Bond, Stephanie - Body Movers 05 (28 page)

parlor. Spike, aka Bernard, was in the parking lot taking a

smoke. He dropped the cigarette and stubbed it out with

the toe of his boot as Wesley wheeled up.

“You got my cash?” the guy said.

“Give me the name,” Wesley said.

Bernard dug in his pocket and removed a slip of paper.

Wesley took the scrap and scanned the words written in

skinny print. Crosby Newel or maybe Croswel Newton.

Newt Crossen? He looked up. “What the hel is this?”

“Hey, I was lucky to get a name at all. This laser tech

normally does things off the books, ya know what I mean?

But he remembers this guy’s tat. Guess they had a

conversation or something. Said the guy was a bear.”

“A bear?”

“Fat. And he paid in cash.”

Fat and shady—it sounded like the kind of guy who’d do

business with The Carver. And it was more information

than Wesley had to go on before. He pul ed out his wal et

and peeled off two hundreds. “Okay, thanks, man. Later.”

Bernard pointed to the angry scars on Wesley’s arm that

his short-sleeve shirt revealed. “Come back when your

scars fade some. I can camouflage them with a radical tat.”

Wesley looked down at the crude C-A-R that had been

sliced into his skin. “I’l think about it.”

He took his time pedaling to Piedmont Hospital, nursing

what was left of his buzz and hoping it lasted through the

lecture. He locked his bike in front of the hospital’s fitness

center that was across the road from the main building. He

waited until a member approached the door, then he

slung his backpack to his shoulder and casually fol owed

the man inside, bypassing the card reader.

Once inside the fitness center, he headed toward the

men’s locker room. Several men, chatting while they

buttoned shirts and donned jackets, were easily

identifiable as physicians who took advantage of the state-

of-the-art facility. Wesley tried to blend in as he opened an

empty locker and deposited his backpack inside.

When he unzipped the backpack, he half expected to find

a toothless head inside. Instead, he removed a clean

folded lab coat that he’d acquired as a prop for col ecting

with Mouse, and shrugged into it. Then he removed the

lanyard he’d made and hung it on his neck so that his

picture and name faced his shirt. No use broadcasting

unless someone asked to see his ID. With the hospital

name on the back, the lanyard looked legit.

He placed his combination lock on the locker, then walked

out of the fitness center and joined a group of lab-coated

doctors who were crossing the street to the main hospital.

He mimicked their posture and stride, and somewhere

between one side of Piedmont Street and the other, he

actually began to feel like a doctor. He had a slight build,

but his height and his glasses made him look older.

Besides, what was the quote on the tattoo artist’s neck?

Say something nobody understands and they’l do

practically anything you want them to. Meaning, it was

possible to bluff your way through life.

Inside the hospital, his chest swel ed with confidence as

people gave him admiring glances, stepped out of his way

or opened doors for him. They really thought he was a

doctor, al because of a lousy lab coat. If he bought a

stethoscope on eBay, he could probably talk his way onto

the E.R. staff.

He stopped to consult a hospital directory and took the

elevator to the floor with the meeting rooms and lecture

hall. On the way up, a tall salt-and-pepper-haired man

nodded to him. “Are you headed to the gene-therapy

session, son?” he asked in a booming voice.

Wesley’s back stiffened. He hated it when older men

called him “son,” as if they were a father figure to him. But

he squashed his anger, reminding himself of his reason for

coming. The key to getting into secure areas is to act as if

you belong there. He pushed up his glasses. “Yes, sir, as a

matter of fact, I am.”

“Me, too,” the guy boomed. “See you in there, son.”

Wesley gritted his teeth and let the man stride off the

elevator ahead of him, not wanting to attract any seat

companions who might want to talk medicine. Fol owing

signs displayed on easels, he fel in with a group of doctors

who were heading toward the auditorium. At the check-in

table, attendees simply picked up their printed name tags

and waved them in front of the accommodating registrar.

Wesley fol owed suit and nabbed the name tag of Wilson

Wendt, Pharm D If he was questioned, it would be easy to

say he picked up the wrong one by mistake.

He clipped the name tag onto the col ar of his white lab

coat, then entered the lecture hall and took a seat in the

rear next to nobody. As the hall fil ed with doctor types,

Wesley studied them, exchanging waves and shaking

hands—the brotherhood of the elite. Something akin to

envy washed over him. Their heads were ful of knowledge

that could heal people…stuff that could change the world.

Things might’ve been different for him if he was the

col ege type, but he couldn’t picture himself sitting in

class, pledging a fraternity, tailgating at football games.

The front of the hall fil ed first, probably because over-

achievers liked to sit up front. He’d hoped to sit alone, but

a dark-haired man dropped into the seat next to him and

nodded hel o.

The man looked familiar and Wesley panicked, trying to

jog his memory. The Oxy was working on him. His brain

chugged along as if it were underwater. He glanced at the

guy’s name tag: Frederick Lowenstein, OB/GYN. It didn’t

ring a bel , although he was sure he knew the man’s face.

Wesley stared straight ahead, but he felt the guy studying

him.

Crap.

“I’m sorry, have we met?” Lowenstein asked.

Wesley glanced at him for a split second, then shook his

head.

“You look familiar to me,” the man insisted, then leaned

forward to look at Wesley’s name tag. “Dr. Wendt.” He

stuck out his hand. “Freddy Lowenstein. Are you from

Atlanta?”

“Uh…no,” he said in his best Germanish accent. “Vis-i-tor.”

“Ah, I see. Velcome,” Lowenstein said, then chuckled at his

cleverness.

What an asshole. Suddenly Wesley had a flash of seeing

the man holding a glass of wine and a cracker of caviar…

Screen on the Green, he realized. The man and his wife—

Tracey Tul y, the daughter of one of his father’s former

partners—had been sharing Carlotta and Peter’s blanket

when Wesley had come to get Carlotta for a body-moving

job.

From the stories Carlotta had told him about Tracey, the

woman would be delighted to catch him impersonating a

doctor.

Which, now that he thought about it, was a federal

offense.

Sweat trickled down his temple, but he brushed it away,

estimating the distance from his seat to the door in case

he had to make a run for it.

A bookish man came onto the stage and introduced

himself as some sort of administrator of the hospital, then

introduced Dr. Vincent. The speaker’s professional

credentials in research and clinical trials were long and

impressive. At the end of the introduction, a man from the

front row stood and walked up the steps on the side of the

stage to the podium to enthusiastic applause.

Wesley’s mouth went dry. It was the salt-and-pepper-

haired guy from the elevator. Anger whipped through him.

Harold Vincent was having him fol owed like he was some

kind of lowlife, but had been downright chatty when he’d

thought Wesley was a doctor. He’d even called him “son.”

Wesley’s hand tightened on the armrest.

The lights lowered and Dr. Vincent led the audience

through a slide show. Wesley had to force himself to

concentrate and was sweating profusely. He conceded

that the presentation had its merits—parts of it were

fascinating. And even though some of the terminology was

over his head, he fol owed the gist of identifying tissue-

specific cancer stem cells as the targets for therapy. By

honing in on the cancerous cel s, fewer healthy cel s would

be sacrificed in the treatment, meaning treatments

ultimately would be not only more effective, but the

patient would also suffer fewer side effects throughout

the healing process.

“What we’re talking about here,” Dr. Vincent said, “is

creating patient-specific cancer treatments—designer

oncology, if you wil . Hopeful y, some of the new devices

my research team is developing, devices that are being

tested right here at Piedmont Hospital, wil streamline the

cel -targeting processes to the point that these couture

treatments wil be affordable for anyone who needs

them.”

The lights came up and applause fil ed the auditorium.

Wesley glanced around at the respect and admiration on

the faces of the attendees. Sweat trickled down his back

and his left eye was twitching. But even plummeting from

his Oxy high, Wesley recognized this as a watershed

moment for him. At the end of Dr. Vincent’s life, much

would be said and written about his mark on the world.

At the end of Wesley Wren’s life…would anyone even

know he’d existed?

Wesley pushed to his feet and sidled past Lowenstein.

“Nice to meet you,” Freddy said.

“Dankeshein,” he muttered, effectively exhausting his

German vocabulary.

Wesley left the auditorium feeling antsy and frustrated,

but he managed to smile at all the people who looked at

him with reverence. It was a heady feeling to be treated as

a physician. He rode to the first floor, lifted a pair of thin

latex gloves from a cart, put them on and walked up to a

sign-in desk.

“Excuse me.”

A woman turned his way. “Yes, Doctor, what can I do for

you?”

“Uh…I was wondering if I could get an envelope with the

hospital’s return address?”

“Certainly, Doctor. Here’s a self-sealing envelope. Do you

need a stamp?”

“Uh…sure. And a pen?” He took the items she handed to

him and thanked her, chalking up another one to the

power of the magic lab coat. He walked away from the

desk, then reached into his pocket and withdrew the scrap

of paper listing the potential names of the man who’d had

his tattoo lasered off.

Wesley turned over the paper and wrote “Decapitated

man in county morgue,” purposely altering his

handwriting. Then he stuck the piece of paper into the

envelope, sealed it and addressed it to Atlanta Police

Department, Homicide, Atlanta, Georgia. When he exited

the hospital, he stopped at a blue mailbox and hesitated,

trying to think if there was any way the envelope could be

traced back to him. His mind chugged along, turning over

all the pieces, but he couldn’t think of one.

He dropped the envelope into the mailbox, and instantly

felt relieved. Coop was right—no matter who the guy was,

his family had a right to know what had happened to him.

He would want someone to do the same for him if the

tables were turned.

He turned around to head back to the fitness center across

the street, but came up short. As if he’d conjured up Coop,

the man himself was striding toward the front entrance,

wearing holey jeans, T-shirt and tennis shoes. Wesley

turned his back until Coop had passed, then he frowned

after his boss.

If Coop was at the hospital for a body pickup, he wouldn’t

come through the front door. And he wouldn’t have

dressed so casual y.

Curious, Wesley backtracked into the hospital lobby in

time to see a flash of Coop’s T-shirt as he got on the

elevator servicing floors one through nine. When the

elevator doors closed, Wesley watched the numbers light

up to see where it stopped—on floors three, eight and

nine.

Wesley got his own elevator and a few minutes later,

stopped on the third floor. He asked a security guard if

he’d seen a man matching Coop’s description, and the

man shook his head. Wesley got back onto the elevator

and rode to floor eight. After hearing Wes’s description of

Coop, the security guard on that floor pointed down a

hallway. Wesley explored careful y, peeking through the

glass and frosted-glass doors into the waiting rooms of

individual doctors. He relaxed some, thinking that Coop

might be getting his eyes checked, or having a routine

physical. In fact, when he spotted his boss sitting in one

such waiting room, reading a magazine, Wesley exhaled in

relief…until he glanced at the practice specialty lettered on

the door.

Department of Neurological Disorders and Diseases.

Wesley’s throat convulsed as he remembered all the

validated parking receipts for Piedmont Hospital that he’d

spotted in Coop’s van. Carlotta had been worried about

Coop, had said he was acting strange and was convinced

something was wrong, something he wouldn’t share.

Carlotta was right.

Coop was sick.