Trauma (32 page)

“None of your damn business.”

“I'm guessing it's Jesse.”

“Guess all you want.”

“How long since you've seen him?”

Braxton thought a beat. “Maybe five years. Maybe more.”

“So he's what, fifteen now?”

“Something like that.”

Gantry gave a long, low whistle. “Imagine being that young and getting, what is it, half a million dollars? Just like that? Shit, if I had that kind of money at that age I'd have screwed myself into a coma deeper than Rockwell's.”

“He's not going to get the money, because we're not going to get caught.”

“Maybe I won't take the pill,” Gantry said.

“Who did you give the money to?”

“My mom,” Gantry said.

“So we get caught, you're dead regardless, and instead of your mom winning the lottery, somebody other than you will be planning her funeral. Look, Gantry, the poor woman had it hard enough raising your sorry ass. Give her the peace of mind she deserves, man.”

Gantry nodded. He saw the logic in Braxton's thinking. Always did.

“Speaking of piece, Carrie's got a great ass,” Gantry said.

“That's a different kind of piece,” Braxton said.

“Whatever. I'm just saying I followed her on a jog in Healey Park, and she has tremendous assets. I'd love to tag that.”

“That's how you conduct surveillance?”

“Hey man, I'm just doing my job. Checked out her room, too. Nothing there, but I did have a nice time lying down on her bed and thinking dirty thoughts.”

“Nobody saw you?” Braxton asked.

“Nah, man. Her brother is a drone. He was watching TV and didn't hear me come in. I think that guy could use the wires, if you get my drift.”

Braxton shook his head dismissively, turned on the radio, and eventually found the local NPR station.

Gantry listened for all of three minutes before he tired of hearing about the struggles of life in Libya and switched to a pop station. “You and your freakin' NPR. I don't know how you listen to that crap. We're like the Odd Couple, man,” Gantry said.

Braxton shot Gantry an annoyed look. “Have you ever even seen that show? I know for sure you didn't read the play. Do you even know what you're talking about?”

To Braxton's surprise Gantry returned a broad, sloppy grin and hummed in perfect tune the opening bars to the show starring Tony Randall and Jack Klugman.

“The Internet has everything, asshole,” Gantry said, and he resumed humming. On they drove, speeding into the twilight on their way to Seacoast Memorial Hospital, with Gantry humming
The Odd Couple
theme as if it was his favorite show of all time.

*   *   *

GANTRY PULLED
into the hospital parking lot a little after nine o'clock. The two-story, mostly brick structure appeared to be undergoing a major renovation, and Gantry drove around until he found a parking space out of the way, near a loading zone. He cut the engine only after making sure that no surveillance cameras were around to record them.

Meanwhile, Braxton maneuvered inside the cramped cab and pulled off his loose-fitting sweats and T-shirt to reveal the green custodial uniform he wore underneath. He had in his possession an employee badge from Seacoast Memorial with his picture on it, but Lee Taggart's name. The uniform and badge were precautions taken a while back, as soon as they'd known Rockwell would be a patient at Seacoast Memorial for a while. In the shadows of some scaffolding he checked his supplies: a syringe and a vial of clear liquid.

“I'll be out in ten minutes,” Braxton said as he filled the syringe with liquid to the last marked line.

Gantry winked and blew Braxton a kiss. “Careful, sweetheart. I'll be thinking of you.”

Braxton ignored him and headed for the main entrance. Inside the hospital, he flashed security his ID and continued on his way. No problems there. Braxton's badge opened all the doors, a modern miracle courtesy of some supremely competent computer types who worked for his employers. Deep pockets bought a lot more than aerial surveillance.

Braxton walked the halls until he found a janitor's cart—complete with a broom, cleaning supplies, and a twenty-gallon vinyl bag for trash—tucked away in an unobtrusive nook. He wheeled the cart over to the long-term-care wing on the first floor. The diffused fluorescent lighting, powerful stench of cleansers, beeps of various machines, and unpleasant stale air reminded Braxton of the VA. All hospitals were essentially the same, and the people who came to them were the same as well: They got better, got worse, or got dead.

Braxton went in and out of several rooms, emptying the trash and wiping down furniture. The two duty nurses did not give him a second look. He was the help, one of the invisibles who worked behind the scenes to keep the place clean enough to cure.

“Good evening,” Braxton said to a stout nurse who sat behind a desk covered with monitors.

Same shit, different location.

“Evening,” the nurse said. She gave Braxton only a cursory glance before her focus returned to those monitors.

Braxton wheeled his cart into Sam Rockwell's room. For a guy who had been in a coma for so long, Rockwell actually looked pretty good. The bruises and cuts had mostly healed, and he appeared to be sleeping peacefully.

With practiced skill, Braxton injected succinylcholine intravenously and titrated the flow to speed up induction. Beneath the skin, invisible to the eye, Rockwell's muscles had begun to twitch and spasm. Almost immediately Rockwell's heart rate accelerated to help get oxygen to the brain. But the neuromuscular blocker, widely used by anesthesiologists and easy for Braxton to procure, would stop that heart in short order.

A patient as injured as Rockwell would not be subjected to an autopsy, Braxton had been told, and there was little chance of discovering the breakdown product, succinic acid.

Braxton counted to thirty before he wheeled his cart out of Rockwell's room and over to the nurses' station. “I'm no doc,” he said, “but that guy in there looks like he's having a real hard time breathing.”

As if on cue, an alarm sounded. The nurse leapt up from her chair as though it were on fire, and rushed into action. Braxton heard the code call come over the loudspeaker. A moment later, a crush of doctors and nurses headed for Rockwell's room like galloping racehorses.

Braxton became invisible again as he wheeled the janitor's cart nonchalantly down the hallway, whistling the tune from
The Odd Couple
as he went.

 

CHAPTER 43

“It looks a lot worse than it feels,” Carrie said.

Using the tips of his fingers, gentle as possible, David touched the large bruised area that marred much of Carrie's right cheek. His face expressed sympathy and heartfelt concern.

The Starbucks was packed at the bustling strip mall near the VA where the two had met. In less than an hour, Carrie was scheduled to see a demonstration of the virtual reality program that had sent Steven Abington off the rails. David had plans of his own at the hospital.

Carrie removed her sunglasses to show David the full extent of her injuries, but bright sunshine stabbed her eyes, and she quickly slipped the shades back into place. The ER doc who had treated Carrie in Maine warned that her sensitivity to light might last a few weeks. After she showed the doc a picture of her crumpled Subaru he added, “Be grateful that's your biggest concern.”

Carrie had spent a few days resting at home after the accident, but her body still ached in every conceivable way—stiff joints, throbbing pain in her knees and wrists, tight muscles, pounding headache. David's touch, at least, made her forget the discomfort for a moment.

“I wish you'd called me from Maine,” David said. “I would have come to get you.”

Carrie had actually given the idea some measured consideration, but opted for her brother instead, in part because of vanity. Days after the accident, Carrie's left eye was still swollen, her split lip had not fully healed, and her nose, though not broken, looked like a doorknob squished on her face. Most of the damage was the result of airbag deployment, but without it Carrie knew her injuries could have been fatal.

As for Adam, her brother had been incredibly supportive throughout the ordeal. He had dished out all the expected brotherly jabs: “You look hot,” he'd said, and, “It might be an improvement.” But those had come later, on the drive home. The first thing he did was to give Carrie a long embrace, and the first words he spoke were, “I'm so grateful you're all right.” Carrie managed to hold back the waterworks until Adam kissed her bruised forehead and told her how much he loved her.

Howard's treasured BMW was off-limits to all, so Adam drove Carrie home in their mother's Volvo.

“If I had that stupid Camaro running, I could have picked you up in style,” he had said.

“I'm just glad you came,” Carrie said.

“Anything for my favorite sister.”

“Um—I'm your only sister.”

“Yeah, semantics, whatever,” Adam said.

During the drive home, Adam pulled alongside any red pickup truck so that Carrie could get a good look at the driver. She was almost glad it never was the guy who ran her off the road because her brother had a murderous look in his eyes.

The Subaru was a total loss so Carrie had co-opted her mom's Volvo to get to the VA. Arrangements to see the virtual reality demo were made with Cal Trent before the accident, and Dr. Finley had suggested they reschedule. Carrie convinced him otherwise. All DBS surgeries were on hold until Carrie was medically cleared to operate, and she felt useless just sitting around at home. More than anything, Carrie wanted to keep this appointment. Her suspicions were in full bloom, and she needed to learn more about the DARPA program posthaste. The best place to begin, she believed, was at the point in the process where those negative memories got reconsolidated.

Carrie checked the time to make sure she was not running late for the demo.

David saw her preparing to go and gave her a concerned look. “Are you sure you shouldn't just be in bed?” he asked.

Carrie brushed aside the suggestion. “I'm fine. Really.”

David read something in Carrie's eyes. “You don't think it was road rage, do you?” he asked.

“A lot of things have happened since Abington and Fasciani went missing. The timing is more than a little unusual, don't you think?”

“But you told me Rockwell died of heart failure,” David said.

The call with the sad news had come while Carrie was at the hospital waiting for Adam to show. Though she had never met Sam Rockwell in person, Carrie's emotions vacillated between stunned and heartbroken. The intensity of her feelings came as a surprise, but Carrie understood their origin. She and Rockwell were connected in ways that went beyond the operating room at the VA. Ways Carrie believed she was on the cusp of discovering.

“His body was incredibly damaged, and for the heart to stop was not a shock to anybody. Normally I would agree—but again, the timing makes me highly suspicious. I get run off the road, and suddenly he dies. Think about it.”

“What about an autopsy?”

“There's not going to be one, according to Dr. Smerling. The family doesn't want it, and I can't start spouting conspiracy theories. The best way to find out what really happened to Sam is to keep the pressure on Goodwin.”

“You really think there's a connection to Rockwell?” David asked.

“I don't think,” Carrie said. “I know.”

“You're sure Goodwin's not around?”

“I checked her schedule. She's in an all-day meeting. Are you sure you can get inside her office?”

David fished out the lock-pick kit from his pocket and showed it to Carrie with a smile. “Of course,” he said. “I have the key.”

*   *   *

CARRIE WORE
her lab coat, and for that reason alone garnered plenty of curious looks while navigating the halls of the VA. It was one thing to see an injured person in a hospital, but something else entirely when that individual also happened to be a doctor. It set people on edge.

Dr. Finley, who had only spoken with Carrie by phone and had not seen her injuries, grimaced at the sight. “My goodness,” he said, rising from his chair. He gave Carrie a warm embrace that conveyed utter relief.

“It looks worse than it feels,” Carrie said, repeating what she'd told David. It was the same lie she told everyone.

“Well, I just hope they catch whoever did this to you.”

Carrie thanked him, and he sat back down.

Dr. Finley glanced at the letter on his desk, written on his personal stationery. “I've spent the last hour trying to figure out what to say to Sam's wife,” he said. “I'm just devastated. Nothing I write expresses how I really feel. I let my hopes get up when he came out of the coma, but now—” Dr. Finley slipped off his glasses and rubbed at his reddened eyes. Carrie got the feeling he had been crying. “Now, I just have memories.”

“I'm so sorry for your loss. I wish I had gotten to know him.”

“We were pioneers in this together from the start,” Dr. Finley said. “We owe a lot to Sam. I owe a lot to him.”

“He sounded like a wonderful man,” Carrie said, and then fell silent. If anything, her eyes were even wider, her expression more empathetic. “Listen, Alistair, there's something I'd like to talk with you about.”

Dr. Finley noticed Carrie's apprehension. “You look upset, Carrie. Please take a seat. I'll let Cal know we're running a few minutes late.”

Carrie's anxiety bubbled like uncorked champagne while Dr. Finley texted his message to Trent. He put his smartphone away and locked his gaze on Carrie. “Go on,” he urged.

Although Carrie had planned what to say, the reality of the moment felt weighty and more difficult than anticipated. “My car accident happened in Maine,” she began.