Fatal (28 page)

“Give me a few minutes to get put together and we’re off.”

“Only as far as the nearest IHOP, though. I have this sudden, insatiable craving for pancakes drenched with maple syrup.”

“IHOP, she wants,” Matt mumbled as he headed to the bathroom. “First she lays prions on me, then she wants IHOP. What kind of a woman is this, anyway?”

Nikki was impressed with his attempt at cheeriness, but she knew Joe Keller’s revelation had stung. From what Matt had told her last night, he was determined to expose the directors of the Belinda mining corporation for all the shortcuts they had taken over the years, and all the people they had harmed along the way. The bizarre cases were just the catalyst he had been looking for to bring them down—proof that mishandling of organic toxins was causing serious biologic injury. But it was going to be hard connecting the mine with prion infection. Well, she reminded herself, nothing was decided yet.

If there were answers, though, Joe Keller would have them.

Matt returned to the room scrubbed and shaved and looking very good. He had stripped off the Yale sweatshirt and replaced it with a black T and the denim jacket he had been wearing when he rode to the cabin in the woods and rescued her. Nikki liked the change. He was much more denim than Ivy League.

“Ready to go?” he asked.

She stood and set her hands on his shoulders. His eyes immediately found hers.

“You were very cool and very brave last night,” she said.

“If I had thought about what I was doing, I probably would have fainted.”

“I doubt it.”

There was much more that she had planned to say, much more she wanted to know about him, but suddenly she was on her tiptoes, her arms around his neck.

“Thank you, Matthew Rutledge,” she whispered. “Thank you for saving my life.”

Maybe she had known all along that she was going to kiss him. Maybe she had promised herself, clinging to him on that motorcycle, that if they survived and somehow escaped, she would kiss him whether he wanted her to or not. Still, the actual act of placing her lips against his, briefly and tenderly, was as surprising to her as it was exciting. She drew away just far enough to read his eyes, and saw no doubt in them. Their second kiss was deeper, more prolonged, and more passionate. His muscular arms enfolded her as his lips and tongue explored hers. She set her hands against the sides of his face and ran her fingertips over his cheeks and jaw. When at last they broke apart, she could barely stand.

“I don’t remember the last time I wanted to kiss a woman so much,” he said.

“In that case, I’m glad I came along when I did.”

“Very funny. Actually, that
was
very funny. You know, I have no recollection of the exact words, but doesn’t kissing my patient violate some paragraph or other of that Hippocratic Oath we took?”

She kissed him again, this time playfully.

“Call it mouth-to-mouth resuscitation,” she said. “I think my HMO might even cover it.”

He looked over longingly at the bed, but made no move to lead her there.

“There’ll be time,” she whispered gently. “I promise you that. But right now we have work to do.”

“Work to do, pancakes to eat. God, but you kiss splendidly.”

“As do you. Tell you what, we’ll practice every hundred miles or so, just in case we can perfect the art a little more.”

“That certainly would do wonders for my road rage. Oh,” he added, “here.” He handed over the Yale sweatshirt. “I actually bought this for you. It’s a large, but that’s the only size they had.”

“And why Yale?”

“Because that’s the only one I could find that didn’t have some silly foreign version of an English phrase on it, like Sport Tough or Big Run.”

“Well, you’re much more West Virginia than Yale anyway, and coming from me that’s a high compliment.”

“How so?”

She pulled on the sweatshirt, then kissed him on the cheek.

“Because,” she said, underscoring the four block letters with her palm, “I graduated from here.”

NATTIE AND ELI 
Serwanga lived in a modest Cape in an integrated neighborhood of Evanston, just up the Lake Michigan coast from Chicago. Ellen sat at the dining room table, sipping tea with honey and trying to remember the last time she had felt this sad. There was the situation with Rudy, and the incredible guilt and humiliation she was feeling over having opened his letter. But that situation paled in light of what these two had been through. As they talked, she flashed over and over again to Dr. Suzanne O’Connor’s incredible account of the horrors of her battle with Lassa fever.

In their early forties, Ellen guessed, the Serwangas were kind and generous toward her, and clearly in love with each other—the perfect couple to have and raise children. Only they had none and weren’t ever again going to get the chance. Deepening their tragedy was irrefutable evidence that Nattie was responsible, albeit inadvertently, for the deaths of two eight-year-old children who attended the day-care center at the hospital where she worked. Nice stuff.

“Tell me again, Nattie,” Ellen asked, “when did you know you were sick?”

Nattie pulled a tissue from a half-empty box and dabbed at some embryonic tears. She was a beautiful woman—large and expansive, with huge, expressive eyes, and ebony skin.

“It was nearly two weeks after we got back from Africa,” she said. “We came back on a Tuesday, and I first felt the sore throat two Mondays after that. Ten days later I was in the operating room. They delivered the baby, but he was stillborn. Then they tried to save my womb, but there was just too much bleeding.”

Eli, who was still wearing his suit and tie from work, rose and moved behind her to comfort her. It was his relatives they had been visiting in Sierra Leone, and he expressed some guilt at having talked her into staying for an extra week while he straightened out some family business—the week in which the doctors believed she became infected. Ellen sipped at her tea and reflected on the impact of her own newly acquired guilt.

“If my questions upset you too much,” she said, “you must tell me.”

“We’re doing okay,” Eli replied. “But it would be good if you could tell us where all this is leading.”

Ellen set the passenger manifest on the table. During the flight from D.C. to Chicago, she had managed to curtail the attempts at conversation by the recently divorced, totally self-absorbed appliance salesman seated next to her long enough to scan all the flights, searching for matches—passengers who had been on more than one flight with a soon-to-be-victim of Lassa fever. There were at least six.

“I have reason to be suspicious that Nattie may have gotten infected with the Lassa virus either just before or just after leaving Sierra Leone, or else on the plane ride home.”

“But how?” Nattie asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you mean,” Eli said, “that you think somebody deliberately infected her?”

“That’s the possibility I’m looking into. Please, both of you, I beg you not to say anything to anyone about my suspicions until I can finish my search. It’s a matter of life and death. Can you give me your word on that?”

“Yes,” they said in unison. “Of course,” Nattie added.

“Thank you. I’m looking into the possibility that someone on the flight home transmitted the virus to you. Nattie, this is a list of the people who were on your flight from Freetown to Ghana, and then from Ghana to the States. Do any of these names ring any bells? As you can see, there were forty-six on the first leg, including the two of you, and thirty-seven of those among the hundred and sixty on the flight to Baltimore. Do any of these names stand out as someone you remember?”

Nattie shook her head.

“It’s been three years,” she said. “Plus I think I lost some of my memory when I was sick. I’m afraid I can’t help you. I’m sorry.”

“Your memory is just fine,” Eli countered. “These names mean nothing to me, either. Tell me, do you think this infection was random, or do you think my wife was singled out?”

Ellen considered the question for a while.

“You know, I never thought of that.”

She searched for the words to speak about the ten cases of Lassa fever that Nattie was believed to have caused through her job as a dietary worker—including two that died. Nattie saved her the trouble.

“If someone did want to spread the infection, someone with a job like mine would be perfect, provided they somehow knew what I did for a—”

“What is it?” Ellen asked, noting the odd expression on the woman’s face.

“Eli, remember that man on the flight from Sierra Leone? The big man who talked to me outside the rest room. He was on the other plane, too.”

“The white man?”

“Exactly. He sold something. Insurance, I think. You mentioned how scary-looking he was.”

“I do remember him, yes.”

“He was a smiler and a talker, that one—asked me all sorts of questions about myself. Made it a game, like he was such an experienced insurance salesman that he could guess things about me.”

Ellen felt a little burst of adrenaline.

“Anyone else?” she asked just in case.

“No one that I can think of.”

She remembered the memory exercise Rudy had done with her.

“Okay,” she asked, “can you bring me a paper and pen?”

“Certainly.”

Eli brought in several sheets of typing paper.

“Okay,” Ellen said, “I’m going to go and sit in the living room. I’d like you to put your heads together and write down every descriptive word you can remember about this man—what he looked like, what he acted like, even the things you’ve already told me. Just relax your minds and free-associate. I know it’s been a long while, but just do your best. Take as much time as you need, and if you disagree on something, write down both opinions.”

“We’ll try our best,” Nattie said.

Fifteen minutes later, the Serwangas were out of recollections. They called Ellen back to the dining room and apologetically handed her their description.

Big

Tall

Strong

Slick

Smooth

Smiling

Glad-hander

Thick hair

Flat face . . . like a cartoon character hit with a frying pan

Deep voice

Maybe a Texas-type accent

Scar on face

Ellen felt her heart stop.

“The scar,” she asked, her voice trembling. “Can you tell me about the scar?”

“That’s Nattie’s,” Eli said. “I don’t remember any scar.”

“Well, there was one. I’m sure of it. Right here.”

She pointed to the space between her nose and upper lip.

“That’s him,” Ellen said.

“Who?”

“A very bad man. I think we’re onto something.”

“Well, I just thought of another word we should have put on the list—clumsy.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was standing waiting for the rest room. He came up the aisle, tripped, and slammed into me. The man nearly knocked me out of the plane.”

 
CHAPTER
25

MATT AND NIKKI HAD BREAKFAST AT PANCAKES ON 
Parade on the banks of the Susquehanna. If it was possible for a family restaurant to be romantic, this one, with a broad porch set on tall stilts out over the river, surely was. But then again, on this particular morning, the two of them would have found any McDonald’s or Burger King atmospheric. For over an hour, not a word was spoken about Bill Grimes or spongiform encephalopathy or Belinda Coal and Coke. Instead, they touched fingertips and thumb wrestled, laughed to tears at the silly or embarrassing stories of each other’s lives, and commiserated with the sad ones. Grace, their husky, gum-chewing waitress, called Matt “Slugger” and Nikki “Dearie.” After the third time she found they weren’t ready to order because they hadn’t looked at the menu, she brought them heart-shaped lollypops and a bill for two dollars for mooning at each other in public.

“It’s been a long, long time since I mooned,” Matt said. “’Cept maybe for the time a couple of years ago when my shorts ripped while I was playing basketball.”

“Boston men are too sophisticated to moon,” Nikki said. “Instead, they discuss lunar landings and the Hubble telescope.”

There was a pay phone in an alcove by the rest rooms. Before their order arrived, Matt called his uncle at the hospital.

“Hey, Unk, it’s Matt.”

“Hey,” Hal said, “how goes it? Any word about that patient of yours?”

“It goes not too well, actually. And yes, Nikki Solari is safe. She’s with me in Pennsylvania. Hal, something really weird and really dangerous is going on. It has to do with those odd cases.”

“The miners?”

“Them and the girl who died, Kathy Wilson. And Bill Grimes is right in the middle of it.”

“My read on Grimes is that he’s slick and power hungry,” Hal said, “but he’s not evil.”

“Unk, he’s evil. Believe me, he is.”

Hal Sawyer listened patiently as Matt recounted the story of Nikki’s abduction and subsequent rescue, and this morning’s revelation regarding the microscopic findings in Kathy Wilson’s brain.

“Spongiform encephalopathy,” Hal said when Matt had finished. “Now, doesn’t missing something like that make
me
feel a bit sheepish.”

“There’s no reason. The Wilson woman’s brain looked normal, just as I’m sure our two cases’ did. You wouldn’t be expected to do a microscopic on their brains. This guy in Boston only did it because Nikki Solari insisted.”

“You still think the mine’s at fault?”

“I’m sure of it. I don’t know the precise connection between what they’ve done and spongiform disease, but I do know that somehow they’re the cause of this, and Grimes is on the take from them. Any ideas what we should do?”

Hal thought for a time.

“It seems showing someone in authority that toxic dump you found is the place to start.”

“I agree.”

“There is a man, Fred Carabetta, at the Occupational Safety and Health Administration in Washington, who owes me a favor for some expert witness work I did for him a few years back. Maybe the way to go is to see if I can call in my marker and get him to come with us and view that dump. Once we’ve got an OSHA official believing, we can bring some legitimate pressure to bear against BC and C.”

“If the dump is still there.”

“Now, nephew, you know we can’t control that. That’s rule number two in your Godfather’s Lexicon—”

“—of Youth. I know, I know. Rule number one: There’s no such word as ‘can’t.’ Rule number two: If you can’t control it, don’t let it control you.”

“Excellent. I’m proud that you haven’t forgotten the Lexicon rules after all these years.”

“That’s ’cause you still spout them at me every chance you get.”

“In that case, I’m glad you’ve been paying attention. Listen, Matt, I’ll see what I can do with Fred Carabetta. How can I get ahold of you?”

“Just call the house and leave a message on my machine. I’ll check it frequently and get back to you.”

“And I’ll call that coroner in Boston, too. See if he can tell me about that special stain he used.”

“Do you have any tissue left from those two miners?”

“I suspect I do.”

“Please don’t speak with anyone about Grimes until you and I have a chance to talk, okay? He’s more dangerous than you think.”

“If you’re that certain about him, why don’t you just go to the police somewhere and file a complaint?”

“Nikki wants to, but I’ve talked her out of it for now. From what I’ve heard, the police are a pretty tight fraternity. There’s no cop who’s going to listen to us and run right down to Belinda to make Grimes assume the pat-down position. And once we come out into the open, he’ll have us between his crosshairs regardless of what we allege he did. For the time being, I’d rather wait.”

“Okay, whatever you say. Just be careful. I’ll call you later today. By the way, I visited with your mother this morning. She’s really slipping.”

“I know. I saw her for a few minutes yesterday. It won’t be long now before she’ll need some sort of comprehensive care. I’ll look into it when I get this business settled. Listen, Hal, thanks for your help—with her and with this.”

“You’re on the right track, Matt. I’m certain of it.”

“Me, too, Unk,” Matt said. “Me, too.”

Nikki gave the pancakes a solid eight. Matt claimed to have wolfed down his Spanish omelet too rapidly to grade it for taste. He left Grace a tip that was twice the cost of their meal, along with a note that thanked her for presiding over their morning mooning.

“You know what I’m really relieved about?” he asked as they headed out to the Harley. “I’m really relieved those guys didn’t kill you.”

“Aw, gee. You certainly know just what to say to a girl, you romantic devil you. It’s good to know we actually have something in common. I’m relieved they didn’t kill me, too.”

She reached across the bike and kissed him intensely enough to get a honk from a passing trucker. She had just let up when they felt some tentative raindrops. Fifteen minutes later, it was drizzling steadily. Matt found a Wal-Mart outside of York and Visaed some rain gear for each of them, but for the next five hours the going was slow and not pleasant. They gave passing thought to stopping until the next morning, but Nikki was too anxious to get home. By the time the clouds broke, they were still several hours from Boston, having inched through rush-hour traffic around New York City. At nine Nikki called the office to tell Joe Keller they were running late and might not be there until eleven, but there was no answer.

“He’s either doing a late case or out to dinner,” she said. “I shouldn’t have told him when we were arriving, so he wouldn’t wait, but now that I did, I’m sure he’ll be there.”

Matt used the break to call his machine. There were two messages. The first was from Mae reporting that as far as she knew, there was no word about his patient, Dr. Solari, and that she was worried about not having heard from him all day, and hoped he was all right and that his absence was due to nothing more serious than the erratic behavior he had been exhibiting so much of lately. The second message was from Hal.

“Good news, Matt. Not great, but good. Fred Carabetta won’t commit to any action regarding the mine, but he will meet with us in his office. Tomorrow at three. Two Hundred Constitution Avenue. Wherever you are, I hope you can make it. Call and confirm.”

Matt left a message on both his uncle’s office and home machines that he would be there, and then dictated a message on his own office machine telling Mae he was all right and would be in touch. After he set the receiver down, he shared Hal’s breakthrough with Nikki.

“I’m going to take the bike back to D.C. tomorrow,” he said. “Wanna come?”

“Do you get frequent flyer miles on this thing?”

“Double miles to D.C. It’s the shuttle.”

“Well, thanks. I really want to be with you, but for the moment I think I need to stay here. For one thing, I feel like my body can’t take too much more, and for another, I have this job cutting up dead people that I get paid pretty well for doing, but only if I show up. It says so in my contract.”

“I understand. I’ll be back up as soon as I deal with this mine thing.”

It was nearing eleven by the time they cruised up the Southeast Expressway toward the shimmering lights of Boston. The rain had stopped, leaving the air cool and fresh.

“Have you been back here since your residency?” Nikki asked.

“Nope,” he called back over his shoulder. “In the beginning, after I returned to Belinda, I was working like hell in the ER, then to set up a private practice. Ginny got sick soon after that, and never really had much of a remission. Since she died, it’s been hard enough much of the time just to get up and go to the office, much less embark on a nostalgic journey to Boston. I did like the place, though. Lots.”

The medical examiner’s office was located just off the highway. Except for some low nighttime lighting, the three-story building was dark. Nikki rang the front buzzer half a dozen times. They could hear the sound of it echoing through the empty reception area, but there was no movement inside.

“Strange,” she said, “there’s usually a maintenance man here all night. Even if he’s not, Joe often works past midnight. Knowing we’re coming, I have trouble believing he went home.”

“Maybe he wasn’t feeling well,” Matt offered.

“Maybe. The front door opens with a swipe card that is back in West Virginia with my things. But there’s a security door in the back that has a keypad. Joe’s office is toward the back anyhow. Maybe he can’t hear the buzzer.”

Matt followed her through a dimly lit alley to the rear of the building.

“See,” she said. “That’s Joe’s office, that light right there on the second floor. I knew he was here.”

“I think you’re right about him not hearing us. This is a long building—sort of like an aircraft carrier.”

Nikki punched in the code and they stepped into the concrete rear stairway, eerily illuminated by a red
EXIT
sign. The air was imbued with the distinctive, though not overpowering, aroma of formaldehyde. With Matt following, Nikki quickly ascended to the second floor and opened the door onto a carpeted corridor with offices on either side.

“Joe, it’s us,” she called out.

She knocked on the door marked
JOSEF KELLER, M.D. CHIEF MEDICAL EXAMINER
, then pushed it open. The office was brightly lit by an overhead fluorescent fixture and a desk lamp. Joe Keller was at his desk, his back to them.

“Joe,” Nikki said, “why didn’t you—?”

Then she saw the blood on the carpet. She raced to the chair, with Matt right behind, and cried out loudly. There was dark, clotted blood all over the desk and splattered across the face and clothes of Joe Keller. His head drooped over his chest. Nikki lifted it gently, exposing a battered face with a bullet hole just above the nose. Keller’s eyes were open wide and glazed with death. His wire-rimmed spectacles dangled from one ear.

“Look,” Matt said, gesturing to Keller’s right hand, which rested in the dead man’s lap.

The index finger had been cleanly severed off at the middle knuckle.

“Oh, Jesus!” Nikki cried, stumbling backward, her limbs suddenly in spasm. “Oh, Christ, how could someone do this to him?”

Matt put his arms around her and held her closely.

“Honey, please don’t touch anything anymore,” he begged.

“Who would do such a thing? Why? He was such a dear, sweet man. Why? Oh, Jesus. Oh, shit! No.”

She couldn’t stop moving, shifting from one foot to the other, pounding her fists against the sides of her thighs. Matt led her away from the body of her mentor, trying at once to comfort her, evaluate the scene, and stay alert in case the killer was still in the building. He thought about the gun in his saddlebag, and cursed himself for not bringing it along when Keller failed to answer the door. He had an inkling of trouble at that moment, but simply hadn’t paid enough attention to it. There wasn’t the slightest doubt in his mind that the ME’s torture and murder were somehow connected to Kathy Wilson. Was Grimes nearby—or his stooges?

There was a small, round conference table at one end of the office. Matt helped Nikki into the chair that was facing away from Keller.

“Nikki, I’m really sorry about this—sick and sorry.”

“You think it had to do with Grimes?” she sobbed.

“I’m going to try to figure that out, but yes, yes I do.”

He chose not to question her again about what she might have said to Grimes either at the memorial service or in the cabin.

“I—I want to help you,” she said.

“In a little bit. Nik, can you sit here while I look around?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Just keep your hands in your lap. I know there’s a logical explanation for your prints being in this building, but I’d rather not have them be the only employee’s fresh prints in this office.”

“I understand. Matt, they
tortured
him.”

Matt paced around the desk and scanned the rest of the office. No gun, no knife, no finger. He squatted down and examined Keller’s contused, distorted face. His nose had certainly been shattered, and there was probably a fracture of the orbit bone above his left eye.