“Call an ambulance!” Reece shouted. “Now!”
DR. Carol Simpson escorted Sara to the waiting area in the Atchley Pavilion. Located next to Columbia Presbyterian’s main building, the Atchley Pavilion housed the private offices of the medical center’s many physicians. When Harvey had taken Michael and Sara on a tour of Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center last year, Sara remembered being awestruck by the size of the center, to say nothing of its reputation. There was Babies Hospital, the well-known pediatric hospital, and the Harkness Pavilion, where the private patients stayed. The Neurological Institute and the Psychiatric Institute, both housed in their own buildings, were considered the best in their field anywhere in the world, not to mention the Harkness Eye Institute, New York Orthopedic Hospital, Sloane Hospital, Squier Urological Clinic, Vanderbilt Clinic, and the massive, newly completed Milstein Hospital Building.
And all of this medical brilliance had been jammed west of Broadway between One Hundred Sixty-fifth and One Hundred Sixty-eighth streets in Spanish Harlem.
A block or two farther west and north was student housing for Columbia College of Physicians and Surgeons, again one of the most reputable and selective medical schools in the country. But another five blocks farther north was J. Hood Wright Park, a respectable name for one of the original crack alleys, where passersby can witness or partake in drug trafficking. Its proximity to the hospital, Harvey had half joked, made it a convenient place to overdose.
One of the newest and smallest sections of the medical center, almost hidden from view, was near One Hundred Sixty-fourth Street. From the outside one would never guess that the broken-down edifice was dedicated to healing and experimental medicine. Named Sidney Pavilion after Harvey Riker’s brother, this area of epidemiological study was cloaked in secrecy and security. No one could enter without the permission of Dr. Harvey Riker or Dr. Eric Blake. Staff and patients were kept to a minimum, and all had been specially selected by Riker and the late Dr. Bruce Grey personally. The medical center’s board members rarely, if ever, discussed the new section in public.
Dr. Simpson showed Sara to a chair and then went to a window where she handed a test tube filled with Sara’s blood to a nurse. “Take this to the lab. Have them run a beta HCG stat.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“A beta HCG?” Sara asked.
“Fancy talk for a pregnancy test,” Carol Simpson explained. “Doctors like to use code words no one else understands. Makes us sound more intelligent, don’t you think?”
Sara liked Carol Simpson. Unlike so many others in her profession, there was nothing stuffy or intimidating about her. Her relaxed attitude put Sara at ease.
“If you say so,” Sara replied.
“Well, we have to do something to justify all the years of schooling and internship and residency—besides having the M.D. license plate so we can park illegally in front of Macy’s.”
“You do that?”
“Only during a sale.”
At least forty other patients sat biding their time in the waiting room, sneaking glances from their magazines and wishing their doctor would call their name.
“Give me a ring this afternoon,” Carol said. “The results should be in by then.”
“Great,” Sara said.
“And try not to worry. I know you’re anxious, but try not to think about it too much. Do what I do when I need to distract myself: shop till you drop.”
“Well, hello there, ladies.”
Sara and Carol turned and saw Harvey coming toward them. His entire person emanated exhaustion, Sara thought. His head tilted slightly to the side as though he were dozing; his back had curved into a slump.
“Hello, Harvey,” Dr. Simpson said.
“Hello, Carol. How’s my favorite patient doing, Doc?”
“Very nicely. We should know the test results in a few hours.” Dr. Simpson turned her head toward the people in the waiting room. “Mrs. Golden?”
A massive-bellied woman looked up. “Over here.”
“Come on down. You’re the next contestant.”
Harvey and Sara said good-bye and headed for the elevator. “You’re in good hands,” Harvey said. “Carol Simpson may be young, but she’s already considered one of the top obstetricians in the country.”
“I like her.”
“Listen, Sara, about what I said last night . . .”
“Yes?”
“Well, in the light of day, my conspiracy theories always seem a little more wacko. Don’t have me committed, okay?”
“Not yet anyway. Has the clinic really found a cure?”
“In some cases—maybe most cases, yes. Like I said last night, it’s still in the developmental stage and it hasn’t worked on everyone but—”
Harvey’s beeper went off. He looked at the LCD digits coming onto the screen. “Oh shit.”
“What is it?”
But he was already sprinting toward the nurses’ desk and picking up the phone. “That number means it’s an emergency.” He dialed and the phone was picked up on the first ring. “Dr. Riker here.” Pause. “What? When?” Another pause. “I’ll be right there.” He replaced the receiver.
“It’s Michael. They just rushed him into the emergency room.”
THE corpse was in the trunk.
George drove onward. Last night the body in the trunk had been filled with life. He had hopes, dreams, goals, desires. Like most people, he probably just wanted to be happy, to find his niche in this world. He was probably a person struggling through life, trying to do his best, grasping at the few joys life offered and trying to dodge the many hardships. Now he was dead.
Dead. Gone. Nothing.
He was no more than decaying tissue, useful only to medical students and worshipped by only the grieving family. Why, George wondered, did people care so much about the empty shell of a man, the facade? Why did they treat the worthless flesh as something invaluable? Was it man’s innate inclination to see only the outward mask of the human being and not acknowledge the soul? Or was George being too harsh on his fellow man? Maybe man just needed to take hold of something tangible when he was faced with the ultimate intangible.
Heavy stuf, George. Very deep.
He chuckled and lit a cigarette.
After Dr. Lowell’s gala last night, George had followed the limousine until the long, silver automobile dropped the victim off at his apartment in the city.
Perfect.
A true professional, George had already cased the building and surrounding area. He knew his victim lived in apartment 3A. He knew there was no doorman. George parked the car across the street and moved into the apartment building. Taking the stairs rather than the elevator, he stopped in front of a door with a faded 3A nailed to it. George wondered why, with all his money, his victim chose to live in this quasi-dump. He could live anywhere—Fifth Avenue, Central Park West, the San Remo Building, the Dakota, anywhere. George shrugged, dismissing the thought. It was none of his concern.