Deliver Us from Evil (6 page)

Scooting back in his seat, Roark patted Thomas's shoulder. “I don't think it's that serious. I'm sure the pilot's trained for storms and emergencies. We'll be fine.”

The man in scrubs didn't light up with hope. Instead, he appeared downright pasty in the blinking lights from the cockpit. “Not the ones I've flown with. Most don't go up in this kind of weather. Especially after sunset.”

Roark looked out the window, pondering Thomas's assessment. He couldn't see a thing. According to the case file, they hadn't planned to transport the heart at night, but the donor hadn't been able to hang on to the fragile string of life. He'd passed on, and the surgical team had no choice but to harvest the organ.

The helicopter took a sharp left. It pitched forward and down.

Thomas made little squeaking moans.

The pilot spewed more curses.

From the beam of the running lights, he could make out mountains. A crest. All approaching way too fast. He forced himself to breathe.

The hum of the rotor engine roared to life, followed by the reassuring
thrwump-thrwump
of the blades picking up speed. The helicopter steadied, then gained altitude.

Roark grinned at the flight medic. “See, told you it was going to be fine.” He ignored the thumping of his own heart.

Thomas nodded. His hands, holding the cooler in a death grip, were still as white as his face. The lenses of his glasses fogged over, although there was no heat in the aircraft.

“Well,
that
was fun,” the pilot announced.

Roark laughed and clapped the pilot's shoulder. “Good work, man. Good work.”

“Are we almost there?” Thomas's voice shook as he spoke over the engines and rattles.

“I've had to veer off course to avoid the main line of the storm. It might put us off schedule by about an hour.”

“Will that be a problem? With the heart, I mean?” Roark asked.

Glancing at his watch, Thomas raked his upper teeth over his bottom lip. “It might.”

“What do you mean,
it might?
”

“Well, the cardiac surgeon told me if I didn't land in three hours to give the first injection. It's already been two hours since the heart was harvested.”

“Then go ahead and give the injection.” Roark cracked his knuckles.

“It's just . . .” Thomas gazed down at the floor of the helicopter.

“What?”

“The procedure is very delicate. I need to be as still as possible, and I need light.”

Roark shook his head. “You've got to be kidding me. Still? In a helicopter?”

“That's the only way to do it. It's not fair. We didn't anticipate a storm of this intensity coming upon us so quickly. Why did this have to happen to us?”

Roark had never been able to tolerate whining. “You'll have to do it despite the turbulence.”

“I'm not trained to inject hearts.” Thomas's bottom lip protruded. “The cardiac surgeon should've come.”

“But he didn't and you did.” Roark laid a hand on the man's shoulder. “You can do it, Thomas.” He whipped out the flashlight fastened to the side of the copilot's chair. “I'll hold the light for you.”

The flight medic hesitated a moment, looking like he was gnawing on the inside of his mouth, then nodded. “Okay.”

Roark flipped on the flashlight and tapped the pilot's shoulder. “Thomas needs to make an injection. Can you keep this as steady as possible?”

“I'll try, but the wind and snow are really pushing us.”

“Just do your best.”

Thomas unzipped the pack, then laid it open on the seat beside him. Four syringes snuggled inside. He set the cooler on the floor, then lifted the cover.

Not knowing what to expect, Roark held his breath and peeked into the container. There wasn't a river of blood, only a pink tinge of liquid surrounding a bluish lump. Clear, liquid-filled bags surrounded the organ.

Thomas freed one of the syringes from the pack, then hovered over the heart. His Adam's apple bobbed once. He lifted his gaze to Roark.

Roark smiled and focused the beam of light. “Go ahead, you're doing great.” Not that he would know if the guy wasn't, but he couldn't tell Thomas that. Part of his job was to be a calming presence to those on the edge.

Lowering the syringe, Thomas leaned over the cooler.

The helicopter shoved to the left.

Thomas jerked the needle upright. A sheen of sweat glistened on his upper lip. “I can't do this.”

“Sure you can.” Roark tapped the pilot's shoulder again. “Try to keep her as steady as possible for a minute.”

“I'm trying,” the pilot growled.

Roark directed the flashlight again. “Go ahead.”

Thomas licked his lips before hunching over again. He lowered the syringe. This time, the needle pierced the tissue of the organ. He pressed down on the plunger.

After pulling the needle free, Thomas locked it back in the pack, then closed the lid on the cooler. He wiped the side of his face with his shoulder before looking at Roark and smiling. “I did it. That gives the heart another twelve hours.”

Roark shifted on the seat, the worn vinyl rubbing against his jeans, and let out a hiss of air. Finally. It was done. “Then we're all good.” But Roark wasn't so sure. He clicked off the flashlight, then snapped it back into its holder.

“Look guys, the Great Smoky Mountains National Park,” the pilot announced, as if this were a guided tour.

Although he'd seen the park many times, hiked and camped there even, Roark still stared out the window. Beneath the helicopter's running lights, the peaks and valleys protruded, but the snow and shadows limited any details. “Did we miss the line of the storm?”

“I think so. It's still pretty bad, but at least the wind currents are less intense now.”

The helicopter evened out. Although the wind continued to batter the sides, the current seemed to have stopped fluctuating so rapidly. Roark sat back, shoving aside the formidable warning in his head.

They'd just entered a false sense of security.

Friday, 7:45 p.m.

Congressman McGovern's Office

Knoxville, Tennessee

“I'M A UNITED STATES congressman, for pity's sake. I don't ride in taxies. Get me a car to take me to the hospital,” Warren barked into the phone. What kind of runaround did these imbeciles think he'd accept? His father would turn over in his grave if Warren dared to allow himself to be treated as ordinary.

“Sir, I understand your situation, but we have a blizzard, and it's late. No car is available right now. I can call you a taxi.”

Warren needed to get to the hospital, and fast. He sucked in air, held it until his lungs screamed, then let it whoosh out. “Just find me a car—and not a taxi.”

“I'll see what I can do, sir.”

“Do it quickly.” Warren slammed down the phone and gazed around his office. The dark paneling and soft track lighting did nothing to soothe his irritation.

A knock rapped against the door.

“Come in.”

Kevin scuttled in, carrying a folder that he set on Warren's desk. “Here are the papers Mr. Markinson had, sir.”

Warren raised an eyebrow. “Does he know you got these?”

Kevin smiled. “I was able to copy and return them without his realizing I had them.”

“And no one saw you?”

Kevin's head shook like a washing machine on spin cycle. “Oh no, sir. No one.”

“Good job. Good job.” At least he'd get an idea of what Markinson wanted kept secret. Warren flipped open the file and scanned the first page. His blood pressure spiked as he skimmed the documents.

“Is there anything else, sir?”

Warren looked up at his young aide. So naive and guileless, trusting and earnest. Nothing more than a mouse of a man, really. Warren's father would have hated him. “Yes. Find me a limo to take me to the hospital, pronto.”

“Yes, sir.” Kevin rushed from the room, all but bowing before he left.

Warren smiled. Rule number four—always instill a reverential fear in your subordinates. You'll never know when their eagerness to please you will come in handy.

He returned to the file—meticulously documented accounting records, down to the last detail. The deposits of cash, the transfers from one corporation's account to another to yet another, and the wires to offshore accounts—nine of them. Warren shook his head. None of it made a lick of sense to a layman, but if Jonathan Wilks got his heart transplant and came out of the coma, he'd roll over and bust this ring wide open.

Data on Wilks reflected he'd been married for twenty-five years to the same woman: Carmen. While Wilks didn't have a child of his own, the wife had a son when the couple married. This stepson hadn't been to the Wilks's home in several months. The stepson had reported his mother's death, requested an autopsy, received said copy, then dropped off the radar. No additional information was provided. The FBI was looking for him, but it didn't appear that finding him was a top priority.

Nothing Warren could see that Noah Markinson wouldn't want out in the open. So why did the man act so coy?

He closed the folder with a decisive snap, then lifted the phone and dialed.

Rule number five—always have contacts who could assist you in getting around obstacles tossed in your path.

FIVE

Friday, 8:00 p.m.

Abrams Creek Ranger Station

Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

BRANNON DID HER PREFLIGHT assessment under the bright security lights of the heliport, then placed her Sig Sauer in the box. Strapping herself into the pilot's harness with a deep breath, she clenched and unclenched her fingers, steeling her nerves. She started the engine and radioed her takeoff to the air traffic control tower while Lincoln fastened his harness. They bowed their heads for a quick moment, asking for God's hedge of protection to surround them, just as they did before every takeoff. Brannon whispered an additional prayer of protection for those in the Bell.

The rotor engine hummed as Brannon blew on her hands to warm them, refusing to lose the
feel
of her controls by wearing gloves. With the helicopter light on the skids, Brannon increased the Dolphin's power to a forty-knot pitch altitude. During takeoff she pulled the collective until she reached the power setting of just below maximum. She made a quick jab with the left pedal, and the helicopter lifted into the air.

“Where are we headed first?” Lincoln asked over the headset.

“Toward Clingmans Dome. If that pilot shifted to avoid the worst of the weather, he'd adjust to the west of the direct path. I want to try and raise him on the pilot-to-pilot comm.” She pushed the cyclic, shoving the helicopter into a hammerhead turn. Her sense of control surged, and she smiled into the darkness.

“Man, this blizzard's nasty. Haven't seen this much of a mess in years.”

“Mmm.” In the shroud of night, with the weather moving in so, she would have to fly by the gauges. Brannon squinted to make out the crests of the mountains below them. Wind rocked the aircraft, blowing snow at them from all directions, like flying inside a blender set on puree. The
ting-ting
of the sleet hitting the windshield competed against the whirring of the rotor blades.

“And the bad stuff hasn't even gotten here yet.” Lincoln rubbed his gloved hands together.

Brannon sighed, her breath making puffs in the frosty air. “I hope that pilot has some type of training in weather like this.”
Please, God, let him have had some.

“Don't all you pilots have to?”

“In flight school, yeah, but let's be honest, it depends on where you fly the majority of the time. Most who aren't flying in this stuff all the time forget how to do it.”

“Use it or lose it?”

She nodded. “Something like that.” She pressed the radio trigger on the cyclic with her right index finger, opening the general channel in her headset. “RCM986 to Bell pilot bearing into GSM.”

Static snuggled against her ear, comforting her. At least the radio worked in the Dolphin.

“RCM986 to pilot bearing into GSM, come in Bell pilot.”

“RCM986 this is Knoxville ATC.”

“Knoxville ATC, I'm in flight to intercept Bell206B3 helicopter flying in direct line of blizzard. Over.”

“ATC has lost radio contact with the aircraft. Can you raise on pilot-to-pilot comm? Over.”

“What's his call sign?”

“Call sign is 121MCE.”

“Stand by, Knoxville ATC.” Brannon hit the trigger again to access the pilot-to-pilot comm, then cringed as the channel change squealed over her headset. “RCM986 GSMNPS calling 121MCE.” She paused a moment. “Calling Bell 121MCE, come in.”

Another squeal erupted over her headset, then a static-filled response. “121MCE here.”

Brannon let out a long breath. “What are your coordinates?”

Lincoln switched on his direct light before jotting the numbers in his spiral notebook as the pilot spouted them off.

“Stand by, please. Notifying Knoxville ATC of your location.” She triggered the channel back to the main frequency, reported the Bell's coordinates to the air traffic controller, and waited for their message to the pilot. Brannon glanced down at her own coordinates and calculated that she could reach the other helicopter within thirty minutes. Would that be enough time?

“Knoxville ATC, please stand by. Contacting 121MCE for status report. Over.” Brannon clicked the channel trigger. “RCM986 hailing 121MCE.”

“121MCE here. Go ahead.” The static over the connection had decreased.

“How're you doing in the weather?” Brannon pressed her lips together as she awaited his response.

“Weather is brutal. Zero visibility and high winds. I've never seen anything like it. We don't get much weather in North Carolina. Not like this.”

A chill that had nothing to do with the weather seeped into her. “How's your craft handling?”