Authors: Steven Becker
Impatient, he went back to the house, stopping at a piece-of-crap Honda in the carport. He instinctively placed his hand on the hood to see how long it had been there. The hood was warm, almost hot, even sitting in the shade of the overhang. He walked around it, noticing the owner would have been better served to put the money spent on wide wheels, tinted windows and pin-striping into something else. A quick look at the house and he headed back to the rental car on the street, becoming more aware of his surroundings, expecting something was wrong. He opened the door and paused when a cab pulled up and the girl got out. He took one look and smiled. She would be worth some risk.
He closed the door, followed her into the house and reached behind his back for the grip of the nine-millimeter gun. Slowly he drew it and before she turned around he had it levelled at her head. She started to scream, but a man emerged from the kitchen with a shotgun. His suspicion had been accurate; she had set him up. He grabbed her around the neck and held the gun at her head.
“You need to leave,” he said. The man looked like he was going to say something, but Norm pressed the gun into the girl’s temple. “We understand each other?”
The shotgun hit the floor and the man went for the door.
“Wait.” Norm released the girl and pulled a hundred dollar bill from his pocket. “You never saw me.”
The man nodded, took the bill and went out. Norm heard the engine start and the tires squeal when the transmission was jammed in reverse. Through the window, he watched the car back into the street and jerk forward. A hundred yards down the street, he heard the boom of the radio. Shaking his head and wondering about the judgement of the girl for bringing someone to their rendezvous, he went to the door and turned the lock.
“He was not supposed to be here,” she said, confirming the Russian accent. “I’m going to change.”
“Before you go, can I ask you a question?” He dangled the carrot and she nodded. “What would you do for a green card?”
She winked and left the room.
He stood waiting in the living room of the 1940’s era house, just like a hundred others originally built for the Navy when the base here was more active. The original hardwood floor needed refinishing, the walls needed paint and the decade-old air-conditioner, rattling and coughing in the window, was struggling to take the humidity out of the air. He looked around, knowing he should leave, but unable to move. Slowly the adrenaline started to fade and he relaxed. He needed a break and he suspected the man wouldn’t be back until he spent the cash. He went to the kitchen and sat on one of the barstools.
She emerged and approached him, wearing a robe which swung casually open as if she had forgotten to tie it. He had intended to talk business first, but in this case, the goods were too tempting. He would talk to her later.
He was following her to the bedroom when he felt something slam into his head.
THIRTEEN
Alicia Phon sat in the agency’s Taurus, with the air-conditioning running. She was nervous and tapped the wheel, frantic that her antiperspirant was not working. She looked down at the small stains on her silk blouse thinking she might need to rethink her field attire. The call had come as a surprise and there was no way she was going to turn down her first opportunity for field work, but he had given her no time to change. Miami, where she was based, was humid, but this was on another level; everything here was either wet or at least damp. Used to a sterile computer room, she lived in air-conditioning: her apartment, her office, her car; even the gym was climate-controlled. Somehow, after the last five years behind a computer, she had been given a shot. She was scared, but she was also determined, a trait she had gotten from her Dragon Mom mother. This is what she had joined the CIA for.
A yellow jeep pulled into the lot and she tried to pull herself together. She put on her jacket, breathed deeply, left the air-conditioning and walked across the gravel, carefully placing each step of her high heels as she crossed the parking lot. She kept her head high, as she had been taught in finishing school, although she couldn’t have felt more out of place.
***
The trail of empty bottles and remnants of the party at Trufante’s apartment extended almost to US 1, growing denser as they pulled into the parking area. Without the host and his bankroll, the party had died, but the fallout was evident. Mac pulled into a parking space, carefully avoiding a beer bottle perched on the curb. They climbed out and navigated the path to Trufante’s door.
“Mac Travis?” a voice called.
He looked back and saw a thirty-something-year-old woman, more like a girl, dressed in a business suit, come towards him. If this was Norm’s idea of help, he was in trouble.
“Yeah,” he growled.
“My name is Alicia Phon. I am assigned to help you.” Her voice cracked.
“Chi-fon,” Trufante repeated with his thick Cajun accent as he came towards them, towering over the diminutive girl.
There was no point in discussing this in the parking lot and he decided it was better to get away from prying eyes and ears. “Hey. Sure. Let’s go inside.”
Trufante’s door was ajar. Mac pushed it open, calling inside to see if anyone was there before entering. He turned on the light and looked around at the trashed apartment, moved over to the kitchen table and pushed its contents onto the floor.
“Nice friends you got,” he said to Trufante, who was looking in the refrigerator and turned back to him empty-handed. Mac pulled out the phone and checked the time, anxious to get out of there. It was 9:45, only fifteen minutes to wait. “Might as well take Annie’s car back. I’ll pick you up after I see Mel.” He noticed the hurt look on Trufante’s face. “I’m thinking we’ll stay here for now and head upstate in the morning. Nothing to be done up there tonight,” he said.
Trufante’s mood rebounded, probably after he realized he had all night to party. He took the keys from Mac and left the room, the thousand-dollar smile on his face. Mac sat at the table and waited while the girl carefully cleared a space on the couch and sat down. They sat in silence, looking each other over, neither knowing where to start.
“I can get you into the hospital,” she said finally. “I’m very good with a computer too.”
“Yeah, what’s the plan?” Mac answered, wanting no part in small talk.
“We can work that out later. Let’s get you in to see your girlfriend.”
He started towards the door. “OK. One step at a time.”
She reached into her bag and handed him some scrubs.
Mac took them from her. At least there was some level of planning going on here. “I’m gonna clean up. Make yourself at home,” he told the girl and went for the bathroom.
He finished a quick shower, toweled off, and winced as he picked up Trufante’s razor to shave. A look in the mirror at his week-old growth changed his mind. It itched like crazy, but it changed his appearance enough that he decided to leave it. He put on the scrubs and went back into the living room where the girl was dumping bottles and cans into a large trash bag.
“You don’t have to do that,” he said, watching her continue. “Why don’t we get a bite to eat and talk about your plan. Does the CIA have an expense account?” he asked, fingering the loose change in his pocket.
“OK,” she said, grabbed her messenger bag and headed for the door.
***
Davies walked into the room with a coffee cup in one hand and his briefcase in the other, feeling just like old times. He was late after failing to find a Starbucks, having to settle for a local shop for his mocha latte. The group of doctors looked at him, impatient for his decision.
“Mr. Davies,” the head doctor started, “do you have questions for us?”
Davies took a sip of his drink, enjoying the flavor as he looked at the tired doctors sitting behind the table, drinking coffee from styrofoam cups. He opened his briefcase and removed a legal pad. “I have talked to several of her doctors already. If you can confirm the prognosis, I believe we can make a decision.
“Go ahead,” the doctor said.
“You have not declared her brain dead. She is in a coma and breathing with a ventilator. Aren’t those the requirements?” he asked.
The doctor paused, as if it was painful to educate the man. “The protocol we use is based on the AAN’s 2010 guidelines. Of the three tests involved, she can only be confirmed with one, and I am a little uneasy declaring that. Ms. Woodson has only been with us for three days. None of her symptoms meet the permanent status called for. Although she needs the help of the ventilator, she is breathing on her own. It is erratic and shallow, but cannot be disregarded. The only conclusive damage we can determine is that her reflexes are not working, but that could be temporary paralysis.”
Davies started to say something, but the doctor cut him off, thinking he was anticipating the question. “Will she ever wake up and be able to function? I don’t know.”
These were not the answers he was hoping for, but he was prepared. He withdrew a document from his briefcase and handed it to the doctor next to him, who scanned it and passed it along. “You can see that this is her living will and she is clear that her life is to be terminated if her quality of life is reduced to the point it is.” He lowered his head before continuing, “I don’t have a choice but to concede to her wishes.”
The doctors exchanged glances. “Mr. Davies, I appreciate your concern, but I have to object. Three days is not long enough to make a final diagnosis. I recommend we wait at least another forty-eight hours before making a life or death decision.”
Davies hid behind his coffee, sipping while he thought. Two more days was not in his timeline. There were too many loose ends in his escape plan that could unravel in that time. He didn’t expect the sheriff to be a problem, but anything could happen and the sooner he was out of the country, the better. The doctor’s timeline was not acceptable.
“It is my duty to enforce her wishes. I know a specialist in brain injuries in Miami. Would anyone object to a consultation from him?” Davies knew a doctor who owed him a favor. The group nodded their heads in agreement; thankful the decision would be taken from their hands.
“We would welcome another opinion,” the doctor responded.
One by one the doctors and administrators left the room. He was left alone with his premium coffee amongst the discarded styrofoam cups. He gathered the cups in a circle, took the last swig from his and placed it on top of theirs.
***
Mac and Alicia huddled around her tablet as rain beat down on the roof of the Taurus. He looked up to make sure no one was watching them, but the windows were fogged.
“That’s her room,” Alicia pointed at the tablet. “Fourth floor: sixth door on the left after the nurses’ station.”
Mac stared at the screen showing a floor plan of the hospital. “OK,” he said and pulled a ball cap over his face. He left the car and ran towards the entrance to the hospital, pausing to glance back at the car. He wasn’t sure how much to trust this woman. Although she was competent with a computer, she also worked for Norm. The girl was nervous and had made several comments that this was the first field mission she had been on and from the look of her suit and heels, he wondered if she could handle things when they went bad. He knew they inevitably would – they always did. Her computer-generated plans would fall apart at some point. It was one thing to push some buttons sitting in an air-conditioned office drinking lattes, but in the real world things went wrong - often badly.
He ran through the storm to the portico and waited under cover of the hospital entrance. Thunder crashed and the lights flickered. A second later they went back on, and as if on cue, another blast hit and the building went dark. The storm had been a blessing, allowing them the diversion Mac would need to get inside unrecognized. Alicia had control of the complex’s power and had assured him that it was safe. The hospital had a huge bank of backup generators and emergency lighting to ensure life support and essential systems would not be affected by the frequent storms.
Generators kicked on and the building lit to half-power. This was the signal. He pulled the bill of the hat over his face and went inside. The stairwell to the right of the elevators was crowded and he squeezed his way past several people in scrubs and started up the stairs. He pulled the phone from his pocket when he reached the fourth floor and checked the time; fifteen minutes until she turned the power on. Slowly he opened the door and entered the hallway. The nurses’ station was bustling with activity. He walked by and started counting doors.
The room was open and he entered a small waiting area with another door and a large window directly in front of him. He set his hand on the handle, but she had warned him that if he opened the door it would send a signal to the nurses’ station. Frustrated, he released the lever and walked over to the window. Mel lay propped up in bed, almost unrecognizable, her hair shaved and tubes running through and around her, the green light cast by the bank of monitors doing nothing to make her look alive. He stared at her, soothed slightly by the rhythmic beeping of her heart. There was nothing else he could do, but it was good to know she was alive.
He watched through the glass and whispered that he loved her. One more look and he left the room and went towards the stairs where he waited by the door as several doctors and nurses came out before entering the stairwell. He took the steps two at a time, not wanting to be caught in the building when the lights came back on. He flew around the landing to the second floor and ran head on into a man dressed in a lab coat, also moving too fast, the force of the impact landing both men on the floor. Mac got up first and extended his hand to help the other man to his feet when he noticed the pill bottles that had spilled from the deep pockets of the coat. The man met his glance and he froze.