Ill Will (44 page)

Madeline left first, in the sedate sedan. She would be the least suspicious and could watch who entered the building. She would report back to Rafe.

He was smart, I had to admit. Older women can be invisible. Alpha males like Grant Walters often overlook those they have dismissed as being weaker and not worthy opponents. Like women—especially older women. Or sick women. He had treated Debbie as if he had nothing to fear from her—of course, I had played her that way.

Rafe, Joe, and Steve left. They would pick up another car so they could split up, with Steve in one car and Rafe and Joe in the SUV with the monitoring equipment. We decided that if they needed to talk to me, they’d call my cell phone—it might be safer than giving me the kind of equipment that Debbie would be unlikely to have. With the wire on, they’d hear everything I said.

Gem stayed behind in case we needed any help with the wires. I got the watch and Cordelia had a camera hidden in a big, frumpy brown bag that they provided for her. It had a hidden compartment. The camera eye was where the strap joined the purse, so she had to  try to remember to keep that side facing front.

Then it was show time.

Gem left before us, saying we should give her about five minutes to get away.

I looked at Cordelia, desperately wanting to say,
No, we can’t do this, let’s call it off now.

But she smiled at me. “Maybe this can be a new career for me.” She looked at herself in the mirror, the frumpy clothes, the cheap (looking—I’m sure the camera rig cost a pretty penny) plastic bag. At a first glance I might not have recognized her. Seeing the look on my face, she said, “It’ll be okay. At the moment, I’m not a sick person, and that means a lot to me.”

I could only nod. I leaned down to pet Rook, the closest cat, took her hand, and headed for the door.

We took my car, since they might have seen me as Debbie in it.

The rain had started, a steady drizzle that slicked the streets and bent the lights into fractured diamonds.

If Cordelia was scared or nervous, she didn’t show it. Perhaps she felt she couldn’t, that I would take it as a sign not to do this.

Or maybe she meant what she said—for the moment she wasn’t a sick person, and the chance to escape that small world was worth the risk.

We said little, mostly my mutterings about the traffic, but this late on a Sunday evening, it was fairly light.

Once we left the interstate, there were few cars. Those few dwindled until ours were the only headlights as we got closer.

“They picked the middle of nowhere, didn’t they?” she commented.

“This used to be a busy commercial area. Maybe someday it will come back,” I said. But now it was desolate, few lights shining, no traffic. All the better to conduct an illegal operation with no one around to see you.

I had deliberately taken an earlier exit from the freeway. I wanted to come from the back of the building, to get one last chance to scope it out.

“There it is, that big monolith ahead,” I said.

“It looks dark. Maybe they’re not here.”

But then I saw a glow from the far third floor. They had the windows covered, so little light slipped out, to make the building seem empty and unoccupied. I pointed it out to her.

“They’re making cancer patients walk to the third floor?”

“They’re not nice people.”

As I turned onto the street that ran in front of it, I scanned the area for Rafe. Jen’s silver sedan was visible pulled into a driveway a block away. I couldn’t see the others. Nor could I do more than a quick scan. Debbie wouldn’t case the neighborhood. I’d have to trust that they were there.

I pulled in front and parked. It was 8:55. My cell phone rang. Unknown number. I answered it with a cautious “Hello?”

“Rafe. Just checking in. We’re all in place. Maddie saw three cars arrive, a big black SUV, a red sports car, and a small truck. Plus one small sedan was here. We think there are probably about four people in there. One of the plates matches Grant’s car, so be careful. Test your wire now.”

“Beautiful night for a drive,” I said, resisting the urge to talk to my watch.

“Perfect. You’re loud and clear and we have a great shot of your glove compartment.” He added, “Good luck. See you on the other side.”

I put my phone away. I pulled Cordelia to me—I couldn’t kiss her; we were sisters—and silently held her for a second. Everything we did now would be watched and heard.

“Let’s roll,” she said quietly.

We got out of the car. I hadn’t brought an umbrella, so we had to ignore the rain. I led the way to the opening in the chain link fence, then took her elbow to guide her over the weed-strewn asphalt to the building, the wet slickness making it even more treacherous. I wanted to take off my jacket and hold it over her, but couldn’t because of the gun.

We stood for a moment under the portico, shaking the water off and letting out eyes adjust.

As before, the door outline was almost invisible in the dark. I felt against the wall until my hand bumped against the frame. I hesitated for a second. This was the last moment to turn back. Then I knocked.

The door was thrust open, the light blinding.

“Hey, Debbie, I didn’t expect to see you here,” a male voice said.

I squinted at the light, searching my brain for the voice.

Vincent.

Grant Walters had sucked him into the criminal side. I wondered if he even knew.

“Hi, I didn’t expect to see you here, either,” I managed to get out.
Keep up the façade
. “This is my sister, CJ. I’m here with her. I mean Donna, that’s her given name. CJ is just a nickname,” I covered. The fourth nickname, the one I forgot to mention.

We came in from the rain. The lights were harsh fluorescents, hidden from the outside by windows covered with boards.

“Hi, CJ, pleased to meet you,” he said, sticking out a hand.

Cordelia gave him a weak smile and gingerly put out her hand as if she was weak and movement was hard.

At least I hoped she was pretending. No, I reminded myself, she hadn’t been like this walking here from the car.

“What are you doing here?” I asked him.

“Mr. Walters asked me to help. I was so excited to hear about this project.” Vincent’s puppy-dog eyes sparked.

“But why? This is…kind of irregular,” I said.

“You’re here, right? Because it’s so important that we help people.”

“Vinnie? Who are you talking to?” A woman entered through a door behind Vincent.

“This is Debbie and her sister, CJ. They’re here for the nine p.m. appointment.”

The woman gave us a quick once-over. She was probably in her late thirties or early forties. The lines had settled in her face from long-ago days in the sun, her hair streaked blond as if she missed those days. She seemed neither happy nor sad to be here, none of the excitement for working for a cause like Vincent. If anything, a weary resignation that this was where life had brought her. Her voice sounded vaguely like the woman who had called to set up this appointment. Walters would want to keep his operation lean.

“What’s your diagnosis?” she demanded of Cordelia.

“Aggressive NHL, non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, stage three, involvement of lymph nodes in the neck and groin.”

You’re not a doctor
, I said silently,
but a patient.
She didn’t go on.

“Take off your head scarf,” the woman ordered.

Tentatively, as if embarrassed, Cordelia removed it, bending slightly so the woman could clearly see her ragged, patchy hair.

“How are they treating you?” the woman asked.

Cordelia put her scarf back on before answering, “CHOP.”

“Which is?”

“Some chemotherapy drugs: cyclophosphamide, hydroxydauno-rubicin, Oncovin, and prednisone.” She caught herself and added, “I was stuck waiting for a long time, so I occupied myself with learning the names.”

I let out the breath I was holding.

The woman’s face was blank. She didn’t have a clue what Cordelia was talking about.

But that seemed to do the trick. Cordelia had used enough medical jargon—plus the hair loss and sallow skin—to pass whatever test they used.

“Come with me,” the woman said. I started to follow and she said, “Just her, not you.”

“Why can’t I come with her?” I asked, trying to keep the demand out of my voice.

“It’s the way we do things. She comes alone or you leave together.”

“It won’t take long,” Cordelia said, managing a wan smile for me.

“But I promised I would be with her the entire time,” I said. I couldn’t let her go off without me. And my gun and my wire.

“She has to come alone. We never allow family,” the woman replied.

“It won’t be too long,” Vincent added. “I’ll keep you company.”

“I’ll be okay,” Cordelia said.

There was nothing I could do except watch as she trailed behind the woman.

The door thudded shut.

“It’s good to see you again,” Vincent said.

Shut the fuck up
, I thought. I managed to say, “What happens now? Where are you taking C.J.?”

“She’ll be checked out.”

“Checked out by whom?”

“We have a doctor who works with us. Guess he wants to really save lives as well. He’s a really nice guy.”

“So, is that why this is important to you?”

“Government runs health care for a small bunch of people; the big drug companies, that sort of stuff. They know there are cures out there, but they don’t want anyone else to know about them. But it’s important to get those cures to the people.”

“You’re here to help people?” I prompted.

Vincent needed little encouragement. He was happy to talk about his latest fixation. “Yes, I was thrilled when Mr. Walters told me about this, that we could do more than just help with the little trickle they allow from places like Nature’s Beautiful Gift. This is real, makes a real difference.”

“How do you know it works?”

“Of course it works. The doctor explained it to me, but he used a bunch of technical terms and I didn’t really understand.”

“What kind of doctor is he?” I asked.

“Someone who truly wants to help people, not just make money. Hell, he could lose his license for doing this. He says it works and I trust him. Plus one of my friends used it. He wasn’t doing so well, and he talked to me and it turned out his doctor is our doctor, so he got on it and the last I talked to him he said it made him feel great.”

“What was wrong with him?” I didn’t think I was going to like the answer.

“Sickle-cell anemia. It’s a bitch—I mean, not nice—disease. We used to hang out all the time until he got too sick. Two days after he stared on The Cure, we met for a drink and he told me how much energy he had.”

“How long ago was that?”

“About…a couple of months ago.”

“How’s he doing now?”

“Now? Fine, I guess.”

“You haven’t talked to him lately?”

“Nah, I figured old Reg was busy, probably had a new girlfriend.”

“Can you do me a big favor? Can you call him and see how he’s doing? I really want to be able to tell my sister how great this stuff is. He can say he’s been on it for a few months and it’s going great. It was hard to scrape together the money.”

He glanced at his watch. It was about 9:15. “Um, sure. I’ll do that right now.”

I wondered what he would do when he discovered that no one answered.

Vincent moved to the far side of the room to make his call. As he started to dial, I pulled out my cell phone. I called the McConkles. I turned from Vincent, hoping that between his call and keeping my voice quiet, he wouldn’t catch what I was doing.

Donna answered.

“Hi, sorry to bother you so late,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t have to identify myself. “I’ve stumbled over something and might have news for you soon. But that house you worked on? The one out in Old Metairie? What’s the owner’s name?”

On the far side of the room, I heard Vincent leaving a message, asking his friend to call him back as soon as possible.

“Just a sec,” Donna said. I heard her calling to Fletcher, asking him my question.

She came back on the line. “Brandon Kellogg.”

“Thanks.” I hung up.

Brandon lived just across the street from Grant Walters. Fletcher had mentioned him owning lots of sports cars. Red, like the ones I had seen. He would know Cordelia was not a desperate believer in a miracle cure.

“I couldn’t get hold of him,” Vincent said.

I had to get to her.

“You won’t. Reginald Banks is dead.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

I might be able to convince him that he was being used, on the side of the killers, not the savers, but could see no way to do it quickly enough to save Cordelia. I had been so right when I’d tagged Vincent as collateral damage.

I kicked him as hard as I could in the balls.