by Dinah McCall
Foster opened the note and felt the room starting to spin. He’d never fainted in his entire life—not even as a med student during his first rotation in the morgue. But he felt like he needed to now.
Do what we tell you and your wife will be home tomorrow evening when you arrive. If you refuse or go to the police, there will not be enough left of her to identify.
Afterward, he’d thrown up on the doorstep. When he was finished, he’d hosed off the mess he’d made, then gone back inside. It was the longest night of his life as he waited for daylight. When he left for work the next day, he kept imagining the worst. What if he did help that man escape? He had no guarantee that they would keep their word and let Patricia go. But what if he didn’t? Then it was certain that her death would be on his conscience. By the time he reached Lompoc, he’d made up his mind. He would do whatever it took to get her back alive. So when he got the call that they were bringing a man into the hospital, he knew what he had to do. When they wheeled the inmate into the emergency area, he hurried forward and helped them transfer the man from the stretcher to a bed.
“What happened to him?” Foster asked.
One of the guards looked nervous, as if afraid he would be blamed.
“We were taking him to see his lawyer when he grabbed his chest and then fell over. Is he dead? We didn’t know he had a bad heart. No one told us.”
“Get back,” Foster said, as he put a stethoscope to Calderone’s chest. The heartbeat was there, but so faint that if he hadn’t known what to listen for, he would have missed it. He knew what he was dealing with. He’d already been briefed. Curare was rare in North America, but not where the man on the bed was from. Foster knew that a quick application of CPR would kick-start the man’s heart within seconds. But that wasn’t the plan. He had to appear to try to revive him, then quickly pronounce him dead.
A nurse hurried over, pushing a crash cart. Ordinarily that would have ended their charade before it began, but Ralph Foster was a careful man. He’d made sure that the defibrillator would be inoperable. It was against everything he believed in, but he loved his wife more than he cared about his honor. To make sure that she came home to him tonight, he was going to lie, and the lie would end in the release of a very dangerous man.
“Charge to two hundred,” Foster ordered.
The nurse worked with the machine, fiddling with gauges, poking at buttons, but nothing would work. She looked up, her expression frantic.
“Dr. Foster! Something’s wrong! It won’t work!”
“Get on the phone! Get someone to bring the backup from the minor emergency area, and tell them to hurry!”
The nurse dashed out of the room. Foster knew that by the time she returned, it was going to be too late. By now the guards were gone. He ordered a syringe of adrenaline to be administered intravenously, and when a second nurse went to get it, there was none to be found. He had a proper fit, as a doctor should have had on finding out that the ward was not stocked as he’d expected it to be, then sent the orderly and the nurse on a wild-goose chase for more.
By the time they all returned, he had pronounced the man dead. He looked up at the clock just as the nurse was returning.
“Time of death, 10:18 a.m.”
Then he pulled a sheet over Calderone’s face and told the orderly to get the inoperable defibrillator out of the room.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Foster,” the nurse said. “Sometimes there’s nothing we can do.”
Foster frowned, giving them all an accusing glare as if the lack of medicines he’d needed had been their fault and not his.
“This was inexcusable, which makes losing him like this even more difficult to explain. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to notify the warden and then start the paperwork on the deceased.”
One again masquerading as Sister Mary Theresa, Elena had already signed in as a visitor for Miguel Calderone. She’d been searched, told that his lawyer was with him and then sent into a waiting area. Conscious of the curiosity of the guards and other inmates, she lowered her head in an attitude of prayer, took out her rosary beads and began to pray.
“Hail Mary, full of grace…”
Moments later, she heard the sound of footsteps hurrying toward her and looked up, recognizing Miguel’s lawyer on sight. She tensed. She could tell by the look on his face that all was going as planned. But she must maintain her demeanor until she’d been informed of Miguel’s demise.
“Sister Mary Theresa?”
She nodded, then stood. “And you, sir, are…?”
Abraham put a hand on her shoulder, aware that his every move was being watched.
“They told me you were here waiting to see Miguel. My name is Abraham Hollister. I’m his lawyer.”
She smiled. “So you are through with your business now? I have come to pray with my brother.”
Abraham squeezed her shoulder slightly, as if preparing her for the moment.
“I’m so sorry, but I’m afraid I have some bad news. Mr. Calderone suffered a heart attack only a short time ago and has passed away. They took him directly to the hospital here, but there was nothing they could do to revive him.”
Elena gasped, then clutched her rosary beads to her chest.
“No! This can’t be! Please, señor. Please tell me this isn’t so.”
“I’m so sorry, but it’s true.”
Elena dropped to her knees, then began to wail, rocking back and forth with the rosary beads pressed tightly against her forehead.
Within moments, another man entered, followed by a priest. They hurried to where the nun had fallen. The priest knelt beside her, speaking gently but calmly.
“Sister, I’m Father Michael. We are so sorry for your loss, but you know he is in a better place. Will you come to the chapel with me to pray? Maybe it will help calm your grief.”
Elena let herself be helped to her feet. She accepted Hollister’s handkerchief, blotted her eyes and then began gathering herself.
“I’m so sorry,” she said softly. “It was just such a shock.” She let a fresh set of tears roll silently down her face. “His heart…it was bad, you know. Still, one is never ready to lose a dear brother.”
The man with the priest looked startled.
“Sister, I’m the warden here. My name is Thom Henry. Please know that I’m sorry for your loss. I didn’t realize he was related to you. I thought you were here as a Sister, not as his sister.”
Elena dropped her head, letting her eyelids flutter softly.
“There were once seven of us. Miguel and I were the only ones left.” Then she choked on a sob. “Now I am alone.”
Father Michael put his hand on her shoulder. “But, Sister, you are never alone.”
“This is true,” she said. “Forgive my selfishness. It comes from my grief.” Then she lifted her head, glancing only briefly at Hollister before facing the two men. “It is now my duty to claim my brother’s body. How is this to be done?”
The warden stepped forward. “I’m sorry, Sister, but first there will have to be an autopsy. If there’s a number where you can be reached, I will have my secretary—”
Elena covered her mouth with both hands and took a step backward, as if in dismay.
“Oh, no, no!” she cried. “You cannot do this! His body must not be defiled in such a way!”
Henry frowned. Miguel Calderone was the kind of man who, in the time to come, would probably have been executed for the crimes he’d committed. It would have been a whole lot easier if he had waited to die that way. Damn the sorry son of a bitch for cheating justice. Then he sighed. He understood her feelings. It wasn’t the first time a family member had objected to an autopsy, but protocol had to be followed.
“It’s policy,” he said.
“It is against Miguel’s religion,” she argued. “He was not a Catholic, as I am. He followed the old ways of our people. It is one of the reasons I came so often to pray with him. I was hoping to lead him to God while there was still time to save his
soul.” She dropped her head, again as if in sorrow. “But as you can see, I was too late. However, I must insist that you do not cut or maim his earthly body. Surely you have rules for such things as this? Isn’t there some kind of understanding for the practice of different religions?”
Warden Henry frowned. There were always exceptions, but he was a man who preferred routines and rules.
“Certainly, only I don’t—”
It was time for Hollister to step in. “Warden Henry, if I may?”
Henry knew who Hollister was, and while he didn’t have much regard for lawyers who twisted the laws of the land to the benefit of the criminals, he had to give the man his say.
“What is it?” Henry asked.
Hollister smiled. “Thank you, sir. You are being most kind. I understand the position you’re in. However, surely we can release the body to Mr. Calderone’s sister and allow it to be taken to the funeral home of her choice? They could delay the embalming for a day or so until you clear it with whomever you choose.”
Henry frowned. Hollister was slick, but he was also right. Not only could he do this, but he’d done it before in other instances. He glanced at the little nun, who stood white-faced and silent, awaiting his decision.
“Yes, all right,” he finally said. “But only with the understanding that no embalming will begin until you hear from me.”
“This I will do,” she said. “But please, Warden Henry. Please tell your people how important this is to me.”
“Yes, certainly,” he said. “Again, I’m sorry for your loss.”
Elena lifted her head and let her eyes fill with tears as she played the tragedy to the hilt.
“Is there a telephone I might use? I need to call a funeral home.”
“There’s a funeral home here in Lompoc that we’ve used numerous times,” Father Michael offered.
Elena frowned. “Thank you, Father, but you don’t understand. Because of my brother’s beliefs, there are certain preparations that must be made to his body before he can be buried. Things that a regular funeral home might not know.” Then she looked at Abraham Hollister. “Sir…as my brother’s lawyer, may I trouble you to help me?”
Hollister glanced at the warden. “I’m sure Warden Henry has no objections. How may I be of service?”
“I will write down the name of a funeral home in East L.A. You will please call them for me and ask them to come get my brother’s body. Also explain the warden’s request about delaying preparations.”
“Yes, certainly,” he said.
Elena took a pen and paper that he offered, wrote the name quickly, then handed him the paper.
“I do not know the number,” she said.
“No problem,” Hollister said. “I can call information.”
Satisfied that she’d done her part, she folded her hands demurely in front of her and turned to the warden.
“Would it be possible to see my brother? Even though he rejected my God, I would like to pray for him in my own way.”
Henry stifled a sigh, then turned to the priest.
“Father Michael, if you would be so kind as to escort the Sister to the hospital?”
“Of course,” the priest said, then glanced at Hollister. “We will be back shortly. You will be here for her?”
Hollister laid a hand on Elena’s shoulder. “Of course. Say a prayer for me, too, Sister.”
Elena nodded, then let herself be led away.
“Warden, is it all right to use my cell phone here?” Hollister asked.
“Yes, and if you need me, have someone ring my office. They’ll know where to find me.”
“Yes, thank you, Warden Henry. You’ve been of great comfort to Sister Mary Theresa.”
“Yes, well…” Uncertain what else to say about a man his government had intended to try to execute, he left Hollister alone in the waiting area to make his calls.
Immediately, Hollister got on the phone. He didn’t have to call information for a number. He’d memorized it days ago.
The call went out.
A man answered.
Hollister gave the order they’d been waiting for.
Exactly forty-five minutes later, a long black hearse that had been polished to perfection pulled up to the front gates of Lompoc Federal Correctional Institution.
After a thorough check of the vehicle and the two very well-dressed men inside, the guard directed them to the back entrance of the hospital. The men in dark suits got out. One opened the back of the hearse and took out a gurney, which they then wheeled toward the building. More guards awaited them, then led them to a small room and to the bed where Miguel Calderone’s body still lay.
For a man as powerful as Calderone had been, he was a very unassuming presence beneath the government-owned sheet. The employees of the funeral home transferred the body to their gurney and were then escorted out the same way they’d come in.
It was a grander procession than Calderone might have expected. The guards watched without speaking as the body was loaded into the hearse. The gurney was locked in place, and the two men got into the car. Only after they’d passed through the main gates did they dare to look at each other. But the danger they had been in was far from over. The window of time was short for the padrone to be saved, and they didn’t want to be the ones to fail him.
Fifteen minutes later, they pulled off onto a side street. A dark-haired woman wearing black slacks and a white tank top was standing beside an old gray van. It was a far cry from the nun’s habit she’d been wearing earlier, but Elena Verdugo was a woman of many faces, and there was nothing she wouldn’t do for Miguel.
When she saw the hearse, she grabbed a bag from the front seat and started running toward them. She jumped into the back, crawling on her hands and knees beside the gurney where Calderone was lying as one of the men slammed the door shut behind her.
“Go! Go!” she shouted, and yanked a portable defibrillator from the bag and fired it up.
Elena’s hands were shaking, but this was no time to be weak. The curare in Calderone’s system had rendered him virtually lifeless, but CPR should bring him back. At least that was what she’d been told. It was the should that had them all worried, that and the adverse effects that being “dead” might have had on his body.
However, now was not the time to wonder if the man they got back would still be the padrone, or if he would be some slobbering idiot who couldn’t remember his name.
Elena yanked the sheet from the upper half of Calderone’s body, plugged the portable unit into a battery pack set up in the back of the hearse and rocked back on her heels, watching a digital readout until it clicked over to two hundred, then slammed the hand paddles to either side of his chest.
“Clear,” she said, although there was no one but her and Calderone in the back.
She hit the triggers. Calderone’s body bucked beneath the charge. She pulled back, waiting to see if a heartbeat would register.
Nothing happened.
She upped the voltage to three hundred, then waited for the digital read-out to register the change. Once it hit the mark, she triggered the paddles again, and again Calderone’s body bucked.
“Madre de Dios…por favor,” she muttered, as she stared at the screen, praying for a heartbeat to register.
Suddenly there was a blip on the screen, and then the flat line began to change shape. Before her eyes, Miguel had returned from the dead. She tossed the paddles aside and took a small bottle of oxygen and a mask from the bag, adjusted the flow, then put the mask over Calderone’s nose. For now, the worst of the danger had passed.
“Get us out of here,” she shouted, and when the hearse took off, she laid her head against Calderone’s shoulder and cried.
Jonah was sitting in the library, staring out the window.
Miguel Calderone dead? It had to be a mistake. Even while Ruger was assuring them that it was so, Jonah’s gut was telling him different. Evil didn’t die that easily. However, if what Ruger had just t
old them was true, then it would mean they’d lost their best chance to find Evan alive.
“Jonah…”
He looked up. Macie was standing by his chair, and he’d never even heard her approach.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Ruger wants to talk to both of us.”
“What the hell else could he possibly have to say?” Jonah asked.
Still, he pushed himself up from the chair with the weariness of an old man. For the first time in his life, he wanted to give up.
She tugged at his hand. “I don’t know, but let’s go find out, okay?”
Jonah wanted to cry. His son, his little boy—only not so little anymore—and he’d failed him.
Ruger was on the phone when they entered the makeshift command center. He motioned for them to come in, then held up one finger, indicating that they should give him one more minute while he finished the call.
Macie sat down. Jonah didn’t. Instead he kept watching Ruger’s facial expressions, trying to figure out if what he had to tell them would be good news or bad. Finally Ruger hung up.
“Sorry,” he said.
“Tell me something good,” Jonah said.
Ruger frowned. “It’s true. Calderone died in Lompoc. His lawyer and a couple of guards witnessed it. He was pronounced in their hospital.”
“Damn,” Jonah muttered, then covered his face with his hands.
“His sister, a nun named Mary Theresa, claimed the body, but there’s still some dispute about performing an autopsy. She said his religion forbade it.”
Jonah’s heart skipped a beat. Religion? The only god Miguel Calderone believed in was green and folded in his pocket. And a sister…? Something rotten was going on here. He dropped his hands to his sides, and turned and looked at Ruger.