Hope to Die (19 page)

“Lot of sun the past two days,” he said. “Really keeping the banks strong.”

Acadia was barely listening. Her eyes were roaming over the elaborate life-support system keeping Alex Cross’s family alive.

Strapped to bunks bolted into the walls, the five were intubated and on ventilators. They had nasogastric tubes inserted to prevent them from aspirating. Intravenous lines ran from their hands to the automated Harvard pumps that governed the flow of IV fluids.

Above each bunk there was a four-liter bag of liquid hanging on a hook. The average person can survive on one and a half liters of maintenance fluids a day. Each of the bags would sustain a patient for roughly sixty hours.

There were also three smaller bags hanging on each hook, all of which were linked to smaller pumps before they joined the main IV line. One bag held sixty hours’ worth of midazolam, a relaxant similar to Valium. Another contained a two-and-a-half-day supply of morphine. The third was an equal amount of pancuronium. A molecular relative of the South American toxin curare, the third drug was a paralytic, used in surgeries or, as in this case, induced comas.

Acadia took it all in with a long sweeping glance, seeing no evidence of disruption or breakage. Sunday had bribed a brilliant, corrupt doctor with a cocaine habit to design the system and obtain the medications. The doctor had even helped program the automated infusion based on the weight, sex, and age of each patient.

Cross’s ninety-something grandmother had been the trickiest. She weighed less than one hundred pounds, and she had a history of mild cardiac problems. Every time Acadia came into the container car, she expected to find the old woman long gone. Acadia went to her first. Nana Mama’s heart rate was slightly up from the last time she’d checked. And her blood pressure looked a little low. But besides that, she was solid.

Satisfied, Acadia steeled herself for the side of nursing she’d hated in the four years she’d done it. She pulled down the old woman’s sheet, changed her diaper, threw the old one into a garbage bag, and checked her Foley catheter for signs of infection. There were none. She emptied the urine bag, replaced it, then drew the sheet back up over her, unable to shake the idea that Cross would chase her for the rest of his life. He wasn’t the kind of man who gave up, especially when his family was involved.

She glanced at Sunday, who was still studying the computers, and then at the array of medicines in the bags hanging off hooks above the old woman’s bunk. She continued with her routine, checking the vitals and cleaning the other four. The Cross children were strong, Jannie especially. She had the heart and build of a serious athlete. Acadia caught Sunday looking at the girl’s naked form with great interest and realized that he hadn’t touched her since they’d taken the Cross family hostage. When she started working on Bree Stone, Sunday was almost leering.

“She’s quite well put together, don’t you think?” Sunday asked, moving around for a better view. “You can see why Dr. Alex would be so crushed by her death.”

Acadia said nothing. She knew a thing or two about men. When they stopped wanting sex, you were in danger of being cheated on, dumped, or worse. Given the sheer audacity and scope of what Sunday had done already, she started to suspect that
worse
was the option he’d eventually settle on.

That suspicion built within her, and by the time she’d gotten the new four-liter IV bags and the drugs from the storage chest and swapped them out, it had become a conviction. Her time was growing short. Sooner rather than later, Sunday would kill her.

What was it he’d written in his book? That the perfect criminal was a universe unto himself? He works alone, or kills his accomplices? That was exactly what Sunday had written. But maybe—

“Acadia?” Sunday said. “Are we done here?”

She looked over at him, hesitated, but then came to a decision, thinking:
It’s time to ride the comet
.

She said, “I’m just nervous about the intubations and the nasogastric tubes.”

“Yeah?” he said with zero interest.

“They’re showing signs of contamination,” she said. “It could lead to sepsis, and we’d find the five of them dead the next time we came in here.”

Sunday thought a few moments, said, “I don’t like that. If they die, I want it to be at my hands.”

“What I thought,” she said. “But your quack doctor there told me that if this kind of contamination ever happened, we should remove the tubes and change the depth of the comas.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning they wouldn’t be out cold like this, and they’d be able to breathe on their own without the tubes. But they’ll still be so doped up, they won’t move.”

Sunday studied her, said, “What about food?”

“The IVs will carry them through the next check.”

“Your call,” he said finally. “You’re the medical professional.”

Acadia nodded, relieved. “It’ll take me ten or fifteen minutes. You might want to go tell the captain so he doesn’t come snooping around.”

“Oh, he’s …” Sunday said, then hesitated. “No, that’s a good idea. Lock it up when you’re done.”

“Tight,” she said.

At each bunk, Acadia reprogrammed the Harvard pump, cutting off the paralytic and lowering the dosages of the other two drugs by 55 percent. She also shortened the duration of the infusion so that about forty-two hours from that moment, they would all start to wake up.

Last, Acadia loosened the restraints so that in forty-five hours or so, one of them might be able to get free and help the others. If the change in the medications worked the way she expected, a few hours after that, by the time they reached New Orleans, they’d be able to pound on the walls, make enough noise to attract attention, and get themselves rescued before Sunday could return.

She’d done enough, she decided as she exited the container, locked the hatch, and tossed the triple-wrapped garbage bag to Sunday. She climbed down, looked up, and said, “So what happens when they get to New Orleans?”

He looked back at her, grinned, said, “I want it to be a surprise. But I guarantee you’ll love it.”

“What’s the matter, Marcus? Don’t trust me?”

SUNDAY COCKED HIS HEAD
at the question before saying, “No, it’s just that at this point, there are a few ways this can go, all of them fantastic. For now I’ll keep my options open but close to my chest.”

He turned and went down the gangway to the docks where the barge captain, Scotty Creel, was waiting.

Creel said, “So how’s the new system working for you?”

Sunday acted the entrepreneur, said, “So far, so good.”

“You think this will work all over the world? Solar-based refrigeration?”

“Wouldn’t that be something?” Sunday said, and he laughed. “I came up with this idea off the top of my head. We’ll see you in two and a half days and let you know.”

The captain said, “We’ll be there faster than that. Probably less than forty-eight hours. I figure we’ll be at the port before two or three Wednesday morning. River’s really starting to move now, heading toward flood stage.”

“Excellent,” Sunday said.

But Acadia didn’t think that was excellent at all. The Cross family might be coming around by then, but they certainly would not be capable of making much noise.

She followed Sunday off the docks, and they walked up the bank to a small lot where their rental car, a Chevy Malibu, was parked. On the road outside the fenced-in area, another Kenworth tractor-trailer idled with Cochran behind the wheel. They’d rented the rig in case something catastrophic had happened and they were forced to remove the container.

“I’ll go tell him we’re good,” Sunday said, checking his watch. “We’ve got a few hours before the flight back, and he’s going to want to eat. Any preference?”

“I’m not really hungry,” Acadia said.

“Then you get no say,” he said, and tossed her the keys and the lading documents they’d used to access the container car. “Follow us.”

“Right on your tail,” she promised, and got in the car.

Acadia threw the lading documents on the seat and started the car, seeing Sunday climb up into the passenger seat of the tractor cab. When he closed the door and was no longer visible through the tinted glass, she put the car in gear.

Following the rig east on Old Randolph Road, she stayed close. She fell back slightly on State Route 50 heading south and then caught up on the connector toward I-40.

Acadia waited until Cochran had fully committed to taking the eastbound I-40, a left-hand exit. She threw on her blinker as if to follow, but at the last possible second, she veered right onto Interstate 69, heading south.

Her heart beat so hard she could feel it in her throat.

Thirty seconds. A minute. Her cell phone began to ring. She glanced over at it, feeling panic rise. Should she say an animal ran across the road, she’d swerved to avoid it, and she’d be right along?

No, Acadia decided, and she hurled the phone out the window. Once you made a move like this on someone like Marcus Sunday, there was no turning back. She’d ditch the car as soon as she could and rent or steal another. And she’d need all the cash she could get her hands on.

Acadia understood that she knew too much about everything. When Marcus decided to come after her—and she had no doubt he eventually would—she wanted to be able to go a long, long way at a moment’s notice.

SUNDAY LISTENED TO ACADIA’S
phone ring once and then go to voice mail.

“Say what you have to say,” her voice drawled.

It was the second time he’d heard the message since Acadia had gone south instead of east.

“Maybe she’s going to the airport ahead of us,” Cochran offered. “Expects us to take the shuttle over to meet her.”

Sunday dismissed that possibility out of hand. His agile mind was running full tilt, spinning out motives and scenarios to explain Acadia’s actions. His lover was an extremely smart woman. Sometimes she envisioned the future as well as he did. She was also a survivor and could be lethally ruthless if her survival required it. Acadia rarely acted on impulse. She put thought into her words and deeds. But then she acted and didn’t look back.

She’s running from me
, he thought,
just as I knew she would eventually
. Sunday felt not a lick of anger at her abandoning him. He just hadn’t expected it to happen so soon. Too bad; she was a certifiable genius in bed, and it was always nice to talk to someone who shared his active interest in death.

But when paths part, they part. Ordinarily, that’s how Sunday would have handled it, chalked it up to randomness and walked on. But Acadia knew too much about him. He’d opened up to her more than to any other woman. He couldn’t abide her using that information against him somehow, which meant she had to die. And sooner than—

Cochran coughed and broke Sunday’s train of thought. “Any luck?”

Sunday gazed at the driver a long moment, recalculating, before he replied, “I’ll try again.”

He punched in Acadia’s number. When it went to voice mail, he said, “Hey. We’ve been calling. Where are you?”

He paused, nodded, said, “That’s what we kind of thought. We’re going to gas the truck, get something to eat, and we’ll take the shuttle to meet you.”

He listened, said, “I dunno. An hour and a half, two hours?”

Cochran glanced his way, seeing Sunday looking at him quizzically.

“Sounds right,” the driver said.

“Six, six thirty,” Sunday said, and ended the call. “She had to take a pee. And the airport is right there.”

Cochran bought it, said, “I had a girlfriend like that. When that woman had to go, she had to go.”

“That’s Acadia,” Sunday said. “She has to go.”

Cochran took an exit, went north underneath the interstate, and pulled into a Pilot truck stop. He parked at the pumps and started to get out.

“Want a coffee?” Sunday asked.

“Sounds good. Make it like you did last time.”

Wearing sunglasses and a Kenworth cap that had come with the truck, Sunday got down out of the cab, went into the truck stop, and got two coffees that he took time to prepare according to a very precise formula. He paid with a ten-dollar bill and returned to the truck.

Cochran was already up in the cab, and he reached out for his coffee through the open window. Sunday handed it to him, then went around and got in the other side. Cochran had already taken a big swig of the coffee. There was foam on his upper lip.

“Damn it, Marcus,” Cochran said. “What’s in that? It’s so damned good.”

“I know, right?” Sunday said, pleased. “I added a little something, though. Do you taste it?”

Cochran took another drink, and said, “Cinnamon?”

“Close.”

“Nutmeg?”

“You’re good,” Sunday said.

“No, this is good,” Cochran said and drank more.

“Hey, do me a favor?” Sunday said. “Pull over there in the back of the lot. I have to look up something and I don’t want to be bouncing all over.”

“Sure, Marcus,” Cochran said. “But watch the time. If we get it back past noon, they dun you for the full-day charge. Says so in that sheet with the copy of the lading docs.”

“Thank you for thinking of my pocketbook,” Sunday said. “And this shouldn’t take long at all.”

Sunday was right. It didn’t take long at all after they’d parked at the back of the lot by several other rigs idling while their drivers slept. He made a show of opening the laptop and typing as Cochran lifted his cup for another sip.

But something stopped him before he drank, something that seemed to bewilder him. His fingers loosened and began to drop the coffee cup. Sunday snagged it before it fell.

Cochran slumped over to his left against the window, taking slow, shallow breaths. Sunday looked out the side-view mirrors, saw the closest movement seventy yards away, and dug in his pocket for a pair of latex gloves.