Seizure (38 page)

“How so?” Spencer asked.

“My guess would be that Dr. Lowell had no idea what she was doing.”

“You might be right,” Spencer said.

“Dr. Lowell is on his way to the lab,” Kurt said. He pointed to the appropriate monitor, and all eyes went to it. Daniel was walking with a quick, determined gait from building three to building one, with a hand clasped against the collection of pens and pencils in his breast pocket. He reached building one and disappeared through the door.

“Where is the lab monitor?” Paul asked. Kurt pointed. They watched as Daniel appeared stage left. Spencer commented that he appeared to be searching for Stephanie. Kurt used the joystick to follow him. After checking the lab bench area that he and Stephanie used, Daniel looked into their assigned office. He even stuck his head into the ladies' room. He then made a beeline toward Megan Finnigan's office.

“I think he would have gone down to the egg room if he knew that's where she went,” Paul said.

“A point well taken,” Spencer said. “I bet you're right.”

Paul picked up the phone on the counter and punched in Megan's extension. “I'll tell the lab supervisor where Dr. Lowell can find his collaborator.”

“Or whatever the hell their relationship is,” Spencer said scornfully. “I can't figure it out. By the way, Kurt, how was she able to get into the egg room?”

“She used her Wingate ID,” Kurt said. “Access has yet to be restricted, even though it was on the security punch list I presented to the administration a month ago.”

“That's my fault,” Paul said, hanging up from his terse conversation with Megan Finnigan. “It slipped my mind getting the clinic up and running. Besides, we never planned on outsiders using the lab, and it didn't cross my mind when doctors Lowell and D'Agostino got here.”

Spencer got up out of his chair. “Let's go down and have a chat with the alluring Dr. D'Agostino before Dr. Lowell gets here. It might help smooth the negotiation. Kurt, I want you to stay away for the moment.”

The two doctors stepped out into the hall and started down toward the cell.

“This is a weird turn of events,” Spencer whispered. “But it is certainly a lot better than I feared when we were running over here.”

7:56
P
.
M
., Monday, March 11, 2002

 

When push came
to shove, Gaetano was a realist. As much as he was looking forward to arriving in Nassau on this second visit to complete what he'd started on his first, he was nervous. Mainly he was nervous about getting a gun, and it had to be a decent gun, because without a good gun, trouble was inevitable. There was no way he was going to club the guy to death or drown him in the bathtub or garrote him, like they occasionally did in the movies. Whacking a guy was not as easy as it was portrayed. It required planning. The method had to be decisive and fast, and the location moderately remote, to expedite a speedy getaway and for quickness, there was nothing better than a gun. A good, quiet gun.

For Gaetano, the problem in the current situation was being dependent on people he didn't know and who didn't know him. Somebody was supposed to meet him when he landed on the island, but there was no guarantee it would happen. Since the trip had been patched together so quickly, there was no plan B or contacts to call, except Lou back in Boston, and Lou could be hard to get ahold of after-hours. Even if the mystery man showed up at the airport, there was always the chance he
and Gaetano wouldn't hook up in the inevitable confusion, since neither knew what the other looked like. To make matters worse, Gaetano was supposed to be back in Boston the next day, so it wasn't like he had the benefit of a lot of time.

The other reason Gaetano was nervous was because he didn't like small planes. Big ones were okay, since he could talk himself out of believing he was up in the sky. Little ones were another story altogether, and the one he was on at the moment was the smallest he had experienced. To make matters worse, the plane was vibrating like an electric toothbrush and bouncing around like a billiard ball. Gaetano had nothing to hold on to, except the seatback in front of his nose. There wasn't much room in the cabin. With his bulk, he was literally wedged in against the window.

Gaetano had caught an American flight down to Miami, where he'd transferred to the plane he was currently on. The sun was setting when he took off on this second leg, and now it was pitch dark outside his window. He tried not to think about what was below the bobbing aircraft, although every time the engines sounded as if they were slowing down, the mental image of a vast, black ocean involuntarily popped into his mind's eye to add to his anxieties. Gaetano had a secret: He couldn't swim, and drowning was a recurrent nightmare.

Gaetano glanced around at the other passengers. There was no conversation, as if everyone were as terrified as he. Most were blankly staring ahead. A few were reading, with individual, narrow beams of light coming from over their heads to form isolated shafts of illumination in the general murkiness. The cabin attendant was seated facing her charges in response to a directive from the pilots about turbulence. Her bored expression provided a bit of reassurance, although it was partially trumped by her considerably more substantial seat belt with shoulder straps, as if she expected the worst.

A particularly solid thump followed by the plane quivering made Gaetano start. It was as if they had struck some airborne object. For a minute, he didn't even breathe, but nothing happened. He swallowed to relieve a suddenly dry throat. Resigning himself to his fate, he closed his eyes and leaned against the headrest. The moment he did so, the pilot's voice came
over the intercom to announce that they would be landing shortly.

With a burst of optimism, Gaetano pressed his nose against the window and looked down. Instead of a black void, he now saw twinkling lights ahead. He exhaled with relief. It seemed that he was going to make it after all.

The plane landed with a welcome, distinctive thud. A moment later, the whine of the engines magnified, accompanied by a sensation of rapid braking. Gaetano supported himself against the seatback in front of him. He felt so good about the plane being on the ground that he smiled at the passenger seated to his right. The man responded in kind. Redirecting his attention out the window, Gaetano was now able to concentrate on his worries about the gun.

With relatively few passengers on the plane, disembarking was rapid, and Gaetano was among the first on the tarmac. He sucked in the warm, tropical air while luxuriating in the sensation of being on terra firma. When everyone was out of the cabin, he and the rest of the passengers were herded into the terminal.

Clutching his small carry-on, Gaetano paused just inside the door. He didn't quite know what to do. He thought his size made him stand out, but no one approached him. He was wearing the same upscale clothes he had worn on the last visit, which included the short-sleeve Hawaiian print shirt, light tan slacks, and dark blue jacket. Pressure from people behind him made him move forward. It was like being carried along in a river flowing toward passport control. When it was his turn, Gaetano handed over his document. The agent was about to stamp it when he caught sight of the notations of Gaetano's recent visit. Not only was it a short time ago, it was only for a single day. He looked up at Gaetano questioningly.

“I was just checking the place out the first time,” Gaetano explained. “I liked it, so now I'm back for vacation.”

The man didn't respond. He stamped the passport, pushed it toward Gaetano, and reached for the next person's.

Gaetano pressed on, past the crowds at the baggage carousels and then approached customs. With his American passport in his hands and his carry-on, the agents waved him
by. He walked out through a pair of double doors that were propped open. An attentive crowd of people stood behind a flimsy metal movable railing. They were all eagerly trying to see family and friends through the open doors. No one expressed any interest in Gaetano.

Unsure about what to do, Gaetano kept going. Initially, he had to move laterally to get beyond the railing before merging with the boisterous crowd. After walking a short distance, he stopped and scanned the terminal, hoping to make eye contact with someone. No one paid him the slightest heed. He scratched his head, wondering what to do. For lack of a better plan, he made his way to the car-rental area and waited in line.

Fifteen minutes later, he had keys to another Cherokee, although this time it was supposed to be green. He wandered back to the international arrivals area and was about to try to call Lou when someone tapped him on the shoulder.

By reflex, Gaetano spun around, ready to do battle. He found himself staring into the dark eyes of the blackest, baldest man he had ever seen. There were enough gold chains around his neck to make bending over a resistance exercise, and there was enough light reflecting off his scalp to make Gaetano squint. The man responded to Gaetano's overreaction by stepping back and holding up both hands as if to parry a blow. One of the hands held a wrinkled brown paper bag.

“Easy, man!” the individual said. He spoke with the same colorful, Bahamian accent Gaetano remembered from his first visit. “I don't mean no harm.”

Gaetano was embarrassed about his aggressiveness and tried to apologize.

“No problem, man.” The voice had a definite lilt. “Are you Gaetano Baresse from Boston?”

“Speaking!” Gaetano said, with a smile of relief. For a second, he felt like hugging the stranger, as if he were a lost relative. “You have something for me?”

“If you're Gaetano Baresse, I do. The name is Robert. Let me show you what I have.” With that, the man unrolled the top of his paper bag and reached in with the intention of lifting out the contents.

“Hey, don't whip that thing out here!” Gaetano forcibly whispered. He was horrified. “Are you crazy?” Gaetano's eyes
made a nervous sweep around the terminal. There were several armed but bored policemen in the immediate area. Thankfully, they weren't paying any attention.

“You want to see it, don't you?” the man asked.

“Yeah, but not here in the middle of everything. Did you come in a car?”

“Sure, I came in a car.”

“Let's go.”

With a shrug, the man led the way out of the terminal. A few minutes later, they climbed into a pastel, vintage Cadillac with huge tail fins. The man switched on the overhead light and handed Gaetano the bag. Gaetano was expecting some sort of Saturday night special, but what he pulled out surprised him considerably. It was a nine-millimeter SW99 equipped with a LaserMax and a Bowers CAC9 suppressor.

“Okay?” Robert asked. “You happy?”

“More than happy,” Gaetano said. He admired the unmarred, black melonite finish, which suggested the gun was brand-new. It was an imposing weapon. Although it had only a four-inch barrel, the attached silencer made it more like ten inches.

After making sure no one was in the immediate area, Gaetano aimed the handgun out the windshield at a nearby car and briefly activated the laser. Fifty feet away, he saw the red dot flash on a car's back bumper. He was thrilled with the weapon until he noticed the magazine was missing in the butt.

“Where's the magazine?” Gaetano questioned. Without a magazine and ammunition, the gun was worthless.

Robert smiled in the car's semidarkness. Against his burnished ebony skin, his teeth were truly pearly whites. He patted his left pants pocket. “I got it safely right here, man, all loaded up and ready to go. There's even an extra one for good measure.”

“Good,” Gaetano said. He stuck out his hand. He was relieved.

“Not so fast,” Robert said. “It seems to me this is worth something to me personally. I mean, I did come all the way out here instead of sitting home with a cold one. You catch my drift?”

For a moment, Gaetano just stared into the man's eyes,
which in the darkness looked surprisingly like two bulletholes in a dirty white blanket. He knew it was a shakedown of sorts, and probably the man's idea. Gaetano's first thought was to grab the guy's head and bounce it off the steering wheel to let him know exactly with whom he was dealing, but clearer thoughts prevailed. The guy could have another gun, which could make things dicey and was certainly not the way this current trip should start. More important, Gaetano had no idea of this guy's relation to the Miami Colombians who Lou had contacted to set everything up. The last thing Gaetano needed or wanted while he was in Nassau on business was to have a group of guys after his own ass, especially the Colombians.

Gaetano cleared his throat. He was carrying a significant amount of cash, since on such a foray, everything he did was for cash. “Robert, I suppose you deserve a small token of appreciation. What do you have in mind?”

“A c-note would be nice,” Robert said.

Without another word, Gaetano leaned forward to get his free hand into his right pants pocket. While he did so, he didn't take his eyes off Robert. He peeled off a bill from a roll, pulled it out, and handed it over. Robert then produced the magazines. Gaetano slipped one into the butt of the handgun. It clicked home. Discarding a fleeting fantasy of trying out the gun on Robert, Gaetano stepped from the car. He put the second magazine into the side pocket of his jacket.

“Hey, man!” Robert called. “You need a ride into town?”

Gaetano leaned back inside the vehicle. “Thanks, but I have my own wheels.” Standing back up, he slipped the gun into his left pants pocket, which had a customized, hemmed opening at the bottom to accommodate the automatic's silencer. Having the hole was a trick he'd learned from a mentor when he'd first started working for the New York family. The permanent hole's only drawback was having to learn never to put anything else in the pocket, like coins or keys, which would tumble down his pant leg. As Gaetano walked toward the rent-a-car's lot, he could feel the cold steel of the silencer moving against his bare thigh. For him, it was like a caress.

Twenty minutes later, Gaetano directed his rented Cherokee into the Ocean Club's hotel parking lot. The drive had
given him time to calm down after Robert's mini-extortion episode. The crunching sound of the tires on the gravel was particularly loud with all the vehicle's windows down. Enjoying the summerlike, evening air, Gaetano had opted to leave the air-conditioning off. Once in the lot, he took a full loop around. He wanted a spot that was not only close to the hotel but also afforded a direct shot out to the driveway. After whacking the professor, he wanted to be able to leave with dispatch.

Before getting out of the car, Gaetano flicked on the interior light and checked himself in the rearview mirror. He wanted to be sure he was presentable in the posh hotel. He smoothed his rather bushy eyebrows and adjusted the lapels of his jacket. When he thought he looked the best he could, he got out of the car. The car keys went into his right pants pocket, and he patted them through the fabric for good measure. The last thing he wanted when he was leaving was to have to search for the keys. Thus prepared, he started off.

Following the same approach he'd used on his first visit to the hotel, Gaetano headed for the building that housed suite 108. It was eight-thirty at night, so he expected the professor and his girlfriend to be at dinner, but he still wanted to check the room first. He walked at a leisurely pace and passed several smartly dressed guests going in the opposite direction.

At the appropriate location, Gaetano cut between two buildings to reach the lawn on the ocean side. He continued, almost to the tangle of sea grapes that covered the steep slope down to the beach. There, he turned to stroll parallel to the front of the appropriate building. He was close enough to the water to hear the gentle lapping of the waves on the beach to his right. The weather was glorious, with fast scudding clouds racing across a canopy of stars partially obscured by a bright gibbous moon. Soft ocean breezes rustled the palm trees. It was not hard for Gaetano to understand why people liked the Ocean Club.