The Gauntlet Assassin (15 page)

As he opened Morales’ list of replacements, his iCom beeped. He didn’t recognize the number, but felt an urgent impulse to answer. He touched the tiny receiver in his ear. “Hello.”

“Paul Madsen?”

“Yes.”

“This is George Howard Hospital. We found your number in Isabel Turner’s iCom. She’s had a heart attack, and we’re trying to contact her family.”

No!
Cold fingers of dread wrapped around Paul’s heart and squeezed. For a moment he couldn’t speak.

“Are you there?”

“Yes. What is her condition? Is she conscious?”

“Off and on, but she’s critical and we think you should come now.”

“I’m on my way.”

Chapter 17

Paul hurried down the hall to the critical care unit. He pushed the access button and waited for a nurse in pink scrubs to open the double metal doors and admit him.

“I’m here to see Isabel Turner.”

“I’m Nina,” said the coffee-skinned woman with tiny doll-like features. “Are you Paul Madsen?”

“Yes. How is she?”

“There’s been no change. But your mother is conscious at the moment.” Paul didn’t correct her. As far as he was concerned, Isabel was his mother, even though he’d never called her that. He was grateful she was old enough to have a med card, but she was enrolled in the new Medicare and her voucher only afforded a skimpy coinsurance policy.

They moved past several rooms, all with elderly patients who looked near death. Paul’s fear deepened. “Will she recover?”

“We don’t know.”

The nurse stepped through the doorway to room 302 and said, “Isabel, your son is here.”

Paul moved to the bed and reached for Isabel’s hand. Her eyes were closed and it scared him. The hospital gown, the tube in her nose, the slack grayish skin—for the first time he saw his foster mother as an old woman. “I came as quickly as I could.”

“Paul.” The word was barely a whisper.

He fought back tears as he struggled for what to say. He wanted to be positive, but not ridiculous. “I love you. I need you in my life. Stay strong.”

She opened her eyes. “I don’t feel strong.”

“You’ll get better.” Paul pulled up a chair. “Tell me what happened.”

“I was walking home from the senior center, then I woke up here.” She seemed to draw strength from his presence, and her voice became clearer.

“Have you been taking your meds?” Isabel was on three maintenance prescriptions for metabolic disease, but now that dementia had started to set in, she sometimes forgot to take them.

“I think so.” She winced.

“Are you in pain?” Paul turned, but the nurse had gone.

Isabel shook her head, her gray hair fanned out on the white pillow. “You know what my only regret is?”

He knew what was coming.

“I wanted to see you get married and have a family.”

“I’m still trying.”

Her eyes opened wider. “Something has changed. I can tell by your expression.”

“I’m seeing someone at work. I hope it could get serious.” He and Camille weren’t exactly dating yet, but he wanted to give Isabel some good news.

“Why didn’t you tell me when we had dinner last week?”

“I wanted to be sure.”

“What’s her name?”

“Camille. She’s a little younger than me, but she’s smart and beautiful.”

“You’re happy?”

“Yes, I think so.” Or he had been until an hour ago. “I’m worried about you, though.”

“I’ll be fine.” Isabel closed her eyes and Paul sat and watched her breathe. After a few minutes, he realized she was sleeping and he went to find the nurse. Nina was at a central station farther down the hall.

“I’d like to see my mother’s doctor.”

“I’ll page her.”

Paul waited in Isabel’s room, reading the evening news on his Dock and glancing over at the hospital bed every few minutes. His foster mother slept with labored breathing, but the sight of the white blanket gently rising on her chest kept him calm.

After twenty minutes, the doctor slipped into the room. Her hair was so short, at first he thought she was man, then he noticed her breasts and delicate features.

“I’m Jalene Walsh, on the cardiovascular service.”

“Paul Madsen. Isabel’s foster son.”

“You’re not biologically or legally related to the patient?” The doctor scowled, looking a little less delicate.

Paul didn’t like the sound of her question. “Technically, no. Why?”

“We may have to make some decisions. Does she have any other family?”

Paul bristled at the implication. “I’m her family. Her husband and daughter died in a car accident many years ago. She has a sister, but she’s in a nursing home in Florida with Alzheimer’s.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you, but we’re in a complex situation here.”

“What you do mean?”

“Isabel has a blocked artery and needs bypass surgery to survive. But because of her metabolic disease, her health insurance won’t pay for it.” The doctor paused, giving Paul a chance to respond, but there was no point. This was the new reality for the elderly. The doctor continued. “If we treat her aggressively, she’ll likely hit her yearly expenditure maximum after about three days. Beyond that, she’ll leave you with a substantial debt. If we give her a minimum of care, her coverage will last longer but she might not.”

Anguish threatened to overwhelm him. Isabel was going to die. The only person in the world who had ever genuinely cared about him would soon be gone, leaving him once again alone in the world. Somehow they expected him to make a rational decision about how many days she had left, versus how much money to spend.

He shook his head. “I think you should do everything you can for her.”

The doctor sighed. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

Isabel died four days later, despite the blood thinners and oxygen therapy. She’d lapsed into unconsciousness the second day, so Paul had gone back to work and tried to distract himself with projects. He’d visited the hospital every evening, but Isabel hadn’t known he was there. When he’d showed up this evening, she was gone.

Paul stood by the bed and said goodbye, his heart pulsing with mixed emotions. He felt abandoned, lonely, and angry. Who would he turn to now to share the little things? He still had Lilly, but she couldn’t verbally remind him that his life had value. Camille, even if they got together, would never love him unconditionally the way Isabel had. Paul let himself cry for a moment.

Footsteps interrupted his grief. “Mr. Madsen?”

“Yes?” He turned, irritated.

“I’m Liz Jung. I work in the business office. I’d like to make an appointment for us to talk about your mother’s hospital bill.”

Her body was still warm.
Something inside him snapped. “Get away from me!”

She left the room as quickly as she came in.

The hospital bill weighed on Paul’s mind as he drove home. With a coinsurance policy, Isabel had to pay thirty percent of everything. Paul guessed she owed at least twenty thousand for her hospital stay. He knew he wasn’t legally obligated to pay the bill since Isabel had never adopted him, but she was his mother and she would have hated to leave a debt. He would find a way.

He took the next day off and drove to Isabel’s apartment in the Silver Spring area and used the key she’d given him to get in. He missed the house he’d grown up in, but Isabel had sold it years earlier to pay for hip surgery when she was fifty-eight. Their little home had been cozy, with warm colors and soft rugs and pillows. Walking into Isabel’s cheerful living room as an abused and abandoned child and seeing her smile had been the first ray of hope in his life. Paul wished he’d visited her more often in the last year. One Sunday dinner a month had not been enough.

After sitting for an hour looking at photos, Paul forced himself to get moving. He spent the afternoon organizing a small memorial service for Isabel, even though few would attend. He informed her neighbors, her church pastor, and a friend from Isabel’s time as a state-sponsored foster parent. He notified her sister’s caregivers too, then wondered if Isabel had any money in savings and what would happen to it. Would the hospital get it all? Paul had never counted on an inheritance, so it didn’t matter that much to him.

He ordered pizza to be delivered, not caring if he blew his diet for one day, then searched for a will. Why had they never talked about what would happen when she died? Because Isabel had only been sixty-nine. He’d always thought they’d have more time.

Chapter 18

Tues., May 9, 6:46 p.m.

A deputy clerk handed Lara a plastic bag with her possessions. “Have a nice evening.”

Lara almost laughed out loud. “Will do.” She wanted to sprint for the door, but exhaustion kept her to a jog. The monitor bracelet rubbed lightly on her ankle. She hated the thought of wearing it during the Battle fights, or worse yet, in the Marathon, if she made it that far.

Outside, the evening sun had never seemed so bright and welcoming. Near the entrance, Thaddeus Morton stood under a shade tree, furtively smoking a cigarette and looking overheated and irritated. Traffic buzzed behind him.

“Thanks for posting bail.” Lara had a lot more she wanted to say, but the sidewalk in front of the massive correctional facility was not the place.

“I didn’t really have a choice.” He pivoted and headed toward a nearby triangular parking lot. Lara followed him to a black Mercedes and climbed in. The interior was stifling hot, but Morton cranked the air conditioning.

“Can we stop at the first grocery store we come to? I need to buy something immediately.” Her body was starving and eating its own muscle—the last thing she needed during the competition.

“Sure. Are you okay? The D.C. police are known to be abusive.”

Lara let out a small sarcastic noise. “They’re lazy too.” She turned in the seat to face him. “What the hell is going on?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” He wouldn’t look at her.

“Bullshit. The shooter at your house in Eugene was not your jilted boyfriend. The bastard is here in D.C. now, and he came to my room last night to kill me and stunned my roommate instead. Now Kirsten’s dead and I’m charged with her murder. Who the hell is he? And why did he try to kill you?”

Morton was silent as he made a left and headed for the expressway. Lara noticed the city didn’t have a tall skyline like other metropolitan areas, and strips of trees were everywhere. It was also completely flat. “Don’t forget I used to be a detective. If you tell me what’s going on, maybe I can help figure this out.”

After a long silence, the commissioner shook his head. “I honestly don’t know who he is. I’m as puzzled as you are.”

“Why did you lie and say he was your boyfriend?”

“If I had reported it, I would have been scrutinized and questioned in Eugene. I needed to get back to the capital without jeopardizing my job. Government employees are held to a different standard.”

“Why the bullshit about your lover?”

“Because Richard had just been there and left after a fight. The shooter showed up moments later. So it was mostly true and therefore plausible.”

Lara wasn’t buying it. “What are you keeping from me?”

“Nothing. I’d never seen the guy before in my life.”

“You’re saying a complete stranger came to your house and shot you?”

“This is why I didn’t tell you. It sounds crazy.” Morton paused. “He might be the boyfriend of a woman I slept with.”

“But you don’t know his name?”

“No.”

“How did he get in?”

“He walked in. My boyfriend had just left in a huff and the door was unlocked.”

“Could he be Richard’s new lover? Maybe he followed Richard to your house and tried to kill you in a jealous rage.”

“I don’t think so.”

“We have to figure out who he is before he kills us both.”

“How do we do that?”

“I saw him at the orientation. Blond, midsized guy leaning against the back wall. You have to let me search the footage and isolate his image. Then I’ll access CODIS and see if he has a record.”

“How do you have that kind of clearance?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Morton drove like a man with an emergency and Lara started to feel unnerved. “Are you taking me back to the hotel?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I’m not sure it’s safe.”

“We’ll move you to a different room that not even the desk clerks will know about.”

Lara wasn’t reassured and hoped her gun was still retrievable. “I’m still in the contest?”

“Of course. The homicide has been good for ratings and the voters want you back.”

“They do?”

“Minda aired the clip of Kirsten coming after you, and you’ve gained a following.” The commissioner glanced at her and shrugged. “Of course, some of the viewers might want you back so they can punish you.”

The thought made Lara feel weak. “I thought we were stopping at a store.”

“I forgot.”

“I need something in my stomach now.”

“We’ll be at the hotel in fifteen minutes. You can eat at the restaurant.”

“No, I can’t. Just find a grocery store.”

He gave her an odd look and headed for the nearest exit. “Do you have special dietary needs?”

“You could say that.”

The commissioner waited in the car while Lara ran into a Safeway and bought a dozen cans of ProFast. She didn’t particularly care for the drink, which was a little thick and bitter with vegetables, but it was a great source of nutrition, and the stash would come in handy. Morton watched her down a can as soon as she was back in the car.

“Didn’t they feed you in jail?”

“Nothing I could eat.”

“Are you allergic to gluten?”

“Let it go. We have more important things to talk about.”

“You’re right.” He drove past a homeless camping area in the corner of the parking lot and turned toward the expressway. “What else can we do to find this guy?”

“Get his photo to the security people at the arena and the hotel.”

“And if they spot him? What do we do? We can’t just have him arrested without reason.”

The commissioner’s lack of imagination irritated her. “I’ll tell the police I saw him talking to Kirsten. If they bring him in for questioning, they’ll run him through the databases and hopefully take a DNA sample. Maybe that’ll be enough to get him charged with her murder.”