, invariably fascinating teacher. A meticulous academician, Sandy was a few years older than Abby and was the mother of two young boys. Her husband, who was a pathologist at another hospital, had always seemed to Abby to be married more to his work than to his wife. But she had never once heard her friend complain about the man.

  "Sorry I'm late," Sandy said. "This was my exotic-poisons lecture, and I can always count on an endless stream of questions at the end regarding everyone from Socrates to Napoleon to Howard Hughes."

  "I just appreciate your being here for me."

  "Nonsense. It's great to see you. After we finish here, Fred's going to watch the kids so we can go out for dinner and catch up. Ristorante Milano okay?"

  "Only perfect. As I recall, you were the one who first brought me there. Now I obsess about the place every time I'm forced to patronize the Leaning Tower of Pizza in Patience."

  "No wonder. Well, let's do our best here. Then tomorrow I'll get the lab geared up for your assay. I'll be teaching most of the day, so it will be late afternoon, or more likely sometime the day after tomorrow, before I have results for you."

  "Listen, I'm relieved you can do this at all."

  "I'll confess we don't get much call for cadmium assays these days, but I'm sure we can handle it. You said Josh might be involved in some way?"

  Abby described the frightening changes in Josh that spanned nearly six months and seemed to be accelerating. Sandy listened intently, occasionally making a note on whatever paper was handy, studying it for a moment, then sliding it aside. When Abby had finished, Sandy sighed and reached across to pat her on the arm.

  "I'm really sorry, Abby," she said. "I was so happy when you and Josh found one another."

  "So was I."

  "But I will admit that I always thought he kept his emotions somewhat pent up, especially when he was having such trouble finding work and constantly maintaining such an upbeat front. Still, I just can't imagine his behaving the way you describe unless he's sick from something, either a toxin or maybe a tumor of some sort."

  Abby sighed. "I wish I could get him tested for cadmium, but there's no chance that's going to happen, not with the way things are now."

  "Well, I don't consider myself exceptionally well versed on the nuances of cadmium toxicity, but I hope that by the time we finish plowing through that bibliography you sent me and the additional articles I've located, we both will be."

  They stayed in the hospital library for three m
ore hours, poring over journals and textbooks, searching especially for some reference to fluorescent ophthalmic rings and psychotic violence in cadmium-toxic patients. There were a number of allusions to acute mental illness, especially in workers who had ingested or inhaled massive amounts of the metal. And there was one particularly intriguing--and terrifying--article from Poland, reporting on a baker who had been a pillar of his community and had suddenly, viciously, stabbed his wife and two children to death. The baker's health had rapidly deteriorated, and one of the many blood tests performed on him disclosed high levels of cadmium. The source turned out to be a cadmium-contaminated gold dental implant. Removal of the prosthesis, and subsequent chelation therapy, resulted in negative blood levels and complete reversal of his symptoms.

  A cure, Abby thought. But, unfortunately, just a little late for his wife and children.

  There were no references to the specific eye findings Abby had discovered in Willie Cardoza, but as she suspected, it appeared that no researcher had ever had reason to examine such patients with a black light.

  Finally Sandy closed the last of the latest pile of journals, set her glasses down, and rubbed at her eyes.

  "Well, Abby, I don't know about you, but for the last ten minutes every other word I've read looks like either Ristorante or Milano."

  "I'm ready."

  "Well, I promise you some results on your Mr. Cardoza by the day after tomorrow at the latest. My lab will gear up and run the blood, and we'll also send it off to a commercial lab for confirmation of whatever we find."

  "That would be great."

  "But, tell me, what will you do if the findings are negative?"

  The question took Abby by surprise. Swept along by Lew's enthusiasm, she had never really considered the possibility.

  She thought for a moment, then said, "If the test is negative, I think I'll be coming home. Hopefully, some hospital around here will have an opening for me in their ER. If not, maybe I'll end up as a Doc-in-the-Box at some mall. Worse things could happen."

  "I can't think of too much worse than having you drop out of emergency medicine."

  What will you do if the findings are negative?

  Sandy Stuart's question turned over and over in Abby's mind as she drove back to Patience. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that Willie Cardoza was toxic. After spending the night at Sandy's she had put in another two hours in the library before heading north. She steered clear of the mountain roads and took the interstates as far as she could. The route wasn't nearly as scenic, but memories of her harrowing trip down would have made it hard to relax and keep her eyes off the rearview mirror.

  The one issue still nagging at her was the simple fact that she was still alive. If Quinn was responsible for David Brooks's death, why hadn't he just followed through with another "accident"? Perhaps he and Colstar had secrets that he feared weren't buried deeply enough. Two accidental deaths among the emergency staff at the hospital were bound to prompt an investigation, especially with the Alliance around to call the question.

  Abby drove into Patience from the west, along the same state road she had taken out of town the previous morning. The rain was gone, but a heavy blanket of clouds still covered the valley. In twenty-four hours she would have the answer from Sandy Stuart. For Willie's sake she hoped the test would be positive. Nothing would bring Peggy Wheaton back to life. But convicting a man of murder who was chemically insane would add no dignity or meaning to her death. That dignity would be achieved only by punishing those who had created her killer with their toxin.

  On an impulse Abby cut off at Five Corners and headed north. Lew's farm was just a couple of miles away, and rather than drive all the way home just to call him, she could do it from a pay phone. She could hear the relief in his voice.

  "So, what's the verdict?" he asked excitedly. "Cardoza's blood has got to be positive, yes?"

  "It's not done yet, Lew. Sandy's lab is just getting geared up. The blood'll be run late today or tomorrow. She wasn't sure which."

  "But she's going to call as soon as she has some numbers?"

  "The moment.... Lew, some things have happened on this trip that I want to talk to you about."

  "Such as?"

  "Such as someone in a big red pickup truck nearly running me off the road yesterday. I think Lyle Quinn or one of his Colstar goons may have been trying to kill me."

  "But you're all right?"

  "Barely."

  "Thank God. After what happened to David, we shouldn't be surprised by anything that monster does. I was fearful from the moment you told me Quinn might have seen you draw Cardoza's blood. You're really okay, though?"

  "Yes, yes, I'm fine. Lew, if you're free right now, I'd rather tell you about all this in person. I'm just past Five Corners."

  "In that case the cows can wait."

  "Want me to bring lunch? There're some golden arches right across the street."

  "I might not be able to do better, but I'd like to try. Let's see.... Do you have any problem with shrimp or artichoke hearts?"

  "I suppose the Big Mac I was planning on can wait," Abby said.

  "I like to cook," Lew said as he set their lunch on the maple kitchen table.

  "You also like to understate. This looks wonderful."

  Abby had already finished a detailed account of her close call on the highway, and her evening with Sandy Stuart. Now, over strawberry soup, a shrimp-and-artichoke salad, and sourdough bread, she told him for the first time about the visit from Lyle Quinn following the Alliance meeting, and about her tour of Colstar with Kelly Franklin.

  "They know we're getting close, Abby. That's why they're trying to woo you away. The more minds and hands we have working on this thing, the more likely it is we're going to figure out what they've done, and what they're doing now to cover it up. These people are vermin."

  "I agree with you on Lyle Quinn, but I have to say that I liked Kelly Franklin."

  "She's Quinn's stooge in this. Mark my words."

  "Maybe. But if she's covering something up, I'm here to tell you she's a heck of an actress."

  "They're all fakes. They've hurt people, lots of people, and they'll go to any lengths to avoid the blame. Colstar is an Ezra Black company, and everyone knows that man is a scorpion. The bottom line for anything he owns is the bottom line."

  "Maybe," Abby said again.

  "There will be no doubt in your mind when we get the results from your friend at St. John's, especially if we can make some headway with our analysis of the rest of the NIWWs."

  He laughed at the initials, which he had embraced as if they were an actual medical diagnosis.

  "Speaking of NIWWs, Lew, I'm beginning to wonder if Josh could be following Willie Cardoza's pattern. I'm very concerned about him, and I don't know who else to turn to. I hope you don't feel awkward talking about it."

  Lew filled their cups with dark, aromatic coffee and settled back down in the chair across from her.

  "Abby, I'd be a fool and a liar if I said I wanted things to work out between the two of you. But I certainly don't want anything bad to happen to him. What's going on?"

  "I mentioned to you that some of Josh's symptoms resembled what Colette Simmons told me Willie was like."

  "Yes. I was impressed with the similarities."

  "Then there was the article I told you about. The one from Poland about the guy who stabbed his wife and kids to death."

  "Cadmium contamination in the gold dental implant."

  "Exactly. Well, Josh has been getting more and more irrational and more and more physically violent. He actually moved out because he was afraid he might hurt me. Now he seems to have disappeared. Quinn said he was missing from work and that no one had been able to reach him at home. Last night I tried calling him myself at the place he's living. The phone didn't even ring. I'm very worried, and I really don't know what to do."

  Lew thought for a moment, then handed her the phone and the Patience Valley directo
ry.

  "Here. Try him where he's staying again."

  "Thank you, Lew." Abby looked up the number and spoke as she dialed. "Orchard Road. Do you know where that is?"

  "I do. It's not too far from that McDonald's you called me from."

  "No ring at all," she said. She looked up Colstar's main number and called it. "Kelly Franklin's office, please."

  "Into the lair of the enemy," Lew whispered.

  "Kelly, it's Abby Dolan."

  "Abby, it's nice to hear from you. What's happened with Josh?"

  "Actually, that's what I was calling you about. Have you heard from him?"

  "He hasn't been at work for several days. No one seems to know why. Today there was some talk about his being replaced if he doesn't show up or call in by tomorrow. He has several partially completed projects."

  "Lord."

  "Is there anything I can do to help you find him?"

  "Just call me if he shows up or you hear anything. You have my number, don't you?"

  "Yes. Abby, I heard what happened at the hospital the other day. It must have been awful for you, having to make a choice like that."

  "It was, Kelly. Thank you for appreciating that. I haven't forgotten that I owe you a call and dinner when all of this business calms down."

  "Don't worry about it. Just find Josh."

  Abby set the receiver down, certain that Kelly Franklin's concern for Josh and for her was genuine. Lew was too invested in getting to the bottom of the Colstar syndrome to think otherwise. But this time he was wrong.

  "Lew, I need to drive out to Orchard Road," she said suddenly. "Could you tell me exactly where it is?"

  "I can do better than that," he replied, slipping into a tan windbreaker. "Let's go."

  They left The Meadows and headed back toward Five Corners.