Dead Promise Page 4

  Betsy was a petite blonde, wound a little tight, but she didn’t miss anything. Art was calm and cool. He didn’t respond to Betsy but looked down the street as Suzy pulled her silver Lexus into the driveway. The light came on as she opened the garage door, and the car disappeared inside.

  “What now?” asked Betsy.

  Art said, “We wait.”

  They could see the interior garage light reflected on the driveway, the garage door still in a raised position. They didn’t see the dark figure, dressed in baggy black jogging shorts and a lightweight matching nylon jacket, slip into the garage from the opposite side of the building. Grabbing her purse and briefcase, Suzy stepped from her car. The shadowy figure placed a Beretta Tomcat .32 ACP at the base of her skull and pulled the trigger. Suzy fell instantly onto the concrete as the assassin slipped out undetected, blending into the darkness behind her condo. He reached the street and began a light jog, looking casual, just another jogger out for his evening run. The Tomcat was invisible in the palm of his hand.

  Art and Betsy kept looking at the open garage door, wondering why Suzy hadn’t closed the door. Maybe she was waiting for someone, but it seemed a little strange.

  Art said, “I’m going to check it out. You stay here.”

  Betsy nodded. She watched Art as he walked down the street toward the condo. He took one look into the garage and disappeared inside. A moment later, Betsy’s cell phone rang.

  “Call for backup and the squad. She’s been hit. I’m going after him,” shouted Art.

  Betsy placed the call, then raced up to the open garage door and saw Chen down on the concrete, her head in a puddle of blood, car door still open.

  “Fuck,” she whispered. She knelt down, placing two fingers on Chen’s neck, trying to find a pulse.

  It was weak, but she was alive. Betsy stared at Suzy’s beautiful face, not a mark on it, but blood was gushing from underneath her head. Art rushed into the garage, out of breath, his weapon still drawn. He shoved it back into his holster.

  “Shit,” he said. “Nothing.”

  “Look at this.” Betsy pointed to what appeared to be several small black fragments on the cement floor. “Wonder what that is?”

  “Don’t know,” he said, still trying to catch his breath. “Maybe something the killer dropped. Be careful not to touch anything.”

  “I won’t,” said Betsy, worried about the pool of blood flowing onto the garage floor.

  Art walked outside and stood on the driveway, waiting for backup.

  Betsy stayed with Suzy, holding her hand, whispering softly, “Help is on the way. You’re going to be all right.” She didn’t know if Suzy could hear her, but she was trying to keep her alive.

  Several police cars, lights flashing, pulled up, as did an ambulance and a white van. Don Patterson, a bureau agent, met Art on the driveway, followed by the forensics team and EMTs with a stretcher. Betsy moved out of the way, trying not to step in the blood or on any possible evidence.

  “She’s still breathing,” said one of the emergency technicians leaning over Suzy.

  Betsy hoped to God they could save her.

  13

  The EMTs felt a pulse, but her breathing was shallow. Blood was everywhere, but they wrapped the head wound, trying to stop the bleeding. They stabilized her neck with a surgical collar, inserted an IV, and placed her carefully on the stretcher. Don Patterson wanted this kept under wraps for now. She might not make it—in fact, he thought it highly unlikely—but he wanted to keep her alive if medically possible. She would be a valuable asset. The evidence at the Edgewood lab, her relationship with Adams, the information obtained from her boyfriend, Colonel Graham—everything pointed to her. They needed to know her contact at the Organization and find those responsible for planning the terrorist attack. Plus they had to protect her, in case the killer tried again.

  After Agents Reed and Strickland arrived at the scene, Patterson filled them in. He had seen many gunshot wounds, and this one was, in all likelihood, fatal. The assassin had known what he was doing. With all the blood, it was hard to tell exactly where the bullet impacted or what caliber it was. The ambulance, under protection of two state police officers and two FBI agents, headed to Walter Reed National Military Medical Center, a high-security facility. No one but the two NCS agents, Patterson, Reed, Strickland, NYC FBI Field Office director Fran Jacobs, and those accompanying her would know the victim’s identity. They wanted her alive and kept that way at all costs.

  The ruse, so far, had worked. The newspeople on the scene were informed of her death, as was her lover, Colonel Max Graham. He took it hard. But they had to keep it strictly on a need-to-know basis if they were going to use her effectively. The more people who thought Dr. Suzy Chen was dead, the better. She might be useless to them, even if she survived the head injury. But if she did survive, they needed every chance to find out what she knew, to find the Director.

  Soon after arrival at Walter Reed, Chen was rushed into surgery. Dr. Ahmed, a trauma neurosurgeon, was waiting. He studied the CT taken in the ER. By sheer chance, the .32-caliber bullet had not penetrated the skull but had grazed the thick occipital bone, located at the lower cranial bone, which protects the brain stem; the bullet was lodged between the skin and the cranium. No brain intrusion had occurred. It appeared, from the entry wound, that there had been direct muzzle contact. Somehow the bullet had been deflected, possibly by the thick bone that protects the brain stem, or maybe she had turned her head slightly at the exact moment before the trigger was pulled. Maybe it had been a defective round, too slow to penetrate. The neurosurgeon could only speculate. His comment, as he grasped the deformed bullet with his forceps, was “lucky girl.”

  The surgical nurse cleaned the area around the entry site, revealing several minute black fragments, which the surgeon carefully removed.

  “Wonder what these are,” said the surgeon, thinking aloud. He placed the small pieces of the unknown material onto the tray, alongside the bullet. “Send these to the lab,” he said.

  Ahmed closed the wound and asked the surgical nurse to bandage the area. Chen had a major concussion and would need extended recovery time. Although still considered critical, and assuming there were no complications, in all likelihood Dr. Suzy Chen, “Patient X,” would survive.

  14

  All Saints Hospital, located in the center of Manhattan, was on lockdown. Jim Lucas, hospital director, dialed the ER and asked to speak to Chris Noel, head nurse of the department. The phone kept ringing.

  “God, why aren’t they answering?” he wondered.

  Finally someone picked up. “Emergency Room. Connie speaking.”

  “Connie, this is Jim Lucas,” he replied. “Dr. Grant just called me, saying he’s sick. I need to know the ER status and what’s going on with Dave.” He added, “And where’s Chris?”

  Connie said, “We’re crowded. Some overflow into the hallway, with stretchers, sick people waiting to be seen. The isolation unit is full. We aren’t receiving any more patients, and Dr. Grant is in isolation. He had a sudden onset of fever and chills, then began coughing. We got him in a bed, but we’re waiting for lab results. Chris is working here in the ER. She’s with a patient, I think. Do you want to speak to her?”

  Jim could hear the subtext of her response. They were holding it together, but things were on the verge of getting out of control.

  Dave Grant was ER director as well as Jim’s personal friend. Now Dave was in isolation. Things were moving too quickly.

  “Yes, please get her, if possible. Thanks, Connie,” Jim said.

  “Sure, Jim, hold on,” she answered.

  Connie paged Chris to come to the nurses’ station. Chris emerged from one of the cubicles, masked and carrying a tray of instruments and gauze. Everyone working in the emergency room was masked, not wanting to risk exposure to the deadly airborne flu. But it was probably too late. Some of the first victims of the H5N1 virus had been received in the All Saints emergency department long
before anyone knew of their exposure to the deadly virulent strain.

  “Connie, what is it?” asked Chris.

  “Jim Lucas. He wants to talk to you,” she responded.

  “Thanks, Connie. Let me get rid of these instruments, and I’ll take the call,” she said.

  Chris disappeared for a few minutes, returned wearing fresh gloves and mask, and picked up the phone.

  “Jim, what’s going on?” she asked.

  “I need to know how things are down there, and what’s going on with Dave,” he said.

  “We’re under control at the moment, but the security guards had to lock the doors to keep people out. We just don’t have any more room.” She paused. “I’m worried, Jim.”

  “What about Dave?” he asked.

  “He’s sick.” Her voice wavered.

  “I know, Chris. He is going to get through this. He’s strong,” he replied. Jim knew she and Dave were having an affair. Everyone who worked at All Saints knew. They’d been together since Dr. Grant had become ER director over a year ago.

  “Any labs yet?” he asked.

  Chris answered, “No, not yet. Frank’s going to call me when his labs come back.”

  Dr. Frank Edwards was an ER doctor working in the isolation unit. The other ER doctor was handling the cases that didn’t seem to be related to the virus. Jim knew he could count on Chris, but things were looking bad. She’d been on duty since the day before all this started. They’d already lost several patients, and he knew they’d lose more.

  “Chris, what do you need?”

  “Jim, do what you can to keep supplies coming in. We’re getting by right now, but I don’t know for how long. We are going to need more medications—in fact, more of everything. What are you hearing on the news?” she asked.

  “Not good,” he said. “The virus is spreading fast.”

  Chris’s stomach lurched, but her voice remained calm. “How’s your wife?” she asked.

  “All right at the moment. She’s at home with the kids, scared out of her wits.”

  “Jim, for the record, so am I.” Chris tried to keep her voice lighthearted, but it wasn’t working.

  “Let me know when you hear anything about Dave. I’m going to check with the floors, the cafeteria, and the pharmacy.”

  “Thanks, Jim. I will.” And Chris hung up.

  Jim had heard the exhaustion in Chris’s voice, but he knew she was capable and would keep the staff working at optimum level. He just didn’t know for how long. Now wasn’t the time to think of the worst-case scenario. He grabbed his sport coat and walked to the elevators. He wanted to see firsthand how things were going on the floors. He pushed the down arrow.

  “Better start with the kitchen and pharmacy,” he thought.

  He wondered how long he could count on supply deliveries. He’d heard the report from the CDC. If the virus continued to spread, they were in deep trouble. Mayor Donnelly and other government officials kept reassuring the public, but Jim knew the realities. Other NYC hospitals were in the same situation. He didn’t know how much longer they could operate, but he would do whatever he needed to in order to keep All Saints patients and staff as safe as possible. He hoped to God he wouldn’t get sick, not for his own sake, but because he had a hospital to run.

  The ding sounded, and the elevator doors opened. Jim stepped in and hit the lighted button for the ground floor.

  15

  The forensics lab technician at Quantico had his head down, peering into the lens.

  “Interesting,” Mac said. “But I don’t have a clue. The majority of fragments are too small to be distinguishable. Could be any type of hard material, possibly a type of stone, but with all the minute pieces, it’s going to be tough to identify. Come look at this.”

  The other lab tech came over and looked.

  “The reddish-brown flecks are blood,” Debra said. “I’ll type it.”

  The largest fragment was about one-quarter inch long. “Is this part of the material that was removed from the patient?” Debra asked.

  “Yes. The bullet and several fragments were removed from underneath the patient’s scalp,” Mac replied. “With a lot of powder on the skin tissue. The shot was close range. But we also have evidence from the scene. We’ll see if the pieces match, compare the blood type,” he said. “This stuff seems to be pretty dense. And there are a few human hair strands, probably got mixed in with the fragments at impact. The bullet was lodged under the skin, so that makes sense.”

  “Let’s check out the blood analysis, then see what we can make of this black material,” Debra said.

  “OK. The bullet is a thirty-two caliber. It didn’t go through the skull. But it hit something,” Mac said. “We have to check for markings, too. Maybe we’ll find something on a fragment that matches the ballistics.”

  Mac was methodical. He used a small stainless instrument to remove the minute object from under the lens, placing it back in the air-tight storage container. He placed another piece on a clean slide and examined it. The largest piece had deep surface scratches. Then he placed another one on a slide. Some were heavily coated with blood. He looked up at the wall clock. He knew this was going to take a while. He took a deep breath and sighed. Then he saw something.

  “Hey, Debra, come here.”

  She said, “Just a minute. You wanted the blood type.”

  “Yes, but you’ve got to see this,” he insisted.

  Debra walked over to the microscope and leaned down. “Oh yeah,” she said. “I see what you mean.” She smiled. “Good job.”

  16

  Colonel Ann Heath was assigned to this case, along with another nurse, Captain Elliott Washington. Both had experience working with trauma patients and were seasoned military personnel. This case was a high-priority assignment. All their patients were high priority, but this one was different. They weren’t given many details, but something was up, judging by all the brass involvement as well as the more than usual FBI presence. Two armed guards were stationed outside the room, and the neurosurgeon was in and out of her room every hour.

  So far, Patient X was stable but unconscious. Colonel Heath looked at the monitors, double-checked the IV, and started to enter data on the patient’s electronic chart.

  Captain Elliott walked in and asked Ann, “How is she doing?”

  He stepped to the opposite side of the bed and checked for any bleeding that might be seeping through the white bandage wrapped around the patient’s head. He saw no evidence of a problem, but his eyes lingered on her face. She was unconscious, with no visible indication of discomfort. And she was beautiful. He couldn’t help staring at her face. She had a flawless beauty and was of Asian descent. He raised one of her eyelids, shined the small silver flashlight pen into her eyes, and noted the appropriate pupillary light reflex.

  “Good,” he thought.

  He and Colonel Heath were on special duty; they were to remain with Patient X on a twenty-four-hour basis. He wondered how long it would take for the patient to regain consciousness. With concussions or any head trauma, there was no clear-cut time frame. Her surgery had been about eight hours ago, Elliott noted as he checked his watch. The anesthesia should have worn off by now. The sooner, the better, he knew from experience.

  “She seems to be doing well, Colonel,” he said.

  “Yes, she’s stable. We’ll know soon, but I think she is going to recover. I hope so, anyway. We must have a very important patient, from the look of things,” Colonel Heath responded.

  “Yes, I want to know what’s going on with this one.” He smiled.

  “I’ll bet you do.” Ann smiled back.

  “Hey, she’s hot. I’m a normal heterosexual male. What do you want?” he whispered.

  “Hell, even I think she is attractive,” said Ann. “And she must be pretty damn important. As soon as she wakes up, we’re to call the neuro doc, so if you notice anything, let me know.”

  “Will do,” said Elliott. “You want a break?”

/>   “Yes, I need some coffee,” she said.

  “Sure, take your time. I’ll keep track of our girl,” he said, looking at the computer screen on the wall next to the bed. “Let me grab her medication first, and I’ll replace her IV while you’re gone. If anything changes, I’ll page you.”

  “Thanks, Elliott,” Ann said, as she left the room.

  So far, things were going well for Patient X. Elliott hoped they would continue that way. He knew she held VIP status, but he didn’t know why. He couldn’t wait to find out.

  17

  Max awoke in a stupor. He’d heard a distant crash and had no idea where he was. He tried sitting up but put his aching head back on the crumpled pillow. The glass he was holding tipped over, soaking his shirt with the pungent alcohol.

  “Shit,” he said, startled by the cold liquid spilling on his chest.

  He extended his arm over the side of the bed and tossed the glass onto the floor. His mind was foggy, and even in his state of semiconsciousness, he sensed something was wrong, but he couldn’t remember what. What the hell was happening here? He wasn’t sure, but he felt numb, and his mouth was dry. But he was certain about the noise. And the huge sense of heaviness; something was definitely wrong, and he had a foreboding of more darkness ahead. He wanted to keep the numbness going. It stopped the pain of whatever had happened. The creeping thoughts kept him from falling back into unconsciousness. If nothing else, he had to figure out what the noise was. He didn’t know if he could maneuver out of bed, but he’d give it a shot.

  He pushed himself up and slid his legs over the side of the bed. He felt woozy, and the room was spinning. The TV provided dim light, and with the small lamp on the dresser, he could see the room well enough to get his bearings. Max stood, grabbed the Kimber, and stuck it in the back of his shorts. He glanced at the dresser and saw the glimmering silver box. The darkness flooded him, caused him to gulp down sobs that made no sound. He was shaken. He remembered getting hit by a nine-millimeter slug in his left forearm when he was in Iraq. That was nothing compared to this. He needed another drink.