by James Carver
“The guys tailing you had that ticket when I ran into them. That’s when I called you,” said Devlin.
“Yeah, I’m sorry about not telling you the truth and spinning you the gambling story. But you know why now—I was working for Homeland, and I was shit scared. Getting the ticket seemed like a great idea at the time. I know we hadn’t seen each other in years, but we were best buddies in Osan. You looked out for me, and everybody who knows Gabe knows there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for a friend in trouble. And the fact you were a priest just gave me this idea that you could give me sanctuary. I figured I’d just up and go if I needed to. Made me feel better I had that exit plan. But things got really serious really quickly. And then I just thought there was no way I could tell you what I was mixed up in. I was sworn to secrecy, and it had already started to get so ugly.”
Ed had walked over by the dinette and leaned against the door. He was animated, jittery as he recalled what had happened.
“First thing I knew about it was that fucker Packer coming up to my house. Lucky for me, once the weather warms up a bit I like to take a bottle of rye and sit by the trees out front of my place. So there’s me winding down one night ’bout a week ago when I see a car pull up a hundred meters or so down the highway. This figure gets out and starts walking toward my house. He doesn’t have to get close for me to realize it’s Packer; the guy’s so big it’s obvious. I’m covered from sight by the trees, and he isn’t even looking for me there. For some reason, instinct or whatever, I just stayed where I was, I didn’t move or make a sound. I just had a bad feeling about it.
“Then Packer walks up the drive to my house and starts snooping around. He takes a look around the back of the house and up to the garage. So now I know something ain’t right. At one point he’s only about ten feet away from me, and I’m tucked behind a tree trunk. I tell you, I nearly shit my pants. Then, once he’s seen the coast is clear, he rings the bell. Some lights are on—course, my truck’s parked up, and it looks like I might be home. As he’s waiting to see if I answer, he pulls out a great big fucking knife and hides it down by his side. I couldn’t believe it! He’s there to kill me! Out of the blue. Without any warning. If I hadn’t come out for a drink, I’d be sliced open and dumped up at the damn gut pile.
“Anyhow, course the door doesn’t open, and so he gives it a couple of minutes and goes round to the garage and I hear him bust the door open. Once he’s inside, I just ditch the bottle and run like a maniac. I ran and I ran till I was sick in the road. Then I ran and walked till I reached the Gypsy camp. I wasn’t intending to go there, but when I saw it up by the highway, I just threw myself on their mercy. And God bless these people, without question they took me in. They gave me a way out till I could get in touch with George.”
“We figured it was the safest place for Ed to stay for a week or so,” said Brennan. “Out here in the camp. Especially when the murders started happening. All the crazy shit that’s happened with Earl Logan just complicated things for us. We just wanted to get the hell out. Halton was becoming a mess. We have Errol here keep an eye on the trailer, and he buzzed me when you showed up. Of course, if I knew it was old Gabe, I would have gone easier on you. So that’s it. Ed was compromised, and we got no way back into Logan Enterprises.”
“What about the cattle lab? Did it check out?” asked Devlin.
“Well, it’s there and it’s operating,” answered Brennan. “Far as we can see, it’s all legit. But a fifty-million-dollar investment in a cattle lab? Bullshit. I think it’s a front, and that’s why the money’s taking a roundabout route. And if Logan’s fully legit, why did they want Ed killed? Sure, they’d have been upset as hell when they found out he was working for Homeland, but if they had nothing to hide, why did Packer come after him?”
“I didn’t see anything that didn’t look legit going on down there,” said Ed. “I just delivered regular equipment for them.”
“What kind of equipment?” asked Devlin.
“Lots of stuff. You name it,” said Ed.
“No, Ed. I want you to name it. Tell me what you drove up there.”
“Well, stuff you’d expect… I went through it all with George’s guys. Chemicals, pharmaceutical stuff. A lot of liquid nitrogen, lab supplies like beakers, blood collection tubes. Exactly the kind of things you’d expect for their cattle fertilization plant. There were box loads of anesthetics for heifers. Mostly this one called…pro something…prop…”
“Propofol?”
“Yeah, that’s it. How did you know the name?”
“I worked in pararescue, remember? We used to drop into the middle of war zones weighed down with painkillers and—” Devlin stopped suddenly, and he sat up. “Ed, did you ever take delivery of ketamine?”
“Ketamine?” Ed thought for a moment and said, “Yeah, yeah we did. It was a veterinary anesthetic they brought in. In fact, that’s the main one they used for cattle. Lots of that and other pharmaceuticals like prostomate, BioLife…”
“Why the interest in ketamine?” asked Brennan.
“Oh, nothing,” said Devlin casually, leaning back in the chair. “Professional interest is all. Once a pararescue, always a pararescue.”
George looked at his watch. “Well, much as I’d like to talk about the shit you injected people with when you were a PJ, I got a meeting in Columbus this afternoon. So, let’s cut to the chase. What is it you think you can do for me, Gabe? What’s God told you ’bout all this he hasn’t told anyone else?” said Brennan with a chuckle.
“I think there’s a better way into all of this than you or the Secret Service found,” replied Devlin. “And it’s got nothing to do with bank accounts.”
“What way’s that?”
“Dr. Lazard. Everybody’s followed the money, and that’s usually the best way. But I don’t think that’s the case here. Marie Vallory and Clay Logan are both too powerful. Vallory is a CEO of a billion-dollar business. Logan is a congressman with high-up allies, and he’s cozy out in his ranch, away from prying eyes.”
“What about Stein?” asked Brennan.
“Stein is too shrewd. Too smart. I have a feeling that guy has been hustling and scamming since he could walk. I’m not saying I couldn’t crack him, but it would take longer. No, Lazard’s the best bet. Whatever his function is in all of this, he’s the most exposed, the most isolated. He’s my best in.”
Brennan pulled his wallet out of his inside jacket pocket, opened it, and lifted out a card and flung it across the table at Devlin.
“Okay. You do what you think you need to do and check in with me every twenty-four hours or whenever there is a significant development. Whichever happens first. I can’t do squat to help you if you get into trouble. We got no resources, people, or leverage on this. You’re out on your own and fully deniable. Just tell me what you find.”
“That’s fine by me. Absolutely fine. You won’t have to lift a finger. For now.”
Devlin appeared relaxed and laid-back when he said his goodbyes and left the trailer. But when he got into his car, he sat rigid in his seat. For a while he didn’t move. He stared over the steering wheel, his eyes locked into the middle distance for a long while.
Then he picked up Lazard’s plastic folder and riffled through the test results. Finally, he laid them against the wheel and sighed in frustration. Devlin just couldn’t get past the lack of any name or patient details. If he had those he could chase them up.
He looked back through papers again and it was then that Devlin saw the identical sequence of a letter prefix and numbers: “FDH 4488983” on the bottom of the pages in faint ink. The patient ID number, thought Devlin, for billing reasons if nothing else. It seemed pretty clear that the prefix must be for Freedom Dayton Hospital. Devlin looked up a number for the hospital on his cell and rang.
There was a short dialing tone, and a bright and helpful voice answered. “Hello, Patient Records, Laura speaking. How can I help you?”
“Good morning. My name’s Dr. La
zard, I’m calling from Halton Medical Center.” Devlin forwent any attempt at an impersonation.
“Hello, Doctor.” The voice was still bright and helpful.
“I’m just going over test results of a patient of mine you sent me, and, well, we had a little mix-up a while ago; we had the wrong number assigned to this particular patient. It really messed up our end of things and made billing your end a nightmare.”
“Oh dear. That shouldn’t happen…”
“Tell me about it. I can’t tell you how much work it caused for everybody. Took weeks to unravel. So, could I just confirm, for the sake of my own paranoia, that I have the right patient number on the results you’ve sent me? I’ve got 4488983 down on the test papers in front of me.”
“Sorry, could you repeat that number?”
“Of course. The number is 4488983.”
“Right, got that. Let me have a look…” There was a pause, and Devlin could hear background voices scattered around the office and the clack of long fingernails against a plastic keyboard. After a minute’s wait, he heard the woman say, “So, Doctor, the name you should have is Miguel Alvarez. Is that right?” Devlin didn’t reply for a moment. The name was familiar, and he hadn’t expected it to be. He’d heard it somewhere before.
“Hello? Doctor?”
“That’s perfect, thank you.”
“He’s in the Leeman Urological and Kidney Unit. They’re usually excellent up there if that’s any reassurance? Very efficient.”
“Oh, that is reassuring.”
Devlin hung up and leafed through the papers again, stopping this time to study the last two identical tests. He held them up side by side to scrutinize them. His eye scanned down to the patient ID number at the bottom of the two pages. And it was then that he noticed an anomaly. He realized that the numbers weren’t the same. The patient ID on one of the identical tests had the FDU prefix, but the numbers were for somebody else. One set of results was for another person. Devlin checked back through the other pages, but all of them had Alvarez’s ID. It was just that one page. He threw them back on the passenger seat, the papers spilling off the edge and into the footwell. Devlin started up the car, turned, and roared back up toward the highway. There was one person he had to talk to. One person he needed to talk to. And that person was Fox.
41
Stevens sat in the police car lot with his forehead resting on his steering wheel. Cutter had seen Stevens’s performance and the Dayton Sun article written by Linda Chambers and had issued one of his beloved press lines: “Neither Halton Springs council or the chief of police were aware that Father Devlin had not been formally vetted, therefore Deputy Stevens is suspended with immediate effect. There will be a review of Deputy Stevens’ decision to consult Father Devlin on what was an investigation of the highest sensitivity and seriousness without first carrying out the mandatory background checks.”
He felt utterly defeated. And worse even than his suspension, his misgivings about Earl Logan’s guilt, triggered by the discovery of the missing shift reports, had begun to emerge again. Again he pushed it from his mind.
Then his cell went. Stevens took a breath and answered.
“Mr. Stevens? It’s Dr. Kumar from Miami Valley Hospital.”
Of course, thought Stevens, the tests were back from a couple of days ago. They really couldn’t have chosen a worse time.
“Dr. Kumar, hi.”
“Hi, Mr. Stevens, how are you?”
Shit, thought Stevens, don’t do the pretend have a nice day stuff, just tell me the way it is. Even so, Stevens couldn’t help but reply out of courtesy. “Okay. I’m okay. How are you, Doctor?”
“Oh, fine. Y’know, busy as usual.” Come on, thought Stevens. Get it done. Get it done. At the same time, he was also wanting not to get it done, to not move to the next stage, to stay where he was a bit longer.
“So, listen, Mr. Stevens, we got your results back and—”
“Yes, Doctor?”
“Well, it’s unexpected. Things have changed a lot faster than we thought.”
Stevens’s heart plummeted. “Yeah, okay,” Stevens butted in impatiently. “How long are we looking at?”
“No, hold on, you don’t understand. That’s not what I rang to tell you. I’m ringing to tell you that the cancer hasn’t progressed. In fact, it’s the opposite. The tests came back and, well, it’s extraordinary, but the cancer has reduced. You are in what I would cautiously term partial remission.”
Stevens had stopped breathing but just managed to whisper, “What?”
“It’s good news, Mr. Stevens. You have more time.”
“I don’t understand. I was told there was no hope…”
“These things—well, sometimes…extremely rarely actually—they can be unpredictable, even with the best science we have. I do have to tell you that sustained long-term remission from metastatic pancreatic cancer, while not impossible, is extremely unlikely. I also have to tell you that we would like to have you come in again, because we want to make sure as the results went completely against our prognosis. But I’m sure you understand in the circumstances. So are you able to book in with the nurse? Mr. Stevens? Mr. Stevens? Are you there…?”
Stevens had let his cell phone drop from his ear and was staring over the steering wheel into the parking lot. All of a sudden the world looked a hell of a lot brighter.
42
Devlin crammed down the plate of steak and fries room service had brought up like his life depended on it. Fox sat with folded arms, looking unimpressed.
“Easy. You’re going to give yourself indigestion.”
Fox had met Devlin back at his motel. Devlin noticed she was frosty and short with him but decided to let it go. Whatever beef she had would come out one way or another.
“I’m ravenous,” said Devlin.
“I can see.”
Devlin swallowed down the last mouthful, dropped his head back against the bed headboard, and let out a sigh. He’d got to the hotel room, showered, changed, and eaten and only now was feeling like he was human again. All he needed was a cigar. He opened a window, lit himself up, and then lit Fox a cigarette.
“So, you found Ed?” said Fox.
‘Yeah. I guess. I guess I did what I came here to do.”
“But? ’Cause I can hear there’s a ‘but’ coming.”
Devlin had promised he wouldn’t tell anyone what Brennan had told him. But he had to tell Fox; he had to get her on board.
“I found out a hell of a lot more than I was bargaining on,” said Devlin. “Turns out Ed went into hiding because he’d been caught spying on the Logan Ranch for a guy in Homeland, a guy we both knew from years back in the Air Force.”
“Jesus…”
“Yeah. This guy, George Brennan, had Ed working on the ranch because he’s investigating the funds that Freedom plowed into Logan Enterprises—the funds the Secret Service and your friend were looking into. Seems the whole world at some point has got interested in what Logan and Freedom are up to, but no one’s managed to crack it.”
Devlin sat in a chair opposite Fox. He waited a moment before he spoke again and fixed her a tired but deeply serious look. “But I have this idea.”
Fox sat forward. “What do you think is going on?”
“Okay, it’s…it’s unusual. I started having this crazy idea, which just hasn’t gone away, and the more I consider it, the more it makes sense of everything that’s happened in this town.”
Devlin paused, but Fox ushered him on. “Go on, what is it? Tell me!”
“It started when I was in the trailer with George and Ed. Ed mentioned they used ketamine up at the Logan Ranch as a veterinary anesthetic. Well, the bloods from the Long Pine murder victim contained ketamine. The coroner guessed it was taken recreationally. But it could have been used for another reason. When I was a PJ, we used it as an emergency anesthetic.”
Fox almost flinched at the suggestion, such was her initial disbelief. “It’s more likely he’d have ta
ken it to get high.”
“Yeah, when I first heard about it, that sounded like the most likely reason. Now I’m not so sure. The other thing I found out is who Lazard’s test results, the ones we took from his office, belong to. Even though there was no name on the test papers, the patient ID was there, and it checks out as belonging to a guy called Miguel Alvarez. The name rang a bell, but I couldn’t think who it was. Then I realized, it was a kid I met when I was at the Logan Ranch. A hand that worked there. And I looked at the tests again and there were two antigen tests run on him, which is just plain odd.”
“What’s an antigen test?”
“It’s a blood test, and it’s done for a number of reasons. When I was in pararescue, I mostly knew about it for testing for infectious diseases, but it’s also done to match tissue types for donor testing.”
“Donor testing?”
“The other thing that bothered me is that I looked at these particular test results, and I just couldn’t work out why he’d had them run twice. And then it hit me: the patient IDs on each test were different. They weren’t two tests for Alvarez; they were two tests for two different people. Only one of them is Alvarez’s results. The results of both tests match incredibly closely, close enough on first inspection to take them for the same person. But they’re not from the same person. They’re from two different people who are highly compatible for organ donation.”
“You think he’s been lined up to donate an organ?”
“Yeah. I do. But not just him. I think the first victim was doped up on ketamine because he was being prepped for surgery.”
Fox was stunned. “But, if that’s so, that couldn’t be legal, could it?”
“No way. I think Lazard and Clay Logan have got into black market organ trading. That’s why Lazard is up at the Logan Ranch nearly every night.”
“Jesus…but that’s a hell of a reach, Devlin. So then, why did the Long Pine victim end up getting killed?”