Trauma (37 page)

“It would explain why Goodwin didn't want me to check in on any of my patients post-op. She didn't want me to discover the side effect and alert somebody. It would have thrown the program into disarray. The vets would be subjected to a battery of tests and maybe the drug would be discovered. Game over.”

David thought. “You've got some success stories, though, right?”

“So far I've met Ram
ó
n Hernandez and Terry Bushman. But Dr. Finley mentioned two others.”

“Maybe the side effects are temporary in some cases, so they just need time to clear.”

“It's possible,” Carrie said.

“Can you get access to the patient records of the vets who have been treated with DBS?”

“I had asked Dr. Finley if I could see them before I was attacked,” Carrie said. “Why?”

“It would be interesting to see if any other vets left the neuro recovery unit like Abington and Fasciani. And speaking of your boss, what about him?”

Carrie looked incredulous. “Who? Alistair? No,” she said. Alistair was Carrie's confidant, her mentor, the man who had given her career new life—but she could discount his involvement for other reasons, too.

“He didn't even know Richardson,” Carrie said, “and he had plenty of opportunities to introduce him to me. I think I have a pretty good read on people, and Alistair's commitment is to the patients, to this program. He didn't care that I went looking for Abington and Fasciani. He encouraged it. The problem was Goodwin—who, by the way, signed those AMA forms. She's the last link in the chain. Alistair has had my back with Goodwin since day one. There's a reason Goodwin has had it out for me from the get-go. She didn't want me on staff, and was very vocal about it.”

David looked intrigued. “Goodwin runs the surgical staff, right?”

“That's right,” Carrie said.

“So what about Rockwell?”

Carrie said, “I was a special hire by Dr. Finley, but Sam Rockwell was on Goodwin's staff from the start, and a fully accredited VA neurosurgeon.”

“So Goodwin didn't want you hired.”

“Another reason I think the buck stops with her.”

“She gave you that bogus assignment, knowing you would be at the hospital late,” David said.

Carrie went pale. “You think Goodwin set me up to be killed?”

“It's possible,” David said. “And perhaps she did the same to Rockwell.”

“What do you mean?”

“What if Dr. Finley didn't know what Goodwin was up to, but Rockwell did?” David said.

Carrie considered this. “Rockwell knew,” she said in a soft voice. “He had to. Maybe he wanted out, or was going to blow the whistle, or something. That's why they tried to kill him.”

“And he was as good as dead, too,” David said. “At least until he started to wake up.”

A sour, acidic taste burned the back of Carrie's throat. “Goodwin must have known I was on my way to see him,” she said.

“It's possible Rockwell's doc called Goodwin to report a change in his condition. He was her employee, after all, so they probably had some kind of relationship. The other doctor might have mentioned you were coming up to see him.”

“And Goodwin told Trent,” Carrie said. “So what do we tell the police?” Carrie stopped pacing and sat on the edge of the bed beside David.

“We don't have much evidence,” David said. “We have a recording that really doesn't validate anything we just discussed. Everything here is conjecture, not proof. We go to the police with what we have, and the whole operation could go dark. Evidence could be destroyed, or worse, those missing vets might be permanently silenced—like Rockwell.”

Carrie sat back on the bed and leaned against the wall to keep from tipping over. Fatigue seeped into her bones, leaving her completely enervated. A feeling of dread had wormed into her gut and Carrie clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a sob.

“What have I gotten myself into?” she muttered, just barely holding it together.

David took hold of Carrie's hand. He held her gaze until the fear swirling inside calmed like a windless sea. In that moment, the only sound Carrie could hear was her own racing heart. She felt strangely hypnotized by the flecks of gold that ringed David's penetrating eyes.

For the first time, Carrie noticed the scar across David's cheek and wondered if he got that in Syria, or some other dangerous place he called the office. For a moment his touch completely possessed her, and blocked out all other sensations.

“Whatever you decide,” David said, still holding her hand, “I'll be with you every step of the way.”

Carrie's mother called from downstairs, “Sweetheart, Detective Kowalski is here.”

*   *   *

DETECTIVE KOWALSKI
sipped from the mug of tea Howard Bryant had replenished. After greetings and introductions, it was time to get down to business.

Everyone gathered around the kitchen table: Carrie, Irene, Howard, Adam, and David. Adam hung back, leaning against a wall, and made no effort to shield his glowering expression. His anger appeared reserved for—and directed solely at—David, for reasons Carrie could not fathom.

Everyone was dressed casually, but the proceedings carried an air of formality. To his credit, Detective Kowalski, a trim man in his fifties with a salt-and-pepper crew cut, a snub nose, and kind brown eyes, took his time getting started. His patience helped Carrie to relax, though her hand shook with a persistent tremor every time she sipped her tea. David's touch had quieted Carrie's nerves, but the horror of what she'd endured persisted. Irene stood behind her daughter, her hands perched protectively on Carrie's shoulders.

“So you've seen this guy before? That's what I heard.” Kowalski spoke with a heavy South Boston accent.

It was an effort to focus, but she looked at the color picture of the dead man Kowalski put in front of her. The photograph did not show where he had taped the cyanide capsule to the inside of his wrist.

“At the park,” Carrie said. “I thought he was following me. I guess he was.” She glanced at Adam, who looked distraught.

“Any reason?” Kowalski asked. “I mean, I can't say I've ever come across a stalker who carried cyanide capsules on him before.”

“Can you order those online?” Howard asked.

Kowalski pondered the question. “Yeah, I think so,” he said. “I remember some guy took a pill in court after he was convicted of arson. Couldn't do the time, I guess. Maybe our guy had a ‘get caught' plan as well.”

“Maybe,” Irene said.

Carrie and David exchanged glances. This was the moment of truth—should they share what limited information they had? She gazed down at the photograph of the man with the shamrock tattoo, taken post-life, and felt five sets of eyes boring down on her.

“We've got no ID,” Kowalski said. “Serial numbers are wiped clean from the gun. DNA testing will take some time, same as a dental match. For now he's a John Doe. I don't know why this guy was after you, where your paths might have crossed other than the park, but there's something here. A patient of yours, somebody you saw at the VA, one of your other jobs, during medical school, at a party? I don't know you. You tell me.” Detective Kowalski took a long, unhurried drink and eyed Carrie over the rim of his mug.

Carrie shot David a sidelong glance and picked up the photograph. She studied it silently for half a minute, then set it back down on the table.

“I don't know why he attacked me,” she finally said.

 

CHAPTER 50

Everyone crammed into the compact foyer of the Bryants' home to say good-bye to Detective Kowalski.

At the door Kowalski paused and focused on Carrie once more. “You have my card,” he said. “Anything changes, you let me know.”

“I will,” Carrie said. “And thank you, Detective, for everything you've done.”

“Wish I could do more,” Kowalski said. “I'm sorry this happened to you, I really am. Just know we're going to do everything possible to figure out who this guy was and what he wanted.”

Carrie felt a stab of guilt, knowing it would be wasted effort. If the police even sniffed around DARPA, she firmly believed the whole operation would be shuttered, evidence purged, and everything Carrie had endured would be for naught. She owed it to Steve Abington and Eric Fasciani to hand the federal district attorneys an airtight case against Goodwin, Richardson, and Trent. Perhaps they would find the missing vets, or maybe evidence that Goodwin and Trent had plotted her murder, or that of Sam Rockwell.

Carrie had already formulated the next steps in her mind. What she needed now was time alone with David to finalize those plans. With Kowalski gone, Howard and Irene returned to the kitchen to clean up, and Carrie went outside for a breath of fresh air. David followed.

Carrie ambled down the walkway and David caught up with her just before she reached the driveway. He took her hand again and pulled her in close to him.

“You made the right call,” David said.

“Right call about what?”

Carrie and David whirled at the sound of Adam's voice. He wore the same saturnine look Carrie had observed in the kitchen, something truly unsettled.

Adam folded his arms across his chest in a hostile manner, but kept his distance. “Right about what?” he repeated.

“Nothing, Adam,” Carrie said. “Just something David and I were discussing. It's private.”

Adam closed the gap between them until only a few feet remained.

“Here's what I think,” Adam said, his voice directed solely at David. A shadow crossed Adam's face, a darkness Carrie found deeply troublesome. “I think since you two have been hanging out, a lot of bad things have happened to my sister.”

David took a single step toward Adam. He remained calm and composed, nonthreatening, nonconfrontational. Of course, Adam did not see it that way. His eyes dared David to throw the first punch.

“Adam, no,” David said. “This has nothing to do with me.”

“Yeah? Well, I don't see it that way,” Adam said. “Carrie's been followed, somebody broke into her bedroom, somebody ran her off the road, and now someone tried to kill her. All that happened when? When, David?”

Carrie came forward. She knew how close Adam was to exploding. “Adam, this isn't David's doing,” Carrie said.

Adam maneuvered so close to David the two could almost touch noses. To his credit, David did not back away. But to Carrie's eyes, David was nervous, and rightly so.

“Let's be level-headed about this, Adam,” David said.

“Yeah, let's,” Adam said in David's face. “This is my sister and I love her, and I'd do anything to protect her.
Anything
. So I think the level-headed thing to do is stay away from her. Whatever you're doing is dangerous, and if something happens to my sister, something happens to you. How's that sound?”

Adam did not give an inch. His stare made Carrie hold her breath.

“Are you going to hit me again?” David asked in a calm voice.

By this point, Howard and Irene had noticed something going on, and they came outside to investigate.

Irene rushed down the walkway. “What's happening?” she called.

The spell seemed to break.
Not a second too soon,
Carrie thought.

Adam turned around. “Nothing, Mom,” he said. He locked eyes with David once more. “David was just leaving, and I came out to say good-bye.”

*   *   *

Braxton Price stood on the bank of the Charles River and watched the sailboats carve graceful lines across the rippling water. Any minute now the call would come with his directive.
Fifty-fifty,
he thought. He knew which direction he wanted it to go. Gantry was a brother and a friend, and Carrie Bryant needed to die.

How a brain surgeon had taken down Gantry, a well-trained, hard-core soldier, was difficult for Price to fathom, but his friend was dead and that was that. The plan all along had been to take Carrie out in the parking lot early that morning, silent-like—certainly not in the hospital, which had a larger police presence. Gantry had evidently improvised, and somehow she got the better of him.

Pity
.

Something like this was bound to happen, and Price had warned his employers on several occasions about the risk of continuing after Rockwell's decommissioning. But once a grunt, always a grunt, and Price knew the suits were not about to take that kind of strategic direction from a low-level operator.
Whatever
. At least the group within DARPA who got this program off the ground had listened to him when it mattered most.

Nothing about Price's motivations was especially patriotic. It was all about the money, and he'd balked at the notion of getting his muscle from a ragtag group of mercenaries whose loyalties could easily be compromised. Employing members from Price's former squad, like Gantry, assured him that even under extreme duress his team would not falter. As individuals, each one of them had been tested, and while bones and bodies broke over in Afghanistan, allegiances never did. Price did not fight for his country; he fought solely for his brothers. When Gantry took that pill, he'd metaphorically leapt on a grenade to save his comrades. So Price would avenge him. It was not a matter of if, but when.

The air was still and warm, not unusual for this time of year. Price wanted to remove his jacket, but it hid the wires that would scramble the expected call. It also concealed his favorite pistol, a Beretta 92FS with a fifteen-round magazine and impeccable long-range accuracy.

At four thirty the call came in. Price wore an earpiece, but that was commonplace these days, so nobody took notice of him talking to himself on the bank of the Charles River. Price reached into his jacket pocket and pushed the Talk button without needing to check the phone's display.