by Tim Stevens
Venn shrugged himself into an upright position in his chair, his manner suddenly more businesslike. “I’ve got to tell you first off, Dr Driscoll, that my mother’s very sick. The physicians at the hospital where she’s currently being treated aren’t optimistic. As I said, I’m not exactly bowled over by the care she’s getting. But that might just be me, because it’s my mother. The doctors may have a point.”
Driscoll looked grave once more. He spread his hands.
“We do our very best here, Mr Caldwell. Our staff are some of the finest experts in their fields that you’ll find anywhere in the state, possibly anywhere in the eastern US. I can supply you with a full list of them, together with their qualifications and credentials. We’re talking Harvard, Yale, Princeton, UCLA. A couple of former Mayo Clinic doctors. Serious heavyweights.”
Touchdown, thought Venn, trying not to let his triumph show. He said nothing, allowed Driscoll to continue.
“Of course, there are no guarantees. We don’t pretend we’re God, Mr Caldwell. We’re bound by the restrictions of what medical science can provide at the current time. But your mother has a better chance here than anywhere else you might consider.”
Venn said, “That sounds encouraging, Dr Driscoll, and I’ve certainly heard good things about the Bonnesante Clinic. Naturally, I’ve been exploring several options, looking at several other facilities.”
“Naturally,” Driscoll replied smoothly.
“And one aspect I’ve been studying with particular interest is the mortality statistics of the various places. The death rates, to put it bluntly.”
Driscoll watched him, his face betraying nothing.
Venn continued, “I know it may seem a crass thing to do, and I know it may have little bearing on my mother’s individual case. But on the whole, if a hospital or a clinic has a mortality rate significantly greater than the mean, I’m wary of it.”
Driscoll’s smile broadened. “That’s a difficult statistic to rely upon, Mr Caldwell, as I’m sure you realize. Mortality figures can vary widely, depending on regional prevalences of particular diseases, random outbreaks of infection beyond human control, and of course the type of conditions a facility may specialize in treating. Among numerous other factors.” Again he spread his hands. “But we’re very open here. Yes, of course I’ll provide you with the data you require. Our annual mortality figures are no greater than the mean, certainly, and considerably better than most.”
He reached along the desk and tugged a laptop computer closer to him. “In fact,” he said, “I can give you a whole lot more data which might be of interest. Figures comparing our post-operative infection rates with those of other hospitals in the state. Quality measures looking at the three-year outcome for our patients with a wide range of illnesses. You’ll find that in these areas we perform well ahead of the rest.”
Venn raised his eyebrows appreciatively. “Thank you. That would be very helpful.”
Driscoll tapped the keys for a while, then pushed the laptop away. “I’ve requested the information. It should be waiting for you at the reception when you leave.”
They began to discuss dollars and cents. Venn had concocted a fairly elaborate history of his fictional mother on the journey up. Many of the details of her diabetes and other aspects of her health were based on bits and pieces he recalled from conversations with Beth over the past couple of years, when she’d been chatting about her work. Venn was surprised how much of it he’d retained, even if he didn’t always fully understand what he was talking about. The story wouldn’t stand up to close scrutiny, but then again that wasn’t necessary for his purposes right now.
“So what’s the first step?” Venn asked.
“First,” said Driscoll, “We’d like to meet your mother. Either one of our teams can arrange to visit with her in New York, or you can bring her up here. Whichever’s most convenient. We’ll need to take a look at her medical records thus far -”
“I have those,” Venn said. “I didn’t bring them along with me, but I can have them delivered.”
“Good. Then, assuming we feel we can provide her with the care she needs, and I don’t foresee any problems in that regard, I’d like to arrange for her to be admitted for a period of assessment. The treatment in the longer term will be on an out-patient basis, of course, as far as possible. But if her health difficulties are as extensive and as complex as your description suggests, then it’s appropriate for us to begin with a short hospital stay, so that we can really get control of the problems from the outset.”
“Sounds fair enough,” said Venn. He paused, then said: “As I mentioned, Dr Driscoll, I’m a man of some means. I know a clinic such as yours requires a considerable amount of ongoing investment in order to keep running. I would be willing to consider a contribution, possibly on an annual basis, if I’m satisfied with the care you give my mother. Which I have little doubt I will be.”
Once more, there was that faint glint in Driscoll’s eye. Venn thought that if he had the proper medical equipment he could peer deeply through the man’s pupils and see little golden dollar signs imprinted on the retinas.
Driscoll said, “That’s very generous of you, Mr Caldwell. But, much as I appreciate it, let’s not talk about that now. Our priority is to get your mother as fit and as well as we possibly can.”
They stood, shook hands warmly. Venn glanced at the door. “I guess I need to track down my fiancée.”
Driscoll escorted him down in the elevator and to the lobby. The receptionist was still there, and handed Venn a hard-backed folder.
“Ah, yes,” said Driscoll. “The stats we talked about.”
They met Harmony and the nurse, Jane Clemmons, outside. Everybody shook hands again, and Driscoll handed Venn a business card.
“My personal number,” he said. “Our switchboard is efficient, but it’ll be even quicker if you call me direct.”
As Venn and Harmony made their way toward the parking lot, he was aware of Driscoll and Clemmons still standing together at the doors, gazing after them.
Harmony muttered under her breath, “What a creep.”
“Yeah.”
The cars in the lot had been depleted further while they’d been inside, and it was now one-quarter full. Venn saw a small group of people heading slowly toward a row of vehicles at the far end. They appeared to be members of staff, judging by their briefcases and suits, and they were deep in conversation.
He felt a sudden tug of recognition.
Not breaking his stride, he stared at the group. At one man in particular.
The guy’s head was down as he listened to the person next to him, but Venn could just about make out his face.
He’d seen it before. Just that day, in fact.
The man raised his head to smile at one of the others, and Venn was certain.
It was the man he’d seen crossing the street with Beth, outside the hospital.
Chapter 18
The road signs were starting to feature New York City prominently, and Gene Drake knew they were on the home stretch.
Behind them the sun dipped ever nearer the horizon, sending its slanting light into their rearview mirrors. They rode as before, the twins up front, followed by Drake and Walusz the Pole, with Rosenbloom and Skeet bringing up the rear.
But the tension was there now, communicated as if by some invisible field between the three cars.
Drake regarded himself as a responsible man. If something went wrong, he generally analyzed what he himself had done, or failed to do, to make it happen. He wasn’t one for blaming others. That was the kind of thing snot-nosed kids did.
But this time, there was only one person to blame. And it wasn’t Drake.
It was Rosenbloom. That fat asshole.
Rosenbloom, who didn’t take care of his car properly.
Rosenbloom, who’d allowed the brake pads to get worn so low they became useless. Not just at any time, but on this of all journeys.
Rosenbloom, who deserved
to be lying in a ditch by the side of the road right now, his brains blown out of his head.
The only reason Drake hadn’t yet killed him was that Rosenbloom was necessary. He had skills none of the others could quite match. Sooner or later - Drake sincerely hoped sooner - Rosenbloom would outlive his usefulness. Then he could be tossed in the garbage. But right now, he had to stay alive. More than that, he had to be fully functional. Which meant Drake couldn’t even hurt him all that badly.
When the Hyundai that Rosenbloom was driving had veered toward the edge of the road, hundreds of miles back there in western Pennsylvania, Drake said immediately to Walusz: “Pull over.” The driver had done so, and up ahead the twins’ station wagon braked.
Fortunately they were off the interstate at that time, and traveling along a stretch of road that was almost devoid of traffic. By the time Drake reached the Hyundai, with the twins trotting along behind him, he saw Rosenbloom cringing in the driver’s seat while Skeet screamed abuse at him.
He opened the door. “What happened?”
“Fuckin’ brakes failed,” snarled Skeet. His eyes were wild. Oh God, thought Drake, don’t let him have one of his... attacks. Not now.
To Rosenbloom, Drake said, “Get out the car.”
Rosenbloom began to protest, but Drake muttered, “Now,” and grabbed the guy by the shoulder, half-tipping him out the seat.
He got in, hit the ignition, rolled the car forward. Pressed the brake pedal.
“Yep,” he said. “Pads are gone.”
While Skeet screeched and got in Rosenbloom’s face, Drake gazed around, at the road stretching in either direction, the miles and miles of fields all around.
“Anybody got a spare set of pads?” he asked. Nobody bothered to reply.
Herman Schroeder peered at his cell phone. “There’s a repair shop three miles from here,” he said. “Otherwise, the nearest place is a gas station off the interstate.”
“Okay,” said Drake. “We head for the shop.”
“What?” stuttered Rosenbloom, still recoiling from Skeet’s furious rantings. “Your picture will be up on the TV. They’ll ID you -”
“What do you suggest, Einstein?” said Drake. “That we call up the AAA?”
Quickly, they formed a plan. Gudrun would make the approach. It was risky, because a bunch of grease jockeys would remember her later, in a way they wouldn’t with, say, Rosenbloom himself. But Gudrun was more likely to charm them into providing speedy service.
The convoy moved on, much more slowly this time because of the shot brakes in the Hyundai. Skeet drove the car, to be on the safe side. At last they saw the small sign up ahead: Artie’s Tires and Repairs.
Drake watched Skeet pull in ahead of them, then come back with Rosenbloom. They crammed into the station wagon, while Gudrun sashayed up the drive toward the shop. She emerged a couple of minutes later with a young black kid, no more than nineteen or twenty. He looked shy and awkward, but from the way he glanced at Gudrun from time to time, Drake could see he was smitten.
The kid peered down the road at the other two cars once or twice while he was working, but Drake saw no more than idle curiosity in his look. At last it was done, and Drake watched Gudrun and the kid head back to the shop. He knew she’d have the sense to pay cash.
When she didn’t reappear after five minutes, Drake wondered if she was letting the kid have a quickie in the back room. He hoped not. Not that he cared, really, but it was complicating matters more than necessary.
When she didn’t come back after another five, Drake began to feel alarmed.
He was just about to confer with Skeet and Herman when Gudrun came striding down the driveway. Her dress and hair weren’t mussed, nor was her makeup, though he supposed she could have neatened herself up. Her expression was difficult to read.
Drake said through his open window as she approached: “Everything OK?”
“Sorry I took so long,” she said breezily. “The boy recognized you. I had to dispatch him. It took me a little while to wipe down everything I’d touched, make sure I left no traces.”
“Wait a minute. Wait a minute.” Drake opened the door and got out. “You killed him?”
She raised her eyebrows prettily. “As I said, he IDed you. He called 911. Didn’t mention any of the rest of us, or anything about the cars, but still. I think we ought to get out of here.”
Shit, thought Drake.
The others had got out by now. Drake filled them in.
Rosenbloom’s sweaty face went pale. Skeet was staring at him again.
“This is your goddamn fault –”
Drake held up a hand. “All right. No time for that. Like Gudrun says, we need to shake a leg.” He turned back to her. “The body?”
“There’s a tool shed out back. I put him in there. They’ll find him soon enough, but it may buy us a little time.”
Drake was relieved. You never knew with psychos like Gudrun and her brother. She might have arranged the kid’s corpse in some kind of ritualistic pose, crucified him or something.
They pulled out, Skeet navigating them through a changed route, one which involved a lot of country roads and therefore a lesser chance that roadblocks would be set up in time. As they drove, Drake heard the first distant whine of sirens cut through the morning air.
It was a setback, and a minor one at that, he told himself. It made no difference to the big picture. They were on their way to New York, and he had an address burned into his memory, and a face in his mind. A face that had never left his thoughts, through all the years he’d been cooped up in Horn Creek like just so much livestock.
Common sense told him he should make it quick. Do the hit, get out of there. Move on.
But his heart, his gut, told him otherwise. Urged him to draw it out.
To make the guy suffer.
*
The lights of Manhattan, the magnificent cityscape, reared before them at seven-fifteen in the evening.
A couple of times, while still inside the Pennsylvania state boundary, Drake had seen police cars speeding by in the opposite direction, the flashers going like strobe lights. He’d turned on the radio for a news update, once, and heard about the possible sighting of himself, and of the discovery of a body. At intervals, Rosenbloom and Skeet updated him from the other car. The police channels suggested the cops had no clue where they’d gone, apart from a general supposition that they were heading eastward.
Once in New York, Drake could lose himself far more easily.
His phone rang. It was Skeet.
“We going straight there, or somewhere else first?”
“Straight there,” said Drake. “There’ll be plenty of time for sightseeing later.”
Drake had already given the twins the address of the apartment and they’d programmed it into the station wagon’s GPS. Walusz had done likewise in the SUV. Drake looked at the screen.
Time to destination: twenty-seven minutes.
Drake felt the rising of something deep within him, something that began in the pit of his belly and rose to his heart and diffused throughout his blood vessels so that it flooded his entire body.
It was excitement, yes, but something more than that, too.
It was joy.
Chapter 19
Beth finished her evening rounds early, by five-thirty. Normally she’d hang around for an hour or so, making sure everything was under control, before heading home. Today, though, she felt in no particular hurry to leave.
Paul wouldn’t be around until later in the evening, as he was out of town at one of the private clinics where he had attending privileges. The few friends Beth had outside of work weren’t around either. Besides, Beth had found her desire for social contact diminishing rapidly in the last few months. Trying to lead a normal life, with friends and dinners and movies, seemed unbearably fake to her.
This was how people eventually burned out, she realized. When the workplace became an oasis, a refuge from the trials of everyday life, it was ap
t to take over, to chew you up and spit you out. She’d seen it happen to older colleagues. But she was young, relatively new. It was far too early in her career for her to be facing that.
She wandered about the wards, until one of the senior nurses took her aside and pointed out that she was becoming a pain in the ass, that the staff had everything in order and were getting annoyed with her control-freak checking. Beth held up her hands in resignation.
She headed for her office, replenished the coffee pot, and sat at her desk, trying to read a journal paper but finding herself going over the same paragraph repeatedly. She closed the journal and sat back.
It was all getting too much. First the continuing problem of the nerviness, the flashbacks. Then the business with Olivia Collins’ data. And now, the added burden of knowing Venn had seen her with Paul, arm in arm.
It shouldn’t matter. She and Venn had been separated long enough that most people would think it entirely appropriate that she started dating again. Of course Venn would be jealous, that was natural. But he’d be jealous if they’d been apart six months, or two years. The time would have come anyway that he’d know she was seeing somebody else. Wasn’t it better that they got over that hurdle now, rather than later?
But of course it mattered. Of course she’d felt a sickening punch of guilt in her gut, seeing Venn watching her and Paul from his car. And of course it meant the next meeting, or the next conversation, between Venn and her would be fraught.
Still. She had to speak with him sometime. She’d asked him to carry out an investigation on her behalf, after all.
With a sense of unease, she checked her personal email. There was no message from Venn. Not even any acknowledgement that he’d received her email that morning, with the data he’d requested.
She’d leave the ball in his court. No doubt he’d contact her when he discovered something.
*
It was close to nine p.m. when Beth decided enough was enough, and that she really needed to go home. Maybe an early night would help her feel better. Though even as she thought it, she knew the chances of her falling asleep any time before midnight were vanishingly small.