As they reached New Jersey, Max's beeper went off. He pulled into a Gulf station on Route 4 and parked next to a payphone.
"I have to make a call," he said to the three men in the back seat.
He got out of the car and dialed the precinct.
"Max Bernstein," he said.
"Yeah, Lieutenant, we have a call from Sergeant Monticelli. I'll connect you."
There was a clicking noise.
"Twitch?"
"Yeah, Willie, it's me. Where are you?" "Bethesda, Maryland," he said.
"Guess what Southern-fried lab technician is visiting the National Institutes of Health?"
Max felt a strange fluttering in the pit of his stomach.
"Winston O'Connor."
"Bingo. So I checked his file real good. About his childhood in Alabama and all that crap. Everything is in order. No holes at all.
Nothing suspicious. Absolutely clean. Perfect."
"Too perfect?"
"Yup. The guy's gotta be a plant."
Max nodded to no one in particular.
"Thanks, Willie. Come on home. No reason to follow him anymore."
"Will do, Twitch."
When Max reached the safehouse, he took Dr. Zry, his best (and quietest) medical man, aside.
"I have some very specific instructions for you."
Dr. Zry prompted.
"I want you to take some blood samples from the three patients," Max said.
"But I thought the guys at the clinic said not to touch " "I know what they said," Max interrupted.
"That's why I want it to remain our little secret."
George entered the clinic's basement at five o'clock in the afternoon.
Despite the cops crawling all over the obvious entrances, George had had no problem getting into the building through a tunnel entrance in the basement. Getting out the same way would be no problem either. He had spent most of the day studying a blueprint of the building and had come up with a plan he was sure would not fail.
Michael Silverman was in a private room on the third floor, no more than ten yards from the stairwell and the elevator. George was not yet sure which he was going to use to make his escape, but he was leaning toward the elevator. No other patients were housed on the third floor, and after 8:00 p. m." the floor should be abandoned unless someone was still in the lab down the other end of the hallway.
Time to recheck the plan.
He took the blueprint out of his pocket and quietly unfolded it. His finger traced along the paper until it arrived at the third floor. He squinted. Michael's room was over here, the lab was way down there, two empty rooms right there, the storage closet on the right, medical supplies locked over on the left. That was it. Nothing had been overlooked. He would just have to watch the nurse, wait until she left Michael's room.
George refolded the blueprint and jammed it into his front pants pocket. He wondered if Michael Silverman was another faggot or if he had really gotten the disease from a blood transfusion. Probably another fruitcake. His marriage to Sara Lowell was for show.
He settled back against the brick wall and waited.
16.
George checked his watch.
7:45 p.m.
He was already on the third floor and ready to move. Just a few more minutes to go.
From his spot inside the lab doorway George watched Sara Lowell and Reece Porter leave Michael's room. Perfect. Right on time. Ten minutes earlier Dr. Harvey Riker had made his exit.
Now Michael Silverman was alone in his room, probably asleep.
George listen closely, but he heard no voices. Sara and Reece were waiting for the elevator in perfect silence. Nothing to be said, he guessed.
Well, they'll have plenty to talk about tomorrow.
The familiar adrenalin rush was beginning to build inside of him, but George remained cool. No reason to rush. Rushing led to mistakes.
He knew he would have to wait a few more minutes until the nurse came by to check on Silverman. When she left his room, George would be able to waltz down the hallway and spend a little quality time with Michael.
And what do you know? Lookie here. George would not have to be patient much longer.
The nurse was at Michael's door already.
No more than two minutes after Reece and Sara had left, Janice Matley entered Michael's room. Her ears were greeted by a mixture of the soothing strings of Mozart coming from the tape deck and the gentle sounds of slumber coming from Michael.
Out like a light, the nurse said to herself. Sleeping like a baby, the poor thing. Not enough he had to have this awful virus he has to go through it while the whole world tries to watch. Damn shame, that's what it was. Nice young fella like that.
Damn shame.
She checked his chart. According to the file, Dr. Riker had given Michael an injection of SRI less than an hour ago. That would mean he would not have to be wakened for another four hours. Good. Lord knows the boy could use some rest. She looked at her watch. Ten minutes to eight. She would go downstairs until one a.m. Then she'd come back for his shot.
She pulled down the shade on his door window and left the room. She was just about to head down the stairs when something made her stop short. She could not say exactly what it was. There had been no sound, no voices, no rustling noises in the lab. There was only the steady hum of the fluorescent overhead lights. Damn lights made the most annoying noise. They can put men on the moon, she thought, but they can't make a long light bulb that doesn't sound like an angry bee.
Her eyes passed over the empty corridor, but nothing appeared out of place. She shook her head in a vague attempt to clear it. What on God's green earth was bothering her?
Nothing. Nothing at all. Everything was peaceful and quiet. Or maybe it was the very quiet that needled her. Maybe it was the sense of pure desolation that gave her reason to pause. And yet, when something was so quiet, so damn still, it's almost like someone was making it like that, like someone was standing so still that the whole room does the same.
Janice decided not to use the stairs just yet. Instead, she walked toward the lab at the other end of the hallway.
This was something George had not planned.
Shit! What the hell was the dumb bitch doing?
Relax, George. What harm can she do?
She can see me. Hell, she definitely will see me.
Then you'll have to take care of that problem, won't you?
Damn. He hated deviations from his plans, and the fat nurse was a big goddamn deviation.
Okay, calm down. There's no need to panic.
But she's coming this way!
He could clearly hear the nurse walking toward him. She stepped hesitantly but with authority. He wondered how his employer would react to the death of the old nurse. Not too happily, George imagined.
Very pissed off, in fact. But George could not worry about that now.
He had far bigger worries. He had to get to Michael Silverman before the damn doctor returned.
He pressed his back against the nook in the lab doorway and waited.
From the sound of her footsteps the old lady could not have been more than ten steps away. He reached into his pocket and slid out his stiletto. She was only a yard away now.
His muscles tensed in preparation.
Two floors below Sara hobbled next to Reece Porter.
"Reece?"
"Yes."
"How did he look to you?"
Reece Porter shrugged. Immediately after hearing Michael's statement, Reece had left the Knick locker room, taken a taxi to the Seattle airport, waited eight hours for the next available plane to New
"York, flew across the entire country, spent the day trying to find out where Michael was, located Sara at Dr. Simpson's office, and then obtained permission from Harvey to visit Michael.
A damn long twenty-four hours.
"Mikey looked okay," he said at last.
"Just tired mostly."
"From the SRI, I think," Sara added.
"I'm glad you came, Reece. It means a lot to him."
Reece shrugged.
"So how are you feeling?"
'"I'm fine."