Sir Lionel had posed something of a threatto The Roundtable, and he had died suddenly and mysteriously. A year or solater, Evelyn DellaRosa had been murdered in her hospital bed. She, too, hadcrossed paths with the society. The drug used to poison her had beendiscovered, but almost by accident. Were the two deaths coincidence? Possible,but doubtful, Stallings thought. Now, within twenty-four hours, he wouldeither have to submit a list of hospitalized clients to be terminated, orbecome a potential threat to The Roundtable himself.
Meeting with Kevin Loomis was the rightthing to have done, he decided. Loomis seemed like an up-front, decent enough guy.Even though he remained noncommittal and maybe even unconvinced, as soon as hehad the chance to sort through everything, he would come around. And togetherthey would figure out something. They simply had to. Stallings wipedperspiration from his forehead with his shirtsleeve. The car was nearly packed.The heat oppressive. It was only a matter of time before someone passed out.
'Hey, watch it!' one of the passengerssnapped.
'Fuck you,' came the quick retort.
A gnarled old woman with a pronounced humpand an overfilled shopping bag worked her way between him and the seats andstopped with one of her heels resting solidly on Stallings's toes. Stallingsexcused himself and pulled his foot free. The crone glared up at him withreddened eyes and muttered something that he was grateful he couldn'tunderstand.
The doors glided shut and for a moment itseemed as if they had been condemned to a new brand of torture. But slowly,almost reluctantly, the train began to move. Stallings was taller than most ofthose standing in the car. Clutching his briefcase and his hopelessly wrinkledsuit coat in his left hand, he was able to keep his balance in part by holdingon to the bar over the old lady's head, and in part by the force of thosepressing around him. He commuted to work from the Upper East Side on the IRT,and so was an inveterate and extremely tolerant rider. But this was about asbad as he could ever remember. To make matters even worse, the train waslurching mercilessly — perhaps responding to an effort by the driver to make upfor lost time.
A minute out of the station, the oldlady's heel again came down on his foot. This time Stallings nudged her away,earning another glare and another epithet. Moments later, a particularlyvicious lurch threw a crush of people against him. He felt a sharp sting in hisright flank, just above his belt. A bee? A spider? He reached down with hisright hand and rubbed at the spot. The stinging sensation was already almostgone. His shirt was still tucked in all around. His hand was still off the barwhen a tight curve pitched him against the passengers behind him.
'Hang on to something, for chrissake,'someone cried as he was pushed back upright.
'Idiot,' someone else added.
'Sorry,' Stallings muttered, still tryingto make sense of having been stung in such a way. He had been stung before, anynumber of times, by both bees and spiders. He wasn't allergic to either. Butwhatever had bitten him this time had done so right through his shirt.
The train slowed as they entered the CityHall station. The crush of passengers intensified as some tried to make theirway to the doors.
'Excuse me,' a woman said, trying to getpast Stallings. 'Sir?'
Stallings couldn't respond. His heart hadstarted pumping wildly. His pulse was resonating in his ears like artilleryfire. He felt a terrifying nausea and dizziness taking hold. Sweat cascadeddown his face. The car lights blurred, and then began spinning, faster andfaster. His chest felt empty, as if his lungs and heart had been torn out. Heneeded desperately to lie down.
'Hey, what are you doing?' someoneshouted.
His hand had slipped off the steel bar.
'Hey, buddy …'
Stallings felt his knees buckling. Hishead lolled back.
'Hey, back away, back away! He's passingout!'
Stallings knew he was on the floor, hisarms and legs jerking uncontrollably. Feet hit against him as people tried toback away. He sensed himself bite through his lip, but felt no pain. A flood ofwords reached him as distant echoes through a long, metal tunnel.
'He's having a seizure'. . 'Getsomething in his mouth'. . 'Roll him over! Roll him over on his side!'. .'I'm a paramedic. Move aside, everyone. Move aside'. . 'Somebody dosomething' … 'I am, lady, just back off. . 'Get a cop. .'
The words became more disconnected, moregarbled. Stallings felt the people kneeling around him, touching him, but hewas powerless to react. He knew he was losing consciousness. Blood flowed fromhis lip on to his royal-blue shirt. He sensed his bladder give way. The blurredimages faded to blackness. The voices and sounds died away. .
All but one of the tangle of people werefocused on Stallings. This one, a nondescript man in a print sports shirt,reached between two would-be rescuers and grasped the handle of Stallings'sbriefcase. Then, ever so slowly, he slid it free of the crowd. He smiledinwardly at the image of Sir Gawaine utilizing one evasive tactic after anotherto avoid being followed to Battery Park, never realizing that thestate-of-the-art bugs Galahad routinely placed in each knight's room had madetailing him quite unnecessary.
The car doors were open now, and peoplewere pushing and jamming to get out on to the platform. The man withStallings's briefcase moved calmly with the flow. The syringe in his pocketwould be tossed into a sewer within a block. The cardiotoxin he had emptiedinto Stallings was one of his favorite weapons — a drug virtually unknownoutside of the lower Amazon, so potent that the poison remaining along thebarrel of the syringe would probably still be enough to kill. The thirty-gaugeneedle attached to the syringe was so fine it could pass through a pore, makingthe puncture wound essentially invisible. And even if the injection hadproduced a tiny droplet of blood, the man's dark blue shirt would have made itvirtually impossible to notice. Just another statistic — another heat-relateddeath. Beautiful, just beautiful.
Anton Perchek exited the station just asthe two policemen were rushing in.
'Take your time, gentlemen,' he whispered.'Believe me, there is no need to rush.'
Chapter29
The mood in Harry's apartment wasdecidedly upbeat. Walter Concepcion and Maura arrived within a few minutes ofeach other, both with good news.
Harry needed it. After the hearing, as hewas getting out of Mel Wetstone's Mercedes in front of his office, he hadexperienced another bout of chest pain — more sharp than dull or squeezing,moving from deep in his back through to the middle of his breastbone. The wholeepisode didn't last long — maybe three or four minutes, and it wasn't all thatsevere. But it was the worst pain he had had in a while. By the time he hadgiven Mary Tobin a quick kiss of gratitude and hurried to the medicationcabinet to try a nitroglycerine pill, the pain was subsiding. If it was angina,he told himself again, it certainly wasn't a text-book case.
Still, Maura was going to keep her part oftheir bargain by going to an AA meeting with Concepcion. The least he could dowas schedule a stress test. He went back to his desk, dialed the office numberof a cardiologist friend, and actually let the phone ring once before he hungup. He would keep the nitroglycerine in his pocket, he decided, and take it atthe first sign of chest pain. If it worked, if the pain subsided, there was a fairlystrong likelihood that the problem was his heart. Then he would call thecardiologist. Meanwhile, he told himself, the stress test could wait.