On Borrowed Time (20 page)

“And as you know, Mr. Kilmer consented to this process at the onset,” he lied. “The fact that he is currently unaware of that fact is by definition evidence of your enormous achievement.

“So we are nearing the finish line, with great moral, emotional, and, yes, financial rewards awaiting us all. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you. We could not have a better team.”

Unbeknownst to the crowd, the Stone watched the entire proceedings on a closed-circuit feed. Gates was of course aware he was being watched, since it was the Stone who had ordered the gathering, and the speech, in the first place.

Things were moving rapidly now; the end game had begun and no risks could be tolerated. It was why the Stone had “removed” Juice from the operation sooner than he had planned. Juice had been a valuable asset, but he had made mistakes, and those mistakes created vulnerabilities. So the man had to be eliminated, and he was. The Stone didn’t exactly agonize over it, especially since it was inevitable anyway. The loss of a week or two of life was of little importance.

But the meeting Gates was conducting was of great consequence. It was an unfortunate fact of life that operations like this required a significant number of people to achieve success, and that meant that secrecy was difficult to maintain. The amount of information possessed by each person in that room varied, and was on a need-to-know basis. But indiscretions by any of them could cause major problems.

It was why the Stone instructed Gates to address this gathering. They were in the home stretch now, and every base had to be covered. Soon, the Stone knew, ultimate success would be his.

And everyone in that room would be dead.

One of the things that the Stone did not know was what Marie Galasso was thinking. He was familiar with her, or at least her background, because he ultimately chose everyone working on the project. But in his desire to keep his identity secret, he had not personally met any of them.

Marie was a computer programmer, and as such a lower-level person in the operation. She actually knew less than most about what was going on, though she had her ideas about it. But she showed up every day and did her job, and never had much cause to seriously question any aspect of it.

Until that morning.

Just before going to work, she had read Richard Kilmer’s third article, and it had thoroughly shaken her. To be specific, she found one passage particularly jarring. It was the one in which Kilmer identified the murdered Frank Donovan as having been a plumber working at Ardmore Hospital.

One of the obligations that each employee had was to write up a report at the end of the day, specifically summarizing what had happened that day. Most of it was pro forma, but there was a special section asking if anything unusual had occurred.

Only once had Marie written anything into that special section, and it was the day she saw the plumber come out of the high-security section, an area Marie herself had never been in. She didn’t know how he had gotten in, perhaps it was a blunder, but he had a strange look on his face when she saw him, and he left quickly when she walked over to see if she could help.

Marie dutifully recorded this, but did not think much of it. In fact, she had completely forgotten about it until this morning, when she learned from Richard Kilmer’s article that the same plumber and his wife had been brutally murdered.

Marie didn’t know what to do or who to talk to. She only knew one thing for certain.

She was scared.

“My friend wants a gun.”

That’s what Craig Langel said to a man he called Sammy, and it seemed weird to know that the friend he was talking about was me.

Craig had advised me against going up to Ardmore with only Allie, without him or someone else along as protection. I had shrugged off the warning, and almost wound up dead, or at least handcuffed to a tree.

“Dammit,” he said, “you are in over your head here, Richard. You have got to protect yourself.”

“I can’t have a bodyguard with me at all times.”

“Then get a gun.”

The idea was horrifying to me, and I immediately resisted. But Craig and Allie were very persuasive, especially Allie. She said I should do it as much for her as for me, since we were always together.

Finally I said, “I’ll do it, but there’s no way I’m ever going to shoot it.”

Craig smiled. “That will reduce its effectiveness somewhat, but okay.”

So I found myself at S and R Gunshop in Englewood, New Jersey, and I let myself assume that the
S
stood for the Sammy I was talking to. Actually, Sammy and Craig were talking to each other and pretty much ignoring me.

“A .38?” he asked.

Craig nodded. “That’s what I was thinking.”

I shook my head. “Too big. I was thinking a .36 or .37, maybe even a .35.” I knew better than that, of course, but I was using humor to mask my nervousness.

Sammy looked at me, then at Craig. “Your friend is a funny guy?”

Craig shrugged. “According to him.”

Sammy went into the back and came out with a gun that was probably small to most people, but looked like a bazooka to me. He handed it to me. “Try it for feel.”

I took it in my hand, and it felt like a barbell. “Is the safety on?” I asked.

Sammy told me that it was and said, “Let me show you how to take the safety off.”

“That’s okay. I’m never going to take it off.”

“Richard…,” Craig admonished.

We went downstairs to a small shooting range that Sammy had set up, and he showed me the intricacies of the gun and how to fire it. I took about twenty practice shots, and he and Craig were surprised by how well I did. As was I.

Once I agreed that it was the gun for me, I filled out a form and Sammy sent it in for an instant background check. I guess that the entire world considering me a psycho was not viewed as a negative, and I was certified acceptable and given a gun permit.

When we left, Craig renewed his offer to stay close to me or get me a bodyguard, but I declined. I patted my pocket where the gun was. “Don’t need it,” I said. “I’m packing.”

When I got back to the apartment, Allie was on the computer, designing gift baskets for her employees back home to make and send out when orders came in. I looked over her shoulder as she did it. “Those look pretty good,” I said.

“Thanks. I like knowing that people feel good when they receive them.” Then, in a subject-changer for the ages, she said, “Did you get the gun?”

I nodded. “Sure did.” I showed it to her, pointing it away from her even though it wasn’t loaded.

“Let’s hope we can find someone to use it on,” she said.

“I think you might be tougher than me,” I said.

“That’s why we had to get you a gun.”

Allie and I spent most of the next day doing little more than hanging out at Ardmore Hospital. We cautiously approached people and asked if they were part of any drug trial. Since it was for an Alzheimer’s drug, we limited ourselves to annoying only seniors, but no one admitted to being part of the study.

We did learn that Dr. Gates was out of town, which made our job a little easier. The hospital was private property, and certainly Gates would have been within his rights to have us removed from the grounds if he so desired. Nobody else in authority seemed to notice us, so we were free to accomplish absolutely nothing.

By four o’clock we had had enough for the day and drove back to the city. We planned to return the next day, though it didn’t feel as if it would be productive. The problem was we couldn’t think of anything else to do.

We stopped for pizza at Sal and Carmine’s, on Broadway, on the Upper West Side. Neither Allie nor I were in the mood to go out for dinner, but I certainly didn’t want to risk having Allie cook, so pizza seemed the perfect compromise.

It was almost eight o’clock when we got home, and the phone was ringing as we walked in the door. I got to it on the fourth ring.

“Hello?”

“Richard? Philip Garber here.”

I was surprised to hear that it was him, though I had asked him if he could find out anything about Lassiter’s work. “Dr. Garber … good to hear from you. Have you learned anything?”

“Well, despite my best efforts, I may be in the process of becoming ‘part of the story.’ ”

“What do you mean?”

“In your investigation of Mr. Lassiter, have you learned anything about any Canadian interests or connections that he might have?”

“No. Nothing. But the list of things that I don’t know is very long. What does Canada have to do with this?”

“Perhaps nothing, and in any event I don’t want to say anything until I am far more certain. That could be as early as tomorrow.”

“Can I help?”

“No, I can do this in a way that does not ruffle feathers, if I am not mistaken. I will call you tomorrow from Quebec.”

The fact that he was going to Quebec, apparently to follow up on all of this, was fairly shocking to me. I gave him my cell phone number, since Allie and I were planning to spend the day in Ardmore.

“Be careful,” I said. “If what you are doing turns out to be related to my situation, then you could be dealing with very dangerous people.”

He chuckled at the prospect. “Thank you. I appreciate the concern, but my profession is not a breeding ground for heroes.”

I told him I appreciated what he was doing, and made another effort to find out some specifics, but he was reticent to discuss it at that point.

Allie and I kicked around for at least an hour what the Canadian involvement in all of it could be, but we couldn’t come up with anything. We would find out the next day. Or not.

We arrived at the hospital at nine
A.M.
, and spent the morning accomplishing nothing.

At noon we went to lunch in the hospital cafeteria, which by then we had learned had surprisingly good food. The place was always crowded at that hour, and everyone sat at very long tables. Allie and I found two seats, and she put her bag down on the table to mark our spot as we went toward the cafeteria line.

When we got back, Allie lifted her bag to put it on the floor so that we could set down our trays. As she did so, a small piece of notepaper fell to the floor, and she picked it up and looked at it. After a few seconds, she handed it to me, and I read it:

Mr. Kilmer, I need to speak with you about a very important matter. Please meet me in the playground behind the grammar school at five o’clock.

The note was not signed, and I folded it nonchalantly and put it in my pocket. I looked around to see if anyone was staring at me, but it didn’t seem like anyone was.

“Looked like a woman’s handwriting,” Allie said softly.

I nodded. “I thought the same thing. But I could be walking into some kind of trap.”

Allie shook her head. “No,
we
could be walking into some kind of trap.”

The afternoon was as unproductive as the morning, except it seemed to take about two weeks to get through. I was both eager and apprehensive to meet the person who wrote the note; it felt like there was a chance that we were going to get help from an unexpected source. Both Allie and I recognized, of course, that it could also somehow be yet another roadblock, or nothing at all.

Another factor that made the day crawl by was the lack of a phone call from Dr. Garber. He said that he would call from Quebec, and I took that to mean that he would do so regardless of whether he learned anything important. But the phone did not ring.

We left at four o’clock, to give us time to learn where the grammar school was and to hopefully check it out before the appointed time. It was only about five minutes away and it was the only grammar school in town.

We drove by and tried to look toward the back. The two side streets were dead ends, so to have driven back there would have been to attract attention if anyone were watching. From our vantage point it just looked like an empty playground, and the school had obviously let out for the day.

It was a perfect place for someone to meet with us if that person did not want to be seen, but an equally perfect place to do us harm.

Neither Allie nor I had any doubt that we were going to go through with the meeting, and I mentally thanked Craig Langel for helping me get a gun. Having it gave me a more secure feeling, even though I kept it unloaded, with three bullets loose in my pocket. I would load it for the meeting.

“You should call Kentris,” Allie said. “At least tell him where we’re going and what’s going on. Just in case.”

“I don’t want him coming here,” I said. “It might scare this person.”

She nodded. “I agree. But if we disappear, at least he’ll know where to start looking.”

I was still reluctant to call him, but Allie insisted it was the way to go, so I agreed and called Kentris’s cell phone, hoping to get his voice mail. I did, and left the message about our meeting. The probability was that by the time he heard the message, the meeting would be over. Which was how I wanted it.

We grabbed a cup of coffee, and then went back to the school. This time we drove around to the back, but didn’t see anyone, so we stayed in the car. At exactly five o’clock, another car pulled up. It was driven by a woman, and she seemed to be alone.

She parked and got out of her car, looking around warily. She seemed more nervous than I was, which was really saying something.

Allie and I got out of the car and walked toward her. She was standing under an awning in the doorway to the school, so as to stay as much out of sight as possible.

When we reached her, she said, “Mr. Kilmer, thank you for coming. I really appreciate it.”

“This is Allison Tynes,” I said. Allie greeted her, but the woman just nodded, clearly nervous.

“What’s your name?” Allie asked.

“Nothing I say can go any further than the two of you.”

I nodded. “That’s fine.”

“My name is Marie Galasso. I work at Ardmore Hospital; I’m a computer programmer in the annex building in the back.”

I had seen that building, but didn’t think it was used for anything more than storage. I don’t think I had ever seen patients or personnel going in or out.