Harmful Intent (44 page)

With her free hand Kelly put the car in drive and floored the accelerator. She clutched the steering wheel as she felt herself being dragged sideways by the brute at her door. Her car shot forward, missing the car directly in front by inches. Kelly threw the steering wheel to the left, grazing her open door on the parked cars on the opposite side of the street. The man who'd had her by the arm only moments before shouted in pain as he was crushed between a parked automobile and Kelly's flailing door.

Kelly kept the accelerator floored. She plummeted down Garden Street with her door still open. She stomped on the brake just in time to avoid a half dozen pedestrians crossing at the busy intersection of Garden and Cambridge streets. The people scattered as Kelly's car careened sideways with a screech of rubber, missing a few by inches.

Kelly closed her eyes, expecting the worst. When she opened them, she'd stopped, but the car had swung in a one-hundred-eighty-degree turn. She was pointed the wrong way up Cambridge Street, facing a line of angry motorists. Some had already gotten out of their cars and were approaching. Kelly put her car in reverse and, arcing around, was able to turn back in the right direction. It was then she saw the black Lincoln flying down Garden Street, to fall in directly behind her. The car was on her tail, inches from her rear bumper.

Kelly decided her only hope was to lose the big Lincoln in the tiny streets of Beacon Hill, where her little Honda would be more maneuverable. She took the next left off Cambridge Street. In making the turn, she inadvertently cut across the curb, hitting a refuse container. Her door swung open widely, then slammed shut. Kelly accelerated up the hill. At the top she braked enough to make a left-hand turn onto narrow Myrtle
Street. Looking in her rearview mirror, she could tell that her ploy was already working. The Lincoln had dropped behind. It was too big to negotiate so sharp a turn at so high a speed.

Having lived in Beacon Hill for a number of years before she was married, Kelly was well acquainted with the labyrinth of narrow one-way streets. Turning right against the traffic on one-way Joy Street, Kelly took a gamble that she could reach Mount Vernon. At Mount Vernon, she took another right and headed down the hill toward Charles. Kelly's plan was to shoot through Louisburg Square, then disappear against traffic up Pinckney. But after braking for the square, she saw that both roadways were temporarily blocked, one with a taxi, the other with a car discharging a passenger.

Changing her mind, Kelly continued down Mount Vernon. But the pause had cost her. In her rearview mirror, she saw that the Lincoln was back on her tail. Looking ahead, Kelly saw she would not make the green at Charles Street. She turned left at West Cedar instead.

Turning right on Chestnut Street, Kelly accelerated. The light ahead at Charles turned yellow, but she didn't slow. Shooting out into the intersection, she saw a taxi coming at her from her right. The driver was running the lights. Kelly braked and threw the wheel to her left, sending her car into another skid. Instead of a direct collision, Kelly was jolted by a mere glancing blow. Her engine didn't even stall.

Kelly didn't stop even as the cabbie leaped from his vehicle, waving an angry fist and screaming at her. Continuing down Chestnut, she got to Brimmer and turned left. As she was turning she caught a glimpse of the Lincoln detouring around the stalled taxi.

Kelly felt a stab of panic. Her ploy wasn't working as she'd hoped. The Lincoln was staying with her. The driver seemed to know Beacon Hill.

Kelly realized she had to think of something out of the ordinary. She turned left onto Byron Street, then left again into the Brimmer Street parking garage. She drove past the attendant's glass booth, veered sharply to the right, and drove directly onto an auto elevator.

The two attendants who'd stood and watched dumbfounded as she drove by came running onto the elevator. Before they could speak, she yelled: “I'm being chased by a man in a black Lincoln. You've got to help me! He wants to kill me!”

The two attendants looked blankly at each other. One raised
his eyebrows, the other shrugged and got off the elevator. The one who stayed on reached up and pulled the cord. The elevator doors scraped together like the upper and lower jaws of a huge mouth. The elevator rose with a groan.

The attendant walked back and bent down at Kelly's window. “How come somebody wants to kill you?” he asked calmly.

“You wouldn't believe it if I told you,” Kelly said. “What about your friend? Will he put the man off if he comes into the garage?”

“I guess so,” the attendant said. “It's not every night we get to rescue a lady in distress.”

Kelly closed her eyes in relief, leaning her forehead on the steering wheel.

“What's wrong with the guy on the floor of the backseat?” the attendant asked.

Kelly didn't open her eyes. “Drunk,” she said simply. “Too many margaritas.”

 

When Frank called the second time, he had to wait while Matt went through the same rigmarole of changing phones. Frank was sitting in his own home at the time and the line was considerably better than when he'd called from the car phone.

“More trouble?” Matt asked. “You're not impressing me, Frank.”

“There's no way we could have anticipated what happened,” Frank said. “When Nicky and I got to Trent's apartment, the doctor was in there.”

“What about the stuff in the cabinet?” Matt demanded.

“No problem,” Frank said. “It was there, not disturbed.”

“Did you get the doctor?”

“That was the problem,” Frank said. “We chased him all over Beacon Hill. But we got him.”

“Terrific!” Matt said.

“Not completely. We lost him again. We drugged him with the stuff you sent in the plane, and it worked like a charm. Then we loaded him into my car while we went up to take care of the apartment and get the stuff you wanted. We thought, why make two trips to Logan? Anyhow, the guy's girlfriend came along and broke into my car. Smashed the goddamn window with a brick. Naturally, we ran down the stairs to stop her, but the kid's apartment was on the fifth floor. Nicky, one of my associates, ran out into the street to stop her but she pulled away
before he could. Broke Nicky's arm. I chased her by car, but I lost her.”

“What about the apartment?”

“No problem there,” Frank said. “I went back and trashed it, and I put the stuff you wanted on the plane. So everything is done except I don't have the doctor. But I think I can get him if you use some of your influence. I got the girlfriend's license number. Think you could get me her name and address?”

“That shouldn't be any trouble,” Matt said. “I'll call you with it tomorrow, first thing.”

Jeffrey regained consciousness in stages, remembering weird and wild dreams. His throat was so parched it hurt as he breathed, and he found it difficult to swallow. His body felt heavy and stiff. He opened his eyes and began to take a look around to get his bearings. He was in a strange room with blue walls. Then he noticed the IV. With a start, he checked his left hand. Whatever had happened the night before, he'd wound up on intravenous!

As his mind began to clear, Jeffrey rolled over. Morning sunlight was streaming in through the blinds of his window. Beside him was a bedside table with a pitcher and a glass. Greedily, Jeffrey took a drink.

Sitting up, he surveyed the room. It was a hospital room, complete with the usual metal bureau, the track for the curtain on the ceiling above the bed, and in the corner, an uncomfortable-looking vinyl-covered armchair. In the chair was Kelly. She was curled up and fast asleep. One arm hung off the chair at an angle. Below her hand was a newspaper on the floor that appeared to have fallen from her grasp.

Jeffrey swung his legs over the side of the bed, planning on getting up and going to Kelly, but the IV restrained him. Looking behind him, he noticed it was sterile water and barely running.

With a jolt, Jeffrey suddenly remembered his flight from the men in Beacon Hill. His terror came back with astonishing clarity. He remembered being pressed against the door to the Church of the Advent, a gun pointed to his head. Then he'd been injected in the back of his thigh. That was all he could recall. From that moment on, his mind was a total blank.

“Kelly,” Jeffrey called softly. Kelly murmured but didn't wake. “Kelly!” Jeffrey called more loudly.

Kelly's eyes fluttered open. She blinked a few times, then leaped from her chair and rushed to Jeffrey. She grasped him by both shoulders and stared into his face. “Oh, Jeffrey, thank God you're all right. How do you feel?”

“Fine,” Jeffrey said. “I'm fine.”

“Last night I was terrified. I had no idea what they had given you.”

“Where am I?” Jeffrey asked.

“St. Joe's. I didn't know what to do. I brought you here to the emergency room. I was afraid something would happen to you, like you'd have trouble breathing.”

“And they admitted me without asking questions?”

“I improvised. I said you were my brother from out of town. No one questioned it. I know everybody in the ER, both doctors and nurses. I emptied your pockets, including your wallet. There was no problem, except when the lab said you'd taken ketamine. I had to improvise some more. I had to tell them you're an anesthesiologist.”

“What the hell happened last night?” Jeffrey asked. “How did I end up with you?”

“It was just a bit of luck,” Kelly said. Sitting on the edge of Jeffrey's bed, Kelly told him everything that had happened from the moment he'd disappeared into Trent's building until she pulled into St. Joe's emergency.

Jeffrey shuddered. “Oh, Kelly, I never should have gotten you involved. I don't know what possessed me . . . .” His voice trailed off.

“I got myself involved,” Kelly said. “But that's not important. The important thing is, we're both all right. How did you make out in Harding's apartment?”

“Fine, before they surprised me,” Jeffrey said. “I found what we've been looking for. I stumbled onto a secret stash of Marcaine, syringes, a lot of cash, and the toxin. They were tucked in a false back to a kitchen cabinet. There's no doubt about our suspicions about Trent Harding now. It's the evidence we've been hoping for.”

“Cash?” Kelly said.

“I know exactly what you're thinking,” Jeffrey said. “As soon as I saw the money, I thought of your conspiracy theory. Harding had to be working for someone. God! I wish he weren't dead. At this point he could probably solve everything. Give me back my old life.” Jeffrey shook his head. “We'll just have to
work with what we've got. It could be better, but it's already been worse.”

“What's our next move?”

“We'll go to Randolph Bingham and tell him the whole story. He's got to get the police up to Trent's apartment. We'll let them worry about the conspiracy aspect.”

Swinging over to the other side of the bed, where the IV was hung, Jeffrey put his feet on the floor and stood up. He was dizzy for a moment as he fumbled to hold his johnny to his body. It wasn't tied in the back. Seeing him wobble, Kelly came around the bed and gave him a steadying hand.

Regaining his balance, Jeffrey looked at Kelly and said, “I'm beginning to think that I need you around all the time.”

“I think we need each other,” Kelly said.

Jeffrey could only smile and shake his head. It was his opinion that Kelly needed him about as much as she needed to be run over by a truck. Hadn't he brought her nothing but trouble? He only hoped he'd be able to make it up to her.

“Where are my clothes?” Jeffrey asked.

Kelly stepped over to the closet. She opened the door. Jeffrey untaped the IV and removed it with a wince. Then he joined Kelly. She handed him his clothes.

“My duffel bag!” Jeffrey said with surprise. It was hanging on one of the hooks in the closet.

“I went home early this morning,” Kelly said. “I got clothes for myself, fed the cats, and got your duffel bag.”

“Going home was taking a chance,” Jeffrey said. “What about Devlin? Was there anyone there watching the house?”

“I thought about that,” Kelly said. “But when I got the paper early this morning, I felt it would be okay.” She walked over to get the
Globe
on the floor by the chair. Carrying it back, she pointed at a small cover story of the Metro section.

Taking the newspaper from her, Jeffrey read a description of the incident at the Hatch Shell. It reported that a nurse recently employed at St. Joseph's Hospital had been gunned down by a reputed underworld crime figure, Tony Marcello. A former Boston police officer, Devlin O'Shea, had shot and killed the assailant but had been critically wounded in an ensuing gun battle. Devlin had been admitted to Boston Memorial Hospital and was reputed to be in stable condition. It went on to say that the Boston police were investigating the incident, which they believed to have been drug-related.

Putting the paper on the bed, Jeffrey took Kelly in his arms
and hugged her. “I'm truly sorry for putting you through all this,” he said. “But I think we're close to the end.”

Relaxing his grip, Jeffrey leaned back and said, “Let's get to Randolph's. Then we'll see if we can't get away. Drive to Canada, then fly to someplace quiet while a real investigation goes on.”

“I don't know if I can leave,” Kelly said. “When I was home I realized Delilah's close to term.”

Jeffrey stared at Kelly in disbelief. “You'd stay behind because of a cat?”

“Well, I can't just leave her in my pantry,” Kelly said. “She's due any day.”

Jeffrey recognized how attached she was to her cats. “Okay, okay,” he said, quickly giving in. “We'll think of something. Right now we have to get to Randolph's. What do we have to do to get me out of here? And maybe you'd better let me know my name.”

“You're Richard Widdicomb,” Kelly told him. “Wait here. I'll go out to the nurse's desk and get things squared away.”

When Kelly left, Jeffrey finished dressing. Except for a dull headache, he felt fine. He wondered how much ketamine they'd injected him with. With as deep a sleep as he'd had, he wondered if there could have been something like Innovar mixed in.

Opening the duffel bag, Jeffrey found his toilet articles, some clean underclothes, the money, a number of pages of handwritten notes he'd made at the library, the information pages he'd copied from the defendant/plaintiff file at the courthouse, his wallet, and a small black book.

He put the wallet in his pocket and picked up the black book. He opened it and, for a few moments, couldn't figure out why it was in his duffel bag. It was clearly an address book, but it didn't belong to him.

Kelly came back with a resident physician in tow. “This is Dr. Sean Apple,” she said. “He has to check you before you can sign out.”

Jeffrey allowed the young doctor to listen to his chest, take his blood pressure, and do a cursory neurological exam which included Jeffrey walking a straight line across the room, putting one foot directly in front of the other.

While the doctor was examining him, Jeffrey asked Kelly about the black book.

“It was in your pocket,” Kelly said.

Jeffrey stayed quiet until after Dr. Apple had declared Jeffrey fit to leave and walked out of the room.

“This book isn't mine,” Jeffrey said, holding the address book aloft. Then he remembered. It was Trent Harding's address book. With all that had happened, it had slipped his mind. He told Kelly, and together they glanced through a few pages.

“This might be important,” Jeffrey said. “We can give it to Randolph.” Jeffrey slipped it into his pocket. “Are we ready?”

“You'll have to sign out at the nurse's desk,” Kelly said. “Remember, you're Richard Widdicomb.”

Leaving the hospital was as uneventful as Jeffrey could have hoped. He carried his duffel bag over his shoulder. Kelly also carried a small bag with her things in it. They got in her car. Jeffrey began to give her directions once she'd pulled out of the lot. He'd gotten her halfway to Randolph's office when he suddenly turned to her. The look on his face immediately frightened her.

“What's the matter?” she asked.

“You said those men went back into Trent's apartment after they dumped me in their car?” Jeffrey asked.

“I don't know if they went into his apartment, but they went back into his building.”

“Oh, God!” Jeffrey said. He turned to face forward. “The reason they got in so easily when I was there was because they had keys. Obviously they were going in there for something specific.”

Jeffrey turned back to Kelly. “We have to go to Garden Street first,” he said.

“We're not going back to Trent's apartment?” Kelly couldn't believe it.

“We have to. We have to be sure the toxin and the Marcaine are still there. If they're not, we're back to square one.”

“Jeffrey, no!” Kelly cried. She couldn't believe he wanted to go back a third time. Every time they'd gone, they'd encountered a new danger. But Kelly had come to know Jeffrey only too well. She knew there'd be no talking him out of yet another illicit visit. Without another word of protest, she simply headed for Garden Street.

“It's the only way,” Jeffrey said, as much to convince himself as to convince Kelly.

Kelly parked a few doors down from the yellow brick building. The two of them just sat there for a few moments, collecting their thoughts.

“Is the window still open?” Jeffrey asked. He scanned the area
to see if there were any people watching the building or who looked in any way out of place. Now he was worried about the police.

“The window's still open,” Kelly said.

Jeffrey started to say he'd be back in two minutes, but Kelly cut him off. “I'm not waiting down here,” she said in a tone that said there'd be no discussion.

Without a word, Jeffrey nodded.

They went through the front door, then through the inner door. The building was eerily quiet until they reached the third floor. Through a closed door they could just barely hear the crashing mayhem of Saturday morning cartoons.

Arriving on the fifth floor, Jeffrey motioned Kelly to be as quiet as possible. Harding's door was ajar. Jeffrey moved over beside the door and listened. All he could hear were sounds of the city coming through the open window.

Jeffrey pushed the door farther open. The scene that greeted his eyes was not encouraging. The apartment was worse than ever, much worse. It had been torn apart. Everything had been rudely dumped into the center of the room. All the drawers from the desk had been removed.

“Damn!” Jeffrey whispered. Stepping inside, he rushed to the kitchen. Kelly stayed at the doorway, surveying the debris.

Jeffrey was back in a second. Kelly didn't have to ask; his face reflected what he'd found. “It's all gone,” he said, close to tears. “Even the false back to the cabinet is gone.”

“What are we going to do?” Kelly asked, putting a consoling hand on his arm.

Jeffrey ran his fingers through his hair. He choked back tears. “I don't know,” he said. “With Harding dead and his apartment cleaned . . .” He couldn't continue.

“We can't give up now,” Kelly said. “What about Henry Noble, Chris's patient? You said that the toxin might be in his gallbladder.”

“But that was two years ago.”

“Wait a minute,” Kelly said. “Last time we talked about this, you were convincing me. You sounded hopeful. What happened to your statement that we have to work with what we have?”

“You're right,” Jeffrey agreed, attempting to get control of himself. “There's a chance. We'll go to the Medical Examiner's office. I think it's time we told Warren Seibert the whole story.”

Kelly drove them to the city morgue.

“Think Dr. Seibert will be here on a Saturday morning?” Kelly asked as they alighted from the car.

“He said when they were busy they worked pretty much every day,” Jeffrey answered, holding the morgue's front door for her.

Kelly eyed the Egyptian motifs in the entrance hall. “Reminds me of
Tales from the Crypt,
” she said.

The main office door was closed and locked. The place looked deserted. Jeffrey led Kelly around to the stairway to the second floor.

“There's a strange smell in here,” Kelly complained.

“This is nothing,” Jeffrey said. “Wait until we get upstairs.”

By the time they reached the second floor, they still hadn't seen a soul. The door to the autopsy room was open, but it was devoid of people, alive or deceased. The smell wasn't nearly as bad as it had been on Jeffrey's initial visit. Turning down the hall, they passed the dusty library. Peering into Dr. Seibert's office, they discovered him hunched over his desk, a large coffee mug at his side, a stack of autopsy reports in front of him.