A Brain (27 page)

“The Cloisters! Man, it's three-thirty in the morning. That whole area will be deserted.”

“I'll pay you,” said Martin, not wishing to have an argument.

“Wait a minute,” said the driver, stopping at a red light. He turned to look through the Plexiglas partition. “I don't want no trouble. I don't know what the fuck you're up to, but I don't want no trouble.”

“There will be no trouble. I just want to be dropped off at the main entrance. Then you're on your way.”

The light changed and the driver accelerated. Martin's comment must have satisfied him because he didn't complain anymore and Martin was glad of the chance to think.

Sansone's authoritative manner had been helpful. Under the circumstances, Philips felt he could not have made any decisions for himself. It was all too bizarre! From the moment Philips had left the hospital, he'd descended into a world not bound by the usual restraints of reality. He even began to wonder if his experiences had been imaginary until he saw Werner's bloodstains on his parka. In a sense, they were
reassuring; at least Philips knew he had not gone mad.

Looking out the window, he stared at the dancing city lights and tried to concentrate on the improbable intervention of the FBI. Philips had had enough experience in the hospital to realize that organizations typically function for their own best interests, not those of the individual. If this affair, whatever it was, was so important to the FBI, how could Martin expect they'd have his best interests at heart. He couldn't! Such thoughts made him feel uneasy about the meeting at the Cloisters. Its remoteness disturbed him. Turning, he peered out the back of the taxi, trying to determine if he were being followed. Traffic was light and it seemed unlikely, but he couldn't be certain. He was about to tell the driver to change direction when he realized with a sense of impotence that there was probably no safe place to go. He sat tensely until they were almost at the Cloisters, then leaned forward and said:

“Don't stop. Keep driving.”

“But you said you wanted to be dropped off,” protested the cabby.

The taxi had just entered the oval cobblestoned area, which served as the main entrance. There was a large lamp over the medieval doorway and the light glistened off the wet granite paving.

“Just drive around once,” said Philips, as his eyes scanned the area. Two driveways led off into the darkness. Some of the interior lights of the building could be seen above. At night the complex had the threatening aura of a Crusader's castle.

The cabby cursed but followed the circular road that opened up for a view of the Hudson. Martin couldn't see the river itself, but the George
Washington Bridge with its graceful parabolas of lights stood out against the sky.

Martin swiveled his head around looking for any signs of life. There were none, not even the usual lovers parked next to the river. It was either too late or too cold or both. When they came full circle to the entrance, the taxi stopped.

“All right, what the fuck do you want to do?” asked the driver, looking at Philips in the rear-view mirror.

“Let's get out of here,” he said.

The driver responded by spinning the wheels and accelerating away from the building.

“Wait. Stop!” yelled Martin, and the cabby jammed on the brakes. Philips had seen three tramps who'd stood and looked over the stone wall lining the entrance drive. They'd heard the screeching of the tires. By the time the taxi had stopped, they were thirty yards back.

“How much?” asked Martin, looking out the window of the cab.

“Nothing. Just get out.”

Philips put a ten-dollar bill in the Plexiglas holder and got out. The taxi sped away the second the door was closed. The sound of the car died away quickly in the damp night air. In its wake was a heavy silence, broken only by the occasional hiss of cars on the invisible Henry Hudson Parkway. Philips walked back in the direction of the tramps. On his right, a paved path led off the road and dipped down through the budding trees. Philips could vaguely see that the path split with one fork twisting back and running beneath the arched roadway.

He made his way down it and looked beneath the overpass. There weren't three tramps; there were four. One was passed out, lying on his back and
snoring. The other three were sitting, playing cards. There was a small fire going, illuminating two empty half-gallon wine jugs. Philips watched them for a while, wanting to be certain that they were what they appeared, just vagrants. He wanted to figure out some way of using these men as a buffer between himself and Sansone. It wasn't that he expected to be arrested, but his experience with institutions motivated him to investigate and have some idea what to expect, and the use of an intermediary was the only method he could think of. After all, even if it made sense, meeting at the Cloisters in the middle of the night was hardly normal procedure.

After watching for a couple more minutes, Philips walked in under the archway acting as if he were a little drunk. The three bums eyed him for a moment and, deciding he meant no harm, went back to their cards.

“Any of you guys want to earn ten bucks?” said Martin.

For the second time, the three derelicts looked up.

“Whatta we have to do for ten bucks?” asked the youngest.

“Be me for ten minutes.”

The three bums looked at one another and laughed. The younger one stood up.

“Yeah, and what do I do when I'm you?”

“You go up to the Cloisters and you walk around. If anybody asks you who you are, you say, Philips.”

“Let me see the ten bucks.”

Philips produced the money.

“How about me?” said one of the older men, getting to his feet with difficulty.

“Shut up, Jack,” said the younger. “What's your whole name, mister?”

“Martin Philips.”

“Okay, Martin, you got a deal.”

Taking off his coat and his hat, Philips made the man put them on, pulling the hat well down. Then Martin took the bum's coat and reluctantly put his arms into the sleeves. It was an old shabby chesterfield with a narrow velvet lapel. In the pocket was part of a sandwich without a wrapper.

Despite Martin's objections, the other two men insisted on coming along. They laughed and joked until Philips said the whole deal was off if they didn't shut up.

“Should I walk real straight?” asked the younger fellow.

“Yes,” said Martin, who was having second thoughts about the masquerade. The path approached the courtyard below the main driveway. There was a steep incline just before the cobblestoned area with a bench at the top for tired pedestrians. The stone wall bordering the entrance ended abruptly at the intersection. Directly across was the main doorway to the Cloisters itself.

“Okay,” whispered Martin. “Just walk over to that door, try to open it, then walk back, and the ten spot is yours.”

“How do you know I'm not going to just run away with your hat and coat,” said the younger fellow.

“I'll take the chance. Besides, I'd catch you,” said Philips.

“What's your name again?”

“Philips. Martin Philips.”

The tramp pulled Philips' hat even lower on his forehead so that he had to tilt his head back to see. He started up the incline but lost his balance. Martin gave him a shove in the small of the back and he
pitched forward and catwalked on his hands and feet up to the level of the drive.

Martin inched up the incline until his eye line was just above the stone wall. The tramp had already crossed the roadway and had reached the cobblestones, the irregular surface momentarily causing him to lose his balance, but he caught himself before he fell. He skirted the central island, which served as a bus stop, and made his way over to the wooden door. “Anybody home?” he yelled. His voice echoed in the courtyard. He stumbled out into the center of the yard and shouted: “I'm Martin Philips.”

There was no sound except a light patter of rain, which had just begun. The ancient monastery, with its roughhewn ramparts, gave the scene an unreal, timeless quality. Martin wondered again if he was the victim of a giant hallucination.

Suddenly, a shot shattered the quiet. The tramp in the courtyard was lifted off his feet and dashed to the granite paving. The effect was the same as a high velocity shell hitting a ripe melon. The entrance of the bullet was a surgical incision; the exit was a horrid tearing force that took away most of the man's face and scattered it over a thirty-foot arc.

Philips and his two companions were stunned. When they realized that someone had shot the tramp, they turned and fled, falling over each other down the precipitous incline that fell away from the monastery.

Never had Martin felt such desperation. Even when he'd run from Werner's, he hadn't experienced such fear. Any second he expected to hear the rifle again and feel the searing pain of a deadly bullet. He knew that whoever was after him would check the body in the courtyard and immediately realize the mistake. He had to get away.

But the rocky hillside was a danger in itself. Philips' foot snagged and he fell headlong, just missing an outcropping. As he pulled himself up, he saw a path veering off to the right. Pushing away the underbrush, he made his way toward it.

A second shot was followed by an agonizing scream. Philips' heart leaped into his mouth. Once clear of the forest he ran as fast as possible, hurling himself down the walkway into the darkness.

Before he realized what was happening, he had launched himself into the air at the top of a stairway. It seemed like an incredibly long time before he hit the ground again. Instinctively, he fell forward to absorb the shock, tucking his head under and doing a somersault, like a gymnast. He ended up on his back, and sat up, dazed. From behind, he could hear running footsteps on the walkway, so he forced himself to his feet. He ran on, struggling against dizziness.

This time, he saw the stairs in time, and slowed. He took the steps in threes and fours, then ran on with rubbery legs. The path intersected another, crossing at right angles. It came up so quickly that Martin had no time to decide whether to change his direction.

At the next intersection, Martin's path ended, forcing him to hesitate for a moment. Below and to the right he could see the forest ended. At the edge of the trees there was some sort of balcony with a cement balustrade. Suddenly, Philips heard footsteps again and this time it sounded like more than one person. There was no time to think. He turned and raced down to the balcony. Below him, stretching out about a hundred yards, was a cement playground with swings and benches and a central depression that was probably a wading pool in the summer. Beyond the
playground was a city street and Martin saw a yellow cab go by.

Hearing the running steps draw closer, he forced himself down the wide cement stairs that descended from the side of the balcony to the playground. It was only then, hearing the pounding footsteps drawing closer, that he realized he could not get across the open area before whoever it was behind him reached the balcony. He'd be exposed.

Quickly he ducked into the dark recess beneath the balcony, mindless of the stench of old urine. At that moment, he heard labored feet reach the roof. He stumbled blindly back until he hit up against a wall. Turning, he allowed himself to slowly sink to a sitting position, trying to control his loud gasping for breath.

The columns supporting the balcony stood out against the dim image of the playground. A few lights could be seen in the city beyond. The heavy footsteps ran across the roof, then descended the stairs. Abruptly, a dark ragged figure whose frantic wheezing breath carried back to Martin was clearly silhouetted as the man stumbled out into the playground, heading for the street beyond.

A series of lighter steps sounded on the balcony above. Philips heard muffled words. Then silence. Ahead the figure was cutting diagonally across the wading pool.

The rifle spoke sharply above Philips and simultaneously the fleeing figure in the playground was sent crashing on its face. Once it hit the cement, it didn't move. The man had been killed instantly.

Martin resigned himself to fate. Further flight was impossible. He was cornered like a fox after a chase. All that was left was the coup de grace. If he hadn't been so exhausted, maybe he would have thought of
resisting but, as it was, he just stayed still, listening to light footsteps cross the balcony and start down the stairs.

Expecting to see silhouetted figures appear momentarily within the frames of the columns in front of him, Philips waited, holding his breath.

Denise Sanger woke up in one instant. She lay there unmoving, scarcely breathing while she listened to the sounds of the night. She could feel the pulse at her temples, hammering away from the adrenaline that had been pumped into her system. She knew that she'd been awakened by some foreign noise but it was not repeated. All she could hear was the rumbling of her ancient refrigerator. Her breathing slowly returned to normal. Even her refrigerator, with a final thump, kicked off, leaving the apartment in silence.

Rolling over, wondering if perhaps she'd just had a bad dream, she realized she had to go to the bathroom. The pressure on her bladder slowly augmented until she could no longer ignore it. As distasteful as the idea was, she had to get up.

Pulling herself from the warm bed, Denise padded into the bathroom. Gathering up her nightgown in a bundle on her lap, she sat down on the cold toilet seat. She didn't turn on the light nor did she close the door.

The adrenaline in her system seemed to have inhibited her bladder and she was forced to sit for several minutes before she could urinate. She had just finished when she heard a dull thud that could have been someone hitting her wall from another apartment.

Denise strained her ears for any other sound but the apartment was quiet. Marshaling her courage, she moved silently down the hall until she had a view of her front door. She felt a sense of relief when she saw that the police lock was securely in place.

She turned and started back toward the bedroom. It was at that moment that she felt the draft along the floor and heard a slight rustle of some of the notes tacked to her bulletin board. Reversing her direction, she returned to the foyer and glanced into the dark living room. The window to the fire escape in the air well was open!

Denise tried desperately not to panic, but the possibility of an intruder had been her biggest fear since coming to New York. For almost a month after her arrival, she'd had great difficulty sleeping. And now with her window ajar her worst nightmare seemed to be unfolding. Someone was in her apartment!

As the seconds ticked by, she remembered that she had two phones. One by her bed, the other on the kitchen wall just ahead of her. In one step, she crossed the hall, feeling the aging linoleum under her feet. Passing the sink, she grabbed a small paring knife. A glint of meager light sparkled off its small blade. The tiny weapon gave Denise a false sense of protection.

Reaching past the refrigerator, she grasped the phone. At that instant, the old refrigerator compressor switched on and with a sound similar to a subway,
chugged to life. Startled by the noise, her nerves already drawn out to a razor's edge, she panicked, letting go of the phone and starting to scream.

But before she could make a sound, a hand grabbed her neck and lifted her with great power, causing her strength to drain away. Her arms went flaccid and the paring knife clattered to the floor.

She was whisked around like a rag doll and rapidly propelled down the hall with her feet just touching the floor. Stumbling into the bedroom there were several flashes, a sensation of searing heat on the side of her head, and the sounds of a pistol with a silencer.

The bullets slapped into the mound of blankets on her bed. A final rude shove sent Denise to her knees as the blankets were yanked back.

“Where is he?” snarled one of the attackers. The other pulled open the closets.

Cowering by the bed, she looked up. Two men dressed in black with wide leather belts were standing in front of her.

“Who?” she managed in a weak voice.

“Your lover, Martin Philips.”

“I don't know. At the hospital.”

One of the men reached down and lifted her up high enough to throw her onto the bed. “Then we'll wait.”

 

For Philips, time had passed as if in a dream. After the last rifle shot he'd heard nothing. The night had remained still except for an occasional car on the city street beyond the playground. He was aware that his pulse had slowed to normal, but he was still having trouble collecting his thoughts. Only now, as the rising sun imperceptibly brushed over the playground, did his mind begin to function again. As the dawn
brightened he was able to make out more details in the landscape, like the series of concrete wastebaskets that were fashioned to look like the surrounding natural rock. Birds had suddenly convened on the area, and several pigeons wandered over to the sprawled body in the dry wading pool.

Martin tried moving his stiff legs. He gradually realized that the dead body out in the playground was a new threat. Someone would soon call the police and after last night Martin was understandably terrified of them.

Heaving himself to his feet, he steadied himself against the wall until his circulation returned. His body ached as he cautiously made his way back up the cement stairs, scanning the area. He could see the path down which he'd made his terrified plunge just hours before. Way off he could see someone walking his dog. It wouldn't be long before the body in the playground was discovered.

He descended the stairs and hurried toward the far corner of the park, passing close to the body of the derelict. The pigeons were feasting on bits of organic matter that had been sprayed by the bullet. Martin looked away.

Emerging from the park, he turned up the narrow lapels of the tramp's overcoat and crossed the street, which he saw was Broadway. There was a subway entrance on the corner but Martin was frightened of being trapped below the ground. He had no idea if the people who were after him were still in the area.

He stepped into a doorway and scanned the street. It was getting lighter every minute and the traffic was beginning to pick up. That made Philips feel better. The more people, the safer he should be, and he
didn't see any men loitering suspiciously or sitting in any of the parked cars.

A taxi stopped at the traffic light directly in front of him. Martin dashed from the doorway and tried to open the rear door. It was locked. The driver turned around to look at Philips, then accelerated despite the red light.

Martin stood in the street bewildered, watching the cab speed into the distance. It was only as he walked back to the doorway and caught sight of his reflection in the glass that he realized why the cabby had pulled away. Martin appeared to be a veritable tramp. His hair was hopelessly disheveled, matted on the side with dried blood and bits of leaves. His face was dirty and sported a twenty-four-hour growth of whiskers. The tattered chesterfield coat completed the derelict image.

Reaching for his wallet, Philips was relieved to feel its familiar form in his back pocket. He took it out and counted the cash. He had thirty-one dollars. His credit cards would be useless under the circumstances. He kept out one of the fives and replaced the wallet.

About five minutes later another cab pulled up. This time Philips approached from the front so the cabby could see him. He'd made his hair as presentable as possible and opened the overcoat so that its shabby condition wasn't immediately apparent. Most important, he held up the five-dollar bill. The cabby waved him in.

“Where to, Mister!”

“Straight,” said Philips. “Just go straight.”

Although the cabby eyed Martin a little suspiciously in the rear-view mirror, he put the car in gear when the light changed, and drove down Broadway.

Philips twisted in the seat and looked out the back window. Fort Tryon Park and the small playground receded rapidly. Martin still wasn't sure where to go, but he knew he'd feel safer in a crowd.

“I want to go to Forty-second Street,” he said finally.

“Why didn't you tell me before,” complained the driver. “We could have turned on Riverside Drive.”

“No,” said Philips. “I don't want to go that way. I want to go down the East Side.”

“That's going to cost about ten bucks, mister.”

“It's okay!” said Martin. He took out his wallet and showed ten dollars to the driver, who was watching in the rear-view mirror.

When the car began to move again Martin let himself relax. He still could not believe what had happened in the last twelve hours. It was as if his whole world had collapsed. He had to keep stifling his natural impulse to go to the police for help. Why had they turned him over to the FBI? And why on earth would the Bureau want to annihilate him, no questions asked? As the car flashed down Second Avenue his sense of terror returned.

Forty-second Street provided the anonymity Philips needed. Six hours earlier the area had been alien and threatening. Now, the same aspects were comforting. These people wore their psychoses up front. They didn't hide behind a facade of normality. The dangerous people could be recognized and avoided.

Martin bought a large fresh orange juice and polished it off. He had another. Then he walked down Forty-second Street. He had to think. There had to be a rational explanation for everything. As a doctor, he knew that no matter how many disparate signs and symptoms there were in an illness, they could
invariably be traced to a single disease. Nearing Fifth Avenue, Philips walked into the little park by the library. He found an empty bench and sat down. Pulling the dirty chesterfield around him, he made himself as comfortable as possible and tried to go over the events of the night. It had started at the hospital . . .

Martin woke with the sun almost overhead. He glanced around to see if anyone was watching him. There were lots of people in the park now, but no one seemed to be paying any attention to him. It had gotten warm and he was sweating heavily. When he stood up he was aware of his heavy ripe smell. Walking out of the park he glanced at his watch and was shocked to learn it was ten-thirty.

He found a Greek coffee house several blocks away. Balling up the old coat, he put it under the table. He was famished and he ordered eggs, home fries, bacon, toast and coffee. He used the tiny men's room but decided not to clean up. No one seeing him would ever guess he was a doctor. If he were being sought he couldn't have a better disguise.

As he finished his coffee he found the crumpled list he'd made of the five patients: Marino, Lucas, Collins, McCarthy, and Lindquist. Was it possible that these patients and their histories were related to the bizarre fact that he was being pursued by the authorities? But even so, why would they be trying to kill him; and what had happened to these women? Had they been murdered? Could the affair be somehow related to sex and the underworld? If so, how did radiation fit in? And why was the FBI involved? Maybe the conspiracy was national, affecting hospitals all across the country.

Getting more coffee, Martin was certain the answer to the puzzle lay in the Hobson University Medical
Center, but he knew that was the one place the authorities would expect him to go. In other words, the hospital was the most dangerous place for Martin, yet the only place where he had a chance to figure out what was happening. Leaving his coffee, Philips went back to use the pay phone. His first call was to Helen.

“Doctor Philips! I'm so glad you called. Where are you?” Her voice was strained.

“I'm outside the hospital.”

“I guessed that. But where?”

“Why?” asked Martin.

“Just wanted to know,” said Helen.

“Tell me,” said Martin. “Has anybody been looking for me . . . like . . . the FBI?”

“Why would the FBI be looking for you?”

Martin was now reasonably certain that Helen was under observation. It was not like her to answer a question with a question, especially an absurd one about the FBI. Under normal circumstances she would have simply told Martin he was crazy. Sansone or one of his agents had to be there with her. Philips hung up abruptly. He would have to think of another way to get the charts and other information he wanted from his office.

Martin next called the hospital and had Dr. Denise Sanger paged. The last thing he wanted was for her to go to the GYN clinic. But she did not pick up her page and Martin was afraid to leave a message. Hanging up, he placed a final call to Kristin Lindquist. Kristin's roommate picked up on the first ring, but when Philips introduced himself and asked about Kristin the girl said she could not give him any information and that she'd prefer he didn't call. Then she hung up.

Back at his table, Philips spread the list of patients
in front of him. Taking out a pen he wrote: “strong radioactivity in the brains of young women (? other areas); Pap smears reported abnormal when they were normal; and neurological symptoms something like multiple sclerosis.” Philips stared at what he'd written, his mind racing in crazy circles. Then he wrote: “Neurological—GYN—police—FBI,” followed by “Werner necrophilia.” There didn't seem to be any possible way all these things could be related, but it did seem as if GYN was in the middle. If he could find out why those Pap smears were reported abnormal, maybe he'd have something.

Suddenly a wave of desperation swept over him. It was obvious he was up against something bigger than he could possibly handle. His old world with the daily headaches no longer seemed so terrible. He would gladly put up with a little boring routine if he could go to bed at night with Denise in his arms. He wasn't a religious person, but he found himself trying to strike a bargain with God: if He would rescue him from this nightmare, Martin would never complain about his life again.