NANOVISION: What Would You Do With X-ray Vision? (4 page)

Breaking away,
David headed for the recovery room, leaving Judy and the doctor behind. It was
Judy’s chance to learn more about Daniel’s condition and she seized the
opportunity.

“Doctor, can I
buy you a cup of coffee?”

“Best offer I’ve
had all night,” replied the doctor. “EDR okay? I’m still on call.”

“Sure.”

Taking the lead,
the doctor led Judy out of the waiting room and into the hallway. “You’ll be surprised
to know,” he said, strolling down the corridor with her, “that they make a good
brew here... probably a lot better than what you’ve been drinking. And the
apple pie is out of this world.”

“Something to eat
sounds good,” echoed Judy. “I’m famished.”

Over pie and
coffee, Judy filled Dr. Robert Anderson in on the situation facing Daniel and
why she was concerned.

“I want to
apologize for all the cloak and dagger,” she confided to the surgeon. “There’s
a lot of speculation about what we’re dealing with and we have a strong reason
to believe the boy’s life is in serious danger.”

“Something to do
with organized crime?” queried the doctor.

Judy nodded. “You
might say that, Robert... May I call you Robert?”

Dr. Anderson
nodded. “Of course.”

“Robert, I want
to thank you for all that you’ve done here tonight. But I need to caution you.
If Daniel survives the night he will not be out of the woods. And I was serious
about getting him away from here as soon as possible.”

“I understand,”
replied Robert. “But moving him out of this hospital is out of the question
until he stabilizes. And that may be days, even weeks.”

“Okay,” Judy
noted with resignation. “But one last thing. I have to ask... please do not
speak of this case to anyone. And that goes for your staff as well. No one
discusses anything about this boy, not to family, friends, or even other
hospital staff−no one.”

Dr. Anderson
nodded in affirmation.

*    *    *    *

Three days after
the hit on Steven Raye, a shiny, freshly washed Chevy Impala made its way down
the Boulder Highway in Las Vegas. When it reached the entrance for Sam’s Town
Casino it turned in and made its way to the east parking garage. On the fifth
floor of the garage, it pulled into a vacant stall and parked. A moment later a
door opened and Mickey, ‘the Spoon’ got out. He looked nervous.

Mickey lit a
cigarette and surveyed the garage floor. It was noon and the place was empty
except for a few cars parked randomly here and there. He took a drag off his
smoke and adjusted his suit jacket. The heat inside the concrete parking tomb
was already stifling. There was a noise−the squeal of rubber. A car was
making its way up the ramp. A minute later a dark-grey stretch Mercedes with
tinted windows came into view. It rounded the corner and pulled up to him and
stopped. Mickey heard the sound of door locks. He threw his smoke on the
ground, crushed it with his shoe, and got in. As he sat down and closed the
door the car moved forward−the doors locking automatically.

The interior of
the Mercedes was dark, with an opaque partition separating the front from the
back. Another one ran down the center, effectively cutting the car in half.
From where he sat, Mickey couldn’t see the other side. It was a weird set up,
but one reflective of his boss, Benny Marcos. The man, well, he had his
idiosyncrasies. On first appearance Mickey felt he was alone, with the
exception of the driver, but he wasn’t sure. His orders were to meet the car.
He had no idea where he was going, or what was going to happen; and the barrier
isolating him, well that was something he didn’t want to breach unless invited.
Mickey looked around, glancing momentarily at the small TV that was playing on
the overhead console in front of him. The afternoon news was on−channel
8. He couldn’t hear anything, the sound was muted. He watched the news
commentator on the screen mouthing her words in silence. Suddenly, the
partition dividing the car began to separate; opening the other side to his
view and out of the darkness an unfriendly voice broke the silence.

“So Mickey, what
the fuck gives?” it asked.

Mickey turned to
see a man sitting about four feet back in the corner of the rear seat, a cigar
burning in his hand−it was Benny. Mickey’s mouth felt dry. There weren’t
many men who scared him, but Benny Marcos wasn’t just anyone and Mickey knew he
was in trouble. Amends needed to be made.

“Mr. Marcos,”
Mickey began to purge. “Aye know yur upset, but aye swear to God. On me
mother’s grave, aye was sure the boy died with his father. We tied ‘im to a chair
before the ‘ouse blew. Sid and Bruno were there. Aye don’t know ‘ow ‘e made
it... we all saw the ‘ouse blow into a million pieces.”

Benny was
hot−and from out of the darkness he thrust his cigar at Mickey like it
was a dagger, jabbing it repeatedly at him. “You fuckin’ dip shit,” he
excoriated. “Do you think I give a rat’s ass about your excuses? Listen, you
stupid cock. The kid’s alive and that means he can finger you and maybe me.”

“Mr. Marcos, aye
won’t let that ‘appen. Aye promise. Aye’ve got people checking on things...”

“And I’ve got
people checking on me, asshole. My gaming license is up for final review, the
fed’s are hounding me about title thirty-one infractions, and now I’ve got to
deal with your shit because you can’t keep your people under wraps. Understand
my friend; this whole thing has got the boys in Chicago nervous. You brought a
lot of heat down on us. For what? Because you lost control. Well, you better
get things under control you Scottish prick or else... that kid don’t talk,
capeech?”

“Yeah, Boss...
Aye’ll see too...”

Mickey stopped in
mid-sentence. His eye caught something on the TV screen−the picture of
Daniel Raye. Benny took notice as well. He grabbed the remote off the seat and
turned up the volume. The two listened to the breaking news.

“... we have just
received word that Daniel Raye, the young Pahrump High junior hospitalized
three days ago, passed away this morning from the injuries he sustained in the
explosion of his home. A memorial service will be held at the high school next
week according to the school’s principal, Blake Edwards. The Nye County
Sheriff’s office says the explosion and fire are still under investigation. In
other news...”

Benny clicked off
the TV while Mickey sighed with relief.

“You got lucky
there you Scottish bag of shit,” Benny swore as he took a puff on his stogie.
“That kid dying probably saved your miserable, cock-suckin’ ass.”

Mickey nodded in
agreement. He knew only too well.

“I’ll let Chicago
know we’re in the clear,” mused the casino owner.

He flicked the
ash off his cigar into the ashtray next to him, then took another puff. The
next words he spoke were of direct warning to his lackey.

“But this’ll be
the last time, Mick. You ever fuck up a job like that again and I’ll personally
see to it that you’re fillet’d into tiny chunks and fed to the stripers in Lake
Mead. You understand me?” The cold, hard glare in his eye was unmistakable.

Mickey nodded in
silence as Benny hit a button on the door console. “Pull over,” he commanded
the driver. Almost immediately the car slowed, coming to a stop alongside the
road.

“Now get the fuck
outta my car you worthless piece of crap,” Benny ordered.

“Okay, Boss.”

Mickey opened the
door and jumped out of the car, his feet skidding on the asphalt. He heard the
car door slam behind him as Benny’s Mercedes peeled out, the tires pelting him
with small bits of gravel as it disappeared down the Boulder Highway. Relieved
to be alive instead of lying in a pool of blood somewhere in the desert, Mickey
took a quick look around. He was in the middle of nowhere, stranded on a
deserted strip of land halfway between Vegas and Henderson.

“Fock me,” he
swore aloud.

He took off his
coat and wiped his brow. It was bloody hot and he was beginning to sweat like a
wrung out sponge. Crossing the median to the other side of Boulder highway,
Mickey stuck out his thumb, and hitchhiked the five miles back to his car.

*    *    *    *

It was a moonless
night−3 AM, and the grounds surrounding Rose de Lima hospital were dark
with the exception of the accent lights illuminating the hospital. It was the
graveyard shift, the place was slow, and the number of hospital staff at a
minimum. At the rear of the hospital, carefully placed in strategic positions,
FBI agents watched the comings and goings of the few people who were working or
had business at the hospital. Their two-way radios crackled softly as they
maintained a secure perimeter stretching from the rear of the hospital to the
landing pad of the heliport−illuminated now by bright landing lights.
From his vantage point atop the hospital, David Hennings watched as a
helicopter began to descend toward the landing pad. He notified Judy.

“The bird is
circling,” he whispered into his radio.

“Copy that,” a
female voice responded in reply. “We’re ready.”

Inside the
morgue, a body lay upon a gurney covered by a sheet. To any passerby, it
appeared to be a deceased individual not yet in cold storage. However, that was
not the case. Aside from the IV tree next to the gurney holding fluids and
medicine, the body sported an oxygen mask and heart monitor and had two nurses
in attendance. In addition to the nurses, the body was being guarded by four
FBI agents including Judy Salinski and Mimi Atwater−another two agents
were out in the hallway guarding the elevator. All were in their assigned
positions with their weapons ready.

A voice crackled
over Mimi’s radio−it was David again. “The bird is in the nest,” he said.

“Copy that,”
responded Mimi. She waited for Judy’s signal.

Judy looked
around the room. “Everyone ready?” she asked.

“Let’s do it,”
someone replied−the others voiced their agreement.

“Let’s go, then,”
she ordered.       

Moving in unison,
the group moved toward the double doors of the morgue. Two agents took the lead
pushing open the doors as the nurses followed behind. They were pushing the
gurney, heart monitor and IV tree while Judy and Mimi brought up the rear.

As they entered
the hallway Mimi gave David the head’s up. “We’re moving,” she said.

From atop the
roof David caught Mimi’s notice. He set his radio down and picked up his rifle
glassing the parking lot through its scope.

 The plan for
moving Daniel Raye from Rose de Lima to another hospital went without a hitch.
The boy was flown by helicopter to McCarran airport and from there taken to
UCLA Medical Center in California. Though Judy’s plan was not without risk it
worked. Daniel arrived in an extremely weak, but stabilized condition, and was
given the best possible medical care. The toughest part of the whole plan was
convincing Dr. Anderson that there was no other option. Judy had to ply her
wiles to get the doctor to sign off on the plan.

 
*    *    *    *

For over four
weeks, Daniel Raye lay unconscious inside the UCLA medical center with IV’s and
tubes stuck everywhere. He was bandaged head to toe and weak, his body thirty
pounds underweight. Though the swelling in his brain was no longer an issue, he
was still a mess. His broken bones were still mending, and he was still under
the threat of infection from his burns, and his eyes−well that was
another story. Both eyes had suffered extensive damage from the fiery propane
blast and were now covered with layers of scar tissue.

During the time
that Daniel lay unconscious, he was guarded by the FBI. There was someone in
his room every day, including Judy Salinski. Though she couldn’t be there
twenty-four seven, she flew up on her days off and spent them with Daniel.
Those days were spent reading to the boy, helping with his care, and
encouraging him to get better. In the beginning it was touch and go, but as of
late he seemed to be improving and she felt that he responded when she came to
visit, that there was activity emanating from within him though nothing
definite. To her great delight, she was there when he finally awoke.

It was the first
week in July when Judy arrived at the hospital for her weekend visit with
Daniel. She parked her rental car and went immediately to Daniel’s room. When
she entered this time, she saw that the doctors had removed the bandages
covering his head. The boy had a fair amount of hair stubble which was
beginning to cover the surgery scars on his skull. He looked better, even the
burns on his face seemed improved, though his eyes were still bandaged. Leaning
over the bed, Judy gave Daniel a light kiss on the forehead and a cheery hello.
She then sat down and brought out the book she’d been reading to him−The
Hobbit, by J.R.R. Tolkien. She opened the book and began to read aloud, when to
her immense delight, the boy stirred.