Retribution (29 page)

Valenzuela grunted, as if he could hear John dancing with the truth. "The media is going to be crawling all over this by tonight's evening news. I am withholding the box cutter as crucial evidence, just so you know that. As for the girl… I am trusting you on this, John-boy."

"I know you are." He hung up. He stared at the photocopies. He had not been asked to trust Charlie, but he did. She was innocent. But how was he going to convince her of the fact and protect her? Was it herself he would have to shield her from or someone out there, someone who had been watching her before, and had returned to watch her now?

How did she paint what she painted? What happened to her when Midnight fell and brought her such terrible visions?

He closed the folder abruptly, unable to look at the paintings any longer.

He shut his eyes.

In his mind's eye, John could not shut away the view of the body, the slices, the box cutter. He could not ignore the implication. Valenzuela would not.

He reached for the phone and dialed Charlie. After four rings, the cool, impersonal recording for her voice mail came on. He hung up without leaving a message.

* * *

Clarkson eased into his chair with a weary sigh, his hair still wet from the shower, dressed in his casual suit, his day finished, and the report he wanted sitting in its slipcover dead center in his desk even though it was three-thirty. A pleased smile curved his lips. He pulled it out, scanned it, then, frowning, picked up his phone and called down to radiology, asking for Stein.

Stein answered briskly.

"Jeff, this is Wade. Thanks for rushing that interp to me."

"No problem, but you owe me big-time on this one. I haven't thought of what yet, but I'm working on it. Maybe a Rolex."

"Get real."

Jeff Stein chuckled benevolently. Wade thought of his big, burly, charcoal-headed bulk squeezed into an office chair, sequestered away, reading X rays and MRIs and CAT scans for half his workday.

"You pretty sure about what you came up with?"

"Fairly sure. You'd have to open her up to be certain."

Clarkson read the report over. Under the circumstances, he felt a little unsure about his best course of action. He would doubt this was even Charlie's report, but the faint scarring of her previous operation was unmistakable. He looked at the patterns of the soft tissue, and then the movement of the dye as it traveled through, frame by frame, and then returned to Stein's report, unorthodox as it was.

"Wade?"

"Yeah, I'm still here, sorry. Sorry to keep you hanging on this one, Jeff. You're sure?"

"It's a relatively new phenomenon, but the increased sensitivity of the imaging seems to be bringing it out."

He nodded absently before realizing the other doctor could not see him. "All right then."

"If you want to see her, give her the news, it's my understanding she's still in the labs down here."

"Still? Can you guys get any more efficient down there?"

Stein laughed. "I know, I know, there's a lot of room for improvement down here, but it's not my department holding her up! Talk to phlebotomy."

"I will… next board meeting. If you can get hold of her, do that. My desk is cleared for the rest of the day."

"Will do. I'll put this one on your tab with the rest of the favors you owe me!"

"Do that." Wade chuckled. "Good luck collecting."

"Oh, I'll collect all right. Yup, a Rolex is looking better and better." Stein cackled in his ear and then hung up.

Wade picked up a highlighter and began to earmark portions of the report of particular interest to him, reading and interpreting for himself, and deciding how it was he wanted to handle Charlie Saunders. He called Elyse's number and got her voice mail.

"Roseburg… I need to talk to you about Charlie. I've got her MRI in front of me and there are some implications which might involve your area of expertise. Give me a call when you've got time to discuss the case with me." He caught himself with his eyebrows knitting as he hung up. He did not like voice mail. It always left him with a vague, unsatisfied feeling. He swung around, booted up his computer, and waited patiently for it to bring up his desktop, accessed his account and addressed her over the hospital e-mail system, knowing that her computer was always on and never far from Elyse's awareness. One way or another he should have her attention flagged.

He finished, signed off and returned to the paperwork in front of him. He underlined the key words: consistent with, read a few more lines, highlighted characterized by, and kept reading. When he finished for a third time, all he could do was rock back in his chair and stare at the wall and the painting it held, pondering what it was he intended to tell her, doctor to patient. What course he would advise her, and what he could possibly do to preserve that intense, creative flame which had already dwindled to a mere spark. He was a physician and a damn good surgeon, but there were limitations to what even he could heal.

* * *

He had put away the reports and was deep in his other paperwork when Rosa notified him that Charlotte and Mary Saunders were in the outer waiting room. He pushed down the intercom button. "Good, show them to the conference room. I'll be right there."

Charlie looked pale and her eyes were bloodshot as he came into the room, but she reached out and gave him a firm handshake as he settled himself, her case file in his left hand. Mary Saunders, wearing blue again, emphasizing her eyes, seemed to hover over her chair rather than sit in it.

"I'm pleased you came in, Charlie. I know it's an ordeal, and it seems to be a particularly slow one today."

Charlie smiled slightly. "I think I have read every magazine I ever wished or hoped to read today."

Mary shrugged. "It made sense to stay here, rather than run back and forth between here and Orange County."

"If I had been free myself this afternoon, I would have made some calls to speed things up. Actually, this worked out well. I was able to get some preliminary results."

Mary reached over and took her daughter's hand, and gripped it, as if she could transfuse sheer strength of will by doing so. "That's what we anticipated."

"I want you to understand that even with the tests in front of me, I can't be a hundred percent certain. Because of that, I am going to proceed with caution for the moment."

"Caution?"

"Yes. I know that last time we scheduled surgery as soon as possible, but this time is different. We have some time to play with, the discovery is fairly early, some of your problems are asymptomatic, and I want to consult with several oncologists as well as Dr. Katsume before we proceed any further."

"Two days ago you told us time was of the essence." The older woman's features settled into uncomfortable lines.

"And it still is, make no mistake about that." Clarkson smiled. "You are in my hands. I want the best treatment available for you."

"If you are talking about consulting with oncologists… does that mean you think it's cancerous? And that it's inoperable?"

He leaned forward and smiled even more comfortably. "It means that it's in your best interests for me to consult with other experts. The tumor does not have to be malignant to respond to some very effective methods of chemotherapy."

"Then I do have a tumor, and it might be inoperable."

"Charlie, I did not say that. I said, it's best for me to consult with doctors in other fields, and determine the proper, most promising and successful course of treatment for you."

Charlie had been meeting his eyes steadily. Now her gaze faltered and slid away, unable to meet his any longer. Her mother took a steadying breath and said, "What can we do in the meantime?"

"I would like to be kept apprised of any further problems, worries about your daughter's health. Keep in close touch with me. Ask me questions if you have any doubts or anything that needs to be addressed. I'll be setting up appointments with my colleagues, but it's near the end of the week and I don't imagine I'll be able to talk with anyone before early next week." He talked to Mary Saunders, but he kept his eyes leveled on Charlie. Quiet, unsure, plain but appealing, talented and afflicted Charlie. "If you need to talk to me, I'll be here."

"When will you know if you need to cut again?" Charlie spoke very softly. Her mother frowned slightly, as if she could not quite hear what was said.

"Soon," he answered. "Very, very soon. But that may not be the answer this time."

Charlie's gaze flickered, looked up, caught his momentarily.

There, there was that spark. The one he valued, the one he'd seen in the paintings, the one he needed to keep lit.

"Trust me," he said.

"I am trying to," Charlie told him faintly.

A glittering palace. Soft music and the faint blue tinge of cigarette smoke. The electrifying sound of the machines as they signaled jackpots with racing lights and the jangling clink of the coins as they tumbled out, their metallic noise magnified by the bins they clattered into. The soft step of high-heeled women in satin-and-Lycra costumes, and silken stockings, and legs that seemed to go on forever, as they strode across the carpets, calling softly for drink orders with lips painted red, faces framed by tumbling hair. Time stood still, ticked only by the sound of the roulette wheel as it turned, the lit and unlit squares on a keno board, or the croupiers as they racked in chips and called for bets, winners and losers alike.

He was in Vegas… not as magnificent as Monte Carlo, with its full tables of baccarat players as elegant in their dress as in any moviemaker's imagination… but it did not matter. Vegas might be an inexpensive girl who could look like a queen and often did, her perfume not as subtle, her voice and vowels not as cultured or continental, but her allure, her passion, her ability to arouse him and capture him just as potent. Atlantic City, her sister, called to him as well, throaty, earthier than the voice of the Garibaldis, and heard just as avidly.

He walked the aisles of tables and dealers and slots, rolling two chips between the fingers of his hand as was his habit, looking for the quiet signs of attraction and luck, for he felt it welling up inside him, the power, the canny ability to know a winner. The rush… it came thrumming up through the blood, rolling, bubbling, unstoppable, likened to the unstoppable force of nature when an oil well is first drilled and black gold struck, booming out of the hidden, the below, launching upward, upward until it exploded, carrying everything with it. Or being born on flood tide, white-water ejaculation, winning, seizing the moment, risking all, and snatching triumph out of thin air. A tubular ocean wave, a perfect curl upon which he surfed endlessly, his body a hard, throbbing bullet hurtling forever.

There were those moments, of course, when the rush and fortune abandoned him. Those were the times when his suit became rancid and sweat soaked in the armpits with desperation as he tried to woo it back, tried to formulate the equation, to reduce the odds, to calculate the pay out, to squint his eyes into the dark wells of despair and find an answer. When ill fortune coated him like a sour crust. When his every attempt lay limp and flaccid, and nothing availed him.

But those times rested where he did not have to dredge them up. They shadowed him now, but he did not care… the feeling of omnipotence brought him erect, stood him tall, hardened him, and he swept his gaze across the casino, knowing it was his to conquer, and that luck would lie with him that night. It would be she who courted him, attracted by the way he walked, the command in his eyes and voice, the seduction of his hands. She would be enslaved by him, and kneel for him, and do whatever he wanted of her. He could feel it in every fiber of his being—

"Feel this, Valdor?"

Something cold and hard lay across his throat. It was not edged, but it bore into his cartilage and thorax, making it hard to breathe, choking, pressing, and he woke thrashing from his dreams.

Dark stayed across his eyes. The towel or whatever lay across his face let only the edges of light seep around it. He panicked, tried to raise a hand, could not, his limb jerked back into place, and bonds chafed across his wrist. The cold object rolled on his throat. He tried to swallow.

"You sleep late, Fred."

"What are you doing here?"

"Don't panic, Freddie. This looks like a nice little motel. Be a shame to soil their mattress."

"I have days yet… he agreed to time."

The metallic object against his throat, thin, rolling up and down over his Adam's apple, pressing, hurting. Then it moved away, and a sharp prick stabbed at the base of his throat. "Know what this is, Freddie?"

Oh, he knew all right. Pewter cold, long, thin, and deadly, end glittering with sharpness.

"Ice… ice pick," he got out. His nose started to swell. He was going to cry, and could feel his sinuses tingle in spite of himself, his eyes brim.

"Jackpot," the unseen man said. And laughed.

Despite himself, Valdor felt his bladder go, warm liquid trickling out, hot, vinegarlike smell.

Valdor started to plead for his life. "He told me… he agreed… I told him to just keep the five thousand. I'll have the money!"

"Relax, Freddie."

The mattress jerked and moved as the assailant stood.

"This is just a reminder. This is just to let you know that we know where you are. You got your time, but when your time runs out, don't even try to run."

The bond on his right hand loosened.

"Count to fifty, Freddie, then you can take your hand out, and get up, and look if you wanna." The other snickered. "And order some towels. Take a shower. You peed yourself. You stink."

Heavy steps across the floor. A door opened and slammed shut.

Valdor lay very still, until his damp legs grew cold, and his heart stopped drumming, and then and only then, did he begin to count. When he was finished, he pulled his right hand free, grabbed the towel from his face. He sat up and screamed and threw his shoes at the door, cursing Charlie until his throat went raw and he could hardly breathe and someone next door pounded relentlessly on the wall, yelling at him to shut up. Valdor balled the towel between his hands, pressed it to his face, and began to sob in anger.