Seizure (27 page)

Since it was after hours, the store was closed, as evidenced by a sign in the door's window. But the door was unlocked. Gaetano was behind the cash register, totaling the day's receipts. He had a nub of a yellow wooden pencil tucked behind his surprisingly small ear, dwarfed by his large head.

“Sal and Louie?” Tony questioned.

Gaetano motioned toward the rear with his head without interrupting what he was doing. Tony found the twins at their respective desks. After a slapping handshake and the usual curt greeting with each, Tony sat down on the sofa. The twins eyed him expectantly. The only light in the room came from small, hooded desk lamps on each desk, emphasizing the twins' cadaverous faces. From Tony's perspective, their eye sockets were mere black holes.

“Well, they are in Nassau,” Tony began. “I was hoping I could come here and tell you differently, but that's not the
case. They just checked into a ritzy resort called the Ocean Club. They are in suite 108. I've even got the phone number.”

Tony leaned over and put a small piece of paper on Louie's desk, which was closer to the sofa than Sal's.

The door opened, and Gaetano's head popped in. “You want me or what?”

“Yeah,” Louie said, as he picked up the paper with the phone number and glanced at it.

Gaetano stepped into the room and closed the door.

“Any change in the company's prospects?” Sal asked.

“Not that I'm aware of,” Tony said. “If there had been, my accountant would have told me.”

“It's like this twerp's flipping us off,” Louie said. He laughed mirthlessly. “Nassau! I still don't believe it. It's like he's asking us to beat the crap out of him.”

“Is that what you are going to do?” Tony asked.

Louie looked over at his twin. “We want him to get his ass back here and save the company and our investment. Am I right, brother?”

“Damn straight,” Sal said. “We've got to let him know who's involved here and emphasize we want our money back, come hell or high water. Not only does he have to get his ass back here, he's got to have a clear idea of what the consequences are if he ignores us or thinks he can hide behind a bankruptcy filing or some other legal shenanigan. He needs to be knocked around good!”

“What about my sister?” Tony asked. “She's not blameless in this mess, but if she's going to be knocked around, I want to be the person doing the knocking around.”

“No problem,” Louie said. He tossed the slip of paper with the phone number onto his desk. “Like I said Sunday: Our beef's not with her.”

“Are you ready to go to Nassau, Gaetano?” Sal asked.

“I can leave first thing in the morning,” Gaetano said. “But what should I do after I deliver the message? Should I hang around or what? I mean, what if he doesn't get the message?”

“You'd better be damn sure he gets the message,” Sal said. “I don't want you to have the mistaken impression this is some sort of paid vacation. Besides, we need you up here. After you give him the message, you get your ass back to Boston.”

“Gaetano has a point,” Tony said. “What will you do if this asshole ignores the message?”

Sal looked at his brother. There was an apparent immediate meeting of the minds as each nodded. Sal looked back at Tony. “If this twerp wasn't around, could your sister run the company?”

Tony shrugged. “How am I supposed to know?”

“She's your sister,” Sal said. “Doesn't she have a Ph.D.?”

“She's got a Ph.D. from Harvard,” Tony said. “Big deal! All it's done is make her impossible to get along with, thinking she's so high and mighty. And as far as I know, it only means she knows a ton of stuff about germs and genes and all that crap, not how to run a company.”

“Well, the twerp's got a Ph.D. too,” Louie said. “So it seems to me the company wouldn't be much worse off if your sister were running things. And if she were, you'd have a lot more influence about how things were going.”

“So what are you saying?” Tony asked.

“Hey, am I not talking English here?” Louie questioned.

“Of course you're talking English,” Sal added.

“Look,” Louie said. “If the head of the company doesn't get the message, which I think we can count on Gaetano making very clear, then we whack him. Simple as that, and end of story for the professor. If nothing else, that should send a very specific message to your sister that she'd better mend her ways.”

“You're right about that,” Tony said.

“Are you okay with this, Gaetano?” Sal asked.

“Yeah, sure,” Gaetano replied. “But I'm confused. Do you or don't you want me to stay down there until we're sure what his response will be to getting roughed up?”

“For the last time,” Sal said threateningly. “You're to deliver the message and get back here. If it goes down easily and if the flight schedule is copasetic, maybe you can do it in one day. Otherwise, you'll stay over. But we want you back here ASAP, because there's a lot going on around here. If he's got to be whacked, you'll go back. Understood?”

Gaetano nodded, but he was disappointed. When the task was first suggested on Sunday, he'd hoped to get a week in the sun out of the deal.

“I've got a suggestion,” Tony said. “Since we can't rule out Gaetano having to return, then I don't think he should do what he has to do at their hotel. If the professor turns out not to be cooperative, we don't want him on the run, which he might do if he thinks the hotel is not safe. In the Bahamas alone, there are literally hundreds of islands.”

“You're right,” Sal said. “We don't want him to disappear, not with our money on the line.”

“So maybe I should stay down there and keep an eye on him,” Gaetano suggested hopefully.

“What do I have to say to you, you moron,” Sal spat while glaring at Gaetano. “For the last time, you're not heading south on a holiday. You're going to do your thing and get the hell back here. This problem with the professor isn't the only one we've got.”

“Okay, okay!” Gaetano said, motioning as if surrendering. “I won't have my meeting with the guy at the hotel. I'll just use the hotel to spot him, which means I'll be needing some photos.”

“I thought of that,” Tony said. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out several snapshots. “These were taken of the lovebirds just this past Christmas.” He handed them over to Gaetano, who was still standing at the door.

Gaetano glanced at the photographs.

“Are they okay?” Louie asked.

“They're not bad at all,” Gaetano responded. Then, looking at Tony, he added, “I have to say, your sister's a looker.”

“Yeah, well forget it,” Tony said. “She's off-limits.”

“Too bad,” Gaetano said with a crooked smile.

“One other thing,” Tony said. “With all this airport security nonsense, I don't think it's advisable even to pack a gun in a checked suitcase. If Gaetano needs one, it would be better to make arrangements to get one on the island through contacts in Miami. You do have contacts in Miami, don't you?”

“Sure,” Sal said. “That's another good idea. Anything else?”

“I think that's about it,” Tony said. He stubbed out his cigarette and stood up.

9:15
A
.
M
., Friday, March 1, 2002

 

It had been
a long, delightful, and rejuvenating morning. With their circadian cycles awry, compliments of their brief European trip, both Stephanie and Daniel had awakened well before the sun had brightened the eastern horizon. Unable to fall back asleep, they'd gotten up, showered, and taken a protracted stroll around the hotel grounds and along the deserted Cabbage Beach, as a cloudless, tropical dawn broke. Back at the hotel, they'd been the first guests for breakfast and had lingered over their coffee while discussing the schedule for creating Butler's treatment cells. With only three weeks until his scheduled arrival, they knew they were up against a significant time constraint, and they were eager to get started, although they recognized they could do little until the package arrived from Peter. By eight o'clock, they'd called the Wingate Clinic to tell the receptionist they were in Nassau and would arrive at the clinic at about nine-fifteen. She said she'd let the doctors know.

“This western part of the island looks different than the eastern part,” Daniel observed, as they drove west along Windsor Field Road. “It's much flatter.”

“It's also less developed and a lot drier,” Stephanie added. They were passing long, low stretches of semiarid pine forest infiltrated with palmettos. The sky was a deep azure, dotted with a few wispy white clouds.

Daniel had insisted on driving, which Stephanie didn't mind until he'd suggested she might have more trouble driving on the left than he. Her initial reaction was to challenge what seemed to her an unwarranted, chauvinistic assertion, but then she just let it go. The issue wasn't worth an argument. Instead, she climbed into the passenger seat and contented herself with getting out the map. As had been the case when they'd fled Italy, she'd be the navigator.

Daniel drove slowly, which was fine with Stephanie, considering the reflex to bear to the right at corners and while circling roundabouts. They'd driven along the northern coast of the island, noting once again the high-rise resorts lined up like soldiers at attention along Cable Beach. After passing a number of limestone caves sculpted by prehistoric seas, they'd turned inland. Bearing right at the next intersection on Windsor Field Road, they'd caught a glimpse of the airport in the distance.

Continuing west, they had no trouble finding the turnoff to the Wingate Clinic. It was on the left side of the road and marked by a huge sign.

Stephanie leaned forward to get a better view out the windshield as they approached. “My word! Do you see the sign?”

“It would be hard to miss. It's the size of a billboard.”

Daniel made the turn onto the newly paved, tree-lined drive.

“They must have a lot of land,” Stephanie said. She sat back. “I can't see the building.”

After several turns through a dense copse of evergreens, the serpentine driveway was abruptly blocked by a gate. A formidable chain-link fence topped with razor wire disappeared into the pine forest in both directions. On Stephanie's side of the car stood a small booth. A uniformed guard, complete with a holstered sidearm, a visored, military-style hat, and aviator sunglasses, stepped out. He was holding a clipboard. Daniel pulled to a stop while Stephanie lowered her window.

The guard leaned over to look at Daniel across Stephanie's
lap. “Can I help you, sir?” His voice was decidedly businesslike and devoid of emotion.

“It's Dr. D'Agostino and Dr. Lowell,” Stephanie said. “We're here to meet with Dr. Wingate.”

The guard checked his clipboard and then touched the brim of his hat before returning to the gatehouse. A moment later, the gate rolled open like a pocket door. Daniel accelerated forward.

It took another few minutes before the clinic came into view. Nestled among carefully landscaped shrubbery and flowering trees was a two-story, postmodern, U-shaped complex. It was composed of three separate buildings connected by arcaded covered walkways. Each building was clad in white limestone with white concrete tile roofs, the pediments of which were capped by fanciful, shell-themed acroteria reminiscent of an ancient Greek temple. Latticework was interspersed between multipaned windows along the sides of each structure. At the base of each lattice, young, brightly colored bougainvillea plants were beginning their climb skyward.

“Good grief,” Stephanie exclaimed. “I wasn't prepared for this. It's beautiful. It looks more like a spa than an infertility clinic.”

The driveway led to a parking area in front of a central building, the entrance of which was adorned by a columned portico. The columns were squat, with exaggerated entases and capped with simple Doric capitals.

“I hope they saved some money for their laboratory equipment,” Daniel commented. He pulled their rented Mercury Marquis in between several new BMW convertibles. Several spaces away were two limousines, their liveried drivers smoking and chatting while leaning up against their vehicles' front fenders.

Daniel and Stephanie stepped out of the car and paused to gaze at the complex, which was dazzling in the bright Bahamian sun. “I'd heard that infertility was lucrative,” Daniel commented, “but I didn't imagine it was this lucrative.”

“Nor did I,” Stephanie said. “But I wonder how much of this resulted from them being able to collect on their fire insurance following their flight from Massachusetts.” She shook her head. “No matter where the money came from, with the
cost of healthcare, opulence and medicine are inappropriate bedfellows. There is something wrong with this picture, and my qualms about getting involved with these people are coming back big time.”

“Let's not let our prejudices and self-righteousness run away with themselves,” Daniel warned. “We're not here on a social crusade. We're here to treat Butler, and that's it.”

The large bronzed front door opened and a tall, deeply tanned, silver-haired man appeared. He was dressed in a long white doctor's coat. He waved and called out “Welcome!” in a high, lilting voice.

“At least we're getting a personalized greeting,” Daniel said. “Let's go! And keep your opinions to yourself.”

Daniel and Stephanie met up at the front of the car and began walking toward the entrance. “I hope that's not Spencer Wingate,” Stephanie whispered.

“Why not?” Daniel whispered back.

“Because he's handsome enough to be a soap-opera doctor.”

“Oh, I forgot! You wanted him to be short, fat, and have a wart on his nose.”

“Precisely.”

“Well, we can still hope he's a chain-smoker and has bad breath.”

“Oh, shut up!”

Daniel and Stephanie mounted the three steps to the portico. As they approached, Spencer extended his hand while keeping the door open with his foot. He introduced himself with a great flourish of smiles and handshaking. He then grandly motioned for them to precede him into the building.

In keeping with the exterior, the interior had a simple classical ambience, with plain pilasters, dentil moldings, and Doric columns. The floor was polished limestone, softened with Oriental scatter rugs. The walls were painted a very light lavender, which at first glance appeared to be pale gray. Even the varnished hardwood furniture had a classical aura, with dark green leather upholstery. A faint smell of fresh paint permeated the air-conditioned air, as a reminder of the clinic's recent completion. For Daniel and Stephanie, the dry coolness was a welcome contrast to the moist tropical heat outdoors, which had been steadily climbing since sunrise.

“This is our main waiting room,” Spencer said as he gestured around the voluminous room. Two moderately elderly, well-dressed couples were sitting on separate sofas. They were nervously flipping through magazines and briefly looked up. The only other occupant was a receptionist with bright pink fingernail polish who was manning a half-circle desk just inside the door.

“This building serves as the initial check-in location for new patients,” Spencer explained. “It also houses our administration offices. We're very proud of the clinic, and we're eager to show you the entire complex, although we suspect you're mainly interested in our laboratory facilities.”

“And the operating room,” Daniel said.

“Yes, of course, the operating room. But first, come up to my office for some coffee and meet the others.”

Spencer led the way over to a spacious elevator, even though they were only going up one floor. During the brief ride, Spencer questioned like a concerned host whether their incoming flight had been pleasant. Stephanie assured him it had been fine. On the second level, they passed a secretary who interrupted her word processing to smile cheerfully.

Spencer's vast office was in the northeast corner of the building. The airport could be seen to the east and a blue line of the ocean to the north. “Help yourselves,” Spencer said, motioning to a coffee service spread out on a low marble table in front of an L-shaped sofa. “I'll get the two department heads.”

For a moment, Daniel and Stephanie were alone.

“This looks like an office of a CEO of a Fortune Five Hundred company,” Stephanie said. “I have to say, I find all of this opulence obscene.”

“Let's hold our value judgments until we see the lab.”

“Do you think those two couples reading magazines downstairs are patients?”

“I haven't the slightest idea, nor do I care.”

“They seemed a bit old for infertility treatment.”

“It's not our concern.”

“Do you think the Wingate Clinic is getting older women pregnant like that maverick infertility specialist in Italy?”

Daniel flashed Stephanie an exasperated, irritated look as
Spencer reappeared. The clinic founder had a man and a woman in tow, both dressed like himself in white, highly starched, long doctor's coats. First, he introduced Paul Saunders, who was short and squat, and whose thick-necked silhouette reminded Stephanie of the columns supporting the building's entrance portico. In keeping with his body, everything about Paul's face was round with puffy, pasty, pale skin, all of which was in sharp contrast to Spencer's tall, slender frame, sharply angled features, and bronzed complexion. A mat of unruly dark hair with a striking white forelock completed Paul's eccentric image and accentuated his paleness.

As he vigorously shook hands with Daniel, Paul smiled broadly to reveal square, widely spaced, yellowed teeth. “Welcome to the Wingate, doctors,” he said. “We're honored to have you here. I can't tell you how excited I am about our collaboration.”

Stephanie smiled weakly as he moved to her and pumped her hand. She was mesmerized by the man's eyes. With his broad-based nose, his eyes appeared closer together than usual. Also, she'd never seen a person with different-colored irises.

“Paul is our head of research,” Spencer announced, giving Paul a pat on the back. “He is looking forward to having you in his lab and eager to be of assistance and to learn a few things, I might add.” Spencer then draped his arm over the shoulders of the woman, who was almost as tall as he. “And this is Dr. Sheila Donaldson, head of clinical services. She'll be making the arrangements for your use of one of our two operating rooms, as well as our inpatient facility, which we assume you'll be taking advantage of.”

“I didn't know you had inpatient capabilities,” Daniel said.

“We are a full-service, self-contained operation,” Spencer said proudly. “Although for long-term inpatient care, which we don't expect, we will be referring patients to Doctors Hospital in town. Our inpatient facility is limited and more just for an occasional overnight, which should serve your needs admirably.”

Stephanie pulled her attention away from Paul Saunders and looked at Sheila Donaldson. She had a narrow face framed by lank, chestnut hair. In comparison to the exuberant
men, she seemed withdrawn, almost shy. Stephanie had the feeling the woman was reluctant to look her in the eye as they shook hands.

“No coffee for you folks?” Spencer questioned.

Both Stephanie and Daniel shook their heads. “I think we've both had our fill of coffee,” Daniel explained. “We're still on European time, and we've been up since the crack of dawn.”

“Europe?” Paul questioned enthusiastically. “Did your travel to Europe have anything to do with the Shroud of Turin?”

“Indeed it did,” Daniel responded.

“I trust it was a successful trip,” Paul said, with a conspiratorial wink.

“Withering, but successful,” Daniel remarked. “We . . .” He paused, as if trying to decide what he wanted to say.

Stephanie held her breath. She was hoping Daniel wouldn't describe their Turin experience. She very much wanted to maintain a distance from these people. For Daniel to share their recent travail would be too personal and would cross a boundary she did not want to cross.

“We managed to get a bloodstained swatch from the shroud,” Daniel said. “In fact, I have it with me at the moment. What I'd like to do is get it into a buffered saline solution to stabilize the DNA fragments, and I'd like to do it sooner rather than later.”