Near Death (10 page)

A presence: more than the hint of something, more than a notion, something terrifyingly wonderful.

One more stepping-stone …

… Then another
.

With each step he got closer to his father, closer to the presence.

The pleasure was indescribable, a million orgasms ripping through every cell in his body, an insane fireworks display reaching its climactic finale.

He looked down.
Three stones to go
. Three steps and he’d be on the other side. Three steps and he’d be in his father’s brawny arms again—and merging with the overwhelming presence over the horizon.

Dickie was beaming, his arms outstretched. “Alex!”

“Dad!”

He pushed off toward the penultimate stone but his foot was rooted, as if stuck in thick wet mud.

Dickie’s smile vanished. “Come on, son. You can make it!”

Alex strained with all his might but he couldn’t advance. “I can’t!” he screamed.

“You can!”

In horror he felt himself being sucked off the stones, reeling backward. He cried out,
“No!”
but he was powerless to stop it. His father was getting smaller, the presence fading, the pleasure and joy seeping from his being.

The reversal took on a breathtaking speed. He found himself in the sparkling tunnel, hurtling back, helplessly falling, to his bedroom, to his bed, and now he was back in his recumbent body looking into Jessie’s scared, staring eyes.

“Alex, thank goodness! I didn’t know what to do. I was going to call for help.”

He blinked and looked around, his face wet with tears. “I was there! Do you understand? I was there!”

“Where?”

“There! The other side!”

He started shaking. She lowered herself onto him and held him maternally. “It’s okay, honey, I’m here.”

“Jessie?”

“Yes?”

The same words from long ago came to him again, but they were in a man’s voice, not a boy’s.

“I want to go back.”

Twelve

It was discharge day. At the dawn of Tara’s illness, discharge days were full of hope and promise. An operation followed by a new therapy. A life continued.

Yet the last few of these were like heavy sighs. The reality was clear enough: the hourglass was merely being tipped on end until the grains of sand ran out once again.

Cyrus waited outside her room while the IV was removed and the nurses helped her dress. Then his stomach soured—a Pavlovian curdle—at the sound of Marian’s heels clicking down the corridor.

She was alone; her husband was stuffed behind a large office desk somewhere downtown. She scowled when she saw him and with the usual venom spat, “You
knew
I was going to pick her up.”

“I was in the neighborhood.”

“You’re supposed to see her on Saturday. Since you’re here now, maybe you should give up some of that time.”

“Come on, Marian, don’t do this.” He was angry but he also had a pleading tone.

“We have a court-approved deal.” Then, adding a generous ladle of sarcasm, “I know you’re capable of understanding court orders. After all, you’re still with the FBI, aren’t you?”

Ah, the FBI again. Early in their courtship and marriage she’d liked his job well enough. Her fellow was a protector of the innocent, a pursuer of the guilty. She’d enjoyed the way he slid off his heavy holster when he returned from work—very manly, very sexy.

It didn’t take long, though, for her to figure out that federal agents had a skimpy financial upside. Their house was too small, the furniture undistinguished, the vacations domestic, the jewelry light on carats. There were the months when her takings from real estate deals exceeded his salary. Her upbringing made it distasteful for the woman to be the dominant wage earner. Discontent bored into her like a skin-penetrating parasite. She pushed him toward the private sector. She knew a Boston-based Fortune 500 company looking for a head of corporate security and she was enraged he wouldn’t even consider it. The seeds of discontent were sown in the moist soil of her mind.

The nurse called through the door. “Almost ready.”

Marian frowned. “By the way,” she suddenly said, “did you have anything to do with having Doctor Weller removed from Tara’s care?”

“Indirectly,” he answered. “It was his decision.”

“Why?”

“I can’t talk about it. It’s got nothing to do with Tara.”

“He was excellent. So it affects Tara. I want him back.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Cyrus said firmly.

“Tell me why,” she insisted.

“I can’t. It involves a case I’m on.”

She was going to persist but Tara appeared, waiflike, wobbly on her feet, jeans loose, a woolly cap covering her baldness. They never fought in front of her. Each put on a happy face and waited competitively to see who got the first smile, the grace of first touch.

“Daddy!”

Cyrus could see Marian’s jaw tensing as he dropped to his haunches to give her a hug. She disappeared in his arms, too small, too small; but having won the victory, he wasn’t one to twist the knife. He released her and gently spun her toward Marian, who kissed her forehead and fought to hold back tears.

“Let’s go home, sweetheart,” her mother said.

“Is Daddy coming too?”

“I’ve got to go to work, honey. I just came by to spring you from this joint.”

She brought her teddy up to her chest and pouted.

“I’m coming over Saturday,” he added.

“When is that?”

“Just two days. If you’re up to it, we’ll take a drive.”

“I’m not sure she’ll be able to leave the house,” Marian warned.

“We’ll see,” Cyrus said with a tired smile. “We’ll see.”

As they made their way through the lobby, two parents pushing their discharged daughter in a little hospital wheelchair, a casual observer would have thought them a handsome married couple doting on their sick child. Yet Cyrus couldn’t wait to see Marian’s back and only relaxed when she left to pick up her car from the garage. He waited with Tara curbside. It was cool, but she was well-bundled and seemed to perk up in the fresh air.

“What do you want to do when you get home?” he asked.

“I want to see my new dollhouse.”

“Really?”

“Mommy said Marty bought it for me. I hope it’s big.”

“Knowing Marty, it’ll be huge,” Cyrus said.

When Tara was securely buckled into the backseat of Marian’s Mercedes, Cyrus gave her cheek a peck and waved her off. As he headed for the garage, he heard his name called. “Mister O’Malley!”

It was Emily Frost in a navy overcoat, her cheeks flushed. “Has Tara left?”

Cyrus was colder than the morning air. “Just now. Her mother took her.”

It was apparent they were going in the same direction. They walked side by side in uncomfortable silence until Emily piped up, “When I saw her earlier she was really excited about going home.”

He grunted. “Yes, she was.”

She took a good breath and said professionally, “I know you and your wife aren’t in agreement on all aspects of Tara’s treatment plan, but I’m grateful you’ve allowed me to continue to see her.”

They entered the parking lot. He had to pay to exit, she had a card. He pointed at the ticket machine as a sign that he was going his own way. “I haven’t changed my mind. I’m completely against it but Tara likes you and I don’t
have the stomach to take it to court. My wife’s got deeper pockets than I do.”

“Well, I’m still grateful. She’s a special little girl.” With that, she gave a terse good-bye and hopped onto an elevator.

As he corkscrewed down from one of the top floors of the parking garage he checked his BlackBerry for office messages. There was an e-mail from Avakian confirming their appointment in Cambridge; he had just enough time to get there.

At the second parking level he hit a sudden backup of four or five cars. At first he tapped the steering wheel impatiently; then he scrolled through a few more messages. With the brake lights ahead still glowing red he searched for the source of the problem and noticed a car down the line half in and half out of a parking space. The vehicle behind it was awfully close, stopped at an angle blocking both ramps. It looked like a fender bender. He checked his watch and swore. Cars were behind him now. He was well and truly stuck.

He lowered his window and stuck his head out for a better look. A man was shouting angrily. He didn’t like what he was hearing, not cool for a hospital zone,
especially a children’s hospital. His cop juices started to flow.

He got out, approached the accident and had to suppress a smile. Blue overcoat, blond head. Dr. Frost had backed into a guy.

The smile faded when he got a look at the man haranguing her, a fellow in his late twenties with slicked-back hair. His shiny BMW was injured, a headlight smashed, its cowling dented. The guy’s eyes were wild and his jugulars were full and he was cursing Dr. Frost with all the decorum of a street thug.

“Hey buddy!” Cyrus called out. “Easy with the language, this is a children’s hospital.”

Emily had been holding her own, steering the man toward neutrality, encouraging a quick exchange of paperwork but seemed relieved to see Cyrus.

The fellow gave Cyrus the finger. “This is none of your fucking business, man.”

Cyrus kept moving forward. “You see, that’s what I’m talking about. This place is full of sick children and upset parents. They don’t need this. Trade your numbers and move on.”

“Go screw yourself. She backed into me.”

“I’m sorry, but you were coming down the ramp awfully fast,” Emily added in her defense.

“The bitch shouldn’t be driving.”

Cyrus strode forward until he stood toe to toe with the man but half a head taller. “You’re talking to my daughter’s doctor.”

The fellow seemed momentarily confused by the amalgam of calmness and menace in Cyrus’s tone. “Back off, man, I don’t care who I’m talking to. She’s cost me a grand on my deductible.”

“Your medical bills are going to come in way higher, pal,” Cyrus said evenly, watching the man’s fist ball up. “Not to mention your legal bills if you take a swing at me.”

“Mister O’Malley, please, I’ll be all right,” Emily protested. “Why don’t I just call security?”

Cyrus pulled an old cop maneuver, unfitting perhaps for an FBI agent, but instinctively satisfying. He pulled his coat and jacket back to reveal the butt of his gun snug against his upper chest. “Security’s already here, Doctor Frost.”

“What are you, some kind of cop?” The man backed off a step.

“Yeah, I’m some kind of cop. And let me ask you something. This lot’s for hospital visitors. Something tells me you’re not here for that. What’s your story, pal?”

“I’m a district manager for a liquor wholesaler,” the man said obligingly, staring at the gun. “I’ve got clients in the neighborhood.”

“Okay, liquor man,” Cyrus growled, “take the doctor’s insurance info and hit the bricks. Now.”

Within a minute the BMW was gone and cars started snaking up the ramp again. Cyrus trotted back to his car to unclog the down ramp but not before Emily, staring at him in sweet amazement, said, “Thanks for your help.”

He smiled back, gave her a casual salute and was off.

The headquarters of the Harvard University Information Services department was at Holyoke Center, a sixties piece of architecture that still seemed to work as a counterpoint to the ancient red bricks of Harvard Yard. Cyrus blew in, not tragically late, as everyone had just exchanged business cards, not yet past the chitchat.

Avakian had been cracking up the other men with one of his stories. The assistant provost for Information Technology, a lieutenant from the university police and an IT manager from Harvard’s Soldier’s Field Road facility
were huddled with him in a conference room, a couple of black binders lying conspicuously on the table.

Cyrus apologized, went through the introductions and started the meeting with his thanks. He acknowledged that the university didn’t have to cooperate with their request for information but because it was a private institution it had the prerogative to do so. Subpoenas, probable cause arguments, all the insurmountable hurdles for an investigation at this stage were conveniently mooted by their helpfulness.

The assistant provost was happy to make some remarks and move onto another meeting. “Look, Special Agent O’Malley, we’re always interested in assisting outside law enforcement whenever possible. And we’ve got a mandate to protect all our employees and students to the maximum extent possible. If we’ve got a bad apple, we should know about it.”

“Absolutely,” the police lieutenant agreed, “especially in a homicide investigation.”

Cyrus was quick to respond. “We’re too early in this investigation to have any suspects. We’d just like to be able to rule out Doctor Weller as a person of interest and move on if we can, to more productive leads.”

Cyrus and Avakian soon were left alone with the IT manager, a young man who looked like he’d borrowed someone else’s shirt and tie for the meeting. He explained how their logs worked: after 6
P
.
M
. and on weekends all medical school employees had to swipe their ID cards on entry and exit at the security desks located at each of the Longwood complex research buildings. And 24/7 all internal card swipes were recorded at sensitive areas such as biohazard labs and animal facilities. The printouts on the table were records, sorted by calendar day, of Dr. Weller’s building for the past two months. And to make their task easier, he’d had Dr. Weller’s personal data outputted in red. He appeared quite proud of this software feature and Cyrus heaped praise on him for the convenience, making the young man as happy as if he’d pinned an honorary FBI badge to his lapel.

Cyrus wanted to key on four dates: the presumptive nights on which Thomas Quinn and the three prostitutes were murdered. Avakian donned thick-rimmed reading glasses and tackled the first two. Cyrus took the more recent killings. They dug into the binders while the IT guy took out his laptop and did his own thing. Half an hour later, they were done.

“I got nothing,” Avakian grunted. “Weller’s a goddamn workaholic. He was in the lab both nights from 7 P.M. or so till 5 or 6 A.M. when he clocked out. He’s in and out of the animal rooms a lot but there’s probably nothing unusual about that.”