Informed Consent (18 page)

L
eo looked
up into his wife’s bright green eyes and smiled.

“Finally,” she said. “You’re awake. How do you feel?”

He grimaced. “Like I was hit by a truck.”

“Dr. Bryant said you did great. There were no complications. Apparently you had the textbook right liver lobe.”

“Sounds sexy. Go on.”

She leaned over and brushed his lips with a kiss. “Your father had a rougher time of it. He was bleeding a lot, hemorrhaging, I guess. But Dr. Baker got him stabilized. He’s still in the TICU, but he’s going to pull through.”

He let out a soft sigh of relief at the news, then he said, “Where am I?”

“This is your room. I came down to see you while you were in the TICU, but you were pretty loopy.”

“Did I say anything stupid?”

“Of course not. Like what?”

“Oh, like my father is a member of a Vietnamese street gang and a convicted murderer who faked his own death to escape justice? Anything along those lines?”

She stared at him, not comprehending, for a moment. Then her eyes widened. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” he said. His lips were dry and cracking. “Can I have some water?”

“Not yet. The nurse said start with ice. Here.”

She placed an ice chip from the cup near his bed into his mouth, and he let it melt and run down his throat. The cold liquid was like a glimpse of heaven.

“Ah, thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. Can we get back to the murderous gangster thing? When did you find out?”

He inhaled deeply then winced. Apparently shallow breaths were the way to go. “Monday.”

“Monday?” she echoed. “You found out before you agreed to the transplant?” Her face and voice were very careful, as if she were struggling to maintain her temper.

“Yes.” He watched as her face tightened and her cheeks flushed.

“Connelly, how could you?”

“He’s my father, Sasha.”

She stared down at him with sad, disappointed eyes. He didn’t look away.

“Still—” she began.

“Still nothing. I couldn’t let him die.” He balled his hands into fists, clenched them, then relaxed them. “And I also can’t let him get away with murder.”

“What are you saying?”

“Is Hank outside?”

“Yes.”

“Can you ask him to come in, so I only have to explain this once?” Speaking took more effort than he’d anticipated. And every breath he drew caused a sharp poker of fire to run along his abdomen.

“Sure. Of course.” She hurried out into the hallway, stopping in the doorway to look over her shoulder at him with a puzzled expression.

She returned with Hank and Annabeth Douglas.

“Ah, Hank already called you,” Leo said in greeting to Annabeth.

“Yes, Mr. Richards tells me it’s time to turn in my chip and collect that exclusive story I was promised.”

“He’s right,” Leo said.

“You sure do like to make it dramatic, don’t you?” the reporter observed.

Leo cleared his throat. “Well, I wasn’t about to let a man die if I could help. But I’m not going to let him evade prosecution any more. Agent Richards has a warrant for the arrest of Duc Than Nyugen, also known as Doug Wynn, a member of the Born to Kill gang convicted of murder and racketeering in 1984 and presumed dead after a firebombing before he could be sentenced. I thought you might like to tag along when Hank takes him into custody.”

Leo was addressing Annabeth, but his eyes were pinned on his wife.

Sasha gasped softly.

“You’re sure you don’t want to wait until your old man is conscious and talk to him one last time before you set this all in motion, son?” Hank asked. “Once you pull this trigger, there’s no going back. He’s not going anywhere. I’ve got two guys posted outside his door.”

Leo set his mouth in a hard line. He felt the familiar twitch of the muscle that ran from his cheek to his jaw. “I’m sure. I’m done with Duc Nyugen.”

Hank nodded. “Get some rest, would you? Come on, Ms. Douglas. I can fill you in on the elevator on our way downstairs.”

Annabeth trailed Hank out of the room mutely, and Leo turned to his wife.

“Are you disappointed in me?” he asked, holding his breath while he waited for her answer.

“For what?”

“For turning him in? Or for saving him? Or both?” he countered.

Tears shined in her eyes. She leaned over and cupped his face gently in her hands. “I’m not disappointed. I could never be disappointed in you. I can’t imagine how hard this has been for you. To agree to do this knowing what you knew about him.”

He shook his head. “It wasn’t hard at all. Making a decision with full information is the easiest thing in the world.”

S
asha struggled
to keep her eyes open as she made her final trip of the impossibly, immeasurably long day. She’d been back and forth between the house and the hospital four times. Leo was resting comfortably. According to her parents, the twins had been asleep for hours. Now it was her turn. She was drained. Exhausted. Done.

Too late, she realized that she’d missed the turn onto Fifth Avenue. She swore softly under her breath. The next several blocks were one way. So she snaked through Oakland and came down Forbes hill, approaching Shadyside from the far side.

Of course, she got stuck at the traffic light. As she sat, waiting for red to turn to green, on the deserted, sleeping street, she glanced to her left. She realized she was looking at the back of Golden Village. The black wrought-iron fence ran the length of the block, but from this vantage point it just looked like an urban park, lacking the impressive liberal arts campus or monied estate vibe that it projected from the front.

She remembered what Naya had said and squinted at the staff parking spots set back from the cottages. Two cars sat side by side in the two furthest spaces. The one on the right
did
look like Dr. Kayser’s, she had to admit.

Just then, the front door of one of the independent living cottages opened and two people, a smallish woman and a mountain of a man stepped out on to the walk. They speed-walked from the structure to the cars with bowed heads, looking for all the world like two people trying not to be seen.

That’s weird.
The cottages
were
reserved for residents who could live independently, but it was a bit late for anyone to be receiving visitors. The light turned green. Sasha coasted down the hill several feet, keeping her eyes on her rearview mirror. The woman got into the car parked next to the one that looked like Dr. Kayser’s. As she started the engine, her headlights washed over the man, spotlighting him for a few seconds. Long enough for Sasha’s spidey senses to start tingling, as her nephews would say.

The man screamed ‘enforcer.’ Ill-fitting suit that barely contained his body-builder physique. Close-cropped military haircut. He raised a hand as the woman drove past him then jogged back to the cottage he’d come from. Before opening the door, he reached a hand inside his suit jacket, the way one would if one had a gun.

This is all wrong.

She eased forward until she was far enough down the road to have a decent view of the gated exit from the lot then pulled over and put the car in park. She’d get a peek at the side of the woman’s face as she pulled out, before she turned.

As it happened, a glimpse of profile was all she needed: Dr. Allstrom zipped out of the parking lot, hunched over her steering wheel, and sped down the empty street.

Sasha turned the key and killed the ignition.
Think it through.

Dr. Kayser went missing at a critical time for the case. When he finally called, his explanation was ludicrous and he tossed out a seemingly random reference to Jed Craybill. She thought back to the case involving Mr. Craybill. Almost lost among the murders, land transfers, and illicit wheeling and dealing of the local politicians was the fact that Dr. Kayser had figured out that their client was essentially being held captive. His treating physician had been drugging him—using an anticholinergic allergy medication with side effects that mimicked the symptoms of dementia—to convince everyone that the man was, in fact, mentally incapacitated. And now Dr. Allstrom and a large, sketchy-looking man were skulking around in the middle of the night at a place where Dr. Kayser’s car just happened to be parked, even though he hadn’t been seen in days.

Sasha took the keys from the ignition, slipped out of the car, and started up the hill on foot. Her adrenaline was pumping, her heart was banging, and some rational part of her brain suggested she might want to call the police. Or at least Hank.

She checked her pocket for her cell phone and groaned. At some point during her long marathon of sitting and worrying at the hospital, the battery had run down. It had finally died completely while she’d been back home getting the twins ready for bed, so she’d left it to charge in her kitchen when she returned to the hospital to say good night to Connelly.

Son of a …

She pulled up short in front of the five-foot-tall fence. The top was just about level with her head. It was decision time: She could still do the smart thing and go back to the car, drive home, and call the authorities.

She gripped the bars and started climbing the fence. She scrabbled to the top and then dropped down lightly to the lawn on the other side, landing in a low crouch. She crept along the property line through the darkness, approaching the cottages from the street side.

When she reached the cottages, she skirted around to the back. No windows within reach. No handy fire escapes to climb. No back door. It looked like there was only one way in. She pressed herself against the side wall and caught her breath.

Now what, brainiac? Are you going to just march up and knock on the front door? Considering the lack of other options, yes, it looked like that was the plan.

She squared her shoulders and headed for the front of the cottage. The curtains in the front windows were drawn, but she could see the faint glow from a lamp inside. She pressed her ear against the door and listened but was unable to make out any sounds.

She raised her fist and rapped on the door. Counted to five in her head then rapped again, louder. After a beat, she called out, “It’s me, Dr. Allstrom. Open the door.”

L
eo stared at the ceiling
. He knew he should be sleeping. He wanted to be sleeping. But he was drifting in a post-operative haze of pain medication. He’d dozed all day. And now he was wide awake at one o’clock in the morning. He was too loopy to read, too tired to watch television. Hank was back home with his kids, having left the agents to guard Duc Nyugen. Annabeth was no doubt hunched over her computer, typing furiously.

He wondered if Sasha might still be awake.

He reached for the phone and dialed her cell phone number.

“Hello? Sasha?” his father-in-law answered immediately in a loud whisper.

“Pat? This is Leo. Sasha’s not there?”

“Leo, how are you feeling?”

“At the moment, I’m feeling pretty good. I’m just restless. Couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d give Sasha a call.”

“We thought she was still at the hospital. She left her phone here after dinner to charge.”

Leo twisted his neck. “She left almost an hour ago.” Worry crept into his voice.

“Maybe she stopped to pick up diapers or groceries or something,” Pat suggested.

“Maybe.” Sasha
did
love doing her grocery shopping in the middle of the night when the stores weren’t crowded.

“I’m sure she’ll be home any minute. I’ll have her call you.”

“Thanks.”

“You try to get some rest, okay? Val and I will come visit you in the morning.”

Leo dropped the phone back on to the cradle and tried to ignore the anxiety that was pricking at him through the morphine.

She’s just at Giant Eagle
, he told himself.

S
asha shook
out her hands to keep them loose and relieve some tension while she waited for the door to open. She knew she’d have to be ready to pounce or she risked having the door slammed in her face as soon as he realized she wasn’t, in fact, Greta Allstrom.

A moment after she announced herself as Allstrom, she heard the sound of a chair scraping across wood. The lock turned in the door and she readied herself.

The door swung wide open. “What are you doing back--?” the man growled.

She was across the threshold before the goon had completed his sentence. Behind him, she could see Dr. Kayser, strapped to a bed, staring at her in open horror.

“Sasha?” he croaked.

“Silence,” the man roared as he slammed the door shut and locked it. He grabbed Sasha’s upper arm and locked his meaty hand around it, then dragged her across the room to a small desk and chair. He pushed her into the seat. “Sit.”

The man was huffing and snorting like an irritated bull. She half-expected him to paw at the ground.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“My name is Sasha McCandless-Connelly,” she said, affecting an unconcerned, conversational tone despite the fact that she was pretty concerned.

The man looked even larger up close. He had a crooked, boxer’s nose that had been broken and set poorly, probably multiple times. The clear outline of a shoulder holster and gun showed through his skin-tight suit jacket. And his mouth was set in a cruel, hard line.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m Dr. Kayser’s attorney. I’ve been looking for him.”

“So you broke into a nursing home in the middle of the night?”

“Well, I found him, didn’t I?” she countered.

The man made a noise that was half-growl, half-laugh. “I guess you did. Lucky you. Now you’ll get to die with him.” His tone of voice was scoffing, dismissive.

Good.

Dr. Kayser squeezed his eyes closed.

She locked eyes with the man. She needed him to underestimate her, to view her as completely non-threatening. She figured she was most of the way there. He had about fifteen inches and two hundred pounds on her. He had a gun. And he had no reason to imagine that she was probably the most accomplished Krav Maga practitioner he’d ever encounter in his life.

“Why do you want to kill Dr. Kayser?” she asked.

“That’s none of your business, lawyer lady.” He stomped across the room. He moved slowly, lumbering in the way big guys tended to do.

“So, what are you? Some kind of bodybuilder?”

There was
no
way someone this big didn’t devote long hours to maintenance. And one thing she knew about gym rats was they loved to talk about their routines. Power lifting, Cross-Fit, spinning. Whatever it was, they would gladly tell you all about it at the slightest hint of interest.

“MMA fighter.”

Great. The worst possible answer. Mixed martial arts fighters engaged in full-body combat and combined techniques from multiple disciplines. So this guy probably had some moves from judo, Brazilian jui-jitsu, Muay Thai, boxing, and who knew what else.

She was about to concede to herself that this escapade had been one of her poorer decisions. Then, she smoothed her hand over her hair and had to hide a smile.

“So why is a big guy like you picking on a harmless, geriatric doctor?”

He narrowed his eyes. “I already told you, we’re not going to chit chat. Just sit there and shut up. When Dr. Allstrom gets back with her supplies, I’ll let you watch her slice up your client’s brain before I kill you. How’s that sound?”

She glanced at Dr. Kayser, who had reopened his eyes and was staring at her bleakly. “I’m so sorry I involved you in this, Sasha.”

“They’re going to kill you so they can harvest your brain? That’s Allstrom’s plan? How can she possibly think she’ll get away with this?”

“She’s desperate. She’s mixed up with some bad people, I think. The Alpha Fund. He works for—”

Dr. Kayser stopped mid-sentence and shrank back against the mattress as the man crossed the room with his arm raised. He backhanded Dr. Kayser, and Sasha winced.

“Hey, big guy,” she called. “I need to pee. Is that okay?” She stood up and pointed toward the bathroom door, which was ajar.

The man turned away from Dr. Kayser and stared at her, considering the request.

She blinked back at him, trying to project an air of harmlessness.

“Go ahead. Make it quick.”

“Thank you.”

She scurried across the room to the bathroom. She flipped on the overhead light and then shut and locked the door. She scanned the room quickly, taking an inventory. Lots of grab bars and non-slip mats. Nothing that looked useful for taking down a giant. She pulled open the medicine cabinet. Empty. She flushed the toilet then turned on the water in the sink full blast. She reached up with her left hand and removed the
kanzashi
from the knot on the back of her head and shook out her hair.

Go time. He had size on his side; she needed surprise on hers.

As she started toward the door she glanced at the grab bar near the shower. Above it a white box was set into the wall. A white cord hung from the box with a weight ball on the end.

Could it be? It had to be. This was a discreet version of the emergency pull cord her dad had installed in Nana Alexandrov’s bathroom. Hers had a blazing red panel that read “pull cord in case of emergency.” But, of course, Golden Village would be more refined about the need to call for help if a resident fell in the bathroom. Could the goon really have forgotten it was in here?

Not her problem. She yanked the cord and headed for the door.

She
hoped
the alarm would only sound in the main building, but apparently, refinement and pretense went out the window when a resident was lying on the bathroom floor. As she pulled open the door, a repetitive
bloop
blared from hidden speakers at full volume, echoing off the tile walls. A bright light blinked overhead. A pissed off, red-faced man loomed in her path.

“What the hell did you do?” he shouted.

She’d never reach his eyes. He was way too tall. But his vulnerable throat was within reach. She lunged forward with the hairpin and jabbed it straight into his throat, piercing his trachea with the point and yanking it straight back out.

He folded forward, wheezing, shaking droplets of blood everywhere. She released the hairpin and landed a fast, solid knife chop to his throat with the outside ridge of her hand.
Add insult to injury.

His breath came fast and shallow. He went down on his knees. The alarm blared. The light flashed. She burst forward, taking a step with her left foot, and raised her right foot to finish him off with an advancing front kick to the face. As she raised her shin, he reached out with his right hand and grabbed her ankle.

He yanked downward and used her own momentum to pull her to the ground.

Not good. Krav Maga taught fighters to stay on their feet at all costs. Nothing was worse than being on the ground. But MMA fighters grappled on the ground routinely.

Don’t panic. Just don’t let him mount you.

Given his size, if she let him pin her down, it was over.

She fell to her back and raised her hips in an awkward bridge pose. He still had her right ankle in his hand, so she rolled to the right and kicked wildly with the bottom of her left foot. Her form was bad. Her moves lacked power. But she had to avoid being mounted. She wriggled in an unpredictable pattern from side to side like a fish that had just been landed.

He dropped her foot and lunged forward, kneeling over her, and telegraphing a chokehold. His hands were coming straight at her neck.

She bucked hard to her left and brought her right elbow up and around connecting with his hands, and knocking them to the side. She rolled up, rotated her body, and aimed a left-handed palm strike at his already-damaged throat. She immediately followed with a second strike from the right and then staggered to her feet.

He emitted a high-pitched, wheezy sound like a leaky balloon. She smiled. That was the unmistakable sound of stridor. His airway was collapsing. She was about to take another shot just for good measure, when the sound of furious pounding at the front door penetrated the chaos. The cavalry had arrived.