If I Should Die

by Hilary Norman

  “I do,” Joe said.

  “How?” Hagen asked.

  Joe didn’t respond, just met Morrissey’s glance.

  Hagen got the message. “You want me to go.”

  “If you don’t mind,” Joe said. “I want to thank you for your help.”

  “I’ve done nothing.”

  “You’ve done more than you know,” Joe said.

  When the door closed behind Hagen, Morrissey looked at Joe.

  “What are you planning now, Lieutenant?”

  “Where’s Mr Ferguson?”

  “Somewhere in the building. Why?”

  A new hit of adrenaline had sharpened Joe’s flagging system again. “Schwartz is right on the brink, isn’t he? He’s mixing up his myths, blurring the edges of fantasy and reality – we have to use that, ethical or not. Without Schwartz’s confession, those documents are useless. If I can’t find a way to break him, he’ll go free, and all those other patients out there will be no better off than when we started.”

  “I ask you again,” Morrissey said, “what are you planning?”

  “I’m planning,” Joe said, “to try and scare him half to death.” He read the disapproval on the physician’s face. “Schwartz isn’t going to talk any other way, we all know that.” He went on slowly, still working it out. “What we can’t be sure of – short of crawling inside that fucked-up mind of his – is if, ultimately, Schwartz is going to be more terrified of dying, or of this crazy man-and-metal thing.”

  “You want Kaminsky to try again?”

  Joe shook his head. “Kaminsky alone won’t change Schwartz’s mind, but I do have an idea that might tip the balance. It’s more than a little bizarre, and it’ll take some time to set up, but it might just work.”

  “Maybe I’d be better off not hearing this,” Morrissey said.

  “Do you want to pull the plug?” Joe asked.

  “How can I pull the plug on a plan I know nothing about?”

  “Let’s not kid ourselves.” Joe owed it to Morrissey to be realistic. “If things go wrong, who’s going to believe you knew nothing? We’ve already involved members of your staff – there are witnesses. It could mean major trouble for you and the clinic.”

  “I’m well aware of that, Lieutenant.” Morrissey smiled wryly. “I’ve already done more than enough to get myself into all kinds of trouble. But I’m not a young man – I’ll be retiring soon enough, anyway. And I owe Marie a great debt.” He paused. “But I am still a doctor, and when all is said and done, no matter what Schwartz is guilty of, he’s still a patient in my clinic. I can’t become personally involved in any form of mistreatment.”

  “You won’t be.”

  “Do you give me your word he won’t be harmed?”

  “I do.”

  Morrissey nodded. “Then as I said, I can’t pull the plug on something I know nothing about.”

  Joe checked his watch. Ten past three in the morning, and the whole investigation was still as big a mess as it had been. There was just this one remaining chance, this one more insane shot at trying to break Schwartz, and if he failed, Joe knew that he’d have no more reason not to give Ash the go-ahead to take Lally into surgery.

  Less than five hours remained until the commander’s deadline expired, and his career went down in flames. Right now, that was the least of his worries.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Tuesday, January 26th

  At four-fifteen a.m., Frederick Schwartz was dreaming again, wild, dark nightmares in which his mother was punishing him, burning his skin with her cigarette, in which a great scaly dragon bore down on him, its breath so hot that he felt stifled, suffocated, in which he screamed and wept and no one came to save him. In which Hagen stood, silent and shadowy, in the background, his sword drawn and all hope gone.

  For several moments, Sean Ferguson watched the man who had killed his wife, and suddenly, for the very first time in all his years, adult and childhood, he experienced the urge to end another human being’s life. He wanted to pick up one of those pillows and place it over this madman’s face, to push and push until the laboured breathing stopped and the insane, poisonous, evil blood ceased flowing through his veins –

  And then Schwartz gave a wheezing, choking breath, and his right hand clutched spasmodically at the damp sheet covering him, and the brief, murderous impulse left Ferguson. Killing him now would help no one. Duval’s way was better.

  Ferguson-Kaminsky took a deep breath of stifling air, and bent over the bed. “Mr Schwartz, wake up.”

  Schwartz moaned.

  “Come on, Mr Schwartz, you’re okay.”

  Schwartz woke with a jolt, sweat streaming off him, eyes dark with terror.

  “You’re okay now,” Ferguson-Kaminsky said. “It was just a dream.”

  “Where is he?” Schwartz’s voice was a hiss.

  “Where is who?”

  “Where’s Hagen? I saw him – he was here.”

  “Mr Hagen was here earlier, but he’s gone home.” Ferguson-Kaminsky’s bedside manner was so gentle and calming he marvelled at it himself. “But I’ve come to talk to you again about letting us treat your condition.”

  Schwartz shook his head weakly from side to side.

  “Where’s Hagen?” he asked again.

  “I told you, sir, he left.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Ferguson-Kaminsky sat on a chair beside the bed. “Listen to me, please, Mr Schwartz, because I have something important to tell you.”

  The wild eyes narrowed. “You want to put metal into me.”

  “I want to put a pacemaker into you, yes.” The doctor paused. “You remember I told you about the other patient bitten by the Gila monster? Do you remember I told you that he was very sick, that it was too late for him?”

  “I remember. I remember all your lies.”

  “Not lies,” Ferguson-Kaminsky said. “He died, Mr Schwartz. The other man died because it was too late to help him. And you’re going to die too, unless you let us help you now.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “What will it take for you to believe me, Mr Schwartz? Do you want to see the other man? Will you believe me then?”

  The eyes grew even narrower, filled with contempt and suspicion. “You’re all such liars,” he said.

  Ferguson-Kaminsky stood up. “I’m not lying to you, Mr Schwartz. I wish I were.” He walked over to the door connecting that room to the next and turned the lock in the door. “Come in, orderly,” he called.

  The door opened.

  Schwartz stared.

  A green-coated orderly stood in the doorway, and there was something behind him. A gurney covered with a white sheet.

  “Doctor?” The orderly waited.

  “Please bring it in.”

  The gurney slid through the door.

  “Thank you, orderly.” The door closed behind the other man.

  “What is this?” Schwartz sounded contemptuous, but Ferguson-Kaminsky could almost taste his fear.

  “I’d rather not put you through this,” he said, still gentle.

  “Through what?” Schwartz’s breath wheezed. “This charade?”

  Ferguson-Kaminsky moved closer to the gurney and lifted the sheet away from Chris Webber’s chalky, peaceful, dead face.

  Schwartz shrank back in his bed. “It could be anyone.” His mouth opened, like a fish gulping air. “People in hospitals die all the time.”

  “Take a look at his right hand,” the doctor said. He came back towards Schwartz’s bed, bent and pressed a button, raising the head end.

  “What are you doing?” Schwartz gasped, panicking.

  “Just making it easier for you to see,” Ferguson-Kaminsky said. “You know what the lizard’s bite looks like – those grooved teeth make a mess, don’t they?”

  “No.” Schwartz turned his head away.

  “I want to prove to you I’m not lying.”

  “Take him away.”

  “Just take a
quick look.” Ferguson-Kaminsky went back to the gurney, lifted the sheet on Webber’s right side, raised his hand. Bloodless now, the wounds stitched up. Lifeless. “Shall I wheel him closer?”

  “No!”

  Schwartz clamped his eyes shut. Cold, clammy dread clutched at him. He couldn’t breathe, his heart fluttered wildly in his chest. He had only ever seen one human corpse and he had never forgotten. Mother, grown waxen and cold. Mother, with her hair sweetly curled and her eyes closed for ever.

  “Take a look,” Ferguson-Kaminsky said again. “Open your eyes and take a look – feel him, if you like – and then you’ll know I’m not lying to you about the pacemaker.”

  “No!”

  Frederick Schwartz fainted.

  In Morrissey’s sitting room Joe, alone, was pacing again. From time to time his steps brought him face to face with his reflection in the big mirror on the wall over the unlit fireplace. He looked haggard, older than he had just a week ago; the thin face with its pointed nose looked thinner, the dark hair had maybe a little more grey in it, but mostly it was his mouth, so grim, so set, that showed what he’d been going through. No wonder Jess had looked so disbelieving whenever he’d told her his troubles were nothing he couldn’t handle.

  The door opened and he spun around.

  “No go,” Ferguson said, quickly, seeing his face.

  Chris Webber entered the room behind him. The grey-white make-up they’d applied to his face and upper body was partly wiped away, and he was warming up again after they’d plunged his right hand in ice in case Schwartz wanted to touch it, but he still looked like a zombie in a third-rate horror movie, his true pallor showing through, contrasting with the still feverish glitter of his eyes.

  “He didn’t buy you as a corpse.” Joe’s voice was flat, defeated.

  “Oh, he bought me only too well.” Chris’s injured hand had been swiftly rebandaged by Morrissey, and he wore a white sling around his neck. “He freaked out.”

  “And then he passed out,” Ferguson added.

  “So what’s next?” Chris asked.

  The door opened again, and Morrissey came in with Lucas Ash and Tony Valdez.

  “We need a moment with Lieutenant Duval,” Morrissey said to Chris and Ferguson. “If you’ll excuse us.”

  Silently, the two men left the room.

  “I want to operate now,” Ash said to Joe. His face was set. “I understand how you feel, and believe me, I’d rather be going in there knowing exactly what we’re up against, but under the circumstances, I think we have to get this thing out of Lally as fast as we can.”

  “For what it’s worth,” Valdez said, “I agree.”

  “I’m not through with Schwartz yet,” Joe said. The panic was back, deep inside. He felt like a child, helpless and frustrated, wanting to cry, to kick and scream until he got what he needed.

  “The OR’s ready,” Ash went on, steadily. “My team is ready, the bomb people and half the Chicago Fire Department all seem to be well and truly primed. And to be candid, Lieutenant, I think you’re letting your personal fears get in the way of your professional judgment.”

  “How do you figure that, Doctor?” Joe was icy.

  “Because on Sunday morning,” Ash said, crisply, “when you and I spoke for the first time – that’s approximately forty-four hours or so ago – I got the distinct impression that you considered my being in Hawaii and cut off because of a storm, almost as great a crime as if I’d tampered with the pacemakers myself.” Ash softened his tone. “Now I know it was because you believed that every second counted, that your sister’s life was in imminent danger, but that danger hasn’t passed. And I know that part of the reason you’re stalling now is because you’re terrified of what may happen in surgery – ”

  “Aren’t you?” Joe challenged. “You ought to be.”

  “Of course I am – I’m not a fool, Lieutenant.” Ash paused. “And I don’t know what your plans are for this man, and I don’t want to know, but surely you must realize that even if you do pull off a miracle and get him to talk, we can’t take anything he says now at face value. Your sister’s pacemaker will still have to be explanted, and we’ll still be going into the unknown.”

  “He’s right, Lieutenant,” Morrissey said. It was the first time he’d spoken since they’d entered the room.

  Joe said nothing. He knew, without being reminded, that Schwartz’s word wouldn’t count for spit without corroboration, and he knew that Ash was right, too, that he was stalling now mostly because of his fears for Lally. And that if he didn’t make a decision now – right now – his own fears might be what killed her.

  Ash looked at his watch. “I have four forty-two, gentlemen. With your permission, I’d like to go and wake Miss Duval to let her know that we’re down to our final preparations, and that we’ll be ready for her in the OR at five-fifteen sharp.”

  Neither Morrissey nor Valdez spoke.

  Joe stared into Ash’s handsome face. As Lally had when she’d first set eyes on him almost sixteen days before, he felt almost troubled by that face, was aware, ludicrously, that he might feel more confident if it were marred by some small imperfection.

  “Four forty-three,” Valdez said quietly.

  In the seven or so seconds that followed, Joe thought about Jack Long and Marie Ferguson, and Sam McKinley and Alice Douglas, and all the other as yet nameless victims out there, going about their business in blissful ignorance. But the only face Joe saw in his mind was Lally’s. For one more frantic instant, he sought some kind of divine inspiration, but none came.

  “Go for it,” he said.

  Chris and Ferguson watched silently as the cardiologist and Valdez left the room, saw the determination of the way they walked away down the corridor, and they both knew, without being told, that a decision had been made.

  Without a word, Ferguson knocked on Morrissey’s door and they both went right in. The two men were sitting in armchairs, Joe slumped sideways, his body language telling them all they needed to know.

  “They’re going to operate?” Ferguson asked.

  “At a quarter past five,” Morrissey said, softly.

  Chris looked at his watch. Everything inside him froze.

  “What now?” he asked.

  “We wait,” Morrissey answered.

  Chris ignored him. “Duval?”

  Joe said nothing.

  “So what now?” Chris’s voice hardened. “Is that it? You’re giving up?”

  “No, I’m not giving up,” Joe said, wearily. “Just taking a break.”

  “I had a feeling,” Ferguson said, “before we were asked to leave, that you had more plans for Schwartz.”

  “I did,” Joe said.

  “So what are they?”

  “Maybe we should let the lieutenant have a few minutes,” Morrissey intervened. “He’ll want to visit with his sister, and then I think he should try to rest a while.”

  “He can rest later, when it’s over, when there’s nothing left to try.”

  Chris knew how harsh he sounded, how unlike himself. He saw that Duval was almost at the end of his rope, and he knew how that felt – and maybe his own sudden rush of strength was only temporary and born out of the knowledge that he was not, after all, going to die. But he had this conviction that his body had beaten the Gila monster’s venom so that he could join in the fight to at least try to help Lally, though it did look now as if only Ash could do that for her. But he could see Duval was fading fast, and Chris, maybe more than anyone here, knew how much trouble the lieutenant was in, and that bastard was still hanging in, and he was damned if he was going to let them all just give up when there might still be a chance of nailing him.

  “Duval, what’s the plan?” he asked, still tough.

  Joe came out of his slump. “Okay,” he said, slowly, taking a moment to regroup, to refocus on what he’d been brewing up in his mind before Ash had come in.

  “Good.” Chris relaxed a little.

  “Is Schwartz still
out?” Joe asked Morrissey. “I’d like him out a while longer. I need him out.

  For an instant, Morrissey paused. Then, tiredly, he got to his feet.

  “I’ll give him a sedative. He’ll sleep for an hour or so.”

  Joe felt a new pang of guilt. “Thank you, Doctor.”

  Morrissey nodded and left the room.

  “What do you have in mind?” Ferguson asked Joe.

  “One last shot,” Joe said. “If this doesn’t work, we’re dead.” He managed a smile at Webber. “No part for you in this, except waiting.”

  “That’s okay,” Chris said. “So long as you’re not giving up.”

  “What is it?” Ferguson asked.

  “It’s really off the wall.”

  “So’s Schwartz,” Ferguson said.

  “I just think it might be the last push he needs.”

  “Then go for it,” Chris said.

  “Dr Morrissey’ll hate it.”

  “Then we won’t tell him,” Sean Ferguson said.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Tuesday, January 26th

  “Talk about déjà vu,” Lally said when they wheeled her into the OR. It was fifteen minutes after five on the nose, and the winter world outside the clinic was still dark and sleepy, but in this room, there was no time, no season.

  “Hi, Lally,” Joanna King, sleek in cotton coveralls, greeted her warmly.

  “Good to see you again.” Bobby Goldstein, not so sleek, came to give her a kiss on the cheek. “Though I never guessed back in Holyoke you had such a taste for the dramatic.”

  Lally looked around the room, taking in the preparations that had been made for her surgery. The glass walls had been partly boarded up, partly diagonally taped, the way some people prepared windows in storm risk areas of New England to stop them blasting lethal shards of glass if they broke. There were no oxygen or other gas cylinders, and Lally guessed they had been removed in case the worst happened. But what really made her stomach quake and raised the tiny hairs on her arms were the two astronauts talking so earnestly to Lucas Ash over at the far end of the room.