by Wally Duff
“You got that right.”
We walked into the hallway.
“Can you give me a ride home?” I asked. “Tony brought me here.”
“Sure.”
Do I want to know what was going on under the sheet?
We stepped onto the elevator. “There is one thing,” I began.
Molly blushed as she anticipated my question. “It’s probably best you don’t ask.”
“It was that bad?”
“Let’s just say, it’s really effective. I’ve never seen it fail.”
“But…”
“All I can tell you is that I’ll need a new curling iron.”
She was right.
That was all I needed to know.
Part 3
65
We had a fun family Saturday at the shore on Lake Michigan and a quiet Sunday at home. On Monday, there was a thunderstorm in the area, so that afternoon, we nixed Hamlin Park and, instead, sat in the main level of Cas’s family room.
Her home has the same three-story above-the-ground style as ours, but there is one distinct difference: the décor is basic. Her husband, Joe, wasn’t into expensive decorating.
All the kids, including Margaret, played in the same room with the moms and David while we discussed Jamie. David brought treats for all of us: a shrimp and hearts of palm salad with homemade dressing for the adults and mini-cheese Frenchie’s and hamburger sliders for the kids.
After I finished the saga about Jamie, we thanked Molly for her role in ensuring our safety. With Jamie headed to prison, I now had the other potential danger to deal with. If I was going to be able to finally focus exclusively on the bomber story, I would need the Irregulars help.
It was time to tell them about my mole.
I did and included Brittany’s upcoming role in the discussion. “I’m still concerned the bomber may be here to get even with me, but I’m really worried his next target will be Micah’s lab, their home, or both,” I said.
“Why?” Cas asked.
“Because of the abortion-issue conflicts with his embryonic stem cell lab techniques,” I said.
“Exactly what I’ve been arguing about all along,” Cas said. “He’s doing abortions when he harvests the embryonic stem cells.”
“What do we do next?” Molly asked.
“That’s why we’re here,” Linda said. “I’m on — to use Tina’s baseball term — the disabled list until I have the baby, but at least I might be able to contribute something mentally.”
“Are you having more problems?” I asked.
“Other than my blood pressure going up and spilling proteins in my urine, I’m in perfect shape.”
“Preeclampsia?” Cas asked.
“That and I’m having some strong contractions.”
“Don’t be surprised if your doctor puts you on bed rest,” Cas said.
“He actually threatened to put me in the hospital.”
“Wow, I had no idea you were having so many problems,” Molly said. “Anything we can do to help you with Sandra?”
“Luckily, my nanny can stay with us full time until this mess is over.”
David walked into the room after cleaning up in the kitchen. “I’ve been in Micah’s lab and their home a couple of times. With the amount of security at each site it seems highly unlikely that the bomber will be able to do anything to Micah or his family.”
“Then why are you worried, Tina?” Molly asked.
“I still feel like someone is following me.”
“Do you think it’s the bomber guy?” Molly asked.
“I do. Tony thought he saw a blond woman in a car behind us when he drove me home from the crime scene at the abortion clinic where the doctor was shot and killed.”
“And we both saw a woman drive away from Jamie’s apartment building after it was blown up,” Cas said.
“When did this feeling begin?” Linda asked.
“Right after I wrote the ‘industrial spy’ story.”
“But could it have been the bomber?” David asked.
“If it is, we have to do something,” Cas said. “If the bomber and these helpers are following Tina, Micah, and Hannah, they could be following us too.”
66
“What do we do?” I asked.
“It’s easy,” Molly said.
We turned to her.
“It is?” David asked.
“Sure, we do what the farmers taught me.”
“It’s not about what you did with Jamie, is it?” I asked.
“Oh, no, this is way different.”
We waited.
“We follow the followers.”
“I don’t get it,” Cas said.
“I don’t either,” I added.
“It’s one of the techniques my company used too,” David said. “Tina doesn’t know for sure if she’s being stalked, but there’s one way to find out. We take turns following her when she goes out. If anyone is shadowing her, we can take pictures of them so we’ll know who they are.”
“Okay, say we prove there are people tailing her, then what?” Cas asked.
“I never was a field operative,” David said. “I guess we call the police.”
“And they’ll do what?” Linda asked. “Arrest them? What crime have they committed? Sorry, but this isn’t going to work.”
“Guys, it’s pretty simple,” Molly said. “I did work in the field with the farmers.”
“What did you do?” I asked.
“We followed the bad guys to their base of operations.”
She picked up her cell phone and began going through her emails.
“Molly, what did you do when you discovered their hideout?” David asked.
“Gosh, I don’t know. The farmers took care of that.”
67
Monday night, Linda’s blood pressure skyrocketed and she was hospitalized. Tuesday morning, I walked into the MidAmerica Hospital on Chicago’s Gold Coast. I paused to center myself before I walked into Linda’s room. I didn’t want to embarrass myself by having a PTSD attack brought on by the hospital smells.
“You feeling okay?” I asked.
“Pardon my language, but I FUCKING hate bedrest!” Linda bitched.
“But this room is unbelievable,” I said, glancing around.
I felt like I was in a suite at Chicago’s Peninsula Hotel. The walls were covered with muted light violet wallpaper. There was a sleek tan art deco couch and matching chairs. A large flat screen HD TV popped up out of a bird’s-eye walnut chest.
Linda had been in the room less than one day, but already, there were flowers from family members. There was also a three-foot-tall arrangement that would have been suitable in the finest restaurants in Chicago.
I pointed at it. “Is that from Howard?”
“No, he’s too cheap to spend money on flowers. It’s from the hospital. They want me to feel like I’m at home.”
“Only if you live in a funeral parlor.”
“The flower arrangement is a little much.”
“But somehow it goes with the room. Everything in here is a little excessive.”
Cas and Molly walked in, followed by a male lab technician. His skin was white with a sprinkling of freckles. He was completely bald.
He wrapped a blue rubber tourniquet around Linda’s right arm. We stepped away from her bed while he did his vampire thing.
She grimaced and rotated away from us when the man took the needle and syringe off his tray. Her hospital gown fell open in the back, and a multicolored tattoo of a disturbing prehistoric creature peeked out at us. I saw part of its head and one claw clutching a banner with small, hard-to-read letters.
She began to whimper as the lab tech jabbed her twice with the needle before he found a vein.
Linda with a head-banger tattoo? She obviously hated having her blood drawn. There was no way she would have her delicate skin repeatedly poked by some stranger.
But she had.
First, I watched as Mol
ly used her dominatrix skills to capture Jamie, and now, I spot Linda with a large tattoo.
How much do I know about my friends?
When the tech had enough blood, he removed the needle and applied a Band-Aid to her arm.
“The results should be back in the morning,” he said.
“Speed it up, buster,” Linda said. “I’m already tired of this place.”
I’m glad I’m not her doctor.
68
Cas and I stepped back up to Linda’s bed. Molly wandered around Linda’s room touching the fabric of the chairs and the wall coverings.
“Your room smells so amazing. The aroma reminds me of sandalwood. I even catch a hint of jasmine.”
“Probably all these flowers,” Linda said.
I noticed Cas staring through the window at the nurse’s station.
A group of young doctors stood behind an older one. He appeared to be lecturing to them.
“An old friend?” I asked Cas.
“Hardly,” she said. “That’s the famous Dr. J. Randall Fertig. He doesn’t have any friends.”
“The breast cancer doctor?” Linda asked.
“And how would you know that and I don’t, Linda?” I asked.
“Howard’s mother is one of his patients. She thinks Fertig is the greatest thing since heated toilet seats.”
“What’s the big deal about him?” Molly asked.
“All of his breast cancer patients survive,” Cas answered.
“Unless he’s God, that’s statistically impossible,” I said.
“Trust me,” Cas said. “All surgeons think they’re God. Fertig knows he is.”
I studied Fertig through the window of Linda’s room.
“He’s wearing a starched white scrub suit under his form-fitting long white coat,” I said. “All the doctors with him have on wrinkled green scrubs and white coats that don’t fit.”
“Notice anything else?” Cas asked.
Fertig was short and slender. His totally black hair was shoulder length and scraggly. He wore cowboy boots and sunglasses.
“He’s wearing cowboy boots,” I said.
“Is it to make him look taller?” Linda asked.
Cas laughed. “You got it. He uses a step stool in the OR and won’t allow a scrub nurse who is taller than he is to assist him.”
“The sunglasses are Prada,” Molly remarked.
“He wouldn’t wear anything cheap, but that’s something new.”
“You said he thinks he’s God,” Linda said.
“Maybe he thinks he’s Bono too,” Molly added.
“If he had a beard, he’d be a Jesus look-alike but with sunglasses,” I said.
“The last time I saw him, he had a scruffy beard.”
“Maybe he got tired of the Jesus comparison and shaved it off,” Molly suggested.
“He would never tire of a comment like that.”
“I’m assuming you don’t like him,” Linda said.
“He’s the most egocentric, misogynistic, pompous asshole I’ve ever met,” Cas replied. “All the nurses hate him.”
There might be a story here, but with the abortion clinic bomber and Micah, I already had more to do than I could handle.
But maybe in the future?
69
For the rest of the Irregulars, at least we had a plan. Each time I ventured out, I would call one of them, except Linda. They would follow me and see if there was someone tailing me. If someone was, we would figure out a way to track the watcher to his, or her, lair.
Tuesday afternoon, I was tired of waiting. I wanted to catch the bomber. I called Molly and asked her to babysit for Kerry. She was okay with it, so I took my daughter to her home.
My next call was to Cas. I was certain she was better prepared to protect me if anything happened. My destination was the scene of the latest abortion clinic doctor’s shooting. It made sense to me that any hint I was working on the story would interest the bomber and encourage him, or his helpers, to follow me.
Cas was a block away when I saw her in my rearview mirror. I waited until I pulled out onto Belmont before I called her and put her on my van’s Bluetooth.
“Can you hear me?” I asked.
“I can, and I can see you,” she said.
Glancing into my rearview mirror, I saw her swing in one car behind me. “I think you’re too close.”
“I don’t want to lose you.”
“I understand, but if there’s only one car between us, there won’t be room for the bomber to follow me.”
“Sorry, I’ve never done this before, and I don’t want to make a mistake.”
Cas’s OCD tendency might ruin our plan.
This is going to take a little work.
“Relax,” I said. “Take a deep breath.”
Stoplights were now our enemy. Twice, I went through an intersection as the light changed and Cas got stuck at the red light. Each time, I slowed down enough for her to catch up, but now I was concerned that if a person were following me, he or she would realize something was fishy.
A more pressing problem was the angry people jammed up behind me who might kill me before the bomber did. Their blaring horns became so loud I had to turn up the radio.
“In two blocks I’m going to turn right,” I said.
“Say again,” she said. “There’s a lot of honking, and I can’t hear you.”
“Right!” I yelled. “Turn right in two blocks!”
70
I parked my van in front of the closed abortion clinic building. I got out, shouldered my backpack, and walked to area on the street where the doctor had been shot. The crime scene tape was gone.
I put my cell on speakerphone but held it in my hand at my side so it wouldn’t appear that I was talking to anyone. The doctor’s car was gone, having been removed by the CSI for further tests. I took off my backpack and squatted down so I would be closer to the phone in my hand. I pretended I was examining his dried blood spatter on the street.
“Cas, can you hear me?” I asked.
Silence.
“Cas,” I said louder, trying to talk without my lips moving. “Can you hear me?”
Silence.
“Cas,” I said “Where are you?”
“Would you please stop bugging me?” she asked. “I can’t concentrate.”
“Concentrate? Concentrate on what?”
“Parking. You took the only parking spot.”
I stood up and glanced around. There wasn’t an available parking place on either side of the street.
“I’ll hang around until you find a place,” I said.
Silence.
“I said...”
“I heard you. This is maddening.”
Multitasking is my specialty. Since I didn’t have anything else to do while I waited for Cas to find a temporary home for her car, I walked to the sniper’s apartment building across the street.
“I’m going into the apartment building where the sniper hid,” I said softly, trying not to move my mouth and hoping the speakerphone would pick up what I said. “It’s the building across the street with green shutters on the first-floor windows.”
“What did you say?” she asked. “You sound funny.”
“What?”
“You sound like you have a mouth full of marbles or something.”
“It isn’t easy to talk without moving your lips.”
“Why are you doing that?”
“Forget it, okay?” I said, picking up my backpack.
“Why are you going into that building?”
“I want to check out the sniper’s apartment.”
“Didn’t you already do that?”
“No. It was a crime scene, and I couldn’t go in.”
“Why go in now?”