Silent Treatment

Chapter36

The late summer heat wave that had beenblamed for brownouts, accidents, and deaths throughout the city had finallybroken. The early evening temperature was in the mid-sixties, with a decentbreeze and the threat of rain. Harry dropped Maura at her car at exactly sixand then returned to the parking-space condominium to await his eight-fifteendeparture. The BMW's dashboard clock had been out of commission for years, andneither he nor Evie had ever bothered to get it fixed, so he was using hisCasio to keep track of time. He was nearing the garage when Maura called tocheck in, test her cellular phone, and report that traffic from her apartmentto the bridge was only moderate. Her next call would be the one at eight-twentythat they had prearranged.

'This is it, Harry,' she said. 'You'llsee. By ten o'clock tonight we'll be ready to go to the police. They'll have tobelieve us this time. Just hang in there.'

'You hang in there. And please becareful.'

Harry parked in his spot and walked out ofthe garage. A police cruiser was moving slowly along, half a block away,perhaps looking for him, perhaps not. Thanks to Ray Santana, there was nowabsolutely no place where he could safely go. He returned to the BMW, flippedon the radio again, and waited.

WINS, the all-news station, was stillbroadcasting updates every ten minutes or so on the bizarre developmentssurrounding the gunman at Manhattan Medical Center. The real Max Garabedian hadbeen taken into police custody, questioned, and released. He had returned tohis 103rd Street apartment and was refusing to speak to the press untiladvised to do so by his attorney. In a prepared statement, read by his lawyer,Garabedian denied knowing anything of the man admitted to Manhattan MedicalCenter under his name. He denied having any relationship with Harry other thanpatient/physician, but called Harry 'an intelligent, dedicated doctor,' andexpressed his determination to hold off any judgment until the truth came out.

Harry gave passing thought to trying tocall Garabedian from his car phone. But this was no time for him to be doinganything at all except sitting and waiting until eight-fifteen.

There was more. Ray Santana had not beencaught. Authorities were at a loss to explain how a gunman in pajamas with noshoes or socks could have made it out of the hospital with security police anddozens of NYPD officers ringing the place. The broadcaster, clearly losing abattle with self-restraint, opined that this was New York, after all. Maybe theoddly clad fugitive had simply stepped on to the streets of Manhattan andblended in.

At seven o'clock, MMC public-relationsdirector Barbara Hinkle held a news conference, excerpted on WINS. The hospitalshe said, was grateful no one had been hurt in the unfortunate incident.Hospital officials would have nothing further to say until a preliminaryinvestigation into the near-calamity was completed. She did add that hospitalauthorities as yet had had no luck reaching Dr. Harry Corbett, the physicianwho admitted the gunman to Grey 218.

'I am sure you all know,' she said, 'thatDr. Corbett has been under a great strain lately as a result of the tragicdeath of his wife. I have been told he has been under a physician's care forhis grief reaction, as well as for some post-traumatic stress issues related tohis heroic service in Vietnam …'

Post-traumatic stress!

'Hospital Barbie speaks with forkedtongue,' Harry said aloud.

Clearly, MMC's spin doctors had alreadymet and decided on their strategy for dealing with the collective disastersbrought down on their house by Dr. Harry Corbett — post-traumatic stress. Harrywondered what name they would come up with if anyone ever demanded to know whohis shrink was.

'. . We at the hospital are speculatingthat Dr. Corbett borrowed the name of Max Garabedian in order to hospitalizesomeone he cared about who was very ill but without health insurance,' Hinklewent on, 'possibly a fellow Vietnam veteran. The plan backfired when hispatient went haywire.'

'Nice,' Harry said. 'Not bad.'

And not that far off, either, he thought.

The rest of Hinkle's press conferenceadded nothing of substance except that nursing officials were looking into theidentities and backgrounds of the special-duty nurses brought into the hospitalby the gunman.

For forty minutes, nothing new wasbroadcast. Then, with just half an hour to go before Harry was to leave, one ofthe many mysteries connected with the case was reported solved. An electriciandoing work on the heating system of the hospital had been found by amaintenance man, bound and gagged in the subbasement. He had been robbed atgunpoint by a man answering the fugitive's description. His clothes and shoeswere taken, along with twenty-five dollars from his wallet. The wallet was thenreturned to him. Police were checking it for fingerprints, as well as thehospital room where the gunman was a patient for three days.

'He was nervous and scared, I think,' theelectrician said. 'But he was decent enough to me. He gave me back my walletbecause he said he knows what a hassle it is getting a new driver's license. Hedidn't hurt me. But I think maybe he would have if I didn't do as he asked..'

Harry checked the time. Eight-ten. Outsidethe garage, dusk was gradually yielding to night. The lights, of the city wereon. He started the BMW and slowly, ever so slowly, rolled down the ramp to theexit. Finally, at exactly eight-fifteen, he shut off the radio and pulled outon to the street. The game was afoot.

Harry drove past one block, then another.He didn't feel all that nervous, but his hands were white on the wheel. Heglanced at his watch. It was twenty past. Where was she? Where was the call?He checked the time again. Okay, he decided, maybe it's onlyeight-eighteen. Moments later, the phone buzzed. He snatched up thereceiver.

'Yes,' he said.

'Harry, I'm in a tree,' Maura whisperedwith breathless excitement. 'I'm up a fucking tree in the woods next to a dump.Do you believe it? If I had known there was a man around like you who could getme to climb trees at garbage dumps at night in New Jersey with a gun in myfanny pack, I never would have bothered drinking.'

'Well, I'm in no place that exotic,' Harrysaid, whispering although there was no need to. 'Ninety-sixth, heading for theparkway. Is anyone there yet?'

'Not a soul. I found a great place toleave the car and a perfect place to hide.'

'And you're sure no one saw you?'

'Positive. Are you being followed?'

'I can't tell yet.'

'It doesn't make any difference whetherthey do or not. Listen, Harry, I think I see a car coming up the road. I'llcall you again at ten to nine unless he's standing too close to this tree.'

'You're doing great, Maura. Are you warmenough? I think it's going to rain soon.'

'Hey, I'm fine. I told you. Tonight's thenight.'

With one eye on the road ahead and one onthe rearview mirror, Harry swung on to the Henry Hudson Parkway. Several carsbehind, he caught sight of a dark sedan, which he felt fairly certain had beenwith him from the beginning. Maura was right, though. It really didn't matterwhether the caller had someone tailing him or not. He was going to follow instructionsto the letter. Maura was their ace in the hole.

By the time he had crossed the GeorgeWashington Bridge, a misty rain had begun to fall. Harry found windshieldwipers annoying and had always postponed turning them on until he absolutelyhad to. This time he switched them on at the first droplets. If things cameunraveled tonight, it wasn't going to be because he did something pigheaded orstupid.

Once on the New Jersey side of the river,he consulted the directions. After two miles he swung off the main road into adensely built, working-class neighborhood. The streets were tree-lined, and thesmall yards of the clapboard houses were strewn with balls, Big Wheels, andother trappings of new families. The sedan followed several blocks behind, itslights off. Harry felt certain he could see two people silhouetted inside. Heeasily located the corner where he had been instructed to stop and wait for oneminute. He was pulling away when the phone buzzed. Maura was several minutesearly. And Harry knew as he was reaching for the receiver that there wastrouble.

'Yes?'

'Harry, stop right now!' she said in apanic-driven whisper. 'This place is crawling with police. A dozen of them.Maybe more. Their cruisers are out of sight, and you wouldn't know a thing waswrong. But they're here.'

His blood suddenly ice, Harry glanced inthe mirror. The sedan was still there, about two or three blocks back. Heshifted into gear and began slowly rolling down the street.

'Go on,' he said.

'Harry, your friend Dickinson's here. Atone point he was about ten feet from this tree. Now he's strolling aroundchecking that everyone's in place.'

'You're sure?'

'I'm sure. He's working with somelieutenant who seems to be from the local police. He's very excited about beinghere to nail you. From what I could hear, someone called and tipped off thepolice that you had demanded a meeting at this place, that you have a body withyou, and will pay twenty-five thousand dollars for this guy to get it athousand miles from here and bury it where it will never be dug up. The mansaid you were crazy. That you killed people for fun. He wanted nothing to dowith you, except have you in jail where you couldn't hurt him. You've got toget out of here, Harry.'

His mind whirling, Harry began slowly toaccelerate.

'Just stay out of sight until it's safe togo home,' he said. 'Then go to my apartment. I'll be in touch.'

He heard her telling him to be careful ashe set the receiver down. Then he glanced at the directions he had writtendown. In one more block, he would go left or straight instead of turning rightas instructed. It would take the men in the sedan several seconds to realize hewas diverging from the plan. Three or four seconds at the most. That was all hehad. His best bet was to try and get back to the highway. He sped up to aroundforty.

Bury a body? How could Perchek ever expectsuch an outlandish story to get Harry into trouble?. . Unless. .

In the same instant Harry understood whatwas happening, he cut his lights, swung a sharp left, and hit the gas. He madea sliding right, then another left. The siren was on behind him now, and hecould see the blue strobe through the trees. The streets, baked to bone-dry foralmost two weeks, were slick with rain and oil. He skidded into another turn,on to a street that was a long straightaway to the main road. The speedometerwas nearing eighty. He had always been a laid-back driver and rarely drove thisfast even on a turnpike. A couple backing out of their drive to go to thestore, a kid on her bicycle — there were any number of possibilities fordisaster now. Undoubtedly, the men in the unmarked cruiser had called forbackup as well.

He tried desperately to think thingsthrough. The best he could do was to acknowledge that the situation wasabsolutely horrible. He was racing around rain-soaked streets in a neighborhoodthat was completely foreign to him, at night, in a seven-year-old car, almostcertainly with a body in the trunk. One minute. That was about all hehad left. One minute before they caught up with him or the backups cut him off.

He was closing fast on a main road.Assuming it was the one he had taken in, it was a four-laner with no divider.The sedan was on the straightaway now, no more than three blocks behind andgaining. Harry was about to brake so that he could turn into the northboundlane. But at the last moment, he saw a small gap in the traffic each way. Heslammed down the accelerator and barreled across all four lanes. A tractortrailer was coming from each direction. In a cacophony of air brakes,screeching tires, and horns, they both swerved, skidding in a ponderousgrotesque pas de deux. The cruiser had no choice but to stop and back away fromthe potentially deadly dance. There was a street directly across from the oneHarry had come up. He shot down it. Slowing a bit, he glanced behind him justas one of the trailers, in excruciating slow motion, toppled on to its side.

In the distance, he could hear sirens — many of them. He swung into a side street, and then halfway up the driveway ofa darkened house. The sirens were getting louder. He stepped quietly out of thecar, expecting at any moment to have all the lights in the house go on at once,or else to be attacked by a rottweiler. He glanced about. He had no idea at allwhere he was, except that the river was somewhere in the direction the housewas facing. Just past the garage, he could see woods beyond the backyard, tothe west. With luck he could make it there. Then he would have to see. Hesnapped open the briefcase and stuffed what he thought was about seven thousanddollars into his pockets. He was wearing slacks and dress shoes — the perfectoutfit for impressing the people at the bank, but not much good for runningfrom the police. Unfortunately, at this moment, he would have to make do.

He took the key and inserted it in thetrunk. Part of him wanted just to leave it closed and run. He dreadedconfronting this part of the nightmare Perchek had conjured up for him. Later,wherever he was, he could find out from the news bulletins what was inside. Asiren sounded from close by, and moments later a squad car raced down thestreet, its strobes flashing. Harry threw himself into the shadows. The net wasclosing. He had little time left. He turned the key, hesitated again, and thenthrew the trunk open.

Hot air, heavy with the stench of bloodand death, immediately wafted up into his face. Below him, crammed into thesmallish trunk, lay Caspar Sidonis. His perfect face was waxen, his hair mattedwith blood from entry and exit bullet holes just above his ears.

Bile washed up into Harry's throat. Hehesitated, actually trying to think of something he should be doing. Then,swallowing back the burning acid, he quietly lowered the trunk.

'Poor bastard,' he whispered.

A second cruiser, this one with no lightsor siren, made its way past, checking every house and driveway on the otherside of the street with a spotlight. Harry again ducked into the shadows. Hisside of the street would be next. With a final glance at the trunk, he movedquickly into the backyard and scaled a five-foot chain-link fence. As he leaptto the ground, he experienced a breath-catching pain in his chest, explodingfrom just beneath his sternum up into his jaws and ears. He stumbled, then fellto the rain-soaked, mossy ground. Instantly, he was drenched, both from therain and from his own sudden perspiration.

The sirens seemed to be all around himnow. He crawled deeper into the woods and then pulled himself upright on thetrunk of a tree. The pain was leveling off. He battled back a wave of nauseawithout getting sick. Then he closed his eyes and took several calming breaths.Giving up was a very real possibility. Surely someone would believe he had beenset up. Mel Wetstone had worked near miracles already. Perhaps he could pullthis one off as well.

No. The thought of being taken prisoner,of jail, of Albert Dickinson, was more than he could stand.

From a hundred yards behind him, he couldhear voices. They had found the car. The pain was much less now. Almost gone.With the jungle survival training he had had in Vietnam and several thousanddollars in cash, at least he had a slim chance of escaping. He stuffed themoney deeper in his pockets and pushed off from the tree. Then, keeping low andmoving as quietly as possible, he began an awkward jog through the dense woods.