Critical Judgment (1996) (39 page)

The lights were still flickering inside Josh’s eyes as he approached the Seradyne garage from the rear. He dashed along a concrete wall and flattened himself behind a row of seven-foot-high shrubs. He stayed there for a time, breathless from the short sprint. Not too long ago he had run a half marathon with ease. It appeared his body was rotting as rapidly as his soul.

Please be patient with me, Abby
, he thought.
Please understand that I have to do this
.

But there was no way she would understand, not until she saw him finally free of the headaches and the confusion. Not until she saw him as a whole man again. He waited until his breathing was normal and the street was deserted, then rolled over the concrete wall and dropped onto the first level. Bricker’s parking space was on the second. Staying low, he worked his way between cars and the three-foot wall until he reached the second level. At the sight of Bricker’s white Infiniti, his jackhammering pulse increased even more. Mortar shells burst behind his eyes.

He chose a spot just in front of the Grand Cherokee parked next to Bricker and was just about to sprint across to it when a sports car screeched around the corner and sped past him to the next level. Had he taken one more step, he would have been as dead as Steve Bricker was about to be.

Careful to listen for oncoming traffic this time, he hunched very low and sprinted across to the spot between
the grill of the Grand Cherokee and the wall. Again, he was gasping for breath. It felt as if his heart was just going to stop.

He checked to be sure he was concealed from the stairway door and the elevator, although he expected that Bricker would use the stairs. Then he brought the MAK-90 out and set it on his lap. He had practiced firing the gun in several different dumps. He wouldn’t win any marksmanship prizes, but he wouldn’t need to. All he had to do was aim at the right height, pull the trigger, and spray.

It was almost five. He would give Bricker until five-twenty, and then go looking for Pete Gentry’s car, just in case. His headache was continuing unabated, though it was still manageable. If he had a major explosion like the two he had endured already today, he was cooked. Bricker would be able to walk right up and step on him, and he would be powerless to do a damn thing. But so far, so good.

Then, with no awareness that he had even opened his wallet, he realized that he was holding the laminated photo of Abby he kept there. God, he had loved her. She had given him everything—given up a life she was totally content with so that they could be together. What had he given her in return? Pain and confusion. Anger and anguish. What in the hell had happened to him? Was this insanity? Was this what it was like to be crazy? …

Footsteps echoed through the concrete cavern. His hand tensed on the semiautomatic. A couple, chatting and laughing, emerged from the stairwell and headed toward him. Kate Alston from the reception desk and a guy from the design office. Did they know, too? He glanced down at the MAK-90. If they saw him like this, what difference did it make whether they knew why he was there or not? If they spotted him, he would do what he had to do. He tightened his finger on the trigger and
pressed himself against the bumper of the Grand Cherokee. They were about thirty feet away. Now twenty. If either of them owned this car or the one next to it, it was all over for them.

Josh held his breath. What in the hell was he going to do if they saw him? Just gun them down? Bricker was his target, not these people. Kate Alston, probably only twenty-three or-four, had always been great to him.

Help me, Abby. For God’s sake tell me what to do
.

Suddenly the footsteps stopped. A car door opened, then closed. Josh risked a look. Both of them had gotten into a white coupe—a Camaro or Firebird. The engine rumbled to life, and the car eased out of the spot two spaces down and across from Bricker’s.

Abby, I didn’t want to kill them. I just wanted things to be like they were for us. Bricker and the others did this to us. They’ve got to pay. Isn’t that right? … Isn’t it?

He slipped Abby’s picture into the pocket of his windbreaker. The headache seemed to be getting worse again, and he was beginning to feel queasy.

Come on, dammit.… Come on.…

The stairway door opened again. Again there were voices—two men. He recognized one of them immediately. Bricker! He worked himself into a low crouch and tightened his grip on the MAK-90. Then he peered cautiously through the windows of Bricker’s Infiniti. The other man was Pete Gentry! It was more than he could have hoped for—a true sign.

Almost over, Abby
, he thought.
The end for them. A new beginning for us
.

He ducked down and tried to gauge their distance from him by the sound of their shoes on the pavement.
Twenty feet. Maybe fifteen. And … now!

He stood up, took three quick steps to the rear of the Infiniti, and confronted the two startled men from a distance of no more than fifteen feet. Point blank.

“Josh, no!” Bricker cried out.

Pete Gentry dropped to his knees, head down, but Bricker was fumbling inside his coat. A gun!

“Abby, forgive me!” Josh bellowed.

He brought the MAK-90 to his shoulder and fired.

T
he call came in at six, just as Abby was leaving for the hospital to see Lew.

“Dr. Dolan, please.”

Even though it had been years since she had attended Graham DeShield’s presentation at St. John’s, she recognized the society psychiatrist’s voice—affected and nasal—immediately.

“This is Dr. Abby Dolan.”

“DeShield here. Dr. Graham DeShield.”

She remembered the therapist as tall and slim with wire-rimmed glasses and a receding hairline. Now she pictured him sitting in the paneled study of an opulent hillside home somewhere in Marin County.

“Thank you for calling me back so promptly, Dr. DeShield.”

“My service said it was an emergency regarding Ethan Black, although how someone who’s deceased could constitute an emergency is beyond me.”

“Believe me, it is an emergency. Dr. DeShield, you have no reason to remember me, but I was on the staff at St. John’s for a number of years before I moved here to Patience a few months ago. We met briefly some years
back, after you gave very impressive grand rounds at our hospital.”

“Yes, yes, I remember that particular lecture well. ‘Narcissism and the Stars,’ I called it. I very much enjoy teaching.”

“It was an excellent presentation. One of the best on the subject I’ve ever heard.”

“Are you a psychiatrist?”

“Ah, no, actually. I’m an emergency specialist.”

“I see.”

It was clear to Abby that he didn’t, but she doubted Graham DeShield ever admitted to not understanding anything.

“Dr. DeShield, earlier today I had a meeting with Ezra Black.”

“Ah, yes, my good friend Ezra.”

“He told me how angry he is with you about his son’s suicide. He’s desperate to blame someone for it—anyone except himself.”

“My feeling exactly. He’s already begun to spread rumors about me.”

“I would bet your reputation can withstand most of the dirt he could dish out.”

“It’s very kind of you to say so. What hospital were you at?”

Abby smiled. DeShield’s hearing was clearly limited to facts that involved him.

“St. John’s. I was there for ten years. I met with Mr. Black today to try to convince him that Colstar International, the company his son was working at, one of the companies
he
owns, was actually responsible for Ethan’s death.”

Abby could sense the heightened interest at the other end of the line.

“Continue,” DeShield said.

“There have been a number of cases here—four, not counting Ethan Black—of Colstar employees who have exhibited psychotic, violent behavior. A small group of
us here in Patience is dedicated to getting at the truth about them. We believe that all four cases were toxic from a massive cadmium exposure, and that a large number of patients with lesser illnesses had proportionately less exposure. All four have been involved in violent incidents or have shown violent tendencies. One has now been charged with murder. He is the only one whose blood we have been able to test so far, but it showed an extremely high level of cadmium. We’ve sent off a level on one of the others, but it’s not back. We wanted Ezra Black to close his plant down until he and the people there could determine what happened and assure everyone that the problem has been corrected.”

“And?”

“At first Mr. Black seemed receptive to listening to me. Then he did a sudden about-face and as much as threw me out of his place.”

“Sounds like Ezra.”

“It’s been very frustrating. No matter what evidence we produce, Colstar and the people Colstar controls have a response.”

“The positive blood tests, too?”

“I’m sure they’re going to demand that an independent lab run the bloods again. Something like that. By the time their data and ours are evaluated and reevaluated, more people will have come to harm. We need Ezra Black on our side, or we don’t have much chance of convincing anybody who matters that this is a dire emergency.”

“Why call me? In case you didn’t get it today, I’m the last person Black would listen to.”

“That’s his mistake.” Abby wondered whether she was laying it on too thick, even for DeShield. “As to how you can help—I think the one thing I said that initially interested Black was about the four other employees becoming violent. Then, when it was clear I knew almost nothing about Ethan other than what I read in the papers, he suddenly became totally uninterested in me,
cold as block ice. I left Feather Ridge with the feeling that if I had known that Ethan had been violent—if I had known precisely what he did under the influence of cadmium poisoning—Ezra Black would at least have heard me out. I was even going to suggest that he have his son’s body exhumed and tested, but I never got that far.”

“In other words, you want me to violate patient-physician confidentiality involving the son of one of the wealthiest, most powerful men in the world.”

“I know from the sort of man, the sort of
physician
, you are, that speaking to someone about a patient would not be at all easy for you. It wouldn’t be easy for me either if I were in your position. But we believe lives are very much at stake. And the truth is, we really have no one else to turn to.”

“If Black learned that I did such a thing, his lawyers would hound me until … until I jumped out of my office window myself.”

That the therapist didn’t flatly say no was all that mattered. He was holding out to hear what Graham DeShield had to gain. And Abby had that argument ready and waiting.

“You have my word that I would never tell Mr. Black we spoke. And, in addition, it would seem that if we can prove it was the cadmium in Ethan’s brain that caused him to kill himself, that would certainly absolve you of the responsibility Ezra Black is trying to stick you with.”

During the extended silence that followed, Abby picked up a pen and readied it over a notepad.

Come on, Graham. Come on.…

“We haven’t met since that conference, Abby, but somehow I feel I can trust you.”

“You can, Dr. DeShield,” she said, adding in a voice that was as close as she could get to seductive, “and, perhaps soon, we
could
meet again in person.”

“It’s Graham. And I think I should like that very much. The truth is, Abby, Ethan Black almost bludgeoned
a man to death with a baseball bat. A farmer. It was in a parking lot after a fight in a bar. Ezra saw to it that every witness said the farmer started it. Then he made certain the victim got cared for at the Stoneleigh Head Injury Center. You know that place?”

“Of course. The best.”

“I believe the man will be there indefinitely. His injuries were that severe.”

“What about Ethan’s headaches?”

Black Ezra had said nothing about headaches, but Abby no longer doubted his son had them.

“They started following his accident,” DeShield said. “Horrible, debilitating headaches that I felt were post-concussive. Were they caused by the cadmium, too?”

“I believe so. Tell me, were there any preceding sensory warnings? Strange tastes? Lights?”

“Funny you should mention that. Actually, he did complain of a smell. He said it was like … like rotten eggs.”

Bingo!

“Dr. DeShield—
Graham
—did Ethan harm anyone else besides the farmer?”

“A number of people, actually, although the farmer got it the worst of all. Ethan seemed to have a smoldering anger against almost everyone, and periodically he would just blow. He beat up a prostitute last month. Broke her arm.”

Abby was writing furiously.

“Daddy took care of her, too?”

“Of course.”

“Graham, you won’t regret having done this.”

“I hope not, Abby. Just remember your promise to keep my name out of it, and be sure to give me a call to let me know what happens. Having Ezra Black bad-mouthing me from pillar to post is not going to be good for business.”

“One last thing.”

“Yes?”

“Do you by any chance have the phone number at Feather Ridge?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. Why?”

“I don’t think Ezra Black is likely to say yes to another operator with an emergency call from me.”

Despite a steady rain, the early evening was mild and quite bright. Driving to the hospital, Abby even caught a brief glimpse of the sun. There was still forty minutes before her meeting with Kelly. She couldn’t wait to see Lew and share the two major developments of the day—her visit to Feather Ridge and Kelly’s discovery of a secret staircase somewhere in Colstar.

She felt buoyed by her success with Graham DeShield. The real trick would be to honor her promise to keep his name out of the conversation when she called Ezra Black. She had decided to hold off on that call until she had learned what Kelly had found. Even if it turned out to be nothing—and she strongly doubted that would be the case—there was still the information she now had about Ethan. Black would have to be devoid of a conscience not to take action against the company that had contributed to his son’s death—even if that company was his own.