Host (23 page)

“Very serious,” Lynn said. “Thinking about Carl possibly going
in there without knowing what might happen to him is driving me crazy. I need a Shapiro outfit and his thumbprint.”

“I hope I don’t regret this,” Michael said as he got out his phone. Quickly he texted an invite for Vladimir to come over to his room for an impromptu Jay-Z party and a beer. With a flourish, he sent the message.

“Now, let’s see his user name and password,” Lynn said, getting out her own phone and preparing to add Vladimir to her contacts. Michael saluted before dutifully handing his phone over to Lynn with the information displayed. While she was busy adding the data into her phone, Michael’s phone chimed. A text came back from Vladimir accepting the invite and saying he would be bringing the Russian souvenir he had promised for Michael.

“Satisfied?” Michael asked.

“No,” Lynn said. “Text him back about the Shapiro scrubs.”

“Shit, girl!” Michael complained but did as she said. As an explanation for the request he used Lynn’s earlier suggestion, saying he and his girlfriend were going to a costume party. He pushed the
SEND
button, and then held the phone so Lynn could see it.

A minute stretched into another. Then a second text popped onto Michael’s screen:
I stop and get outfits. Maybe I a little late
.
No problem.

“Seems that my Russian buddy is going to come through,” Michael said. “Now let’s go get some dinner.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Lynn said. “But I need to take a quick shower.” Without waiting for a response she went into her bathroom and closed the door.

“While we are over there, let’s go up to the OR and see if we can find number thirty-seven,” Michael shouted through the door.

“Finding it might not be so easy. With twenty-four ORs, there must be fifty or more machines.”

“Probably more, but no matter. We know number thirty-seven
was used on Monday in OR Twelve. It could be still in there. Usually this time of day the OR is quiet. If it is not in twelve, we could check the storage room they use to keep the extra machines.”

“If we do find it, what would we do with it?”

“That’s a good question.” Michael shrugged. “I guess I’d like to find out if it has been used since Carl’s case. If so, and there hasn’t been any problem, I’ll sleep better.”

“I hear you,” Lynn yelled. “I’ll go with you up to the OR if you come with me to the neuro ICU and IT.”

“You got a deal,” Michael said. “But first I’m going to my pad and clean up, too.”

“Good idea. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

Tuesday, April 7, 6:31
P.M.

S
andra Wykoff logged out. She’d been on one of the computer terminals in the OR anesthesia office for over an hour. She was perplexed. She had no idea what to make of what she had just learned, but she felt it had to mean something—but what?

After she had left Clinical Engineering she’d been paged by Geraldine Montgomery and asked if she could do an emergency case: an open reduction of a compound fracture in a teenage boy’s forearm. She had welcomed the diversion, and the case had gone well.

During the middle of the short case, when she had been on cruise control, she’d thought more about Vandermeer, Morrison, and Davis. After the surgery, she’d gone into the Anesthesia office and logged onto the computer to go over Morrison’s and Davis’s anesthesia records with the same attention to detail that she had given to Vandermeer’s in hopes of finding any similarities above and beyond the same anesthesia machine. For more than an hour nothing had caught her attention. Then suddenly she’d seen it: all three cases had the blip, or frame offset, and, more disturbing, all had it at exactly the same time after induction!

Staring off into the middle distance, Sandra wondered if such a finding could be significant. She couldn’t help but believe it had to be on some level. Why was the anesthesia machine doing it despite the machine’s being checked after each episode? Could it be a program error despite what she had been told down in Clinical Engineering? She doubted it, as it wasn’t happening with any of the other machines. She had already checked by examining the printouts of other cases she had done using different machines. There hadn’t been any frame offsets on any of the cases she’d looked at. She’d even found a few records from machine 37. They were all clean. The frame offsets had occurred with only the three cases of delayed return of consciousness.

With sudden resolve, Sandra stood up from the desk. She hurried back to the changing room to get out of her scrubs. Once she had her clothes on, she went down to the administrative area of the hospital. What she had in mind was to see if Benton Rhodes had left for the day. If he hadn’t, she wanted to show him this new finding. But his office was empty.

For a moment Sandra debated having the hospital operator contact Dr. Rhodes. But then she had second thoughts, considering the harangue she’d endured earlier. What she didn’t know was whether her boss was aware of this time similarity. It was entirely possible, and if he was, her bothering him after hours was probably not the best idea. It was common knowledge the chief didn’t like to be disturbed at home unless absolutely necessary.

“Tomorrow is time enough,” Sandra said under her breath.

Retracing her steps back into the hospital proper, she headed for the garage. She was looking forward to getting home to unwind with a glass of wine. She still felt unnerved, guilty to a degree, and generally out of sorts from yesterday’s disaster. Would she ever completely get over it? The run-in with Dr. Rhodes hadn’t helped. Nor had Vandermeer’s continuing coma. She’d always thought that conscientiousness, meaning close attention to detail and no shortcuts,
would shield her from such an experience. Obviously she had been wrong.

From the bustling first floor of the medical center, Sandra exited out into the quiet parking facility. During the hospital shift change around three in the afternoon the garage was a beehive of activity. Then between five and six there was another burst of activity, although not as intense. By six o’clock, activity fell off precipitously, only to recommence around eight, when visiting hours ended and then again around eleven, when the night staff came to replace the evening shift.

As Sandra walked to her car in the silence of the deserted garage, she was aware of the sharp clicking sound her heels made as they echoed off the concrete. It was an unsettling reminder that she was alone. She glanced around as she walked in hopes of seeing someone, but she didn’t. She had always found garages after hours to be intimidating. To rein in her imagination she forced herself to think about getting home and taking a hot bath. As she pressed her comfort access key to open her BMW’s doors, she wondered about the best way to tell Rhodes of her new finding without aggravating him. As the department head whose job it was to review all three cases, it was probably something he should have seen. If he hadn’t, she vaguely worried with his irascibility whether he might take the possible oversight personally and blame the messenger.

Sandra climbed into the driver’s seat, pulled the door closed, and reached over her shoulder for her seat belt. At the same time her right foot depressed the brake pedal in anticipation of starting the engine. It was all by reflex. She’d done it a million times. But she didn’t get the seat belt. Instead her heart leaped into her throat, as the passenger-side front door and driver’s-side rear door were both suddenly yanked open. A fraction of a second later two large men in dark business suits leaped into the car in a flurry of activity.

Sandra started to scream in shocked terror, but it never got out. A gloved hand had come around from behind and clasped itself over
the lower part of her face, suppressing what would have been a piercing cry. What came out was a muffled gurgle. At the same time and by the same hand her head was roughly compressed back against the headrest. Simultaneously the man in the front passenger seat thrust a needle into her thigh and injected its contents. It was over in a second.

Unable to breathe, Sandra reached up and desperately tried to pull the hand away from her face. She couldn’t. The man was too strong. The next instant, the man beside her snatched the electronic key from her hand and started the car. A moment later the image of the parking garage through the windshield blurred and dimmed. Then her body went limp.

•   •   •

T
o Darko Lebedev’s delight he had gotten the call from Misha Zotov just before three
P
.
M
.
giving him and Leonid Shubin their orders. After such a long down period with no action whatsoever, there were two new jobs to be done, and one was to be the second hit in so many days. The second was to be merely a strong warning for a female medical student to mend her ways, or at least those had been Misha’s words. Darko understood, and he couldn’t have been more pleased with both assignments. He knew Leonid would feel the same.

For the hit, the orders had been simple. The woman was to just disappear, and her car was to be taken by a driver Misha would provide out to a hospital in Colorado, where the target’s ex-husband worked. There the car was to be abandoned. As it had been explained to Darko, the idea was to focus suspicion concerning the woman’s disappearance on the former spouse and center the investigation out of state. The only other stipulation was that Misha wanted the woman to be brought drugged but alive and left with him for a few hours. He’d said he had a score to settle with the uppity bitch.

Along with the orders had come the information that Darko needed to plan both jobs. That included where Sandra Wykoff lived, the make and model of her car, and the number and location of her parking slot in the garage. He’d also been informed that she lived alone, rarely entertained, and seldom went out at night. Misha had explained that there was a lot of information available about the woman because she had been carefully vetted by security before she had been selected as one of the initial anesthesiologists in the program.

To Darko it had all sounded as if the hit would be a relatively easy task, even though, like the intimidation assignment, it had to happen immediately, that very day. It meant they had to work quickly and without the benefit of prolonged research and observation, which was the way he liked to do things. It also meant that the hit had priority.

For the second job, intimidating Lynn Peirce, Darko had arranged for help from one of the Russians who worked for the hospital security, named Timur Kortev. He’d sent the man to the medical dorm with Lynn’s photo to keep tabs on her so that when Darko was finished with Wykoff, he’d know where to find the student. He counted on her being in her room at the dorm, but he wanted to be sure. He didn’t want to waste time and risk going into her room if she wasn’t there.

For the hit, the first thing that Darko and Leonid had done was check out Wykoff’s home. Accordingly they had driven out to her condo development in North Charleston. What they discovered was that it was less than opportune for their purposes. She lived in a rather narrow row house, sharing common walls with two other units. This situation magnified the chance that there would be witnesses. For her to disappear, supposedly of her own accord, no one could see them take her. The only good thing was that there was a sliding glass door onto a lanai in the back. In their experience, such doors were easy to breach. The men had decided that if they were
to be forced to go into her house, that was how they would enter, but they weren’t happy about it.

Returning to the hospital, they checked out Sandra’s vehicle. Their thought was that if she came out in a press of people, they would follow her, hoping she would make a stop or two on the way home so that they could improvise. As it turned out, they had been in luck. She’d come out after the rush and by herself.

Speaking in Russian, Darko said: “Let’s get her in the backseat. Do you see anybody?” Sandra had collapsed against him.

“No one,” Leonid said, checking out the rear window.

“Let’s do it!”

Both men exited the car and quickly pulled Sandra’s limp form from the front seat and got it into the back. Darko spread a small blanket over her that had been in the car. Both men climbed back into the vehicle. With Darko behind the wheel, they pulled out of the garage after the automatic gate opened for them. A moment later they stopped behind a nondescript white van. Leonid got out.

“See you at Misha’s,” Leonid said, before running ahead and climbing into the van. A moment later he drove out into the street heading north. Darko followed in Sandra’s car, with her unconscious on the backseat.

Misha and many of the other Russians working in Clinical Engineering, IT, and the security staff of the Mason-Dixon Medical Center lived in a residential development bought by Sidereal Pharmaceuticals. It was located in a secluded area to the east of a small town called Goose Creek. A few, like Misha and Fyodor, had stand-alone houses. The others, like Darko and Leonid, were in a condominium complex. Except for Fyodor, all had been ordered to leave wives and girlfriends back in Russia, at least for the time being.

Tuesday, April 7, 7:15
P.M.

W
ait a second,” Michael said, pulling Lynn to a stop. Coming up from the cafeteria, following a quick dinner, they had just emerged from the stairwell on the second floor of the hospital. Their mission was to find anesthesia machine 37, mostly for Michael’s benefit. Ahead was the open door to the surgical lounge occupied by what appeared to be a sizable portion of the evening OR staff. From where they were standing they could see that the TV was tuned to a game show. “I hate to have to constantly bring this up, but we need an excuse of what we’re doing up here if anybody asks. It’s hardly a med-student hangout. Any ideas?”

Lynn thought for a moment. “You’re right. And no need to excuse yourself. I’m glad you think of these details. Let’s say that we just spoke with the dean about hospital-based infections, which is true, and now we are looking into the issue. We don’t have to be specific.”

“Smooth!” Michael said with admiration. “It’s amazing how you can bend the truth.”

“I’ve been learning from a master.”

Michael laughed at the backhanded compliment.

Armed with an idea of what to say if confronted, the two students entered the surgical lounge. Only one orderly out of the half dozen people even looked up. No one made a move to speak with them. Everyone in the room was glued to a news brief that had suddenly interrupted the regular programming. Instead of the game show, a couple of the local news anchors had come on the air to report that the Mount Pleasant police were investigating a horrific home invasion that had occurred sometime the previous night in Mount Pleasant but had just been reported.

Lynn and Michael paused. Their attention was immediately drawn to the lurid details. Like everyone else, they listened with rapt attention.

The scene on the television shifted from the evening-news set to a young women correspondent holding a microphone and standing outside a suburban house on a wooded lot. In the background, multiple police cars and other emergency vehicles were parked at odd angles, with their emergency lights flashing. “I am standing outside of 1440 Bay View Drive, Mount Pleasant,” the correspondent said. “Behind me you can see this home where the Hurley family resided. All we know now is that sometime last night this family experienced a devastating home invasion involving burglary, assault, rape, and murder. The entire family, including two children, was killed. At this time we do not know the details of this tragedy and have been told that the Mount Pleasant chief of police will be making a statement shortly. The killings were discovered by Mr. Hurley’s assistant, who came to investigate when his boss failed to show up for work. Mr. Hurley is a successful lawyer here in Mount Pleasant. Mrs. Hurley, a third-grade teacher at the Charles Pinckney Elementary School, had also been missed, but everyone at the school thought her absence was due to a recent illness. Mrs. Hurley had been hospitalized for a few days at the Mason-Dixon Medical
Center for food poisoning a little more than a week ago. School officials knew that during her hospitalization she had been diagnosed with some kind of blood disorder and that after discharge she had not been feeling one hundred percent. When she failed to show up for work, it was assumed it was because of this new illness. Back to you, Gail and Ron.”

As the two news anchors picked up the story and began talking about the possible similarities to the case involved in Truman Capote’s
In Cold Blood
and a more recent case in Connecticut
,
the surgical lounge erupted in multiple shocked conversations.

“Good God!” Lynn said to Michael. “What is this world coming to?”

“If it can happen in Kansas and Connecticut, it can happen here,” Michael said. “At least it’s a good time for us to look for number thirty-seven with everyone hung up watching the tube.”

“I suppose,” Lynn said. “But what do you make of the woman having been diagnosed with a blood disorder here at our hospital? Do you think it’s possible she had a gammopathy like Morrison and possibly Carl?”

“I suppose it is possible. Infectious gammopathy! That would be a new one!”

“I’m trying to be serious,” Lynn said.

“And I’m trying to lighten you up,” Michael said. “Let’s change our clothes and get this over with. I’ll meet you in five.”

“You got it!”

Lynn got out of her clothes and quickly pulled on scrubs. She couldn’t stop thinking about the tragedy in Mount Pleasant. It unnerved her to be reminded that human beings harbored the capacity for such terrible things. In the middle of these disturbing thoughts, she wondered exactly what kind of blood disorder the murdered mother might have had. Could it involve a paraprotein? When she got back out to the surgical lounge, Michael was already there, watching the TV news alert like everyone else.

“The irony is that the guy was a personal-injury lawyer,” Michael whispered when Lynn joined him.

“What else did you learn?”

“Not much. I’ve only been out here for a minute or two.”

“Anything more about the protein abnormality the wife had?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on! Let’s get this little errand over with.”

After donning booties, the two students pushed into the OR proper. All the lights were blazing, but the place was deserted, even the main desk. Everyone seemed to be back in the surgical lounge. There were no cases going on. As Lynn and Michael passed the PACU they did hear some music drift out into the hallway, but they avoided looking into the room. Although they had a story to offer for what they were doing, they still preferred not to bump into anyone.

“How should we go about this?” Lynn asked. “Should we just check every room, maybe you on the right and me on the left?”

“Let’s check twelve first and go from there.”

“I wonder how many patients leave this hospital with a diagnosis of a blood protein abnormality,” Lynn said as they walked.

“I’m wondering the same thing,” Michael said.

They got to twelve and had to put on the lights. The anesthesia machine was off to the side. Lynn struggled with an emotional reaction she didn’t expect, wondering if she was looking at the machine responsible to some degree for Carl’s tragedy. Michael walked directly over to it.

“It’s number thirty-seven,” Michael said, having bent over to read the service record.

For a few beats the two students stared at the machine with its profusion of dials, gauges, flow meters, vaporizers, and monitors. Three cylinders of compressed gas were hanging off the back.

“Okay,” Lynn said. “Now that we found it, what do you want to do?”

Michael shrugged. “I suppose I’d just like to make sure it has actually been used.”

“That’s easy. We can just go back to the main desk and see if there were any cases in this OR today. I’m sure there were, but come on!”

With no one at the main desk to tell them otherwise, the two students checked the surgical log. OR 12 had been busy. There had been a hernia, a lumbar fusion, and a mastectomy. Apparently there had been no problems. All the patients had gone back to their respective rooms after short stays in the PACU.

“Satisfied?” Lynn asked.

“I guess I’ll have to be. What do you want to do now?”

“Let’s head up to the neuro ICU while we’re still in scrubs,” Lynn said. “I have to find out about Carl’s possible transfer, but if you don’t want to come, I understand.”

“I’m with you for the long haul, girl!”

As they waited for the elevator they could see that the TV in the surgical lounge was back to its original game show. They rode up to six in a mostly empty car. When they got off, the only other person still in the elevator was a uniformed member of hospital security.

Like the rest of the hospital, the neuro floor was comparatively tranquil. Visiting hours were about to end at eight, so good-byes were being exchanged by the visitors who were staying until the last moment. A few patients were wandering about for exercise, pushing IV poles in front of them.

Lynn and Michael didn’t speak until they got to the doors leading into the ICU.

“Maybe I should make it easier for you,” Michael said. “I could go in and see if he is there.”

“Maybe that’s a good idea,” Lynn said. The closer they had come, the more nervous and emotional she felt. Michael sensed it.

“Okay, I’ll be right back,” Michael said. “Try to chill.”

All Lynn could do was roll her eyes, as there was no way she was going to relax. After the doors closed behind Michael, she did try to take her mind off Carl’s status by thinking about what she was going to do for the rest of the evening. Having told Frank Giordano that he needn’t worry about Carl’s cat, she was obligated to go back to Carl’s house. It wouldn’t be difficult to get there because she had driven Carl’s Cherokee to the hospital that morning.

Lynn checked the time. She also wanted to call her architect friend up in Washington, DC, to see if he had any bright ideas about navigating around inside the Shapiro Institute, since his firm did commercial building design, including health-care facilities. She figured it best that it was not too late when she called as he was married with two young kids. Lynn had known him in college, when they’d had a brief affair that ended pleasantly. Over the years they’d stayed in touch. His name was Tim Cooper.

Lynn had anticipated that Michael would come back out from the ICU immediately. She didn’t know how to interpret that he didn’t. Either Carl was still there or he wasn’t. Lynn guessed that Michael had gotten himself involved in a conversation. Was that good news or bad? She didn’t know. To keep from thinking the worst, she pulled out her mobile phone. She had Tim’s number in her contacts and as a diversion decided it was a good time to make a call, as she could make it quick. It turned out to be a good time for Tim, too, and he answered on the first ring.

As soon as they got through the pleasantries, she turned the conversation over to why she was calling. She started by asking him if he had ever heard of the Shapiro Institute.

“I certainly have,” Tim said. “It was quite a project. It was done by a design firm from Chicago called McCalister, Weiss, and Peabody, which specializes in automation. They generally design automotive assembly plants, although they have done a number of medical labs. It was a coup for them to do a health care facility.”

“Do you know anybody at that firm?”

“I do. Why do you ask?”

Lynn explained that she was going to be visiting the Shapiro Institute and wanted to have an advance idea of its layout. She asked if Tim would be willing to call his acquaintance and see if he could possibly get her a floor plan.

“I’d be happy to,” Tim said without hesitation. “But I have a better idea. As I recall, the Shapiro is within the Charleston City Limits. Am I right?”

“It is,” Lynn said.

“If you want plans, go down to the Charleston Building Commission. They’ll have a full set available. All public buildings like hospitals have to have blueprints on file, including an as-built set. They have to be submitted to get an occupancy permit, and it’s public information.”

“I never knew that,” Lynn admitted.

“Most people don’t,” Tim said.

Pleased to have learned what she had, and certain that Michael would soon be appearing, Lynn wrapped up her conversation with Tim. It wasn’t difficult. She told him she was in the hospital at that very moment, about to go into the intensive care unit. Both agreed they would talk soon.

Replacing her phone in her jacket pocket, Lynn looked at the ICU door. She shook her head. Her patience was exhausted. She stepped forward with the intent of going in when the door opened. It was Michael on his way out.