She started crying and closed her eyes to staunch the tears. But still they came, a silent, tearing wail that couldn’t be heard.
Hours later. Opening her eyes again, she looked for the nurse call button. Her hands patted the bed on either side. No button, no way to tell them she was awake.
Once again, she closed her eyes.
The IV did its work and she began lifting from the earth and floating blissfully through a ripple of soft morning sunlight.
Then she was out.
* * *
Some time later—who could say when—her eyes opened again. She could sense movement in the room as staff came and went and tube lights were shined into her eyes. Voices came near and moved back. Occasionally a hand or hands would hold one of her hands. Words would be uttered over her. A prayer. A man wearing a white collar. Another man, one she knew. He came near and kissed her forehead.
Thaddeus. The name came to her.
She tried to reach up to him, but he faded into the wall and was gone.
Tears came again. They were salty and hot as they found her mouth. The pillow beneath her head became damp.
It would be so easy to just let go and leave. She could feel her spirit bouncing against the shell of her body, straining to free itself. But she resisted.
It wasn’t time.
* * *
Three doctors in white frocks were peering down at her. They had worried looks on their faces and were talking low among themselves. One of them she recognized: Dr. Sewell. He said something and the other two doctors—a man and a woman—nodded and said something back. Then light beams entered her eyes and she felt someone breathing against her face as they peered into her eyes. The light flicked out and she was left with an afterlight that darted about as she moved her eyes.
“Nothing surgically to be done,” Dr. Sewell’s voice said.
“She must be stabilized,” said the woman doctor.
“For the love of God, do something,” a third voice pleaded.
Thaddeus. That was Thaddeus.
He was there for her.
24
Sicily - Late Afternoon
Christine stayed in one place for too long.
They made her while she was parked across the street in a black Alfa Romeo. Her camera was directed at them when the taller bodyguard suddenly looked up, looked right at her, and pointed. Christine slumped down in the bucket seat, but it was too late: they had seen her. She realized what it was: the sun was directly behind them and she had been shooting into it. The lens flare had caught the guy’s eye and drawn his attention right back along the barrel of the camera.
The taller bodyguard ran for his motorcycle. The smaller, olive-skinned man began running toward her. His hand reached inside his suit coat as if to retrieve a gun. Christine threw the car into reverse, spun the tires backing up, came forward in low gear, and squealed around on two tires as she made a U-turn and headed up Viscounti Street, going the wrong way on a one-way.
Within minutes, the taller bodyguard was on his Ducati and coming up behind. He wasn’t wearing a helmet and in the rearview Christine could look directly into his eyes. His face was a mask of rage and yet his riding was controlled and certain. Her heart fell; the motorcycle would easily overtake her and he was undoubtedly armed. A mafia crime boss like Lincoln Mascari would allow no less.
Panicked and eyes darting ahead looking for an escape, Christine suddenly twisted the steering wheel hard to the right and the black car went up onto two tires as she came around the Hotel Termini. Its long, white scalloped fence and spraying fountain passed out of her field of vision and then she saw it ahead: an alleyway leading off to her right. She immediately braked full-on and the motorcycle behind her turned sideways as both brakes locked up and the machine skidded toward her, coming up close, resting right beside her bumper. She thought she heard it make contact but couldn’t be sure.
She tromped on the gas and skidded into the handicap parking slot closest to the hotel’s kitchen entrance. She slammed it into park, and darted for the door. The Alfa Romeo was left running, the key still dangling from the ignition. Christine couldn’t have cared less: she was running for her life and knew it. If they managed to capture her, she knew she would give up Thaddeus if they tortured her. She had been tortured before and couldn’t go through that again. So she ran.
* * *
Christine and BAT had located Lincoln Mascari in Termini by paying out substantial sums of cash. In the end, it was one of his own men who gave him up, though Mascari would never know about it.
The Chicago mobster, transplanted to Sicily, was living on a sloping promontory looking out over the ocean. Framed like the bow of some magisterial ship, the massive windows built out over the waves had seduced him. Mascari loved the windows at sundown, when he would stand before them with his mistress, both nude, champagne flutes in hand, allowing the rays of the setting sun to turn their brown skin golden in the evening glow and then dark and darker as sunset turned to night. By then their lovemaking was completed, the Demi bottle of champagne drained, and the cooks had appeared upstairs to prepare another enchanting French meal—Mascari’s favorite food—and to serve aperitifs. Dressed in robes and sandals, the lovers would stroll out onto the veranda and watch the groundskeepers light the gas torches around them and down along the walkway to the beach. His arm around her waist, her head against his shoulder, he was totally unaware that he was being watched from an adjacent home where the owners were in Rome and the intruders were accomplices of Thaddeus Murfee. For Mascari had kidnapped Murfee’s daughter at one time, though the girl had been located and returned to her parents essentially unharmed. But during that episode, Mascari had made an enemy for life, which he had known, and he had fled to Sicily with Murfee’s money. Along the way, he had purchased a new face and a new identity to avoid the retribution that would otherwise run him to the ground and leave him dead. Murfee was known to the Sicilian mob for his payback; several of their number had already lost their lives to the avenging lawyer.
Christine and BAT traded off at the spotting scope every hour. That night, when the fawning couple stepped out on the veranda, it just so happened that it was Christine’s eye at the scope. While she couldn’t be sure—due to his plastic surgery and the flickering gaslight—that it was Mascari, the sources they had bought and paid had reassured them. She decided that she would take what photographs she could and post them to Thaddeus’ online account. He would be able to have his technicians review them and confirm whether Christine had found their target.
One thing they knew: the grounds were crawling with security—and not just any security. These were made men, Mafiosi who would stop at nothing to protect their meal ticket. Sawed-off shotguns were the norm and the premises were fenced and monitored 24/7. Whenever the target came and went, it was never just one vehicle making the move. Three—and sometimes four—vehicles came and went at once, windows blacked out, so Christine was never certain which she wanted to follow. As it turned out, she memorized the license plates and, over the ensuing days, followed them in turn. She cracked the code: Mascari had defeated his own system: he had a favorite. A black Mercedes driven by the tall bodyguard who made no effort to hide the shotgun and sidearm he wore whenever he drove. It was he who would eventually spot Christine and give chase. The bodyguard’s name was Giuseppe Rele and he was the nephew of Lincoln Mascari. He had followed Mascari from Chicago to Sicily.
* * *
Into the kitchen she ran, and she heard, outside, the thump of the motorcycle and the sudden whine of its engine accelerating as it was dumped on its side still roaring. Running footsteps could be heard, and Christine ran down a service way and into a room with prep tables and huge ovens preparing dinner for the guests of the hotel. At the far end of the room, where the double doors endlessly swung in and out, hulked the smaller bodyguard in the black suit, the only person in the entire room paying any attention to her. He crouched as she ran toward him, ready to do battle. Four feet from his grasp. Chri
stine suddenly left her feet, kicking her left shoe at the man’s throat, catching him across the epiglottis, and causing him to tumble backward as she literally leaped over him and crashed through the swinging doors.
Ahead was a small hallway that opened onto the dining room. Off to her right was an open linen closet. She jumped inside, retrieved an apron, and swept it around her body, covering her shoulder to knee. In one spinning motion, she picked up a large circular serving tray and pushed back through the swinging doors she had just come out of as if she were just another waitress coming inside to pick up another dinner. As she stepped in, the tall motorcycle man pushed by her and continued his chase. She let out a huge lungful of air. Just as she contemplated: he hadn’t been close enough to view her features; he had only known that it was a woman he was chasing. Not only that, he hadn’t even known what she was wearing.
Christine retraced her steps to the back door, dropped the tray and stripped off the apron. Then she was outside and nearly free. Incredibly, the Ducati bike was still down with its engine racing. She darted to the bike, pulled on the hand caliper to release the clutch, and stood it upright. The bike outweighed her, but Christine could lift almost 200 pounds, so she leveraged it upright with her arms, back, and legs. Mounted on the seat, she spun the bike on its rear wheel and dug out of the parking lot.
Three blocks away she began paying attention to the color of the traffic lights. Up until then, it had been an all-out sprint. She relaxed somewhat and felt her way through the controls on the bike. The combination of fast throttle cam, poor fueling, and light flywheel made the throttle feel snatchy and more difficult to control. But it would do. She decided to keep the bike and ride it out to the house. From there she and BAT could decide what to do about the killer next door.
25
Dr. Sewell pulled into the hospital parking lot and left his rental in doctors’ parking. It was just after six o’clock and he guessed that Nadia’s visitors, if any, would be having supper and he might be able to steal a few minutes alone with her. He only wanted to pray over her.
The elevator doors opened on the second floor. Dr. Sewell stepped out and looked around. He was wearing a light sports coat, black slacks, and a nondescript necktie. He had a stethoscope draped around his neck. The duty nurses were gathered around the nurses’ station. Dinner was being served by the cafeteria staff, the cart rolling slowly down the hallway as dinners were passed to those able to eat normally. Dr. Sewell strode confidently by the nurses, who ignored him, and continued to Nadia’s room. He entered and paused.
It was dimly lit, the green and yellow LCD points of light from the monitor panel and ventilator glowing to indicate all was well.
But after he had glanced through the newest additions to her chart he knew all wasn’t well. Brain scans indicated a complete failure of brain stem activity. The woman was medically dead. He walked up to her and squeezed her toes though the light blanket.
“Hello, my dear,” he whispered. “I’m going to pray for you and would like for you to speak to me if you want.”
Of course, there was no response. He crossed to the head of the bed and looked down at her.
“God, bless this child,” he whispered.
The prayer continued.
When he had concluded, he went deeper inside his mind and, as was his practice, took the steps he deemed necessary to open his consciousness to hearing from her consciousness.
Thus, he stood, eyes closed and slowly breathing when Albert Turkenov and Ana Millerton suddenly entered the room.
“Hey, Doctor,” said Ana. “How are we doing tonight?”
Dr. Sewell opened his eyes.
He shook his head. “She’s gone, you know.”
“Maybe not,” said Albert. “We’re hoping for a miracle.”
“You’re family?”
“Children. Who are you?”
Ignoring the question, he said, “Can I be totally frank with you?”
“Please do, doctor.”
Dr. Sewell drew a deep breath. “Brain stem activity is totally absent. You’ll not get your miracle at this point.”
Anastasia stepped forward.
“Who are you?” she asked. “You’re not one of her doctors, are you?”
He smiled and shook his head.
“No, I’m the doctor you’re suing. I’m Emerick Sewell.”
Albert moved closed.
“What the hell are you doing in our mother’s room? I’m calling security!”
“No need for that. I’ll leave quietly. Truth be told, I was praying for your mother.”
“You should be, for what good that does,” said Anastasia, her voice tight and angry. “You scam artists and your prayers. You can all go to hell!”
“All right, I’ll leave. But first, may I ask you a question?”
Anastasia grimaced. “Can we stop you?”
“I just want to ask, why haven’t you withdrawn her life support? I’m sure your doctors have explained the futility of keeping her body alive.”
Albert stepped closer, his fists clenching.
“As if our family is any of your goddamn business!”
“You died and went to heaven and came back? I’ve read your stupid damn book. Doesn’t that make you, of all people, think there might be hope for our mother?” asked Anastasia. She folded her arms across her chest and challenged the visitor.
“Totally different presentations, your mother and I. My case was just about as hopeless but something was different. I was supposed to come back.”
“But you weren’t brain dead.”
“In fact, my doctor had just recommended to my wife that life support be withdrawn. She had agreed.”
“But you woke up instead,” said Anastasia. Her face was gathered in a frown. Dr. Sewell knew she was ready to do battle. Talking sense to her appeared to be out of the question, so he tried to step around. She sidestepped, remaining directly in his path. “Not so fast,” she said. “We’re not done here.”
“What else would you like me to say? I’m more than willing to discuss.”
“Why don’t you tell your insurance company to pay our claim? Why fight us? Your book is misleading and caused our mother to follow the worst advice ever given by any doctor in the history of medicine.”
“That’s not my decision. I don’t have any control over my insurance company.”
“Sure you do. You can tell them what you want and they have to give strong consideration,” Albert said suddenly. “There’s a legal duty they owe you,” he said, drawing on his one semester of academic training where he’d completed a business law course.
“I don’t know about that, Albert. I only know what my lawyers tell me. But I can ask. That I can and will do. You have my word on that.”
“Sure we do,” scoffed Albert. “Just like my mother had your word on her chance to visit heaven. Pure bullshit, Dr. Sewell!”
The doctor edged around Anastasia, but now Albert was blocking him from leaving. He stopped, realizing they weren’t done. So he decided to take the initiative.
He asked, “Why won’t you let her go? I’m getting the definite feeling there’s money involved here. Am I right?” He knew it was a risky thing, broaching the key subject head-on. But they had left him no choice except to question their motives as he had been told by Thaddeus that her will left all her money to charity, so the kids had a financial interest in keeping her alive.
“That is not open for discussion. Our mother’s finances are off-limits for you. Our mother’s case is off-limits to you. In fact, why don’t you just leave? I oughta call security on you anyway, bastard,” said Albert angrily. However, he did step aside so the doctor could pass.
“I’m sorry about your mother,” Dr. Sewell said, walking to the door and pausing before he left. “If I caused her to be in this condition, you’ll never know how I sorry I am.”
“Well, you did, Doctor,” Anastasia said. She shook her head. “You really need to print a retraction. That book of
yours is very dangerous.”
“Food for thought,” said Dr. Sewell. “Food for thought.”
26
They removed Katy’s breathing tube on the seventh day. It came out with a cough and a gasp for air directly into her lungs. Katy lay back and listened to herself breathe normally without a machine pumping air into her. The silence was precious and she said a prayer of thanks. She looked to her left. Thaddeus was there, watching her.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey, yourself.” Her voice was an octave lower and gravelly.
“Dr. Sewell is coming in to talk to you.”
“He doesn’t have to do that. He’s not my doctor.”
“He wants to. Now that the tube’s out, you can ask your questions.”
“Let me sleep for now. The tube ordeal was too much.”
* * *
Dr. Sewell arrived an hour later, and Katy awoke with a start to find him standing at her bedside, examining the monitor on the wall.
He turned to her when he realized she was watching him.
“Hey, Doctor.”
“Hey, Doc.”
“Katy, I’ve been a practicing neurosurgeon and I’ve seen thousands of spinal tumors. They’re always excruciating. You must be in terrible pain. Your paralysis is probably taking away some of that.”
Katy was flat on her back on the bed, no pillow. The surgeons and neurologists were waiting for the swelling in her spine to subside. Nothing could be done with the swollen tissue so they had immobilized her and were treating only the pain.
“I know,” she moaned. “From about belly button down there’s nothing. But I’m out of it—meds working.”
“You go ahead and be out of it, honey,” said Thaddeus from his bedside chair. “Everything is under control at home. The kids are eating and getting to school on time. Homework is getting done. Rooms are somewhat decent. Most of all, we’re in your corner.”
The Near Death Experience (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thriller Series Book 10) Page 12