Nowhere to Run (7 page)

Usually, it was hard to go anywhere without being noticed. But today staffers were paying more attention to the hazardous-material personnel milling about and less to people they saw all the time. At lunchtime it wasn’t difficult to slip into Annabelle’s office and shut the door. Standing right behind the closed door ensured no detection from the window to the hallway.

Just a minute. That was all the time that was needed.

The protective gloves were pulled over quivering hands.
Steady. Steady.

If anyone walked in, there was an explanation all planned.

Annabelle had lent a few dollars to a colleague when the downstairs ATM machine was broken, and now the money was being repaid. That was, after all, true. The money had been loaned, and now it was being tucked in the pocket of the worn navy wool coat that hung on the back of Annabelle’s door. A twenty-dollar bill along with a tissue coated with the finest dusting of white powder. Annabelle would surely use it.

It was cold outside, and runny noses were the norm.

The afternoon mail had brought quite a nice haul. Four new CDs from the music companies, three DVDs of major movies that were being released at Christmastime, and two computer games, all sent to the
KEY to America
entertainment correspondent in hopes of getting some free publicity on the morning show.

Russ stuffed the CDs and DVDs in his attaché case and tossed the computer games aside. He had no desire to play around on the computer. His time was much too valuable for that. He had concerts and Broadway shows to enjoy, cocktail parties and galas to attend. Better for him to rub elbows with actors, directors, and the titans of the entertainment industry at movie openings than while away the hours clicking on a computer mouse at home.

Russ ran a hand through his dark, curly hair. He’d knock off work early this afternoon so that he could pick up his dinner jacket at the dry cleaner’s and stop for a haircut on the way home to change for tonight’s affair, a movie screening followed by a party at the Copacabana. Free eats and drinks and a chance to do some networking and score some coke. What could be bad? With a little luck, he would be out of there by ten o’clock.

He was a guest of the producers of
Icicle,
the soon-to-be-released flick that had cost multimillions to make but, from the clip he had already seen, was destined to be a flop. Russ knew that the invitation was an attempt to persuade him to go easy on his review.

It would take more than dinner and drinks to make that happen.

The white blood cell count was high, and there was no increase in lymphocytes. People with infections such as the flu usually had low white blood cell counts and increased lymphocyte counts. That, along with the abnormalities in the chest X ray, had the doctor worried.

“Mr. Henning, we’re going to do a CT scan and a blood culture.”

“Jesus, Doc, you’re scaring me,” Jerome whispered as he lay in the hospital bed. The discomfort in his chest was getting worse.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Henning. We’re going to get you started on an antibiotic to knock whatever it is out of your system.”

Out in the hallway, the doctor instructed the nurse. “Let’s get him started on ciprofloxacin.”

“Cipro?”

The doctor nodded. “Normally, the odds are one in three hundred million that this could be anthrax. But I’m not taking any chances.”

He had to call the health department.

What a day he’d had. Suffering through Lauren Adams most of the day only to be followed by Gavin Winston. B.J. couldn’t wait to finish shooting this interview, pack up his camera gear, and get the hell home.

It was distasteful to watch, really. While waiting for the official to arrive in the NASDAQ interview area, Gavin was working hard to impress that little intern. The poor kid didn’t know what to do. She was trying to be polite, laughing at the geezer’s pathetic attempts at humor, attempting to ignore the innuendos the old coot tossed her way. B.J. had half a mind to report Gavin’s behavior to Yelena Gregory.

Finally, the financial spokesman arrived, cutting short for the moment Gavin’s macho performance. The business correspondent instantly and artfully switched gears, asking professional, well-informed questions about the state of the stock market and the outlook for technology stocks. The guy may be a lech, but B.J. had to give credit where credit was due. Gavin knew his stuff.

The interview took all of ten minutes. As B.J. broke down his lights and started wrapping up the extension wires, he pretended not to hear Gavin ask the intern out for a drink.

“Gee, I’m sorry, Mr. Winston, but I can’t. I already have plans,” answered the young woman.

Gavin was undeterred. “Just a quick one, Lily. I’d like to talk to you about your career plans. And it’s Gavin, remember?”

It was a nuisance more than anything else. The U.S. attorney had easily obtained the subpoena for access to Dr. Lee’s e-mails.

Special Agent McGillicuddy read through the hard copies.

“Well, we already knew that Linus Nazareth is an ass; now we know that he’s a liar too,” he said, passing the message to his partner. “A smart liar, though, covering himself by denouncing Lee’s plan in front of everyone at that staff meeting.”

Agent Lyons read the correspondence between Lee and Nazareth, which confirmed that both parties had planned the anthrax episode.

“Think we should tell Yelena Gregory and Joe Connelly?” Lyons asked.

Still annoyed that he’d had to bother with getting a subpoena, McGillicuddy was in no mood to share anything with the news folks. He shook his head and frowned. “No. Let them figure it out for themselves.”

Relieving Mrs. Nuzzo, Annabelle arrived home with a pizza box in her hands. The kids were thrilled with the prospect of a gooey tomato-and-cheese dinner, but she guiltily peeled some carrots and sliced some celery sticks in an attempt to construct the semblance of a well-balanced meal.

“How was school today?” she asked as she poured the milk.

“Can’t we have ginger ale, Mommy?” implored Thomas.

“No, you can’t have ginger ale.”

“Ginger ale goes better with pizza,” declared Tara.

“Yeah, it does,” her brother seconded.

“Yes, it does,” corrected Annabelle. “But you have to have milk with your dinner.”

“The Pilgrims didn’t have milk with their dinner,” said Tara. “They had apple cider.”

“Well, you can be a Pilgrim next week. We’ll have apple cider on Thanksgiving. But if you want to go horseback riding on Saturday, you’re having milk tonight.”

Thanksgiving was a week away, and Annabelle dreamed of having the dinner delivered from Zabar’s. The thought of doing the shopping and all that cooking for just the four of them was a downer. Maybe she could make a streamlined Thanksgiving dinner this year, cook a turkey breast instead of a whole bird, do an instant stuffing, and open a can of cranberry sauce. As long as she made lots of mashed potatoes, the kids would be satisfied and, at this point, Mike certainly didn’t care. He rarely ate dinner with them anymore, preferring to close the door to the bedroom and lie on the bed, either in the dark or staring morosely at the portable television set.

She listened to Tara list the things that they were going to have at their classroom Thanksgiving feast. “We have to bring in pumpkin pie, Mommy.”

Good. That was easy enough. She could pick one up at the grocery store.

“We’re supposed to help you make it,” said Thomas.

Okay, a Mrs. Smith’s then
. Together, they could open the box and stick the frozen pie in the oven.

While the kids were finishing up, Annabelle went to the bedroom. The room was dark.

“Mike?” she called softly.

No answer.

“Do you want some pizza, honey?”

Nothing.

Biting her lower lip to keep from screaming in frustration, she closed the bedroom door and walked to the bathroom. She turned the faucet on full force, squirted in the Mr. Bubble, and stared as the white froth spread across the tub. The baths had to be given, the teeth brushed, and the stories read. She hoped she could get to bed early herself, as she wanted to be at work by 6:00
A.M
., in case there was anything to do for Dr. Lee’s interview on the show. If there was no other breaking news, Linus wanted Lee to lead the broadcast.

If she’d been assigned to one of the other correspondents, her workload would have been lighter. The good ones prided themselves on knowing their subject matter and doing their own writing. But Lee only loved being on television while leaving all the work that went on behind the scenes to Annabelle.

She suddenly remembered that she must call Jerome to see how he was doing. She should have done that hours ago. Great friend she was.

While the tub filled, she went out to the kitchen, pulled her cell phone from her tote bag, and punched in Jerome’s number.

The electronic ring of the cell phone was muffled in the pocket of the jacket that hung in the small closet of the hospital room. Outside, the doctor and nurses did what they had to, connecting Jerome to a ventilator.