Die Again Tomorrow (21 page)

CHAPTER 38

D
r. Greg Hughes smiled modestly as he strode out of the operating room to hearty applause. The surgical staff and the dozen residents watching from the balcony broke into cheers as soon as he repaired the torn aortic valve of the gunshot victim on the table. It was a tricky surgery with no room for error, and once again, he'd proved his coolness under pressure.

He acknowledged the adulation of his colleagues with a mock salute. Then he tore off his gloves and headed out to tell the victim's distraught parents that their son—an accidental victim of a drive-by shooting—would make a full recovery.

There was truly no better high than the power conferred on a surgeon in an emergency. A pop of Vicodin couldn't even come close. In the operating room, he was God. He was a hero. And everyone around him knew it. He thrived on their respectful awe, which negated the black crust of his soul: the sinister fragment he had to keep hidden at any cost.

As he stepped into the hall, his ears still buzzing from the applause, he found himself walking straight toward Ellis Yardley. Of all the people in this hospital, why did he have to run into the one person who could bring him down faster than the flick of a scalpel?

Ellis's balding hairline glistened, as did his trim gray mustache, and there were dark pit stains under his white coat. He was a sweaty bastard. The beer belly didn't help. Behind his spectacles, his watery corneas were snaked with red lines. He glanced around to make sure no one was watching them. Then his upper lip curled into a sneer.

“If I were you,” he said in a low voice, “I'd wipe that shit-eating grin off my face.”

Greg stiffened. His tongue itched to retort, but he knew it was too dangerous. Their dynamic was as fragile as a diseased heart, and just as prone to a disastrous rupture.

“Tonight,” Greg said. “Everything is going to change after tonight.”

“Just like the last time you promised?”

“This is really it,” he insisted. “I swear. Just give me until Sunday.”

It was Wednesday now. That would leave him four more days to secure his lifeline out of hell. Otherwise, Ellis would burn him alive. If the world found out the truth—if his family found out—he would be abandoned for the rest of his days. The inevitable prison sentence might be bearable—he could find allies, a job, a routine to pass the time. But he could forget his hopes of ever reconciling with his son or knowing his grandkids. And beyond that loomed the thing that scared him the most: life without Joan. Such an existence was impossible to fathom, like a captain without a ship. Her love kept him afloat. Without it, his compass would go awry and the darkness he worked so hard to suppress would engulf him. He might as well be dead.

Ellis blinked, unwavering. He seemed to be relishing Greg's desperation—the pathetic appeal of his onetime friend who'd always been more talented, more popular, and more attractive than himself.

“Please,” Greg said, his hatred intensifying at being forced to beg. “You won't regret the extra time. I'll make it well worth your while.”

Ellis waited for him to squirm, but Greg lifted his chin in a risky act of defiance. He had already stooped low enough.

“Sunday,” Ellis said at last. “By midnight. Not a minute later.”

“Thank you,” Greg said. It took every effort to keep his tone civil.

They parted without another word. Greg's body felt rigid as stone. His mind darted, as it had countless times throughout his shift, to the event that was taking place a few miles uptown. Tonight, at an apartment in the Harlem projects, the golden goose of all his “lives” was going to come clean about how she survived death.

And then she was going to die again.

Talk about killing two birds with one stone. Tonight was going to be the mother of all double whammies. If she really could lead him to the source of a way to reverse death, the windfall would be copious enough to solve everything. Getting rid of her would be an added quick bonus, providing just enough cash to tide Ellis over until the real prize could be delivered as the ultimate peace offering.

He felt a weak prick of satisfaction at the thought of Isabel Leon's death. She
had
cheated him of hundreds of thousands of dollars by cutting off her breasts. Still, he didn't want to have to get rid of her, just like he hadn't wanted to get rid of blind old Mrs. Ruth Bernstein, rest her soul. Their deaths were necessary evils. But he had saved so many other lives throughout his medical career, and even again just tonight, that he figured his karma was in the black. Sometimes one or two people had to be sacrificed for the greater good. But it wasn't his fault. Unfortunate circumstances had prevailed, so he had to react to the forces acting on him. He wasn't a bad person overall. Far from it.

He was a goddamn hero.

 

 

When he arrived home after 2
A.M.
, his sublime operating-room high was gone. Yardley had killed it, plus there was still no word from his crew uptown. What the hell was happening with Isabel? He had half a mind to swing by and find out, but discretion was key. That part of his identity could never be compromised.

Before he opened the front door, he popped four Vicodin from a prescription he'd written for himself. An illegal maneuver of course, but his nasty addiction had come back with a vengeance since the whole crisis started. He paced on the sidewalk while he waited for the suckers to kick in. Four of them ought to be enough to resurrect the high he chased, that feeling of invincibility. It was a compulsion he'd lived with since he was a teenager, a monster that needed to be fed. Sometimes drugs did the trick, or gambling, or operating, but only for so long. Without those crutches, a twitchy edginess set in, and that was when he could become reckless. That was when mistakes could be made.

No one knew the darkness of his inner depths—his twisted delights and his private pain. As a doctor, he operated not for the honor of saving lives, but for the pleasure of domination, of inert flesh at the mercy of his hands to shape and bend as he desired. It scared him sometimes how little he felt if things went wrong, if the patient slipped away on the table. There was always another one lined up. They blurred together like specimens, though he was able to mimic empathy with learned precision like any other surgical feat. Mostly he lived for the glory when things went right. He could never get enough of that. A good day was about pushing his limits—physical, mental, financial, legal—without ever losing control.

But then, back on earth, there was Joan. Oh, Joan. She was the heart he wished he had. She was the solid ground. In her presence, his compulsions diminished, the darkness receded, and he felt something akin to peace. She had enough humanity for them both. It was as natural for her as water from a spring.

After three decades together, he remained in awe of her genuine goodness. She cheered on his victories in the emergency room and felt real pain at his defeats. She was deeply appreciative of heroism—his own and others'—and its various incarnations could move her to tears. She might weep at Supreme Court rulings that granted freedom to the oppressed; at the sacrifices of soldiers; at the bravery of thinkers who suffered for unpopular but righteous causes. On the flip side, she loathed injustice, and had devoted her former career to exposing crime. She raged when evil triumphed, whether it was in the form of a school bully, a terrorist, or a presidential election.

Her authenticity was effortless. There were no errant pieces that had to be beaten into submission to fit the whole. She was also a thoughtful partner, knowing just when to give him space or attention. Hell, she'd given up her career for his after their son was born. He still remembered what she told him the day she announced her decision to quit journalism:
I might expose bad guys, but you get to save good ones. You win.

Yet he had won by virtue of having her. Her tenderness as a mother defied his comprehension. During the difficult period after Adam's birth, she never complained about the baby's infuriating tendency to cry for hours straight, or the bleary-eyed stupors that seemed never to lift. While Greg nursed a private resentment toward the red-faced creature that had invaded their lives, she nursed their colicky boy with an endless reserve of patience. He might have hated her if he wasn't so thoroughly hooked on her.

A light rain was falling outside, but he didn't mind because a familiar warmth was starting to course through his veins. He felt his tense shoulders relax. Everything would be fine. It would all work out. That motherfucker Ellis Yardley was not going to bring him down. Because he was unstoppable.

He went inside. The lights in the apartment were off. Joan was in bed on her side facing the wall, with the covers pulled up to her chin. He undressed to his boxers and climbed in beside her.

“Hi, honey,” he whispered. “I'm home.”

“Mmm,” she murmured, without turning to face him.

He spooned her, pressing his body up against hers. Usually she woke up and kissed him when he got into bed. But this time she remained stiff. He let his hand caress her bare stomach, then venture up to her breasts. God, it had been a long time since they'd had sex. Hadn't she complained about their dry spell not too long ago? So why was she now pushing his hand away?

“You okay?” he said softly.

“Not feeling good,” she muttered into her pillow.

“Oh, poor boo.” He kissed the top of her head and rested his arm around her waist instead. “You need anything?”

She sniffed. “Just sleep.”

His head fell back on his own pillow. She could never know what he was up against. No matter how much he wanted to confide everything, it was crucial that she remain ignorant. He knew there was only so far her forgiveness could extend. She had already once approached the point of no return. Thank God he'd figured out a way, on the spot, to satisfy her suspicions without divulging the real answers.

That story about gambling debt hadn't been a complete lie, but the game he played wasn't found in any casino. The additional lie about selling his insurance and fearing for his life had been a stroke of genius. She'd long suspected that the unregulated hedge funds who bought up people's life policies were up to no good. By playing into her embedded fears and making her pity him as a victim, he'd built up her sympathies and made it impossible for her to leave. And he
was
a victim, in his own way. He was a victim of circumstance.

The problem was that she cared too much about protecting him. She had taken it too far, faking those heart pains and then going to the hospital to investigate on his behalf. The nurses knew nothing, but she'd come face-to-face with Yardley—Yardley!

He'd had to scare her away somehow, so on the night of the gala, he'd rushed home between his shift and the fund-raiser, making sure she'd already left by the time he arrived. In the closet, he found an old bat they saved from Adam's high school baseball days, one their son had used to hit a winning home run. Then he took it and smashed the front window to pieces. Not the sweetest message he'd ever left for his wife, but it was a critical one:

Before she got too close to the truth.

CHAPTER 39

I
sabel stared at Galileo in shock. He was panting in the doorway of apartment 4B, his broad face rimmed with sweat. A gash above his left eye trickled blood. One sleeve of his black trench coat was torn at the cuff, and red scratch marks raked across the inside of his wrist. The skin of his knuckles was shredded raw. Behind him, on the floor, lay the two semiconscious thugs.

“How did you . . . ?” she began.

“Come on.” He grabbed her elbow, closing the door behind him. “Let's get out of here.”

“But what about my family? This wasn't allowed to happen!”

“They're fine,” he said. “Come, I'll explain.”

Then he jogged to the stairwell she had exited only minutes earlier.

She remained rooted to the spot. “Where are they?” she demanded. “I want to know exactly where they are.”

He threw a weary glance over his shoulder. “They're being moved as we speak. You're going to have to learn to trust me. Let's go.”

He disappeared into the stairwell. She had no choice but to follow him down the four concrete flights, skipping steps to keep pace with his brisk clip.

“But they weren't supposed to leave the safe house!” she cried. “That guy watching will see them go and he'll get my brother deported!”

Galileo didn't so much as slow his step. “It's all been taken care of.”

His nonchalance infuriated her. Did he not realize how much was at stake?

“Deported,” she said again, in case he didn't grasp the weight of the threat. “The feds will find him eventually, and then what?”

“Let's just get in the car.”

They exited the stairwell into the trash heap of a lobby, and then out into the bitter cold night. A mixture of rain and snow drizzled from a bank of foggy clouds overhead. The hooded guys she had passed before were still standing in a cluster smoking a joint. She stuck close to Galileo, who at six foot five dwarfed not only her, but also them. They eyed her as she scurried by, but a hard stare from Galileo prompted them to look away. His height combined with his cut-up face and assured stride made him a man no one wanted to mess with.

On the curb, a yellow taxi was parked without its light on. He opened the door for her.

“It's been waiting for us,” he said, in answer to her look of surprise. “Get in.”

She obeyed. He climbed in next to her and directed the driver to Chelsea Piers on 39th Street and 12th Avenue, where the ship was docked in the Hudson River. As the cab gunned up to speed, he turned to her.

“Do you remember when we met, what I told you about myself?”

She thought back to her first moments after death, when she'd regained consciousness only to find herself surrounded by medical personnel on a ship. Then he had cleared everyone out and explained to her about the existence of the Network. But he'd been less than forthcoming about himself.

“You're on the most-wanted list,” she recalled. “Though no one knows your real name or who you really are.”

“That's true,” he said. “But I did give you a hint about my past. I'm ex-FBI.”

“Right. You're a criminal and a crime fighter in one.”

He seemed amused. “Something like that. Anyway, I still have a lot of friends in the Justice Department, old colleagues who think I'm retired—many of them the same people who tried for years to dismantle the Network. In fact, I used to be in charge of the effort.”

She raised her eyebrows. “That's crazy.”

“It was completely intentional. That way, I could keep my researchers safe while directing the officials to false leads. Eventually I led the government to conclude that the Network had fallen apart on its own, so they closed their investigation. That way, I could retire and focus on it full-time.”

Despite her confusion, she had to give him points for sheer brilliance. But he hadn't yet proven that he'd pulled off the most critical feat of all, the one that was more important than all his scientists' breakthroughs put together.

“Okay,” she said, “but what about my family? What about my brother?”

“I was just getting to that. When we got the threat from Robbie Merriman last night, I knew I had to get to work exploiting my connections. I spent all day making phone calls and calling in rush favors.” His lips tightened. “It's times like these I remember to be grateful for having worked in our illustrious government.”

Her heart sped up in spite of his sarcasm. “What kind of favors?”

“These.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. She opened it up—and gasped. What she was holding could not be paid for. It existed only in fantasy. It was a scanned printout of two formal documents: a U.S. Social Security card and a U.S. birth certificate, both in the name of Andrés Enriqué Leon.

She balked at him. “But these are fake.”

He smiled cryptically. “Perception is often all that counts, my dear. Especially when they're perceived in the federal database.”

“You did not!”

“I did.”

“This is insane!” She gawked at the printout. “But how did you know his name and birthday?”

“I called your mom. Once the documents were finally created, I called her back and explained that she and Andy needed to move to a new place, so right now, one of my professional drivers is taking them to a different safe house in the Keys where no one will be able to track them. They're perfectly fine, and now you guys will never have to worry about his status again.”

“Why didn't you tell me?” she demanded. “I never would have snuck out!”

“I told you not to go anywhere, that I was working on it, but I didn't want to overpromise something I might not be able to deliver. This was no walk in the park.”

“What did you have to do?”

He lifted one shoulder. “Oh, you know, just greasing the palms of the junior Florida senator, pleading with a couple reps on the House Subcommittee on Immigration, asking my old buddy who runs the Justice Department to turn a blind eye.”

“Damn.” She stared at him with renewed awe. Here was a man who dared to thunder where others pattered. If people were raindrops, he would be a hurricane.

“I have to say, not many folks could have pulled it off,” he said, as though reading her mind. “But when I finally went to tell you the good news, you were gone. I knew there was only one place you could be.”

“Thank you,” she said, looking him in the eye. “I don't want to think about where I would be right now if you hadn't shown up.”

“Those guys were bad news.” He wiped a smear of blood off his eyelid. “They weren't expecting me, that's for sure.”

“But why go so far out of your way for me?” she asked. “I mean, I've caused you so much trouble already. Wouldn't it have been easier to just . . . let me go?” She winced at her own euphemism. From the look of those thugs and the price of her death, not to mention the drug she wouldn't have been able to deliver, it was all too clear she wouldn't have left that place alive.

“And be murdered?” He cocked his head at her. “Yeah, I guess that would have been easier than a bunch of phone calls.”

“Fair enough.” She put her hand on his arm. “Seriously, thank you.”

He nodded. “You missed one other thing.”

“You did, too,” she said, thinking about her encounter with Joan Hughes. Now that she was out of immediate danger, a belated thrill kicked in. The lead about Joan's husband wasn't a sure thing, but it was a definite step on the path to unmasking Robbie Merriman.

“You go first,” she said. “You look too excited about your thing.”

He smiled. “Chris was able to use traces of the compound from your blood to complete a crucial step in the reverse engineering process. He's really getting somewhere, but he needs another sample from you as soon as possible.”

She frowned. “What about Richard?”

“It seems his blood contains an excessive clotting factor that's partially obscuring the compound. His concentration may be higher than yours, but it's much more difficult to isolate. So now is when we need you the most.”

“Great,” she muttered. “I'm there.”

“Chris couldn't do this without you. It's just such a damn shame it happened this way.” He glanced out the window at the starless sky. “I still can't believe Horatio is actually gone.”

She bit her lip. Just when she was starting to believe in his competence, he had to go and remind her of his mistake. Since the rapport between them had grown more comfortable, she was tempted to tell him again about Chris. But he'd already dismissed her accusation once. If he hadn't admitted his error by now, he wasn't going to. Hopefully, she thought, the whole ship wouldn't have to pay the consequences.

 

 

Upon her return, she found Richard pacing anxiously outside her cabin as Captain the dog nipped at his heels. At the sight of her coming down the hallway, both of them sprinted toward her at full speed. Captain stood on his hind legs and covered her hands with enthusiastic kisses; Richard was slightly more restrained, but no less thrilled.

He drew her into his arms without hesitation. “You're okay! Thank God.”

She rested her head in the crook of his neck. “Thank Galileo.”

Richard tilted her chin up with one finger, and then out of nowhere, his mouth was on hers. It felt so natural that she forgot to be surprised. She kept her face upturned, reveling in the tenderness of his lips. That was when she realized she'd been wanting to kiss him for days. It was as clear to her now as the sky after the storm.

After he gently drew back, they stood in a quiet embrace while Captain frolicked around their feet. Exhaustion crept into her muscles. She let her body sag against his chest. For the first time that night, she noticed how bone-tired she was.

“What happened?” he asked after a few moments.

“So much,” she said. “And so much that didn't.”

“I have time.”

“Sadly, I don't.” She nuzzled closer into him to escape the duty that was pressing on her. “I'm supposed to go to the lab right now to give Chris another sample.”

A guttural noise in his throat expressed the disgust she felt but couldn't confide to anyone else. And the fear. As much as she wanted to feel safe on the ship, with Galileo in control, it was impossible when a killer remained at large.

A killer who needed her blood.