Katzka frowned, remembering the panic of last night. Treading water in the darkness as men ran on the pier above, shouting words in a language he didn’t understand. He was having visions now of dismembered fingers and toes, of Boston streets littered with random body parts. Which made him think of scalpels. Operating rooms.
“What’s Boravoy’s connection to Bayside?” he asked.
“We don’t know.”
“He was driving their vehicle.”
“And the van’s full of medical supplies,” said Lundquist. “Couple thousand dollars’ worth. Maybe we’re talking black market. Boravoy could have partners at Bayside siphoning off drugs and supplies. And you just caught him delivering the goods to their freighter.”
“What about that freighter? You talk to the harbormaster?”
“The ship’s owned by some New Jersey firm called the Sigayev Company. Panamanian registry. Her last known port of call was Riga.”
“Where’s that?”
“Latvia. I think it’s some breakaway Russian republic.”
The Russians again, thought Katzka. If this was indeed Russian mafia, then they were dealing with criminals known for pure and bloody viciousness. With every legitimate wave of immigrants rode a shadow wave of predators, criminal networks that followed their countrymen to the land of opportunity. The land of easy prey.
He thought of Abby DiMatteo, and his anxiety suddenly sharpened. He hadn’t spoken to her since that one A.M. phone call. Just an hour ago, he’d been about to call her again. But as he was dialing her number, he’d realized that his pulse had quickened. And he’d recognized that sign for what it was. Anticipation. A joyful, aching, completely irrational eagerness to hear her voice. They were feelings he had not experienced in years, and he understood, only too painfully, what they meant.
He had quickly disconnected. And had spent the last hour in a deepening depression.
He gazed off toward the pier. By now the ship could be a hundred miles out to sea. Even if they located it, there would be a jurisdiction problem.
He said to Lundquist, “I want anything there is on the Sigayev Company. I want any links to Amity and to Bayside Hospital.”
“On my list, Slug.”
Katzka started his car. He looked at Lundquist. “Your brother still in the Coast Guard?”
“No. But he’s got buddies who’re still in.”
“Run this by them. See if they’ve boarded that freighter lately.”
“Doubt it. If she just sailed in from Riga.” Lundquist paused, glancing up. Detective Carrier was crossing toward them, waving.
“Hey, Slug,” said Carrier. “Did you get the message about Dr. DiMatteo?”
Instantly Katzka turned off the engine. But he couldn’t shut off the sudden roar of his own pulse. He stared at Carrier, expecting the worst.
“There’s been an accident.”
A lunch cart rattled down the hallway. Abby woke up with a start and found she was lying in sheets damp with sweat. Her heart was still pounding from the nightmare. She tried to turn in bed, but found she couldn’t; her hands were tied down, her wrists sore from chafing. And she realized that she had not been dreaming at all. This was the nightmare, and it was one from which she could not wake up.
With a sob of frustration she sank back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling. She heard the creak of a chair. She turned her head.
Katzka was sitting by the window. In the glare of midday, his unshaven face looked older and wearier than she had ever seen him before.
“I asked them to take off the restraints,” he said. “But they told me you’d pulled out a few too many IVs.” He rose and came to her bedside. There he stood gazing down at her. “Welcome back, Abby. You’re a very lucky young lady.”
“I don’t remember what happened.”
“You had an accident. Your car rolled over on the Southeast Expressway.”
“Was there anyone else . . .”
He shook his head. “No one else was hurt. But your car was pretty much totaled.” There was a silence. She realized he was no longer looking at her. He was looking somewhere at her pillow instead.
“Katzka?” she asked softly. “Was it my fault?”
Reluctantly he nodded. “Based on the skid marks, it appears you were traveling at a high rate of speed. You must have braked to avoid a vehicle stalled in your lane. Your car veered into a highway barrier. And rolled over, across two lanes.”
She closed her eyes. “Oh my God.”
Again there was a pause. “I guess you haven’t heard the rest,” he said. “I spoke to the investigating officer. I’m afraid they found a shattered container of vodka in your car.”
She opened her eyes and stared at him. “That’s impossible.”
“Abby, you can’t remember what happened. Last night, on the pier, was a traumatic experience. Maybe you felt the need to unwind. To have a few drinks at home.”
“I’d remember that! I’d remember if I’d been drinking—”
“Look, what’s important right now is—”
“This is important! Can’t you see, Katzka? They’re setting me up again!”
He rubbed his hand over his eyes, the unfocused gesture of a man struggling to stay awake. “I’m sorry, Abby,” he murmured. “I know this can’t be an easy thing for you to acknowledge. But Dr. Wettig just showed me your blood alcohol level. They drew it last night in the ER. It was point two-one.”
He wasn’t facing her now, but was gazing blankly out the window, as though just the act of looking at her had taken too much out of him. She could not even turn her body to confront him face to face; the restraints wouldn’t allow it. She gave a violent yank on her bonds, and the pain that stung her chafed wrists almost brought tears to her eyes. She was not going to cry. Damn it, she was not going to cry.
She closed her eyes and concentrated on channeling her rage. It was all she had left, the only weapon with which she could fight back. They had taken everything else away from her. They had taken even Katzka.
She said, slowly: “I was not drinking. You have to believe me. I was not drunk.”
“Can you tell me where you were going at three in the morning?”
“I was coming here, to Bayside. I remember that much. Mark called me, and I was coming to . . .” She stopped. “Has he been here? Why isn’t he here?”
His silence was chilling. She turned her head to look at him, but could not see his face.
“Katzka?”
“Mark Hodell hasn’t been answering his pages.”
“What?”
“His car’s not in the hospital parking lot. No one seems to know where he is.”
She tried to speak, but her throat felt as if it had swollen shut, and the only sound that came out was a whispered: “No.”
“It’s too early to draw any conclusions, Abby. His pager may be broken. We don’t know anything yet.”
But Abby knew. She knew with a certainty that was both immediate and shattering. Her whole body suddenly felt numb. Lifeless. She didn’t realize she was crying, didn’t even feel the tears sliding down until Katzka rose, tissue in hand, and gently wiped her cheek.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. He brushed her hair off her face, and just for a moment, his hand lingered there, fingers resting protectively on her forehead. He said, more softly, “I’m so sorry.”
“Find him for me,” she whispered. “Please. Please, find him for me.”
“I will.”
A moment later she heard him walk out of the room. Only then did she realize he had untied the restraints. She was free to leave the bed, to walk out of the room. But she didn’t.
She turned her face into the pillow and wept.
At noon a nurse came in to remove the IV and to leave a lunch tray. Abby didn’t even look at the food. The tray was later removed, untouched.
At two o’clock, Dr. Wettig walked in. He stood by her bed, flipping through the pages of her chart, making clucking sounds as he reviewed the
lab results. At last he looked down at her. “Dr. DiMatteo?”
She didn’t answer him.
“Detective Katzka tells me you deny drinking any alcohol last night,” he said.
She said nothing.
Wettig sighed. “The first step toward recovery is acknowledging you have a problem. Now, I should have been more aware. I should have realized what you were struggling with ah this time. But now it’s all out in the open. It’s time to deal with the problem.”
She looked up at him. “What would be the point?” she said dully.
“The point is, you have some sort of future worth salvaging. A DUI is a serious setback, but you’re an intelligent woman. There will be other careers open to you besides medicine.”
Her response was silence. The loss of her career felt almost insignificant at that moment, compared to the greater grief she felt over Mark’s vanishing.
“I’ve asked Dr. O’Connor to evaluate you,” said Wettig. “He’ll be in sometime this evening.”
“I don’t need a psychiatrist.”
“I think you do, Abby. I think you need a lot of help. You have to get beyond these delusions of persecution. I’m not going to approve your release until O’Connor clears it. He may decide to transfer you to the Psychiatry Unit. That’s his call. We can’t have you hurting yourself, the way you tried to last night. We’re all very concerned about you, Abby. I’m concerned about you. That’s why I’m ordering a psychiatric evaluation. It’s for your own good, believe me.”
She looked straight up at him. “Fuck you, General.”
To her immense satisfaction, he flinched and stepped away from the bed. He slapped the chart shut. “I’ll check in on you later, Dr. DiMatteo,” he said, and left the room.
For a long time she stared at the ceiling. Only moments ago, before Wettig had walked in, she had felt too weary to fight. Now every muscle had tensed and her stomach was in turmoil. Her hands ached. She looked down and realized they were knotted into fists.
Fuck all of you.
She sat up. The dizziness lasted only a few seconds, then passed. She’d been lying in bed too long. It was time to get moving. To regain control of her life.
She crossed the room and opened the door a crack.
A nurse looked up from her desk and stared directly at Abby. Her name tag said W. SORIANO, R.N. “Do you need something?”
“Uh, no,” said Abby, and quickly retreated back behind her closed door.
Shit. Shit, they were keeping her a prisoner.
In bare feet she paced a circle around the room, trying to plan her next move. She couldn’t think about Mark right now. If she did, she’d just curl up in bed again, crying. That’s what they wanted her to do, what they expected her to do.
She went to the chair by the window and sat down to think. She considered the moves open to her, but couldn’t come up with any. Last night, Mark had said Mohandas was on their side, but now Mark was missing. She wasn’t going to trust Mohandas. She wasn’t going to trust anyone in this hospital.
She went to the nightstand and picked up the phone. There was a dial tone. She called Vivian’s number, and got a recording. Then she remembered that Vivian was still in Burlington.
She called her own home, punched in her access code, and listened to the messages from her answering machine. There had been another call from Vivian, and by the tone of her voice, the call had been urgent. She’d left a Burlington number.
Abby dialed it.
This time Vivian answered. “You barely caught me. I was just about to check out of here.”
“You’re coming home?”
“I’ve got a six o’clock flight to Logan. Listen, this trip has been nothing but a wild goose chase. There were no harvests done in Burlington.”
“How do you know?”
“I checked the airport here. And every other airstrip in the area. On the nights of those transplants, there were no midnight flights logged out of here to Boston. Not a single dinky plane. Burlington’s just a cover for them. And Tim Nicholls provided the official paperwork.”
“And now Nicholls has vanished.”
“Or they got rid of him.”
They both fell momentarily silent. Then Abby said, softly: “Mark’s missing.”
“What?”
“No one knows where he is. Detective Katzka says they can’t find his car. And Mark doesn’t answer his pages.” She paused, her throat closing over.
“Oh, Abby. Abby . . .” Vivian’s voice faltered.
In the brief silence, Abby heard a click on the line. She was gripping the receiver so tightly her fingers ached.
“Vivian?” she said.
There was another click. And then the line went dead.
She hung up and tried to call again, but there was no dial tone. She tried the operator, tried hanging up again and again. Still no dial tone.
The hospital had disconnected her telephone.
Katzka stood on the narrow walkway of the Tobin Bridge and stared down at the water far below. From the west ran the Mystic River, on its way to join the waters of the Chelsea River before flowing out to Boston Harbor and the sea. It was a long drop, thought Katzka, imagining the force with which a body would impact on that water. Almost certainly a fatal drop.
Turning, he gazed past the late afternoon traffic whizzing by and focused on the downriver side of the bridge. He traced the hypothetical sequence of events that would follow a body’s plunge. The corpse would be carried by the current into the harbor. At first, it would drift along below the water’s surface, perhaps scraping across the bottom silt. Eventually the body’s internal gases would expand. This would happen over a time span of hours to days. It depended on the water temperature and the speed with which the gas-forming bacteria multiplied in the rotting intestines. At a certain point, the corpse would float to the surface.
That’s when it would be found. In a day or two. Bloated and unrecognizable.
Katzka turned to the patrolman standing beside him. He had to shout over the sound of traffic. “What time did you notice the car?”
“Around five A.M. It was pulled over in the northbound breakdown lane. Right over there.” He pointed across the lanes of whizzing cars. “Nice green BMW. I stopped right away.”
“You didn’t see anyone near the BMW?”
“No, sir. It looked abandoned. I called in the license number and confirmed it wasn’t reported stolen. I figured maybe the driver had engine trouble and left to get help. It was a hazard to traffic, sitting there. So I called the tow truck.”
“No keys in the car? No note?”
“No, sir. Nothing. It was clean as a whistle inside.”
Katzka looked back down at the water. He wondered how deep the river was at this point, and how fast the current was moving.
“I did try calling Dr. Hodell’s home, but no one answered,” said the patrolman. “I didn’t know at the time that he was missing.”
Katzka said nothing. He just kept gazing down at the river, thinking about Abby, wondering what he should tell her. She had looked so heartbreakingly fragile in that hospital bed, and he couldn’t bear the thought of inflicting any more blows. Any more pain.
I won’t tell her. Not yet, he decided. Not until we find a body.
The patrolman looked down at the river, too. “Jesus. Do you think he jumped?”
“If he’s down there,” said Katzka, “it wasn’t because he jumped.”
The phones had been ringing all day, two LPNs had called in sick, and charge nurse Wendy Soriano had missed lunch. She was in no mood to be pulling a double shift. Yet here she was at three thirty P.M., facing the prospect of another eight hours on duty.
Her kids had already called twice. Mommy, Jeffy’s hitting me again. Mommy, what time is Daddy coming home? Mommy, can we use the microwave? We promise we won’t burn the house down. Mommy, Mommy, Mommy.
Why didn’t they ever bother Daddy at work?
Because Daddy’s job is so much more fucking
important.
Wendy dropped her head in her hands and stared down at the stack of charts flagged with doctors’ orders. The residents loved to write orders. They breezed in with their fancy Cross pens and scribbled such earthshattering instructions as: “Milk of magnesia for constipation,” or “bedrails up at night.” Then they presented the flagged charts to the nurses like God passing instructions to Moses. Thou shalt not tolerate constipation.
With a sigh, Wendy reached for the first chart.
The phone rang. It better not be the kids again, she thought. Not another Mommy he’s hitting me call. She answered it with an irritated: “Six East, Wendy.”
“This is Dr. Wettig.”
“Oh.” Automatically she sat up straight. One didn’t slouch when speaking to Dr. Wettig. Even if it was on the phone. “Yes, Doctor?”
“I want to follow up that blood alcohol level on Dr. DiMatteo. And I want it sent out to MedMark Labs.”
“Not our lab?”
“No. Route it directly to MedMark.”
“Certainly, Doctor,” said Wendy, scribbling down the order. It was an unusual request, but one didn’t question the General.
“How’s she doing?” he asked.
“A little restless.”
“Has she tried to leave?”
“No. She hasn’t even come out of the room.”
“Good. Make sure she stays there. And absolutely no visitors. That includes all medical personnel, except for the ones I specify in my orders.”
“Yes, Dr. Wettig.”
Wendy hung up and stared at her desk. During that call, three more flagged charts had been deposited there. Damn. She’d be taking off order sheets all evening. Suddenly she felt dizzy from hunger. She still hadn’t had lunch, hadn’t even had a break in hours.
She glanced around, and saw two LPNs chatting in the hallway. Was she the only person working her butt off here?
She tore off the order for the blood alcohol level and deposited it in the lab tech’s box. As she rose from the desk, the phone began to ring. She ignored it; after all, that’s what ward clerks were for.
She walked away to the sound of two lines jangling.
Harvest Page 33