Behind the steel doors, an efficient young nurse led Fenimore to the curtained cubicle in which Mrs. Ashley lay. Susan was sitting beside her. When she caught sight of Dr. Fenimore, her expression was worth missing all the baseball games that had ever been played. He glanced at the monitor above Lydia’s head. It was recording her heartbeat. Torsade de pointes. He recognized the alarming electrocardiographic pattern.
Taking his patient’s hand, he spoke her name. She opened her eyes, smiled faintly and closed them again.
“Who are you?” A brusque voice spoke behind him.
He turned to see an angry young man in a white coat. “Dr. Fenimore. Mrs. Ashley’s physician—from Philadelphia.” He held out his hand.
The young man’s manner changed instantly. Drawing Fenimore outside the cubicle, he began to explain his diagnosis and treatment. He had also recognized the torsade pattern. Fenimore heard the undercurrent of the younger doctor’s excitement at seeing an interesting case. In a small community hospital, such cases were a rare commodity.
“When they brought her in,” said the intern, “the runs of torsade were occurring about once every five minutes and lasted about twenty to thirty seconds before her normal sinus rhythm took over. The runs have become shorter and less frequent. Now they last only ten to fifteen seconds, and come on about every fifteen minutes. Since she seemed to be recovering, I haven’t treated the torsade
Could she have inadvertently taken a drug that precipitated this attack and it’s subsiding of its own accord as the effect of the drug wears off?”
Fenimore realized he was dealing with a very bright intern. This was exactly the way he, himself, would have managed the case. “A few years ago,” he replied, “a doctor in Baltimore, unfamiliar with her case, gave her quinidine and precipitated a bad attack of torsade.” Fenimore said. But he did not confide his suspicion that this time his patient might have been given the same drug—on purpose. Although he knew that torsade could occur spontaneously, in view of Lydia’s history, he asked the intern to analyze her blood for drugs that might have precipitated the torsade.
The intern agreed, and told Fenimore he was waiting for a report of Mrs. Ashley’s last torsade de pointes electrocardiogram on admission to the hospital in Philadelphia. Since her doctor was now here, the wait was over.
Fenimore was satisfied. His patient and friend was in excellent hands. He summarized Lydia’s clinical history for the intern, and warned him again not to give her quinidine under any circumstances. When he returned to the cubicle, Lydia was still improving. Since he had arrived, the runs of torsade on the monitor had become even shorter and farther apart. He and the intern were gambling that the condition would rectify itself—and they seemed to be winning. He turned to Susan and explained to her in layman’s terms her grandmother’s condition and how she was progressing. In passing, he mentioned that quinidine could cause torsade in her grandmother.
Susan concentrated on every word. When he had finished, she picked up on the quinidine, asking “But why would Grandmother take such a medicine, if she knew its side effects would make her ill?”
“She wouldn’t. If she took it, she would have taken it without knowing it.”
“But where would she get it?”
“Someone would have given it to her.”
“But who?” She stopped, realizing where her questions were leading.
“I don’t know the answer to that.” Fenimore took her arm. “Susan, I think you should go home. Your grandmother’s condition is stable and she’s in very good hands.” Fenimore heard himself repeating all the reassuring clichés. Fortunately, this time they happened to be true. He spoke a few more words to the intern while Susan bid her grandmother goodnight. Then he guided her out of the emergency room. As they emerged in the waiting room, Fenimore looked vainly around for his nurse. He turned to Susan. “Didn’t Mrs. Doyle come with you?”
“Yes. I thought she was right behind me when I got out of the ambulance.”
“I’ll take a look around the hospital.” After hastily introducing Susan to Rafferty, Fenimore followed the arrow to the main lobby.
Fenimore searched the lobby, the gift shop, and the snack bar. No Doyle. He even coerced some poor woman to go into the rest room and check every toilet booth. At one point Susan and Rafferty heard Mrs. Doyle’s name called over the hospital intercom. The speaker asked her to come to the emergency room. This was followed by an announcement that a hospital ambulance was missing. The license number was given and a request made to report it to the hospital if anyone saw it. Rafferty jotted the number down.
Returning to the emergency room, Fenimore saw no sign of his nurse. A minor worry was becoming a major concern. Rafferty decided it was time to place a call to the local police department, and ask for Missing Persons. He gave the phone to Fenimore to provide a physical description. Fenimore passed it on to Susan, who provided details about what Mrs. Doyle had been wearing that day. After that, there was nothing to do but wait. They decided to do that back at the farmhouse. As Fenimore and Rafferty started to usher Susan out the door, the two men seated across the room jumped up simultaneously and converged on either side of the young woman.
“I’ll take you home, Susan,” Tom said.
“My car’s right outside, Sue,” Peter said.
She looked from one to the other, bewildered.
“Her name is Susan,” said Tom.
Peter raised an eyebrow. “Maybe we’re on more intimate terms.”
Detective Rafferty hadn’t spent the last hour observing the two young men for nothing. When Tom swung, the policeman was ready. He grabbed his arm and prevented it from connecting with Peter’s jaw. He then held it pinned behind Tom’s back until Fenimore had led Susan safely out into the parking lot. Peter left hurriedly by another exit.
A few minutes later, Rafferty joined them at the car. He stuck his head in the window. “I think I’ll ride back with Tom. I’d like to get to know that hothead a little better.”
“Don’t be too hard on him,” Susan said. “He once saved my life.”
“That’s right,” agreed Fenimore. “Maybe you should hitch a ride with the Jordan boy instead.”
Rafferty looked over his shoulder. A red Porsche was sailing out of the lot with Peter at the wheel. Tom, on the other hand, was having trouble starting his old, mudspattered Jeep. “It would have been a smoother ride,” Rafferty sighed.
CHAPTER 46
Fortunately, Mrs. Doyle wasn’t afraid of the dark. As a child, in fact, she had sought it out. Part of a family of eight, she would now and then hide in a dark closet to escape all the turmoil of a big family, and stay there until she felt ready to rejoin the fray.
When she opened her eyes, it was as if they were still shut. But she knew her blindness was temporary. In the Navy she had been taught to let her eyes become accustomed to the dark gradually before going on watch. Ships had been lost because someone had gone on watch straight from a lighted cabin. That was before radar or sonar, of course. Mrs. Doyle wished she had a little radar now.
She was lying on the floor, face down. Her hands were tied behind her back. The rope cut into her wrists, making them ache and burn. This meant they had been tied recently, she reasoned. Otherwise the circulation would have been cut off and they would be numb. She tried to kick, and found that her feet moved freely. She tried to use them as leverage to help her roll over on her back, and fervently wished she were ten pounds lighter. Gently, she rocked her body back and forth, gathering momentum for a second try. Again she failed.
“Bring it over here.” The male voice was close—on the other side of a thin partition. Mrs. Doyle almost cried out, but stopped herself. This order was followed by a loud thud. Someone had dropped something heavy.
“Watch it,” the same voice cautioned.
“Now what?” The second voice had a whine in it.
“Shut up, I’m thinking.”
“Will wonders never cease!”
“Shut up, I te
ll you.” The first voice was rougher and held a threat.
The second voice heeded the other and fell silent.
The silence was more frightening.
Mrs. Doyle could now make out a faint rectangular outline on her left. A door? But where did it lead? Outside? To another room? Or to another closet? She lay perfectly still, afraid to make a sound that would attract the attention of the two men.
“Let’s get this stuff out of here.” The first voice made the decision.
“ … it’s still light.”
“We’ll use the tunnel.”
“What about the bag in the closet?”
“She’ll keep. They have plans for her.”
Footsteps. Scraping, wood against wood. Footsteps descending stairs. Slowly, unevenly, as if carrying something heavy. A thump, as if something had fallen shut. A lid or a door? More footsteps, muffled now—growing fainter and fainter.
It was a full minute before Mrs. Doyle realized that she was “the bag in the closet.” It made her so mad she gave a mighty lunge, and found herself right-side-up. Slowly, she pulled herself to a sitting position. She resolved that if she got out of this alive, the first thing she would do is sign up for Weight Watchers. Next, she struggled to her knees. Inch by inch she moved across the floor on her knees toward the rectangular outline which she thought was a door. A few minutes and several splinters later, she had her eye to the crack. The outer space was only a few degrees lighter than the closet. She could just make out dim shapes. Was this because there were no windows, the windows were blocked up, or because it was getting dark? She had no idea what time it was, or how long she had been unconscious. But the second voice had said, “It’s still light.” Wouldn’t that mean it would soon be getting dark?
“They have plans for her.” The first voice had sounded pleased as well as menacing. Small nuances of tone could often be detected more easily when a voice was faceless. You weren’t distracted by false facial expressions. She could always tell when someone was lying over the phone.
What plans? And how long did she have before they took place? She felt dizzy. A wave of nausea overcame her. The result of that blow on the back of the head. Still on her knees, she swayed and leaned heavily against the door. As soon as the dizziness and nausea passed, she concentrated on how she was going to get the rope off her wrists. When she had leaned against the door, something sharp had pricked her arm. Forcing her body around, she pushed her back against the door. She pressed her back harder into the door, hoping it would give way. It didn’t. While pressing against the door, she laboriously worked her body upward until she was standing. She moved from side to side until her hands found the sharp object again. The point of a nail, protruding from the other side of the door. Her fingers still had enough feeling to hurt when pricked by a nail. She wondered if she was up-to-date on her tetanus shots. She snorted. Foolish to worry about tetanus when your life was hanging by a thread.
She decided the rope was clothesline. A large knot of it separated her wrists, one from the other. If she could work the nail into the center of the knot and wriggle it around, maybe she could loosen it. Then she could free her hands. She set to work. When she stood up, the nail was located below her waist. To reach it with her hands she had to bend her knees, an awkward position to maintain. She could only work for short periods of time. Her fingers were completely numb now. They could no longer help her find the nail. Each time she had to start anew. She fumbled every time.
Time? How much time was this taking? How much time did she have? Was she tightening the rope instead of loosening it? It was possible. She couldn’t feel her hands at all now, and her legs ached from keeping them in a semi-crouched position. The back of her head began to throb where it had been struck. She had to rest. Slowly, she let herself down to a kneeling position and leaned against the door. She mustn’t lie down. She might not have the strength to get up again. Her eyelids drooped. No! With a tremendous effort she pulled herself to her feet. Frantically she felt for the nail. Her fingers were dead. She moved her tied hands back and forth over the wall, randomly searching for the nail. Her hands caught on something. Seesaw, seesaw, she sawed back and forth.
Unexpectedly, the rope gave way and fell to the floor. Not a very professional tying job. That could be a good or a bad sign. Good—if her captors were sloppy and careless. Bad—if they were sloppy and careless because they knew her prison was escape-proof and it didn’t matter if she were tied or not. Forcing herself to believe the first, she opened and shut her hands several times to get the circulation going. She felt for a latch or doorknob. None. She searched the far side of the door for hinges. Ah. Two of them. She took off her shoe and began hammering at one of the bolts. It fell out. The second one proved to be harder. It wouldn’t budge. But after some energetic pushing and prying, she was able to open the door a crack with her fingers. That was something, but not enough. For the second time that day she wished she were thinner.
If she could only find something strong to pry open the door. Or something solid to knock it down. Slowly, she circled the space she had come to regard as her cell. She counted her steps. Five from front to back, twelve from side to side. A rectangle. She crisscrossed the space, hoping to trip over some discarded farm instrument or carpenter’s tool. An iron bar would be nice. She could batter the door down. What would her Irish detective do in her predicament? She tried to recall each episode. In almost every case the TV prop man had supplied him with a handy tool. And if he hadn’t, her muscle-bound hero had simply pushed his shoulder against the door and it had conveniently given way. Suddenly Mrs. Doyle wished she were ten pounds heavier. Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. She stood two feet back and threw her full weight against the door. There was the sound of splintering wood. She stepped back the full five feet and ran at the door. More splintering. She explored the space between the door and the wall with her hand. Definitely wider. Once more. Rush! Heave! Crack! It gave way. She stepped out into open space and thanked her patron saint that she was not ten pounds lighter.
At first she could see nothing distinctly, but she sensed more space around her than she had sensed in the closet. Gradually her eyes became accustomed to the gloom. She raised them to the only source of light—a small hole at the top of the wall near the roof. The wall was brick. One brick must have come loose and fallen out. It was still daylight. Her eyes traveled down the brick wall. Some bricks were darker than others. They formed a pattern. Letters and numbers. With a start, she realized she was looking at a mirror image of the way they looked on the outside.
She reversed them.
She was in the Ashley cottage at the old wharf.
She scanned the interior. It had been stripped down to its bare bones. Even the second floor had been removed. Open space soared to the eaves. A large brick fireplace dominated one wall, with a chimney that reached to the roof. Mrs. Doyle went over to examine it. Staring upward, through its black, cavernous mouth, no light was visible. It had been sealed shut. No escape by that means. Besides, she was much too broad to squeeze through such a narrow passageway. She turned her eyes elsewhere. The windows and door were tightly sealed. She remembered that from her former visit. Taking a step forward, she almost fell ten feet into a gigantic hole. Regaining her balance, she looked to her right. Looming nearby was a large piece of earth-moving equipment. A backhoe. Her vision almost completely restored, she moved cautiously around the edge of the huge hole to look at the long table on the other side. The table consisted of a piece of plywood stretched across two wooden horses. On the table were several shallow boxes covered with screening. The holes in the screening were large enough to let sand or fine dirt pass through, but too small to let a pebble or penny through. Mrs. Doyle had seen similar boxes at an archeological dig she had once visited. But why here? She had heard of no dig at the cottage. If there was one, what were they digging for? In one corner leaned a metal detector. And in another, a pile of wooden boxes. She studied their labels. THE MORGAN COMPANY.
And below, in smaller type: EXPLOSIVES.
CHAPTER 47
Jennifer was busy in the kitchen preparing dinner. She was expecting Fenimore at seven o’clock. Having discovered his new interest in pirates, she had rented Captain Blood that evening. She hoped he wouldn’t mind Olivia de Haviland standing in for Ingrid Bergman for one night. She and her father had always enjoyed Errol Flynn. As she removed the casserole from the oven, her father came into the kitchen.
“Expecting the doctor tonight?”
She nodded.
“Good.” Her father enjoyed Fenimore’s company almost as much as Jennifer did. “I’ve discovered a museum I think he might like to visit.”
“Oh? Where?”
“Johnson City, Tennessee.”
Jennifer raised an eyebrow. “What museum is that?”
“The Museum of Ancient Bricks. They have examples of bricks from Egypt, Babylon …”
“I think the doctor’s interest in bricks may have waned, Dad.” She hadn’t told her father about the brick that had arrived through Fenimore’s office window. No use having him worry every time she went to the office. “Sometimes I think the only reason he comes here is to see you and Ingrid. I’m just the chief cook and bottle-washer.”
Her father laughed. “You should be pleased that he has such good taste in women,” he said. “It’s a compliment to you.”
She smiled. Her father always made her feel better. She glanced at the clock. 7:15. Odd. He was always so prompt. She knew he had gone to the police lab that morning to study the report on the recent threatening note. She had wondered why he hadn’t called to tell her the results. He must have known she would be interested. She straightened the glasses and the silverware for the umpteenth time.
The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest Page 19