Harmful Intent

Jeffrey rushed forward and confronted the cabin attendant. "I have to get off!" he repeated. Perspiration was running down his forehead, blurring his vision. He looked crazed. "I'm a doctor," he added, as if to explain. "It's an emergency."

"Okay, okay," the cabin attendant said calmly. She pounded on the door, then made a gesture through the window at the gate agent who was still standing on the jetway on the other side. The door was opened, too slowly for Jeffrey's taste.

As soon as the passage was clear, Jeffrey rushed from the plane. Luckily, no one confronted him to ask for his reasons for deplaning. He ran up the jetway. The door to the terminal was closed, but it was unlocked. He started across the boarding area, but he didn't get far. The gate agent called him over to the boarding podium.

"Your name, please?" he asked with no expression.

Jeffrey hesitated. He hated to say. He didn't want to have to explain himself to the authorities.

"I can't give you your ticket back unless you give me your name," the agent said, slightly irritated.

Jeffrey relented, and the gate agent returned his ticket. Pushing it hastily into his pocket, he then walked past the security check and went into the men's room. He had to calm down. He was a nervous wreck. He put down his hand luggage and leaned on the edge of the sink. He hated himself for vacillating, first with suicide, now with fleeing. In both cases

Jeffrey still felt he made the right choice, but now what were his options?

He felt depression threaten to return but he fought against it.

At least Chris Everson had had the fortitude to follow through with his decision, albeit a misguided one. Jeffrey cursed himself again for not having been a better friend. If only he knew then what he knew now, he might have been able to save the man. Only now did Jeffrey have an appreciation of what Chris had been going through. Jeffrey hated himself for not having called the man, and for compounding the oversight by failing to call his young widow, Kelly.

Jeffrey splashed his face with cold water. When he'd regained

some semblance of composure, he picked up his belongings and emerged from the rest room. Despite the bustle of the airport, he felt horribly alone and isolated. The thought of going home to an empty house was oppressive. But he didn't know where else to go. Directionless, he headed for the parking garage.

Reaching his car, Jeffrey put the suitcase in the trunk and the briefcase on the passcngcr-sidc seat. He got in behind the wheel and sat, blankly staring ahead, waiting for inspiration.

For several hours he sat there running through all his failings. Never had he been so low. Obsessed about Chris Everson, he eventually began to wonder what had happened to Kelly Everson. He'd met her on three or four social occasions prior to Chris's death. He could even remember having made some complimentary remarks about her to Carol. Carol hadn't been pleased to hear them at the time.

Jeffrey wondered if Kelly still worked at Valley Hospital, or, for that matter, if she still lived in the Boston vicinity. He remembered her as being about five-four or five, with a slim, athletic build. Her hair had been brown with highlights of red and gold, which she'd wear long, clasped with a single barrette. He recalled her face as being broad with dark brown eyes and small, full features that frequently broke into a bright smile.

But what he remembered most was her aura. She'd had a playfulness that had melded wonderfully with a feminine warmth and sincerity that made people like her instantly.

As Jeffrey's thoughts switched from Chris to Kelly, he found himself thinking that she, more than anyone else, would have some insight into what

Jeffrey was now going through. Having lost a husband through the emotional devastation caused by a malpractice case, she'd probably be acutely sensitive to Jeffrey's emotional plight. She might even have some suggestions for dealing with it. At the very least she might provide some much needed sympathy. And if nothing else, at least his conscience would be assuaged by finally making a call he'd been vaguely meaning to make.

Jeffrey returned to the terminal. At the first bank of phones he came to, he used a directory to look up Kelly Everson. He held his breath as his index finger trailed down the names. He stopped on K. C. Everson in

Brookline. That was promising. He put in his coin and dialed. The phone rang once, twice, then a third time. He was about to hang up when someone at the other end picked up. A cheerful voice came through the receiver.

Jeffrey realized he hadn't given a thought as to how to begin.

Abruptly, he said hello and gave his name. He was so unsure of himself, he was afraid she wouldn't remember him, but before he could offer something to jog her memory, he heard her ebullient "Hello, Jeffrey!" She sounded genuinely glad to hear from him and didn't sound at all surprised.

"I'm so pleased you called," she said. "I'd thought about calling you when

I read about your legal problems, but I just couldn't get myself to do it.

I was afraid you might not even remember me."

Afraid that he wouldn't remember her! Jeffrey assured her that wouldn't have been the case. Taking her lead, he apologized profusely for not having called her sooner as he'd promised.

"You don't have to apologize," she said. "I know tragedies intimidate people, the way cancer does, or used to. And I know that doctors have a hard time dealing with a suicide of a colleague. I didn't expect you to call, but I was moved you'd taken the time to come to the funeral. Chris would have been pleased to know you cared. He really respected you. He once told me that he thought you were the best anesthesiologist he knew. So I was honored you were there. A few of his other friends didn't come. But I understood."

Jeffrey didn't know what to say. Here Kelly was forgiving him completely, even complimenting him. Yet the more she said, the more he felt like a heel. Not knowing how to respond, he changed the subject. He said he was glad to find her home.

"This is a good time to catch me. I just got home from work. I guess you know I don't work at the Valley anymore."

"No, I didn't know that."

"After Chris's death I thought it would be healthy for me to go elsewhere,"

Kelly said. "So I moved into town. I'm working at St. Joe's now. In the intensive care unit. I like it better than recovery. I guess you're still at Boston Memorial?"

"Sort of," Jeffrey said evasively. He felt awkward and indecisive. He was afraid she'd refuse to see him. After all, what did she owe him? She had a life of her own. But he'd gotten this far; he had to try. "Kelly," he said at last, "I was wondering if I could drop by and talk with you for a moment."

"When did you have in mind?" Kelly asked without missing a beat.

"Whenever's good for you. I... I could come by now if you're not too busy."

"Well, sure," Kelly said.

"If it's inconvenient, I could..

"No, no! It's fine. Come on over," Kelly said before Jeffrey had a chance to finish. Then she gave him directions to her house.

Michael Mosconi had Jeffrey's check on his blotter in front of him when he placed the call to Owen Shatterly at the Boston National Bank. He didn't think he'd be nervous, but his stomach filled with butterflies the instant he dialed. He had taken a personal check only once before in his bail bondsman career. That transaction had turned out fine. He hadn't been burned. But Michael had heard horror stories from colleagues. Of course if anything did go wrong, Mosconi's biggest problem was that his underwriting company forbade him to take checks in the first place. As Michael had explained it to Jeffrey, he was putting his ass on the line. He didn't know why he was getting to be- such a soft touch. Then again, it was a unique case. The guy was a doctor, for chrissake. Also, a $45,000 fee came along only once in a blue moon. Michael had not wanted to lose the case to his competition. So, in his way, he'd offered better terms. It had been an executive decision.

Someone at the bank answered, then put Michael on hold. Muzak floated out of the receiver. Michael drummed his fingers on the desk top. It was close to four in the afternoon. All he wanted to do was make sure the doc's check would clear before he deposited it. Shatterly had been a friend for a long time; Michael knew there would be no problem finding out from him.

When Shatterly came on the line, Michael explained the information he needed. He didn't have to say more. Shatterly only said, "Just a sec."

Michael could hear him tapping his computer keys.

"How much is the check?" Shatterly asked.

"Forty-five grand," Michael said.

Shatterly laughed. "The account only has twenty-three dollars and change."

There was a pause. Michael stopped his drumming. He got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. "You sure there's been no deposits today?" he asked.

"Nothing like $45,000," Shatterly said.

Michael hung up the phone.

"Trouble?" Devlin O'Shea asked, peering over the top of an old Penthouse magazine. Devlin was a big man who looked more like a sixties-style biker than a former Boston policeman. Dangling from his left earlobe was a small, gold Maltese cross ear-

ring. He even wore his hair in a neat little ponytail. Besides helping with his work, his appearance was his small way of thumbing his nose at authority now that he didn't have to trouble himself with rules like dress codes anymore. O'Shea had been dropped from the force after a bribery conviction.

Devlin was making himself comfortable on a vinyl couch facing Michael's desk. He was dressed in the clothes that had pretty much become his uniform since his leaving the force: a denim jacket, acid-washed jeans, and black cowboy boots.

Michael didn't say anything, which was enough of an answer for Devlin.

"Anything I can help with?" Devlin asked.

Michael studied Devlin, taking in the man's massive forearms and their lattice of tattoos. One of Devlin's front teeth was gone, giving him the look of the barroom brawler he occasionally was.

"Maybe," Michael said. He was beginning to form a plan.

Devlin had dropped by Mosconi's office that afternoon bdcause he was between jobs. He'd just brought back a killer who'd jumped bail and fled to

Canada. Devlin was one of the bounty hunters that Michael used when the need arose.

Michael felt that Devlin was just the man to send to remind Jeffrey about his obligation. Michael thought that Devlin would be far more persuasive than he could be.

Leaning back in his desk chair, Michael explained the situation. Devlin tossed the Penthouse aside and stood up. He was six-foot-five and weighed two hundred and sixty-eight pounds. His rotund belly spilled over the large silver buckle of his belt. But underneath the layer of fat was a lot of muscle.

:'Sure, I can talk to him," Devlin said.

'Be nice," Michael said. "Just be persuasive. Remember, he's a doctor. I just don't want him to forget about me."

"I'm always nice," Devlin said. "Considerate, well-groomed, well-mannered.

That's my charm."

Devlin left the office, glad to have something to do. He hated just sitting around. The only problem was that he wished the task was a bit more lucrative. But he looked forward to the ride out to Marblehead. Maybe he'd hit that Italian restaurant up there and then go and have a few beers at his favorite harbor bar.

Kelly's house was a charming two-story colonial with mullioned windows. It was painted white with black shutters. The two chimneys on either end were surfaced with old brick. A two-car

garage was to the right of the house, a screened porch off the left.

Jeffrey stopped in the street across from the house and pulled up to the curb. He studied the house through the car window, hoping to nerve up enough to cross the street and ring the bell. He was surprised to see so many trees so close to downtown Boston. The house was nestled in a cozy stand of maples, oaks, and birches.

As he sat there, Jeffrey tried to think of what he would say. Never before had he gone to someone's house looking for "sympathy and understanding."

And there was always the concern of rejection despite her warmth on the phone. If he didn't know she was waiting for him, he wouldn't have been able to go through with it.

Marshaling his courage, he put the car in gear and turned into Kelly's driveway. He went up to the front door, briefcase in hand. He felt ridiculous holding it-as a doctor, he wasn't even used to carrying one-but he was afraid to leave so much cash in the car.

Kelly opened the door before he had a chance to ring the bell. She was dressed in black tights with a pink leotard and pink headband and warm-up leggings. "I go to an aerobics class most afternoons," she explained, blushing slightly. Then she gave Jeffrey a big hug. Tears almost came to his eyes when he realized he couldn't remember the last time someone had hugged him. It took him a moment to catch his balance and hug her back.

Still holding his arms, she leaned back so she could look up into his eyes.

Jeffrey was a good six inches taller than she was. "I'm so glad you came over," she said. She held his gaze for a beat, then added: "Come in, come in!" She took him by the hand and led him inside, giving the door a kick closed with her stockinged foot.

Jeffrey found himself in a wide foyer with archways into a dining room on the right and a living room on the left. There was a small table supporting a silver tea service. At the end of the foyer, toward the back of the house, an elegant staircase curved up to the second floor.

"How about some tea?" Kelly offered.

"I don't want to be a bother," Jeffrey said.

Kelly clucked her tongue. "What do you mean, bother?" She led him, still holding his hand, through the dining room and into the kitchen. Extending off the back of the house and open to the kitchen was a comfortable family room. It seemed to, be part

of an addition. There was a garden outside the broad bow window. The garden appeared as if it could use a little attention. Inside, the house was spotless.

Kelly sat Jeffrey on a gingham couch. Jeffrey put down his briefcase. -

"What's with the briefcase?" Kelly asked as she went over to put some water on to boil. "I thought doctors carried little black bags when they made house calls. It makes you look more like an insurance salesman." She laughed a crystalline laugh as she went to the refrigerator and pulled a cheesecake from the freezer.

"If I showed you what was in this briefcase you wouldn't believe it,"

Jeffrey said.

"What makes you say that?"

Jeffrey didn't answer, but she graciously let it pass. She pulled a knife from a rack above the sink and cut two pieces of cheesecake.

"I'm glad you decided to come over," she said, licking the knife. "I only bring out the cheesecake when I have company." She put a large tea bag in the teapot and got out cups.

The kettle began to whistle fiercely. Kelly pulled it off the range and poured the boiling water into the teapot. She put everything on a tray and carried it to a coffee table in front of the family room couch.

"There!" she said, setting it down. "Did I forget anything?" Kelly surveyed the tray. "Napkins!" she cried, and returned to the kitchen area. When she returned, she sat down. She smiled at Jeffrey. "Really," she said, pouring the tea. "I'm glad you came over, and not just because of the cheesecake."

Jeffrey realized he'd not eaten since the shredded wheat that morning. The cheesecake was a delight.

"Was there something in particular that you wanted to talk about?" Kelly asked, setting her teacup down.

Jeffrey admired her frankness. It made it easier for him.

"For starters, I guess I want to apologize for not having been much of a friend to Chris," Jeffrey said. "After what I've been through in the past few months, I have an appreciation of what Chris went through. At the time,

I had no idea."

"I guess no one did," Kelly said sadly. "Even I didn't."

"I don't mean to dredge up painful memories for you," Jeffrey said when he saw the change in Kelly's expression.

"Don't worry. I've finally come to terms with it," she said.

"But that's all the more reason I should have called you. How are you holding up?"

Jeffrey hadn't expected the conversation to shift to his troubles so quickly. How was he holding up? In the last twenty-four hours he'd attempted suicide and, failing that, had tried to leave the country. "It's been difficult," was all he managed.

Kelly reached over and squeezed his hand. "I don't think people have any idea of the toll malpractice takes and I'm not talking about money."

"You know better than most," Jeffrey said. "You and Chris paid the highest price."

"Is it true you are going to prison?" Kelly asked.

Jeffrey sighed. "It looks that way."

"That's absurd!" Kelly said with a vehemence that surprised Jeffrey.

"We're filing an appeal," he said, "but I don't have much faith in the process. Not anymore."

"How did you become the scapegoat?" Kelly asked. "What happened to the other doctors and the hospital? Weren't they sued?"

"They were all dropped from the case," Jeffrey explained. "I had a brief problem with morphine a few years back. Standard story: it was prescribed for a back injury I suffered in a bike accident. During the trial, they suggested that I'd mainlined some morphine shortly before I came on the case. Then someone found an empty via] of.75% Marcaine in the disposal of the anesthesia machine I was using-.75% Marcaine is contraindicated for obstetric anesthesia. No one found the.5% vial."

"But you didn't use.75%, did you?" Kelly asked.

"I always check the label of any medication," Jeffrey said. "But it's that type of reflex behavior that's hard to specifically remember. I can't believe I used.75%. But what can I say? They found what they found."

"Hey," Kelly said. "Don't start to doubt yourself. That's what Chris started to do."

"Easier said than done."

"What is.75% Marcaine used for?" Kelly asked.

"Quite a few things," Jeffrey said. "Whenever you want a particularly long-acting block with little volume. It's used a lot in eye surgery."

"Had there been any eye cases in the OR where your accident occurred or any operations that might have required.75% Marcaine?"

Jeffrey thought for a moment. He shook his head. "I don't think so, but I don't know for sure."

"It might be worth looking into," Kelly said. "It wouldn't have much legal import, but if you could explain the.75% Marcaine, at least to yourself, it would go a long way in helping rebuild your confidence. I really think that where malpractice is concerned, doctors need to be as diligent in guarding their selfesteem as thef are in preparing their court cases."

"You're right about that," Jeffrey said, but he was still thinking about

Kelly's questions regarding the.75% Marcaine. He couldn't believe that no one had thought to ask about cases prior to Patty Owen's in the same OR. He sure hadn't thought of it. He wondered how he'd go about inquiring now that he didn't enjoy the access to the hospital he once had.

"Speaking of self-esteem, how's yours?" Kelly smiled, but Jeffrey could tell that despite her apparent lightheartedness, she was dead serious.

"I have the feeling I'm talking to an expert," Jeffrey said. "Have you been reading a bit of psychiatry on the side?"

"Hardly," Kelly said. "Unfortunately, I learned about the importance of self-esteem the hard way, by experience." She took a sip of tea. For a moment she was lost in her own sorrowful reverie, staring out the bay window at the overgrown garden. Then, just as abruptly, she snapped out of her momentary trance. She looked at Jeffrey, without her smile. "I'm convinced it was through low self-esteem that Chris committed suicide. He couldn't have done what he did if he felt better about himself. I just know it. It wasn't the fact of the tragedy that pushed him over the edge. It certainly wasn't guilt. Chris was like you, in that he had nothing to feel guilty about. It was the sudden erosion of confidence, the damage done to how he thought about himself, that made Chris take his life. People have no idea how sensitive even the most accomplished doctors are to the impact of being sued. In fact, the better the doctor the more it hurts. The fact that the suit is baseless has nothing to do with it."

"You're so right," Jeffrey said. "Back when I heard that Chris had killed himself, I was astounded. I knew what kind of man he was, what kind of doctor he was. Now his suicide doesn't astound me at all. In fact, from where I sit now, I'm surprised more doctors sued for malpractice aren't drawn to it. In fact, I tried it last night."

"Tried what?" Kelly asked sharply. She knew what Jeffrey meant but she didn't want to believe it.

Jeffrey sighed. He couldn't look at her. "Last night I tried to commit suicide," he said simply. "I came within an inch of doing the same thing that Chris did. You know, the succiny1choline and morphine trick. I had the

IV running and everything."

Kelly dropped her cup of tea. She lunged forward and, grabbing Jeffrey by his shoulders, she shook him. The Miove startled him. She caught him completely unaware.

"Don't you dare do such a thing. Don't even think about it!"

Kelly was glaring at him, still clutching his shoulders. Finally Jeffrey mumbled that she needn't worry, since he'd lacked the courage to go through with it.

Kelly shook him again, reacting to his comments.

Jeffrey didn't know what to do, much less say.

Kelly kept shaking him, her passions inflamed. "Suicide is not courageous," she said angrily. "It is the opposite. It's the cowardly thing to do. And it's selfish. It hurts everyone you leave behind, everyone who loves you.

I want you to promise me that if you ever have thoughts of suicide again, you'll call me immediately, no matter what time of day or night. Think of your wife. Chris's suicide filled me with such guilt, you have no idea. I was crushed. I felt that somehow I had failed him. I know that's not true now, but his death is something I'll probably never get over completely."

"Carol and I are getting a divorce," Jeffrey blurted.

Kelly's expression softened. "Because of the malpractice suit?"

Jeffrey shook his head. "We'd planned it before all this started. Carol was just nice enough to put it off for the time being.,,

"You poor man," Kelly said. "I can't imagine trying to deal with being sued for malpractice and a breakup of a marriage at the same time."

"My marital problems are the least of my worries," Jeffrey said.

"I'm serious about your promising me you'll call before you do anything foolish," Kelly said.

"I'm not thinking..."

"Promise!" Kelly insisted.

"All right, I promise," Jeffrey said.

Satisfied, Kelly got up and cleaned up the mess that she'd made when she'd dropped her teacup. As she picked up the pieces of broken china, she said:

"I wish more than anything that I'd had the slightest indication of what

Chris had been plan-

ning. One minute it seemed that he'd been full of fight, talking about the anesthetic complication being secondary to a contaminant in the local, the next minute he was dead."

Jeffrey watched Kelly as she threw the shards of china away. It took a few moments for her last words to sink in. When she returned and took her seat again, Jeffrey asked, "What made Chris think of a contaminant in the local anesthetic?"

Kelly shrugged. "I haven't the faintest idea. But he seemed to be genuinely excited about the possibility. I encouraged him. Just before that he'd been depressed. Very depressed. The idea of a contaminant gave him a real boost.

He spent several days poring over pharmacology and physiology textbooks. He made lots of notes. He was working on it the night he... I'd gone to bed.

I found him the next morning with an IV in place, the bottle empty."

"How awful," Jeffrey said.

"It was the worst experience of my life," Kelly admitted.

For an instant, Jeffrey envied Chris, not because he'd succeeded where

Jeffrey had failed, but because he'd left behind someone who obviously loved him so deeply. If Jeffrey had followed through, would anyone be that sorry about it? Jeffrey tried to shake the thought. Instead, he considered the notion of a contaminant in the local anesthetic. It was a curious thought.

"What kind of contaminant was Chris thinking about?" Jeffrey asked.

"I really don't know," Kelly answered. "It was two years ago, and Chris never did go into much detail about if. At least not with me."

"Did you mention his theory to anybody at the time?"

"I told the lawyers. Why?"

"It's an intriguing idea," Jeffrey said.

"I still have Chris's notes," Kelly said. "You're welcome to see them if you'd like."

"I would," Jeffrey said.

Kelly stood up and led Jeffrey back through the kitchen and dining room, across the foyer and through the living room. She stopped at a closed door.

"I think I'd better explain," she said. "This was Chris's study. I know it probably wasn't all that healthy, but after Chris's death I just closed the door to this room and left everything the way it was. Don't ask me why. At the time it made me feel better, as if some part of him was still here. So be prepared. It might

be a little on the dusty side." She opened the door and stepped aside.

Jeffrey walked into the study. In contrast to the rest of the house, it was disheveled and musty. A thick layer of dust coated everything. There were even a few cobwebs hanging from the ceiling. The blinds were closed tight.

On one wall was a floorto-ceiling bookcase filled with volumes that Jeffrey recognized immediately. Most of them were standard texts for anesthesia.

The others dealt with more general medical topics.

In the center of the room stood an old partners' desk, heaped with papers and books. In the comer of the room was an Eames chair upholstered in black leather that had dried and cracked. Next to the chair was a tall stack of books.

Kelly was leaning against the doodamb with her arms folded as if she was reluctant to enter. "Quite a mess," she said.

"You don't mind if I look around?" Jeffrey asked. He felt a certain kinship with his dead colleague but did not want to trespass on Kelly's feelings.

"Be my guest," she said. "As I told you, I've finally come to terms with

Chris's passing. I've been meaning to clean this room for some time. I just haven't gotten around to it."

Jeffrey circled the desk. There was a lamp on it, which he turned on. He wasn't superstitious; he did not believe in the supernatural. Yet somehow he felt Chris was trying to tell him something.

Open on the desk's blotter was a familiar textbook: Goodman and Gillman's

Pharmacological Basis of Therapeutics. Next to it was Clinical Toxicology.

Beside both books was a pile of handwritten notes. Bending over the desk,

Jeffrey noted that the Goodman and Gillman was open to the section on

Marcaine. The potential adverse side effects were heavily underlined.

"Did Chris's case involve Marcaine as well?" Jeffrey asked.

"Yes," Kelly said. "I thought you knew that."

"Not really," Jeffrey said. He'd not heard which of the local anesthetics

Chris had used. Occasional complications were seen with all of them.

Jeffrey picked up the stack of notes. Almost immediately he felt a tickle in his nose. He sneezed.

Kelly put the back of her hand to her lips to hide her smile. "I warned you it might be dusty."

Jeffrey sneezed again.

"Why don't you get what you want and we can retreat to the family room,"

Kelly suggested.

Through watery eyes, Jeffrey picked up the pharmacology and toxicology books, along with the notes, and carried them out with him. He sneezed a third time before Kelly shut the study door.

When they got back to the kitchen, Kelly offered a suggestion. "Why don't you stay for an early dinner? I can whip us up something. It won't be gourmet, but it'll be healthy."

"I thought you were off to an aerobics class," Jeffrey said. He was delighted by her offer, but didn't want to inconvenience her any more than he already had.

"I can work out any day," Kelly said. "Besides, I think you need a little

TLC."

"Well, if it wouldn't be a bother," Jeffrey said. He was amazed by her kindness.

"I'll enjoy it," Kelly said. "Now you make yourself comfortable on the couch. Take your shoes off if you like."

Jeffrey took her at her word. He sat down and laid the books on the coffee table. He watched her for a moment as she bustled about the kitchen, looking in the refrigerator and various cabinets. Then he kicked off his shoes and settled back to shuffle through Chris's notes. The first thing he came across was a handwritten summary of the anesthetic complication in

Chris's tragic case.

'.I'm going to run to the store," Kelly said. "You just stay put.,,

"I don't want you going to any trouble," Jeffrey said, making a motion as if to get up. But it wasn't true. He loved the fact that Kelly was willing to make such an effort for him.

"Nonsense," Kelly said. "I'll be back in a flash."

Jeffrey wasn't sure if Kelly had said nonsense because she saw through his fib or because to her it was no trouble. She was gone in the blink of an eye. Jeffrey heard her start her car in the garage, pull out, and accelerate down the street.

He glanced around at the comfortable family room and kitchen, pleased that he'd made the decision to call Kelly. Aside from deciding not to kill himself and not to fly away, in the last twenty-four hours it was the best decision he'd made.

Settling back again, Jeffrey turned his attention to the summary of Chris's anesthetic complication:

Henry Noble, a fifty-seven-year-old white male, entered the Valley

Hospital to undergo a total prostatectomy for cancer. The request from

Dr. Wallenstern was for continuous epidural anesthesia. I visited the man the evening before his surgery. He was mildly apprehensive. His health was good. Cardiac status was normal with a normal

EKG. Blood pressure was normal. Neurological exam was normal. He had no allergies. Specifically, he had no drug allergies. He'd had general anesthesia for a hernia operation in 1977 with no problems. He'd had local anesthesia for multiple dental procedures with no problems. Because of his apprehension I wrote an order for 10 mg of diazeparn to be given by mouth one hour prior to coming to surgery. The following morning he arrived in good spirits. The diazepam had had good effect. The patient was mildly sleepy but could be roused. He was taken to the anesthesia room and placed in a right lateral position. An epidural puncture was made with an 18-gauge

Touhey needle without problems. There was no reaction to 2 cc's of Lido- caine utilized to facilitate the epidural stick. Confirmation of the epidural location was made with 2 cc's of sterile water with epinephrine.

A small-bore epidural catheter was threaded through the Touhey needle. The patient was returned to a supine position. A test dose of.5% Marcaine with a small amount of epinephrine was then prepared from a 30 ml vial. This test dose was injected. As soon as the test dose was injected the patient complained of what he )described as dizziness, followed by severe intestinal cramping. The heart rate began to increase but not to the extent expected if the test dose had inadvertently been injected intravenously.

Generalized muscular fasciculations then appeared, suggesting a hyperesthesia state. Massive salivation intervened, suggesting a parasympathetic reaction. Atropine was given intravenously. Miotic pupils were noted. The patient then had a grand mal seizure which was treated with succiny1choline and Valium intravenously. The patient was intubated and maintained on oxygen. The patient then had a cardiac arrest. The heart proved to be extremely resistant to drugs, but finally a sinus rhythm was achieved. The patient was stabilized but did not return to consciousness.

The patient was moved to the surgical intensive care unit, where he remained comatose for one week, suffering multiple cardiac arrests. It was also documented that the patient had a total paralysis following his anesthetic complication that involved not only the spinal cord but cranial nerves as well. At the end of the week, the patient had a final cardiac arrest from which the heart could not be started.

Jeffrey looked up from the notes. Reading Chris's terse history of his complication recreated the terror that Jeffrey had felt when he'd desperately fought to save Patty Owen. The memory was so poignant that it brought perspiration to Jeffrey's hands. What made it so poignant were the striking similarities in the two cases, and it wasn't just -the dramatic seizures and cardiac

arrests. Jeffrey could remember with startling clarity the moment he'd seen salivation and lacrimation that Patty had had. And besides that there was the abdominal pain and the small pupils. None of these responses were usual side effects of local anesthetics, although local anesthetics were capable of causing an extraordinarily wide range of adverse neurological and cardiac effects in a few unfortunate individuals.

Jeffrey studied the next page of the notes. There were a number of words printed in bold letters. Two of them were "muscarinic" and "nicotinic."

Jeffrey recognized them, mostly from his medical school days. They had to do with autonomic nervous system function. Then there was the phrase

"irreversible high spinal blockade with cranial nerve involvement," followed by a series of exclamation points.

Jeffrey heard Kelly's car pull up the drive and enter the garage. He glanced at his watch. She was a fast shopper.

The next item in Chris's pile was an NMR-nuclear magnetic resonance-report on Henry Noble during the time he was paralyzed and comatose. The results recorded were normal.

"Hi," Kelly called brightly as she came through the door. "Miss me?" She laughed as she dumped a parcel on the kitchen countertop. Then she stepped up to the back of the couch and looked over Jeffrey's shoulder. "What does all this stuff mean?" She pointed to the words and phrases Jeffrey had been reading.

"I don't know," Jeffrey admitted. "But these notes are fascinating. There are so- many similarities between Chris's case and mine. I don't know what to make of it."

"Well, I'm glad someone's getting some use out of that stuff," Kelly said as she went back into the kitchen. "It makes me feel less weird for having saved it all."

'.1 don't think your saving it was weird at all," Jeffrey said, turning to the next page. It was a typed summary of Henry Noble's autopsy, which had been performed by the medical examiner. Chris had underlined the phrase

"axonal degeneration seen on microscopic sections" and had followed it up with a series of question marks. Then he'd underlined the phrase "toxi- cology negative" and capped it off by an emphatic exclamation point.

Jeffrey was mystified.

The rest of the notes were outlines of articles taken mostly from the

Goodman and Gillman book on pharmacology. A quick glance suggested to

Jeffrey that they chiefly dealt with the function of the autonomic nervous system. He decided to look

at the material later. He stacked the papers and set them on the table with the two medical volumes serving to anchor them.

Jeffrey joined Kelly by the kitchen sink. "What can I do?" he asked her.

"You're supposed to be relaxing," Kelly said as she rinsed the lettuce.

"I'd prefer to help," Jeffrey said.

"Suit yourself. How about firing up the barbie on the back porch? The matches are in that drawer." Kelly pointed with a lettuce leaf

Jeffrey grabbed a book of matches and went outside. The barbecue was one of those domed types powered by a cylinder of propane. He quickly figured out how the valve worked and lit it, then closed the dome.

Before going back inside, Jeffrey looked around the untended yard. The tall grass was a fresh spring green. There had been a lot of rain that spring, so all the vegetation was particularly healthy and lush. Lacy fern fronds could be seen within the thicket of trees.

Jeffrey shook his head in disbelief. It seemed almost inconceivable that only last night he had come so close to committing suicide. And only that afternoon he'd tried to flee to South America for good. And now here he was standing on a porch in Brookline getting ready to have a barbecue with an attractive, sensitive, disarmingly demonstrative woman. It almost seemed too good to be true. Then Jeffrey realized with a shock that it was; before too long he'd probably be confined to prison.

Jeffrey took in a deep breath of the cool, late-afternoon air, enjoying its purity. He watched a robin yank a worm from the moist soil. Then he went back inside to see what else he could do to help.

The dinner was delicious and a great success. In spite of the rather dire circumstances, Jeffrey managed to enjoy himself immensely. Conversation with Kelly was natural and easy. They dined on marinated tuna steaks, rice pilaf, and a mixed green salad. Kelly had a bottle of chardonnay hidden in the back of her refrigerator. It was cold and crisp. Jeffrey found himself laughing for the first time in months. That in itself was a major accomplishment.

With coffee and more of the frozen cheesecake, they retired to the gingham couch. Chris's notes and the textbooks brought Jeffrey's mind back to more serious thoughts.

"I hate to revert to unpleasant subjects," Jeffrey said after a

pause in the conversation, "but what was the outcome of Chris's malpractice case?"

"The jury found for the plaintiffs estate," Kelly said. "Payment of the settlement was divided between the hospital, Chris, and the surgeon according to some complicated plan. I think that Chris's insurance paid most of it, but I don't know for sure. Fortunately this house was in my name only, so they couldn't count that among his available assets."

"I read a summary that Chris had written," Jeffrey said. "There certainly wasn't any malpractice involved."

"With that kind of emotionally charged case," Kelly said, "whether there was actual malpractice or not isn't all that important. A good plaintiff attorney can always get the jury to identify with the patient."

Jeffrey nodded. Unfortunately, it was true. "I have a favor to ask,"

Jeffrey said after a pause. "Would you mind terribly if I borrowed these notes?" He patted the pile.

"Heavens no," Kelly said. "Be my guest. May I ask why you're so interested in them?"

"They remind me of questions I'd had about my own case," Jeffrey said.

"There were some mild inconsistencies that I could never explain. I'm surprised to see that the same inconsistencies appeared in Chris's case.

The thought of a contaminant hadn't occurred to me. I'd like to go over his notes a few more times. It's not immediately apparent what he was thinking.

Besides," Jeffrey added with a smile, "borrowing them will give me a good excuse for coming back."

"You hardly need an excuse," Kelly said. "You're welcome here anytime."

Jeffrey left soon after they finished their dessert. Kelly walked him out to his car. They had eaten so early that it was still daylight outside.

Jeffrey thanked her effusively for her spontaneous hospitality. "You have no idea how much I've enjoyed this visit," he said with sincerity.

After Jeffrey had climbed into his car, along with his briefcase, which now contained Chris's notes, Kelly stuck her head in through the open window.

"Remember your promise!" she warned. "If you start thinking foolish thoughts, you have to get in touch with me."

"I'll remember," Jeffrey assured her. He drove home in quiet contentment.

Spending a few hours with Kelly had done much to elevate his mood. Under the circumstances it amazed him that he'd been able to respond in such a normal fashion. But

he knew it had more to do with Kelly's psyche than his. Making the final turn onto his street, Jeffrey reached out to steady his briefcase, which threatened to fall from the seat. With his hand on it, he thought of its strange contents. Toiletries, underwear, $45,000 in cash, and a pile of notes written by a suicide victim.

Although he didn't expect to find anything absolving in the notes, just having them in his possession gave him a feeling of hope. Maybe he could learn something from Chris's experience that he hadn't been able to see himself.

And although he'd been sorry to say good-bye to Kelly, Jeffrey was glad to be getting home so early. He planned to go through Chris's notes more thoroughly and pull out a few books of his own for some serious reading.

TUESDAY,

MAY 16,1989

7:49 P.M.

Jeffrey stopped just short of the garage door, got out of the car, and stretched. He could smell the ocean. As a peninsula that jutted into the

Atlantic Ocean, all of Marblehead was near to the water. Bending back into the car, Jeffrey dragged his briefcase toward him and hefted it into the air. He slammed the car door and started up the front steps.

As he walked he noted the beauty that was all around him. Songbirds were going crazy in the evergreen tree in the front lawn and a sea gull shrieked in the distance. A bank of rhododendrons was in full bloom in a riot of color along the front of the house. Having been preoccupied by his problems during the last months, Jeffrey had completely missed the enchanting tran- sition from bleak New England winter to glorious springtime. He was appreciating it now for the first time that year. The effect of having visited Kelly was still very much on his mind.

Reaching the front door, Jeffrey remembered his suitcase. He hesitated a moment, then decided he could get it later. He put his key in the front door and went inside.

Carol was standing in the entranceway, her hands on her hips. He could tell by her expression that she was angry. Welcome home, thought Jeffrey. And how was your day? He put his briefcase down.

"It's almost eight o'clock," Carol said with undisguised impatience.

"I'm quite aware of the time."

"Where have you been?"

Jeffrey hung up his jacket. Carol's inquisitional attitude irked him. Maybe he should have called. In the old days, he would have, but these weren't normal times by any stretch of the imagination.

"I don't ask you where you've been," Jeffrey said.

"If I'm going to be delayed until almost eight at night I always call,"

Carol said. "It's just common courtesy."

"I suppose I'm not a courteous person," Jeffrey said. He was too tired to argue the point. He picked up his briefcase, intending to go directly to his room. He wasn't interested in fighting with Carol. But then he stopped.

A large man had appeared, leaning casually against the doodamb leading into the kitchen. Jeffrey's eyes immediately took in the ponytail, the denim clothes, the cowboy boots, and the tattoos. He had a gold earring in one ear and was holding a bottle of Kronenbourg in his hand.

Jeffrey gave Carol a questioning look.

"While you are out doing God knows what," Carol snapped, 'I've been here putting up with this pig of a man. And all because of you. Where have you been?"

Jeffrey's eyes went from Carol to the stranger and back again. He had no idea what was going on. The stranger winked and smiled at Carol's unflattering reference as if it had been a compliment.

"I'd also like to know where you've been, sport," the thug said. "I already know where you haven't been." He took a pull on the beer and smiled. He acted as if he were enjoying himself.

"Who is this man?" Jeffrey asked Carol.

"Devlin O'Shea," the stranger offered. He pushed off the doorjamb and stepped beside Carol. "Me and the cute little missus here have been waiting for you for hours." He reached out to pinch Carol's cheek, but she batted his hand away. "Feisty little thing." He laughed.

"I want to know what's going on here," Jeffrey demanded.

"Mr. O'Shea is the charming emissary of Mr. Michael Mosconi," Carol said angrily.

"Emissary?" Devlin questioned. "Ooh, I like that. Sounds sexy.,,

"Did you go to the bank to see Dudley?" Carol demanded, ignoring Devlin.

"Of course," Jeffrey said. Suddenly he realized why Devlin was there.

"And what happened?" Carol demanded.

"Yeah, what happened?" Devlin chimed in. "Our sources report that there was no deposit like was promised. That's unfortunate."

"There was a problem...'9 Jeffrey stammered. He'd not been prepared for this interrogation.

"What kind of a problem?" Devlin asked, stepping forward and poking Jeffrey repeatedly in the chest with his index finger, keeping the pressure on. He felt Jeffrey wasn't coming clean.

"Paperwork," Jeffrey said, trying to fend off Devlin's jabs. "The kind of red tape you always get at a bank."

"What if I don't believe you?" Devlin said. He smacked Jeffrey on the side of the head with an open palm.

Jeffrey's hand went to his ear. The blow stung him and startled him. His ear was ringing.

"You can't come in here and push me around," Jeffrey said; trying to be authoritative.

"Oh, no?" Devlin said in an artificially high voice. He switched the beer to his right hand and then with his left he smacked Jeffrey on the other side of the head. His movement was so swift, Jeffrey had no time to react.

He stumbled back against the wall, cowering in front of this behemoth.

"Let me remind you of something," Devlin said, staring down at Jeffrey.

"You are a convicted felon, my friend, and the only reason you're not rotting in prison at this moment is because of the generosity of Mr.

Mosconi."

"Carol!" Jeffrey yelled. He felt a mixture of terror and anger. "Call the police!"

"Ha!" Devlin laughed, throwing his head back. " 'Call the police!' You're too much, Doc. You really are. I'm the one with the law behind me-not you.

I'm just here as an..." Devlin paused, then looked back at Carol. "Hey,

&arie, what was that you called me?"

"An emissary," Carol said, hoping to appease the man. She was appalled at this scene but had no idea what to do.

"Like she said, I'm an emissary," Devlin repeated, turning back to Jeffrey.

"I'm an emissary to remind you about your deal with Mr. Mosconi. He was a little disappointed this afternoon when he called the bank. What happened to the money that was supposed to be in your checking account?"

"It was the bank's fault," Jeffrey repeated. He hoped to God this giant didn't look in his briefcase, which he was still holding. If he saw the cash, he'd guess that Jeffrey had been planning to flee. "It was some minor bureaucratic holdup, but the money will be in the account in the morning.

All the paperwork is done."

"You wouldn't be jerking me around, would you?" Devlin asked. He flicked the end of Jeffrey's nose with the nail of his

index finger. Jeffrey winced. His nose felt like it had been stung by a bee.

"They assured me there would be no further problems," Jeffrey said. He touched the tip of his nose and looked at his finger. He expected to see blood but there wasn't any.

"So the money will be there tomorrow morning?"

"Absolutely."

"Well, in that case I guess I'll be going," Devlin said. "Needless to say, if the money doesn't appear, I'll be back." Devlin turned from Jeffrey and stepped over to Carol. He extended the beer. "Thanks for the brew, honey."

She took the bottle. Devlin again made a motion to pinch her cheek. Carol tried to slap him, but he caught her arm. "You certainly are feisty," he said with a laugh. She yanked her arm free.

"I'm sure you're both sorry to see me go," Devlin said at the door. "I'd love to stay for dinner but I'm supposed to meet a group of nuns over at

Rosalie's." He laughed a hoarse laugh as he pulled the door closed behind himself.

For a few moments neither Jeffrey nor Carol moved. They could hear a car start out in the street, then pull away. Carol was the one to break the silence: "What happened at the bank?" she demanded. She was furious. "Why didn't they have the money for you?"

Jeffrey didn't answer. He just looked at his wife dumbly. He was shaking from his reaction to Devlin. The balance between anger and terror had tilted to terror. Devlin was the embodiment of Jeffrey's worst fears, especially since he understood he had no defense against him and no protection from the law. Devlin was just the kind of person Jeffrey imagined populated the prisons. Jeffrey was surprised the man hadn't threatened to break his kneecaps. Despite his Irish name, he seemed like a character straight from the Mafia.

"Answer me!" Carol demanded. "Where have you been?"

With his briefcase still in hand, Jeffrey started for his room. He wanted to be alone. The nightmare vision of a prison filled with inmates all like

Devlin came to him in a dizzying rush.

Carol grabbed his arm. "I'm talking to you!" she snapped.

Jeffrey stopped and looked down at Carol's hand gripping his arm. "Let go of me," he said in a controlled voice.

"Not until you talk to me and tell me where you've been."

"Let go of me," Jeffrey said menacingly.

Thinking better of it, Carol let go of his arm. Again he started for his room. She quickly fell in behind him. "You are not the

only one around here who has been under strain," she yelled after him. "I think I deserve some kind of explanation. I had to entertain that animal for hours."

Jeffrey stopped at his door. "I'm sorry," he said. He owed her that. Carol was right behind him.

"I think I've been pretty understanding through all this," Carol said. "Now

I want to know what happened at the bank. Dudley said yesterday there would be no problems."

"I'll talk to you about it later." He needed a few minutes to calm down.

"I want to talk about it now," Carol persisted.

Jeffrey opened his door and stepped into the room. Carol tried to push through after him, but Jeffrey blocked her way. "Later!" he said, louder than he'd meant to. He closed the door on her. Carol heard the lock click into place.

She pounded on the door in frustration and began to cry. "You're impossible! I don't know why I was willing to wait on the divorce. This is the thanks I get." Sobbing, she gave the door a kick, then ran down the hall to her own room.

Jeffrey slammed the briefcase down on his bed, then sat down next to it. He didn't mean to aggravate Carol like that, but he couldn't help it. How could he explain what he was going through when there hadn't been any real communication between them for years? He knew he owed her an explanation, but he didn't want to confide in her until he'd decided what to do. If he told her he had the cash in hand, she'd make him take it to the bank first thing. But Jeffrey needed time to think first. For what felt like the fortieth time that day alone, he wasn't sure what he would do.

For the moment, he got up and went into the bathroom. He filled a glass with water and held it with both hands as he drank. He was still shaking from a whirlpool of emotions. He looked at himself in the mirror. There was a scratch on the end of his nose where Devlin had flicked him. Both his ears were bright red. He shuddered when he recalled how defenseless he'd felt in front of the man.

Jeffrey returned to the bedroom and eyed the briefcase. Flipping open the latches, he lifted the lid and pushed aside Chris Everson's notes. He looked at the neat packets of hundred-dollar bills and found himself wishing that he'd stayed on the plane that afternoon. If he had, he'd now be well on his way to Rio and some sort of new life. Anything had to be better than what

he was going through now. The warm moments with Kelly, that great dinner, seemed to have happened to him in another life.

Glancing at his watch, Jeffrey noticed it was a little after eight. The last Pan Am shuttle was at nine-thirty. He could make it if he left soon.

He remembered how awful he'd felt on the plane that afternoon. Could he really go through with it? Jeffrey went back into the bathroom and again examined his inflamed ears and scratched nose. What else was a man like

Devlin capable of if they were locked in the same room day in, day out?

Jeffrey turned and went back to the briefcase. He closed the lid and locked it up. He was going to Brazil.

When Devlin left the Rhodes's house, he fully intended to follow his original plan of Italian food, followed by beers at the harbor. But when he got about three blocks away, intuition made him pull over to the side of the road. In his mind's eye, he replayed the conversation he'd had with the good doctor. From the moment Jeffrey had blamed the bank for not coming through with the money, Devlin knew he'd been lying. Now he started wondering why.

"Doctors!" Devlin said. "They always think they're smarter than everybody else."

Doing a U-turn, Devlin drove back the way he'd come and cruised by the

Rhodes's house, trying to decide how to proceed. About a block beyond it, he made a second U-turn and passed the house again. This time he slowed down. He found a parking place and pulled in.

The way he saw it, he had two choices. Either he could go back inside the

Rhodes's house and ask the doc why he was lying, or he could sit tight and wait awhile. He knew he'd put the, fear of God into the man. That had been his intention. Often people who felt guilty about something reacted to confrontation by hastily committing some telltale act. Devlin decided to wait Rhodes out. If nothing happened in an hour or so, then he'd go get some food and come back for a visit afterward.

Turning off the motor, Devlin scrunched down as best he could behind the steering wheel. He thought about Jeffrey Rhodes, wondering what the guy had been convicted of Mosconi hadn't told him that. To Devlin, Rhodes didn't seem like the criminal type, even the white-collar variety.

A few mosquitoes disturbed Devlin's reverie. After rolling up the windows, the temperature inside the car climbed. Devlin began to rethink his plans.

Just as he was about to start the car,

he saw movement at the far edge of the garage. "Now what have we here?" he said, hunching low in his seat.

At first Devlin couldn't tell who it was, the Mr. or the Mrs. Then Jeffrey stepped around the edge of the garage, making a beeline for his car. He was carrying his briefcase, and he ran kind of hunched over, as if he didn't want to be seen by anyone inside the house.

"This is getting interesting," Devlin whispered. If Devlin could prove

Jeffrey was trying to jump bail and caught him, and dragged him to jail, some big money would be coming his way.

Without closing the car door for fear that Carol might hear it, Jeffrey released the emergency brake and let the auto slip silently down the driveway and out into the street. Only then did he start the motor and drive off. He craned his neck for a view of the house for as long as he could, but

Carol never appeared. A block away he slammed the door properly and put on his seat belt. It had been easier to get away than he'd thought.

By the time Jeffrey got to the congested Lynn Way with its used-car lots and gaudy neon signs, he began to calm down. He was still somewhat shaky from Devlin's visit, but it was a relief to know that he would soon be putting the man and the threat of prison far behind him.

As he got closer to Logan International Airport, he began to feel the same misgivings he had had that morning. But all he had to do was touch his tender ears to rekindle his resolve. This time he was committed to following through, no matter his qualms, no matter how high his anxiety.

Jeffrey had a few minutes' leeway, so he went to the ticket counter to have the agent change his Rio de Janeiro ticket. He knew the shuttle ticket was still fine. As it turned out, the night flight to Rio was cheaper than the afternoon flight, and Jeffrey got a considerable refund.

Holding his ticket in his mouth, the suitcase in one hand, and the briefcase in the other, he hurried toward security. It had taken longer than he'd expected to exchange the ticket. That was one flight he didn't want to miss.

Jeffrey went directly to the X-ray machine and hoisted the suitcase onto the conveyor belt. He was about to do the same with his briefcase when someone grabbed his collar from behind.

"Going on vacation, Doctor?" Devlin asked with a wry smile. He snatched the airline ticket from Jeffrey's mouth.

Holding on to Jeffrey's collar with his left hand, Devlin

flipped open the ticket folder and read the destination. When he saw Rio de

Janeiro, he said "Bingo!" with a broad smile. He could already see himself at one of the gaming tables in Vegas. He was in the money now.

Stuffing Jeffrey's ticket into his denim jacket pocket, Devlin reached around to his back pocket and pulled out his handcuffs. A few people who had backed up behind Jeffrey to get at the X-ray machine stood gawking in open-mouthed disbelief.

The familiar sight of handcuffs jolted Jeffrey from his paralysis. With a sudden, unexpected move, he swung his briefcase in a violent arc aimed at

Devlin. Devlin, concentrating on opening the handcuffs with his free hand, didn't see the blow coming.

The briefcase hit Devlin on the left temple, just above the ear, sending him crashing into the side of the X-ray machine. The handcuffs clattered to the floor.

The female attendant behind the X-ray machine screamed. A uniformed state police officer looked up from the sports page of the Herald. Jeffrey took off like a rabbit, sprinting back toward the terminal and ticket counters.

Devlin put a hand to his head, and it came away with blood on it.

For Jeffrey it was like broken-field running as he tried to skirt passengers, missing some, colliding into others. As he came to the junction of the concourse with the terminal proper, he glanced back at the security area. He could see Devlin pointing in his direction with the uniformed policeman at his side. Other people were looking in Jeffrey's direction as well, mainly those he'd run into.

In front of Jeffrey was an escalator bringing people up from the floor below. Jeffrey ran for it and charged down, pushing irate passengers out of his way along with their luggage. On the arrival floor below there was a crowd milling about, since several flights had recently landed. Worming his way through the newly arrived, Jeffrey skirted the baggage area as fast as he could and ran out through the electronic doors to the street.

Gasping for breath, he paused at the curb, trying to decide where to go next. He knew he had to get out of the airport immediately. The question was how. There were a few taxis lined up, but there was also a long line of people waiting for them. Jeffrey didn't have much time. He could run over to the parking garage and get his car, but something told him that would be a dead end. For starters, Devlin probably knew where it was. He'd probably trailed Jeffrey to the airport. How else would he have known where to find him?

As Jeffrey weighed his alternatives, the intraterminal bus came lumbering along the roadway. Without a second's hesitation, Jeffrey rushed into the street and stood directly in its path, flailing his arms wildly.

The bus screeched to a halt. The driver opened the door. As Jeffrey jumped on, the driver said, "Man, you are either stupid or crazy and I hope it's stupid 'cause I'd hate to have a nut on board." He shook his head in disbelief, put the bus in gear, and hit the gas pedal.

Steadying himself by clutching the overhead rack, Jeffrey stooped to get a look out the window. He caught sight of Devlin and the policeman threading their way through the crowds at the baggage carousel. Jeffrey couldn't believe his luck. They hadn't seen him.

Jeffrey took a seat and set his briefcase on his lap. He still had to catch his breath. The next stop was the central terminal, serving Delta, United, and TWA. That's where Jeffrey got off. Dodging traffic, he ran over to the taxi line. As before, there was a considerable number of people waiting.

Jeffrey hesitated for a moment, running through his alternatives.

Marshaling his courage, he walked directly to the taxi dispatcher..

"I'm a doctor and I need a cab immediately," he said with as much authority as he could muster. Even in emergency situations, Jeffrey was loath to take advantage of his professional status.

Holding a clipboard and a stub of a pencil, the man looked Jeffrey up and down. Without saying a word, he pointed to the next cab in line. As Jeffrey hustled in, some of the people queued up grumbled.

Jeffrey slammed the taxi's door. The driver looked at him through his rearview miffor. He was ' a young fellow with long, stringy hair. "Where to?" he asked.

Hunching low, Jeffrey told him just to drive out of the airport. The cabbie turned around to look Jeffrey in the eye.

'I need a destination, man!" he said.

'All right-downtown."

"Where downtown?" the cabbie asked irritably.

"I'll decide when we get there," Jeffrey said, turning around to peek out the rear window. "Just go!"

"Jesusl" the driver murmured, shaking his head in disbelief. He was doubly irritated to get such a short fare. He'd been waiting in the pool for half an hour and had hopes for a run to some-

place like Weston. And on top of the short fare, his passenger was a weirdo or maybe worse. When they drove past a police car at the far end of the terminal, the guy lay flat across the backseat. Just what he needed: a weirdo on the lam.

Jeffrey lifted his head slowly, even though the cab had to be well beyond the squad car. He turned and peered out the rear window. No one seemed to be following. There were certainly no sirens or flashing lights. He turned around and faced forward. Night had finally fallen. Ahead lay a sea of bobbing taillights. Jeffrey tried to clear his head enough to think.

Had he done the right thing? His reflex had been to flee. He was understandably terrified of Devlin, but should he have run, especially with the policeman there?

With a shock, Jeffrey remembered that Devlin had seized his ticket, proof he had intended to jump bail. That was reason enough to toss him in jail.

What effect would his attempt to flee have on the appeal process? Jeffrey didn't want to be around when Randolph found out.

Jeffrey didn't know much about the finer points of the law, but this much he did know: with his bumbling, indecisive behavior he had managed to turn himself into a true fugitive. Now he would have to face an entirely separate charge, maybe a separate set of charges.

The cab plunged into the Sumner Tunnel. Traffic was relatively light, so they moved ahead swiftly. Jeffrey wondered if he should go directly to the police. Would it be better to own up and turn himself in? Maybe he should go to the bus station and get out of town. He thought about renting a car, since he'd have more independence that way. But the trouble with that idea was that the only car rental places open at that time of the night were at the airport.

Jeffrey was at a loss. He had no idea what he should do. Every plan of action he could think of had disadvantages. And every time he thought he'd reached rock bottom, he managed to find an even deeper quagmire.

TUESDAY,

MAY 16,1989

9:42 P.M.

"I got good news and I got bad news," Devlin said to Michael Mosconi. "Which do you want to hear first?" Devlin was calling from one of the airport phones in the baggage section beneath the Pan Am departure gates. He had combed the terminal searching for Jeffrey, with no luck. The policeman had gone off to alert the other officers at the airport. Devlin was calling Mi- chael Mosconi for additional backup. Devlin was surprised that the doc was lucky enough to have slipped away.

"I'm not in any mood to be playing games," Mosconi said irritably. "Just tell me what you have to tell me and be done with it."

"Come on, lighten up. Good news or bad?" Devlin enjoyed teasing Mosconi because Mosconi was such an easy target.

"I'll take the good news," Mosconi fumed, swearing under his breath. "And it better be good."

"Depends on your point of view," Devlin said cheerfully. -The good news is that you owe me a few bucks. Minutes ago I stopped the good doctor from boarding a plane for Rio de Janeiro."

"No shit?" Mosconi said.

"No shit-and I have the ticket to prove it!"

"That's great, Dev!" Mosconi said excitedly. "My God, the man's bail is five hundred thousand dollars! That would have ruined me. How the hell did you do it? I mean, how did you know he was going to try to jump? I got to hand it to you. You're amazing, Dev!"

"It's so nice to be loved," Devlin said. "But you're forgetting the bad news." Devlin smiled into the receiver mischievously, knowing what

Mosconi's reaction was soon to be.

There was a brief pause before Mosconi said with a groan, "All right, give me the bad news!"

"At the moment, I don't know where the good doc is. He's on the loose in

Boston someplace. I got ahold of him, but the skinny bastard hit me with his briefcase before I could 'cuff him. I never expected it, him being a doctor and all that."

"You got to find him!" Mosconi shouted. "Why the hell did I trust him? I should have my head examined."

"I've explained the situation to the airport police," Devlin said. "So they'll be on the lookout for him. My hunch is, he won't try to fly away again. At least not from Logan. Oh, and I had his car impounded."

"I want that guy found!" Mosconi said menacingly. "I want him delivered to the jail. Pronto. You hear me, Devlin?"

"I hear you, man, but I don't hear any numbers. What are you offering me to bring in this dangerous criminal?"

"Quit joking around, Dev!"

"Hey, I'm not joking. The doctor might not be all that dangerous, but I want to know how serious you are about this guy. The best way you can tell me is what kind of reward I'll be getting."

"Get him, then we'll talk numbers."

"Michael, what do you take me for, a fool?"

There was a strained silence. Devlin broke it. "Well, maybe I'll go have some dinner, then take in a show. See you around, sport.,,

"Wait!" Michael said. "All right-I'll split the fee. Twentyfive thousand."

"Split the fee?" Devlin said. "That's not the usual rate, my friend."

"Yeah, but this guy is hardly the cold-blooded, armed killer that you usually have to deal with."

"I don't see where that makes any difference," Devlin said. "If you call in anybody else, they'll demand the whole ten percent. That's fifty grand. But

I tell you what. Since we go back a long way, I'll do it for forty grand and you can keep ten for filling out those papers."

Mosconi hated to give in, but he was in no position to bargain. "All right, you bastard," he said. "But I want the doctor in the slammer ASAP, before they forfeit the bond. Understand?"

"I'll give the matter my undivided attention," Devlin said. "Especially now that you have insisted on being so generous. In the meantime, we got to block the usual exits from the city.

The airport is already covered, but that leaves the bus station, the railroads, and the car rental agencies."

"I'll call the duty police sergeant," Mosconi said. "Tonight it should be

Albert Norstadt, so there won't be any problem there. What are you going to do?"

"I'll stake out the doc's house," Devlin said. "My guess is that he will either show up there or call his wife. If he calls his wife, then she'll probably go to wherever he is."

"When you get to him, treat him like he's murdered twelve people," Mosconi said. "Don't go soft on him. And Dev, I mean business on this. At this point I really don't much care whether you bring him in alive or dead."

"So long as you make sure he stays in town, I'll get him. If you have any problems with the police, you can reach me on the car phone."

Jeffrey's cabbie's mood improved as the fare mounted on the meter. Unable to decide where to go, Jeffrey had the man drive aimlessly around Boston. As they cruised the periphery of the Boston Garden for the third time, the meter hit thirty dollars.

Jeffrey was afraid to go home. His house was sure to be the first place

Devlin would go to look for him. In fact, Jeffrey was afraid to go anyplace. He was afraid of going to the bus or train station for fear the authorities had already been put on some alert. For all he knew, every policeman in Boston could be looking for him.

Jeffrey thought he'd try to call Randolph to see what the lawyer could do-if anything-to turn things back to the preairport status quo. Jeffrey wasn't optimistic but the possibility was worth pursuing. At the same time, he decided he'd do well to check into a hotel, though not one of the better ones. The good hotels would probably be the second place Devlin would look for him.

Scooting forward against the Plexiglas divider, Jeffrey asked the cabbie if he knew of any cheap hotels. The cabbie thought for a moment. "Well," he said, "there's the Plymouth Hotel."

The Plymouth was a large motor inn. "Something less wellknown. I don't care if it's a little on the seedy side. I'm looking for something out-of-the-way, nondescript."

"There's the Essex," the cabbie said.

"Where's that?" Jeffrey asked.

"Other side of the combat zone," the driver said. He eyed Jeffrey in the rearview mirror to see if he registered a flicker of rec-

ognition. The Essex was a dump, more of a flophouse than a hotel. It was frequented by many of the zone's call girls.

"So it's kind of low-key?" Jeffrey asked.

"About as low as I'd care to sink."

"Sounds perfect," Jeffrey said. "Let's go there." He slid back in the seat.

The fact that he'd never heard of the Essex sounded promising, since he'd been in the Boston area for almost twenty years, right from the beginning of medical school.

The driver took a left off Arlington Street onto Boylston, then made his way downtown. There, the neighborhood took a nosedive. In contrast to the genteel areas around the Boston Garden, there were abandoned buildings, porn shops, and garbagestrewn streets. The homeless were scattered in alleyways and huddled on tenement steps. When the cab was stopped waiting for a light to change, a pimply-faced girl in an obscenely short skirt raised her eyebrows at Jeffrey suggestively. She looked like she couldn't have been more than fifteen.

The red neon sign in front of the Essex Hotel had aptly been amended to SEX

EL; the other letters were out. Seeing how decrepit the place seemed,

Jeffrey felt a moment's hesitation. Peering out the window from the safety of his cab, he warily surveyed the hotel's dirty brick fagade. Seedy was too kind an adjective. A drunk, still clutching his brown-paper-bag-wrapped bottle, was passed out to the right of the front steps.

"You wanted cheap," the cabbie said. "Cheap it is."

Jeffrey handed him a hundred-dollar bill from the briefcase.

"You don't have anything smaller?" the cabbie complained.

Jeffrey shook his head. "I don't have forty-two dollars."

The cabbie sighed and made an elaborate passive-aggressive ritual of giving

Jeffrey his change. Deciding he'd be better off not leaving an angry cabbie in his wake, Jeffrey gave him an extra ten. The driver even said thanks and have a nice night before driving off.

Jeffrey studied the hotel again. On the right was an empty building whose windows except for the ground floor were covered with plywood. On the ground floor there was a pawnshop and an X-rated video store. On the left was an office building in equal disrepair to the Essex Hotel. Beyond the office building was a liquor store, whose windows were barred like a fortress. Beyond the liquor store was an empty lot that was strewn with litter and broken bricks.

With his briefcase in hand and looking distinctly out of place, Jeffrey climbed the steps and entered the Essex Hotel.

The hotel's interior was about as classy as the exterior. The lobby furnishings consisted of a single threadbare couch and a half-dozen folding metal chairs. A bare pay phone was the wall's sole decoration. There was an elevator but the sign across its doors said OUT OF ORDER. Next to the elevator was a heavy door with a wire-embedded window leading to a stairwell. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Jeffrey stepped up to the reception desk.

Behind the desk, a shabbily dressed man in his early sixties eyed Jeffrey suspiciously. Only drug dealers came to the Essex with briefcases. The clerk had been watching a small-screen black-and-white TV complete with old-fashioned rabbit-ear an' He had unkempt hair and sported a three-day-old beard. tennae.

He had on a tie, but it was loosened at the collar and had a line of gravy stains across the lower third.

"Can I help you?" he asked, giving Jeffrey the once-over. Helping seemed the last thing he was inclined to do.

Jeffrey nodded. "I'd like a room."

"You got a reservation?" the man asked.

Jeffrey couldn't believe the man was serious. Reservations in a flophouse like this? But he didn't want to offend him. Jeffrey decided to play along.

"No reservation," he told him.

"Rates are ten dollars an hour or twenty-five a night," the man said.

"How about two nights?" Jeffrey said.

The man shrugged. "Fifty dollars plus tax, in advance," he said.

Jeffrey signed "Richard Bard." He gave the clerk the change he'd gotten from the taxi driver and added a five and a few singles from his wallet.

The man gave him a key with an attached chain and a metal plaque that had

5F etched into its surface.

The staircase provided the first and only hint that the building had once been almost elegant. The treads and risers were white marble, now long since stained and marred. The ornate balustrade was wrought iron festooned with decorative swirls and curlicues.

The room Jeffrey had been given faced the street. When he opened the door, the room's only illumination came from the blood-red glow of the dilapidated neon sign over the entrance four stories below. Switching on the light, Jeffrey surveyed his new home. The walls hadn't been painted for ages. What paint remained was scarred and peeling. It was difficult to determine

what the original color had been; it seemed to be somewhere between gray and green. The sparse furnishings consisted of a single bed, a nightstand with a lamp minus the shade, a card table, and a single wooden chair. The bedspread was chenille with several greenish stains. A thin-paneled door led to a bathroom.

For a moment, Jeffrey hesitated to enter, but what was his choice? He decided to try to make the best of his predicament, or at least make do.

Stepping over the threshold, he closed and locked his door. He felt terribly alone and isolated. He truly could not sink any deeper than this.

Jeffrey sat on the bed, then lay down across it, keeping both feet firmly planted on the floor. He didn't realize how exhausted he was until his back hit the mattress. He would have loved to curl up for a few hours, as much to escape as to rest, but he knew this was no time for napping. He had to come up with a strategy, some plan. But first he had to make a few phone calls.

Since there was no phone in the shabby hotel room, Jeffrey had to go to the lobby to place the calls. He took his briefcase with him, afraid to leave it unattended even for a minute or two.

Downstairs, the clerk reluctantly left his Red Sox game to make change so

Jeffrey could use the phone.

His first call was to Randolph Bingham. Jeffrey didn't have to be a lawyer to know he desperately needed sound legal advice. While Jeffrey waited for the call to go through, the same pimplyfaced girl he'd seen through the cab window entered the front door. She had a nervous-appearing, baldheaded man with her who had a sticker attached to his lapel that said: Hil I'm Harry.

He was obviously a conventioneer who was seeking the thrill of putting his life in jeopardy. Jeffrey turned his back on the transaction at the front desk. Randolph answered the phone with his familiar aristocratic accent.

6'I've got a problem," Jeffrey said without even saying who he was. But

Randolph recognized his voice immediately. In a few simple sentences,

Jeffrey brought Randolph up to date. He left nothing out, including his striking Devlin with the briefcase in full view of a policeman and the subsequent chase through the airport terminal.

"My good God," was all Randolph could say by the time Jeffrey had finished.

Then, almost angrily, he added, "You know, this is not going to help your appeal. And when it comes to sentencing, it is certainly going to have an influence."

"I know," Jeffrey said. "I could have guessed as much. But

1 didn't call you to tell me I'm in trouble. I had that figured without benefit of counsel. I need to know what you can do to help."

"Well, before I do anything, you have to turn yourself in."

"But..."

"No buts. You've already put yourself in an extremely precarious position with regard to the court."

"And if I do turn myself in, won't the court be likely to deny bail entirely?"

"Jeffrey, you have no choice. In light of your attempt to flee the country, you haven't exactly done much to encourage its trust. "

Randolph started to say more, but Jeffrey cut him off. "I'm sorry, but I'm not prepared to go to jail. Under any circumstances. Please do whatever you can from your end. I'll get back to you." Jeffrey slammed the receiver down. He couldn't blame Randolph for the advice he had given. In some respects it was just like medicine: sometimes the patient just didn't want to hear the doctor's proposed therapy.

With his hand still resting on the receiver, Jeffrey turned back into the reception area to see if anyone had overheard his conversation. The young miniskirted girl and her john had disappeared upstairs, and the clerk was again glued to his tiny TV set. Another man, who looked to be in his seventies, had appeared and was sitting on the tattered couch, thumbing through a magazine.

Dropping another coin into the phone, Jeffrey called home.

"Where are you?" Carol demanded as soon as Jeffrey muttered a dull hello.

"I'm in Boston," he told her. He wasn't about to tell her anything more specific, but he felt he owed her that much. He knew she would be furious that he had left without a word, but he wanted to warn her in case Devlin headed back. And he wanted her to pick up the car. Beyond that, he didn't expect anything along the lines of sympathy. An earful of fury was what he got.

"Why didn't you tell me you were leaving the house?" Carol snarled. "Here

I've been patient, standing by you all these months, and this is the thanks

I get. I looked all over the house before I realized your car was gone."

"It's the car I need to talk to you about," Jeffrey said.

"I'm not interested in your car," Carol snapped.

"Carol, listen to me!" Jeffrey yelled. When he heard that she was going to give him a chance to speak, he lowered his voice,

cupping a hand around the receiver. "My car is at the airport at central parking. The ticket stub is in the ashtray."

"Are you planning on forfeiting bail?" Carol asked incredulously. "We'll lose the house! I signed that lien in good faith... 11

"There are some things more important than the house!" Jeffrey snapped in spite of himself. He lowered his voice again. "Besides, the house on the

Cape has no mortgage. You can have that if money's your worry."

"You still haven't answered me," Carol said. "Are you planning to forfeit the bail?"

"I don't know," Jeffrey sighed. He really didn't. It was the truth. He still hadn't had time to think things through. "Look, the car's there on the second level. If you want it, fine. If not, that's fine too."

"I want to talk to you about our divorce," Carol said. "It's been on hold long enough. As much as I sympathize with your problems, and I do, I have to get on with my life."

"I'll have to get back to you," Jeffrey said irritably. Then he hung up on her as well.

He shook his head sadly. He couldn't even remember a time when there had been warmth between Carol and him. Dying relationships were so ugly. Here he was on the run and all she could worry about was property and the divorce. Well, she had her life to get on with, he supposed. One way or the other, it wouldn't be much longer. She'd be rid of him for good.

He looked at the phone. What he wanted to do was call Kelly. But what would he say? Would he admit to having tried to flee and failed? Jeffrey was filled with indecision and confusion.

Picking up his briefcase, he strode across the lobby, consciously avoiding looking at the two men.

Feeling even more alone than he had before, he climbed the four flights of twisting, filthy stairs, and returned to his depressing room. He stood at the window, bathed in the red neon glow, wondering what he should do. Oh, how he wanted to call Kelly, but he couldn't. He was too embarrassed.

Stepping over to the bed, he wondered if he could sleep. He had to do something. He eyed his briefcase.

TUESDAY,

MAY 16,1989

10:51 P.M.

The only light in the room came from the television set. A fortyfive-caliber pistol and a half-dozen vials of Marcaine on a bureau by the TV glimmered in the soft light. On the screen, three Jamaican men stood in a cramped hotel room and all three were visibly edgy. Each one was carrying an AK-47 assault rifle. The burliest of the three kept glancing at his watch. Perspiration stood on their foreheads. The obvious tension of the Jamaicans stood in sharp contrast to the sonorous reggae rhythm that pealed from a radio on the nightstand. Then the door burst open.

Crockett entered first, clutching a nine-millimeter automatic with the barrel pointed to the ceiling. With one swift, catlike move, he put the barrel against the first Jamaican's chest and pumped one silent, deadly bullet into him. Crockett had his second bullet into the second man by the time Tubbs cleared the doorway in time to take care of the third. It was all over in the blink of an eye.

Crockett shook his head. He was dressed in his usual: an expensive linen jacket by Armani over a casual cotton T-shirt. "Good timing, Tubbs," he said. "I would have had trouble nailing the third dude."

As the closing credits came onto the TV screen, Trent Harding high-fived an imaginary companion. "All right!" he exclaimed in triumph. TV violence had a stimulating effect on Trent. It charged him with aggressive energy that demanded expression. He lived to picture himself pumping bullets into chests the way Don Johnson did so regularly. Sometimes Trent thought he should have gone into law enforcement. If only he'd elected to join the military police when he enlisted in the Navy. Instead, Trent had decided to become a Navy corpsman. He'd liked it okay. It had been a challenge and he'd learned some far-

out stuff. He'd never thought about being a corpsman before going into the

Navy. The first time he thought of it had been when he'd heard a talk during basic training. He found the idea of performing physicals oddly appealing, and he liked the idea of guys coming to him for help so that he could tell them what to do.

Trent got up from the living room couch and vialked into his kitchen. It was a comfortable apartment with one bedroom and two baths. Trent could afford better, but he liked it fine where he was. He lived on the top floor of a five-story building on the back side of Beacon Hill. The bedroom and the living room windows looked out onto Garden Street. The kitchen and the larger of the two bathrooms faced an inner courtyard.

Pulling an Amstel Light from the refrigerator, Trent popped the top and took a long, satisfying gulp. He thought the beer might calm him down some.

He was anxious and edgy from the hour of Miami Vice. Even reruns got him riled up enough to want to hit one of the local bars to see if he could scare up some trouble. He could usually find a homo or two along Cambridge

Street to rough up.

Trent looked like a man who was looking for trouble. He also looked like he'd found it more than a couple of times. A stocky, muscular man of twenty-eight, Trent wore his bleach-blond hair in the severe, flat-topped hairstyle popularly known as a fade. His eyes were a piercing crystal blue.

He had a scar below his left eye that ran back to his ear. He'd gotten it from being on the wrong end of a broken beer bottle in a barroom scuffle in

San Diego. It had taken a few stitches but the other guy had had to have his entire face rearranged. The guy had made the mistake of telling Trent that he thought he had a cute ass. Trent still got hot every time he thought of the episode. What a creep, that goddamned fag.

Trent went back to his bedroom and set his beer down on top of the TV. He picked up the military-issue.45 pistol that he'd "cumshawed" from a Marine for amphetamines. It felt comfortable in his large hand. Gripping the pistol with both hands, Trent leveled the barrel straight at the TV screen with arms stiff and elbows locked. He spun around to point the gun out the open window.

Across the street a woman was opening her bedroom window. "Tough luck, baby," Trent whispered. He aimed the pistol carefully, lowering the barrel until the front and rear sights lined

up perfectly, targeting the woman's torso. Slowly, deliberately, Trent pulled the cold steel of the trigger.

As the firing mechanism clicked, Trent called out "Pow!" as he pretended the gun kicked in the air from its recoil. He smiled. He could have drilled the woman if he'd put in the clip. In his mind's eye he saw her hurled back into her apartment, a neat hole through her chest and blood squirting out.

Laying the pistol on the TV next to his beer bottle, Trent grabbed one of the vials of Marcaine from the bureau. Tossing it in the air, he caught it with his other hand behind his back. He calmly sauntered back to the kitchen to retrieve the necessary paraphernalia from its hiding place.

First he had to remove the glasses from the shelf of one of his kitchen cabinets next to the refrigerator. Then he gently lifted the plywood square that led to his secret cache: a small vault of space between the cabinet's back and the exterior wall. Trent brought out a single vial filled with yellow fluid and an array of 18-gauge syringes. He'd picked up the vial from a Colombian in Miami. The syringes easily came into his possession through his hospital job. He carried both vials and the syringes back to his bedroom along with a propane torch he kept under the kitchen sink.

Trent reached for his bottle and took another swig of beer. He set the propane torch on a small tripod he kept folded under his bed. Taking a cigarette from the pack by the television set, he lit it with a match.

Trent took a long drag, then lit the propane torch with the cigarette.

Next, he took one of the 18-gauge needles. After drawing up a tiny amount of the yellow fluid, he heated the tip of the needle until it glowed red hot. Keeping the needle in the flame, he picked up the vial of Marcaine and heated its top until it too started to become red. With deft, practiced moves, he pushed the hot needle through the molten glass and deposited a drop of the yellow fluid. Next was the trickiest part. After disposing of the needle, Trent began to twirl the vial, slipping it back into the hottest part of the flame. He kept it there for a few seconds, long enough for the puncture site to fuse closed.

He continued to twirl the vial even after.he pulled it from the flame. He didn't stop until the glass had cooled considerably.

"Shit!" Trent said as he watched the very end of the vial suddenly dimple into an unwanted depression. Though virtually unnoticeable, Trent couldn't risk the blemish. If someone was careful enough to notice, they'd discard the vial as a defect. Or

worse, someone on the ball might get suspicious. Disgusted, Trent tossed the vial into the trash.

"Dammit," he thought as he grabbed another vial of Marcaine. He'd have to try again. As he repeated the process, he became more and more intense, angrily cursing when even the third attempt ended in failure. Finally, on the fourth try, the puncture site sealed properly; the curved tip maintained its smooth hemispherical contour.

Holding the ampule up to the light, he inspected it carefully. It was close to perfect. He could still tell that the tube had been punctured, but he had to look carefully. He thought it might have been the best one he'd ever done. It gave him great satisfaction to have mastered such a difficult process. When he'd first thought of it a number of years ago, he'd had no idea if it would work. It used to take him hours to do what he could now do in minutes.

Once he had accomplished what he'd set out to do, Trent returned the vial of yellow fluid, the.45 pistol, and the remaining vials of Marcaine to the hiding place. He replaced the false back of the cabinet and put the glasses back.

Picking up the doctored Marcaine vial, he gave it a good shake. The drop of yellow fluid had long since dissolved. He turned the ampule upside down, checking to see if there was a leak. But the puncture site was as he expected it to be: airtight.

Trent gleefully considered the effect his vial would soon have in St.

Joseph's OR. He thought particularly about the high-andmighty doctors, the havoc he would wreak in that lofty quarter. In his wildest dreams, Trent couldn't have settled on a better career.

Trent hated doctors. They always acted as if they knew everything, when in reality many didn't know their ass from a hole in the wall, especially in the Navy. Most of the time Trent knew twice as much as the doctor did, yet he had to do their bidding. In particular, Trent loathed that true pig of a Navy doctor who'd turned him in for pocketing a few amphetamines. What a hypocrite. Everybody knew the doctors had been making off with drugs and instruments and all sorts of other loot for years. Then there was that real pervert doctor who complained to Trent's commanding officer about Trent's alleged homosexual behavior. That had been the straw that broke t he camel's back. Instead of going through some stupid court-martial or whatever the hell they were planning to do, Trent had resigned.

At least by the time he got out, he was properly trained. He

had no trouble getting nursing jobs. With nursing shortages widespread, he found he could work anywhere he pleased. Every hospital wanted him, especially since he liked working in the OR and had experience in that area from his stint in the Navy.

The only trouble with working in a civilian hospital, aside from the doctors, was the rest of the nursing staff. Some of them were as bad as the doctors, particularly the supervisors. They were always trying to tell him something he already knew. But Trent didn't find them as irritating as the doctors. After all, it was the doctors who conspired to limit the autonomy

Trent had had to practice routine medicine in the Navy.

Trent put the doctored ampule of Marcaine in the pocket of his white hospital coat, which hung in the front closet. Thinking about doctors reminded him of Dr. Doherty. He clenched his teeth at the thought of the man. But it wasn't enough. Trent couldn't contain himself. He slammed the closet door with such force it seemed to jar the whole building. Just that day, Doherty, one of the anesthesiologists, had had the nerve to criticize

Trent in front of several nurses. Doherty had chastised him for what he referred to as sloppy sterile technique. And this was coming from the moron who didn't put on his scrub hat or surgical mask properly! Half the time

Doherty didn't even have his nose covered. Trent was enraged.

"I hope Doherty gets the vial," Trent snarled. Unfortunately, there wasn't any way he could ensure Doherty's getting it. The chances were about one in twenty unless he waited until Doherty was scheduled for an epidural. "Ah, who cares," Trent said with a wave of dismissal. It would be entertaining no matter who got the vial.

Although Jeffrey's new fugitive status heightened his indecision and confusion, he no longer had the slightest inclination toward suicide. He didn't know if he was acting courageously or cow ardly, but he wasn't about to agonize further. Yet with all that had happened, he was understandably concerned about the pos sibility of a new round of depression. Thinking it better to throw temptation away, he t ' ook the step of getting the morphine vial from the briefcase, popping its lid, and flushing the contents down the toilet.

Having at least made a decision about one issue, Jeffrey felt slightly more in control. To make himself feel even more organized, he occupied himself by rearranging the contents of his briefcase. He stacked the money carefully, in the base, covering

it with the underwear. He then rearranged the contents of the accordion-style file area under the lid to make room for Chris Everson's notes. Turning his attention to the notes, he organized them according to size. Some of them were on Chris's notepaper, which had From the Desk of

Christopher Everson printed on top. Others were written on sheets of yellow legal paper.

Jeffrey began to scan the notes, almost without meaning to. He was glad for anything that took his mind away from his current predicament. Henry

Noble's case history was especially fascinating the second time around.

Once again, Jeffrey was struck by the similarities between Chris's unhappy experience with the man and his own with Patty Owen, particularly with respect to each patient's initial symptoms. The major difference between the two cases was that Patty's had been more fulminating and overwhelming.

Since Marcaine had been involved in both cases, the fact that the symptoms were similar was not surprising. What seemed extraordinary was that in both situations the initial symptoms were not what was expected in an adverse reaction to a local anesthetic.

Having been a practicing anesthesiologist for some years, Jeffrey was familiar with the kinds of symptoms that could occur when a patient had an adverse reaction to a local anesthetic. Trouble invariably arose due to an overdose reaching the bloodstream, where it could affect either the heart or the nervous system. Considering the nervous system, it was usually the central or the autonomic system that caused problems, either through stimulation or depression, or a combination of the two.

All this covered a lot of territory, but of all the reactions Jeffrey had studied, heard about, or witnessed, none had been anything like Patty

Owen's, not with the excessive salivation, the tearing, the sudden perspiration, the abdominal pain, and the constricted, or miotic, pupils.

Some of these responses might occur in an allergic reaction, but not from an overdose, and Jeffrey had reason to believe that Patty Owen had not been allergic to Marcaine.

Obviously, tojudge by his notes, Chris Everson had been comparably troubled. Chris noted that Henry Noble's symptoms were more muscarinic than anything else, meaning the kind that were expected when parts of the parasympathetic nervous system were stimulated. They were called muscarinic because they mirrored- the effect of a drug called muscarine, which came from a type of mushroom. But parasympathetic stimulation was not

expected with a local anesthetic like Marcaine. If not, then why the muscarine symptoms? It was puzzling.

Jeffrey closed his eyes. It was all very complicated, and, unfortunately, although he knew the basics, much of the physiological details were not fresh in his mind. But he remembered enough to know that the sympathetic division of the autonomic nervous system was the part affected by local anesthetics, not the parasympathetic part apparently affected in the Noble and Owen cases. There was no immediate explanation for it.

Jeffrey's deep concentration was interrupted by a thump against the wall, then some exaggerated moaning of feigned ecstasy coming from the neighboring room. He had an unwelcome image of the pimply-faced girl and the bald man. The moaning reached a crescendo of sorts and then diminished.

Jeffrey stepped over to the window to stretch. He was again bathed in the red neon light. A group of homeless people was milling around to the right of the Essex's stoop, presumably in front of the liquor store. Several young hookers were working the street. Off to the side were young toughs who seemed to take a proprietary interest in the goings-on of the area.

Whether they were pimps or drug dealers, Jeffrey couldn't say. What a neighborhood, he thought.

He turned away from the window. Jeffrey had seen enough. Chris's notes were sprawled across the bed. The moans from next door had stopped. Jeffrey tried to review the list of possibilities for the Noble and Owen mishaps.

Once more he focused on the notion that had so consumed Chris through the course of his last days: the possibility of a contaminant in the Marcaine.

Assuming that neither he nor Chris had made a gross medical error-in the

Owen case, for example, that he had not used the.75% Marcaine that had been found in his disposal-and in view of the fact that both patients had had unexpected parasympathetic symptoms without allergic or anaphylactic reactions, then Chris's theory of a contaminant had considerable validity.

Returning to the window, Jeffrey thought about the implications of a contaminant being in the Marcaine. If he could prove such a theory, it would go a long way toward absolving him from blame in the Owen case.

Culpability would fall to the pharmaceutical company that had manufactured it. Jeffrey wasn't sure about how the legal machinery would work once such a theory was proven. Given his recent brushes with the judicial system, he knew the gears would turn slowly, but turn they would. Maybe old Randolph would be able to figure a way to get the

wheels to turn faster. Jeffrey smiled at a wonderful thought: maybe his life and career could be salvaged. But how would he go about proving there had been a contaminant in a vial that had been used nine months earlier?

Suddenly, Jeffrey had a thought. He rushed back to Chris's notes to read

Henry Noble's case summary. Jeffrey was particularly interested in the initial sequence of events, when Chris was first administering the epidural anesthesia.

Chris had taken 2 cc's of Marcaine from a 30 cc ampule for his test dose, adding his own 1:200,000 epinephrine. It had been immediately after that test dose that Henry Noble's reaction began. With Patty Owen, Jeffrey had used a fresh 30 cc ampule of Marcaine in the OR. It was after this Marcaine was introduced into her system that her adverse reaction began. For the test dose, Jeffrey had used a separate 2 cc vial of spinal grade Marcaine, as was his custom. If a contaminant had been in the Marcaine, it had to have been in the 30 cc ampule in both situations. That would mean that

Patty had gotten a substantially larger dose than Henry Noble-a full therapeutic dose as opposed to a test dose of 2 cc's. That would explain why Patty's reaction was so much more severe than Henry Noble's and why

Noble had managed to live for a week.

For the first time in months, Jeffrey felt a glimmer of hope that his old life was still within reach. He could have it back again. During his defense, he'd never considered the possibility of a contaminant. Now, suddenly it seemed like a real possibility. But it would take time and some serious effort to investigate, much less prove. What was his first step?

First of all, he needed more information. That meant he'd have to bone up on the pharmakinetics of local anesthetics as well as the physiology of the autonomous nervous system. But that would be relatively easy. All he needed was books. The hard part would be looking into the idea of a contaminant.

He'd need access to the full pathology report on Patty Owen. He'd seen only parts of it during the discovery process. Plus, there was the question

Kelly had raised: what about an explanation for the.75% Marcaine vial found in the disposal container on the anesthesia machine? How could it have gotten there?

Investigating these issues would have been difficult under the best of circumstances. Now that he was a convict and a fugitive, it would be all but impossible. He would have to get into Boston Memorial. Could he do that?

Jeffrey went into the bathroom. Standing in front of the mirror, he evaluated his features in the raw fluorescent light. Could he change his appearance enough not to be recognized? He'd been associated with Boston

Memorial since his clinical clerkships in medical school. Hundreds of people knew him by sight.

Jeffrey put a hand to his forehead and slicked back his light brown hair.

He combed his hair to the side, parting it on the right. Holding it back made his forehead appear broader. He'd never worn glasses. Maybe he could get a pair now. And for most all of the years he'd been working at Boston

Memorial, he'd had a mustache. He could shave it off.

Caught up with this intriguing thought, Jeffrey went to the other room to retrieve his Dopp Kit. He went back to the bathroom miffor. Soaping up, he quickly shaved off his mustache. It felt strange to run his tongue across a bare upper lip. Wetting his hair, he combed it straight back from his forehead. He was encouraged; already he was beginning to look like a new man.

Next, Jeffrey shaved off his moderate sideburns. The difference wasn't much but he figured everything helped. Could he pass for another M.D.? He had the know-how; what he needed was an ID. Security at Boston Memorial had been beefed up considerably, a sign of the times. If he was challenged and couldn't produce an ID, he would be caught. Yet he needed the access, and it was the doctors who had access to all areas of the hospital.

Jeffrey kept thinking. He wouldn't despair. There was another group in the hospital that had wide access: housekeeping. No one questioned housekeeping. Having spent many nights on call in the hospital, Jeffrey could recall seeing housekeeping staff everywhere. No one ever wondered about them. He also knew there was a housekeeping graveyard shift from eleven P.m. to seven A.M., which they always had a hard time filling. The graveyard shift would be perfect, Jeffrey figured. He'd be less likely to bump into people who knew him. For the past few years, he'd worked mainly during the day.

Energized by this new crusade, Jeffrey yearned to start immediately. That meant a trip to the library. If he left right away, he would have about an hour before closing. Before he had time for second thoughts, he slipped

Chris's notes into the spot he'd prepared for them in his briefcase and closed and latched the lid.

For what it was worth, Jeffrey locked the door behind him. As he made his way down the stairs, he hesitated. The musty,

sour smell reminded him of Devlin. Jeffrey had gotten a whiff of his breath when Devlin nabbed him at the airport.

In considering his plan of action, Jeffrey neglected to factor in Devlin.

Jeffrey knew something about bounty hunters, and that's what Devlin undoubtedly was. Jeffrey harbored no illusions of what would happen if

Devlin caught him again, especially after the episode at the airport. After a moment's indecision, Jeffrey resignedly continued down the stairs. If he wanted to do any investigating, he'd have to take some chances, but it still behooved him to remain constantly alert. In addition, he'd have to think ahead so that if he was unlucky enough to confront Devlin, he'd have some sort of plan. Downstairs, the man with the magazine was gone, but the clerk was still watching the Red Sox game. Jeffrey slipped out without being noticed. A good sign, he joked to himself His first try at not being seen was a success. At least he still had a sense of humor.

Any lightheartedness that Jeffrey had been able to call up faded as he surveyed the street scene in front of him. He felt a wave of acute paranoia as he reminded himself of the double reality of being a fugitive and carrying around $45,000 in cash. Directly across from Jeffrey, in the shadows of a doorway of a deserted building, the two men he'd seen from the window were smoking crack.

Clutching his briefcase, Jeffrey descended the Essex's front steps. He avoided stepping on the poor man who was still lolling on the pavement with his brown-bagged bottle. Jeffrey turned to the right. He planned to walk the five or six blocks to the Lafayette Center, which included a good hotel. There he'd find a cab.

Jeffrey was abreast of the liquor store when he spotted a police car heading in his direction. Without a moment's hesitation, he ducked into the store. The jangle of bells attached to the door wore on Jeffrey's nerves.

As crazy as it seemed, he didn't know whom he was more afraid of, the street people or the police.

"Can I help you?" a bearded man asked from behind a counter. The police car slowed, then went past. Jeffrey took a breath. This wasn't going to be easy.

"Can I help you?" the clerk repeated.

Jeffrey bought a pint-sized bottle of vodka. If the police cruised back, he wanted his visit to the store to appear legitimate. But it wasn't necessary. When he emerged from the store, the police car was nowhere in sight. Relieved, Jeffrey turned to the right, intending to hurry. But he pulled up short, practically

colliding with one of the homeless men he'd seen earlier. Startled, Jeffrey raised his free hand to protect himself.

"Got any spare change, buddy?" the man asked unsteadily. He was obviously drunk. He had a fresh cut just by his temple. One of the lenses of his black-rimmed glasses was cracked.

Jeffrey recoiled from the man. He was about Jeffrey's height but with dark, almost black hair. His face was covered with a heavy stubble, suggesting he'd not shaved for a month. But what caught Jeffrey's attention was the man's clothes. He was dressed in a tattered suit complete with a button-down blue oxford shirt that was soiled and missing a few buttons. He had on a regimental striped tie that was loosened at the collar and spotted with green stains. Jeffrey's impression was that the man had dressed for work one day, then never gone home.

"What's the matter?" the man asked in a wavering, drunken voice. "Don't you speak English?"

Jeffrey dug into his trouser pocket for the change he'd received from his purchase of vodka. As he dropped the money in the man's palm, Jeffrey studied his face. His eyes, though glassy, looked kind. Jeffrey wondered what had driven the man to such desperate circumstances. He felt an odd kinship with this homeless person and his unknown plight. He shuddered to think of how fine a line separated him from a similar fate. The identification was made easier since the man appeared to be close to

Jeffrey's age.

As he'd expected, Jeffrey hailed a taxi easily at the nearby luxury hotel.

From there it took only fifteen minutes to get out to Harvard's medical area. It was just a little after eleven when Jeffrey walked into the

Countway Medical Library.

Among the books and narrow study cubicles, Jeffrey felt at home. He used one of the computer terminals to get the call numbers for several books on the physiology of the autonomic nervous system and the pharmacology of local anesthetics. With these books in hand he went into one of the carrels facing the inner court and closed the door. Within minutes he was lost in the intricacies of nerve impulse conduction.

It wasn't long before Jeffrey understood why Chris had highlighted the word

"nicotinic." Although most people thought of nicotine as an active ingredient in cigarettes, it was actually a drug, more specifically a poison, which caused a stimulation and then blockade of autonomic ganglia.

Many of the symptoms associated with nicotine were the same as those caused by muscarine: salivation, sweating, abdominal pain, and lacrimation-the

very same symptoms that had appeared in Patty Owen and Henry Noble. It even caused death in surprisingly low concentrations.

All this meant to Jeffrey that if he was thinking of a contaminant, it would have to have been a compound that mirrored local anesthetics to an extent, something like nicotine. But it couldn't have been nicotine, thought Jeffrey. The toxicology report on Henry Noble had been negative; something like nicotine would have shown up.

If there had been a contaminant it would also have to have been in an extremely small, nanomolar amount. Therefore it would have to have been something extraordinarily potent. As to what that could have been, Jeffrey hadn't a clue. But in his reading Jeffrey stumbled across something he'd remembered from medical school, but had not thought of since. Botulinum toxin, one of the most toxic substances known to man, mirrored local anesthetics in its ability to "freeze" neural cell membranes at the synapse. Yet Jeffrey knew he was not seeing botulinum poisoning. Its symptoms were totally different; muscarinic effects were blocked, not stimulated.

Never had time passed so quickly. Before Jeffrey knew it, the library was about to close for the night. Reluctantly, he gathered up Chris Everson's notes as well as his own that he'd just made. Carrying the books in one hand and his briefcase in the other, he descended to the first floor. He left the books on the counter to be reshelved and started for the door. He stopped abruptly.

Ahead people were being stopped by an attendant to open their parcels, knapsacks, and, of course, briefcases. It was standard practice to keep the loss of books to a minimum, but it was a practice Jeffrey had forgotten about. He hated to think what the reaction might be if the library guard got a look at his stacks of hundred-dollar bills. So much for staying low profile.

Jeffrey doubled back to the periodical section and ducked behind a shoulder-high display case. He opened his briefcase and began tojam the packets of paper money in his pockets. To make room, he pulled the pint of vodka from his jacket side pocket and packed it in the briefcase. Better to let the guard think he was a tippler than a drug dealer or thief.

Jeffrey was able to leave the library without incident. He felt a little conspicuous with all his pockets bulging, but there was nothing to be done about it just then.

There were practically no cabs on Huntington Avenue at that time of night.

After he tried for ten minutes to no avail, the

Green Line trolley came along. Jeffrey got on, feeling it was more prudent to keep moving.

Jeffrey took one of the seats oriented parallel to the car and balanced the briefcase on his knees. He could feel all of the packets of money that were in his pants, particularly the ones he was sitting on. As the trolley lurched forward, Jeffrey allowed his eyes to roam around the car.

Consistent with his experience on Boston subways, no one said a word.

Everyone stared ahead expressionlessly as if in a trance. Jeffrey's eyes met those of the other travelers who were sitting across from him. The people who sullenly returned his state made him feel transparent. He was amazed at how many of them in his mind looked as if they were criminals.

Closing his eyes, Jeffrey went over some of the material he'd just read, considering it in light of the experience he'd had with Patty Owen and

Chris's with Henry Noble. He'd been surprised by one piece of information about local anesthetics. Under a section marked "adverse reactions," he'd read that occasionally miotic or constricted pupils were seen. That was new to Jeffrey. Except for Patty Owen and Henry Noble, he'd never seen it clin- ically or read it before. There was no explanation of the physiological mechanism, and Jeffrey couldn't explain it. Then in the same article it was written that usually mydriasis, or enlargement, of the pupils was seen. At that point Jeffrey gave up the issue of pupillary size. It all didn't make much sense to him and only added to his confusion.

When the trolley suddenly plunged underground, the sound startled Jeffrey.

He opened his eyes in terror and let out a little gasp. He hadn't realized how jumpy he was. He began to take deep, steady breaths in order to calm himself

After a minute or two, Jeffrey's thoughts returned to the cases. He realized there was another similarity between the Noble and Owen cases that he'd not considered. Henry Noble had been paralyzed for the week he'd lived. It was as if he'd had total irreversible spinal anesthesia. Since

Patty had died, Jeffrey had no idea if she would have suffered paralysis had she lived. But her baby had survived and did display marked residual paralysis. It had been assumed that the baby's paralysis stemmed from a lack of oxygen to his brain, but now Jeffrey wasn't so sure. The strange, asymmetric distribution had always troubled him. Maybe this paralysis was an additional clue, one that might be of use in identifying a contaminant.

Jeffrey got off the subway at Park Street and climbed the

stairs. Giving wide berth to several policemen, he hurried down Winter

Street, leaving the crowded Park Street area behind. As he walked, he thought more seriously about getting back into Boston Memorial Hospital now that he'd done his reading.

The idea of becoming part of the housekeeping staff had a lot of merit except for one problem: to apply for a job he'd need to provide some sort of identification as well as a valid social security number. In this day of computers, Jeffrey knew he couldn't expect to get by by making one up.

He was wrestling with the problem of identification when he turned onto the street where the Essex Hotel stood. Half a block away from the liquor store, which was still open, he paused. A vision of the man in the tattered suit came back to him. The two of them had been about the same height and age.

Crossing the street, Jeffrey approached the empty lot next to the liquor store. A strategically placed streetlamp threw a good deal of light into the area. About a quarter of the way into the lot there was a concrete overhang sticking out of one of the bordering buildings that looked like it could have been an old loading dock. Beneath it Jeffrey could make out a number of figures, some sitting, some passed out on the ground.

Stopping and listening, Jeffrey could hear conversation. Overpowering any misgivings, he started toward the group. Stepping gingerly on a bed of broken bricks, Jeffrey approached the overhang. A fetid odor of unwashed humans assaulted his senses. The conversation stopped. A number of rheumy eyes regarded him suspiciously in the semidarkness.

Jeffrey felt he was an intruder in another world. With rising anxiety, he searched for the man in the tattered suit, moving his eyes quickly from one dark figure to the next. What would he do if these men suddenly sprang at him?

Jeffrey saw the man he was looking for. He was one of the men sitting in the semicircle. Forcing himself forward, Jeffrey approached closer. No one spoke. There was an electric charge of expectation in the air as if a spark could cause an explosion. Every eye was now following Jeffrey. Even some of the people who'd been lying down were now sitting up, staring at him.

"Hello," Jeffrey said limply when he was in front of the man. The man didn't move. Nor did anyone else. "Remember me?" Jeffrey asked. He felt foolish, but he couldn't think of what else to say. "I gave you some change an hour or so ago. Back there, in front of the liquor store." Jeffrey pointed over his shoulder.

The man didn't respond.

"I thought maybe you could use a little more," Jeffrey said. He reached into his pocket, and pushing away the packet of hundred-dollar bills, pulled out some change and several smaller bills. He extended the change.

The man reached forward and took the coins.

"Thanks, buddy," he managed, trying to see the coins in the darkness.

"I've got more," Jeffrey said. "In fact, I've got a five-dollar bill here, and I'm willing to bet that you're so drunk, you can't remember your social security number."

"Whaddya mean?" the man mumbled as he struggled to his feet. Two of the other men followed suit. The man Jeffrey was interested in swayed as if he were about to fall, but caught himself. He appeared drunker than he'd been earlier. "It's 139-321560. That's my social security number."

"Oh, sure!" Jeffrey said with a wave of dismissal. "You just made that up."

"The hell I did!" the man said indignantly. With a sweeping gesture that almost knocked him off his feet, he reached for his wallet. He staggered again, struggling to lift the wallet from his trouser pocket. After he got it out, he fumbled to remove not a Social Security card, but his driver's license. He dropped the wallet in the process. Jeffrey bent down to pick it up. He noticed there was no money in it.

"Lookit right here!" the man said. "Just like I said."

Jeffrey handed him the wallet and took the license. He couldn't see the number but that wasn't the point. "My word, I guess you were right," he said after he pretended to study it. He handed over the five-dollar bill, which the man grabbed eagerly. But one of the other men grabbed it out of his hand.

"Gimme that back!" the man yelled.

Another of the men had advanced behind Jeffrey. Jeffrey reached into his pocket and pulled out more coins. "There's some for everybody," he said as he tossed them on the ground. They clinked against the broken brick. There was a rush as everyone but Jeffrey dropped to his hands and knees in the darkness. Jeffrey took advantage of the diversion to turn and run as quickly as he dared across the rubble-strewn lot toward the street.

Back in his hotel room, he propped the license up on the edge of the sink and compared his image to that of the photo on the license. The nose was completely different. Nothing could be done about that. Yet if he darkened his hair and combed it

straight back with some gel the way he'd thought he would, and if he added some black-framed glasses, maybe it would work. But at the very least, he had a valid social security number associated with a real name and address: Frank Amendola, of 1617 Sparrow Lane, Framingham, Massachusetts.

WEDNESDAY,

MAY 17, 1989

6:15 A.M.

Trent Harding wasn't due to start work until seven, but at sixfifteen he was already pulling off his street clothes in the locker room off the surgical lounge of St. Joseph's Hospital. From where he was standing, he had a straight shot to the sinks and he could see himself in the over-the-basin mirrors. He flexed his arm and neck muscles so that they bulged. He hunched over slightly to check their definition. Trent liked what he saw.

Trent went to his health club at least four times a week to use the

Nautilus equipment to the point of exhaustion. His body was like a piece of sculpture. People noticed and admired it, Trent was sure. Yet he wasn't satisfied. He thought he could stand to beef up his biceps a bit more. On his legs, his quads could use tightening. He planned to concentrate on both in the coming weeks.

Trent was in the habit of arriving early, but on this particular morning, he was earlier than usual. In his excitement he'd awakened before his alarm and could not go back to sleep, so he'd decided to get to work early.

Besides, he liked to take his time. There was something unbelievably exhilarating about placing one of his doctored Marcaine ampules in the

Marcaine supply. It gave him shivers of pleasure-like planting a time bomb.

He was the only one who knew about the imminent danger. He was the one who controlled it.

After he'd gotten into his scrub outfit, Trent glanced around him. A few people who were going off shift had come into the locker room. One was in the shower singing a Stevie Wonder tune; another was in one of the toilet stalls; and a third was at his locker well out of sight.

Trent reached into the pocket of his white hospital jacket and pulled out the doctored ampule of Marcaine. Palming it in case

someone unexpectedly appeared, Trent slipped it into his briefs. It felt cold and uncomfortable at first; he grimaced as he adjusted it. Then he closed his locker and started walking toward the lounge area.

In the surgical lounge, fresh coffee was softly perking, filling the room with its pleasant aroma. Nurses, nurse anesthetists, a few doctors, and orderlies were gathered there. Soon they'd be going off shift. There were no emergency cases in progress, and all the preparations for the day's schedule for which the night shift was responsible were complete. The room rang with happy conversation.

No one acknowledged Trent, nor did he try to say hello to anyone. Most of the staff didn't recognize him since he was not a member of the night shift. Trent passed through the lounge and entered the OR area itself. No one was at the main scheduling desk. The huge blackboard was already chalked with the upcoming day's schedule. Trent paused briefly, scanning the big board for two things: to see which room he was assigned to for the day and to see if there were any spinal or epidural cases scheduled. To his delight there was a handful. Another shiver of excitement went down his spine. Having a number of such cases meant there was a good chance his

Marcaine would be used that very day.

Trent continued down the main OR corridor and turned into Central Supply, which was conveniently located in the middle of the OR area. The operating room complex at St. Joe's was shaped like the letter U with the ORs lining the outside of the U and Central Supply occupying the interior.

Moving with a sense of purpose, as if he were heading into Central Supply to get a setup pack for one of the ORs, Trent took a loop around the whole area. As usual, no one was there. There was always a hiatus between six-fifteen and six forty-five when Central Supply was unoccupied.

Satisfied, Trent went directly into the section that housed the IV fluids and the nonnarcotic and uncontrolled drugs. He did not have to search for the local anesthetics. He'd scouted them out long ago.

With one more quick glance around, Trent reached for an open pack of 30 cc.5% Marcaine. Deftly he raised the lid. There were three ampules remaining in the box where there originally had been five. Trent exchanged one of the good ampules for the one in his briefs. He winced again. It was surprising how cold room temperature glass could feel. He closed the lid of the Marcaine box and carefully slid it back into its original position.

Again Trent glanced around Central Supply. No one had appeared. He looked back at the box of Marcaine. Once more an almost sensual excitement rippled through his body. He'd done it again, and no one would ever have a clue. It was so damned easy, and depending on the OR schedule and a little luck, the vial would be used soon, maybe even that morning.

For a brief moment, Trent thought about removing the other two good vials from the box just to speed things up. Now that the vial was placed, he was impatient to enjoy the chaos it would cause. But he decided against removing the other vials. He'd never taken any chances in the past, and it wasn't a good time to start. What if someone was keeping track of how many vials of Marcaine were on hand?

Trent emerged from Central Supply and headed back to his locker to tuck away the ampule that was now in his briefs. Then he'd get himself a nice cup of coffee. Later that afternoon, if nothing had happened, he'd return to Central Supply to see if the doctored vial had been taken. If it was used that day, he'd know about it soon enough. News of a major complication spread like wildfire in the OR suite.

In his mind's eye, Trent could see the vial resting so innocently in the box. It was a kind of Russian roulette. He felt a stirring of sexual excitement. He hurried into the locker room, trying to contain himself. If only it could be Doherty who'd get it, thought Trent. That would make it perfect.

Trent's jaw tightened as he thought of the anesthesiologist. The man's name re-ignited his anger from the previous day's humiliation. Arriving at his locker, Trent gave it a resounding thump with his open palm. A few people looked in his direction. Trent ignored them. The irony was that before the humiliating episode, Trent had liked Doherty. He'd even been nice to the jerk.

Angrily, Trent twirled his combination lock and got his locker door open.

Pressing in against it, he slipped the ampule of Marcaine from his shorts and eased it into the pocket of his white jacket hanging within the locker.

Maybe he'd have to make some special arrangements for Doherty.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Jeffrey closed the door to his room at the Essex

Hotel. It Was just after eleven in the morning. He'd been on the go since nine-thirty when he left the hotel to do some shopping. Every moment he'd been terrified of being discovered by an acquaintance, Devlin, or the police. He'd seen several po-

lice officers, but he'd avoided any direct confrontation. Even so, it had been a nerve-racking venture.

Jeffrey put his packages and his briefcase on the bed and opened the smallest bag. Among its contents was a hair rinse. The color was called

Midnight Black. Taking off his clothes, Jeffrey went directly into the bathroom and followed the directions on the box. By the time he put the styling gel in his hair and brushed it straight back from his forehead, he looked like a different person. He thought he looked like a used car salesman or like someone out of a 1930s movie. Comparing his image with the small photo on the license, he thought he could pass for Frank Amendola if no one looked too closely. And he still wasn't finished.

Back in the bedroom, Jeffrey opened the larger of the packages and took out a new dark blue polyester suit he'd bought in Filene's Basement and had altered at Pacifici of Boston. Mike, the head tailor, had been happy to do the alterations while Jeffrey waited. Jeffrey didn't have much done to the suit because he didn't want it to fit too well. In fact, he had to resist some of Mike's suggestions.

Going back to his parcels, Jeffrey pulled out several white shirts and a couple of unattractive ties. He put on one of the shirts and a tie, then slipped on the suit. Finally he searched through the bags until he found a pair of dark-rimmed protective glasses. After he put them on, he returned to the bathroom mirror. Again he compared his image with the photo on the license. In spite of himself, he had to smile. From a general point of view, he looked terrible. In terms of looking like Frank Amendola, he looked reasonably good. It surprised him how little facial features mattered in generating an overall impression.

One of the other parcels contained a new duffel bag with a shoulder strap and a half-dozen compartments. Jeffrey transferred the packets of money to these. He'd felt conspicuous carrying the briefcase with him and was afraid it might be a way for the police to recognize him. He even guessed it might be mentioned as part of his description.

Going back to the briefcase, Jeffrey took out a syringe and the vial of succinylcholine. Having worried all morning about Devlin suddenly appearing as he had at the airport, Jeffrey had come up with an idea. He carefully drew up 40 mg of succinylcholine in the syringe, then capped it. He put the syringe in the side pocket of his jacket. He wasn't sure how he would use the

succinylcholine, but it was there just in case. It was more of a psychological support than anything else.

With his plano glasses on and his duffel bag over his shoulder, Jeffrey took one last glance around his room, wondering if he was forgetting anything. He was hesitant to leave because he knew the moment he stepped out of the room, the anxiety of being recognized would return. But he wanted to get into Boston Memorial Hospital, and the only way that was going to happen was if he went over there and applied for a housekeeping job.

Devlin rudely shoved his way out of the elevator on his way to Michael

Mosconi's office without giving the other passengers time to get out of his way. He got perverse pleasure out of provoking the people, especially men in business suits, and he half hoped one of them would try to be a gallant hero.

Devlin was in a foul mood. He'd been awake for most of the night, uncomfortably propped up in the front seat of his car watching the Rhodes's house. He'd fully expected Jeffrey to come sneaking home in the middle of the night. Or at the very least, he expected Carol to leave suddenly. But nothing happened until just after eight in the morning, when Carol came out of the garage like the Green Hornet in her Mazda RX7 and left a patch of rubber in the middle of the street.

With great difficulty and not very high hopes, Devlin had followed Carol through the morning traffic. She drove like an Indy 500 driver, the way she weaved in and out of the traffic. She led him all the way downtown, but she'd merely gone to her office on the twenty-second floor of one of the newer office buildings. Devlin decided to give up on her for the time being. He needed more information on Jeffrey to decide what to do next.

"Well?" Michael asked expectantly as Devlin came through the door.

Devlin didn't answer immediately, which he knew would drive Michael crazy.

The guy was always so wound up. Devlin dropped onto the vinyl couch that faced Michael's desk and put his cowboy boots on top of the small coffee table. "Well what?" he said irritably.

"Where's the doctor?" He thought Devlin was about to tell him he'd already delivered Rhodes to the jailhouse.

:'Beats me," Devlin said.

'What does that mean?" There was still a chance Devlin was teasing him.

"I think it's pretty clear," Devlin said.

"It might be clear for you, but it's not clear to me," Michael said..

"I don't know where the little bastard is," Devlin finally admitted.

"For chrissake!" Michael said, throwing up his hands in disgust. "You told me you'd get the guy, no problem. You gotta find him! This is no longer a joke."

"He never showed up at home," Devlin said.

"Damn, damn, damn!" Michael said with progressive panic. His swivel chair squeaked as he tipped forward and stood up. "I'm going to be out of business."

Devlin frowned. Michael was more wound up than usual. This missing doctor was really getting to him. "Don't worry," he told Michael. "I'll find him.

What else do you know about him?"

"Nothing!" Michael yelled. "I told you everything I know."

"You haven't told me squat," Devlin said. "What about other family, things like that? What about friends?"

"I'm telling you, I don't know anything about the guy," Michael admitted.

"All I did was an 0 and.E on his house. And you know something else? The bastard screwed me there too. This morning I got a call from Owen Shatterly at the bank, telling me he just learned Jeffrey Rhodes had upped his mortgage before my lien was filed. Now even the collateral doesn't cover the bond."

Devlin laughed.

"What the hell's so funny?" Michael demanded.

Devlin shook his head. "It tickles me that this little piss-ant doctor is causing so much trouble."

"I fail to find anything about this funny," Michael said. "Owen also told me that the doctor took the forty-five thousand he'd upped his mortgage in cash."

"Geez, no wonder the guy's briefcase hurt," Devlin said with a smile. "I've never been hit with that kind of dough."

"Very funny," Michael snapped. "The trouble is that the situation is going from bad to worse. Thank God for my friend Albert Norstadt down at police headquarters. The police weren't going to do a goddamn thing until he got involved."

"They think Rhodes is still in town?" Devlin questioned.

"As far as I know," Michael said. "They haven't been doing much, but at least they've been covering the airport, bus and train stations, rent-a-car agencies, and even taxi companies."

"That's plenty," Devlin, said. He certainly didn't want the police to catch Jeffrey. "If he's in town, I'll find him in the next day or so. If he's skipped, it will take a little longer, but I'll get him. Relax."

"I want him found today!" Michael said, working himself up into a renewed frenzy. He started to pace behind his desk. "If you can't find the bastard,

I'll bring in some other talent."

"Now hold on," Devlin said, bringing his legs off the coffee table and sitting up. He didn't want anybody else homing in on this job. "I'm doing the best anybody could do. I'll find the guy, no sweat."

"I want him now, not next year," Michael said.

"Relax. It's only been twelve hours," Devlin said.

"What the hell are you sitting around here for?" Michael snapped. "With forty-five grand in his pocket, he's not going to hang around forever. I want you to go back to the airport and see if you can pick up his trail from there. He had to get into town somehow. He sure as hell didn't walk.

Get your ass out there and talk to the MBTA people. Maybe somebody will re- member a skinny guy with a mustache and a briefcase."

"I think it's better to cover the wife," Devlin said.

"They didn't strike me as being so lovey-dovey," Michael said. "I want you to try the airport. If you don't, I'll send someone else."

"All right, all right!" Devlin said, getting to his feet. "If you want me to try the airport, I'll try the airport."

"Good," Michael said. "And keep me informed."

Devlin let himself out of Michael's office. His mood had not improved.

Normally he'd never let someone like Michael tell him how to do his job, but in this instance, he thought he'd better humor the man. The last thing he wanted was competition. Especially on this job. The only trouble was that now that he had to go to the airport, he'd have to hire someone to follow the wife and watch the house. As Devlin waited for the elevator, he thought about whom he could call.

Jeffrey paused on the broad steps of Boston Memorial's entrance to marshal his courage. Despite his efforts at disguise, he was apprehensive now that he had reached the hospital's threshold. He was worried he'd be recognized by the first person who knew him.

He could even imagine their words: "Jeffrey Rhodes, is that you? What are you doing, going to a masquerade ball? We heard the police are looking for you, is that true? Sorry about your

being convicted of second-degree murder. Sure does prove it's getting harder and harder to practice medicine in Massachusetts."

Taking a step back and switching his duffel bag to the other shoulder,

Jeffrey tipped his head to look up at the Gothic details over the lintel of the front entrance. There was a plaque that read: THE BOSTON MEMORIAL

HOSPITAL ERECTED AS A HOUSE OF REFUGE FOR THE SICK, INFIRM, AND TROUBLED.

He wasn't sick or infirm, but he was certainly troubled. The longer he hesitated, the harder it was to go inside. He was locked in indecision when he spotted Mark Wilson.

Mark was a fellow anesthesiologist whom Jeffrey knew well. They'd trained together at the Memorial. Jeffrey had been a year ahead. Mark was a large black man whose own mustache had always made Jeffrey's appear sparse by comparison; it had always been a point of humor between them. Mark seemed to be enjoying the brisk spring day. He was approaching from Beacon Street, heading for the front entrance-and straight for Jeffrey.

It was the kick Jeffrey needed. In a panic, he went through the revolving door and into the main lobby. He was immediately swept up in a sea of people. The lobby served not only as an entrance but as the confluence of three main corridors that led to the hospital's three towers.

Fearing that Mark was on his heels, Jeffrey hurried around the circular information booth in the center of the domed lobby and walked down the central corridor. He figured Mark would be heading left to the bank of elevators that led to the OR complex.

Tense with fear of discovery, Jeffrey walked down the hall trying to appear casual. When he finally turned to glance behind him, Mark was nowhere in sight.

Although he'd been affiliated with the hospital for almost twenty years,

Jeffrey was not acquainted with anyone in personriel. Even so, he was wary when he entered the employment office and took the application a friendly clerk handed him. Just because he wasn't familiar with personnel staff didn't mean they weren't familiar with him.

He filled out the application, using Frank Amendola's name, social security number, and his Framingham address. In the section asking for work preference, Jeffrey indicated housekeeping. In the section asking for shift preference if applicable, he wrote "night." For references, JelTrey listed several hospitals where he'd visited for anesthesia meetings. It was his hope that it would

take time for personnel to follow up on the references, if followups were done at all. Between the high demand for hospital workers and the low wages offered, Jeffrey figured it was an applicant's market. He didn't think that his employment in a position in housekeeping would be predicated on a reference check.

After he handed in his completed application, Jeffrey was offered the choice of being interviewed immediately or having an interview scheduled for a future date. He said he'd be pleased to be interviewed at personnel's earliest convenience.

After a brief wait, he was ushered into Carl Bodanski's windowless office.

Bodanski was one of the Memorial's personnel officers. One wall of his small room was dominated by a huge board with hundreds of name tags hanging from small hooks. A calendar was on another wall. Double doors filled the third. It was all very neat and utilitarian.

Carl Bodanski was in his mid to late thirties. He had dark hair, a handsome face, and was neatly if not too stylishly dressed in a dull business suit.

Jeffrey realized he'd seen the man many times in the hospital cafeteria, but the two had never spoken. When Jeffrey entered, Bodanski was hunched over his desk.

"Please sit down," Bodanski said warmly, not yet looking up. Jeffrey could see that he was going over his application. When Bodanski finally turned his attention to Jeffrey, Jeffrey held his breath. He was afraid he'd see some sudden evidence of recognition. But he didn't. Instead, Bodanski asked

Jeffrey if he would care for anything to drink, coffee, maybe a Coke.

Jeffrey nervously declined. He studied Bodanski's face. Bodanski smiled in return.

"So you've worked in hospitals?"

"Oh, yes," Jeffrey answered. "Quite a bit." Jeffrey smiled weakly. He was starting to relax.

"And. you want to work the night shift in housekeeping?" Bodanski wanted to make sure there hadn't been a mistake. As far as he was concerned, this was too good to be true: an applicant for housekeeping's night shift who didn't look like a criminal or an illegal alien, and who spoke English.

"That's what I'd prefer," Jeffrey said. He realized it was a bit unexpected. On the spur of the moment he presented an explanation: "I'm planning on taking a few courses at Suffolk University during the day or perhaps evening. Have to support myself."

"What kind of courses?" Bodanski asked.

"Law," Jeffrey responded. It was the first subject that came to mind.

"Very ambitious. So you'll be going to law school for a number of years?"

"I hope to," Jeffrey said enthusiastically. He could see Bodanski's eyes had brightened. Besides recruitment, housekeeping had a problem of a high turnover rate, especially on the night shift. If Bodanski thought Jeffrey would stay for several years on nights, he'd think it was his lucky day.

"When would you be interested in starting?" Bodanski asked.

"As soon as possible," Jeffrey said. "As early as tonight."

"Tonight?" Bodanski repeated with disbelief. This was really too good to be true.

Jeffrey shrugged his shoulders. "I've just come to town and I need work.

Gotta eat."

"From Framingham?" Bodanski asked, glancing at the application.

"That's correct," Jeffrey said. He didn't want to get into any discussion about where he'd never been, so he said: "If Boston Memorial can't use me,

I can head over to St. Joseph's or Boston City."

"Oh, no. No need for that," Bodanski said quickly. "It's just that things take a little time. I'm sure you understand. You'll have to have a uniform and an ID card. Also there's some paperwork that has to be done before you can start."

"Well, here I am," Jeffrey said. "Why can't we just get it all over with right away?"

Bodanski paused for a beat, then said, "Just one moment." He got up from behind his desk and left the office.

Jeffrey stayed in his seat. He hoped he hadn't been too eager about starting so soon. He looked around Bodanski's office to pass the time.

There was a silver-framed photo on the desk: a woman standing behind two rosy-cheeked children. It was the only personal touch in the whole room, but a nice one, Jeffrey thought.

Bodanski returned with a short man with shiny black hair and a friendly smile. He was dressed in a dark green housekeeping uniform. Bodanski introduced him as Jose Martinez. Jeffrey stood up and shook the man's hand.

He'd seen Martinez many times. He watched the man's face as he had with

Bodanski, but could detect no sign of recognition.

"Jose is our head of housekeeping," Bodanski said, with a hand on

Martinez's shoulder. "I've explained to Jose your wish to get to work right away. Jose is willing to expedite the process, so I'll turn you over to him."