by Tim LaHaye
Joey stopped just outside Roxanne’s door. A cloud of smoke wafted through the opening. “Rox—got my deposit ready?”
“Almost,” Roxanne said, a cigarette fuming between her lips. “Give me a half-second.”
“This source,” Joey said, turning back to Jodi, his face a picture of skepticism, “does he or she have proof ? An eyewitness? Records? Maybe a mole inside the office?”
Jodi wasn’t about to mention anything about Stan taking a job at the Total Choice Medi-Center. It was too early for that. While she was sure Stan would be able to find something, at the moment she was empty-handed.
When Jodi didn’t immediately respond, Joey continued. “Let me ask you a question. Does your source happen to eat organic mushrooms before gazing into a birdbath, chanting, ‘Mirror, Mirror, show me please’?”
“That’s not fair, Joey.”
“That’s what I thought,” Joey said, his perfectly white teeth silhouetted behind a full smile. “You don’t have a credible source, which means you don’t have a story. Not to mention if you’re going to make these kinds of accusations, you’d better have at least two highly placed, reliable sources . . . Underline the word reliable.”
“But—”
“Jodi, let’s face it. You’ve got nothing. As I see it, you have a crazy man who feeds the pigeons, and a sick girl with hearsay evidence. Of course I’m sorry about your friend. But that’s not good journalism. End . . .”
“I know. End of story,” Jodi said, politely finishing his favorite mantra.
“Smart girl.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “So, here’s what I’d like you to tackle today. I need a 750-word piece on Pennsylvania’s outdated voting machines.”
“Huh?”
“We’re coming up on an election cycle, right?”
“I guess.” Jodi was nonplussed. To her, this sounded like a real snoozer assignment.
“And, while it was a hot topic back in Bush versus Gore,” Joey said, “nothing’s been done to fix the problem. I think readers will be interested in that scoop.”
“Here ya go,” Roxanne said, interrupting. She handed him a bank bag with a locking, zippered top.
“Kinda light today,” Joey said to Roxanne, pretending to weigh the contents in the palm of his hand.
“Not much in the mail this morning,” Roxanne said. She returned to her desk and fired up another smoke with the smoldering end of a stub in her ashtray.
He tucked the bag under his arm. “That’s just great. I bet Banker Bob will be on my case before noon.”
Marge waddled to his side bearing three pink phone messages. Her glasses rested on the end of her nose. “Joey, got three hot ones here.” She handed them to him one at a time, rehearsing each message as she did. “That’s from your dad . . . said it was urgent and you’d know what it was about.”
Joey raised his eyebrows. He took the slip.
“That’s about tonight’s client meeting. You’re to be at Pete’s Marina at 5:15. There’s a code on there to get through the gate. But he wants you to call him as soon as you can.”
Joey studied the message.
Marge took off her glasses. “And that’s from Bob Lemstone. He needs to hear from you by lunch.”
“What did I tell you,” Joey said, looking at the note and then at Jodi. “Banker Bob’s lonely. Thanks for making my day, Marge.”
“Just doing my job,” she said, racing as best she could to answer a phone ringing on her desk.
He looked at Jodi. “So, where were we?”
“Voting machines.”
“Right. Have fun with that one, champ.” Joey darted for his office.
Champ?
She stared at the spot where Joey had stood a moment before. It was bad enough that he didn’t seem to care about her story. It was worse to be blown off with such a ridiculous nickname. Sure, she understood Joey’s concern about needing credible sources. She agreed and was working on that. Still, although she couldn’t pinpoint it, she felt there had to be another reason why Joey opposed her doing the story.
But what?
Chapter 15 Wednesday, 11:31 a.m.
Stan spent the first two hours of the morning filling out basic employee forms in an unused counseling room. They wanted his Social Security number. Date of birth. Home address. The usual info so Uncle Sam could tax the life out of his wages. He was told to review a thick summary of the Total Choice Medi-Center services as well as a job description.
He was also handed, and was instructed to review, a confidential memo detailing basic “Do’s and Don’ts” of his employment. Don’t talk to the media. Don’t talk to streetside protesters. Don’t talk to the clients unless specifically instructed to do so.
Throughout the morning, he felt a mixture of adrenaline and anxiety. He didn’t belong here. He wasn’t one of them. Surely he’d be found out. He experienced a similar anxiety when Coach Thomas sent him to rival schools during the preseason to size up their offensive strategy—with one giant difference. Here, he was more than an observer. He was part of their team.
Stan felt as if he’d gone over to the dark side.
When he requested permission to call a friend, Jodi’s voice was like a breath of fresh air. She was an ally who was praying for him. Still, as he held the phone to his ear, part of his emotions overwhelmed him. He wanted to cry out to the women in the waiting area, “Don’t do it!”
At the same time, Stan knew such an outburst would have blown his cover before he learned anything. He was here to help Faith, and he would do the best he could to get Jodi what she needed for her story.
Faith.
As he finished his paperwork, he had plenty of time to think about the fact that she had been here less than two weeks ago. Stan’s heart ached at the thought of what she must have felt, coming here behind her dad’s back. She had no friends to support her. No one to help her think clearly about her choice. She had to have been so frightened.
And scared.
“All done?” Jenna said, interrupting his thoughts.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Come with me then,” she said.
He stood up from the folding chair, thankful to be doing more than sitting alone with his thoughts in the windowless room. Stan handed Jenna the clipboard with his paperwork and followed her out the door.
“Right this way,” she said, moving along the six-foot-wide hall. “The doctor would like to have a word with you,” she said in a clinical tone.
Stan’s heart jumped. He felt like it was the first day of football training camp and he was about to meet the new coach. As he walked, he counted three doors in a row on both sides of the hallway. Each opened to a procedure room. At the end of the hall, they came to a fire door with an oversize sign declaring: STAFF ONLY. Jenna opened it and continued to walk down the hall into the back area. She ushered Stan into the second-to-last room on the right.
“Here we are,” she said. “Doctor, this is Stan Taylor.”
Dr. Graham looked up from a clipboard of his own with a grunt. He leaned against a counter and made no effort to shake Stan’s hand. He wore blue scrubs, and his white face mask hung loosely around his neck. It rested just below his chin. He pointed with the end of his pen to a chair.
“Have a seat.” It wasn’t a request as much as a command.
Stan sat in the corner.
“You’re the new kid Jenna hired today,” Dr. Graham said.
“Yes, sir.” Stan folded and then unfolded his arms.
“Let me cut to the chase,” Dr. Graham said. “Jenna says you’ve played a little football.”
Stan smiled. Here was a topic he felt at home with. “Yes, I’ve actually got a scholarship to Penn State—”
Dr. Graham waved him off with his pen. “Never mind all of that. My point is, you know how to hustle and how to work as a team, right?”
“Yes, sir,” Stan said with a nod, suddenly unsure if he should salute.
“Good. Around here we work as a team. I’m the cap
tain, and what I say goes.” Dr. Graham peered at Stan. “Listen. This is a bit unusual. Under normal circumstances, Jenna would give you a more . . . formal introduction to your work.”
Stan listened, afraid to interrupt the man.
Dr. Graham folded his arms. “You’re going to be baptized by fire. Why? We’ve got a packed house out there, so we’ve got to stack ’em and move ’em out. Just be glad this isn’t Saturday.”
Stan gave him a puzzled look.
“That’s our busiest day, followed by Friday and then today,” Dr. Graham said. “By the weekend, you’ll be an old pro . . . if, that is, you can stand the pace.”
Jenna stuck her head through the door. She handed him a sheet of paper. “Doctor, we’re set and ready when you are.”
“Thank you,” Dr. Graham said. He studied the page and then turned back to Stan. “As you’ll see in a minute, I work fast. Your goal is to keep me from slowing down.”
“How’s that?”
“By doing exactly what I tell you to do,” Dr. Graham said. “Remember, this isn’t a beauty parlor. I don’t make money having extended conversations with clients. I don’t make money holding a patient’s hand. And I don’t make money answering stupid questions. As long as you focus on my instructions, we’ll do fine.”
Stan remained silent. More like speechless.
Dr. Graham reached for a box of surgical gloves. “Here’s the drill. You probably noticed the six procedure rooms.”
“Yes, sir,” Stan said, figuring he should say something. “There are three rooms on the left and three on the right of the hall.”
If Dr. Graham had heard Stan, he made no sign of it.
“I will be working the left side, and my associate Andrea will work the right.” With a snap, Dr. Graham slipped a glove over his left hand and then his right. “I’ll run my side of the hall four times in one hour. Andrea isn’t quite as proficient as I am—at least not yet.”
Stan whistled. He didn’t mean to. But the thought that Dr. Graham would do twelve procedures an hour was more than he could imagine. Worse, Stan was still unclear what was expected of him.
“Uh, Dr. Graham—”
“Hold it right there, buster,” Dr. Graham said with a snarl like a provoked bear.
“The name’s Stan,” he said, tired of being treated like a nonperson. The man was a zero in the conversational skills department, and he was starting to look like an even bigger jerk than Stan’s own dad.
“Fine . . . Stan.” Dr. Graham took a step toward him. “Let me spell it out for you, son. I want no names used. I don’t want to know the patient’s name—and I sure as blazes don’t want them to know mine.”
Stan’s eyebrows shot up. “So, then, what do I call you?”
“Call me Doc . . . call me sir . . . but don’t ever use my name if a patient is around.” Dr. Graham wagged a finger as he spoke.
Stan swallowed. “Because?”
“Names are unimportant,” Dr. Graham said. “There are a lot of crazies out there. I don’t need them bothering me after office hours. Am I clear on this?”
“Yes, sir.”
No way would Stan call this man “Doctor” in front of a patient, of that he was sure. How could he? The man was totally unprofessional. In the few minutes Stan had watched him, Dr. Graham failed to show even an ounce of care or compassion for the women he was about to treat.
An iceberg probably gave off more warmth.
Dr. Graham cared for nothing—nothing but hustling through today’s batch. It sickened Stan to think this was the guy who worked on Faith. He watched as Dr. Graham started for the door. “Um, sir? I’m wondering, what is it you want me to do?”
Dr. Graham paused, gripping the doorjamb.
“For the moment, nothing. Today you’re on standby. But, for example, if one of my assistants falls behind resetting the rooms for the next patients, I’ll need you to give them a hand. Just use the spray bottle to wipe down the surfaces, pull a fresh paper sheet over the table, and make sure there’s no blood on the floor.”
“I’ve never—”
“That’s immaterial.”
“But, I’m not qualified—”
Dr. Graham swore. “You’re qualified if I say you’re qualified.”
Stan took a deep breath. Heather was right. This was nuts. What was he doing here?
Dr. Graham added, “Come to think of it, you’ll probably need to give me a hand with the walrus in room 2.”
“Excuse me?”
“That cow has already given my staff enough grief. If it comes down to it,” Dr. Graham said, “when I call you, all you have to do is hold her steady.”
With that, Dr. Graham turned and faced a woman, dressed in scrubs, who appeared at his side. Stan figured she must be Andrea and couldn’t help but wonder whether she had any medical training.
“It’s showtime,” she said, holding up her gloved hands.
“Great,” Dr. Graham said. “I’ve got to get out of here by four, so let’s rock’n’roll.”
“How about I bet you a bottle of Scotch that I win today?” Andrea said with a smile planted on her face. She turned to leave.
Dr. Graham pulled his mask over his nose. “You’re on,” he said. He reached forward and gave her a pat on the behind.
As Stan followed the two strangers down the hallway, an overwhelming rush of emotion came over him like a sudden rainstorm. His throat went dry. His palms grew moist. His breathing started to race. The walls of the hallway closed in. Crushing him. Squeezing the air out of his lungs. His knees started to buckle.
The faces from his nightmare returned. They floated through his mind, their little eyes closed. Round and round they circled. They pointed at him. Accusing him with each revolution.
A line of sweat formed across his forehead, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand and then, for several seconds, braced himself against the wall until he could control his breathing. His chest felt as if it were about to explode.
Several steps ahead, Andrea turned into a room on the right; Dr. Graham turned to the left. Stan could hear but not see Dr. Graham as he approached the first patient.
“Okay, honey buns, do as my assistant told you and this will all be over before you know it.”
Stan opened his mouth to shout at the top of his lungs, “He’s lying . . . don’t believe him . . . It’s never over . . . It’s just beginning. . . . Stop it while you can.”
Like a bad dream, the words remained stuck in his throat.
Chapter 16 Wednesday, 12:57 p.m.
The driver of the Ford Taurus took one last bite from his Wendy’s hamburger, crumpled the wrapper, and tossed it into the paper sack. As he did, he noticed a lone French fry in the bottom, fished it out, and then held up the fry as if he had discovered a gold coin.
“One ain’t gonna hurt you,” he said, holding it out to his partner. “Sure you don’t want my last fry?”
“Nah. I’ve done had about all I can eat,” his partner said rolling up the remaining third of his turkey hoagie in its white butcher paper.
Their car idled in the parking lot of WaWa’s minimart store across from the Willow Grove Park Mall, a sprawling collection of stores occupying the better part of a hundred acres. From this vantage point, they kept an eye on the bus stop just outside the Kmart. A SEPTA bus was pulling away from the curb, belching a cloud of black diesel exhaust. Three passengers walked toward the bus shelter, which was immersed in fumes.
The driver studied the faces then checked his watch. “Gus is late.”
“Roger that.”
“Should have been on that bus.” The driver tapped a finger against the steering wheel. “Why don’t you get your gizmo thingy out and check his location. We don’t have all day.”
“Sure thing,” his partner said, opening the glove compartment. He retrieved the GPS receiver and then fired it up with a push of a button. “So the boss really wants Gus to wear a wire?”
The driver stretched. “Yup. After Gus rep
orted contacting Vic directly last night—”
“Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask, since when was that the plan?”
“It wasn’t. Gus just improvised,” the driver said. “Anyway, that kinda forces our hand. The boss says we’ve got to convince Gus it’s time for the next level.”
His partner studied the four-inch color screen.
The driver looked over at his associate. “Frankly, there’s some concern that Gus might just get whacked . . . before we get what we need on Vic.”
He looked up from his screen. “You think the old doctor would actually take Gus out?”
The driver laughed. “In a heartbeat. The doc’s as slimy as they come. If Gus really has the goods on him, Vic gets a fresh pair of handcuffs.”
“You think it’ll matter? Vic got off on appeal last time.”
“Trust me, with Gus’s info, this time we’ll have enough on Vic so he’ll spend at least a couple of decades in a federal pen.”
“Um, we’ve got a slight problem,” his partner said, studying the screen.
“Don’t tell me Gus is still at the hotel? I can hear him now, ‘Did you give it . . . to the right people . . . while I overslept—’”
His partner cut off the imitation. “Now that’s almost funny,” he said. “I wish that were the case.” He held out the screen for the driver to see.
“Where’s that?”
“Unless it’s malfunctioning, according to this, Gus is headed for New York City.”
“Impossible, he’d be . . . foolish to leave town now.”
“You think he’s gonna skip out on us?”
The driver considered that possibility. “No, I don’t think so. I’d say he got spooked, but he wouldn’t run.”
“Then what’s he doing?”
“I’d say Gus ditched the tracing bracelet on a train and plans to do this in his own crazy, demented way.”
Neither man spoke for a minute.
“I knew seeing Vic was a big mistake on his part,” the partner said, watching the developments on his screen.