Savage Art (A Chilling Suspense Novel) (26 page)

Jordan shook the cobwebs from his head. "Your mother thinks I'm responsible for Ryan's earache?"

"Well..."

"That's a crock, Angie," Jordan exploded. "I don't have time for this tonight."

"You never have time for your family, Jordan."

"That's not fair, Angie. You're picking a fight."

Angie gasped as though he'd struck her. "I am not. I'm trying to have a normal conversation with my husband. God forbid, you find some space in your day for us."

Renee tapped him on the shoulder. "Alta Bates hospital is on line three, asking for you."

"Angie, I'm going to have to call you back later."

"Don't bother, Inspector. I can take care of my sons alone."

"Angie," Jordan said, but the phone was already dead.

He looked up to see McKinley still glaring at him from across the room as he snatched up the other line. "Inspector Gray."

"This is Nurse James in the emergency room," a woman said. "We have a William Glass here. His friend said he asked for you before he went unconscious."

Jordan shook his head. "William Glass?"

"Billy?" Casey said, coming to the phone.

"What's happened?" Jordan managed to ask the nurse before Casey grabbed at the phone. Jordan put the call on speakerphone.

"A man named Kevin Wrigley brought him in. According to Mr. Wrigley, Mr. Glass was complaining of a headache when he collapsed at a coffee shop in Berkeley. He's suffering from a high fever and pneumonialike symptoms."

Casey slumped, her expression grim. "Is he going to be all right?"

"It's too soon to tell."

* * *

"He's going to be fine," Jordan said, after debating a number of ways to comfort Casey.

She shook her head.

"People don't just up and die of pneumonia."

Casey sent him a scalding look and quickly turned away again.

"What? Modern medicine is wonderful. Antibiotics will knock this out of his system no problem. I had pneumonia as a kid and look at me."

Casey shook her head. "You weren't HIV positive."

"What?" As soon as the word had escaped from his lips, Jordan knew it was a mistake.

"Billy has AIDS, Gray. Full-blown AIDS. He's HIV positive."

Jordan stared, not knowing what to say.

"The same thing Magic has," she added with a nasty tone.

"I know what AIDS is."

"Don't look so shocked, then. Billy's gay, in San Francisco. He's been HIV positive for three years." Casey glanced at her hands. "He's probably been getting sick for months. I haven't even paid attention." She wiped her face, and Jordan stared through the windshield, trying to think of something to say.

"He'll be fine," Jordan repeated, unable to find anything better to add. He searched for words, remembering how protective Casey was of Billy. Nothing came to him. Billy was going to die. It was God's punishment for the homosexuals, his mother used to say. It had seemed like such an easy explanation when Jordan was in high school. Now, looking around at the people Jordan saw killed each year, he wondered how his mother would explain their deaths. What had the little black girl done at ten years old to deserve such a cruel punishment?

"I'm sure there's something the doctors can do," he offered lamely.

She sent him a tired stare. "Do me a favor—don't say another word. Please."

He nodded and held his tongue. He couldn't seem to do anything right tonight.

Jordan was thankful when they reached the entrance to the hospital. He pulled in front and stopped the car. "Go on in. I'll park."

Casey nodded and hurried from the car.

* * *

Jordan arrived in the emergency waiting area to find Casey poised at the admissions desk like a bulldog, shouting out orders.

An Asian woman stood with her hands nailed to her hips, shaking her head. "I'm sorry. We cannot release information at this time."

"I'm the only family he has," Casey rebutted.

Jordan approached the desk, keeping a safe distance from Casey's flying arms.

"I'm Inspector Jordan Gray of the San Francisco Police Department," he said, drawing his badge out of his pocket and laying it on the counter. "This is a matter of police business. I would like to speak to the doctor treating William Glass."

The nurse squinted suspiciously and glanced from Jordan to Casey and back again. Muttering something in an Asian language that Jordan, of course, couldn't understand, the nurse nodded and turned her back to them.

"Can you believe this place?" Casey said without looking at him. "We have to be family." She snickered. "As if his family cared more than I do. Bullshit, all of it."

Jordan didn't say anything. Instead he found himself rubbing his sweating palms together, his gut tight as he waited for the doctor.

Jordan hated hospitals, always had. The smell of plastic and anesthetic and blood and rubbing alcohol always reminded him of the night his brother Tyler was shot. He could still hear his mother's shrill sobs, still see his father sitting with his hands on his head, moaning about God's injustice.

It had continued for what felt like hours. His mother would almost settle down when something would happen and her screaming would start again, pulling on the strings of Jordan's young heart.

Kids weren't supposed to know death so intimately—especially not a death like Tyler's. When the doctor came out and told the family Tyler hadn't made it, Jordan didn't understand what that meant. His mother collapsed on the floor, his father had let out a deep choking sound of grief. Jordan had wanted to ask what was wrong, but hadn't. Instead he cried, realizing from his parents' reactions that something terrible had happened.

In hindsight, he was glad he hadn't asked his parents why Tyler was dead. Now he knew there was no why. Why was a child's question. Adults knew there was rarely a good answer.

"Inspector Gray," a woman's voice said.

Jordan turned to meet the gaze of a tall, thin black woman. "I'm Inspector Gray," he answered.

"Dr. Larson," she announced.

"How is he?" Casey asked without giving the doctor a chance to speak.

The doctor didn't seem at all bothered by Casey's abrupt tone. "He's not well."

Casey took a step backward as though she'd been struck.

"Why don't we sit?" the doctor suggested, moving to a cluster of blue plastic chairs in the waiting room.

"I don't want to—" Casey started.

"Hush," Jordan said, taking her arm and leading her to a chair.

Casey frowned without comment.

Dr. Larson sat and held her hands in her lap. "Mr. Glass has developed an opportunistic infection, common to people suffering from AIDS."

"Opportunistic?" Casey said.

The doctor nodded and put her hand up to slow Casey down. "He has Pneumocystis carinii pneumonia. It's a fungal infection of the lungs that usually comes on gradually. Though in Billy's case, it appears to have come on fast."

"But he wasn't even sick," Casey argued.

"It's possible he didn't show symptoms. Or perhaps he kept them from you."

Jordan could sense Casey shaking beside him. Not knowing how to react, he took her hand in his. "What happens now?"

"Pneumocystis carinii pneumonia is treatable—actually quite easily when it's caught early on. But Billy's infection is advanced. We'll treat him with pentamidine. It will wear him down considerably, but it's the best hope for fighting off the infection."

"Will it work?"

Jordan squeezed Casey's hand as they waited for the doctor's response.

Before speaking, the doctor glanced at her hands. "Most times it does. I had a patient last month who recovered wonderfully. It's a difficult process. We'll do everything we can to make sure he's comfortable. There are some side effects to pentamidine."

"What sort of side effects?"

"It's been known to cause arrhythmia."

"He could have a heart attack?" Casey asked.

The doctor nodded.

"Is there another medication he can take?"

The doctor's expression was grim. "At this stage, pentamidine is his best chance."

Jordan looked at Casey.

Shock had frozen her face. Jordan couldn't even imagine what she was feeling. Billy was her closest friend. The thought made him ache for Angie and the boys.

"What are his chances?" Casey said, her voice almost a whisper.

The doctor glanced at Jordan and then back at Casey. "The infection is very advanced. And the AIDS itself is constantly debilitating his immune system, making it tougher for the medication to fight off the current infection."

Casey pulled her hand from Jordan's. "What percent chance?"

"I don't like to give percentages. It will depend on his ability to fight. Support from you will help. Talk to him, read to him. He can hear you. Encourage him to fight. I personally believe that will help."

Casey shook her head. "How many patients have you seen with this sort of infection?"

The doctor shrugged. "Maybe thirty or forty."

"How many survived?" Casey asked.

The doctor paused and looked down. "When the infection was caught early on, almost all survived."

"And when it was caught later?" Casey pressed.

When the doctor looked back up, her eyes were distant. "It's much harder to quantify."

Casey shook her head, looking like she was holding her breath. "Try. Please."

The doctor said, "Maybe twenty percent."

Chapter 23

He sat back in the small metal chair and propped his feet up on the table, imagining himself as the high-powered client he was about to play. It had all come together so easily. A sick mother, an important client, and now Amy would be coming to him. They had thought he was stupid. Growing up, people had looked at him like an imbecile. His mother, his sister, the whole town—they had all underestimated what he was capable of.

He had held Casey's hands in his, he had touched the very scars he had created. And she'd had no idea. She'd sat beside him, her discomfort a sensation he'd created. It was truly artwork. Inside, he'd been boiling with excitement. The feel of her skin, the crooked lines of the scars against his touch, it had almost been too much. But he had contained his emotions. He had played the part masterfully, and now the finale was so close.

One day, when he was a dying man, a renowned surgeon, he would write his memoirs, and confess to his art. From hell, he would watch their horrified faces as they read of his incredible deeds, and he would laugh.

The scene in Golden Gate Park the night before had been perfect. He could still picture the stupid cop, embarrassed as he apologized that he was not in the crowd, searching out the killer. All the cops, in fact, had looked apologetic. He was constantly amazed at the stupidity around him. They hadn't asked him for identification. They had simply told him their plan and then let him walk away.

Then the kid who had agreed to wear the blond wig. He was probably sitting in a jail cell right now. And meanwhile he had transformed from a jogger to an elderly man and walked right out from behind the senior center and met up with an old woman, taking her arm and escorting her to her car. The cops had surrounded the entire area, but no one even glanced at him. It had been too easy.

Once he had Amy, his masterpiece, Casey would rise to the occasion. She would play his game. And it was so close to game time.

Michael and Amy were flying out to California, right into his hands. The housekeeper, Mary, was off to Durham, to see her mother who was sick from the tiny dose of cyanide he had added to a batch of her favorite candy—Almond Rocca—that he'd sent from her cousin almost a month ago. It was amazingly easy to get information these days. When he'd called Michael's home number and Mary had answered, he'd chatted her up like an old family friend of Michael and Casey's. She'd easily told him all about her family, including the details of how her mother loved to hoard candy and the cousin who always made her Almond Rocca. People loved to talk about themselves. He'd timed the poisoned candy perfectly. Just enough that Mary would go down to visit. The dose he'd added hadn't been enough to kill her. She'd probably be better within a few weeks.