by Robin Cook
“I’ll be able to cook,” she said, straightening up.
“Wonderful,” Sean said, but his mind was concerned with other basic appetites.
They moved back into the living room.
“Hey, I’m ready to move in tonight,” Sean said. “I love it.”
“Hold on,” Janet said. “I hope I haven’t given you the impression we’re moving in together just like that. We’ve got some serious talking to do. That’s the whole reason I came down here.”
“Well, first we have to get going on this medulloblastoma thing,” Sean said.
“I didn’t think the two issues would be mutually exclusive,” Janet said.
“I didn’t mean to imply that they were,” Sean said. “It’s just that it’s hard for me at the moment to think about much beyond my role here at Forbes and whether I should stay. The situation is kind of dominating my mind. I think it’s pretty understandable.”
Janet rolled her eyes.
“Besides, I’m starved,” Sean said. He smiled. “You know I can never talk when I’m hungry.”
“I’ll be patient to a point,” Janet conceded. “But I don’t want you to forget I need some serious communicating. Now, as far as dinner is concerned, the real estate person told me there’s a popular Cuban restaurant just up Collins Avenue.”
“Cuban?” Sean questioned.
“I know you rarely venture from your meat and potatoes,” Janet said. “But while we’re in Miami we can be a bit more adventuresome.”
“Groan,” Sean murmured.
The restaurant was close enough to walk so they left Sean’s 4×4 where they’d found a parking spot across from the apartment. Walking hand in hand, they wandered north up Collins Avenue beneath huge silver- and gold-tipped clouds that reflected the reddened sky over the distant Everglades. They couldn’t see the ocean, but they could hear the waves hit against the beach on the other side of a block of recently renovated and refurbished Miami art deco buildings.
The entire beach neighborhood was alive with people strolling up and down the streets, sitting on steps or porches, roller blading, or cruising in their cars. Some of the car stereos had the bass pumped up to a point that Sean and Janet could feel the vibration in their chests as the cars thumped past.
“Those guys aren’t going to have functional middle ears by the time they’re thirty,” Sean commented.
The restaurant gave the impression of frenzied disorganization with tables and people crammed everywhere. The waiters and waitresses were dressed in black pants or skirts and white shirts or blouses. Each had on a soiled apron. They ranged in age from twenty to sixty. Shouting back and forth, they communicated among themselves and to the steam table in expressive bursts of Spanish while they ran and weaved among the tables. Over the entire tumult hung a succulent aroma of roast pork, garlic, and dark roasted coffee.
Carried along by a current of people, Sean and Janet found themselves squeezed among other diners at a large table. Frosted bottles of Corona with lime wedges stuck in their mourns appeared as if by magic.
“There’s nothing on here for me to eat,” Sean complained after studying the menu for a few minutes. Janet was right; he rarely varied his diet.
“Nonsense,” Janet said. She did the ordering.
Sean was pleasantly surprised when their food came. The marinated and heavily garlic-flavored roast pork was delicious, as was the yellow rice and the black beans covered with chopped onions. The only thing he didn’t care for was the yucca.
“This stuff tastes like potato covered with mucoid exudate,” Sean yelled.
“Gross!” Janet exclaimed. “Stop sounding so much like a medical student.”
Conversation was almost impossible in the raucous restaurant, so after dinner they wandered over to Ocean Drive and ventured into Lummus Park where they could talk. They sat under a broad banyan tree and gazed out at the dark ocean dotted with the lights of merchant ships and pleasure boats.
“Hard to believe it’s still winter in Boston,” Sean said.
“It makes me wonder why we put up with slush and freezing rain,” Janet said. “But enough small talk. If, as you said, you can’t talk about us for the moment, then let’s talk about the Forbes situation. Was your afternoon any better than your morning?”
Sean gave a short, mirthless laugh. “It was worse,” he said. “I wasn’t on the second floor for five minutes before the director of nursing burst into the room like a raging bull, yelling and screaming because I was looking at Helen’s chart.”
“Margaret Richmond was mad?” Janet asked.
Sean nodded. “All two hundred and fifty snarling pounds of her. She was out of control.”
“She’s always been civil with me,” Janet said.
“I’ve only seen her twice,” Sean said. “Neither time would I describe her as civil.”
“How did she know you were there?” Janet asked.
“The Marine commando was with her,” Sean said. “They must have picked me up on a surveillance camera.”
“Oh, great!” Janet said. “Something else I have to worry about. I never thought of surveillance cameras.”
“You don’t have to worry,” Sean said. “I’m the one who the head of security can’t abide. Besides, the cameras are most likely only in the common areas, not patient floors.”
“Did you get to talk with Helen Cabot?” Janet asked.
“For a moment,” Sean said. “She doesn’t look good at all.”
“Her condition’s been deteriorating,” Janet said. “There’s talk of doing a shunt. Did you learn anything from her chart?”
“No,” Sean said. “I didn’t have time. They literally chased me back over the bridge to the research building. Then, as if to cap off the afternoon, that Japanese guy appeared again, sneaking around, watching me in the lab from the stairwell. I don’t know what his story is, but this time I got him. I scared the living willies out of him by sneaking up behind him and letting out this bloodcurdling yell. He nearly dropped his pants.”
“The poor fellow,” Janet said.
“Poor fellow nothing!” Sean said. “This guy’s been watching me since I arrived.”
“Well, I’ve had some luck,” Janet said.
Sean brightened. “Really! Great! Did you get some of the miracle medicine?”
“No, no medicine,” Janet said. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the computer printout and the sheet with her hastily scribbled notes. “But here’s the list of all the medulloblastoma patients for the last ten years: thirty-eight in all; thirty-three in the past two years. I’ve summarized the data on the sheet.”
Sean eagerly took the papers. But to read them he had to hold it over his head to catch the light coming from the street-lights along Ocean Drive. As he looked it over, Janet explained what she’d learned about the sex and age distribution. She also told him that the computer files were abridged and that there had been a notation to consult the charts themselves for more information. Finally, she told him what Melanie had said about obtaining those charts in as little as ten minutes providing, of course, you had the proper authorization.
“I’ll need the charts,” Sean said. “Are they right there in medical records?”
“No.” Janet explained what Melanie had said about the chart storage vaults extending beneath both buildings.
“No kidding,” Sean said. “That might be rather handy.”
“What do you mean?” Janet asked.
“It means that I might be able to get to them from the research building,” Sean said. “After the episode today, it’s pretty clear I’m persona non grata in the hospital. This way I can attempt to get at those charts without running afoul of Ms. Richmond and company.”
“You’re thinking of breaking into the storage vault?” Janet asked with alarm.
“I kinda doubt they’d leave the door open for me,” Sean said.
“But that’s going too far,” Janet said. “If you did that, you’d be breaking the law,
not just a hospital rule.”
“I warned you about this,” Sean said.
“You said we’d have to break rules, not the law,” Janet reminded him.
“Let’s not get into semantics,” Sean said with exasperation.
“But there’s a big difference,” Janet said.
“Laws are codified rules,” Sean said. “I knew we’d get around to breaking the law in some form or fashion, and I thought you did too. But, be that as it may, don’t you think we’re justified? These Forbes people have obviously developed a very effective treatment for medulloblastoma. Unfortunately, they have chosen to be secretive about it, obviously so they can patent their treatment before anyone else catches on. You know, this is what bugs me about the private funding of medical research. The goal becomes a return on investment instead of the public interest. The public weal is in second place if it is considered at all. This treatment for medulloblastoma undoubtedly has implications for all cancers, but the public is being denied that information. Never mind that most of the basic science these private labs base their work on was obtained through public funds at academic institutions. These private places just take. They don’t give. The public gets cheated in the process.”
“Ends never justify means,” Janet said.
“Go ahead and be self-righteous,” Sean said. “Meanwhile, you’re forgetting this whole thing was your idea. Well, maybe we should give up, and maybe I should go back to Boston and get something done on my dissertation.”
“All right!” Janet said with frustration. “All right, we’ll do what we have to do.”
“We need the charts and we need the miracle medicine,” Sean said. He stood up and stretched. “So let’s go.”
“Now?” Janet questioned with alarm. “It’s nearly nine at night.”
“First rule of breaking and entering,” Sean said. “You do it when no one is at home. This is a perfect time. Besides, I have a legitimate cover: I should inject more of my mice with the primary dose of the glycoprotein.”
“Heaven help me,” Janet said as she allowed Sean to pull her up from the bench.
TOM WIDDICOMB guided his car into the slot at the extreme end of the parking area for the Forbes residence. He inched forward until the wheels touched the curb restraint. He had pulled up under the protective branches of a large gumbolimbo tree. Alice had told him to park there just in case someone noticed the car. It was Alice’s car, a lime green 1969 Cadillac convertible.
Tom opened the car door and stepped out after making certain no one was in sight. He pulled on a pair of latex surgical gloves. Then he reached under the front seat and grasped the chef’s knife he’d brought from home. Light glinted off its polished surface. At first he’d planned on bringing the gun. But then thinking about noise and the thinness of the residence walls, he’d settled on the knife instead. Its only drawback was that it could be messy.
Being careful of the knife’s cutting edge, Tom slipped the blade up inside the right sleeve of his shirt, cupping the handle in the palm of his hand. In his other hand he carried the keys to 207.
He made his way along the rear of the building, counting the sliders until he was below 207. There were no lights on in the apartment. Either that nurse was already in bed or she was out. Tom didn’t care. Either way had its benefits and disadvantages.
Walking around to the front of the building, Tom had to pause while one of the tenants came out and headed for his car. After the man had driven away, Tom used one of the keys to enter the building. Once inside, he moved quickly. He preferred not to be seen. Arriving outside of 207, he inserted the key, opened the door, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him in one swift, fluid motion.
For several minutes he stood by the door without moving, listening for the slightest sound. He could hear several distant TVs, but they were from other apartments. Pocketing the keys, he allowed the long-bladed chef’s knife to slide out from his sleeve. He clutched its handle as if it were a dagger.
Slowly he inched forward. By the light coming from the parking area he could see the outline of the furniture and the doorway into the bedroom. The bedroom door was open.
Looking into the gloom of the bedroom, which was darker than the living room due to the closed drapes, Tom could not tell if the bed was occupied or empty. Again he listened. Aside from the muffled sound of the distant TVs plus the hum of the refrigerator which had just kicked on, he heard nothing. There was no steady breathing of someone asleep.
Advancing into the room a half step at a time, Tom bumped gently against the edge of the bed. Reaching out with his free hand, he groped for a body. Only then did he know for sure: the bed was empty.
Not realizing he’d been holding his breath, Tom straightened up and breathed out. He felt relief of tension on the one hand, yet profound disappointment on the other. The anticipation of violence had aroused him and satisfaction would be delayed.
Moving more by feel than by sight, he managed to find his way to the bathroom. Reaching in, he ran his free hand up and down the wall until he found the light switch. Turning it on, he had to squint in the brightness, but he liked what he saw. Hanging over the tub were a pair of lacy pastel panties and a bra.
Tom placed the chef’s knife down on the edge of the sink and picked up the panties. They were nothing like the ones Alice wore. He had no idea why such objects fascinated him, but they did. Sitting on the edge of the tub, he fingered the silky material. For the moment he was content, knowing that he’d be entertained while he waited, keeping the light switch and the knife close at hand.
“WHAT IF we get caught?” Janet asked nervously as they headed toward the Forbes Center. They’d just come from the Home Depot hardware store where Sean had bought tools that he said should work almost as well as a locksmith’s tension bar and double ball pick.
“We’re not going to get caught,” Sean said. “That’s why we’re going there now when no one will be there. Well, we don’t know that for sure, but we’ll check.”
“There will be plenty of people on the hospital side,” Janet warned.
“And that’s the reason why we stay away from the hospital,” Sean said.
“What about security?” Janet asked. “Have you thought about that?”
“Piece of cake,” Sean said. “Except for the frustrated Marine, I haven’t been impressed. They’re certainly lax at the front door.”
“I’m not good at this,” Janet admitted.
“Tell me something I didn’t know!” Sean said.
“And how are you so acquainted with locks and picks and alarms?” Janet asked.
“When I grew up in Charlestown, it was a pure-blooded working-class neighborhood,” Sean said. “The gentrification hadn’t started. Each of our fathers was in a different trade. My father was a plumber. Timothy O’Brien’s father was a locksmith. Old man O’Brien taught his son some of the tricks of the trade, and Timmy showed us. At first it was a game; kind of a competition. We liked to believe there weren’t any locks in the neighborhood we couldn’t open. And Charlie Sullivan’s father was a master electrician. He put in fancy alarm systems in Boston, mostly on Beacon Hill. He often made Charlie come along. So Charlie started telling us about alarms.”
“That’s dangerous information for kids to have,” Janet said. Her own childhood couldn’t have been further from Sean’s, among the private schools, music lessons, and summers on the Cape.
“You bet,” Sean agreed. “But we never stole anything from our own neighborhood. We’d just open up locks and then leave them open as a practical joke. But then it changed. We started going out to the ‘burbs like Swampscott or Marblehead with one of the older kids who could drive. We’d watch a house for a while, then break in and help ourselves to the liquor and some of the electronics. You know, stereos, TVs.”
“You stole?” Janet questioned with shock.
Sean glanced at her for a second before looking back at the road. “Of course we stole,” he said. “It was thrilling at the ti
me and we used to think all the people who lived on the North Shore were millionaires.” Sean went on to tell how he and his buddies would sell the goods in Boston, pay off the driver, buy beer, and give the rest to a fellow raising money for the Irish Republican Army. “We even deluded ourselves into thinking we were youthful political activists even though we didn’t have the faintest idea of what was going on in Northern Ireland.”
“My God! I had no idea,” Janet said. She’d known about Sean’s adolescent fights and even about the joy rides, but this burglary was something else entirely.
“Let’s not get carried away with value judgments,” Sean said. “My youth and yours were completely different.”
“I’m just a little concerned you learned to justify any type of behavior,” Janet said. “I would imagine it could become a habit.”
“The last time I did any of that stuff was when I was fifteen,” Sean said. “There’s been a lot of water over the dam since then.”
They pulled into the Forbes parking lot and drove to the research building. Sean cut the engine and turned out the lights. For a moment neither moved.
“You want to go ahead with this or not?” Sean asked, finally breaking the silence. “I don’t mean to pressure you, but I can’t waste two months down here screwing around with busywork. Either I get to look into the medulloblastoma protocol or I go back to Boston. Unfortunately, I can’t do it by myself; that was made apparent by the run-in with hefty Margaret Richmond. Either you help, or we cancel. But let me say this: we’re going in here to get information, not to steal TV sets. And it’s for a damn good cause.”
Janet stared ahead for a moment. She didn’t have the luxury of indecision, yet her mind was a jumble of confusing thoughts. She looked at Sean. She thought she loved him.
“Okay!” Janet said finally. “Let’s do it.”
They got out of the car and walked to the entrance. Sean carried the tools he’d gotten at the Home Depot in a paper bag.
“Evening,” Sean said to the security guard who blinked repeatedly as he stared at Sean’s ID card. He was a swarthy Hispanic with a pencil-line mustache. He seemed to appreciate Janet’s shorts.