Side Effects

Friday 21 December

Like so many works of greatness, the formulas derived by William Zimmermann's father were elegant in their simplicity. Even without Zimmermann's help in translating the explanatory notes from the German, Arlen Paquette suspected he should have been able to follow the steps involved in the synthesis of the hormone Estronate 25 especially in the subbasement Omnicenter 7 laboratory, which was specifically equipped for the job. The message to call Cyrus Redding had been waiting at the front desk when Paquette returned to the Ritz from surreptitiously recording a conversation with Norton Reese during which the gloating administrator had incriminated himself and a technician named Pierce a number of times. The compact recorder still hooked to his belt, Paquette had entered the elevator to his floor. "I was beginning to think you had run away, " a man's voice said from behind. Startled, the chemist whirled.

It was Redding's bodyguard, a wiry, seemingly emotionless man whom Paquette had never heard called any name other than Nunes. "Why, hello,

" Paquette said, wishing he had stayed at the tavern on the way back for a third drink. "I just picked up a message from Mr. Redding, but it says to call him at the Darlington number. Is he-?"

"He's there, " Nunes said, showing nothing to dispel Paquette's image of a gunman whose loyalty to the pharmaceutical magnate had no limits.

"He's waiting for your call."

From that moment on, Paquette had barely been out of Nunes's sight. Now, in the bright fluorescence of the subbasement laboratory, Paquette glanced first at Zimmermann and then at Nunes and prayed that the forty-five minutes until eight-thirty would pass without incident. A deal had been struck between Redding and Zimmermann-money in exchange for a set of formulas. Redding had let him in on that much. However, the presence of the taciturn thug suggested that Redding anticipated trouble, or perhaps he had no intention of honoring his end of the bargain-quite possibly both. "Okay, that's seven minutes, " Zimmermann said, seconds before the mechanical timer rang out. "There's a shortcut my father used at this juncture, but I never did completely understand it. Dr. Paquette, I suggest you just go on to the next page and continue the steps in order. He performed these next reactions over in that corner, and he checked the purity of the distillate with that spectrophotometer."

Paquette nodded and moved around the slate work-bench to the area Zimmermann had indicated. The Omnicenter director was. neither biochemist nor genius, but he had observed his father at work enough to be able to oversee each step of the synthesis. And oversee he had-each maneuver and each microdrop of the way. The laboratory was quite remarkable. Hidden behind a virtually invisible, electronically controlled door, it had no less than three sophisticated spectrophotometers, each programmed to assess the consistency of the hormone at various stages of its synthesis and, through feedback mechanisms, to adjust automatically the chemical reaction where needed.

It was a small area, perhaps fifteen feet by thirty, but its designer had paid meticulous attention to the maximum use of space.

"Did your father design all this? " Paquette asked. "Be careful, Doctor, your reagent is beginning to overheat," Zimmermann said, ignoring the question as he had most others about his father. "Excuse me, but are you timing a reaction I don't know about?"

"No, why?"

"That's the third time you've looked at your watch in the past ten minutes. "Oh, that." Paquette hoped his laugh did not sound too nervous.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Nunes, seated on a tall stool at the end of the lab bench, adjust his position to hear better. "A habit dating back to high school, perhaps beyond, that's all."

He had made up his mind that there was no way he would complete the Estronate synthesis and turn the three notebooks over to Nunes.

That act, he suspected, would be his last. He and Zimmermann were not scripted to leave the laboratory alive. The more the evening had worn on, the more certain he had become of that. He glanced at the metal hand plate to the right of the entrance. Though unmarked, it had to be the means of opening the door. There were less than thirty minutes to go. If Kate Bennett had gotten his message, and if she had taken it seriously, she would be waiting, with help, in the storage area outside the laboratory. Paquette's plan was simple. At eight thirty-five, allowing five minutes for any delay on Bennett's part, he would announce the need to use the men's room. They had passed one a floor above on their way in. With surprise on their side, whatever muscle Bennett had brought with her should have a decent chance at overpowering Nunes. If there was no one in the storage room when the door slid open, he would have to improvise. There was one thing of which he was sure, once outside the laboratory, he was not going back in. God, but he wished he had a drink.

Traffic into the city was inordinately light for a Friday evening, and it was clear to Jared that barring any monstrous delays, he would make it to Metro with time to spare. Still, he used his horn and high beams to clear his way down Route 1. Risks. Bring help. There may be trouble.

With each mile, Arlen Paquette's warning grew in his thoughts. He had made a mistake in not ca! ling the Boston police before he left Essex.

He could see that now. Still, what would he have said? How lengthy an explanation would have been required? His father, he knew, could pick up the phone and with no explanation whatsoever have half a dozen officers waiting for him at the front door to the Omnicenter. Answers. Paquette had promised answers. Perhaps for Kate's sake it was worth swallowing his pride and anger and calling Winfield. Then he realized that the issue went far deeper than pride and anger. The man could not be trusted. Not now, not ever again. Bring help. Jared pulled off the highway and skidded to a stop by a bank of pay phones. It was seven forty-five. He was twenty minutes, twenty-five at the most, from the Omnicenter. There was still time to do something, but what? With no clear idea of what he was going to say, he called the Boston Police Department. "I'd-ah-I'd like to speak to Detective Finn, please, " he heard his own voice say. "Yes, that's right, Martin Finn. I'm sorry, I don't know what district. Four, maybe."

Finn. The thought, Jared saw now, had been in the back of his mind all along. Tough but fair, that's how his father had described the man. If that was the case, then it would take only the promise of some answers to get him to the Omnicenter. Finn was not at his desk. "Has he gone home for the night? " Jared asked of the officer who answered Finn's phone. "Well, does anyone know? "… "Samuels. Jared Samuels. I'm a lawyer. Detective Finn knows me. What is your name? "… "Well, please Sergeant, this is very urgent and there isn't much time. Could you see if you could get a message to Lieutenant Finn to meet me at eight-fifteen at the front entrance to the Omnicenter at Metropolitan Hospital? "… "That's right, in half an hour. And Sergeant, if you can't locate him, could you or some other officer meet me instead?"..

"I don't know if it's a matter of life or death or not. Listen, I don't have time to explain. Please, just try."

Jared hurried back to the Volvo, wishing he had more of an idea of who Arlen Paquette was or at least of what was awaiting him at the Omnicenter. It was exactly eight o'clock when he sped over the crest of a long upgrade and saw, ahead and to his right, the glittering tiara of Boston at night.] Perhaps it was the tension of the moment, perhaps the six hours since his last drink, whatever the reason, Arlen Paquette felt his hands beginning to shake and his concentration beginning to waver.

He pulled a gnarled handleerchief from his back pocket and dabbed at the cold sweat on his forehead and upper lip. It was only ten minutes past the hour. The hormone synthesis, which had proceeded flawlessly, was well over half completed. "Are you all right? " Zimmermann asked. "Fine, I'm fine, " Paquette said, clutching a beaker of ice water with two hands to keep its contents from sloshing about. "I… I'd like to talk with Mr. Nunes for a moment. Privately."

"Why? " Zimmermann asked with a defensiveness in his voice. "There's no problem with the procedure up to now. I assure you of that. You are doing an excellent job of following my father's notes. Just keep going.

"It's not that. Listen, I'll be right back. Nunes, " he whispered, his back turned to Zimmermann, "I need a drink."

"No booze until you finish this work. Mr. Redding's orders." As Nunes leaned forward to respond, the coat of his perfectly tailored suit fell away just enough for Paquette to see the holstered revolver beneath his left arm. Any doubt he harbored regarding his fate once the formulas were verified vanished. "Nunes, have a heart."

The gunman's only response was an impatient nod in the direction of the incomplete experiment. "Any problem? " Zimmermann called out. "No problem, " Nunes said as Paquette shuffled back. "Say, Dr. Zimmermann, where's the nearest john?"

Paquette slowed and listened. In less than twenty minutes he planned to ask the same question and wait for Nunes to open the door for him. Then an unexpected push from behind, and the man would be in the arms of the police. It was perfect, provided, of course, that Kate Bennett had gotten his message. William Zimmermann pointed to the wall behind the gunman. "See that recessed handle in the wall right under that shelf?

Just twist it and pull. Nunes did as he was instructed, and a three-foot-wide block of shelves pulled away from the wall, revealing a fairly large bathroom and stall shower. "Father had this obsession about hidden doorways and the like," Zimmermann said. His next sentence, if there was to be one, was cut off by the beaker of ice water, which slipped from Paquette's hands and shattered on the tile floor. Save for the security light in the front lobby, the Omnicenter was completely dark. Jared parked across the street and was beginning a walking inspection of the outside of the building when a blue and white patrol car pulled up. Martin Finn stepped out, looking in the gloom like a large block of granite with a homberg perched on top. Even at a distance, Jared could sense the man's impatience and irritation. I got your message, " Finn said, with no more greeting than that. What's going on? " Behind him, a uniformed officer remained at the wheel of the cruiser. The engine was still running "Thanks for coming so quickly,"

Jared said. "I… didn't know "Well?"

Jared checked the time. There were thirteen minutes. "My wife is in Henderson Hospital. Someone tried to run her down with a car earlier today while she was jogging." Finn said nothing. "She's had to have surgery, but she's going to be okay." Still nothing. "She couldn't speak much, but she said it was Dr. Zimmermann, the head of the Omnicenter, who tried to run her down and then chased her with a tire wrench."

"William Zimmermann?"

"Yes. Do you know him?"

Finn looked at him icily. "He delivered my daughter."

Inwardly, Jared groaned. "Well, he was involved in something illegal, possibly in connection with one of the big pharmaceutical houses. Kate discovered what was going on, so he tried to kill her."

"But he missed." There was neither warmth nor the slightest hint of belief in the man's voice. "Yes, he missed." Jared swallowed back his mounting anger. There was far too much at stake and hardly time for an argument. When I returned home from the hospital a short while ago, there was a message on our answering machine for Kate from a man named Arlen Paquette. I think he works for the drug house. He asked that she meet him here, in the subbasement of this building, and that she bring help. That's why I called you. I suspect that Zimmermann is in the middle of all this and that he's in there right now."

"In there? " Finn gestured at the darkened building. "He said the subbasement."

"Mr. Samuels, Dr. Zimmermann's office is on the third floor. On the corner, right up there. I've been there several times. Now what on earth would he be doing in the subbasement?"

"I… I don't know." There were eleven minutes. "Look, Lieutenant, the man said exactly eight-thirty. There isn't much time."

"So you want me to go busting into a locked hospital building, looking to nail my wife's obstetrician, because you got some mysterious message on your telephone answering machine?"

"If the doors are all locked, we can get in through the tunnels. We don't have to break in. Dammit, Lieutenant, my wife was almost killed today. Do you think she's lying about the broken bones and the punctured lung?"

"No, " Finn said. "Only about everything else. Mr. Samuels, I had a chance to do some checking up on your wife. She's in hot water with just about everyone in the city, it seems. Word has it she's just been fired for screwing up here at the hospital, too. Face it, counselor, you've got a sick woman on your hands. You need help, all right, but not the "Then you won't come with me? " Jared could feel himself losing control "Mr. Samuels, because of your wife, I still have enough egg on my face to make a fucking omelet. I'll file a report if you want me to, and even get a warrant if you can give me some hard facts to justify that. But no commando stuff. Now if I were you, I'd just go on home and see about lining up some professional help for your woman.› Before he could even weigh the consequences, Jared hit the man-a roundhouse punch that landed squarely on the side of Finn's face and sent him spinning down into a pile of plowed snow. Instantly, the uniformed officer was out of the cruiser, his hand on the butt of his service revolver Finn, a trickle of blood forming at the corner of his mouth, waved him off. "No, Jackie," he said. "It's all right. The counselor, here, felt he had a score to settle with me, and he just settled it." He pushed himself to his feet, still shaking off the effects of the blow. "Now, counselor, you just get the fuck out of my sight. If I hear of any trouble involving you tonight, I'm going to bust your ass from here to Toledo. Clear?"

Jared glared at the detective. "You're wrong, Finn. About my wife, about refusing to help me, about everything. You don't know how goddamn wrong you are."

He glanced at his watch, then turned and raced down the block toward the main entrance to the hospital and the stairway that would lead to the Omnicenter tunnel. There were less than five minutes left. Visiting hours had ended. The hospital was quiet. Jared crossed the lobby as quickly as he dared without calling attention to himself and hurried down the nearest staircase. Although he used the dreary tunnels infrequently, he distinctly remembered seeing a sign indicating that the Omnicenter had been tacked onto the system. But where?

The tunnel was deserted, and it seemed even less well lighted than usual. A caravan of stretchers lined one wall, interspersed with empty, canvas industrial laundry hampers. On the wall Opposite was a wooden sign with arrows indicating the direction to various buildings. The bottom three names, almost certainly including the Omnicenter, were obscured by a mixture of grime and graffiti. Kate had once told him that it took a special kind of character to love working at Metro, intimating that the spirit of the hospital staff and the loyalty of many Of its patients were somehow bound to the physical shortcomings of the placethe concept, like so much else about his wife, was something Jared realized he would have to work a little harder at understanding. His often far from dependable sense of direction urged him toward the right. There was no time to question the impulse. His footsteps echoing off the cement floor and walls, Jared raced that way, instinctively casting about for something he could use as a weapon and at the same time, cursing his failure to obtain help. His sense, this time at least, was on the mark.

The spur leading to the Omnicenter was fifty yards away. It was exactly eight-thirty. The darkened passageway was illuminated only by the dim glow from the main tunnel. Sprinting head down, Jared caught a glimpse of the metal security gate only an instant before he hit it. The gate, an expanded version of the sort used to child-proof stairways, was pulled across the tunnel and bolted to the opposite wall Stunned, he dropped to one knee, pawing at the spot JUST above his right eye that had absorbed most of the impact. Then he sank to all fours. If timing was as critical as Arlen Paquette's message had made it sound, he was beaten. The gate, with no space below, and less than a foot on top, was solid. Exhausted and exasperated, Jared hauled himself up, grabbed the metal slats, and like a caged animal, rattled them mercilessly. I'm sorry, Katey, was all he could think. I'm sorry I fucked up everything so badly. "Just hold it right there, son, and turn around very slowly Jared froze, his hands still tight around the gate. "I've got a gun pointed in your general direction, so don't you go getting too rattled or too adventurous."

Jared did as he was told. Thirty or forty feet away, silhouetted by the light from behind him, was a night watchman. "Who are you? What are you doin' down here? " the man demanded. "Please, you've got to help me!"

Jared took a few steps forward. "That'll be far enough. Now how can I go about helpin' you, young man, if I don't even know who in the hell you are?"

Jared forced himself to calm down. "My name is Samuels. My wife is a doctor on the staff here. Dr. Bennett. Dr. Kathryn Bennett. Do you know her?"

The night watchman lowered his revolver. "You the lawyer?"

"Yes. Yes, I am. Listen, you've got to help me." He approached the watchman, who this time made no attempt to stop him. "Do I, now, " the man said. His khaki uniform appeared a size, perhaps two, too big for him. A shock of gray hair protruded from beneath his cap. Even with the revolver, he was hardly a menacing figure. "Please, Mister-"

"Macfarlane. Walter Macfarlane. Known your wife for years-even before you were married to her."

"Well, Mr. Macfarlane, my wife's in a hospital on the North Shore right now. Someone tried to run her down. We know who, but not why. A few hours ago, a man called and promised me answers if I would meet him in the Omnicenter subbasement right now."

"Subbasement?"

"Yes. He said to bring help because there might be trouble, but there just wasn't enough time for me to get any."

"You sure it's the subbasement? That's the level beneath this one.

Ain't nothin' down there but a bunch of cartons and spare cylinders of "Ai, I know is what he said. Please. It's already past time."

"That Kate has been gettin' herself into some kinds of trouble lately."

"I know. Please, Mr. Mac-"

"People talk and talk. You know how it is. Well I'll tell you something, mister. They have their thoughts and I have mine. Ten years I've walked that woman to her car when she stayed until late at night. Ten years.

She's class, I tell you. Pure class."

"Then you'll help me?"

Walter Macfarlane sorted a key out from the huge ring on his belt and opened the security gate. "If it'll help straighten things out for Dr Bennett, count me in, " he said. + i Arlen Paquette was terrified. There was no way out of the laboratory except past the killer, Nunes, and yet to stay, to complete the Estronate synthesis meant, he was convinced, to die. It was twenty-five minutes to nine. As yet there had not been even the faintest sound from beyond the electronically controlled door. Kate Bennett either had not received his message or had disregarded it.

Either way, he was on his own.

Desperately, he tried to sort out the situation and his options There was no way he could buy time by claiming the procedure was inaccurate.

Zimmermann was watching his every step. Could he somehow enlist Zimmermann's help in overpowering Nunes? Doubtful. No, worse than doubtful, impossible. Nunes had already shown him the money, packed neatly in a briefcase that now rested on the benchtop. Zimmermann's expression had been that of a starving wolf discovering a trapped hare.

"Anything the matter? " Zimmermann asked, indicating that once again Paquette was dawdling. "No! " Paquette snapped. "And I want you off my back. It's my responsibility to verify these formulas, and I'll take all the time I need to do the job right."

At the far end of the lab, Nunes adjusted his position to keep a better eye on the two of them. Suddenly he waved to get their attention and placed a silencing finger over his lips. With his other hand, he pointed to the door. Someone was outside. With the sure, fluid movements of a professional, he slid the revolver from its holster and flattened himself against the wall beside the door. Paquette decided that he had but one option-and not a very appealing one. He had been a wrestler during his freshman and sophomore years in high school, but had never been that good and, in fact, had been grateful when a neck injury forced him to quit. Since that times he had never had a fight in any physical sense with anyone. Nunes wvas taller than he by perhaps two inches and certainly more experienced but he had surprise and desperation on his side. Separated from the gunman by one of the spectrophotometers and a tangle of sophisticated glass distillation tubing, Paquette eased his1. way along the slate-topped work bench until he was no more than ten feet from him. For several seconds, all was quiet. Then he heard muffled voices, at least two of them, from the storage room beyond the door. He strained to pick up their conversation, but could make out only small snatches. Nunes, that much closer, was probably hearing more. Paquette wondered if those outside the door had mentioned his name. If so, and if Nunes had heard, it was the final nail in his coffin. The voices grew less distinct. Had they just moved away, or were they leaving, Paquette wondered. Even if they were to discover the door — and that was most unlikely-there was no way they could locate and activate the coded electronic key. Carefully, Paquette slid the final few feet to the end of the laboratory bench. Zimmermann was a good twenty-five feet away-far enough to keep him from interfering. Paquette gauged the distance and then focused on his two objectives, Nunes's gun and the electronic plate on the right side of the door. A single step, and he hurled himself at the man, grasping his gun arm at the wrist with both his hands and spinning against the metal plate. The door slid open, and Paquette caught a glimpse of a uniformed man fumbling for the pistol holstered at his hip. There was a second figure behind the man, whom he recognized as Kate Bennett's husband. In that moment, Nunes freed his hand and whipped Paquette viciously across the face with the barrel of his revolver. Paquette dropped to his knees, clutching at the pain and at the blood spurting from his cheek and temple. "All right, mister, drop it! Right now, right there!"

Walter Macfarlane stood in the doorway, his heavy service revolver leveled at Nunes, whose own gun was a foot or so out of position. Nunes froze, his head turned, ever so slightly, toward the intruder. From his position four feet behind and to the left of Macfarlane, Jared could see the gunman's expression clearly. He seemed placid, composed, and totally confident. Back up! Get away from him! Before Jared could verbalize the warning, the gunman was in action. He flicked his revolver far enough away to draw Macfarlane's eyes and then lunged out of the watchman's line of fire and up beneath his arm. Macfarlane's revolver discharged with a sharp report. The bullet splintered several glass beakers, ricocheted off a wall, and then impacted with a large can of ether on the shelf behind William Zimmermann. The can exploded, the blast shattering most of the glassware in the room. Jared watched in horror as Zimmermann's hair and the skin on the back of his scalp were instantly seared away, his clothes set ablaze. "Help! " he shrieked, reeling away-from the wall. "Oh, God, someone help me!"

He flailed impotently at the tongues of flame that were darting upward through the crotch of his trousers and igniting his shirt. His struggles sent a shelf of chemicals crashing to the floor. There was a second explosion. Zimmermann's right arm disappeared at the elbow.

Still, he stayed on his feet, lurching in purposeless circles, staring at the bloody remains of his upper arm, and screaming again and again. A third blast, from just to his left, sent his body, now more corpse than man, hurtling across the slate tabletop, through what remained of the glassware. Zimmermann's screeching ended abruptly as he toppled over the edge of the table and onto Arlen Paquette. The chemist, though shielded from the force of the explosion by the counter, was far too dazed from the blow he had absorbed to react. Macfarlane and Nunes both went down before the blast of heat and flying glass. Jared, still outside the laboratory door, was knocked backward, but managed to keep his feet. He stumbled to the doorway, trying frantically to assess the situation.

Intensely colored flames were breaking out along the benchtops, filling the air with thick, fetid smoke. To his right, Walter Macfarlane and the gunman lay amidst shards of glass. The side of the watchman's face looked as if it had been mauled by a tiger. Both men were moving, though without much purpose. To his left there was also movement. The man he assumed was Arlen Paquette was trying, ineffectually, to extricate himself from beneath the charred body of William Zimmermann. Crawling to avoid the billows of toxic smoke, Jared made his way to Zimmermann, grabbed the corpse by its belt and the front of its smoldering shirt and heaved it onto its back. "Paquette? " Jared gasped. "Are you Paquette?"

The man nodded weakly and pawed at the blood-his and Zimmermann's-that was obscuring his vision. "Notebooks, " he said. "Get the notebooks."

Jared batted at the few spots on Paquette's clothing that were still burning, pulled him to a sitting position, and leaned him against the wall. The fumes and smoke were worsening around them "I've got to get you out of here. Can you understand that?"

Paquette's head lolled back. "Notebooks, " he said again Jared glanced about. On the floor beneath Zimmermann's heel was a black looseleaf notebook. He tucked the book under his arm and then began dragging Paquette toward the doorway. Several times, glass cut through Jared's pants and into his leg. Once he slipped, slicing a flap off n off the edge of his hand. The wooden cabinets and shelves had gun to blaze, making the room unbearably hot. Paquette was making the task of moving him from the room harder clawing at Jared, at one point getting his hand entangled in Jared's "For Christ's sake, let go of me, Paquette, " Jared shouted. "I'm trying to get you out of here. Can you understand that?

I'm trying to get The smoke was blinding. His eyes tearing and nearly closed, Jared hunched low, breathe through his parka, and with great effort, pulled Paquette's arm over his shoulder, hauling the man to his feet. Together they staggered from the lab. Jared was about to set Paquette down against a wall in order to return for Macfarlane when he remembered the oxygen. There were thirty or forty large green cylinders bunched in the far corner of the storage area. They possessed, he suspected, enough explosive potential to level a good portion of the building.

"Paquette, " he hollered, "I'm going to help you up the stairs. Then you've got to get down the tunnel and as far away from here as possible.

Do you understand? " Paquette nodded. "Can you support any more of your own weight?"

"I can tly." Paquette, his face a mask of blood, forced the words out between coughs. One arduous step at a time, the two made their way up to the landing on the basement level. Acrid chemical smoke, which had largely filled the storage area below, drifted up the stairway around them. "Okay, we're here, " Jared said loudly. "I've got to go back down there. You head that way, through the tunnel. Understand? Good.

Here, take your book with you and just keep going." He shoved the notebook into the man's hands. At that instant, from below, there was a sharp explosion. Then another. Jared watched as Paquette lurched away from him and then pitched heavily to the floor, blood pouring from a wound on the side of his neck. Jared dropped to one knee beside the man, surprised and confused by what was happening. "Paquette!"

"Notebook… Kate…" were all Paquette could manage before a torrent of blood sealed his words and closed his eyes. It was then Jared realized the man had been shot, that the explosions he had heard were from a gun, not from the lab. He turned at the moment Nunes fired at him from the base of the stairs. The bullet tore through his right thigh and caromed off the floor and wall behind him. The man, blackened by smoke and bleeding from cuts about his face, leveled the revolver for another shot. Distracted by the burning pain in his leg, Jared barely reacted in time to drop out of the line of fire. Behind him and from the mouth of the tunnel, alarms had begun to wail. Below him, the man had started up the stairs through the billowing smoke. Notebook… Kate… Jared plucked the black notebook from beside Arlen Paquette's body, tucked it under his arm like a footba and in a gait that was half hop and half sprint, raced down the tunnel toward the main hospital. Zimmermann, Paquette, and probably Walter Macfarlane as well, all dead, quite possibly because he had gone to the subbasement rendezvous without enough help. The distressing thought took his mind off the pain as he pushed on past the security gate. Paquette had promised answers for Kate, and now he was dead. Silently, Jared cursed himself. A gunshot echoed through the tunnel. Hunching over to diminish himself as a target, Jared limped on, weaving from side to side across the tunnel, and wondering if the evasive maneuver was worth the ground he was losing. The main tunnel was less than thirty yards away. There would be people there-help-if only he could make it. Another shot rang out, louder than the last. The bullet, fired, Jared realized now, from Macfarlane's heavy service revolver, snapped through the sleeve of his parka and clattered off the cement floor. He stumbled, nearly falling, and slammed into the far wall of the main tunnel "Help, " he screamed.

"Somebody help! " The dim tunnel was deserted. A moment later he was shot again, the bullet impacting just above his left buttock, spinning him a full three hundred and sixty degrees, and sending white pain lancing down his leg and up toward his shoulder blade. He tumbled to one knee, but just as quickly pulled himself up again, clutching the notebook to his chest and rolling along the wall of the tunnel.

Somewhere in the distance he could hear another series of alarms, then sirens, and finally a muffled explosion. He was, for the moment at least, out of the killer's line of fire stumbling in the direction away from the main hospital and toward the boiler room and laundry. Despite the pain in his leg and back, he was determined that nothing short of a killing shot was going to bring him down. With Paquette and Zimmermann dead, the black notebook, whatever it was, might well represent Kate's only chance. The gunman, crouching low and poised to fire, slid around the corner of the Omnicenter tunnel just as Jared reached the spur to the laundry Jared sensed the man about to shoot, but there was no explosion, no noise. Or was there? As he pushed on into the darkened laundry, he could swear he had heard a sound of some sort. Then he understood. The killer had fired. Macfarlane's revolver was out of bullets, tapped dry. Now, even wounded, he had a chance. The room he had entered was filled with dozens of rolling industrial hampers, some empty, some piled high with linen. Beyond the crowded hamper lot, Jared could just discern the outlines of rows of huge steam pressers He gave momentary consideration to diving into one of the hampers, but rejected the notion, partly because of the helpless, passive situation in which he would be and partly because his pursuer had already turned into the tunnel and was making his way, though cautiously, toward the laundry.

Ignoring the pain in his back, Jared dropped to all fours and inched amp; his way between two rows of hampers toward the enormous, cluttered! X hall housing the laundry itself. Pressers, washers, dryers, shelves and stacks of linens, more hampers-if he could make it, there would be dozens of places to hide… if he could make it. There were twenty feet separating the last of the canvas hampers from the first of the steam pressers. Twenty open feet. He had to cross them unnoticed. Kneeling in the darkness, he listened. There was not a sound-not a breath, not the shuffle of a footstep, nothing. Where in hell was the man? Was the chance of catching a glimpse of him worth the risk of looking? The aching in his back was in crescendo, dulling his concentration and his judgment. Again he listened. Again there was nothing. Slowly, he brought his head up and turned. The killer, moving with the control and feline calm of a professional, was less than five feet away, preparing to hammer him with the butt of Macfarlane's heavy revolver. Jared spun away, but still absorbed a glancing blow just above his left ear.

Stunned, he stumbled backward, pulling first one, then another hamper between him and the man, who paused to pick up the notebook and set it on the corner of a hamper before matter-of-factly advancing on him again. "It's no use, pal, " he said, shoving the hampers aside as quickly as Jared could pull them in his way, "but go ahead and make it interesting if you want."

Jared, needing the hampers as much for support as for protection, knew the man was right. Wounded and without a weapon, Jared had no chance against him. "Who are you? " he asked. Nunes smiled and shrugged. "Just a man doing a job, " he said. "You work for Redding Pharmaceuticals, don't you."

"I think this little dance of ours has gone on long enough, pal. Don't you?"

In that instant, Jared thought about Kate and all she had been through, he thought about Paquette and the aging watchman, Macfarlane. If he was going to die, then, dammit, it wouldn't be while backing away. With no more plan in mind than that, he grabbed another hamper, feigned pulling it in front of him, and instead drove it forward as hard as he could, catching the surprised gunman just below the waist. Nunes lurched backward, colliding with another hamper and very nearly going down.

Jared moved as quickly as he could, but the advantage he had gained with surprise was lost in the breathtaking pain of trying to push off his left foot. The killer, his expression one of placid amusement, parried the lunge with one hand, and with the other, brought the barrel of the revolver slicing across Jared's head, opening a gash just above his temple. Jared staggered backward a step, then came on again, this time leading with a kick which connected, though not powerfully, with the man's groin. Again Nunes lashed out with the gun, landing a solid blow to Jaredss forearm and then another to the back of his neck. Jared dropped to one knee. As he did, Nunes stepped behind him and locked one arm expertly beneath his chin. "Sorry, pal, " he said, tightening his grip. Jared flailed with his arms and shoulders and tried to stand, but the man's leverage was far too good. The pressure against his larynx was excruciating His chest throbbed with the futile effort of trying to breathe. Blood pounded in his head and the killer's grunting breaths grew louder in his ear. Then the sound began to fade. Jared knew he was dying. Every ounce of his strength vanished, and he felt the warmth of his bladder letting go. I'm sorry, Kate. I'm sorry. The words tumbled over and over in his mind. I'm sorry. Through closed eyes, he sensed, more than saw, a bright, blue-white light. From far, far away, he heard a muffled explosion. Then another. Suddenly the pressure against his neck diminished. The killer's forearm shook uncontrollably and then slid away. Jared fell to one side, but looked up in time to see the man totter and then, in grotesque slow motion, topple over into a hamper.

Jared struggled to sort out what was happening. The first thing he saw clearly was that the overhead lights had been turned on, the second thing was the stubbled, slightly jowled face of Martin Finn "I was halfway back to the station when I decided there was no way you would have chanced popping me like you did unless the situation was really desperate, " Finn said. "How bad are you hurt?"

Jared coughed twice and wasn't sure he was able to speak until he heard his own voice. "I've been shot twice, " he rasped, "once just above my butt and once in my thigh. My legs are all cut up from broken glass.

That lunatic beat the shit out of me with his gun."

"The emergency people are on their way, " Finn said, kneeling down. "It may be a few minutes. As you might guess, there's a lot of commotion going on around here right now. Is Zimmermann dead?"

Jared nodded. Then he remembered Macfarlane. "Finn, " he said urgently,

"there's a man, Macfarlane, a night watchman. He was-" ',You mean him?

" The detective motioned to his left. Walter Macfarlane, one eye swollen shut and the side of his face a mass of dried and oozing blood, stood braced against a hamper. "Thank God, " Jared whispered. "We would never have known what direction to go in without him," inn explained. At that moment a team of nurses and residents arrived with two stretchers They helped Macfarlane onto one and then gingerly hoisted her onto the other.

"As soon as these people get you fixed up, Counselor, you're going to have a little explaining to do. You know that, don't you?"

"I know. I'll tell you as much as I can. And Finn… I appreciate your coming back."

"I think I might owe you an apology, but I'll save it until someone explains to me what the fuck has been going on around here."

"Okay, " one of the residents announced. "We're all set."

"Wait. Please, " Jared said. "Finn, there's a notebook around here somewhere. A black, looseleaf notebook."

The detective searched for a few moments and then brought it over.

"Yours? " he asked. "Actually, no." Jared tucked the notebook beneath his arm. Then he smiled. "It belongs to my wife."

Jared brought his left hand up and gingerly touched the area about his left eye.