“Nothing changes here,” George said.
Surakarn nodded. “Bangkok is a constant.”
“I need to use the safe phone.”
“Of course.” Surakarn pointed to a radio with a microphone. “The radio leads to a cellular phone aboard one of my vessels near Hong Kong.”
“I see.”
“You asked to make a call that could not be traced. This is it.” Surakarn moved toward the far end of the boat. “You need not fear. I will not listen.”
George checked his watch. He called in the number to the captain of the drug boat in Hong Kong, who proceeded to hook him up with the United States. No matter what Surakarn claimed, the call was still, after all, traceable. The authorities could, in theory at least, figure out the call was made from a cellular phone (no doubt a stolen one) in Hong Kong. But to find out who made the call and then to find out that there was a radio hookup to Bangkok, well, that would be nearly impossible. Worst-case scenario: it would take weeks.
A few moments later George heard the voice. “Hello.”
“Perfect,” George said. “You’re right on time.”
“I can barely hear you,” the voice said.
“Don’t worry about it. We won’t be on long.”
“Is he all right?”
“Fine. We’re having a ball together. Did you transfer the money?”
“Yes.”
“All of it.”
“Every last penny,” the voice replied.
“How did you get it?”
“That’s not your concern.”
“I’ll check my account tomorrow morning just to be sure. If it is not all there, my houseguest will be missing a few fingers by tomorrow afternoon.”
“It’s all there.” The voice faltered for a moment and then said, “Why did you have to kill the nurse?”
“Excuse me?”
“The nurse. Why did you have to kill her?”
“She saw me.”
“But you’re supposed to be an expert. How could you let that happen?”
The words stung because George knew that they were true. He had miscalculated. That was rare. And very bothersome. “It was just a freak thing.”
“Listen to me closely: I don’t want any ‘freak thing’ to happen to Michael Silver—”
“Don’t use names, imbecile! Someone could be listening.”
“What—oh, sorry.”
The voice was extra-taut tonight, George thought, like somebody wound so tightly he would either snap or stretch into something unrecognizable. George had not liked it when the voice was nervous. Now he feared that his employer was beginning to lose control completely.
That was not good. It was, in fact, very bad.
“I guess I should be thankful,” the voice continued. “At least you didn’t kill Sa—uh, his wife.”
“I was able to sneak up behind her,” George replied evenly. “She never got the chance to see me.”
“Otherwise?”
“Otherwise she would be lying on a cold slab too.”
“No one else is to be hurt without my say-so. Absolutely no one. Just keep a hold of you-know-who. Make sure you treat him well.”
“I’ll do what I have to do.”
“No. You listen to—”
“Good-bye,” George said.
“Wait. How can I reach you?”
“You can’t.” George had trusted his employer too much already but no more. It was time to take control. “Just follow our plan.” He snapped off the radio. “Surakarn?”
“Yes?”
He tried to smile, but he was still distracted. “I feel good. Let’s take a little ride.”
“Where to?”
“I just came into a lot of money.”
“Congratulations.”
“Tell me, Surakarn, can a man still buy anything in Bangkok?”
Surakarn smiled toothlessly. “Do you still like them older?”
He nodded. “She has to be at least twenty.”
JENNIFER Riker’s whole body shook. Over the past three days she had read the press reports, seen the news of Michael’s kidnapping on the television, witnessed the outrage of a country. But Jennifer felt more than outrage.
She felt fear.
Susan was going to be home in another two days, but Jennifer now knew that she could no longer wait until then. She had been wrestling with her decision for three days now and had come to the decision that the stakes were too high for her to hold back. Michael’s life might depend upon her actions.
But when she reached over and picked up the packet, her mind started to vacillate again. No evidence, after all, linked this mailing with the Gay Slasher or the kidnapping. No evidence at all. These were just standard medical files and lab samples. Period. That was it.
Then why had Bruce mailed them the day he committed suicide? And why had three of the patients listed in the files—Trian, Whitherson, and Martino—been murdered? Coincidence?
She thought not.
She’d wavered long enough. The note written to Susan, well, that was Susan’s and there was no way Jennifer was going to open it. But the other contents in the packet were not personal. The files were not, she knew, for everyone’s eyes, but there was one person who might make sense of it, one person who might be able to piece together why Bruce felt the need to mail it to a seldomused address on the day he died.
Jennifer picked up the phone and dialed Harvey’s private extension.
ENOUGH lying around.
Sara threw the blankets off her body, stood, and took hold of her cane. The inactivity, the babying, the looks of pity were all behind her now. She had to stop crying. She had to get up and act. She had to find out what was happening and who was behind all of this.
She had to save her husband.
“Where are you going?” Cassandra asked.
“To speak with Max and Harvey. They’re at the clinic.”
“Wait a second,” Cassandra said. “You can’t tell anyone about this yet—not even Max and Harvey. This is still Dad we’re talking about.”
Sara nodded. “I know. I won’t say a word about him until we speak to him tonight. I’ll meet you at the house at eight o’clock.”
The sisters embraced. Then Sara left for the clinic. She arrived at the door of the third-floor lab a half hour later.
“I want to know everything,” she said.
Max and Harvey turned toward the lab door.
“Sara,” Harvey began, “what are you doing here? You should be—”