The Path of Silence (17 page)

I came into his life at the beginning of his assignment. The six-month extension gave him a chance to fall in love with me—and marry me because birth control methods were not foolproof and I was a statistical blip. The FBI had shifted their scrutiny from the support personnel and focused on the higher administrative officials. Apparently, that was their only mistake.

It turned out that the bad guys were on the bottom, in security—Agent Weston’s colleagues. The day before the art exhibit was to leave the country, he was patrolling in company of three friendly guards. They had clued into his real identity. By the time he wondered why they had walked out of their patrol sector, it was too late. All the security guards had guns. The bad guys had two apiece. He was caught between them in a barrage of fire.

He woke up, three months later, from a coma, still in the intensive care unit, under guard, at the Potomac Hospital in Washington. A week later, he received a visitor, Mr. Crossley Morgan Tavistock. The visit had set back his recovery. Two months later, he was transferred to the Mead Naval Rehabilitation Center, north of Baltimore. He spent five months in therapy. Mr. Tavistock visited him one more time, at Meade. He brought a document for him to sign—annulment papers.

He recovered—physically—and returned to the FBI Washington office. Two months later, he received a promotion and upon his request, a reassignment to the West Coast. He spent nine years there, working on his career. Six months ago, he returned to Washington.

“A year ago, I ran into Nellie Clarrington at an energy conference, in San Diego. She was shocked to see me. She never liked me. I can’t imagine why. When I brought up your name, she turned evasive. When I brought out my gun, her reluctance faded. She said you might still be on the East Coast, Washington, or perhaps Baltimore. It never occurred to me to ask if you were still a Tavistock,” he finished and the pressure of his arms disappeared.

I knew he wanted to hear my side of the story but I didn’t want to give it yet. I needed time to digest what I’d heard. I had to sort things out, lay the blame where it should have always rested—on the shoulders of the Tavistock monarch.

“Field, I don’t…” I felt his warm breath on the back of my neck and didn’t want to turn around.

The door burst open. “Mom! Oh, sorry. I mean you’ve got to come see this thing on TV.” Jazz waved. “Come on, you’ve got to hear this. They’re putting stuff into people’s chests that makes them explode—at Hopkins!”

Chapter 21

“Y
es Ken, I’m watching it too,” I said into the phone, not taking my eyes off the TV.

“It’s unfortunate that Joe and Quigley had to slug it out in public. It’s a hospital. There are always people milling about. Family members would get spooked, hearing something like that. Hell, who would let their loved one go into surgery in a hospital that conducts research in implants that can blow up. All this publicity will make the investigation that much harder but it’s out. Tomorrow, it’ll be all over the newspapers. Thanks, I’ll see you in the morning,” I finished and hung up.

“The police phone lines must be burning,” Field commented, as the TV reporter pushed the microphone in front of another “witness”. He was a family member who had overheard shocking things as he stood in the corridor where two doctors, who ought to have controlled their tempers, hadn’t.

“Jazz, how about giving me a break and going to bed early?” I expected an argument.

“Sure, Mom. I know you’ve got work things to talk about. Nice to have to met you, Inspector Weston.” She stretched her hand to him. After he shook it with a grin, she left.

I shut off the TV and sat down on the couch. Field straddled the coffee table and faced me.

“Maybe that was Smeddin’s strategy,” he said pensively. “Olsen said that he wants the hospital administration to implement an interim security measure. He knew how most doctors would react to it. That’s why he decided to go public. It was a clever move.”

“Their public relations office will be flooded with calls. They’ll have to implement security measures, not just post a watchdog in surgery. They’ll have to mount a campaign to reassure the public that having surgery in Hopkins is a safe proposition. This will get Joe what he wants. Still, I think he should have waited until Bourke went to see the directors. It’ll take months for Hopkins to clear their reputation. Quigley and everyone in the neurosurgery and heart surgery, must be livid.”

“It was a little drastic,” he admitted.

“Joe must be scared. He thinks that there are more people who have been implanted. It could only have been done in a hospital environment—a research center like Hopkins.”

“Does he suspect it’s one of the doctors?”

“It probably is. We were going to talk to you when you got back from the IMF. We wanted to see if you’d get a different story from the one we got.” I quickly outlined what we had learned and why Joe had succumbed to stress.

“But Dr. Martin left the IMF just over three years ago,” he said.

“According to what Ms Sedgwick told us, he left just after Brick resigned his job. We got what was in Brick’s personnel file but all that was there was Martin’s address, which no longer exists. The apartment complex where he used to live has been demolished.”

“Were there any personnel photographs on file?”

“Not on Martin. I got an impression that they didn’t keep such things. You can follow up on it.”

“You said that Martin had referred Brick to a specialist.”

“We don’t have his name either. Joe believes that a doctor is involved. He’s probably right. I’m not sure whether Brick really suffered from tension headaches but there is a doctor connection. I don’t think that’s a coincidence.”

“Four years ago, Tavistock awarded the IMF a contract to develop a new mathematical model. If Brick had worked at the IMF, it’s likely that he had something to do with it. That would explain why the IMF never delivered. Brick was probably the only one who had the expertise. When he disappeared, the project stalled.”

“Gould said that there is a new team developing some kind of system. How many people are on it?”

“Sixty-two but they’re not all in Baltimore. Five are at Tavistock National. The rest are dispersed throughout the country. The majority are in New York, Washington and Los Angeles. The Chairman is doing a tour of the participating banking institutions. Baltimore was his second stop. He asked me to give you a message. He said you were right. As people grow older, philosophy and emotions take over. He also said that ten years of reflections, on both sides, are enough. If you’d like to spend the next ten years listening to his apologies, he’s up to it. Are you?”

“You saw him?” I lowered my head so he couldn’t see my expression.

“It was our third meeting in ten years. It wasn’t as stressful as the others but just as tense. He’s not going to halt the project and won’t be blackmailed.”

“That’s a brave declaration,” I snorted.

“Meg, what happened on your side?”

“Nothing.”

“Why did you go to Mexico to have the baby?’

“They have better doctors and none of them were named Martin.”

“What did your father do?”

“You saw him. Why didn’t you ask him?”

“I saw him officially, in a conference room with fifteen other banking principals. It wasn’t really the time or place to ask him about it.”

“It’s late.” I started to rise. He reached over and pushed me back down.

“Much like the Smithsonian job, I came here on assignment. The last thing I expected was to find you in the Baltimore police ranks. I don’t have any right to interfere in your life but I have the right to know what happened more than ten years ago. I told you my story. I want to hear yours.”

“You left. I was pregnant. My father thought motherhood would interfere with my studies. He had political ambitions for me. I disagreed and left to have my child where I felt comfortable.”

“Why did you change your name?”

“To lead as normal a life as possible—and raise my daughter.”

“Did you ever try to find out what happened to me? As a police officer, you would have the means.”

“No. As an FBI agent, you would have even better means. Why didn’t you look for me?”

“When he came to see me in Mead, you father said you’d had an abortion and left the country, to work in Europe’s banking circles. He had made it clear that you didn’t want me to interfere in your life.”

“And you believed him?’

“Yes.”

“For an FBI agent, Field, you’re easily convinced.”

“He’s the chairman of a bank. It didn’t dawn on me to question him.”

“He’s a messenger. He’ll say anything to get what he wants.”

“I know that now. Why didn’t you ever marry again?”

“My child and my career kept me busy. Did you remarry?”

“I never fell in love again. There didn’t seem to be a point,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell our daughter about me?”

“There didn’t seem to be a point.”

“That’s harsh.”

“Maybe.”

“Was I that unmemorable?”

“You weren’t there. I don’t like to talk about ghosts.”

He rose and turned to leave. I should have let him go but some habits are hard to break. I always see my visitors to the door. I stood up and followed.

He stopped, hand on the door handle. He stood in profile. It was safe to look, remember and regret.

He turned around, suddenly and unexpectedly. I had no time to avert my eyes. I don’t know what he saw on my face. He grabbed my neck and pulled me closer. His other hand rose and gripped mine. He placed it on his shoulder, pressed it down and I felt his lips brush against mine.

It started as a soft kiss and ended as a hard demand. Memories started to circle. They grew more vivid with each pass. It was the same kiss as ten years ago but on a different level of intensity. The youthful playfulness was gone. It was replaced by urgency. He was wearing a different aftershave. The one I had remembered was spicy. This fragrance was lighter on my senses. The closeness was not.

“Fielding!”

“You used to call me that when I forgot to leave a tip in a restaurant.”

“You did that on purpose,” I murmured.

“I did a lot of things on purpose but that wasn’t one of them. Meg…” he sighed.

“Field, I have to think.” I turned my head.

“Don’t leave me out of your thoughts, Meg,” he murmured and kissed me again. He pressed his forehead against mine, as if wanting to penetrate into my thoughts. We stood for a long time, in silence.

“Remember when we stood in line for Springstein tickets and you fell asleep on my shoulder, standing up?” he asked softly.

“No.”

“It started just like this. It was cool outside and I hugged you to keep you warm.”

“I was tired. I’d spent all night studying for a test.”

“You do remember.”

“It’s hard to hide the memories, Field.”

“Ten years is enough, Meg. Don’t hide anymore.”

“We have to work together, for God’s sake. Don’t make it any harder.”

“I need something to look forward to in the morning.”

“Field.…”

“I’m leaving,” he said, stealing another kiss. “But I won’t be far away.”

It was only later, when I sat down on my bed, ready to bury my face in my pillow that I remembered I hadn’t checked on Jazz. I got up and went to her bedroom. Her nightlight was on and she was breathing evenly—but her eyelids were flickering.

“Thanks for being so good tonight,” I said softly and ran my hand across her brow.

“You’re welcome,” I heard her mumble when I was closing the door.

Chapter 22

“B
renda said that half the hospital was down on the fourth floor when Joe and Quigley exchanged their expert opinions,” Ken said, when I picked him up in the morning. “Even pediatrics is in an uproar. She was called in at two a.m. for backup in emergency surgery after a head nurse ran out in tears. A doctor had ripped into her for not handing him an instrument fast enough. The place is going to be sheer hell. Staff will be snapping at each other. Suspicions will kill any cooperative spirit. If the patients start canceling appointments and surgery, the board will sacrifice a few doctors. They’ll dismiss them as means to restore public confidence. Brenda said that Joe had accused Quigley and his team of mismanaging implants…” His voice trailed off as he sipped his coffee. I’d brought it, knowing it was going to be a difficult morning.

“If Martin is at Hopkins—whether as Martin or under another name—this’ll make him cautious. He’ll cover his tracks and remove whatever evidence there might be of using the hospital facilities. We’ll never flush him out. Joe should have controlled himself. The newspapers will have a field day. A maniac is loose—a doctor experimenting on live subjects.”

“They won’t catch on to the execution element,” he said.

“Probably not. But whatever chance we had of finding Martin is gone.”

“We’re probably going to get a lot of crank calls,” he sighed.

“It looks like you’re right,” I said, as we walked into the office.

“This is your share,” Sven said, as he handed me stack of phone report slips. He gave another to Ken.

I drained my coffee and started reading reports from frightened and anxious people.

The first five were filed by men who had visited Hopkins in the last two years, either for minor surgery or as outpatients. They’d felt strange twinges while watching the news last night. The next three complainants were fishing for material to use for law suits. One report was a page out of the X-files. The complainant hinted at a possibility of an alien presence among us. He wanted to make sure that he would be the next on their abductee list.

George Hicks had filed report number ten. He needed a reason to continue drawing unemployment benefits and not be forced to look for work—lest his chest explode. Jack Sampson was sure that the scar tissue on his upper left chest was hiding an explosive device instead of the result of a cyst removal five years ago at Hopkins.

The last report was odd.

Daniel Kane didn’t have chest pains. He didn’t think he had been implanted with an explosive device—but he had heard rumors in Mongrove.