Dead Wrong

by Allen Wyler

  Good. Now that he had a plan, he pushed off the bed ready to get going.

  The doorknob rattled.

  He froze, his heart accelerating like a rocket. Thank God he’d locked door.

  It rattled again. Followed by a knock.

  Shit!

  “It’s me.”

  He leaned against the door. “Sarah?”

  “Yes, for Christ’s sake open up.”

  She slipped in, quickly locking the door behind her. For a moment she slumped against it and looked at him with a mixture of relief and irritation. “Damn it, Tom, where’d you go? I came back and the room was empty. Scared the crap out of me. I thought … aw hell, I’m sorry.”

  In the next moment she had her arms around him, hugging. But then she stiffened and pushed away, her face burning with embarrassment. “Oh, sorry.”

  He was at an awkward loss for words, so he decided to ignore his first emotions and said, “Must’ve just missed me. I just went across the hall to clean up. When I got back the scrubs were here. I’ve been waiting. I figured you weren’t coming back and was just about to try leaving the building.”

  “Leave? How?”

  He explained the route.

  “Then it’s a good thing I got here. It’s not safe yet. Police are still all over the place—especially the ER. So it’s a sure bet Sikes and company are too. Unless there’s a very good reason to go now, I’m telling you it’s best to wait until early evening. I can be your eyes. I’ll go out every now and then to see if things lighten up.”

  He nodded in agreement. As intolerable as staying in the cramped stuffy room might be, he knew her advice was best.

  “The good news is I found a basement exit to use. I checked three times and nobody was even near it.”

  The room was so small they were face to face only two feet apart. He motioned to the bed, “Sit down. Let me tell you what’s happened.”

  She sat, held up a hand to speak first. “First, I have to tell you something.” She told him about talking with Baker and how she admitted that Wyse gave her the Valium.

  Tom wasn’t sure he completely understood. “It was a bottle and not a written prescription?”

  “Yes! See, that explains how it had my name on the label. He must’ve printed it that way.”

  McCarthy puzzled over that. Not that Wyse was incapable of such a Machiavellian act—he was—rather, why do it at all? The news added to his suspicion that Wyse was responsible for the claim that he possessed classified documents. But again, why?

  With a puzzled expression, she asked, “That doesn’t surprise you? I mean, giving her a bottle of Valium, with my name on it.”

  “Yes, it does, but that fits into what I want to say. Other than trying to keep from getting killed, it’s all I’ve been able to think about. Look, everything points to Wyse. He took care of Baker and Russell at Lakeview. Right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And when we requested their medical records they were never sent. That’s been months. The only explanation is someone blocked their release. And the only person who could’ve done that would be the treating physician.”

  “Wyse.” She nodded for him to continue.

  “Exactly. Then there’s the DARPA angle. When Sikes first mentioned classified documents he said something about DARPA.”

  She frowned. “DARPA?”

  “Yep, I remember several meetings where Wyse bragged about his DARPA funding. The never-ending spigot, I think he called it.”

  She considered this. “Okaaaay, but I still don’t get it. What does all that have to do with what happened today?”

  And this was where the logic tree stopped. “I don’t know, but everything else keeps pointing to Wyse. And Wyse has a connection to DARPA. I’m hoping Cassera or Davidson can help us figure out that part.”

  She snapped her fingers. “Oh, but before I forget it again, that guy showed up in the neuro ICU yesterday looking for Baker. The one they think is the imposter.”

  In all the confusion, Tom had forgotten the incident. A doctor impostor was an unusual occurrence, but he failed to see any relevance to today.

  When he didn’t comment, Sarah said, “I can’t help think it’s somehow related.”

  Then he started thinking about it. “Remind me of what he’s supposed to look like.”

  As she described him McCarthy flashed on the man who took a leak in the janitorial closet, the one he’d clobbered with the pipe. The same guy? Maybe, maybe not. The imposter’s description probably fit a hundred males in the hospital at any one time. Still …

  “Tom?”

  “Hold on a second. You just gave me an idea.”

  Using the wall phone, he dialed Davidson. Sarah began to say something. He held up a silencing finger. His lawyer picked up immediately.

  “Palmer, it’s me again.”

  “Please tell me you’re out of there.”

  McCarthy began to answer but reconsidered, just in case Cunningham had a way of monitoring Davidson’s line. “The reason I called is this: If someone claims I took classified documents, aren’t you, as my attorney, allowed to discover exactly what they are supposed to be and where I allegedly took them from?”

  “Way ahead of you on that. One of the first things I did was send Cunningham a request for that information. But not too surprisingly, he hasn’t responded. The Pentagon hasn’t even acknowledged receipt. Yeah, yeah, it’s Friday and all, but this is the Pentagon. Someone should be there. I suspect they’re stonewalling. And now, given the time difference between here and D.C., it’s a sure bet we won’t hear anything before Tuesday at the earliest. They’ll use the holiday as an excuse. Even then, they won’t respond until we really push it through the courts. Why do you ask?”

  “Because Sikes mentioned DARPA. The only thing even remotely connecting me to DARPA is Bertram Wyse.” McCarthy walked him through the logic, thinking that if Davidson’s phone was being monitored, it would be a perfect way to get his side of the story on record.

  Soon as Tom finished, Davidson asked, “You have anything to back this up?”

  No. But he had a pretty good idea where to look. “Not yet, but I’ll get it for you.”

  “Please do. I’ll be waiting. Now get the hell out of that building.”

  After hanging up, McCarthy asked Sarah, “You need to get a release of information from Baker. Is she in any condition to do that?”

  Sarah thought about that. “I haven’t given her a competency test, but my gut says yes. Don’t know if she’s awake enough to do it right now.” Then, checking her watch, she said, “I haven’t looked in on her for a couple hours. But if she can’t, I can get one from her husband. What do we need it for? Remember, we already have two signed consents on file at Lakeview. They should cover most anything.”

  “What I’m thinking has nothing to do with them. Here’s the deal: She remembers having a baby at that Catholic hospital in Everett.” Tom snapped his fingers, searching for the name.

  “Sisters of Mercy.”

  “Right.”

  “So?”

  “How do we know it really happened?”

  Sarah seemed taken aback. “What do you mean? She’s been married since age eighteen. Her husband claims she’s never been pregnant.”

  “Right, that’s not my point. Think about this: We never verified whether it’s true or not. We simply accepted his word for it. What if she really did give birth to a boy? Wouldn’t be the first time a husband either didn’t know or lied about a pregnancy.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t get it. What if she did? What’s that prove?”

  Tom’s mind was flying now, fitting together pieces of the jigsaw puzzle. “The key to all this has to do with memories. Bobbie Baker’s and Charlie Russell’s memories. That’s where we need to start if we’re ever going to figure this out.”

  28

  SUBBASEMENT, DOCTORS HOSPITAL

  WARREN SIKES WAS fuming, but he’d be damned if he’d show the slightest hint to Ha
nsen because it’d be interpreted as a sign of weakness and lack of control. He stood in the long hall, hands on hips, taking in slow, measured breaths. At the moment his molars could crush stones, as the possibility that McCarthy might’ve actually escaped the medical center seemed to increase. Initially, he’d thought it improbable. But now, after the hours dragged by without a hint of him, he’d been forced to admit—only to himself—the fucking amateur might’ve gotten lucky. Every now and then it happened. Fucking McCarthy.

  Abandon searching the medical center and focus their attention elsewhere? The problem was where would that be? The obvious place—McCarthy’s house—was covered by Womack, and if the son of a bitch had any smarts at all, he wouldn’t go near the place. In all likelihood, he’d head straight to the shyster lawyer. Which, far as he knew, hadn’t happened. Reports from the SPD officer surveilling Davidson’s office had David-son holed up inside, alone. Since putting him under surveillance no one had come or gone from his office. Which, in itself, was suspicious as hell, considering the three-day weekend was about to begin. He suspected Davidson was communicating with McCarthy by phone.

  An hour ago, expedited by Cunningham’s claim of national security, Sikes had been granted a seventy-two-hour wire on Davidson’s office and cellular phones. Since activating the wire Davidson had neither instituted nor answered a call. But who knew how many conversations might have taken place before they got their ears.

  A drop of sweat slid down Sikes’s temple but he ignored it, preferring to stare down the long cinderblock corridor. The sickly yellow paint, the rows of pipes strung along the ceiling and walls, the heavy humid smell of laundry detergent, reminded him of the countless army institutions in which he’d served through the world. He loved the army. Loved the structure, the rigidity of a known code, the chain of command, for the way it simplified life. Follow the rules and you can easily chalk up your twenty years without ever worrying about a layoff, unions, or your employer going broke. You could walk away with a pension before your fortieth birthday. Sweet! The downside? Endless hours of boredom during some deployments. Lack of boredom was precisely the reason he loved working for Cunningham. This job made you think, consider minute details, recognize patterns, and put it all together like one big puzzle. None of which was happening now. Fucking McCarthy.

  Hansen stood to his right, constantly fidgeting, constantly tugging up his pants and tucking in the front of his shirt, irritating Sikes, making him want to slap the little twat silly.

  He, Hansen, Hansen’s men, and Franklin’s detail had been scouring these drab yellow halls for four hours and had come away with zip. He didn’t even want to try to calculate the wasted man-hours it represented. Made him sick.

  In all that time, no one had found one shred of evidence that McCarthy was either in or out of the building. After brutally attempting to break Lewis’s leg, McCarthy had simply vanished.

  So where was the son of a bitch?

  His gut said McCarthy wasn’t good enough to escape, that he had to be holed up somewhere nearby like a frightened rabbit. But where? According to Hansen, they’d looked every place. Hansen had to be missing something. Just had to …

  Hansen scratched his ear. “This is the last place I can think of,” he said, his tone apologetic.

  Sikes shook his head in disgust. Four fucking blocks of interconnected buildings. Each one built in different decades. A hodgepodge of more exits than a battalion could guard. But each one was armed with an alarm. Sikes had personally inspected every alarm they came across and not one appeared to be tampered with. And security was guarding all the high-traffic exits that weren’t alarmed, like the front door or ER. So in spite of seeming to be impossible, maybe, just maybe, this was McCarthy’s lucky day and he had escaped.

  Fifteen minutes ago, the SPD watch commander pulled all her men other than Franklin’s squad out of the medical center. Sikes protested, reminding the arrogant cunt that they were dealing with a terrorist, that this was a matter of national security. She seemed unimpressed and responded by asking Sikes if the DOD was willing to pony up overtime to keep the extras on the job. Sikes couldn’t authorize it and knew Cunningham would say hell no, so he didn’t even bother to call to ask. She pulled her men, leaving only Hansen’s and Franklin’s crews patrolling the halls.

  To top it off, that prick Lange was still up in McCarthy’s office with the crime lab. Fuck!

  Sikes said to Hansen, “Think! He’s hiding here somewhere. The question is, where?”

  “No, I—” Hansen glanced over his shoulder, a sheepish expression creeping into his face. “You know, there is one more place I just thought of.”

  Just thought of? What had the loser been doing the past four fucking hours? “What?”

  “The on-call rooms.”

  “The what?”

  “The small sleeping rooms the docs use sometimes,” Hansen said sheepishly. “You know, if they’re on call and need to sleep over.”

  Sikes gave Hansen a wounding glare. Call rooms sound like the first place they should’ve looked. “And you didn’t think of them until just now?”

  Hansen raised both hands in supplication. “Sorry, sir.”

  Sikes was already trotting for the elevators. “Goddamn it, where are they?”

  They were moving up the stairs to the first floor when Hansen stopped Sikes. “Think we might ought to get Franklin involved?”

  “Why? We don’t even know if he’s in there.”

  “I mean, for backup.”

  Sikes leaned into him, like a drill sergeant. “You’re acting like you know something, Frank. Do you?”

  Hansen dropped his eyes down at his shoes. “No. It’s just that now that I think about it, it’s a logical place to hide.”

  “If that’s the case, why didn’t you mention it earlier?”

  29

  MCCARTHY CRACKED THE door to let Sarah slip back into the call room, then locked it soon as she cleared the jamb. Ten minutes ago she’d left to scout their planned escape route.

  She said, “Looks like they’re winding down. I didn’t see any police at all this time. Not one. I don’t have any idea how many security people work here, but I have to believe it’s not enough to cover more than the main exits. I think we stand a decent shot now.”

  His heart started pounding harder at the thought of finally getting out. “Let’s do it.”

  She shook her head. “If it were me, I’d wait another hour, just to be safe.” She shrugged, as if to say, “Your decision.”

  Another hour within these sickly yellow walls, with the lumpy bed, the ugly linoleum squares, and the overheated carbon-dioxide-saturated air that made his arms feel sticky? Maybe if he snuck across the hall to rinse his face and get a breath of hall air …

  A loud knock came from the hollow plywood door, sharp and demanding. McCarthy jumped. Sarah spun around to face the door, her eyes huge. They looked at each other, neither one saying a word.

  Another knock, this time more persistent.

  Tom mouthed, “Did someone follow you?”

  She leaned to his ear, whispered, “Not that I know of.”

  Sikes and Hansen were making a sweep along the hall with on-call rooms on either side, checking each one. If no one answered their knock, they opened the door to verify the room was unoccupied. So far six rooms and both unisex toilets were empty. The sign on the second to last door read OCCUPIED. Sikes nudged Hansen’s arm, put a finger to his mouth, and leaned close to the door. And heard what sounded like hushed voices inside.

  Sikes nodded at the door. “Is that usual, being occupied this early in the evening?”

  Hansen shrugged. “Don’t know. I’ve never had reason to come up here this time of night.”

  Of course you haven’t, you incompetent fool. Sikes detected a note of self-serving justification in Hansen’s answer. Probably for not thinking of these rooms right off the bat. Sikes stifled a sarcastic remark, squared his shoulders, knuckled the door, the sound hollow and flimsy, on
e he could easily kick in with minimal effort.

  No answer.

  Interesting. He knocked again, louder.

  A woman answered. “What is it?”

  Sikes whispered to Hansen, “Keep an eye on those last doors in case someone makes a break,” with a nod at the two rooms they had yet to check. Sikes raised his voice. “Security check, ma’am. Open the door, please.”

  Another pause. “Who’d you say you are?”

  Sikes squared his shoulders again and shot his shirt cuffs. He believed height and bulk gave him the advantage of intimidation, especially when dealing with women. “Security check, ma’am. Open the door.”

  “Security check? That’s ridiculous. Who do you think you are, the house mother? Go away. I’m trying to sleep.”

  At 6:30 in the evening? No fucking way. He cast Hansen a knowing look, double-checked his watch. Either she was getting boned or hiding McCarthy. Maybe both. He smiled at the thought of catching some nurse in the act of getting laid. It’d add a bit of entertainment to what had otherwise been a very shitty day.

  He leaned on the flimsy doorjamb to listen more closely to sounds from inside the room. “So early in the evening? It’s only half past six.”

  “Obviously you don’t know squat about being on call. You take your sleep any chance you get. You’re disrupting mine.”

  Sikes shot Hansen another conspiratorial expression. Maybe McCarthy wasn’t in there, but this was way too good to pass up. Now he wanted to see what she looked like. Maybe even embarrass her.

  “Well you’re getting called now. Open up.”

  “Go away; stop badgering me.”

  Sikes slammed his palm against the wall with a loud bang. The bitch was escalating this into a power struggle. No way was some cunt going to tell him to take a hike. He was going to inspect that room even if it required kicking down the piece of shit plywood door.