With Cruel Intent (36 page)

need you to throw up any roadblocks you

can to slow down her side of this

forthcoming battle. I don't understand it

enough to tell you how to do it, I'll leave

that up to you, but you need to do

everything

within

your

power

to

manipulate, hide, disrupt the flow of

information, to Beverly and her legal

team, without it drawing attention to you

or me. Can that be done?"

Iggy scratched his head, wheels

turning, "I don't know for how long I'll be

able to stall her, but I'm pretty sure I can

slow them down. How long do we need to

drag this out?"

"As long as it takes, like I said, we

need to really wear her down. She's not

getting any younger and she'll eventually

see it our way and concede. I've dealt

with people like her my whole life, I

know she's going to have a breaking point;

we just need to find it. I'm not going to

blow smoke up your ass Iggy, I need to

know if you're in this for the long haul.

This could take months or even years, but

I can tell you that at the end of the day

you'll be a very rich man," Jeremy

promised.

"Can you guarantee for me that no

one will get hurt?" he asked, but the

answer didn't matter, Iggy knew he was in

regardless; the dream of wealth untold for

a gambling addict was more than he could

reject. Jeremy had counted on it.

"Yes, based on the information we

have today, I can say yes, but we may

have to tweak how we deal with her

responses on an ongoing basis. The other

thing I'll need from you is your watchful

eyes right here in Valdosta. I can't follow

everything going on here, I'll need to

appear that I'm continuing to keep my nose

to the grindstone in DC," the younger

Marshall confirmed.

Over the next two hours the two

conspirators worked out the logistics of

how they would communicate, via the

Internet, with a simple coded system.

Phone calls would be almost never and

generally only payphone-to-payphone. The

connection between the two would need to

remain totally obscure. Jeremy suspected,

barring a quick acceptance of a limited

offer, that another conspirator would need

to be brought in at a later date to facilitate

the nastier handiwork, but he did not

address that or a number of other

important details with the land and title

director. Of course, the entire discussion

and plans of the morning would be

forgotten if his father survived. Jeremy

tried to convince himself that his father's

successful recovery was what he truly

wanted.

The two, now on the same page,

shook hands with a promise to stay in

touch. Iggy left the home first, giving

himself enough time to stop at a Waffle

House for breakfast. Jeremy waited about

30 minutes before starting the four-hour

drive to Atlanta. He confirmed the

recording taken over the previous few

hours, every word, every discussion;

every

communication

would

be

documented and saved. One thing he'd

learned dealing with slippery politicians

was the need for ammunition, the more the

better, especially if someone begins to

develop selective amnesia.

Back on the road, Jeremy tried not

to think about the discussion he’d just had

with Ignatius, but rather poured his energy

into what he would say to his father, if he

was given the chance. A voice inside his

head scolded him for thinking of his father

as already gone, suspecting it was a

foregone conclusion that he would not

survive the heart attack. He vowed to

himself that he could be the bigger man

and

say

he

was

sorry

for

the

misunderstandings, but as for Beverly, he

was still unsure. The closer he got to

Atlanta the more his heart ached for the

fatherly companionship he’d once had.

The prospect of never seeing his father’s

smiling face again finally brought true

grief, and for the first time in the past 36

hours, he cried.

The hospital was a massive

structure with wings extended in every

possible direction. At the front desk he

asked for assistance in getting to the

Cardiac ICU. A rotund, short black

woman pulled a map from a thick pad and

explained how he would navigate the

hospital to get to the unit, highlighting the

path with a pink highlighter. With map in

hand, Jeremy moved through corridors

filled with patients, visitors and medical

staff, some obviously in a hurry, and

others with ashen faces being consoled by

loved ones. He reached the 4th floor of the

cardiac unit, still unsure of what he would

say but confident the words would come.

Outside of the unit a set of doors blocked

entrance without the approval of the

nurses manning the unit station. A buzzer

on the wall had a small note indicating

that access would be granted once you

explained your reason for being there.

Jeremy depressed the buzzer and waited.

“Cardiac Unit, can we help you?”

a female's voice echoed from behind the

doors.

“I’m here to see my dad, Mr.

Marshall. I’m Jeremy Marshall, just got

here from DC,” he declared.

“Hold on a minute. Is there

anybody here with the Marshall man?” he

could hear her saying to someone close

by. There was a shuffle of papers and then

the phone went silent. A few seconds later

he heard the latch on the door

electronically open and the voice re-

emerged over the intercom, “Come on in.

Meet Beverly Marshall at the front desk

please.”

He expected that it would be

customary to hug the bereaved woman,

even if he had little if any affection for

her. Beverly was pacing near the desk

where two nurses sat, one talking into a

phone, the other flipping through a

patient’s

chart,

but

both

ignoring

everything else. The sound of respirators

and other pieces of medical wonder

beeped, pulsed and hissed all around

them. The desk sat in the center of what

looked to be ten rooms, separated only by

curtains. Equipment filled each room,

allowing just enough space for a hospital

bed and a table on wheels, extending over

the foot of each bed. Other nurses were

moving in and out of the rooms,

stethoscopes draped around their necks,

each with a clipboard in their hand.

Beverly could be seen chewing

her nails as she wore a groove in the

carpet, “Jeremy, Jeremy, I’m so glad

you’re here! I’ve been trying to call your

cell but I just kept getting your voice mail.

I was afraid something had happened to

you as well!”

He had turned off his phone prior

to talking with Iggy, so no calls could be

traced, and he must have forgotten to turn

it back on. They met in a somewhat

awkward embrace before the two nurses

at the desk neither acknowledged the

union. “I got here as quickly as I could.

Drove all night. What’s happened? Is he

okay?” the distraught son asked.

“A couple of hours ago it looked

like

he

was

starting

to

regain

consciousness but then lapsed back into a

drug induced coma and we’ve not been

able to communicate with him since. The

doctors keep telling me that’s normal, but

I’m terrified,” the deeply sad woman said,

through tears streaming down her face.

“Has he said anything since he

was taken to the ER in Valdosta?” Jeremy

asked.

“You know your dad. All the way

to the hospital he was telling them he was

fine, probably just heartburn or something,

but when they got him hooked up to the

machines there, he had a second attack that

was much worse than the first. That’s

when they pumped him full of drugs and

shipped him here. The staff at both

hospitals have been phenomenal, really

helpful, I think they are doing their best.”

“They damn well better be,”

Jeremy warned, looking at the nurses

seated across the desk, making sure they

had heard what he said.

“Believe me they are. This is the

best cardiac unit in the city and the

specialist

has

been

checking

him

regularly.”

“Is it okay if I see him?” Jeremy

said, his voice hesitant and tensing.

“Absolutely! He’s sleeping, or at

least it looks to me like he’s sleeping, but

with the coma I don’t know for sure. I’ve

been reading to him, seems to bring his

heart rate down some if he can hear my

voice,” Bev explained. She turned and

walked around behind the station to room

#9 where his father lay, tubes running into

his nose and throat, with others hooked to

bottles, hanging on either side of the bed,

feeding unknown clear liquids into his

veins.

The scene before him was not at

all what he had expected. He had

somehow thought he would show up, his

dad would be sitting up in the bed

complaining about hospital food and

trying to convince the staff to bring him a

milk shake. This was all too real, too

overwhelming, too fast. He could feel

sweat forming on his inner arms and the

back of his knees; suddenly his peripheral

vision wavered and turned dark.

Somewhere in a far off place he

could hear people moving about and then

a soothing voice saying, “Get his head

between his knees, don’t let him fall on

the floor again. Okay, that’s fine, looks

like he’s starting to come back to us. Mr.

Marshall. Mr. Marshall, can you hear me?

You starting to feel a little better?” He felt

some strength return to his limbs and he

was able to hold his own head, with his

elbows bracing the weight.

“Did I pass out?” he asked.

“Dead away,” a cute little nurse

answered. “You’ll be okay, this happens

more than you’d think. Just keep your head

between your knees for a few minutes;

somebody will bring you some juice. If

you need us just holler, k?”

“Good hell Jeremy, scared me to

death!” Beverly added her two cents.

“Sorry, didn’t know I would react

this way. Probably lack of sleep and I’ve

not eaten anything for hours.” A glass of

orange juice was pressed into his hands,

which he quickly downed. “I think I’ll be

okay, feeling a lot better now.” He lifted

his head to see his father’s figure laid out

before him, monitors flashing numbers,

and a heart beat pattern next to his bed.

Jeremy slid his chair over next to the bed

and laid his hand on his father’s extended

right arm. It was warm, but there was no

reaction from his touch. He lightly

caressed the arm, trying to think of what

he might say, but emotion tied his tongue

and he could not speak. He sat like that for

an hour, thinking, contemplating, and

praying for a miracle.

“Jeremy,” he heard a whisper.

“Jeremy, the specialist is here and wants

to check him, you’ll need to leave the

room for a minute,” Beverly said.

A tall, dark haired doctor,

complete with lab coat, moved in and out

of the rooms spending a few minutes with

each patient, reviewing the chart and

speaking to those that were coherent. The

graying temples and slight paunch led

Jeremy to believe that he must be about

50. Once he had spent a few minutes with

his father, the surgeon greeted Beverly and

Jeremy just outside the curtained room.

“He’s stable. Vitals are good. Not much

more we can do now but give it some

time.”