Wonders Never Cease (30 page)

“Do I?”

“Yes—when you're thinking clearly.”

“When I'm thinking like you.”

“When you're thinking realistically.”

“Maybe you're right,” Matt said. “Maybe Freud was right. Maybe people do believe what they want to believe deep down inside—maybe that's what faith is. But if that's true, Charlie, it's true for you too.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe you don't believe because you don't want to. Maybe you can't believe because you're not willing. Did you ever consider that?”

Armantrout picked up a piece of paper from his desk. “That reminds me—I got a call from Ms. Pelton today. She wanted to notify the school that Leah will be absent for the next week or two.”

“Why?”

“It seems she took my advice after all—she got that MRI. It turns out Leah has a tumor in her brain. Ms. Pelton seemed hesitant to offer many details, but I pressed her a little and took a few notes. Yes, here it is . . . the tumor is putting pressure on the ‘medial temporal lobe.' The neurologist told her this sort of thing has been known to cause auras—even visions. Who would have guessed?”

Matt was stunned. “What are they going to do?”

“They can't tell if the tumor is malignant or benign until they do a biopsy, so they want to remove it right away. She's having surgery at UCLA tomorrow. Poor kid; somebody should send flowers.”

Matt immediately stood and headed for the door. He stopped in the doorway and looked back. “You know, Charlie, there are people all over the world who believe in God, and there are people who think they've seen angels—smart people, educated people, and they don't all have brain tumors. Either I'm beginning to see something that's not really there, or you can't see something that is. One of us is blind, Charlie; I'm just not sure yet which one of us it is.”

Armantrout smiled. “If you want my opinion, stop by anytime.”

Matt disappeared down the hall.

40

T
ino yawned and looked at his watch: It was almost nine a.m. Saturday morning and Bobby had not returned to his house. Bobby's shift had ended at the hospital at seven; he should have been home before this. His girlfriend and her daughter had returned an hour ago, but Kemp's pricey new Mercedes was nowhere in sight.

Tino caught a glimpse of Bobby's girlfriend when she walked from the car to the house.
Pretty woman
, Tino thought.
Nice little girl too. If I had a family like that I wouldn't be out
riding around
. The house had been quiet for an hour now; there was no sign of activity except for the glow of a TV. The woman was probably in bed asleep—which is exactly where Bobby should have been.

But Bobby wasn't there.

So much for making it look like a robbery
, he thought.
Too
bad—it would have been nice to do it while he was asleep
. Tino considered the hospital again. It was impossible—UCLA was enormous and there were people everywhere. No, it had to happen away from the hospital—and soon. There was no way around it: Bobby was a loose cannon, and there was no telling what he might do next—unless Tino got to him first.

Tino needed to find him. A great deal of money was riding on this—and if anything went wrong, maybe even Tino's life.
My life for Bobby's
, he thought.
Sounds like a good trade
to me
.

He started the car and drove off.

Fifteen minutes later Tino was standing in the center of the lobby of UCLA Medical Center. Straight ahead of him was an information desk manned by two elderly volunteers with stooped backs and welcoming smiles. On the left was a gift shop filled with all the forgotten sundries a patient or an overnight visitor could ever need. On the right was a glass-encased vending machine stocked with vases of roses and daisies—instant comfort or consolation, whatever the occasion called for. The ceiling was high and the floor was covered in a slick, glistening stone that seemed to muffle all the footsteps. Though it was only the hospital's lobby, the air already had a slight smell of disinfectant that imparted a vague sense of dread. And there were people—some talking, some laughing, some seated on vinyl sofas consoling weeping friends. There were people everywhere; Tino wondered if the lobby was ever empty.
The old man's no fool
, he thought.

“You lookin' for me?”

Tino turned. There was Emmet, staring at him coldly with his open hand already outstretched.

“You like to get right down to business, don't you?”

“This ain't no social call. You got somethin' for me or don't you?”

Tino took the envelope from his blazer and held it out. “A cashier's check made out to ‘cash,' just as you asked. Feel free to verify the amount.”

“No need. A man like you don't make mistakes like that.”

“Thank you.”

“It's not a compliment. I just figure you're the smart one in the group—though I can't say you got much competition.”

When Emmet took hold of the envelope, Tino held on to the other end. “This is a great deal of money,” he said. “What do you plan to do with it?”

“I'll find a use for it,” Emmet said, tugging the envelope free. “The thing with money is, you don't want to let it stick to your fingers.”

“Very wise. Mind if I give you a piece of advice?”

“I can't stop you.”

“Don't deposit that in your checking account. Most people would, just to see the nice fat account balance—but if you do, you'll have a federal agent knocking on your door within the week. They keep an eye out for large cash deposits; it smells like drug money.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

“I'm just looking out for myself. A man in your line of work would have a difficult time explaining where he managed to come up with an extra million dollars. I don't want you pointing your finger at me—that would be bad for both of us.”

“I'll remember.”

“You do that. By the way, have you seen Bobby today? I didn't see his car in the parking lot.”

“It's Saturday—might be his day off. Did you try his house?”

“He didn't come home this morning.”

“Can't say I'm surprised—the man's too dumb to stay where he belongs. No tellin' where he's been—but I can tell you where he's bound to be later on.”

“Where?”

“Don't you read the papers? Figured you'd know all about it. That book of yours—there's a big book signing over at that new mall in Glendale. Olivia Hayden's set to be there, and if she's there I don't believe Mr. Kemp will be far away.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

“Just lookin' out for myself.”

Tino smiled. “You're a very smart man, Emmet—a lot smarter than Bobby.”

“Like I said—not much competition.”

Tino turned without further word and headed for the exit.

Emmet watched him until he left the building, then walked around the corner and found an old wood-paneled phone booth. He pulled the door shut behind him and dialed a three-digit number. When the emergency operator answered he said, “Is this where I find the police? No, ma'am, it's not an emergency exactly, but it's sort of important so I thought you wouldn't mind. Can you put me through? Thank you—you have a good day now.

“Yes, hello—is this the police? Well, if you don't mind, I'd rather not tell you my name—but I have some information I think you'd like to know. Remember that doctor over at UCLA—the one who just up and disappeared a couple weeks back? Smithson, I believe his name was. Well, I believe I know the man responsible for that—and I can tell you right where to find him. You know that new mall over in Glendale?”

41

K
emp stretched up on his tiptoes and peered down the line of people. The line must have been fifty yards long, winding like a river down the long pedestrian walkway at the new $400 million Americana at Brand. The outdoor mall was the ideal setting for a book rollout and signing of this magnitude; no single bookstore could have ever contained the crowd. From where he stood Kemp couldn't even see the front of the line, but he knew where it had to be because the location was marked by thousands of multicolored balloons bound together in a gigantic rainbow arch stretching across the pavilion. At one end of the arch was a wall-sized rendering of our own Milky Way galaxy; at the opposite end was an enormous photograph of a beaming Liv Hayden holding a glossy hardcover book. The crowd prevented Kemp from seeing beneath the arch, but he knew what he would find there when he eventually reached the front of the line. Directly beneath the arch would be a table, and seated at that table would be none other than Liv Hayden herself, smiling mechanically and jotting inane greetings to total strangers inside the covers of her just-released and soon-to-be-best-selling book:
It's All About You
.

Kemp could almost hear the sound:
ka-ching, ka-ching,
ka-ching
. . .

He turned around and looked; there were as many people behind him as there were in front of him, and more were arriving all the time. Buses pulled up to the curb and dropped off people in droves, shuttled in from other malls across the city. He tried to take a head count of the people in front of him but it was impossible; there were people of all shapes and sizes, some alone and some in groups, some standing at attention like soldiers while others wandered in and out of line with food and drinks. There was no way to tell how many of them were actually buying books and waiting for them to be signed, so there was no way to estimate how long he would be stuck in this seemingly endless line.

To make matters even worse, Kemp's line wasn't the only one. There were two lines running parallel to each other about twenty yards apart, converging like train tracks at a point beneath the rainbow bridge. The people in each line eyed their counterparts in the opposite line warily, measuring the relative progress of each column, grumbling and complaining when either line seemed to be moving faster than the other.
What's the difference
? Kemp thought.
Two long lines or one
gigantic one—either way we'll be here all day
.
Suckers—at least
I'm getting paid for this
.

Kemp knew he should be thrilled by the size of the crowd—it was exactly what Kalamar and Biederman had predicted. Every autograph meant a book purchase, and every book purchase meant a third of the publisher's take for him. He should have been ecstatic—but he wasn't. In fact, the longer he stood in line the angrier he became. Why did he have to wait in line like everybody else? This whole thing was his idea. The book, the autograph session, even the stupid balloons—none of it would have happened if it wasn't for him. He shouldn't be standing in line like all these other peons—he should be sitting at the table beside Liv Hayden, laughing and flirting with her like the costar of one of her movies. He should be signing books too—
Best Wishes, the Angel
.

The entire scheme was his inspiration; he alone was responsible; it was his flash of genius that was behind it all. The thought should have given him a sense of pride and satisfaction, but it didn't. It stuck in his craw like a jagged sliver of bone—because nobody knew it but him.