Peril (28 page)

“Gina, what happened? What was your decision?”

“I got a call that changed my life forever.”

“From?”

“Dr. Thomas Reeves.”

Okay, now things are getting interesting.

“He said Dylan had volunteered to have this brain surgery that would change the way his memory worked. That he'd be able to remember everything. He had some fancy name for it. Almost like a real life superhero. Said he'd be better than what God created.”

“Why was he calling you? Didn't he just need permission from Dylan?”

She gripped the cat so hard, it screeched and leapt from the couch. “He needed something I had.”

“What?”

Her hands settled against her stomach. “The graft.”

Brett rustled his hands through his hair in a vain attempt to force his mind to connect with what she was saying. “I'm sorry, Gina. I'm not good with science stuff. Almost flunked out of high school.”

The maniacal smile that spread across her face crystallized the blood in his veins. The last remnant of life slipped from her eyes, and her pupils dilated as a dark spirit of resignation clawed its way through the gateway straight to her soul.

She pulled a revolver from between the cushions of the couch, gripped it with both hands, and pointed it at her chest.

Brett stood up and held his hands out to her. “No, Gina. This isn't the answer. I want to help you. Help me understand what happened.”

Droplets of imprisoned grief dripped off her chin. Gina closed her eyes. If she successfully blocked him out and convinced herself this was the answer, there was little he could do to stop her finger from depressing the trigger.

“Gina, please. Open your eyes and look at me. I want you to tell me what happened. Before you make up your mind, I want you to tell me why you're so sad. Why you think this is the answer.”

Her eyes shot open. Still with a hint of resolve but also with a bright
flare of anger. Anger was good. He could work with that. The gun wobbled away from her heart.

“Dr. Reeves offered me money.
Lots
of money if she proved a donor match to Dylan.”

It was like each of her words inflated a balloon that sat inside his chest. Each utterance filled it with dread.

“But she had to be tested first. So I went in for an amniocentesis. And I
saw
her.”

More determination. The gun squared back. Thumb now plumb with the trigger.

Brett whistled to draw her eyes, cursing himself for not paying more attention in crazy-people-wanting-to-off-themselves class. One thing he knew wasn't covered: How the victim's grief and sadness pulled everything of light and help from the room like a ravenous black hole. And how his heart ached at her sadness.

“Gina, I've been where you are. I've done stupid things and I've wanted to kill myself. But I'm here. I'm here for you. I'll do whatever it is you want me to if you'll just put the weapon down.”

She rested her head back on the couch and laid the weapon on her lap.

Inwardly, Brett fist-pumped in relief. Movement in the right direction.

“What do you think of someone who sees life and still accepts money for death? What do you think of that person?” Gina asked.

“I know what I see in this job every day is people who are hurting and sometimes they make choices that were the best for them at that time. You were miserable. You wanted out of a bad situation. You saw the money as your ticket to freedom. Many people would have done the same thing. They may not ever admit it, but they would. Dr. Reeves took advantage of your situation. He's the lowlife. Not you.”

She smirked at his words. “I aborted my baby so Reeves could use her brain cells. Dylan always wanted a spotlight—to be famous. He wanted the surgery to be something more than he was—which was really just a budding sociopath.”

Icy vapors chilled the air. His blood curdled like the time he'd been momentarily locked in the medical examiner's freezer as a sick joke. What had frozen him then was not the subzero temperature his body had been thrust into but the other bodies. The death. The grim reaper counting his collection.

That's what he felt now. Death roving over Gina, whispering in her ear to pick up the gun.

What perplexed him was the one thing he was missing.

Dylan wants glory. To be famous. Touching and killing girls is his sick lifeline. He doesn't want that area of his life exposed. Doesn't want to give it up. Won't give it up.

Brett felt time ticking by too quickly. He kept working the machinations in his mind.

Won't give it up unless he can trade it for his ultimate desire. To be a super-soldier. A science fiction wonder.

But that doesn't work either. He's haunted. Frankenstein's monster is a reality. Humans have begun to use others for body parts, but it's okay when the donor's brain has died. When their humanness has left for the other dimension—or whatever people believe it to be.

Gina Worthy watched him with renewed interest. Curiosity. Waiting to see if he would reach the same conclusion she had.

But what happens to a person when he sacrifices a life that still has humanness, but doesn't give him the payoff he hoped for? When he realizes he has bought a lie? Dylan doesn't become a super soldier. The graft causes problems. He's sick.

Suddenly that odd phrase the widow uttered made sense. Made perfect sense.

That's when all of our trouble started . . .

“Gina, is Dylan one of the hostage takers at the hospital?”

She tilted her head, a look of dismay filling her eyes. “Isn't that why you're here?”

Brett shook his head. The puzzle in his mind had a new picture. His neurons fired crazily at the implications, trying to put the new pieces into place.

She pointed the weapon at him. Both hands firm on the revolver. Instinct caused him to draw his own weapon at her.

“Okay, Gina. This is not the direction to go. Put your weapon down.”

“You promised you would do anything for me.”

“
If
you put the weapon down. That's what I said.”

“Kill me.”

“No.”

“I can't do it myself.”

“Gina, this isn't a game. Put the gun down!”

She pulled the hammer back.

A testy feline jumped from the chair onto her lap.

Brett dove straight at her.

Chapter 32

1215, Saturday, August 11

A
T THE OTHER END OF
the table, Scott pulled two items from a small duffel bag that he'd hidden in the stairwell. Now he wore a Kevlar vest and added a small handgun to his arsenal. Stuffed envelopes in his back pocket.

Yet, here they still sat.

Making the video had turned into a quest for perfection. From what Morgan could tell, Scott Clarke apparently considered himself a budding filmmaker—in addition to his criminal activities. Take after take, the message he wanted to deliver increased her anxiety each time she uttered the phrase.

How could he deliberately hurt the children?

When she'd sent the video to Tyler, she wanted to die. Though she rehearsed often what her last words to him might have been—left in a note beside her body—she wanted his thoughts of her to be sweet and sorrowful. Realizing that her demise had been at her own hands was something he'd have to learn to live with. It beat the pain of having to live this life without Teagan.

Now, considering the pain watching that video would bring to Tyler broke her.
How could I have seriously thought of putting my husband through so much suffering—willfully breaking his spirit with such a callous act?
Perhaps what they said about suicide was true. It was selfish. Her pain would end, but Tyler's—and her family's—would continue, and intensify.

Could I deliberately hurt him that way?

The clunk of the weapon brought her attention back to the situation at hand. “There's something about you, Morgan. Something I want to know.”

She and Scott sat across from one another at the long table with ten chairs. Each headed an end of the table, like a couple who wanted to argue
but were fearful of where that disruption might lead. After all, he held a gun and she didn't. His stare became relentless, as if a test of her resolve—for what she didn't know.

There was a way he carried himself. An air of humble superiority that only came from one institution she could think of.

“Are you still in the military?”

He raised an eyebrow at her question, slid his finger through the trigger housing, and pulled the weapon across the table. The sound affected her spine like fingers on a chalkboard.

“Not anymore.”

So simple yet so full of implications.

“How can you do this?” she pressed. “A man who served his country. You swore to protect us. Now you're threatening to kill helpless American citizens. What about your oath?”

“Sometimes, if the master is unlawful, action is justified.” He turned the weapon so the muzzle faced her. “Wouldn't you agree?”

She slipped one hand over the other. “What is it you expect to happen?”

“I know some things about you.”

“Is that supposed to impress me?”

His eyes widened at her tone and he leaned his head to one side. “That you had a baby who died.”

“She was murdered, actually.”

He nodded, contemplating her statement. “Shaken, right?”

“Yes.”

“Like the baby you just admitted.”

“Who will probably die, too, if you don't let me back out there to help her.”

“That must have been terrible. Losing a baby like that. Murdered, as you say.”

Morgan swallowed heavily, her throat tight as she spoke. “The hardest thing ever.”

“I know a little about that.”

Mentally, she reeled from the statement. “You lost a baby,” she confirmed.

He nodded his head slowly. “A boy.”

“Is that why you're here? Your son was a patient? From what I understand, my father has never worked in pediatrics. Only with adults.”

Scott nodded his head in affirmation—but to which part? His gray-green eyes narrowed at her questions. “My son was never a patient here.”

“So this isn't about him?”

“I don't know if I'd say that.” The scar on the side of his head gleamed through his hair. “It's about many things.”

“Maybe if I knew what those things were, I could help. I want to do what I can to end this matter peacefully.”

“I think your father was involved in my son's death.”

Morgan gasped. “That's why you're here? For a confession to this crime?”

He twirled the weapon toward himself. Never had she wished for anyone's death other than her own, but this moment qualified.

“Is there something you want to tell me? Are you going to keep me in here forever?”

“I see something in your eyes.” He leaned on his elbows, his head lowering like that of an animal that had just sighted prey. “Almost a dare to die.”

“Isn't that why you're here? To force my father's hand? And if he doesn't relent—you'll kill me?”

He edged up slightly. “You seem ready to die.”

“Shouldn't we all be?”

“There's a difference between being prepared and welcoming it.”

“Yet that's what you're doing. Welcoming death. You're not expecting to get out of here alive.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because the cops are never going to allow you to leave. Plus, I saw the envelopes you put in your back pocket. They're letters, right? To give to your family when you're dead. ”

Scott Clarke pulled all the way up and leaned back into his chair. “Didn't anyone tell you that mouthing off to a hostage taker is a bad idea?”

Morgan shrugged. “Sometimes it's best not to delay the inevitable.”

“Waiting can be a good thing. It makes you reconsider your actions. Pick a different course.”

“That's what you want Thomas Reeves to do. Change his mind about something.”

“How is he about doing things like that?”

“I wouldn't know. I've never met him.”

“You didn't go to him and plead for a kidney?”

Her throat tightened.
So he knows about my mother, too
.

“I've only begged for one thing in my life and it wasn't to him.”

He nodded. “Begged God for your child's life,” he said. He didn't have to ask. He already knew it was true.