Death's Door

by Meryl Sawyer

  “How would someone have obtained the names of the people in Boston?” Madison wanted to know.

  “That wouldn’t have been difficult,” Wyatt said. “They were listed at DonorSiblingRegistry.com.”

  “What about your estate?” There was an edge to Paul’s voice.

  A smile spread across Wyatt’s face for the first time since he’d come to tell them about Erin. “Forget about Garrison and Savannah. They have no reason to want me dead. They won’t get a dime from my estate. You see, their mother was immensely wealthy in her own right. Before she died, she set up trusts for both of them. They have plenty of money. Plus, they know I intend to leave what I do have to the foundation I’m setting up.”

  “What about business competitors?” Paul asked.

  “I can understand why you’d ask—being a detective—but let me explain a little about my company.” He looked at Madison to make sure she was paying attention. It seemed as if he lost no opportunity, even at a time like this, to tell her about his business. She couldn’t help feeling flattered. “I’m a small operation that’s family-owned, not a big corporation like most pharmaceutical companies. I have had one big hit and a couple of minor discoveries that are on the market and making money.”

  Madison couldn’t help noticing the trace of pride in his voice. Why not? He’d worked a lifetime and had a lot to show for it.

  “The big guys have drugs on the market generating billions of dollars annually. Trouble is many of the patents on so-called ‘blockbuster’ drugs are expiring and they’re going generic.”

  “Profits will go way down,” Paul said.

  “Exactly. For example, the world’s bestselling drug will go generic in 2010. That’s a nanosecond in pharmaceuticals where it takes years and billions to develop a drug. The megacompanies have hit the skids. They’ve relied on blockbusters for so long that their profits are going to nosedive.”

  Madison thought there might be a hint of satisfaction in his voice. “Wall Street will have conniptions.”

  “My very point,” Wyatt said with a nod. “When profits go down, the price of your stock goes down. The big guys are scrambling and—”

  “They must have some drugs in the pipeline,” Madison interrupted. Aspen stirred, then rested his head on her foot.

  “You’d be surprised. They’ve promoted the hell out of their products. How many TV ads have you seen for a drug? They’ve sacrificed research on the altar of marketing.”

  “True of many industries,” Paul added. “Marketing is the tail that wags the dog.”

  Wyatt laughed. “I’ve never heard it put that way but you’re right.”

  Madison realized that though she’d seen Wyatt smile many times, he rarely laughed. His smile was part of his public persona, she decided. He wasn’t really that happy. Proud of his accomplishments, but not truly happy.

  Why? she wondered. He had two accomplished children who adored him and a successful career. Did he miss his wife? That could be it, she decided. Her own mother had begun acting different after the death of Madison’s father.

  Maybe he was just afraid he would die before he could get his foundation up and running. It might have nothing to do with his wife or children.

  “So, when I die, my company will be gobbled up by one of the giants. The money from the sale is slated to go into my foundation.”

  “Wouldn’t Garrison be interested in running it?” she asked.

  “I wish.” Wyatt shook his head. “He shares a few facilities with me but his lab is very different. You know how he is about discoveries coming from the sea.”

  “Passionate,” she said.

  “Obsessive, according to his sister,” Wyatt responded. “The point is both my children have their own money, their own interests. My company will be sold to one of the giants. The conglomerates have time on their side. They’ve made so much money and are recycling drugs that are altered just enough to be considered new. They can wait me out. These big companies are greedy and the public naive, but I can’t see them hiring a hit man to kill me.”

  Wyatt seemed resigned that his business would be sold to men who cared less about science and helping people than profits. Madison wondered if that was how he really felt. She was having a hard time letting go of Total Trivia. Selling to a sleaze like Estevez bothered her. Surely Wyatt must be disappointed that neither of his children would take over his business.

  “What about employees?” Paul wanted to know. “Would any of them profit from your death?”

  Wyatt immediately shook his head. “I pay them well. Everyone from the executives to the cleaning crew gets a bonus at Christmas. I seriously doubt a public company will do the same. They’ll probably cut jobs to max profits.”

  Paul asked, “How many people know you’re looking for your donor-conceived children?”

  “The whole world could find out. I registered on several Web sites when I found out I would need a relative for a transplant.”

  “I think we need to take some precautions.” Paul’s eyes darkened as he held her gaze. “I don’t want Madison to be next.”

  “Mary, mother of God,” muttered Wyatt.

  “I don’t think I’m…” Her voice trailed off. “You’re starting to scare me.”

  A slow smile crept across his handsome face. “Good. It’s about time.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Which is better: a dog’s sense of smell or its hearing?

  SLIVERS OF MOONLIGHT FOUND their way through the slats of the plantation shutters and cast a pattern across the limestone floor. Madison stared at them, unable to fall asleep. Paul didn’t have the same problem. He was stretched out beside her, sound asleep, snuggled close, his comforting arm curled across her lower back. The pressure of his arm was so male, so protective.

  Despite the possibility her life was in danger and the fact that her best friend was dead, her finances were a wreck and her mother still hadn’t called, Madison felt strangely calm. Wyatt had insisted on paying for a security guard to patrol the grounds around the guesthouse in the evening. He’d even called Paul’s father to insist a man be sent out within the hour.

  She doubted such extreme and expensive measures were necessary, but Wyatt and Paul had insisted. Paul was still on leave; he would take her to work and pick her up. He was operating on the theory that the killer wouldn’t do anything violent. He’d try to stage an accident. Giving the fewest number of people access to her would be her best protection.

  If she didn’t like Paul so much, she wouldn’t put up with all the restrictions because she wasn’t convinced she was in danger. But she did like him. Admit it, she thought. You’re falling in love with him. Just take it slow. Don’t have the same lapse of judgment you had with Aiden.

  After Wyatt had left they’d gone to bed and had taken their time making love. He seemed to know just where to touch her, how to touch her. He asked her what she liked. Aiden had never once said much more than “Are you ready?”

  She turned so she could see Paul’s dark head against the white pillow. She was conscious of where his warm flesh touched hers. A shiver of excitement rippled through her. How could she have wasted so much time on Aiden? She brushed a gentle kiss against Paul’s stubbled cheek, careful not to wake him.

  Madison’s throat felt as if she’d swallowed sand. She needed a drink of water. Gingerly, an inch at a time, she lifted Paul’s arm and slowly slid out from under it. She rose from the bed, taking care not to step on Aspen. Ever alert, the dog awoke, scrambled upright and followed her.

  She stopped to grab her robe off the chair where she’d tossed it earlier. Paul liked to sleep in the buff. Another contrast with Aiden, who preferred silk pajama bottoms and insisted she wear Victoria’s Secret nightgowns. She wouldn’t need them now. But she shouldn’t prance around naked with a security guard just outside.

  Halfway across the great room, going toward the kitchen, Madison remembered she hadn’t checked her cell phone. It had been off all evening because she di
dn’t want to be interrupted at dinner. She found her purse on the table by the sofa. The phone was in the side pocket. She took it out and saw that she had several messages.

  What if she’d missed her mother’s call? She might sail off, just leaving a message, and Madison wouldn’t have the opportunity to ask her why her name was on New Horizons’ records. She checked voice mail. Three calls were from Rob; he’d wanted to take her to dinner.

  He must be lonely and missing Erin. They’d split some time ago, but evidently, he was grieving. Who could blame him? Even though Rob and Erin had no longer been together, he had loved her.

  “I miss you, Erin,” Madison whispered into the darkness. Aspen swished his tail in response. She bent down to his ear. “Good boy,” she said softly.

  Another message was from Dr. Miller. Evidently her test results were back. She’d call him in the morning. No doubt she would breeze through the preliminary tests. She expected to be eliminated later.

  She wasn’t sure what to tell Rob. If she had dinner with him, Paul would insist on coming and she hadn’t even mentioned him to Rob. It would be awkward, but she didn’t want to desert him when he was missing Erin as much as she was.

  Erin. What Wyatt had told them came back to her with an unsettling jolt. Could Erin have known she was a donor-conceived child and not told Madison? Did anyone ever really know another person? They’d shared a past full of childhood memories that seemed to bond them, but Erin had always held back a little bit of herself from everyone, even Rob.

  He was such a nice man, she thought, putting the cell phone back in her purse. He’d called to ask her to dinner about two weeks after Aiden walked out on her. She told him she wasn’t up to going out even with a friend. What a mess she’d been.

  Could she have really been that stupid? She’d let the divorce throw her whole life off-kilter. She wandered into the kitchen without turning on the lights. Enough moonlight flowed through the windows to guide her. She took a glass from the cabinet, filled it with water and drank. She set it down on the counter. An odd sensation sent a shiver prickling through her. She tensed and another jolt of uneasiness hit her. Had she heard a low rumble?

  “Is that you, boy?” she whispered to Aspen.

  There was enough light in the room to see Aspen was growling, a low rasp from deep in his throat and his hackles shot straight up. She stroked his ears. Her pulse skipped a beat, then accelerated. “What is it, boy?”

  Dogs had a much better sense of smell than humans and they could detect sounds humans couldn’t. “What do you hear, Aspen? What do you smell?”

  He growled another warning, louder this time. Nerves fluttered in her chest. Why was she so jumpy? Must be all Paul’s talk about the murder—and knowing Erin’s murder could also be part of this mess. “Shh! You’re freaking me out,” she whispered to the dog.

  Aspen’s nose was pointed toward the French doors that opened from the living room onto the pool area. Maybe the guard was making a pass by the guesthouse and Aspen smelled him. After all, smell was a dog’s best sense, hundreds of times better than man’s. She tiptoed toward the doors, Aspen at her side, still growling.

  Evidently, the lights around the house were on a timer. They were off. The only light came from a full moon overhead. The bushes and the palms created patterns of darkness and light.

  One large shadow on the far side of the pool seemed to shift. Was it a person or merely a shadow? A surge of something too intense to be merely nerves shot through her. She was so on edge that she wasn’t sure what was real or what she was imagining.

  The form shifted again like a ghost and crept closer to the guesthouse. It wasn’t her imagination. Someone was out there!

  A man emerged from the shadows. He was moving stealthily, obviously trying not to make noise. Oh my God! How had he slipped by the security guard? Surely the guard had gotten here by now. Wyatt had made the call several hours ago.

  Raw panic slicked her skin like snake oil the instant she realized he had a weapon in his hand. Paul’s here, her brain reminded Madison. He has a gun. She was pivoting when the man tiptoed closer. Garrison Holbrook. The thing in his hand was an envelope, not a weapon. Sheesh! Talk about being a nutcase.

  She cracked the door and softly called, “Garrison, what are you doing?”

  “I didn’t think you’d be up.” He waved the envelope at her. There wasn’t the faintest trace of emotion in his voice, yet a chill tiptoed up her spine. Something was wrong. “I was leaving you a note to call me.”

  Aspen was still growling. “Hush,” she told the dog as she stepped outside and closed the door behind her so Paul wouldn’t be awakened. “It’s okay, boy.”

  She turned to Garrison; even at this late hour, he looked as if he’d stepped off a page of GQ. She could only imagine what she looked like after her night with Paul. “What’s so important?” she asked.

  He hesitated, gazing at her with a level, reflective look. The air crackled with tension. Or was she imagining it?

  “Your blood tests came back,” Garrison said in a neutral voice, but Madison picked up a serious undertone. He paused for a moment before adding, “I hate to have to tell you this, but…”

  “Tell me what?” She knew by his tone that this couldn’t be good news.

  “Madison, I’m afraid it looks like you have a disease called Chagas.”

  “An illness caused by a single-cell parasite that feeds on heart and gastrointestinal tissues. A leading cause of heart failure in Central and South America.” The rote description came from her mouth as the meaning of his words registered. “How could I have it? Chagas happens in poor rural areas where bugs can easily get into homes. The lab must have made a mistake.”

  “I wish that were true, but I doubt it. Dr. Miller uses a reputable lab.”

  Something in his gaze unnerved her. “How could I have caught Chagas?”

  “Have you had a blood transfusion?”

  “No. Did I catch it from somebody? Miami is loaded with people from—”

  “It’s a vector-borne illness.”

  “Transmitted by insects. You can’t catch it from an infected person.”

  “The insect that carries the parasite is moving northward thanks to our friend global warming. All blood banks now test for it. As you might guess, they find quite a few cases in Miami and L.A., but those people contracted it in Central or South America and brought it here. Cases like yours are rare. The doctor said most people who contracted Chagas here were campers or hunters who slept outdoors.”

  “I went camping in the Everglades twice last year. Maybe I caught it then.” She stared up at him, trying to make sense of this. “There must be a drug for this if it’s so prevalent south of the border.”

  Garrison’s lips parted in a silent, mirthless laugh. “Drug companies in America expect annual sales of a drug to be over one hundred million or it isn’t worth developing. These are poor countries. They can’t afford the treatment costs.”

  “But there is a treatment?” Her voice sounded pathetic even to her own ears.

  “What’s going on?” Paul was standing at the door, wearing nothing but a towel. If Garrison was surprised to see Paul, his face didn’t show it.

  “Let’s go inside,” suggested Madison.

  Inside, Madison flicked on the lights, Paul went into the bedroom and put on his pants. They settled on the sofa with Aspen at their feet while Garrison sat in the same chair his father had occupied earlier. It took a few minutes for Garrison to explain to Paul what Chagas was. Madison couldn’t recall reading anything about it in the papers or hearing about it on television. It wasn’t surprising that Paul had never heard of the fatal disease. Her trivia-filled brain had dredged up the definition, but she’d known little else.

  Of all the godforsaken luck, Madison thought. I have a disease that could kill me. It made everything else going wrong in her life seem less troubling. Surely there was something she could do. She tried to think where she could go for a consultation. She di
dn’t have health insurance. Total Trivia had chosen not to offer it. Since it was so expensive and she was young, Madison hadn’t thought she needed insurance. It wasn’t a smart decision, but it was too late now.

  “Wait a minute,” Paul said to Garrison. “How did you get Madison’s test results? I thought HIPA restricted access to info like this.”

  A grim smile formed on Garrison’s lips. “It does. I went to the hospital after dinner to see if Dr. Miller had your results. I knew he was working late. He was rushing out of his office just as I arrived. His son attends Brown and he was in a serious car crash. Dr. Miller is flying there, not knowing if his son will make it.”

  “Oh, my. How awful. He’s such a nice man.” Madison had really liked the doctor. He seemed so much more caring than many of the doctors who’d treated her father. “There was a message from him earlier in the evening asking me to call his office tomorrow.”

  “He was going to tell you then. When he left me standing near his desk, I confess I couldn’t resist the urge to look at your file,” Garrison admitted. “He’d told me the results were back. He didn’t say anything but there was something in his voice that made me curious.”

  “I would have looked, too,” Madison assured him. There was nothing she wouldn’t have done to save her father. How could she expect Garrison to be any different?

  “What’s the treatment?” Paul asked.

  “I used the computer at the nurse’s station to access the National Health Service database. People being treated now have had the disease for ten, twenty years. It’s a silent killer. The microscopic parasite feeds on heart and intestinal tissues. In your case, I assume it’s been discovered early or it would have shown up before now. The only place to go is Olive View–UCLA Medical Center.”

  “Los Angeles? Nothing here in Miami or the East Coast?” asked Paul.

  Garrison shook his head. “Nothing. Olive View–UCLA is the only Chagas treatment center in the country.”

  “What kind of treatment are you talking about?” Paul asked.