Deadline (51 page)

Jeffrey, the Jeffrey in the projection of what actually happened on earth, looked surprised. “Jesus is a real person.”

The teacher kindly explained there would be other assignments where the class could write about Santa Claus or Spider Man or any character they wanted, and perhaps he should save Jesus for them. Jeffrey explained he wanted to write about Jesus now because Jesus really was his best friend. What followed was a conversation Jeffrey had never seen, now broadcast in heaven. The teacher was talking to the principal, and they were saying something about the separation of church and state, and how the ACLU got upset about such things, and how it could get them in trouble. The principal concluded, ’Give him credit for the assignment. Just don’t let him read it to the class.’ The next day, other students gave their readings, but before Jeffrey was called on, they were out of time and had to move on to mathematics. The image vanished, and the focus returned to the Hall of Writings.

The moderator said, “Now, at last, we are all eager to listen to Jeffrey read his essay.”

The boy cleared his throat, then proudly projected his voice. “‘Someone I love,’ by Jeffrey Montgomery.” He flashed the incomparable smile of a child about to recite an original composition.

“I love Jesus. He is my best friend. He likes it when I do good things. He doesn’t like it when I do bad things. But he always forgives me when I ask him to. He died to take away the bad things I’ve done. But he is still alive and I talk to him every day. He talks to me too, through his Bible, and sometimes even when I’m not reading the Bible, I can tell he’s talking to me in a quiet voice. Even though I can’t exactly hear the words, I know what he’s saying. And some day my Mom and Dad say I’m going to heaven where he lives. And you can too if you just ask him to forgive your sins, like I have. I have a lot of nice friends, but Jesus is my best friend. Jesus can be your best friend too.”

Suddenly there was the sound of thunder and an earthquake. All heaven shook, and Finney grabbed the pillar next to him, looking at Zyor for an answer. What was it? What had happened? All eyes turned to the great throne of heaven, at which Jeffrey was already looking. There was the Audience of One, not sitting but standing. And then Finney watched as his hands clapped together again, and the ground and buildings gave and shook like a plywood shack in a wind storm.

Angels and humans joined in the applause, though Jeffrey could not hear the meager noise they made, for the sound that came from the throne overpowered them. And then a voice cut through the air like lightening. The voice too shook the ground, each word creating its own tremor. “Well done, my good and faithful son.”

All heaven bowed along with the boy who had so deeply touched the One who had made the universe itself with less fanfare than he now devoted to this child. Suddenly he was there on the stage. Lifting him high above his head, he said to the wide-eyed delighted boy, “Well done, Jeffrey.”

The hall was evacuated, Finney leaving with the rest, for what followed was private and sacred. What the two would talk about, where they would go, what they would do was between them only. And should Jeffrey decide to tell others, it would be only for the joy of it, only to relive and recount it, to exult in the fellowship and friendship of which the strongest version on earth had been but an impoverished foreshadow.

As he walked out of the hall, Finney turned back and took one last look in the boy’s eyes, filled with wonder and delight. The faint taste of these realities that the boy might have occasionally known in the Shadowlands had now erupted into all the flavors of heaven. Boy and God-man were turning circles on the stage, the boy laughing as never before. The deep, hearty laugh of the Ancient of Days and the high, squeaky laugh of heaven’s new child, melded into one.

Finney knew the immense delight that flooded him now came not just from the boy, but from the God-man. The pleasure taken
in
Elyon was exceeded only by the pleasure taken
by
Elyon.

Finney pondered that if the atmosphere of earth was nitrogen and oxygen, and the atmosphere of hell was sulfur and acid, then the atmosphere of heaven was joy and delight.

Jake sat next to Little Finn, looking at the wonder in his eyes, which held his attention more than the basketball game. The Blazers were ahead by twenty-five. It’d been a yawner since the first quarter. Nothing like playing an expansion team to catch up on your sleep. Jake had canceled this boy’s night out twice since making the promise weeks ago, but this time he had followed through. Little Finn was one nonstop smile after the other, saying what a shot’ and cheering at lay-ups even Jake could make. A child’s joy. Jake tried to remember far enough back, before reality—or was it cynicism—had eclipsed his own ability to see wonder in the little things of life. Or even the big ones.

“Unca Jake! Do you dink my dad saw dat shot? I’ll bet Jesus opens up windows in heaven and let’s ya see dings down here. Dat was a good one to see, huh!”

Jake hadn’t even seen the shot. “Yeah, Finn.”
Poor kid. He’s out of touch with reality. Maybe he’s better off. Reality’s not so great anyway.

He’d sat in this same section often with Doc and Finney, and Little Finn had come along a few times. But now it was just the two of them, Little Finn and Unca Jake. Five minutes left on the clock, and not one Blazer starter left in the game. Jake got antsy.

“Hey, bud, I got an idea. If we sneak out now, we’ll miss the traffic jam, and I’ll take you to Lou’s Diner for a milkshake. Whadaya say?”

Little Finn’s eyes shone as if Jake had offered him a trip to Disney World. “A milkshake? Sure, Unca Jake!”

They’d driven through the golden arches on the way to the game, but just had time to grab a burger and fries and two waters. Jake didn’t offer Little Finn a milkshake then because he didn’t want it all over the front seat of his car.

Jake led the way to the aisle and down the stairs, out to the Coliseum’s walkways and across the parking lot, holding Finn’s hand and running in the light rain. This was all as big a thrill to Finn as the ball game and the milkshake. Jake was cheap enough not to pay for parking, and had a favorite little spot on grass near an off-ramp where he tucked in his car. The spot was seldom taken, largely because it was a real stretch to even see it as a spot. Only a journalist would be bold enough to park there, Jake told himself. He even left his press pass visible on the dashboard in case a cop considering a citation might be fooled into thinking he parked there only because he was hot on the trail of some critical story. As if that would impress a cop. But it didn’t keep Jake from trying, and not once had he been ticketed.

He took pleasure from Little Finn’s squeals of delight as they jumped over curbs and ran across streets and out into the weeds beyond the sidewalk. With his free hand, Jake fumbled for his car keys in his coat pocket. He dropped them, and they landed in some tall grass. The rain was pelting down now and Jake motioned to Little Finn.

“Go ahead, bud. I’ll catch up with you.”

Finn smiled and took off for the car, still some distance away, lumbering in his unique Special Olympics style, while Jake leaned over and searched the soaking plant life for his keys.

When he was about forty feet from the car, Little Finn saw the passenger-side door was open. Someone in a dark trenchcoat was leaning into the car. Little Finn assumed the best, thinking some helpful person was doing Jake a favor, maybe turning off his lights or returning something to the car, or even locking it up for him.

“Hi dere!” Finn yelled.

The man was startled, banging his head on the door frame. He had something in his hand, which he shoved in his pocket, and reached for something else with his other hand. It was too dark and rainy to see him clearly, though for some reason Finn thought he might have seen him before. The man stared at Finn, deciding what to do.

Jake had just found his keys when he heard the gun shot. He sprinted toward his car where he could barely see Little Finn running from it, and something else in a heap on the ground beside it. But the runner he’d assumed was Finn didn’t look right. He ran into the street and turned the opposite direction, running like a sprinter, not a Down’s Syndrome boy. And he was wearing a trenchcoat. The silent, utterly still lump on the ground … it must be Little Finn.

Frightened and pleading, to whom he didn’t know, Jake ran the last sixty feet as fast as he could, sliding as he got to Finn, almost falling on his body lying there so perfectly on its back. The body was motionless, and Jake prepared himself for the worst. It was hard to see in the rain and shadows. He put his face close to the angelic face lying there helplessly in the cold and wet.

“Hi dere, Unca Jake!”

“Little Finn! Little Finn! Are you okay?” Not waiting for an answer, Jake pulled Finn up and got him into the car. Despite the shadows, the street lights showed chipped paint on the edge of the Mustang’s passenger door. Somebody had slimjimmed it. Jake ran around to the driver’s door, which Finn had already unlocked, and hopped inside. Both were soaked.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Finn? You weren’t shot? Did he hit you?”

This was Little Finn’s big moment, and he was poised as if a whole hunting party were assembled around a campfire, eager to hear every detail of the most amazing story ever. And to Finn, as with most of his stories, that’s exactly what this was.

“Da man pushed me down,” his eyes were big, “but it didn’t hurt very much, and den I heard a noise like a big firecracker. You know, da kind dat’s illegal in Oregon and you haf to go up to Washington to buy dem, and Kenny Olson got in big trouble for having one in Oregon, and—”

“I know, I know, Finn. Then what happened?”

“Well, I just laid there ’cause I was a little scared—not too scared but sorta pretty bad scared—and den I heard you comin’ and yellin’ and I just laid there ’cause on TV dey say you’re not ’posed to move a body till you’re sure it’s okay, and I wasn’t sure my body was okay yet. I saw dis man with his head in your car and I didn’t know…”

As Finn launched into a repeat of the story, Jake hugged him, then turned on the overhead light and looked around his car. There’d been nothing inside but what was still there—the McDonald’s sack with wrappers and fry boxes and unopened ketchups inside. The tape deck was intact. They’d arrived just in time. No harm done but the chipped paint. Unless … he grabbed for the glove box door and yanked it opened. The Walther was gone. The thief had made off with a loaded Nazi sidearm.

* * *

“Yeah. Got it. But there may be a problem.” The man was out of breath.

“Problem?” The voice sounded like it was battling a migraine and didn’t want to hear about problems.

“The kid may have seen me.”

“What kid?”

“The retard. He took him to the basketball game and that’s where it happened. It was dark and rainy and the kid might not have gotten a good view, but he could have.”

“The subject never saw you?”

“No. Not him.”

“Are you absolutely sure?”

“Positive. Just the kid. What should I do?”

“You’ve done enough for one night.” The migraine sounded worse. “I’ll check with the men upstairs. For now, leave the kid alone. We may have to deal with him later.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

S
pecial Agent Sutter’s plate was clean before Jake took the first bite of his turkey on whole wheat. Sutter’s Red Sangria was half gone, Jake’s still unopened. After some opening small talk, Jake told him about the stolen Walther.

“The worst part is, it was kind of a keepsake. My father left it. Didn’t really give it to me. Just died, and I ended up with it.”

“A Nazi gun, huh? You’re probably right about the street punk. Still, it could be Babe Ruth and his buddies didn’t want you armed.” Babe Ruth was Sutter’s nickname for the guy who’d used Jake for batting practice.

“How would they know I had a gun in the glove box? Never kept one there before.”

Sutter shrugged. “Tomorrow afternoon we get back Mayhew and at least another agent, maybe two, and we’ll be your shadow again. Till then just don’t get isolated. Stay around people. No back parking lots, okay? I’m serious, Jake. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

Jake smiled. “Gee, Sutter, I’ve grown kind of fond of you too.”

“Yeah? Well, it doesn’t mean we’re going to the prom together, okay? And when this is over, to be honest, I’ve told you more than I had to, and some of the guys at the Bureau wouldn’t appreciate it. So if we ever lift the restrictions on this thing and you write your memoirs, don’t hang your old friend Sutter out to dry, okay?”

While Jake took a few sips of Sangria and his first bite of turkey, Sutter looked over some notes, staring at them, seeming to correlate this fact with that, as seasoned investigators do. He reminded Jake of Ollie. Finally, Sutter spoke.

“Okay, like I told you on the phone yesterday, a lot of money showed up in one of your friend’s bank accounts six months ago, through some really complicated routes. That fits with your computer files. But since yesterday we found out it happened twice. Could have been a two-part payoff or two separate payoffs. We’re working on it.”

“You know what it was for?”

“Marsdon gave you the answer, if you think about it. It was simple, really. All Dr. Lowell had to do was move someone’s name up the list.”

“Which list?” Jake pushed aside his sandwich.

“The heart transplant list. I’ve got the papers from someone inside at the hospital. Nine people were waiting for a heart transplant A guy—a rich guy—found out three months ago he could live another ten years or more with a new heart, but without it he’d be dead in two months. The problem is, he was number nine, and his name probably wouldn’t come up for six months, depending on if he’s lucky enough for nine donors with healthy hearts to die before he does. And it’s hard to get your average guy off the street to volunteer to give you his heart, know what I mean?”

Sutter chuckled at his little joke. Jake didn’t find it funny.

“So, anyway, he decides it’s worth a half million dollars to get his name bumped up.”

“A half million dollars?”

“Not much money when you consider the alternative. You can’t take it with you, remember?”

“You’re saying Doc took a bribe?”

“Yes, but not in the direct way that would be crass and unconscionable, you understand, not like a politician would do. There’s a broker, a middle man. That’s where the organization comes in, the entrepreneurs, the opportunists—the new rendition of organized crime I told you about. See, this guy that wants the heart tells his story to his lawyer, who says he knows a guy, probably one of his other clients, who knows a guy that might be able to help. This guy calls the rich guy and offers to be the middle man, for a modest commission, of course. A straight out deal between patient and doctor is too risky, too … obvious. The rich guy needs this middleman, his contacts, his credentials. The deal would never work without him.”

“Sutter, is this stuff for real?” It confirmed Jake’s worst suspicions, fit perfectly with Finney’s letters to Doc, but it still sounded so incredible.

“Absolutely. The broker could be a health professional himself or maybe a crooked lawyer, pardon the redundancy. He needs to be able to assure a doctor that other doctors are doing this, everyone’s doing this, he’s just the last to find out about it. The doctor resists it at first, but finally decides he’d be a fool to miss out on the opportunity. After all, there’s a list, and the doctors are given control of the list. They decide whose case is most critical and most deserves the next available heart or kidney or whatever. He rationalizes, tells himself, ’Hey, I’d probably bump this guy up anyway even if I hadn’t been contacted. We do it all the time, so what does it hurt if I get a little from the deal? The government already steals half my paycheck and now it’s limiting my income. Why not? The patient’s happy, I’m happy. Nobody’s hurt, and nobody’s the wiser.”’

“I just can’t believe Doc would do it.” Jake was trying to sound more certain than he felt.

“Why? Was your friend some kind of saint or something?”

“No, but he was a decent guy. He’d try to do the right thing.”

“Sure, But what’s right and what’s wrong? Is it really so clear, so cut and dried? And even if they know better, are doctors so morally superior to everyone else? No one seems surprised if a businessman takes advantage of a windfall opportunity that might be a little shady. Why can’t a doctor? Can’t they cut corners? Can’t they cheat like everybody else?”

The word cheat hit Jake hard. He remembered Finney talking about the breakdown of families and society. He’d said, “A man who cheats on his wife will cheat on anybody. If you violate the highest vows you’ve ever taken, lesser vows are sure to topple.” At the time it seemed judgmental and unfair. Now it seemed prophetic.

“Why would Doc do it?”

Sutter shrugged. “He needed the money, I guess. Most of them do, you know. That’s what makes the industry so vulnerable. On the one hand, there’s the change in ethics, the decisions for some to live and some to die, the financial and pragmatic considerations in health care. On the other hand, there’s all the new health regulations and changes related to the shift toward national health care. The doctor’s profit margins are thinning down. They’ve got mortgages, with payments bigger than your whole monthly paycheck. They’ve got their kids in private schools, they work hard, they’re on call half their lives. They don’t want to drive Hyundais; they want to drive BMWs.

“But their take home keeps shrinking, and they’re convinced the health care system is only going to make it worse. Socialism doesn’t make things better, that’s the attitude. They went into huge debt to get through medical school, with the promise of a big capitalistic payoff, but the rules have been changed on them. Some are fighting back publicly, others are fighting back behind the scenes, taking advantage of quiet opportunities. Your friend was one of them.”

“What happened? Do you know the details? We know at least one other doctor was involved, right?”

“Right. Your friends note makes that clear. Somebody got to him, maybe the other doctor. Or maybe your friend got in first. Anyway, somebody credible suggested your friend could think of a good medical reason to bump this guy up the list. He did. Don’t know if he agonized over it or just did it like you’d pick up a hundred dollar bill lying in the street. Meanwhile they got him money coming from different directions. That part was professional. The pros have accountants who work overtime shifting money in and out of this account and this company so anyone trying to trace it will die of old age or fatigue first. It doesn’t appear to have been that tough for your friend. He had only a few other doctors, at most a small committee, he had to explain himself to. Maybe he said it related to compatibility or age or body weight or timing or rare blood type, who knows? I’m not a doctor. Anyway, they bought it.”

“But if he was doing what the bad guys wanted, why would they kill him?”

“That’s what we need to know. And that’s why I’m telling you all this. We don’t normally give out this info, you know. I need you to talk to me, Jake, whenever you find something out. Leads, possibilities, new info, just like the computer file. We’d have never come up with that. FBI just doesn’t march into private homes and do that, not when we’re trying to stay low profile. We’ve had progress, but it’s the kind of thing where they could hear our footsteps and bail out. We could come up empty if we don’t get our case together and make our move soon.

“Anyway, you asked why’d they kill him? Maybe he held out for more money. Maybe he refused to do it again. Once you’re on the payroll you’re expected to play ball. If you’re no longer an asset, you’re a liability. That’s how it works. Maybe his conscience was acting up. Maybe he talked to a priest, or looked like he was going to confess. Omerta.”

“What?”

“Omerta. It’s the old syndicate term. The code of silence. It’s their way of saying, ’You talk, you die.’ They make clear, usually after you’ve already got your hands dirty and it’s too late to back out, that if you talk, they’ll kill you. And that’s another reason they do so well. These days most people don’t think anything’s worth dying for. Guess you can hardly blame them, huh?”

Jake nodded and was disturbed that he had. Nothing worth dying for? He’d once heard a general say, “If nothing’s worth dying for, nothing’s worth living for.”

Maybe that was it, maybe the sickness of this society that screamed out to all but the hopelessly deaf was the product of believing nothing was worth dying for. And therefore nothing was worth living for.

Jake and Sutter went their separate ways. Jake headed to feed the meter, carrying on his shoulders a weight no man should have to bear alone.

Jake came back to a note in Jerry’s handwriting, taped on the middle of his screen, the only guaranteed place a journalist will look. Jerry saw him return and explained from across the divider.

“I answered your phone. Your machine didn’t seem to be working, so I thought what the heck, it could be the president. It was bigger. A reporter from the
LA Times.
He wants an interview. You must be more important than I realized.”

“An interview? About what?”

“Didn’t say, and I didn’t pry, either. You know me. I’m too much of a professional. I may eavesdrop when you call him back though.”

“Thanks, Jerry.”

“Hey, that’s why I’m here. Can I get coffee? Shine your shoes? Fetch you a newspaper?”

“You could shut up for a few minutes,” Jake said with mock irritation.

“Oh, sure, no problem. Shut up? Just say the word, Mr. Bigshot columnist doing an interview with the
LA Times.
For you? Anything.”

Jerry continued to mumble under his breath. Next to being the human thesaurus, this was one of his most endearing features. He was one of many reasons Jake loved working at the
Trib.

Jake picked up the gray phone and raised his left shoulder to cradle it against his neck, while his fingers pounded out the ten numbers with the same rapid skill he punched computer keys. He looked at Jerry’s note.

“Yeah, can I speak to Frank Harmes?” He looked at Jerry, who was listening intently. “Sounds like he’s got a secretary.”

“Hey, I answered your phone, remember? I don’t care if it is the
Times
, no reporter has a secretary. No way.”

“Frank Harmes here.”

“Yeah, Frank. Jake Woods at the
Trib.
My secretary gave me your message.”

Jerry rolled his eyes.

“Oh, great, thanks for calling me back, Jake. Secretary, huh? Wow. Before I forget, Cornelius Leonard sends his greetings. Just saw him yesterday. He was here for some meeting with the big wigs. They introduced him to some of us in the newsroom.”

“No kidding? I just saw Leonard in New York.”

“Somebody was saying something about your column on condoms and people’s reactions, and Mr. Leonard said he knew you. You’ve got a rep as one of the best columnists on the coast. People like your stuff. And this column seems quite a bend in the road, so it’s really piqued some interest. Mr. Leonard suggested I call you. Just a second. I’ve got it here on my desk somewhere. You know what it’s like.”

“Believe me, I know.” Jake looked at the piles on his desk. Nothing a little kerosene and a lighter couldn’t fix.

“Before I forget, how big’s the syndication? How many papers you in?”

“Last I heard, forty. Creators Features tells me there’s a dozen more considering it.”

“No kidding? That’s great. Congratulations. Yeah, okay, here it is. By the way, Leonard got a charge out of this.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, he says you really kicked up the dust this time.”

“He’s right.”

“He also said he’s proud of you. Takes courage to take on the big boys, he said.”

“What can I do for you, Frank?”

“Well, just a few quick questions about what you wrote here. First, you allude to something, where is it? Okay, you say, ’I used to think that way. Recent events have helped me to see how wrong I was.’ What recent events are you referring to?”

“Just some personal experiences. I saw first hand in a school situation how some kids’ lives were affected by condom distribution and the basic ’all sex is okay’ philosophy. It wasn’t good.”

“And you think the school was wrong to pass out condoms even to the sexually active kids who could get AIDS?”

“Well, my point is, our first responsibility is to help them see why they shouldn’t be sexually active. I don’t think it’s right to pass out condoms and send the message to go ahead and do the behavior that spreads HIV in the first place. A lot of what’s passing for birth control education is irresponsible because it neglects or minimizes the one alternative that’s 100 percent effective in preventing what we all say we want to prevent.”

“And this position represents some sort of conversion on your part, doesn’t it? I mean, you’ve never had a reputation for being a conservative, have you?”

“I’ve had a change in thinking, like I said in the article, if that’s what you mean. I’m not saying I’m a conservative. In some areas I’m liberal, others conservative. I don’t care what the label is, I just said what I believe.”

“Could you tell me a little more about this experience with the school?”