Extreme Measures (40 page)

“Hey, thirty-five bucks is too much,” he heard Rocky say. “Here, I’ll keep ten and you keep the rest. You sure you’re okay? Maybe you should go to the hospital.… Well, suit yourself. Maybe you’ll feel better after a little sleep.… You sure you haven’t been in these parts before? I could swear I seen you.…
Well, no matter. If I seen you before, I’ll, figure out where.… People make fun of me sometimes, but they don’t know that ol’ Rocky DiNucci has the memory of an elephant. If I seen you before I’ll figure out where. Yessir, Bob, ol’ Rocky the elephant’ll figure out where.”

T
he odometer on Felix Connolly’s lime-green Beetle had been frozen at 99,000 miles when he bought the car in 1980, and at 99,000 it remained. Still, during their drive through the chaotic late afternoon traffic, Eric was impressed with the bug’s élan. He was also relieved that the attorney had returned his flask to his suit-coat pocket after a single draught, and had shown no inclination toward another toast. There was too much at stake at this point to have to question the man’s judgment.

If Connolly was concerned about being followed, he showed no sign of it, staying essentially in one lane and seldom, if ever, checking the rearview mirror. Nor did he offer Eric any explanation as to why they were headed into the Roxbury section of the city, directly away from Bernard Nelson’s Boylston Street office.

“Trust the bug,” was all he would say.

Before leaving his apartment, Eric had called Joe Silver at White Memorial. The E.R. director coolly suggested that it would be in everyone’s best interest
if Eric voluntarily removed himself from the staff until the whole matter of his arrest on drug charges was resolved.

Eric intimated, without giving any details, that there were some illegal and dangerous practices going on at White Memorial which he would be in a much better position to ferret out on the active staff. If Silver was part of Caduceus, he hoped that his tacit threat might provoke some telltale reaction or remark.

The E.R. director seemed not the least influenced by any of Eric’s concerns. He tersely gave him until the following afternoon to remove himself voluntarily or be summarily suspended.

After hanging up, Eric carefully wrapped Verdi’s body in newspaper and set it on the balcony, hoping that before long he would be in a position to do something more appropriate. Connolly had set 3:30 as the time they would leave. Over the few minutes remaining, Eric propped himself against the balcony railing. Gazing out across the rooftops, he took stock of himself in the light of Joe Silver’s demand for his suspension. He was apprehensive about his future and angry at Silver’s lack of confidence, but most of all, he ached for the shame his parents would be feeling.

Earlier in the day, during a lull at court, he had called them and tried to impress on them his innocence. Not unexpectedly, they took his difficulties quite personally and were unable to see far enough beyond their own bewilderment and humiliation to find the words that would have indicated they truly believed him. The very worst things he had ever done in his life were far too mild to prepare them for dealing with events like these. His being forced out of White Memorial would hurt them even more than his brother’s arrests had.

Silently, he renewed his vow to see things through—to find those who had decimated his world and Laura’s, and to absorb whatever punishment was necessary to bring them down. Afterward, assuming
he was still alive, he would pick up what pieces were left and make some sort of new life for himself—with Laura a part of it, he hoped.

“Gray Cougar and blue Volvo,” Felix Connolly said.

“What?”

“Don’t look back, but there are at least two cars working a tail on us. They’ve been at it since we left your apartment.”

“Reporters?”

“That depends on how lucky you’re feeling.”

“Not very,” Eric said.

“Then I don’t think they’re reporters. Tighten that seat belt and feel free to close your eyes any time you want.”

Connolly pulled out his flask and took a small gulp. Then, before Eric could comment, he shifted down a gear and floored the accelerator. The VW shot forward past two startled drivers, into a tight, skidding right-angle turn, and down a side street. Eric glanced behind just as the Cougar screeched around the corner, followed a second or two later by the Volvo.

The side street was typical of many in this most run-down part of the city, with trash and broken glass lining the gutters. Dilapidated red brick buildings were separated from the curb by three-foot sidewalks, and from one another by narrow alleyways. The pursuers, whoever they were, had made up considerable ground by the time the VW was halfway down the street. It was unlikely they would reach the next cross street without being overtaken. Then, suddenly, even that concern was meaningless. Ahead of them, hood up, a disabled old Chevy was parked at an angle that completely blocked the street.

“Shit,” Eric said, glancing back once again. “What do we do now?”

At that instant, Connolly slammed on the brakes and spun left into a cluttered alley that was so narrow,
Eric had not even noticed it. The VW cleared the buildings on either side by barely two inches.

“Bernard insists on calling this Nelson’s alley,” Connolly explained as they crept along, “even though I’m certain
I
told
him
about it. He and I bought this little chartreuse beastie just for days like this, so it doesn’t get driven much. Although actually it’s sort of a pleasant change from my Mercedes. That junker back there with its hood up belongs to a friend of ours who’s probably in some bar down the street right now. It weighs a goddam ton. If our pals can’t get past it—and they can’t—there’s no way they can reach the street we’re heading to.”

Eric turned just as two men entered the alley on foot and began sprinting after them, but he knew they were too late. After just a few yards they stopped, apparently realizing the same thing. Clearly enjoying the whole scenario, Felix Connolly eased the bug onto the roadway and accelerated back toward Boston.

“Any questions?” he asked.

“Only one,” Eric said. “Do you have anything left in that flask?”

Felix Connolly drove Eric to the Back Bay and pulled up in front of an old, elegant brownstone on the river side of Beacon.

“Your friend is in apartment Three-B,” he said. “If you need anything, here’s my card. That number’ll reach me day or night.” He leaned over and shook Eric’s hand. “You’re a class act, Doc,” he said. “You’ve handled yourself well through all this.”

“Thanks for saying that. You’re something of a piece of work yourself, Felix. Hang on to that flask.”

The name slot next to the bell for apartment 3B read simply:
RING ONCE AND WAIT
. Eric’s finger had barely left the doorbell when Laura spoke to him through the intercom and buzzed him in. She checked over the safety chain, and then pulled him
inside the apartment and held him tightly. He could feel the tension in her body and in her kiss.

“I’m okay,” he whispered, stroking her hair. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

He waited until some of the tightness in her muscles had lessened and her breathing had slowed, and then stepped back and surveyed the small apartment. The space was beautifully apportioned, with Scandinavian furniture and Oriental area rugs set on a polished hardwood floor. On a loft eight feet above, a double futon abutted a half-moon window overlooking the Charles.

“This place is beautiful,” he said. “Whose is it?”

“He didn’t say so outright, but I have to assume it’s Bernard’s—or maybe someone he knows very well. He dropped me off here a while ago, gave me a set of keys for each of us, and told me we should make ourselves at home here for as long as we need to.”

“Where is he now?”

“His wife drove up here with some clothes for him, and then took him to the airport. Assuming the plane left on time, he took off about an hour ago for Salt Lake City.”

“Business?”

“Our
business, Eric.”

“But Utah? With all that’s going on, shouldn’t he be—”

“Hey, slow down. I want to lay all this out for you in order. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Thanks to that lawyer, I am,” he said. “I’m really exhausted, that’s all. And I’m desperate as hell to get back at someone—anyone—for what we’ve been through. You know, I wasn’t even able to bury Verdi. I left his body on the balcony.”

She kissed him once again and then led him to the oak table in the dining alcove.

“You’ll get the chance,” she said. “For what it’s worth, Bernard and I believe that whoever killed Verdi broke into your place looking for what we have right
here.” She motioned to the pile of ledgers and papers on the table. “This is some stuff, Eric. Wait till you see it. A lot of it didn’t make sense to us, but we have a feeling it will to you. Are you up to looking at it now?”

“I’m exhausted, but I’m not dead,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

They began by scanning Donald Devine’s two ledgers, but quickly discarded the larger of them as being pure mortuary business. The other book was much more of an enigma. There were, in all, seventy entries, spanning more than two years. The first entry read:

“You have gasoline receipts that correspond to this P.F?” Eric asked.

Laura retrieved a small stack and placed them in front of him.

“There are some I can’t find, but fifty-nine of the seventy entries match a set of these,” she said. “They’re all round trips from Boston to somewhere around here.” She pointed to the circled area in the atlas.

“What in hell was he into?”

Laura turned his face to hers.

“Eric, don’t you see? The man had an intensive-care unit in his basement. Why would he have that if he only dealt with corpses? He was transporting bodies, all right, but I don’t think they were dead ones.”

“Let’s see if we can break one of these entries down,” he said.

When they had finished, they rewrote the item, filling in as much information as they could.

The initials heading each entry were different, but the abbreviations W. and C. were present in every item, except for the last four. Three of those four, including ET, were treated by C. and transferred by C. The fourth, coded L.L., was incomplete.

As they studied each item, other patterns began to emerge as well. Each case spanned four or five days, from the initial date through transfer to the Gates of Heaven two days later, and ending with transport, presumably to southeastern Utah, two or three days after that.

“This is incredible,” Eric muttered over and over. “This is absolutely incredible.”

“These people listed here weren’t dead, were they?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What could Devine have been up to?”

“I’m not sure
he
was up to anything—at least not on his own. He was a strange little duck, but unless he was an absolute Jekyll and Hyde, it’s hard to imagine him doing anything but taking orders from someone and getting paid.”

“I agree.” She walked across the room and back. “Eric,” she asked finally, “do you think Devine could have had anything to do with Caduceus?”

He pushed away from the table and looked up at her. Since their earner conversation, and her description of Devine’s macabre basement chamber, that notion had been drifting in and out of his thoughts as well.

“If all of these initials correspond to WMH patients,
I think you may have something,” he said. “With these dates, it shouldn’t be too hard to check out—especially if I can get into the record room, or at least tap into the record room computers. Wouldn’t that be something.” He pounded his fist into his hand. “Goddam but wouldn’t that just beat all.”