***
Josh, gowned and masked once more, eased into the room where David Madison lay apparently sleeping. As had been the case virtually every time Josh entered the room, the first thing he saw was Mildred Madison, sitting quietly at her husband’s bedside holding his hand.
She wore a gown and mask, and her hands were gloved, but despite the barriers, it seemed to Josh there was such a closeness between Mildred and her husband that he could almost feel the strength flowing from her to him. Josh longed for such a relationship in his own life. And maybe someday . . . No, this wasn’t the time to think about that. He had to give Madison his dose of RP-78 and move on.
Josh knew that both patients were weakening rapidly. Their blood pressure had dropped despite IV fluids and the judicious use of medications to support their circulation. Chavez’s idea of giving the medication intravenously to get it more quickly to where it needed to go made sense.
Using one of the needles and syringes from the equipment sitting near Madison’s bed, Josh carefully withdrew the requisite dose of RP-78. He used sterile technique to inject the material into his patient’s IV line, then flushed the drug into Madison’s circulation with a syringe full of normal saline. As Josh dropped the used syringes into the safe container for biomedical waste, he caught the eye of Mildred Madison and a look passed between them. He nodded once, she did the same, and he tiptoed out—but not before uttering a silent prayer that the drug would work, and work soon.
In Rachel’s room, there was no one sitting at her bedside holding her hand. She, too, appeared to be sleeping, but in contrast to the drawn expression on Madison’s face, hers was peaceful, almost contented. He injected her dose of RP-78, said another prayer, and was about to leave when she stirred.
Although she was obviously so weak it took a maximum effort to do so, Rachel turned in bed until she was looking squarely at Josh. Her lips parted, a rush of air came out her trach tube, and she frowned. Then she shook her head oh-so-slightly, smiled, and closed her eyes once more.
Rachel, I promise that if it’s within my power, you’ll pull through this . . . you and President Madison, both.
15
Detective Stan Warren rolled his desk chair back from his computer, pushed his reading glasses onto his forehead, and looked around the empty squad room. Two detectives on this watch had caught a case less than an hour ago and departed. Two others were already on the street from an earlier call. It was what Warren, after twenty years on the job, had come to expect on a Saturday night in Dallas.
When David Madison decided to locate in Dallas after leaving the White House, the police department made plans to share the job of providing security for the former president with his Secret Service detail. Although the additional work mainly fell to uniformed police, Warren had been chosen to be the liaison between his department and the Secret Service agents. Until recently, this assignment was a plum, a nice, soft job for a detective nearing retirement—until recently, but no longer.
Although some detectives might have complained about this development, Warren relished the chance to do some real detective work. He’d rather go out having solved what was turning out to be a complex case than to simply slide into retirement. If nothing else, this was going to give him lots to look back on.
He replaced his reading glasses and leaned again toward the computer screen. Warren tapped a few keys, then pushed the print button. He’d caught a break when he started to search various databases for the assassin. Although there was nothing in the U.S., he got a hit on the Interpol site. Leonid Malnyk had been arrested and fingerprinted once, in Spain. Although he’d managed to escape from the Guàrdia Urbana, the police in Barcelona, he’d been in custody long enough for them to take his fingerprints and a mug shot as well as solidify their suspicion that he was an international assassin, a gun for hire to anyone with enough money.
There were further sightings of Malnyk in Europe, Asia, and even Africa, but there had been no arrest other than the one in Spain. It appeared that the man never had to resort to plastic surgery to change his appearance. Rather, he used a seemingly endless supply of passports in various names, and these, combined with his eminently forgettable appearance, allowed him to slip away each time the authorities seemed to be closing in on him.
As computers became the norm in police work, Warren soon realized he could fight the trend only so long before he had to learn how to use them. Now it was time to put that hard-earned knowledge to use. Thanks to the one brief arrest and fingerprinting, he had Malnyk’s name. With that, Warren was able to determine the man’s last known address: a fashionable apartment in London. After that, the computer gave him a list of people with whom Malnyk had associated in the past, both abroad and in the U.S. At this point, he’d normally question the subject, but that wasn’t possible.
As he pushed away from the computer and began to study the printed sheets in his hand, the detective said under his breath, “Okay, Malnyk. Who hired you . . . and why?”
***
Karen Marks lay prone across the bed in her apartment, her cell phone pressed to her ear. “Yes, I’m alone. Are you in a secure location?”
“I’m not certain how secure it is, but no one can hear me,” Jerry Lang replied. “Did you get the funeral director and the Widow Lambert calmed down?”
“Finally,” Karen said. “It took some doing, but I think they’re okay. At first, Mrs. Lambert didn’t want to believe the cremated remains were those of her husband. I suppose that if I’d been smart, I could have told her the body was cremated in South America, but I’ve discovered the truth is generally the best way to proceed in sticky situations like this.”
“If you had, we could have explained the absence of her husband’s class ring from the personal effects delivered along with the cremains by blaming the funeral director in South America,” Lang said.
“Too late now,” Karen said. “But I think I’ve settled her down, and she’s proceeding with plans for a memorial service. As it turns out, her husband wanted cremation anyway.”
“And the funeral director?”
“I had to use my powers of persuasion, augmented by a bit of cash spent in the right places, but the man at Sparkman Hillcrest, the one who discovered the cremains on their doorstep, has agreed it’s best to keep things quiet. So far as anyone else knows, they’re the ones that did the cremation.” She’d held the phone so long she was getting a cramp in her fingers. She moved the phone to her other hand. “I had to commit the foundation to bearing the costs of the funeral, but I think David would have agreed to do that anyway—if he were in any shape to make that decision.”
“Well, he’s not,” Lang said. “He’s had two doses of the magic drug. Now all we can do is wait.”
Karen kicked off her shoes and squirmed around until she was leaning against the headboard. “I can hardly wait for this to be over. It’s getting harder and harder for me to keep what we’re doing a secret.”
“I know. But I hope we’re approaching the end.”
***
Josh and Derek sat at a table in the almost-deserted hospital cafeteria. The trays before them held the remains of an evening meal that neither man had done more than sample. Josh picked up his coffee cup, found it empty, and put it back down.
“Want some more?” Derek asked.
“No. You?”
“No. Why don’t you get some rest? It will be at least twelve hours, maybe longer, before we see results from that second dose of RP-78.”
“I’m okay,” Josh said. “I thought I’d hang around. If there’s no change in either of their conditions by midnight or so, I might catch a nap in one of the call rooms.”
“How about Allison Neeves? Has she gone home to her family?”
“Allison doesn’t have anyone to go home to,” Josh said. “She and her husband got married when she was in medical school, but he divorced her about the time they graduated.”
“Children?”
“Nope, which I guess i
s a blessing.”
Derek leaned a bit closer to his friend. “I know you’re serious about Rachel Moore, but was there ever a time—”
“Derek, don’t go there,” Josh said, realizing where the conversation was headed. “Allison and I are colleagues, nothing more.”
Derek held up both hands. “Just asking.” He looked at his watch. “I think I’m going to take a walk around outside, get some fresh air. You have my cell number if something breaks.” He picked up his tray and moved away.
Josh was almost alone in the cafeteria. He shoved aside his tray, bowed his head, and tried to pray a couple of times, but in each instance, he almost dropped off. This isn’t doing anyone any good.
He deposited the remains of his dinner onto the conveyer belt and shuffled through the door into the hallway. Despite having pulled a few all-nighters in the past, the strain of the past two days was getting to him. Maybe he’d do better with a few hours’ sleep.
As Josh passed the glass wall in the passageway outside, he glanced into the gathering darkness and saw a figure moving about. Curious, he stepped closer to the glass and stopped. Derek stood outside, his back to Josh, his cell phone to his ear.
Josh moved away before Derek could see him, but as he made his way back to the ward that held Madison and Rachel, he wondered about the call. Derek’s wife had passed away. There’d been no mention of another relationship. And the COO of Argosy hadn’t answered Derek’s last call, apparently deciding to dissociate himself from this use of their experimental drug until and unless it was a success.
Josh realized it was none of his business, but still, he was curious about whom his friend could be calling.
***
David Madison brought his wrist close to his face and checked the time. The watch he’d been wearing when he was admitted to the hospital was locked up along with the rest of his personal possessions, so he’d asked his wife to bring his spare from home. In contrast with the nicer watch he wore most of the time, his other watch was a plain Casio with a black plastic band that he used when he ran or played a rare round of golf.
“Why do you need a watch?” she’d asked.
“Because I’m used to checking the time periodically, and since there’s no clock on the wall in here, I’m about to go crazy not knowing.”
Mildred hadn’t argued, but instead of asking one of the agents outside the door of her husband’s hospital room to find the watch in question and bring it here, she’d slipped out and visited the gift shop downstairs. There, the clerk was finally able to dig up a cheap watch, which Mrs. Madison purchased. “I’m not going to ask an agent to run an errand for us,” she’d explained. “That’s not what they’re supposed to be doing.”
Madison’s room was dark except for one lamp in a corner that emitted just enough light for him to tell the time if he squinted. Mildred was asleep in the recliner nearby, but since he’d been sleeping more than being awake during the past day, Madison’s eyes were as wide open as if the lids had been spring-loaded.
He was about to turn on his side and try once more to fall asleep when he heard the door of his room open. Supposedly, no one without a reason was supposed to come in, but Madison had already had one unwelcome visitor, one who’d taken a shot at him. Since then, he’d been wary of everyone entering his room.
Like everyone else who came in, the newcomer wore a disposable isolation gown, a mask, and some kind of latex-like gloves. The figure was shorter than Josh Pearson or Derek Johnson, and stouter than any of the nurses. This was Saturday, so perhaps it was a member of the nursing staff he hadn’t yet encountered. No, his watch had shown it to be a bit before ten p.m., and Madison knew the staff was working twelve-hour shifts, and the nurse who came on at seven this evening had already been in once.
As the figure crept closer to his bedside, Madison’s finger hovered over the nurse call button. No, he didn’t want to raise a false alarm. Maybe he could awaken Mildred. He tried to call his wife, but the result was only an exhalation of air from his tracheotomy tube. Then he remembered what Josh had done to allow him to talk with the president of Colombia. Madison couldn’t deflate the cuff of his trach tube, but maybe he could force enough air past it to serve his purpose.
He took a deep breath, then put his finger over the tube and strained to get the words out. “Can I help you?”
Mildred stirred but didn’t awaken. Just as Madison was about to try again, the figure stopped about five feet short of the bed and said, “President Madison, you may remember me. We were together a few short days ago in Colombia. Now we meet again. You may not know it, but I flew over two thousand miles to bring the medicine you received a few hours ago.”
Was this the doctor he’d met toward the end of his trip? His fever-addled brain searched for the man’s name. Gonzalez? Gomez? No, that wasn’t it. Chavez. Yes, Andres Chavez. Madison nodded once and tried to fix a smile to his countenance.
“When you are well, we will talk more—about your trip and especially about the decision you must reach on locating the clinic, if you decide to place one in Colombia. I believe I have some insight I was not able to share with you at our brief meeting.”
Didn’t the man realize this was neither the time nor place for such a conversation? Madison nodded again, hoping Chavez would take the hint and leave.
“I’ll let you rest, but I wanted to reintroduce myself.” Chavez turned to go, but not before saying, “Recupérate pronto.”
Get well soon? Well, I’m trying. After the door closed behind his visitor, Madison turned his head away from the room’s faint light and closed his eyes, but as before, sleep would not come.
***
Josh stifled a yawn, something he’d been doing frequently for the past hour or more. It was after midnight, almost six hours since Madison and Rachel received their second dose of RP-78. Thanks to telemetry, he’d been able to sit at the nurses’ station and follow the vital signs of both patients without entering their rooms. If they could sleep, if they could simply rest, he wanted them to do just that.
“Dr. Pearson?”
Josh managed not to jerk, but was definitely startled by the voice behind him. He turned and identified Barbara Carper, the nurse working the seven p.m. to seven a.m. shift tonight. “Yes, Barbara?”
“Both patients have been stable since you gave them the medication almost six hours ago. I promise I’ll call you if there’s any change. Why don’t you take a break? Maybe get some sleep?”
Josh was ambivalent about what to do next. He knew his sitting and watching the vital signs of the two patients wasn’t doing anyone any good. On the other hand, he knew that if he left for any reason, even for only a few minutes, he’d feel as though he’d abandoned his patients.
“Dr. Neeves came by a couple of hours ago while you were in the cafeteria. She checked both patients and thought they might be doing a bit better.”
“Is she still around?” Josh asked.
“She said she was going home to clean up and get a little sleep. You may want to do the same thing.”
“No,” Josh said. “I don’t want to leave the hospital. But I guess it would be okay for me to stretch out in one of the call rooms for a couple of hours. Why don’t you call me—”
“I’ll call you if there’s any change,” Barbara said. “Otherwise, I’ll let you sleep.”
Reluctantly, Josh rose from his spot in front of the telemetry units. With one last glance at the vital sign readings, he turned away. Maybe some coffee would help. He might even shower and change into a clean scrub suit. And . . . he paused to stifle another yawn . . . and maybe he should try to get some rest. He had a feeling that the turning point wasn’t far away.
***
In the almost seventy-two hours since David Madison and Rachel Moore were admitted, ward Two West of Prestonwood Hospital had gradually been emptied of other patients, either by discharge or transfer to another wing. This wasn’t the result of any direct order from one of the doctors or the agents guardi
ng the ex-president. It had simply been decided by the hospital’s administrator that since the number of people coming in contact with the patients had to be limited, both from the standpoint of security and infection isolation, this was a logical course to pursue.
Head nurse Mary Wynn sat at the nurses’ station and listened as nurse Barbara Carper gave her report. Now that the ward’s population had been reduced, for the next twelve hours Mary and a couple of nurse’s aides would be responsible only for the care of the patients in rooms 2211 and 2213. As a consequence, Barbara’s report was short and simple: the condition of both patients seemed to be stabilizing, possibly with some improvement.
Mary scanned the figures and agreed. “The vital signs look better. Blood pressure is up and seems much more stable.”
Barbara nodded in agreement. “You’ll also notice their temperatures have started to drop. Since admission they’ve shown sort of an up-and-down, sawtooth pattern, but last night their fever dropped and has stayed down so far.”
“What about the patients? How did they look through the night?” Mary asked.
“Better. Of course, since the tracheotomies, respiratory distress hasn’t been an issue. But in general they seemed more . . . I don’t know how to put it, but I’m sure you’ve seen it yourself. A patient seems to be struggling, restless, their vital signs all over the place. Then they reach a crisis point and almost immediately start to get better.” Barbara tapped one of the monitors with her forefinger. “I think that’s what we’re seeing. It’s almost as though the medication they received last night was a miracle drug.”
“I don’t know if the miracle came from the drug or the prayers everyone’s been offering,” Mary said. “But either way, I think the doctors will like what they see this morning.”
***
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