“I should be right here,” she interrupted.
“Max and I are doing all we can,” Harvey continued in a calm voice. “Why don’t you go back home and rest? We’ll let you know if anything changes.”
“Don’t patronize me, Harvey.”
“I’m not patronizing. I’m trying to do what’s best for your health.”
She continued to stare at them, her eyes both wide and defiant. “I’m fine. I want to know what you’ve learned.”
Harvey’s next protest was cut off by Max. “Then come over and sit down,” Max said. “We don’t have time to argue.”
Sara limped over to the table and pulled out a chair. “Okay, what have you got?”
“A few things,” Max said. “First, we’ve been going over the files of the murdered patients.”
“Learn anything?”
“Maybe,” Max said, his leg shaking up and down. “Maybe not. They were killed in almost the same order they got here. Trian and Whitherson were both original patients at the clinic and Martino came in a couple of months later. The other three cured patients—Krutzer, Leander, and Singer—all came in about a year later.”
“What’s that mean?”
Max hesitated, his fingers entwined in his own hair. “I don’t know,” he said. “It might mean nothing, but something about it bothers me.”
“How does Bradley fit in?” she asked. “Or . . . or Michael?”
“They don’t, really. They have no similarity to the other three victims or for that matter to the three who are still alive. In fact, the only similarity I can see is that both Bradley and Michael were VIP patients.”
Harvey snapped his fingers. “But maybe that’s it. Maybe the killer is after the important patients, not merely the cured patients.”
“Could be.” Max shrugged. “But that raises the larger question—why kill four patients, one nurse, and presumably one doctor and not kill Michael?”
Harvey looked at Sara hesitantly. “Excuse me for suggesting this,” he began carefully, “but we really don’t know if Michael is alive, do we? The killer may have just moved his body.”
“It wouldn’t make sense,” Max replied. “Kill him at the clinic and then move him out? Very risky.”
Harvey was about to point out that Bradley Jenkins had met a similar fate but chose not to push it in front of Sara. “Okay, let’s move on.”
The intercom on the table buzzed. A woman’s voice said, “Dr. Riker?”
Harvey lifted the receiver. “Yes?”
“Mrs. Riker is on line six,” the receptionist said.
“Take a message.”
“She said it’s urgent.”
“Sure. Her alimony payment is probably a week late. Tell her I’ll call her back.” Harvey replaced the receiver in its cradle. “Nothing important. Go on.”
Sara nodded, struggling in her ongoing battle against coming apart. “How do you think the kidnapper got in and out of the clinic?”
“We think he used a secret entrance,” Max replied. “There is a small tunnel in the basement that leads to an apartment building two doors down. Somehow, he found out about it.”
“How?”
“I don’t know,” Max said.
“Then someone has to be giving out information on this place,” Sara said. “And what about the timing, Max? Markey decides to use Michael as a guinea pig and the next thing you know he vanishes. It has to be related.”
Max quickened his pace, his teeth working on a stubborn hangnail. “Agreed.”
“Hold on a second,” Harvey interrupted. “This makes no sense. No one has access to that kind of information, except . . .” He stopped.
Max stopped. “Except whom?” he prodded.
Harvey shook his head. “No one.”
As if on cue, Winston O’Connor came around the doorway. “Hey, gang,” he drawled. “What’s going on?”
“Where the hell have you been?” Harvey almost shouted.
Winston looked confused. “No reason to bite my head off, Harv. Hell, I went fishing. Stayed in the family summer cabin on the lake. Caught the hugest humdinger of a fish—”
“Don’t you get a newspaper?”
“Shit, no. We don’t even have a phone out there.” He stopped, looked around. “Now, what in the hell is going on around here?”
Max walked toward the chief lab technician. “Will you excuse us a moment?” he said to Harvey and Sara. “I’d like to speak with Winston alone.”
18
IN Bethesda, Maryland, four powerful men sat in a plush office in a picturesque baronial structure on the campus of the National Institutes of Health. One was powerful in the religious world; one in the political realm; two in the medical community.
It was a beautiful day. The sky was dark blue and clear. The well-manicured grounds outside were alive with green. The whole area resembled the most exclusive of country clubs.
But the four men were oblivious to their resort like surroundings.
Arguments raged. Accusations were hurled. Fingers were pointed. And in the end nothing was resolved. Through it all, one man had not raised his voice. One man had not engaged in the bitter debate. One man—a normally very verbose man—had not said a word.
But the man had listened. And the man had made a decision.
As the meeting broke up, the man pulled Dr. John Lowell to the side and said five words: “We have to talk alone.”
To which Dr. Lowell nodded and replied, “Let’s get back to New York first.”
MAX closed the lab door. “So how were the fish biting?”
“Pretty good,” Winston drawled. “I caught one of the biggest bass ya ever did see. She must have weighed a good—”
“Great. Congratulations. Now, why don’t we stop playing games?”
“Playing games? I don’t getcha, Lieutenant.”
Max renewed his pacing with surprising vigor. “Would you mind telling me why you were in Washington three days ago?”
“How do you know—”
“Don’t worry about how. Just tell me why.”
Winston’s expression remained cool, his tone impatient. “While I don’t reckon it’s any of your goddamn business, I stopped in Washington to visit some friends on my way home. Happy?”
“Your home in Alabama?”