The RX Factor (12 page)

"I appreciate this, Ryan. You are welcome to stay as long as you want." She looked up from her plate. "I love having you around, but hate the thought of having you risk your neck for me."

"I know, but we already had that conversation. Case closed."

The waiter appeared with a take-out container. Jordan placed the uneaten half of the deep-dish pizza into the box and turned to Ryan, her eyes dull. "I'm not feeling too well. Would you mind taking this pizza while I use the ladies' room? We can eat it at home tonight."

Ryan stood, concerned. "Okay. I'll have the valet get the car. I'll meet you outside."

Stepping into the bitter cold outside the restaurant, Ryan presented the ticket to a young man with dark skin and a maroon smock just as a tall young white man with long hair pulled back in a ponytail and wearing a similar smock snapped it away from him. "I'll get it."

When the valet wheeled up with the jet-black BMW X5, Ryan smiled. The car was an exact match for Jordan: sleek, sexy, and sassy.

The pony-tailed kid hopped out of the car and hurried away to the next customer before Ryan could give him his tip. Standing by the SUV with the driver's side door ajar, Ryan spotted Jordan strolling toward him down the covered entryway. He admired her fabulous figure as she approached. Mesmerized, Ryan tossed the pizza box over to the passenger seat.

The explosion stopped Jordan mid-stride, the flash of light searing her retinas. When reality hit her, she moaned, "Oh my god!" Louder and in a panic, she wailed, "Ryan! Where are you?"

A shower of flaming debris from the BMW rained down around her. Her eyes darted back and forth as she searched for Ryan through the smoke. Then she spotted what looked like a twisted bundle of rags huddled on the pavement about ten feet from the mangled car.

She threw both hands to her mouth, the screams of a nearby woman reverberating in her head. Everything was moving at a tortured, dragging pace.

She turned, almost as if in a trance, to discover the source of the shrieking: the sounds were her own. She screamed Ryan's name, unable to move, her eyes riveted to the still form on the street.

Shaking her head as she slowly emerged from
the haze of shock, Jordan finally gathered her courage and dashed over to peer down into Ryan's blackened face. A brave bystander from the other side of the street had grabbed him by the arms and dragged him away from the burning debris. She took a deep, ragged breath and placed her finger against his neck, searching for a pulse. A soft sigh escaped her lips as she released her finger. She had detected a weak flutter—a hopeful, yet frightening indication of Ryan's precarious condition.

When the paramedics arrived, she explained that she was a doctor and close friend of the victim, and they let her ride along to the hospital. She averted her eyes as the paramedics ripped his clothes off, revealing more charred skin. As a doctor, her first impulse was to jump right into the fray and administer first aid, but she knew they would not allow it. In fact, the uncontrollable trembling of her entire body rendered her useless to assist.

At the hospital, Ryan was rushed into the emergency room. Jordan was ordered to wait outside. Within fifteen minutes, two uniformed Chicago cops came in searching for the woman whom they had seen ride away with the ambulance. Though both looked to be in their early forties, the officers were a study in contrasts. One was short, nearly bald, and sported a pencil-thin mustache. The other was tall and thin with unkempt hair and great bushy eyebrows that hovered over his pale eyes like storefront awnings.

Jordan had little to offer them, as she knew no more about the explosion than any of the other bystanders. Still, they plowed dutifully onward with their mundane questions that, given Ryan's condition, increased her ire with every passing word.

"What's your relationship with the victim?" the short one asked.

She glared at her inquisitor. "Friend," she said.

"Whose car was it?"

"Mine," she said through tight teeth.

"Why did the car explode? Was it a bomb?"

"Look," she snapped, "what's the use of all these questions? My concern right now is with his status. I don't want to focus on anything else, especially answering a bunch of nonsense."

The tall cop did not take well to her outburst. "Look, lady. This is serious business and our ques tions are anything but nonsense. These days a bomb goes off and people want to know if terrorists are involved. Trust me, you'd rather deal with us than the FBI on this one. If you evade our questions, you're gonna wind up a prime suspect."

"I'm not evading anything. But you're asking me things I don't know. I already told you that I was walking out of the restaurant when I saw my car explode. That is
all I know."
She emphasized the last three words as though the cops were schoolchildren, all the while staring at the ER door.

"You know they're not gonna let you go in there," the taller officer said. "When they're ready, they'll come out and tell you what's going on. In the meantime, why don't you just cooperate and answer our questions, dumb as they may sound."

Jordan sighed and bowed her head. "Okay," she said, her voice lowered, "ask away."

The shorter cop licked his thumb and turned a page in his notebook. "Okay now, any idea who might want to see your friend Mr. Matthews hurt?"

"It's Dr. Ryan Matthews, and the answer is no—at least not to my knowledge."

"Where does he live?"

"Exuma."

"Where's that? Someplace up north?"

"No. It's an island in the Bahamas."

The cop gave a nod and wrote it down. "So, who do you think might have reason to do something like this?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake." She ran a hand through her hair in frustration. "This isn't the first time I've been through this sort of thing."

The tall cop raised his impressive brows.

"I'm not sure, but I think they were after me, not him."

"Who are 'they'?"

Exasperated, Jordan spit out, "The drug lords, okay? The goddamned drug lords."

The cop looked confused. "So there's some kind of gang connection?"

Jordan was gritting her teeth and about to answer when Dr. Sidkey appeared. She dashed over to him.

"Is he okay?" she asked.

The doctor took her by the shoulders. "Relax. He's going to be all right. He's got a concussion and some second-degree burns to the arms and chest, but he's conscious and alert."

She felt her knees weaken and realized that the doctor was supporting her as she leaned against him.

Leading her to a nearby chair, the doctor made certain that she was stable before continuing. "He was lucky. Apparently, he was on the opposite side of the car from the explosion, and partially protected by the door"

"How long is he going to have to stay here?"

"Oh, I'd say about a week. Burns can be tricky. There's always the possibility of infection.

We're hopeful that they will heal up without the need for skin grafts."

After gathering enough detail to satisfy her medical background, she left Dr. Sidkey and found herself confronted by the tedious presence of the two police officers, who were by no means done questioning her. "Look," said the taller of the Mutt and Jeff duo, "you left us with a real provocative statement. You said the 'drug lords' did it. Is that some new gang?"

Jordan sighed and asked to sit down. The cops flanked her on the bench and she explained the whole story for them from Exuma up until the present. The shorter one wrote every detail in his notebook, asking once for the spelling of
pharmaceutical.
At the end of the interview, all they told her was that they would turn the information over to the Detective Bureau. If they knew anything more than that, they weren't about to share it. They said they would be in touch and then departed, leaving her alone on the hard bench in the fluorescent-lit hallway.

Jordan steeped for a moment in the realization that this was all really happening as tears welled in her eyes. After a few moments, she got up and went to the bathroom to freshen her makeup and attempted to pull herself back together.

When she came back out, she found Jim Crawford waiting for her in the corridor. She updated him on Ryan's condition before proceeding to explain everything that had happened. Crawford told her that he would follow up with the police to see if they had come up with any suspects. He cautioned her that, at present, this crime was not in the FBI's jurisdiction. That would only happen if the police suspected out-of-state or terrorist connections. Since the police weren't too fond of calling in the Feds, he would have to dig around on his own time.

Seeing her concern, Crawford gripped her arm. "Try not to worry. From what you tell me, ol' Ryan is gonna be fine. Meantime, I'll see what I can find out and arrange for your protection. Whatever you do, don't leave the hospital until I've made those arrangements."

Jordan awoke to the sound of laughing nurses down the hallway. She was huddled under her coat on a long wooden bench. Some kind soul had dropped a hospital blanket over her. She looked around, blinking under the fluorescent light. White-clad staff began to appear in the corridor as the day shift clocked in. In the distance, the clatter of trays and utensils suggested breakfast was being prepared. Wiping the sleep from her eyes and stretching out the painful kinks caused by her hard bed, Jordan got herself ready to tackle the day.

Now that the panic was over, she remembered why she hated hospitals. For one, she loathed the antiseptic smell that always had a way of clinging to you, even after you left. What really bothered her, though, was the inevitable insensitivity that accompanies the impossible task of taking care of such a large number of ailing people. She knew it was an odd opinion for a doctor to hold, but she hated the idea of doctors and nurses kidding with each other, gossiping, and chatting about their weekend plans or last night's date, when in every room, people were suffering. Some were near death, and none of them were laughing.

She went into the ladies' room, washed her face, and reapplied some lipstick. Taking the elevator to the cafeteria on the third floor, she had a breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast.

As Jordan was finishing her second cup of the watery hospital brew, Dr. Sidkey entered the cafeteria. Sure enough, he was chatting lightly with a nurse, and both were laughing. He spotted her and walked over.

"Hi, there," he said. "Your friend is awake, but he's in a fair amount of pain. The good news is that he's out of ICU and in a private room on the fifth floor. He was just asking for you. That's a good sign. When they're hurting that bad they don't usually ask for anybody."

"Thanks for the update. Is there anything else I should know?"

"We're going to run an MRI on him this afternoon. He fought us on it. Says he wants to get out now, but it's way too early. He's survived a major explosion, and while there aren't any signs of internal injuries, we need the MRI to be sure."

She agreed and headed to Ryan's new room.

Much of his body was swathed in bandages, and a couple of smaller dressings covered the left side of his face. He turned from the window when he realized someone was there. She held his hand in hers. "I was so worried. How do you feel?"

"They tell me I'm still as handsome as ever."

Jordan grinned. "Yes, they're right. I'm glad you're not going to need skin grafts. That can be a long and painful procedure."

"Yeah," he said, "and they don't always work. I guess I'm lucky." Ryan reached for some ice chips in a glass by his bed, but she was one step ahead of him. She held the chips to his lips until they dissolved. "I don't know if it's the burns or these damn hospital rooms, but all I can feel is thirst."

"Hospital rooms are like that," she replied.

Something in his eyes told her that he was troubled and he hesitated to speak. She gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "What's on your mind? Something's bothering you."

"Well, yeah. It is." He didn't withdraw his hand, which she saw as a good sign. But as soon as he started talking, her face dropped. "Jordan, here's the deal. I'm here in Chicago with you because I want to help, but I don't like being a pawn. Something's going on and you're not telling me everything."

Her eyes shifted away from his. "You think I'm holding back on you?"

His eyes were exploring hers when she returned his gaze. "Yeah, I think you are."

She looked away again. A few awkward moments passed until at last she turned to him. "You're right. And I'm not being fair. I'm going to tell you everything."

Senator Edward McNally put the flask of bourbon
back in his desk drawer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes lingered on the drawer. He liked his flask. It was a nostalgic throwback to a different era, when appearance and protocol hadn't been as important. He hadn't been born until the mid-sixties, of course, but he felt a connection to the old days. In his quieter moments, he sometimes longed for simpler times, even if he knew deep down that those times had never truly existed.

Alas, in the current political climate, image was everything—a fact he rarely needed to bring to the attention of his staff, most of whom were even younger and hipper than him. Like them, Senator McNally, though wistful where the past was concerned, perfectly understood the present and what it took to win political capital. He understood politics as equal parts stagecraft and message branding.

He heard a staccato clack of hard-soled shoes on the marble floor approaching his door. It was a Saturday, and quiet—just the way he wanted it. There would be nobody in the office. No secretary, no aides. He had given them all the day off.

He got up when he heard the hallway door open and greeted a stocky, bearded man at the door to his private office. Carl Wiley, like Senator McNally, was in his mid-forties, but the long, stressful hours had already weathered him. He looked a tad soft around the middle and tired around the eyes.

The senator felt a touch of sympathy for his colleague, as well as a bit of relief that politics hadn't had the same effect on him. "Carl, come on in. I've been waiting."