Terminal (37 page)

Up ahead Sterling could see the youthful Japanese man climbing back into the limousine.

“What’s happening?” Sterling asked.

“I’m not sure,” Wayne said. “The Jap just sat in the foyer and read magazines. Then the girl appeared alone. She’s under the porte cochere waiting for the car. No sign of Sean Murphy. I bet those guys in the limo are as confused as we are.”

A parking valet drove by in the red Pontiac. He parked under the porte cochere.

The limousine started up, spewing a puff of black smoke from its tailpipe.

Sterling started the Mercedes. He told Wayne that the Sushita jet was on its way to Naples.

“Not much doubt something’s going to happen,” Wayne said.

“I’m sure it will be tonight,” Sterling said. “We’ve got to be prepared.”

Presently the red Pontiac went by with Janet Reardon at the wheel. Behind her came the limo. Sterling made a U-turn.

At the base of the drive the Pontiac turned right. The limo followed.

“I smell a fish,” Wayne said. “Something’s not right with this picture. To get to the road you have to rum left. This right is a dead end.”

Sterling turned right to follow the others. Wayne was correct; the road dead-ended. But just before the dead end they came to an entrance to a large parking lot that was partially obscured by foliage. Sterling pulled in.

“There’s the limo,” Wayne said, pointing off to the right.

“And there’s the Pontiac,” Sterling said, motioning toward the tennis courts. “And there is Mr. Murphy loading luggage in the trunk. This is a rather unorthodox departure.”

“I suppose they think they’re being clever,” Wayne said, shaking his head.

“Maybe this move has something to do with Mr. Robert Harris,” Sterling suggested.

They watched the red Pontiac drive by and out the exit. The limo followed. After waiting a bit. Sterling did the same.

“Watch for Harris’s blue sedan,” Sterling advised.

Wayne nodded. “I’ve been watching,” he assured him.

They drove south for four or five miles, then cut west toward
the Gulf. Eventually they ended up on Gulf Shore Boulevard.

“This area is a lot more built up,” Wayne said. Either side of the road had condominium buildings with manicured lawns and pampered flower beds.

They drove for a short time before they saw the red Pontiac pull up a ramp to the first-floor entrance of the Edgewater Beach Hotel. The limo pulled off the road but remained on the ground level, turning in under the building. Sterling pulled off the road and parked in a diagonal spot to the right of the ramp. He turned off the ignition. At the top of the ramp they could see Sean directing the removal of their luggage from the Pontiac’s trunk.

“A nice little hotel,” Wayne said. “Less ostentatious.”

“I believe you’ll find the facade misleading,” Sterling said. “Through some of my banking connections I’ve heard this place had been purchased by a charming Swiss fellow who added significant European elegance.”

“You think Tanaka will try to make his move from here?” Wayne asked.

“I believe he’s hoping Sean and his companion will go out so that he can comer them in some isolated location.”

“If I were with that chick I think I’d bolt the door and order room service.”

Sterling picked up the car phone. “Speaking of Mr. Murphy’s companion, let’s see what my contacts in Boston have learned about her.”

March 6
Saturday, 7:50 P.M.

T
his is a fabulous room,” Janet said as she opened the large wooden tropical shutters.

Sean joined her. “It looks almost as if we’re cantilevered out over the beach,” he said. They were on the third floor. The beach was illuminated all the way down to the water’s edge. A line of Hobie Cats were directly below them.

They were both making an attempt to put the disturbing beach experience behind them. At first Janet wanted to go back to Miami, but Sean talked her into staying. He’d said whatever the explanation for the episode was, at least it was now behind them. He’d said that since they’d driven all the way over to Naples, they should at least enjoy themselves.

“Let’s get a move on,” Sean said. “Malcolm Betencourt is expecting us in forty minutes.”

While Janet showered, Sean sat down and tried Brian one more time. He was frustrated when he got the answering machine yet again. He left a third message instructing his brother to disregard the previous phone number. He gave the Edgewater Beach number and the room number, adding that he’d be out for dinner, but to call later, no matter the time. He said it was vitally important for them to talk.

Sean then called the Betencourt residence to say they might be a few minutes late. Mr. Betencourt assured him it wasn’t a problem and thanked him for calling.

Sitting on the edge of the bed with Janet still in the shower,
Sean took out the pistol he’d picked up on the beach. Snapping open the cylinder, he shook out some sand. It was an ancient .38 Smith and Wesson detective special. There were four remaining cartridges. Sean shook his head when he thought how close he’d come to being shot. He also thought about the irony of being saved by someone he’d disliked from the moment he’d first met him.

Snapping the cylinder of the revolver closed, Sean put the gun under his shirt. There had been a few too many inexplicable brushes with disaster in the last twenty-four hours for him to pass up this chance to arm himself. Sean sensed that something bizarre was happening, and like any good medical diagnostician, he was trying to relate all the symptoms to a single illness. Intuitively, he felt he should keep the gun just in case. Inwardly he was still shaking from the feeling of helplessness he’d had just before the gun had gone off.

After Janet got out of the shower, Sean got in. Janet was still complaining about not having reported the man with the gun, and said as much as she was applying her makeup. But Sean remained unwavering, adding that he believed Robert Harris was fully capable of handling the situation.

“Won’t it look suspicious if we have to explain after the fact why we didn’t go to the police?” Janet persisted.

“Probably,” Sean agreed, “but it is just something else Brian will have to handle. Let’s stop talking about it for a while and try to enjoy ourselves a little.”

“One more question,” Janet said. “The man said something about my interfering. What do you think he meant?”

Sean threw up his hands in exasperation. “The guy was obviously crazy. He was probably in the middle of some acute paranoid psychotic episode. How am I supposed to know what he was talking about?”

“All right,” Janet said. “Take it easy. Did you try Brian again?”

Sean nodded. “The bum is still not home,” he said. “But I left this number. He’ll probably call while we’re at dinner.”

When they were ready to leave, Sean phoned the parking valet to have the car brought up to the entrance. As they exited
the room, Sean pocketed the Smith and Wesson, unbeknownst to Janet.

As they drove south on Gulf Shore Boulevard, Janet finally began to calm down. She even began to notice the surroundings again and to appreciate all the flowering trees. She noticed there was no debris or graffiti or any signs of homeless people. The problems of urban America seemed a long way from Naples, Florida.

While she was trying to get Sean to look at a particularly beautiful flowering tree, she noticed that he was spending an inordinate amount of time looking in the rearview mirror.

“What are you looking for?” she questioned.

“Robert Harris,” Sean said.

Janet glanced behind them, then at Sean.

“Have you seen him?” she asked with alarm.

Sean shook his head. “No,” he said. “I haven’t seen Harris, but I think a car is following us.”

“Oh great!” Janet said. The weekend was not turning out as she’d envisioned at all.

All of a sudden, Sean made a U-turn in the middle of the road. Janet had to grab the dash to steady herself. In the blink of an eye they were traveling north, returning in the direction from which they’d come.

“It’s the second car,” Sean said. “See if you can tell what kind of car it is and if you can see the driver.”

There were two cars bearing down on them from the opposite direction, their headlights cutting a swath in the darkness. The first car went by. Sean slowed, and then the second car passed them.

“It’s a limousine,” Janet said with surprise.

“Well, that shows how paranoid I’m getting,” Sean said with a touch of chagrin. “That’s certainly not the kind of car Robert Harris would be driving.”

Sean made another sudden U-turn, and they were again heading south.

“Would you give me a little warning when you are about to do one of your maneuvers?” Janet complained. She resettled herself in her seat.

“Sorry,” Sean said.

As they traveled south beyond the old section of town they noticed the homes got progressively larger and more impressive. Within Port Royal they were even more lavish, and when they pulled into Malcolm Betencourt’s driveway lined with blazing torches, they were awed. They parked in an area designated “visitor parking” at least a hundred feet from the door.

“This looks more like a transplanted French château,” Janet said. “It’s huge. What does this man do?”

“He runs some enormous for-profit hospital corporation,” Sean said. He got out of the car and came around to open the door for Janet.

“I didn’t know there was so much money in for-profit medicine,” Janet said.

The Betencourts were gracious hosts. They welcomed Sean and Janet as if they were old friends. They even teased them for parking in an area reserved for the “trades.”

Armed with glasses of the finest champagne flavored with a mere drop of cassis, Sean and Janet were treated to a grand tour of the twenty-thousand-square-foot home. They also had a walk around the grounds which included two pools, one cascading into the other, and a hundred-and-twenty-foot teak sailboat moored to a sizable pier.

“Some people might say that this house is a bit too big,” Malcolm said when they were seated in the dining room. “But Harriet and I are accustomed to a lot of room. Our home up in Connecticut is actually a little larger.”

“Plus we entertain regularly,” Harriet said. She rang a little bell and a servant appeared with the first course. Another poured crisp white wine.

“So you are studying at Forbes?” Malcolm said to Sean. “You’re a lucky man, Sean. It’s a great place. You’ve met Dr. Mason, I presume?”

“Dr. Mason and Dr. Levy,” Sean said.

“They’re doing great things,” Malcolm said. “Of course, I don’t have to tell you that. As you know, I’m living proof.”

“I’m certain you are grateful,” Sean said. “But…”

“That’s an understatement,” Malcolm interrupted. “They’ve given me a second chance at life, so we’re more than grateful.”

“We’ve donated five million from our foundation,” Harriet said. “We in the United States have to put our resources in those institutions that are successful instead of following those pork barrel policies of Congress.”

“Harriet’s sensitive about the research issue,” Malcolm explained.

“She’s got a good point,” Sean admitted. “But Mr. Betencourt, as a medical student I’m interested in your experience as a patient, and I’d like to hear it in your own words. How did you understand the treatment you were given? Especially considering the business you are in, I’m sure you were interested.”

“You mean the quality of the treatment or the treatment per se?”

“The treatment per se,” Sean said.

“I’m a businessman, not a doctor,” Malcolm said. “But I consider myself an informed layperson. When I got to Forbes they immediately started me on immunotherapy with an antibody. On the first day they took a biopsy of the tumor, and they took white blood cells from my body. They incubated the white blood cells with the tumor to sensitize them to become ‘killer cells.’ Finally, they injected my own sensitized cells back into my bloodstream. As I understand it, the antibody coated the cancer cells and then the killer cells came along and ate ‘em up.”

Malcolm shrugged and looked at Harriet to see if she wanted to add anything.

“That’s what happened,” she agreed. “Those little cells went in there and gave those rumors hell!”

“At first my symptoms got a little worse,” Malcolm said. “But then they got progressively better. We followed the progression on MRI. The tumors just melted away. And today I feel great.” To emphasize his point he gave his chest a thump with his fist.

“And now you are treated in the outpatient?” Sean asked.

“That’s right,” Malcolm said. “I’m scheduled at present to go back every six months. But Dr. Mason is convinced I’m cured, so I expect to extend it out to once a year. Each time I go I get a dose of antibody just to be sure.”

“And no more symptoms?” Sean asked.

“Nothing,” Malcolm said. “I’m fit as a fiddle.”

The first-course dishes were removed. The main course arrived along with a mellow red wine. Sean felt relaxed despite the episode on the beach. He glanced at Janet, who was having a separate conversation with Harriet; it turned out they had family friends in common. Janet smiled back at Sean when he caught her eye. Clearly she, too, was enjoying herself.

Malcolm took an appreciative taste of his wine. “Not bad for an ‘86 Napa,” he said. He put his glass down on the table and looked over at Sean. “Not only have I no symptoms from the brain tumor, but I feel great. Better than I have in years. Of course, I’m probably comparing it to the year before I got the immunotherapy which was pure hell. Not much else could have gone wrong. First I had knee surgery, which wasn’t fun, then encephalitis, and then the brain tumor. This year I’ve been great. Haven’t even had a cold.”

“You had encephalitis?” Sean asked, his fork poised halfway to his mouth.

“Yes,” Malcolm said. “I was a medical oddity. Somebody could have gone through medical school just studying me. I had a bout of headache, fever, and was generally feeling crappy, and…” Malcolm leaned over and spoke behind his hand. “There was some burning in my pecker when I peed.” He glanced over to be sure the women hadn’t overheard.