by Robin Cook
“Wonderful,” Mannly said. His face reddened as he struggled to his feet. “Thanks for your time. I’ll give you a call as soon as I know anything.”
Horace Mannly left but the stench from his cigarette hung around. Bodanski tapped his fingers on his desk, hoping that some problems on Frank’s home front wouldn’t rob him of a good potential employee.
Not even the run-down area around the Essex nor the hotel itself could dampen Jeffrey’s spirits as he climbed the six steps to the front door. Maybe he was a bit manic, but at least he had the feeling that things had finally begun to tip in his direction. For the first time since he could remember, he felt like he was somewhat in control of events rather than vice versa.
As he’d taxied back from seeing Kelly at St. Joe’s, he’d reviewed the case for his contaminant theory. More than anything else, it was the paralysis issue that made him sure something had to be wrong with the sealed ampules of Marcaine.
Jeffrey started across the lobby, then abruptly slowed down. The clerk wasn’t watching his TV. Instead, he’d retreated to a storeroom just behind the reception desk. Previously the door had always been closed. The clerk nodded, nervously, Jeffrey thought, the moment their eyes met. It was as though the man was afraid of him.
Jeffrey went to the stairs and started up to his room. He couldn’t account for the clerk’s odd behavior. The man had struck Jeffrey as being a bit eccentric, but not this weird. Jeffrey wondered what it could mean. He hoped nothing.
When he got to the fifth floor, Jeffrey bent over the balustrade and looked down. The clerk was on the ground floor, looking up at him. He ducked out of view as soon as he saw Jeffrey look down.
So it wasn’t his imagination, thought Jeffrey as he went through the stairwell door to the hallway. The man was obviously keeping an eye on him from a very deliberate distance. But why?
Jeffrey started down the hall, preoccupied with explaining the clerk’s disturbing behavior. Then he remembered his disguise. Of course! That had to be it. Maybe the clerk didn’t recognize him and thought he was a stranger. What if he decided to call the police?
Arriving at his door, Jeffrey searched his pockets for his key. Then he remembered he’d put it in his duffel bag. As he swung the bag around in front of him to unzip the central compartment, he thought about moving to another hotel. With all the other things he had to think about, he didn’t want to have to worry about a hotel clerk.
Jeffrey slipped the key in the door and unlocked it. He put the key back in the duffel bag so he’d know where it was when he wanted to leave the room. He was already back to thinking of the contaminant theory when he walked through the door. Then he froze.
“Welcome home, Doc,” Devlin said. He was lounging on the bed with his revolver dangling carelessly at his side. “You have no idea how much I’ve been looking forward to seeing you again since you were so rude at our last encounter.”
Devlin pushed himself up on one elbow. He squinted at Jeffrey. “You do look different! I’m not sure I would have recognized you.” He laughed a hearty, deep laugh that evolved into a hacking cigarette cough.
Devlin spit over the side of the bed and thumped his chest with his fist. He cleared his throat and said hoarsely, “Don’t just stand there. Come in and have a seat. Make yourself comfortable.”
With the same sort of unthinking reflex that had led him to slug Devlin with his briefcase at the airport, Jeffrey leaped out of the room. Yanking the door shut, he lost his balance and fell to his knees. As they hit the shabby carpet, an explosion sounded inside the room. The next thing Jeffrey knew, splinters of wood were raining down on him. Devlin’s .38 slug had ripped through the thin-paneled door only to lodge in the opposite wall.
Jeffrey scrambled to his feet and ran headlong down the hall toward the stairwell. He couldn’t believe that he’d been shot at. He knew that he was a wanted man, but surely he didn’t fit the dead-or-alive category. Jeffrey thought Devlin had to be crazy.
As Jeffrey skidded to a stop at the stairwell, catching the doorjamb with his hand to help change directions, he heard the door to his room bang open behind him. Using his shoulder, he burst through the stairwell door at the same moment he heard a second report from Devlin’s gun. This bullet whined off the door casement just behind Jeffrey, to shatter a window at the end of the hall. Jeffrey heard Devlin laugh. The man was enjoying himself!
Jeffrey threw himself down the twisting stairs, using the banister to maintain his balance. His feet hit only every fourth or fifth stair. His shoulder bag trailed behind him like a heavy pennant. Where to go? What to do? Devlin wasn’t far behind him.
As Jeffrey rounded the last turn before reaching the first floor, he heard the door above slam open and heavy footfalls echo in the stairwell. With his panic ever increasing, he leaped onto the first-floor landing. He threw himself at the door and grasped the vertical handle. He yanked on the door but it didn’t open. Frantically he yanked again. The door didn’t budge. It was locked!
Peering through the small, wire-embedded window, Jeffrey saw the clerk cowering on the opposite side of the door. Behind him, Jeffrey could hear Devlin’s footfalls getting closer. He would be on him in seconds.
Frantically, Jeffrey pantomimed to the clerk that the stairwell door was locked. The clerk blankly shrugged his shoulders, pretending he didn’t understand what Jeffrey was trying to tell him. Jeffrey rattled the door, still pointing in the direction of the lock.
Abruptly the sound of Devlin’s footfalls stopped. Jeffrey slowly turned. Devlin had reached the top of the final flight of stairs and was gazing down at his trapped prey. His gun was pointing at Jeffrey. Jeffrey wondered if this was it. If this was where his life was destined to end. But Devlin didn’t pull the trigger.
“Don’t tell me the door is locked,” Devlin said with false sympathy. “I’m so sorry, Doc.”
Devlin walked down the last few steps slowly, keeping the gun pointed at Jeffrey’s face. “Funny,” he said. “I would have preferred the door to be open. It would have been more sporting.”
Devlin stepped directly up to Jeffrey. He was smiling with obvious satisfaction. “Turn around!” he ordered.
Jeffrey turned, raising his hands in the air even though Devlin had not asked him to. Devlin pushed him roughly against the locked door and leaned his weight against him. He pulled the duffel bag from Jeffrey’s shoulder and let it fall to the floor. Not taking any chances this time, he yanked Jeffrey’s arms behind him and cuffed him before he did another thing. Once the cuffs were secure, he frisked Jeffrey for weapons. Then he turned Jeffrey back around and picked up the duffel bag.
“If this is what I think it is,” Devlin said, “you’re about to make me a happy man.”
Devlin unzipped the bag and stuck his hand in it to grope around for the money. His mouth, which had assumed a pinched look of determination, suddenly curled into a broad smile. Triumphantly he pulled out a bound packet of hundred-dollar bills. “Now lookie here,” he said. Then he stuffed the stack back into the duffel bag. He didn’t want the clerk to see the cash and get any ideas.
Devlin slung the duffel bag over his shoulder and began to pound on the stairwell door. The clerk rushed forward to unlock it. Devlin grabbed Jeffrey by the scruff of the neck and pushed him into the lobby.
“Don’t you know it’s a code violation to have a lock on a stairwell door?” Devlin said to the clerk.
The clerk stammered that he didn’t.
“Ignorance of the law is no defense,” Devlin said. “Get it fixed or I’ll have the building inspectors over here.”
The clerk nodded. He’d expected some sort of thanks for having been so cooperative and helpful. But Devlin ignored him as he walked Jeffrey through the lobby and out the door.
Devlin marched Jeffrey across the street to his car, parked at the hydrant. Passers-by stopped to gawk. Devlin opened the passenger’s door and shoved Jeffrey inside. He slammed the door, locked it, and started around the car.
With a prese
nce of mind that he might not have expected under the circumstances, Jeffrey leaned forward in the seat and managed to get his right hand into the side pocket of his jacket. His fingers wrapped around the syringe he had put there. With his nail, he eased the cap off the needle. Jeffrey gingerly pulled the syringe from the pocket, then leaned back in the seat.
Devlin yanked the car door open, tossed the shoulder bag in the backseat, sat down, and put the key into the ignition. The instant he turned the key to start the car, Jeffrey lunged at the man, bracing his feet against the passenger-side door for leverage. Devlin was caught unaware. Before he could ward Jeffrey off, Jeffrey plunged the needle into his right hip and pressed the plunger.
“Shit!” Devlin screamed. He backhanded Jeffrey across the side of his head. The force of the blow sent Jeffrey reeling.
Devlin raised his arm to investigate the source of the stinging pain in his right buttock. Buried to the hilt was a 5 cc syringe. “Jesus,” he said, gritting his teeth. “You freaking doctors are more trouble than serial killers.” Daintily he pulled the needle out with a wince, then threw it into the backseat.
Jeffrey had recovered enough from Devlin’s blow to try to unlock his door, but he couldn’t get his handcuffed hands up high enough to reach. He was attempting to pull the lock with his teeth when Devlin grabbed him by the scruff of the neck once again and yanked him around like a rag doll.
“What the hell did you inject into me?” Devlin snarled. Jeffrey began to choke. “Answer me!” Devlin yelled as he gave Jeffrey another shake. Jeffrey could only gurgle. His eyes had begun to bulge. Then Devlin let go of Jeffrey and drew his arm back to strike him again. “Answer me!”
“Won’t hurt,” was all Jeffrey managed to gasp, “won’t hurt you.” He tried to raise his shoulder to block the blow he saw coming, but then the blow stalled.
With his arm poised to strike, Devlin’s eyes went unfocused and he began to sway. His expression changed from anger to confusion. He clutched the steering wheel to support himself, but he couldn’t manage to hold on. He slumped to the side, toward Jeffrey.
Devlin tried to talk but his speech was garbled.
“It won’t hurt you,” Jeffrey told him. “It’s only a small dose of succinylcholine. You’ll be all right in a few minutes. Don’t panic.”
Jeffrey shoved Devlin into a sitting position and managed to get a hand into the man’s right pocket. But there was no handcuff key. Jeffrey scooted forward and let Devlin slump sideways on the seat. Jeffrey awkwardly searched the rest of Devlin’s pockets. Still no key.
He was about to give up when he spotted a small key on the ring dangling from the ignition. It took some doing, but Jeffrey was able to yank the keys from the ignition by standing up, hunched over, facing out the passenger side. After a few futile tries, he succeeded in inserting the small key in the lock and getting the handcuffs off.
Reaching in the backseat, Jeffrey grabbed his duffel bag. Before getting out of the car, he checked Devlin. Devlin was just about completely paralyzed. His breathing was slow but steady. If Jeffrey had given him a much stronger dose, even Devlin’s diaphragm would have been affected. He would have suffocated in minutes.
Ever the anesthesiologist, Jeffrey struggled to position Devlin so that he wouldn’t compromise his circulation while he lay there. Then he got out of the car.
Jeffrey made a move toward the hotel. The clerk was nowhere in sight. Jeffrey paused. For a moment he debated about his belongings. He decided it was too risky to try to get his things. The clerk might have been dialing 911 that very moment. Besides, what did he have to lose? He was sorry to have to part with Chris Everson’s notes, especially if Kelly wanted to keep them. But Kelly had said that she’d planned to get rid of all of Chris’s material.
Jeffrey turned on his heels and fled. He headed in the direction of downtown. He wanted to lose himself in a crowd. Once he felt safer, he’d have a chance to think. And the further he got from Devlin, the better. Jeffrey still couldn’t quite believe he’d managed to inject him with the succinylcholine. If Devlin had been angry with him over the episode at the airport, he’d be doubly furious now. Jeffrey only hoped he wouldn’t run into the man again before he’d had a chance to prove his case.
The first chance Trent had to get back to Central Supply wasn’t until well into the evening shift. Trent had been scrubbed on a particularly long aneurysm case. At the time of the change of shifts, there’d been no one to relieve him. Whether he liked it or not, he was forced into a little overtime. It happened once in a while. It usually didn’t bother him, although on this particular occasion he found the timing inconvenient.
He’d been tense with anticipation since he’d arrived at the hospital that morning. Each time the circulating nurse returned to the OR, he expected her to spread the news that there had been a terrible anesthetic complication. But nothing had happened. The day had remained stultifyingly routine.
At lunchtime in the cafeteria, his hopes were falsely raised when one of the nurses who handled OB cases said, “Hey, did you hear what happened in room eight?”
Once she had everyone’s attention, she regaled them with a story of how one of the surgical resident’s pants had mysteriously become untied during a case and had slipped to his knees. Everybody had a big laugh over that one. Everyone but Trent.
Trent paused outside of Central Supply. He’d already been to his locker and had the good ampule of Marcaine hidden in his briefs again. There were plenty of people moving in and out of various ORs, but the confusion of the shift change had dissipated.
He was not pleased with this situation. It was risky for him to go into Central Supply at that time because he was not on duty. If someone saw him and questioned his presence there, he’d have little to say in defense. But he had no choice. He couldn’t leave the doctored vial unattended. He had made it a practice to be around when one of his vials was used so that in the ensuing confusion he could either remove the empty vial from the scene, or at least dispose of any remaining contents. He couldn’t risk anyone’s checking the Marcaine to see if anything had been wrong with it.
Trent took a quick stroll around Central Supply before going to the cabinet that contained the local anesthetics. So far so good. With one last furtive look around to make sure no one was watching, he lifted the lid of the open box of Marcaine and peered in. There were two ampules left. One had been used sometime that day.
Trent easily identified his doctored vial and quickly switched it for the good one in his briefs. Then he closed the lid and pushed the box back into its original position. When he turned to head back to the locker room, he stopped in his tracks. He was dismayed to find his path blocked by a tall, blond nurse. She seemed as surprised to see him at the cabinet as he was to see her. She had her hands on her hips and her feet spread apart.
Trent felt his face redden as he tried to think of a plausible reason for being there. He hoped the tampered ampule in his briefs was not apparent.
“Can I help you?” the nurse asked. From her tone, Trent guessed the last thing in the world she wanted to do was help.
“No, thanks,” he said. “I was just leaving.” At last he thought of something: “I was returning some IV fluid we didn’t get around to using on the aneurysm case in room five.”
The nurse nodded but she seemed unconvinced. She extended her head to look over Trent’s shoulder.
Trent looked at her name tag. It read Gail Shaffer. “The aneurysm went on for seven hours,” Trent told her just to make conversation.
“I heard,” Gail said. “Aren’t you supposed to be off duty?”
“Finally,” Trent said, regaining his composure. He rolled his eyes. “It’s been a long day. Boy, am I looking forward to a few beers. Hope things are quiet for you this evening. Take care.”
Trent edged by the nurse and started down the corridor toward the surgical lounge. After twenty or so steps, he glanced around. Gail Shaffer was still standing in the doorway to Central Supply, watching him. Dam
n, he thought. She was suspicious. He waved at her. She waved back.
Trent pushed through the swinging doors into the lounge. Where the hell had Gail Shaffer come from so quickly? He was irritated at himself for not having been more careful. He’d never been caught in the supply cabinet before.
Prior to going into the locker room, Trent stopped at the bulletin board in the lounge. Among the notices and schedules he found Gail Shaffer’s name listed with the hospital softball team. Each player’s telephone number was listed on the bulletin board in one form or another. On a piece of scrap paper, Trent wrote Gail’s number down. From the first three digits, he guessed it was a Back Bay exchange.
What a pain, thought Trent, as he went into the dressing area to put on his street clothes. He slipped the vial back into his white hospital coat.
As Trent headed for the elevators and then home, he realized he’d have to do something about Gail Shaffer. In his position he couldn’t afford to ignore loose ends.
7
WEDNESDAY,
MAY 17, 1989
4:37 P.M.
Devlin had always hated hospitals. Ever since he was a little boy growing up in Dorchester, Massachusetts, he’d been afraid of them. His mother had played on his fear to threaten him: If you don’t do this or you don’t do that, I’ll take you to the hospital and the doctor will give you a shot. Devlin hated shots. That was one of the reasons he now wanted to get Jeffrey Rhodes whether Michael Mosconi paid him or not. Well, that wasn’t completely true.
Devlin shuddered. Thinking about Jeffrey reminded him of the terror he’d just experienced. Throughout the whole ordeal, he’d remained conscious and aware of everything that had happened. It had felt like gravity had suddenly increased a thousandfold. He’d been completely paralyzed, even unable to speak. He’d been able to breathe, but only with great effort and concentration. Every second he’d had the terror that he was about to suffocate.
The idiot of a clerk from the Essex Hotel had come out only after Jeffrey was long gone. He’d tapped repeatedly on the glass, calling to Devlin to see if he was okay. It had taken the fool ten minutes to open the damn door. Then he asked Devlin ten more times if he was okay before he had enough sense to go back into the hotel and call an ambulance.