Prodigal Son (21 page)

“I want you to do something for me.” Bill sounded frantic, and Peter was sorry he’d ever met him. The last thing he needed was a lunatic on his hands. Now he thought he understood why Maggie had said it was better he’d gone to live in London. He was crazy, and she knew it. “I found a toxicology lab in Boston, from the Internet. They test for rare poisons. I called them yesterday. They said that if we can get them a few hairs from her head, they can tell us if this toxic agent is present. After that I’ll leave you alone, I swear.” Peter closed his eyes and shuddered as he listened. How was he going to get rid of Bill now? And Peter realized, listening to him, that Bill would go insane if his mother died. He might even try to kill his father, for a crime he had never committed and Bill had only imagined.

“Look, I’m not going to go in there, in front of your father, who looks worse than she does, and rip a bunch of hairs off her head, and drive them into Boston to some quack you found on the Internet, so he can find out if your father is putting weed killer in her soup. Bill, you have to get real here.”

“I’m begging you,” Bill said, and Peter could hear that he was crying. He was about to cry too, out of sheer frustration. And Maggie might not even live long enough for him to do what Bill wanted. “I’ll never call you again. I promise. Just do this one thing for me. For my mother’s sake, if you care about her at all.”

“I love her. And my brother.” That was true now, he realized. He had formed a bond to his twin that he’d never had before, and it was important to him. “And I care about you. But I don’t want to go on a wild-goose chase.”

“Why not? What if I’m right and you save her life?” Peter sat staring into space as he thought about it. Bill was right, at worst he’d
look like a fool taking three hairs to a lab in Boston to find out what kind of hair spray she used. And if what Bill said was true?… But it couldn’t be. The whole idea was just too insane. The product of a sick mind, far sicker than the one he was accusing his father of having. There had been silence on the phone for a minute while Peter was thinking. It gave Bill hope when Peter didn’t answer. “Will you do it? Just this one thing. For my mother. It won’t hurt anyone if I’m wrong … and if I’m right, we’ll save her. There could be permanent damage from this poison, but if he kept the doses low enough, she could recover, unless he’s stepping up the doses now to kill her. Just tell me you’ll do it. We may not have much time.” Peter felt as though he were being sucked into the nightmare with him.

“I don’t know why I’m doing this for you. But if you’re wrong, I want you to swear you’ll find a psychiatrist in London, and never call me again. Your mother is a very sick woman, and you’ll just have to face that.”

“I promise you, I will.”

“E-mail me the name and address of the lab. I must be as crazy as you are.”

“I sent it before I called you,” Bill said, sounding relieved, and then thanked his uncle profusely.

“And how am I supposed to rip three hairs off her head without your father thinking I’m deranged?”

“Stroke her head or something. I know you can do it.”

“I just want you to know that I think you’re wrong on this. A hundred percent wrong. My brother is not a killer.”

“Just do it,” Bill said tensely.

“I told you I would. But I know you’re wrong.”

“Maybe I should come home today,” Bill said, sounding pensive.

“Ask your father. But she doesn’t look good to me.”

“Let me know what the lab says.”

“Whatever. I’ll call you,” Peter said, and was furious at himself for agreeing to do it. He hung up then, and an hour later he was at the hospital. Michael was dozing in a chair next to Maggie, who was sleeping soundly. Peter felt ridiculous when he remembered his mission. He walked over and stroked her hair, and without Michael noticing, he gently tugged a few hairs from her head. They came away easily, and he dug his hand into his pocket and clutched them. He left the room a minute later, before either of them woke up, and put the hair in an envelope he had brought with him. He was sure that no one saw him. And then he walked back into the room and sat down next to Michael. His brother stirred and smiled at Peter.

“How is she?” Peter whispered.

“About the same. She’s running a low fever.” They both knew that wasn’t good either. But she was still hanging on. “As long as her lungs don’t get paralyzed, we have a fighting chance.” She had the beginnings of pneumonia.

“I have to go into Boston today, to take care of some banking problems,” Peter said, looking embarrassed, and feeling as demented as his nephew.

“Anything I can help you with?” Michael asked him with a look of concern. He was wondering if his brother was running out of money.

“No, I’m fine. You’ve got bigger problems here. I’ll be back in about four or five hours. Call me if you need me.” Michael nodded, the two brothers exchanged a smile, and Peter left the room as soundlessly as he had entered, and hurried to the parking lot, with the envelope in his pocket. He wondered if the lab in Boston even existed.

It took him an hour and a half to get to Boston. And he felt like a
traitor all the way there. He was signing on for his nephew’s fantasy, that his father was trying to murder his mother. Peter knew there was no way that could be true, but at least after this maybe his nephew would accept the truth, that his mother was dying. Peter didn’t like it either, but it appeared to be reality. Maggie was holding on by a thread now. Her weak heart, kidneys, and liver combined with the Parkinson’s and her earlier infirmities were more than any human could survive. Peter wondered if it was only a matter of days now, or worse, maybe hours.

He went to the address Bill had e-mailed him, and was surprised to find that it was a large, highly technical, space age, modern-looking lab. Several police officers were waiting, and the sign over the door said simply Forensic Lab. There were at least two dozen employees. Peter waited at the main desk and took the envelope out of his pocket. Five minutes later a lab technician handed him some forms.

“What are we testing for?”

“Paraquat,” Peter said, trying to appear normal, but he didn’t feel it. He felt foolish. “Human ingestion.”

“You brought a sample?” He handed her the envelope with the three hairs in it.

“We need the results as soon as possible,” he said, getting into it, as she wrote the word
Stat
in large red letters on the form.

“We’ll have them for you tomorrow,” she said coolly. “Are you a doctor?”

“Private investigator,” he said, feeling not only stupid but dishonest as she nodded. “I’m investigating a criminal case,” he added, and gave her the number of his BlackBerry.

“I spoke to your associate in London this morning,” she said, and
he realized that Bill had called them. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” she said, after asking him to pay four hundred dollars. It was a small price to pay for Maggie’s life, if by some insane chance her son was right. Peter hoped not. He couldn’t even imagine the consequences if the test came back positive, but he was sure it wouldn’t.

He left the lab and started the drive back to Ware. As he got on the freeway, Bill called him.

“Where are you?”

“On my way back from Boston.” Going to the lab had given reality to Bill’s suspicions, which depressed him as he entered the traffic flow on the freeway.

“The hospital just told me she’s in critical condition,” Bill said unhappily. “I wish I could get her away from my father.” Peter wondered if that was what this was all about. Some oedipal fantasy, where he wanted his mother and to kill his father. “Will you be with her today?” Bill asked him, sounding worried.

“Once I get back there. I won’t be in Ware for two hours.” Or less, if he drove faster.

“I’m coming in tonight,” Bill said dully. “Can I stay with you?”

“Sure,” Peter said, wondering what his brother would say if he heard about it. This was a royal mess from beginning to end. But if Maggie died, none of it would matter. “We’ll have the results tomorrow.”

“That’s what they told me.” All they could do was wait, but Peter was sure it was a futile expedition, and Maggie’s unbalanced son would be staying with him. God only knew what he would do now. He clearly had an obsession. He almost wanted to warn his brother. If the test was negative, he was going to do that. Michael had the right to know that his son was out to get him. Peter suspected that
Michael must know how disturbed his son was. After all, he was a doctor.

Peter thought about the test they were doing, all the way back to the hospital, and when he walked into Maggie’s room, her eyes were open and she was smiling. Her breathing was labored, but she looked happy to see him. She took the oxygen mask off so she could talk to him for a minute.

“How are you feeling?” Peter asked her gently.

“Okay,” she said bravely, but he could see how sick she was.

“Where’s Michael?”

“He had to see a patient. She just came in with a heart attack. He can’t totally ignore his patients,” she said, as Peter motioned to her to put the mask on. He didn’t want to wear her out. He thought about telling her that Bill was coming, but he didn’t want to upset her, or give her the impression she was dying.

Michael walked into the room in his white doctor’s coat an hour later. Peter was reading a magazine, and Maggie was dozing. He took her pulse and checked the heart monitor with pursed lips. Maggie opened her eyes when she felt him. She was checking his face for his reactions and saw him frown.

“I want to go home,” she whispered, lifting the mask again. She was afraid that she was dying, and she had always told him she wanted to die at home, in her own bed. She had talked to Lisa that morning. She still had a nasty cold and was desperate to see her mother. Maggie knew that if she went home, she could see her, even if only from the doorway.

“We’ll see how you are in a day or two,” Michael said vaguely, and he told Peter, when they went out to the hallway, that she was safer here, with defibrillators and whole teams of people to revive her. She
was still too fragile right now to go home, although he didn’t like the risk of infection at the hospital either. He had to weigh the risks, and he was more comfortable keeping her at the hospital for now. Peter listened with a serious expression. It sounded like they were down to the wire, but he didn’t want to ask him.

“How’d it go at the bank in Boston today?” Michael asked him warmly.

“It was fine. I had to sign some documents for Alana, for the house in Southampton.” He tried to look annoyed about it, but he was angry at Bill anyway so it was easy.

“And you had to go all the way to Boston? She doesn’t make it easy for you, does she?” Michael said sympathetically.

“No, she doesn’t,” Peter said, and then suggested they go to the diner for dinner. Michael hesitated but finally agreed, and they left when Maggie went back to sleep. Peter knew it seemed insane, but even though he didn’t believe a word of Bill’s theory about the weed killer, he was nervous now about leaving Maggie alone with Michael. He had told Bill where the spare key to his house was, and after dinner Peter suggested spending the night with his brother at the hospital. He couldn’t imagine him having the guts to poison her here, or anywhere else for that matter, but staying seemed like a good idea. Michael looked at him gratefully when he said it.

“You don’t need to stay. They’re watching her closely. I was thinking about going home to Lisa. They’ll call me if anything happens, and I can be here in five or ten minutes. I think Maggie will be okay here tonight. I’ll come back, and call you, if anything happens.”

“That sounds like a good plan. You need to get some sleep too,” Peter told him. Michael looked genuinely exhausted, and suddenly ten years older than Peter. Peter liked the idea of going home since
Michael wouldn’t be spending the night at the hospital either. If Bill was right, Peter wondered what Michael’s plan was. To keep her as sick as possible in the hospital, and then let her go home and kill her? Or did he plan to deliver the coup de grâce here? Or had he already done it? Peter felt insane thinking about it. He was beginning to believe it. His trip to the laboratory in Boston had given serious weight to the theory. He knew it couldn’t be true, but his mind was in a whirl now.

When they left the hospital for dinner, the nurse said Maggie’s heart was doing better. For a while, the day before, all her systems seemed to be shaky. She was a little more stable now, except for her breathing and the ever-present risk of her lungs freezing, or a serious case of pneumonia, either of which would kill her.

After dinner, Michael went home to Lisa, and Peter drove to the lake and found his nephew on the couch as soon as he opened the door. He was drinking a beer, and looked as exhausted as his uncle and father. He stood up as soon as Peter entered, and he looked saner than Peter remembered. He didn’t look crazy, but he had to be. All Peter could think of now was that they were testing Maggie’s hair to see if her husband was trying to kill her by poisoning her with weed killer. How surreal was that? It sounded totally insane to Peter.

“Thank you for letting me stay here,” Bill said humbly.

“I didn’t think you could stay at your father’s,” Peter said matter-of-factly. Peter’s head was reeling, and he had a massive headache. Without a word, he walked into the bathroom and took two aspirin.

“How’s my mother?” Bill asked, looking worried. He had wanted to go to the hospital to see her, but had been afraid to run into his father.

“About the same,” Peter said honestly. He didn’t want to lie to him.
She was still in critical condition. “I thought of spending the night there. But your father went home tonight. And we should know everything we need to know in the morning.”

“What do we do then?” Bill asked him, and Peter stared into space, thinking about it for a moment.

“Hopefully nothing. With any luck, we won’t have to.”

“And if we do?” Bill persisted.

“We’ll figure it out then. I’m too tired tonight to think about it. You can sleep in my sons’ room.” He pointed in the right direction down the hall. “There’s a sleeping bag in the closet if you don’t want to make the bed.”