She’d have to get deeper inside Herb Waters’ little fortress, but virtually. She began working through all the hacking protocols she’d learned. First, she’d need to find out how to get into the hospital’s website.
Then she’d figure out how to get to Herb Waters.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
“Goddamn it to fucking hell!” Waters screamed.
Shirley Moss was used to that kind of profane outburst from Waters. But when it was followed by the crashing sound of a chair hitting the wall and his shout to “Get your ass in here!” she knew he was more upset than usual.
Moss walked two steps inside the door and stood there quietly as Waters hovered over his desk. His heavily-creased face was deeply tanned. Shirley suspected his dark brown hair was mostly gray, judging by the bottles of hair coloring that were often in his desk drawer. His massive, well-muscled chest and arms bulged against his always starched and pressed white shirts.
“Someone was here!” Waters yelled. “Who was it?” His face was red and the large veins in his neck and face bulged.
Michael Jefferson, Waters’ enormous “security guard,” who was much more like a professional intimidator than anything else, waved a silver metal rod over the entry door, the wall around the entry door, and the carpet. A low-frequency hum issued as the rod moved past Waters’ office door. The hulking Jefferson turned to look at Waters.
“Goddamn it to fucking hell!” Waters shouted again as he picked a quarter-inch brown “spot” from the door, just above the upper hinge. He shoved it in Shirley’s face. The miniature transmitting device looked like a ladybug, with three tiny wires protruding from one end. Waters then ceremoniously threw it on the floor and stomped on it.
“Why would someone want to plant a microphone in your office?” Shirley asked.
“Who the fuck knows?” Waters barked, lying, knowing that there were lots of people who wanted to bug his office, his car, and his home. Shaking his finger at Shirley, he barked, “I don’t give a fuck who it is; if you ever let anybody else enter this office, I’ll can your ass!”
Shirley looked down and returned to her desk.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
I woke up thirsty, my throat parched. The ice cubes in the glass of water Keyes had left on the nightstand had melted, but the cold water soothed my sore throat. My back was stiff from lying down. It felt good to stand and walk around after being in bed for so long.
The newspaper Keyes had left was creased as if it had been folded for reading. Opening it, I saw the reason she’d left it. There was a two-page ad by Jackson City Hospital with the headline: “Our Hospital is One of the Best in the Southeast: Let Us Serve Your Every Need.” The ad copy consisted of two columns listing the names and credentials of the outstanding, board-certified physicians on staff, covering all fields of medicine and surgery. On and on the hospital bragged about their caring, competent service to the community.
Notably missing were any references to any of the events of the past few weeks.
I was worried about Waters and I knew he was going to sell the hospital. It reminded me that the world was still turning, and that I had to return a phone call.
I called the home of my friend, Andy Fowler, who’d been in a master’s program in hospital administration while I was a resident surgeon in plastic surgery. He now worked at American Hospital Systems (AHS), and when I was doing research on the hospital sale the previous month, Andy was my primary source of information. After several unanswered rings, the call went to voicemail, and I left a message. “This is Scott James. I need to talk to Andy as soon as possible. It’s important.”
A minute later, my cell phone rang and a sobbing Frances Fowler spoke four words before hanging up: “Don’t call here. Ever!”
Ten minutes later, my phone rang again. It was Frances Fowler. “I was afraid to talk on the home phone. They’re listening to all my calls, so I use my cell phone. I buried Andy three weeks ago. They said it was a heart attack, but I know they killed him.”
“I’m sorry, Frances. I had no idea.” I was so stunned and devastated to hear of Andy’s death that I didn’t absorb her last words at first. “Who killed him?”
“They’re after me now, and it’s your fault!” Frances said. “That letter you wrote to your newspaper led to Andy’s death. They told him not to give out any information about AHS buying your hospital. His boss ordered him a month ago not to talk to you. The day after your newspaper article was published, Andy went to work feeling fine. He called me when he got to his office and whispered that he was in big trouble.”
Her voice trembled as she spoke through her tears. “He told me he was scared. That he’d been beaten. And if something happened to him, not to call you. He was afraid they’d do something to me. An hour later, I got a call saying he was dead.”
“Did you go to the police?”
“Yes. But nobody listened to me because I had three psychiatric visits for… a little problem… over a year ago, and they found out.”
“Who found out?”
“The men Andy worked for. Doctors’ records are supposed to be confidential, but they knew of my office visits and that I had two prescriptions for Prozac.”
“Didn’t the police see the body? If someone beat him, there would have been cuts or bruises.”
“No. Andy was cremated — without me first seeing his body and without my consent.”
“That’s against the law!”
“These people at AHS are the law. They own the police, the coroner, even my psychiatrist. I’ve read about your situation, Scott. Aren’t they doing the same thing to you?”
“Yes, Frances, they are. I just need to find out who ‘they’ are. That’s why I was calling—”
She started to cry. “There’s one. He’s horrible. He was with Andy when he died. His name is Joshua Brightman. He’s a scary-looking man, tall, maybe six-five, huge, built like a pro wrestler, with a long stringy ponytail and strange blue eyes that seem to stare right through you.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. A shot of adrenaline bolted through my veins. “Oh my God. Did you say a huge guy with a blond ponytail?”
Abruptly, her crying ceased. “That’s them!” she said. “They’re right behind me!”
“Who?”
“A woman and two children! They’re following me!”
The connection cut off.
Is Frances Fowler just paranoid? Am I paranoid? Did she just describe the attendant I saw in the ICU leaving Keyes’ bedside?
Frantic, I tried calling her back. I tried three times. It was clear she’d turned off her phone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
There were many more targets, and Alpha Charlie was the man to take them out. First, though, he wanted to make the DE Laser operational. Once that was accomplished, the DE system would be transferred to the drones in the Middle East. The afternoon’s practice run was important to him.
As Charlie was getting comfortable in his chair, the MQ-1 Predator rolled from its hangar and flew into the air from Camp Peary. At the same time, a remote-controlled Jeep left a helicopter hangar at Fort Eustis, drove slowly away from the airport, past the shooting range, and then down a variety of dirt roads constructed by the base engineers to mimic battlefields. As the Jeep approached an open field surrounded by bunkers, a blue light glowed on the dashboard, signaling that missile targeting radar was surveying the area. Practiced in evasive moves that simulated what an expert driver would do in combat situations, the Jeep’s remote control operator accelerated the vehicle and moved it to the center of the field.