Natural Causes (53 page)

“I need to reach Mr. Paris,” she told the operator. “This is Dr. Baldwin. It’s an emergency.”

“He’s in his office,” she said. “I just put a call through to him. In fact, he’s still talking.”

“Break in,” Sarah said.

In seconds, Glenn Paris came on the line. The moment she heard his voice, Sarah knew the nightmare was truly over. The last problem—the Chilton Building countdown—was under control. She gave him the briefest summary of what had transpired and asked him to send someone down to the Chilton subbasement with flashlights and a wire cutter.

“We’ll also need a stretcher for Dr. Blankenship,” she said. “And maybe one for Matt as well. I’m not sure he’ll be able to walk. And I think we’ll need an orthopedist. I don’t know how we’re going to get Eli up from where he is.”

“Don’t worry,” Paris said. “I’ll take care of everything. Just stay right where you are by the security gate. I’ll stop the countdown, and I’ll be down in a minute with help.”

“Thank you.”

“And Sarah—”

“Yes?”

“You’ve done a hell of a job.”

“Thank you, sir. Please hurry. There’s another problem going on right now with Annalee Ettinger. And to overcome it, I may need your help with Dr. Snyder.”

“We’ll be right there.”

Sarah sighed and sank to the floor. Her jeans and shirt were torn. Her face, legs, and arms were bleeding from dozens of scrapes and cuts. But far more painful to her than any of her injuries was Matt’s news about Rosa Suarez. Rosa had wanted so badly to have everything turn out all right.

Within minutes, Sarah heard footsteps hurrying toward her down the connecting tunnel. Moments later, Glenn Paris entered the Chilton cutoff. He smiled and waved the flashlights he had brought.

“Everything’s on hold up above,” he said breathlessly.
“Thank goodness you reached me. I was about to go out to the ceremonies.”

“Well, I was prepared to run across to the grandstand if I had to.”

Paris led her back into the stygian blackness of the Chilton subbasement.

“I guess you haven’t heard about Colin Smith’s death yesterday,” he said, panning his light about. “I was just sitting in my office thinking about him.”

“Matt just told me. He said Blankenship killed him and framed Peter Ettinger.”

“That son of a bitch.”

“Matt’s right up here on the left,” Sarah said. “Matt, honey, we’re coming.”

“I hear you.”

Paris stopped at the doorway of the room and shined his light in from there.

“Maintenance is on the way with wire cutters, Matt,” he said. “They should be here in a minute. Meanwhile, if you can hang on, I’d like Sarah to take me to Blankenship.”

Sarah hesitated.

“Go ahead,” Matt said. “I’ve been here like this for hours. I’ll be okay.”

She took a flashlight and led Paris up to the elevator shaft opening on the basement level.

“He’s hanging from the doorway on the second—”

Sarah stopped in midsentence, directed the light onto her forearm, and gasped. She had been spattered by several thick drops of blood. She leaned into the shaft and directed the beam up at the second floor. The lower third of Blankenship’s leg remained wedged as it had been. But the medical chief was gone.

“He’s not th—”

Snarling in pain and rage, Blankenship came tumbling out of the darkness, down the slope of rubble. He slammed into Sarah, sending her sprawling out of the shaft and onto the concrete. Sarah cried out as Blankenship
grabbed her ankle. Paris quickly stepped forward and put a foot down on his wrist. He held it there until she scrambled free. Then he aimed his flashlight beam straight into Blankenship’s face. The medical chief was an apparition, smeared with gore, yet ghostly pale, and clearly more dead than alive.

“Is a medical team on the way?” Sarah asked.

Paris did not answer. Instead, he kicked Blankenship viciously in the mouth.

“You ruined me, you son of a bitch,” he said. “I invested every cent my hospital could beg or borrow in that diet shit of yours because you swore there were no problems with it. You never said anything about there being a goddamn virus in it, you bastard. Nothing!”

“You knew?” Sarah said, stunned.

“Yes, I knew. I’m not stupid. But by the time I realized what that powder was doing to women, it was too late. We were in it too deep. I know about all the money, too, Eli. Colin’s been checking up on you and your bogus foundation since day one. And that goddamn lab in there—I found that months ago. We’ve already gotten into two of your accounts. As soon as I get back to the office, I’m cleaning them out. Then I’ll decide if I need to bail out of here or not. I was set to leave because of what this whole thing was going to do to me. My career and reputation down the drain; everyone blaming me for those women. But now, from what Sarah tells me, it seems that everyone who could connect me to you and that goddamn powder is dead. That is what you said, isn’t it, Sarah?”

He loosed another short, choppy kick—this time to Blankenship’s chest. Before Sarah could react, he whirled around and grabbed her hair.

“I’m sorry about this,” he said, ignoring her cries of pain. “I really am.” He reached into her pocket and pulled out Blankenship’s keys. “I’m sorry about not stopping that countdown, too,” he added. “I ordinarily don’t lie about things that important.”

He produced a length of rope from his jacket pocket, forced Sarah onto her belly, and tied her hands behind her. Then he dragged her to her feet and back to the stairs to the subbasement.

“I’ve changed my mind about a research building on this spot,” he said. “I think instead we’re going to fill it all in and go for a parking lot … or perhaps some tennis courts. I assume you’d rather be downstairs with your lawyer than up here with that monster.”

“Please, Glenn,” Sarah pleaded as he forced her down the stairs. “Please don’t. I beg you. I know you didn’t actually hurt anybody. I can tell everyone that.”

“Sorry. I really have no choice. And I promise you won’t feel a thing.”

He pushed her back into the space that, once again, was to become a tomb. Ignoring Matt’s pleas and Sarah’s attempts at reason, he lashed her to an exposed girder, across the room from Matt, and secured her ankles.

Then, without a backward glance, he left them in the darkness and hurried from the Chilton Building.

An instant later, the overhead speakers announced that there were fifteen minutes left before demolition.

“…  I
T IS OUR HOPE, OUR DREAM, THAT THIS NEW
Institute for Medical and Healing Studies will form a golden bridge between our rapidly advancing medical technology and the more mystical healing arts from across the centuries and around the world.…”

Glenn Paris proudly accepted another round of applause from the two hundred or so dignitaries and other ticket holders seated in the grandstand. The morning was sparkling, clear, and nearly windless—perfect conditions for the spectacle at hand. All around the campus, patients, staff, and visitors watched from rooftops and windows. On the far side of the mall, the Chilton Building stood alone, a deposed queen, facing the crowd with what little grace she could muster as she awaited the guillotine.

“…  Now, before the winner of our drawing steps up to thrill us all, I would like to pause for a moment of silence in honor of Mr. Colin Smith, the chief financial officer of this hospital, who perished yesterday in a most tragic boating accident.… I intend to recommend that our board of directors name a wing of this new institute after Colin. He will certainly be missed.…
And now, Governor, Mr. Mayor, esteemed colleagues, and all of you who have been so faithful over the years to the Medical Center of Boston—it gives me great pleasure to announce the winner of our raffle. Thanks to the devoted efforts of our raffle ticket sellers and canvassers, this contest has netted almost thirty-three thousand dollars for the new institute.… Thank you, thank you. The winner is here with me, and she is—” He glanced down at a three-by-five card. “—Mrs. Gladys Robertson of West Roxbury.”

To the accompaniment of polite applause, a nervously smiling middle-aged woman in a floral-print dress stepped up to Paris and whispered in his ear.

“Oh, my apologies,” Paris said into the microphone. “Our winner is
Miss
Gladys
Robinson
. I’m not actually a doctor, but obviously I write like one.” Paris milked the ensuing laughter as long as he could. “So, then, Miss Gladys Robinson of West Roxbury,” he said finally, “this is your moment. Here’s the plunger that will set off the charges placed by our team of world-renowned specialists and give you your place in history. Mr. Crocker, do we have the green light?… Excellent. Miss Robinson, if you’ll just allow us to get in a little drumroll.…”

Paris pointed to his right. From among the spectators, five men stood up with snare drums slung in front of them. The surprise brought a murmur of approval from the crowd. The drumroll began softly and then crescendoed. Paris waited … and waited, until the tension in the air was almost palpable.

“Now!” he shouted.

A thousand pairs of eyes were fixed on the Chilton Building as Miss Gladys Robinson depressed the plunger that had been set on the podium. For a suspended moment, there was only silence. Then, heralded by puffs of smoke from around the base of the foundation and up the brick walls, a dull rumble began and quickly expanded. The ground shook as the noise increased.
A huge, thick cloud of gray dust erupted, enveloping the first two floors. Then, with a wondrous roar, the walls of the building dropped straight down into the billowing gray abyss.

Seconds later, there was silence once again.

The crowd watched in awe as the dense, concrete cloud floated upward and began to slowly disperse on the higher thermals. Then there was applause … and cheers … and whistles and pats on the back. Glenn Paris accepted them all with the confidence and aplomb of a man accustomed to successes. The governor shook his hand, and then the mayor.

Proudly, jaw thrust forward, Paris turned to survey his hospital. Suddenly he paled. His smile vanished. Two men and a woman, none of whom he expected to see, were approaching the grandstand across the grassy campus. Behind them walked two more men. Both of those men were tall and broad-shouldered, and carried themselves like the bodyguards Paris knew they were.

“Great job, Glenn, great,” someone said, slapping him on the back.

But Paris, fixed on the approaching quintet, did not respond. The group had reached the base of the grandstand when Willis Grayson, his arm around his daughter’s shoulders, beckoned him to come down. Flanking Lisa Grayson on the other side, limping, though not badly, was Matt Daniels. He was filthy and disheveled, his face swollen and discolored. But he squinted up at the man who had left him to die, and through cracked, bloodied lips, he forced a smile.

“You blew it, Glenn,” he said hoarsely. “You blew it big time.”

“I’m disappointed in you, Mr. Paris,” Willis called up. “Very disappointed.”

Paris glanced frantically about for an escape route.

“Don’t even think about it,” Grayson warned. “Either of my men could run backward and still catch you. Five minutes, Paris. That’s all the time that remained
when we arrived in the basement of that building. Five minutes. You left Dr. Baldwin and Mr. Daniels, here, tied up and helpless. You just turned and walked away, and left them to die! You’re a very crude man, Paris.”

The group around Glenn Paris peeled back and stared down at the new arrivals. Clearly, a number of them recognized the man known as the Ross Perot of the Northeast. The governor, who had reached the bottom of the grandstand, crossed to Grayson, spoke briefly with him and Matt, and then looked up at the hospital CEO.

“I think you’d best come down here,” he said sharply.

Glenn Paris, his face pinched and ashen, hesitated. Then his shoulders and his gaze dropped, and he trudged slowly down the red-carpeted stairs.

•  •  •

“Obviously, if we had kn-known th-the trouble you and your f-friend were in, we would have t-tried to get here sooner,” Warren Fezler said.

He and Sarah were hurrying as best she could manage through the tunnels toward the labor and delivery floor.

“I’m just glad you made it when you did,” Sarah replied. “You’re sure Rosa’s okay?”

“She s-spent six hours in the operating room. But when we all left to fly d-down here, they told us she was stable.”

“Thank God.”

“After Rosa was sh-shot, j-just before she l-lost consciousness, she wrote down Mr. G-Grayson’s home number. As soon as I explained what was going on, he f-flew right up in his ch-chopper. Rosa s-saved my life. I w-wish she could have s-saved my sister.”

“That’s very sad. I’m sorry. But I’m very angry, too—at Blankenship, at all of you.”

“I understand. I d-don’t know what I can do.”

“Just help me now, and then try to set some things straight with that damn virus of yours.”

Sarah wanted to take the stairs up to L and D, but her battered body dictated she use the elevator.

“Warren, how did you manage to find us?” she asked as they waited for the car.

“N-not that hard f-for a man like Grayson. He knows how to m-move people like no one I’ve ever s-seen.” He thought for a moment and then added, “Except maybe f-for Eli. We started at th-the ICU and then went to the psych w-ward. Some man there—Wes something—said you had had a seizure at breakfast and w-were in the ER. He also said you had s-spent the whole n-night watching th-the Chilton Building through binoculars. Next w-we found out you were wheeled away by Eli and someone from transportation. And then when we f-found you had never arrived at the ER, we began to suspect where you were. Mr. G-Grayson latched onto the man from transportation. Then we kn-knew we were right.”

“So you went into the basement of the building through the back door.”

“I h-had the keys. That was once my home away from home, remember? Mr. G-Grayson decided to look for you rather than to t-try and s-stop the explosion.”

They pushed through the doors of the labor and delivery floor, and were immediately confronted by a sound Sarah had heard before. Annalee Ettinger was screaming in pain. Mindless of the nursing staff, Sarah grabbed Warren’s hand and pulled him down the hall to Annalee’s room. The uniformed guard was gone—discharged, Sarah assumed, when the evil Dr. Baldwin was locked up on Underwood Six. Randall Snyder, quite obviously agitated and on the razor’s edge of panic, was checking the pulses at Annalee’s wrists.