Blumstein pulled out of the underground lot in his Jag at five o’clock sharp. He was alone. Will left the café and walked down the street to a steak house he’d noticed the other day. He treated himself to the house salad, a nice juicy filet and a few watered down drinks. He was in no hurry.
It was just getting dark when he rolled the Suburban into Blumstein’s driveway. He parked behind Nina’s Accord, walked up the porch steps and leaned on the brass-fitted buzzer. A moment later he heard the thunk of tumblers being disengaged.
His entire being thrummed with anticipation.
* * *
When the doorbell rang Nina and Blumstein were sitting in the lawyer’s living room, sipping wine from crystal goblets and reviewing Nina’s options. She’d left the twins with Claudia.
Blumstein said, “That must be our grub.” He’d called out earlier for Chinese food. “Excuse me a moment, would you?”
“Of course,” Nina said. She took a sip of her wine, heard Blumstein fiddling with the lock—
Then the door burst open and Blumstein was backpedaling out of the foyer, Will charging in after him, reaching for his throat. He caught the lawyer by the tie and leashed him into the living room like a contrary dog. His darting eyes took in the wine glasses, blazed briefly on Nina, then fixed on Blumstein.
“Well, isn’t this quaint. Got to get her drunk before you fuck her, you little prick?”
Blumstein did something then that surprised Will. He fought back, the ferocity of his retaliation catching Will off guard. He pummeled Will’s arm and chest with his fists, trying to break the doctor’s grip on his tie. One of his fingernails opened a gash on Will’s cheek. “I’ll have your ass for this, Armstrong. You can’t just come barging in here—”
Will punched Blumstein in the face. The lawyer’s head snapped back and his body went limp. Will let go of his tie and Blumstein slumped to the floor.
“See what you’ve been banging here, Nina?” Will said, gazing at her with open bewilderment. “A baby.” He pawed the scratch on his face, showing Nina the blood. “He fights like a little girl.”
“Will,” Nina said, keeping the low coffee table between herself and her advancing husband. “For God’s sake, stop this. We were just having a meeting. Leave now and I’ll try to talk Mark out of pressing charges.”
“Oh, it’s Mark now, is it?”
Will pounced and Nina dodged to one side, barely avoiding his grasp. He grinned and spread his arms. He seemed to fill the room.
“Wanna play?”
“Will, please...”
His hand shot out and caught her by the wrist, his big fist grinding her bones. “You’re coming with me,” he said. He was sweating heavily and Nina could smell booze on him, a raw, pungent haze. “I’m willing to forgive and forget—”
There was a sudden, crazed war whoop and now Blumstein was riding Will’s back, his bandy arms locked around the big man’s neck, Blumstein shouting, “How do you like it, you son of a bitch?”
Releasing Nina, Will grabbed a fistful of Blumstein’s beard and sank to one knee. The lawyer screamed, but didn’t slacken his grip. With a grunt Will flipped him over his shoulder onto the rug. “Okay, runt.” He straddled Blumstein’s chest, his hands closing around the lawyer’s throat. “You wanna play, too? Okay.”
Nina pounded on Will’s back. Blumstein’s face was turning beet red. “Will, let him up. You’re going to kill him.”
She spotted Blumstein’s golf bag in a corner of the adjacent den and ran to it, pulling out a nine iron. When she got back the lawyer was almost unconscious.
Nina raised the nine iron like a poleax. “Let him up, Will,” she said, dead calm now. She stood behind her husband, just out of reach. “Let him up or I swear to God, I’ll cave your skull in.”
Will glanced over his shoulder at her and grinned. Then he raised his massive fist, aiming it at Blumstein’s face.
Without hesitation Nina brought the club down. The grass-stained wedge struck Will on the crown, the impact making a dull, meaty sound. Will pitched forward off his knees, pinning Blumstein beneath his massive weight. Both men lay utterly still.
Nina dropped the club, certain they were both dead. Then one of Blumstein’s arms flapped weakly.
“Get him
off
me.”
Nina planted her shoulder against Will’s flank and heaved. It took a couple of tries, but then Blumstein was helping her, rolling Will over, slithering free of his weight. Nina helped him to his feet, then he looked down at Will’s motionless body.
“Is he dead?”
Nina said, “I don’t know.”
Staggering, Blumstein checked Will’s neck for a pulse. “He’s alive,” he said. Then he picked up the phone and dialed 911, sweat dripping into his shocky eyes.
* * *
Nina stared at the back-lit skull X-rays and sequential CAT scan images through prisms of tears. Dr. Spears, the neurosurgeon on call, was doing his best to explain the situation to her. Also present in the room were Jack Fallon and Detective Fransen.
“Your husband’s problem is best illustrated here,” Spears said. He tapped a shadow on one of the CAT scan images with the tip of a retractable pointer. “It’s what we call a subdural haematoma, a collection of blood beneath the membranes encasing the brain. It’s still growing—still bleeding—and its impinging on some rather vital structures. Its location explains why your husband drifts in and out of consciousness, and the fact that he is unable to construct meaningful sentences.”
Nina said, “Is he going to survive?”
“At this stage his chances are about fifty-fifty. A lot depends on how quickly we get down to business. And, of course, on the skill of the anesthetist.” He smiled at Jack. “That’s why I’m pleased to see Doctor Fallon here with us tonight.”
Nina took Jack’s hand and squeezed it. “I’m so glad you were here, Jack. I’m sure Will would want it this way.”
Jack said, “Don’t worry. He’ll pull through.”
And Nina thought:
For what? To be tried for murder? Why else would that cop be here?
She’d seen him on the news the other night, making a statement to the press. “Maybe it would be better if he didn’t,” she said, glancing at Fransen.
“Will got caught up in a jealous rage,” Jack said. “It could have happened to anyone. It doesn’t mean he’s been killing patients.”
Dr. Spears cleared his throat. “Jack, how long before we can be set up to operate?”
“Give me twenty minutes.”
* * *
“I’m sorry about all this,” Fransen said. “I realize the last thing you need right now is some cop asking a lot of touchy questions.”
Nina avoided his gaze, willing him away. They were alone in the surgeon’s office, the detective leaning against the desk, Nina seated in a chair. The smoke from Fransen’s cigarette was stinging her eyes.
“What we’re looking at here, Mrs. Armstrong—”
“Do you mind not smoking?”
Fransen butted out his smoke in the ashtray on the doctor’s desk. “Stated bluntly, Mrs. Armstrong, if your husband survives, he’ll be facing criminal charges. Assault, for openers. Blumstein is adamant about that. But there’s a larger consideration, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
“Why don’t you get to the point,” Nina said, meeting the detective’s gaze for the first time. “You think he killed all those patients. Well, I’m sorry, Detective, but I don’t agree. And I’ll do everything in my power to help prove that. My husband was out of control tonight, and in that state he might have done some real harm. That’s why I hit him. But he’s not a murderer. Will Armstrong is no murderer.”
“That’s all we expect from you, Mrs. Armstrong. Your cooperation.” Fransen pushed off the surgeon’s desk. “Would you have any objection to us searching your house?”
Nina dug a spare key out of her purse and handed it over. “The house is empty. Help yourself. If you need me for anything else, I’ll be right here.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Armstrong. And good luck to you.”
* * *
“Will?”
The word filtered down a lightless shaft. Will tried, but couldn’t shape a response.
“Will?” the voice said again, and this time Will recognized it.
Jack.
He opened his eyes to slits.
“Hi,” Jack said, leaning over him. “Glad to see you.”
Will recognized his surroundings. He was in the neuro room. On the operating table.
What the hell...?
Jack smiled. “Don’t try to speak,” he said. “You’ll only embarrass yourself.” He leaned closer and whispered, “I’m going to put you off to sleep, old friend. You’re going to need a bit of surgery. But first, I’m going to ask you a favor.”
* * *
Chartrand stood by with Fransen while the maintenance man took bolt cutters to the combination lock on Will’s locker. The administrator wasn’t going to worry about warrants. Not now. Not with the press having a field day at the hospital’s expense. They were looking for a lunatic, a calculating psychopath, and right now Will Armstrong seemed to fit the profile. All that remained was to come up with a solid piece of evidence.
The hasp gave with a brisk
snap
. The maintenance man removed the lock and made way for the detective.
On the top shelf was a stack of publications and assorted papers a foot deep. Fransen skimmed off the top half and passed it to Chartrand, then took the rest for himself.
A few minutes later Fransen said, “What about this?” He passed a complex looking schematic to the administrator. Chartrand examined it with widening eyes.
“It’s a set of schematics for a bypass machine,” Chartrand said. He showed it to Fransen. “Look here.” Two cutaways in the complex diagram were circled in red pencil. “There was a death in cardiac about ten days ago from a faulty pump. The investigation is still ongoing. We had to send the machine out to an unbiased manufacturer.”
“Have you heard back from them yet?”
“I’d have to check.” Chartrand looked at his watch. “There won’t be anyone there now.”
“Then get them out of bed,” Fransen said.
Chartrand handed the schematic back to the detective. “I’ll do my best. But we’re talking formalities here, are we not?”
“It looks that way,” Fransen said. “It certainly does look that way.”
* * *
Will thought,
Favor?
His consciousness was starting to muddy again.
What favor?
Jack positioned a stool next to the head of the operating table and sat down. He uncapped a syringe, seated the needle into the injection port of Will’s IV, and put his lips next to Will’s ear. Around them the room was a hive of activity, three nurses preparing for the surgery ahead. No one paid them much heed.
“I want you to take a fall for me,” Jack said. “You’re a good sport, aren’t you?”
Will rolled his eyes toward Jack. What the hell was he talking about? A fall? Fuck, he wished he could
speak
.
“Sure you are,” Jack said, his breath warm in Will’s ear. “You see, the thing is, they’re going to pin the Med Center murders on you.” He snickered. “Ain’t that a twat?”
In a spasm of comprehension, Will tried to reach for Jack’s throat.
Jack pushed his hands away and unloaded the syringe into the IV. “Just a reflex,” he said to the nurses. They’d seen this kind of thing before. Head injured patients often became unpredictably combative.
Jack leaned over Will one last time. “Goodbye, chum,” he said. “I appreciate this. I really do. And don’t worry. I’ll take care of Nina. I owe you that much. I’ll teach her about pain. The boys won’t suffer at all.”
No! NO!
Thirty seconds later Will Armstrong’s heart stopped beating.
* * *
“What the hell happened in there, Jack?”
“I think he coned, Walter. It was too sudden to be anything else.”
The brain surgeon leaned against the scrub sink and nodded. Coning explained it well enough. If there was sufficient swelling, the brainstem herniated downward through the foramen magnum—the opening at the base of the skull through which the spinal cord took its exit—causing the abrupt cessation of autonomic functions. It was like switching off a light. And maybe, Spears thought, that was not such a bad thing. The fact that it happened during the induction of anesthesia saved him the tedious chore of opening Armstrong’s head and quite possibly turning him into a vegetable.
Spears glanced through the open neuro suite doors at Will’s hulking corpse. The failed resuscitation had gone on for forty minutes. The room looked like a tornado had whirled through it. The surgeon shook his head. Chartrand had already told him what they found in Will’s locker. “God,” he said. “Will Armstrong killing all those people. Who would have thought?”
Jack shrugged. “You can’t judge a book by its cover.”
“How true,” Spears said. His eyes met Jack’s. “Would you like me to tell his wife?”
“No,” Jack said. “I’ll look after that.”
* * *
As it turned out, words were unneeded. Nina took one look at Jack’s face and she knew. She threw herself into his arms.
“Maybe you were right,” Jack said. “Maybe it is better this way.”
“I think so,” Nina said. “The police, the courts. I still can’t believe it.”
She pulled away and slumped into the chair in Spears’s office, the same one she’d been sitting in an hour earlier when Chartrand and that cop came in to tell her they’d found evidence that her husband was the killer. She hunched forward, weeping—then sat bolt upright, a look of utter bewilderment on her face. “Oh, God, Jack,” she said, “the twins...how will I ever tell them their daddy’s gone? It’s going to break their little hearts...” She looked up at Jack. “Would you help me? Help me tell the boys? They think the world of you...”
“Of course I will,” Jack said. He helped her to her feet. “Why don’t you go ahead home. I’ll come over later and talk to the boys.”
“All right. And thank you, Jack. Thank you so much.”
* * *
Nina’s car was parked in the doctors’ lot, but there was no way she could drive herself home. She got a nurse to call her a cab. When the cab arrived she gave the driver her home address. She’d be safe there now and she longed to be home, among things familiar and loved. When she got in she would call Claudia and have her drop the boys off tonight. It was late, but she wanted them home. Jack would be coming over later to help her tell them about their dad. It seemed an impossible task.