Final Appeal (5 page)

James Zimmer pulled into his parking space in the faculty lot at Gateway University and shut off the engine of his gray Mazda. He'd purchased the car after a thorough review of the automotive section in Consumer Guide. Now the Mazda was almost ten years old, and it had never needed any major work. Some of the other faculty members had newer cars, but Professor Zimmer had decided the new prices were ridiculous. With proper maintenance, a car could last indefinitely.

There was a spring to the professor's step as he crossed the campus and headed for his office. A stolen hour with his lover always put him in a light-hearted mood. He'd gone there to discuss the footage and the need for complete secrecy, but that had taken only a few moments. Then they'd shared a glass of excellent Chardonnay and ended up in bed.

The square, in the center of the sprawling campus contained a lovely stonework cathedral. Gateway University was a religious institution. Professor Zimmer was sobered as he walked past the massive spires. If the administration ever found out about his lover, he'd be discharged for moral turpitude. No one could know, not even Mr. Gerhardt. That was why he'd refused to give the name of the other juror.

Once the cathedral was behind him, it was only a few steps to his office. Professor Zimmer climbed the stairs to the second floor and unlocked his door. Dorothy had left things spotless, as usual. The only item on the polished surface of her secretarial desk was a folder containing his airplane tickets and a neatly typed schedule of the meetings he was expected to attend.

Professor Zimmer turned on the lights in his private office and drew the blinds. No sense advertising his presence on campus. A passing student might see his light and drop in for an unscheduled conference. Normally he would have been receptive, but he didn't have much time to make his flight.

It took no more than fifteen minutes to collect the notes and materials he needed. Each subject was in a separate folder, clearly marked. They went into his briefcase, alphabetically for easy access, and then he was ready to go.

One last look around his office, and he reached out to turn off the light. Then he stopped, his fingers touching the switch, and sighed. The original footage of Mr. Michael Hart, the footage the station had given him, was in plain sight on his bookcase. Had he mentioned that the DVD he'd given to Mr. Gerhardt was a copy?

Professor Zimmer picked it up and started to put it in his briefcase. It would be best to take it with him for safekeeping, but that wasn't a valid option. One of his colleagues had come back from a trip with an audio tape of a lecture series in his carry-on luggage. When he'd attempted to play the lectures for his class, the audio had been garbled. It seemed that the scanners at the airport had been out of adjustment and damaged his tapes.

A desk drawer? Professor Zimmer pulled out his top drawer and hesitated. Dorothy always straightened his office while he was gone, and she might misplace the tape. There had to be a better place. If he'd had more time, he'd take it home for safekeeping, but that might make him late for his flight.

Professor Zimmer frowned. It was possible Mr. Gerhardt might need the original tape for evidence. These legal matters were so complicated. It was up to him to safeguard the footage while he was gone.

Suddenly, the professor smiled. Of course! So simple, and yet perfectly reasonable. It would take only a few minutes to secure the tape, and then he could be on his way.

 

 

Michael stifled a groan as the laundry cart was loaded roughly onto the truck. So far, so good. Stan's plan was working perfectly. When the nurse had given him his pill, he'd tucked it under his tongue and gulped the little paper cup of water. All gone. Yes indeed! He'd opened his mouth at her command, but she hadn't checked under his tongue. From the nurses' station, he'd gone to the lavatory, where he'd flushed the pill down the toilet. The pipes would sleep well tonight. No nightmares.

From the crack under his door, he'd been able to watch the nurses leave for their nine o'clock break. The pretty one with long red hair had been alone at the desk, reading a romance novel. Getting out of his room had been simple. Since he was a medicated patient who always slept like a zombie for at least eight hours, they never bothered to lock his door. He'd slipped out of his room, ducked past the nurse's station, and tiptoed down the hall to the laundry room.

This was the night for bedding. Piles of heavy sheets and blankets had been stuffed in the huge rolling carts. Michael climbed into an empty one and pulled a pile of soiled bedding on top of him.

The laundry men had come at ten to take the bedding. Michael had held his breath as two burly men wheeled him through the silent halls to the loading dock. And now he was inside of the belly of the truck, as snug as a bug in his evil-smelling cocoon.

The truck changed gears, and Michael winced. It was a rough ride, but they didn't expect to have passengers back here. There was a bump, another grind of the gears, and the truck slowed and stopped. They were at Alma's Café. Stan had told him that the driver always stopped there for a cup of coffee and a piece of Alma's apple pie.

The driver's door opened and banged shut. Michael heard the sound of footsteps crunching on gravel, and then it was very quiet. The driver's girlfriend worked at Alma's. He would be inside for at least fifteen minutes. All Michael had to do was get out of the cart and feel his way to the sliding back door. The driver never bothered to lock it. Who'd want to steal dirty sheets?

Michael's foot slipped as he got out of the cart and banged against the metal side of the truck. He crouched and froze. Had someone heard? He counted to a hundred, then two hundred just to make certain, but no one sounded the alarm. It was difficult to crawl through the darkness, feeling his way past the laundry carts. It seemed to take forever, but at last, his fingers touched the metal handle on the door. Freedom was just on the other side.

With trembling hands, Michael gripped the handle and lifted. Nothing happened. The door was locked! Michael forced himself to think positive. Stan hadn't been wrong about anything yet. Perhaps it was just stuck. He squatted and put his back to it, lifting up with all his strength. The door gave a protesting squeal, but it rose—only a few inches, but he had better leverage now.

Michael lifted again, and the door rose at least a foot. At last, he could see the outside! Silently, carefully he peeked through the opening. A big neon sign was directly across from the truck. It blinked on and off, “Alma's Café” in red and “Good Eats” in green. He could see the plate-glass door clearly, but no one was coming or going. He stuck his head out cautiously and glanced to the right. A camper. No one was sitting inside. To the left, three cars down, was a dark blue Ford. There was a cap hanging over the rearview mirror, and Michael's heart began to pound in excitement. It was the car Stan had rented for him.

Michael got down on his belly and slithered through the opening. No sense making any more noise. It was a drop of four feet to the pavement. The moment his feet touched the asphalt, his first instinct was to run. Stan had warned him of that. Don't do it, Stan hand told him. Stand there and close the door. That way the driver will never know he helped you to escape.

It seemed to take an eternity, but at last, the door was latched shut. His heart racing wildly, Michael walked toward the Ford. Walk, don't run. Stan had cautioned him. Don't be conspicuous, whatever you do.

The driver's door was unlocked. Michael opened it and slid in behind the wheel. The keys were under the mat, right where Stan had said they'd be. And the map with his destination would be in the glove box compartment, but Michael didn't have the nerve to look now. He wanted to get miles away before he pulled over to check.

Michael fit the key in the ignition and turned it. The engine coughed once and then caught. Would he remember how to drive? It had been ten years.

A moment later, he was pulling out of the lot and onto the freeway. Driving must be like riding a bicycle, once you learned it, you never forgot. But he had to keep the speedometer at fifty-five, no faster. Even though Stan had promised to put a wallet with phony identification in the glove box next to the map, he didn't want to get pulled over for speeding.

The traffic was light, and after an uneventful ten miles, Michael began to feel comfortable with the car. He switched on the radio, expecting to hear a song by a voice he recognized like Usher, or Alicia Keys, but the music had changed in the ten years he'd spent away from the world. It made him feel strange and alien, like stepping into a time warp.

At least the freeway signs were still the same, green with white letters. Michael braked as a car cut into his lane, a new kind he'd never seen before. It looked like a prototype, but it probably wasn't. Styles changed a lot in ten years. He felt a little like Rip Van Winkle as he kept his eye on his speed and drove along in the slow lane.

What else had changed? Would someone tell him what had happened to Tony on The Sopranos? How about Desperate Housewives? Was Marcia Cross still as sexy as she'd been when he'd seen her on the set in . . . no, he'd better not think of that. Could he fit into this new world? Could he blend in so well that no one would guess he'd been behind locked doors for the past ten years? He'd have to be very careful not to slip up. He still hadn't found out who was president. How would the driver in the next lane react if he said he didn't know the president's name?

Michael realized he had a death grip on the wheel. He had to find a way to relax. Pity he didn't smoke. A cigarette might help, but he'd never developed the habit. He'd didn't drink much either, so he'd just have to think himself into a calmer state. Take things as they came. Not borrow trouble. One day at a time. Those were terrible clichés, but they had a basis in fact. And if that didn't work, he'd think about Stan. His brother believed he could pull it off, or he wouldn't have gone to all this trouble.

Perhaps some music would help—his kind of music, not the new sounds that made his head hurt. Michael turned the radio dial until he found a station that advertised easy rock. He actually recognized the first song he heard. It had been popular during his last year in Los Angeles and he began to feel better. Yes, he could fit in. He'd been a fool to doubt himself. He was an actor, wasn't he? All the best actors were students of human behavior. He'd just observe other people and copy their reactions. Then he'd know what to do.

The song segued into Earth, Wind and Fire, and Michael smiled as he listened to “Got to Get You Into My Life,” “September,” and “After the Love Has Gone.” Music had the power to calm the savage beast, or the savage breast, whichever it was. They really ought to use music at Oakdale. Perhaps, when Stan had managed to clear him completely, he'd write a letter to suggest it. He was certainly qualified to speak from the patient's point of view. They might just listen if someone who had been there told them what was wrong and how they could fix it.

Michael drove for more than three hours before the signs for Los Angeles began to appear. Things were beginning to look familiar. Just as soon as he got past the Santa Monica interchange, he'd pull over and study the map for his destination.

There was the turnoff for Ventura Boulevard. And after that Mulholland. The engine purred as the car climbed through the pass, and Michael began to feel euphoric. This was home. As he reached the crest and came down on the other side, the city spread out in front of him like a jewel box filled with glittering gems.

Michael rolled down the window and let out a whoop that disappeared in the wind rushing past the car. Free! He was free! No one to tell him what time to go to bed, no one to dictate what he would eat, or pick out which clothes he would wear. Stan was the most wonderful brother in the world!

Stan swiped the phone card he'd bought and dialed the number. It was eight o'clock in the morning, the day after Michael's escape. He was standing at a wall-phone near the restrooms in Denny's Restaurant, five blocks from his office. Denny's was not Stan's usual habitat. The chain of inexpensive coffee shops had made their reputation by advertising good, cheap breakfasts. Two eggs cooked to order, bacon or sausage; toast and hash browns, all for under five dollars.

The smell of sizzling bacon made Stan feel queasy. He avoided bacon completely. Too much grease, and the smoking process was questionable, to say the least. His normal breakfast was a bowl of high-fiber cereal with half a chopped banana and six ounces of nonfat milk. Stan had become religious about watching his cholesterol, his fiber, and his carbohydrates. In his business, men in their forties were known to have massive heart attacks. Stress was the main factor, of course, but a proper diet played an important role in prevention.

He shifted from foot to foot as he waited for Michael to answer. He couldn't take the chance of calling from his apartment or office. The news of Michael's escape had broken an hour ago, and he had to take every precaution. It was a good thing he'd picked up the rental car and dropped it off at the agency last night. They would have no way of knowing what time it had come in, and they certainly wouldn't be suspicious. Gerhardt, Merrill, and Davis had a corporate account with the rental agency to provide transportation for out-of-town clients.

Stan gave an audible sigh of relief when his brother answered the phone. “Mikey? How are you doing?”

“Just fine, Stan. Do they know I escaped yet?”

“That's one of the reasons I called. I want you to stay inside, behind locked doors, until I tell you it's safe to go out. No sense taking chances, right?”

“Right. When do you think that'll be, Stan?”

Stan sighed. “I can't promise anything at the moment, but the wheels are in motion. I've got a meeting with Judge Strickland this morning to go over the new evidence.”

“The footage you told me about?”

“That's right. But don't expect anything to happen overnight. These things take time. We both know you'll be cleared eventually, but it could take as long as a month or two. And don't forget, Mike—if the police apprehend you, they'll ship you right back to Oakdale.”

“I'll stay in, Stan. I promise. But when can I see you?”

“Not for a while.” Stan sighed. “Naturally, they'll assume you'll try to contact me. And that means they'll watch me like a hawk. Let's set up a time for a daily call. How about nine o'clock every evening? That's not too late for you, is it?”

“No, that's fine. But won't they tap your phones?”

“Good thinking, Mikey.” Stan had raised his eyebrows. He hadn't expected his brother to be reasoning that clearly. “I'll call from a different phone each night. But don't call me, whatever you do. Got it?”

“Okay, Stan. You're the boss.”

“I've got to run, Mikey. Judge Strickland won't be very receptive if I'm late for the meeting. Now stay inside, and if you need anything at all, just tell me and I'll make arrangements to have it delivered. Check?”

“Check. Stan? The apartment's great, and the clothes all fit, and—well, thanks, Stan, for everything.”

“Don't mention it, Mikey. I ordered a bunch of movies, so you can play catch-up. And if you want to read, there's a shelf in the bedroom with the latest novels. Now, I've got to run. You take it easy, and I'll talk to you again at nine tonight.”

Stan hung up the phone and glanced around. No one seemed to be watching him. He thought about going to the men's room, but that could wait until he got to the office. Denny's facilities were undoubtedly adequate, but he preferred the luxurious surroundings of his own executive bathroom.

After his conversation with Stan had ended, Michael assessed his reflection in the mirror. He hadn't slept well without his medication, and the king-size bed had felt too large. Despite his lack of sleep, and his nerve-wracking escape from the hospital, he thought he looked better than he had in a long time. Freedom had visibly changed him. The slack, hangdog look of despair that had pulled down his features had disappeared. It was a brand new life, and he was ready to live it to the fullest. Stan had told him about the video, the man-on-thestreet interview that had never been aired. He still didn't remember the details of the night, but now he understood his reaction at Oakdale when he'd pictured a man with a microphone shoved in his face. From what Stan had said, he was still a prisoner, in a sense, but his surroundings were palatial compared with his small hospital room at Oakdale. And as soon as Stan had positively identified him as the man on the tape, he'd truly be free.

Was it time for his shower? Michael laughed out loud as he realized that there was no longer a regulated time for his shower. And he could stay under the spray as long as he liked. None of the old get wet, soap up, rinse off, step out routine for the man who was now known as Mike Kruger from Cleveland. He was free to act just like a regular person.

Even though he knew that there was no one watching to see how long he took, Michael finished his shower in the allotted five minutes. Old habits die hard. He dried himself on a fluffy green towel, the first colored towel he'd seen in years, and put on the blue warm-up suit he'd found hanging in the closet. A pair of brand new Reeboks in his size were nestled in a shoebox on the shelf, and he found dozens of pairs of expensive athletic socks in the dresser drawer. It was a pity that no one could see him. Not only could he act like a regular person; now he looked just like a regular person.

Michael figured he could get used to this kind of life. It would be a lazy day, no appointments with his caseworker, and no interviews with the reality therapist. His stomach growled, and Michael headed for the kitchen. He was hungry, ravenously hungry. He hadn't eaten since his dinner at Oakdale, and when he'd arrived at the apartment last night, he'd been too exhausted to even think about food.

His mouth began to water as he opened the door and saw the array of food his brother had provided. Sliced ham, roast beef, and turkey breast, all wrapped in see-through plastic. A whole wheel of Brie, his favorite cheese, plus cheddar, and Jarls-burg, and Monterey Jack. There was a jar of Gulden's brown mustard, the kind he loved, and deli pickles. He'd make himself a triple-decker sandwich and go to the living room to eat it. Maybe he'd catch the morning news or whatever daytime soaps were popular now. Attention Ward B patients. Michael Hart can eat while he's watching television!

There was a huge loaf of crusty rye on the counter, and Michael put together a massive sandwich. Paper plates were in the cupboard, right where he'd expected them, and there was a built-in microwave over the stove. Michael cut his sandwich, covered it with a piece of paper towel from the wooden holder on the wall, and nuked it for forty-five seconds. Perfect. Now all he needed was a pickle and something to drink. Stan had laid in a supply of root beer, his favorite soda.

Ten minutes later, there was nothing left but crumbs. Michael realized he'd forgotten to carry his sandwich into the living room and sighed. Old habits again. He put the plate in the garbage, wiped off the counter, and poured the rest of his root beer into a glass, a real glass. Then he carried it to the living room, sat down on the couch, and clicked on the television set with the remote control.

Jeopardy
was on and the host was still Alex Trebek. He didn't really look any older although Michael knew he must be. Perhaps this was a rerun. Michael wasn't sure. He hadn't seen it before and it was new to him.

Michael leaned forward as the program was interrupted by a news flash. This was what he'd been waiting for, the news of his escape. They'd probably flash his picture and warn everyone that he was considered dangerous.

A picture appeared on the screen, and Michael frowned. A fire in Santa Monica? This wasn't what he'd expected at all! He knew it was crazy, but he felt vaguely disappointed. He'd expected to be the center of attention, and his escape wasn't even important enough to interrupt
Jeopardy
!

Michael shut off the television and headed back to the kitchen to heat himself a cup of instant coffee. If he hadn't made the news by now, he probably wouldn't. But the sense of being an unimportant cog in a giant wheel stuck with him as he waited for his coffee to heat. In the confined world of Oakdale, events had seemed to revolve around him. There were Michael Hart's medications, Michael Hart's meals, and Michael Hart's time for therapy. But the real world was huge, and there were other, more important events. Out here, no one except Stan even knew or cared that Michael Hart existed. It was a sobering dose of reality.

Antonia Novak stood in the hallway, staring at the closed door to apartment 301. She was waiting for her best friend in the building. Doris Evans, so they could go for their morning jog.

The door to the stairwell opened, and Doris came barreling through. She was in her forties, with frizzy blond hair, and this morning she was dressed in a bright yellow warm-up suit that made her look like a very plump grapefruit. Doris had taken up jogging last year on her doctor's advice. She'd lost a few pounds, but it was an uphill battle. Doris claimed all the exercise just made her hungrier.

“Hi, Toni. Have you seen him yet?”

Toni laughed and shook her head. Doris was the unofficial information network for the building. She knew almost everything about everybody, and this morning she'd called to say that someone had moved into apartment 301, right across the hall from Toni.

“No one's come out, Doris, but I've only been here for a couple of minutes. How do you know he's a
he
?

“By the footsteps. They were too heavy for a woman.” Doris bent over and started to do her stretching exercises. “I took some cookies down to Mrs. Ryskind in 201, and we both heard him. If we find out he's single, and he turns out to be nice, I think you should try to make friends.”

“Forget it, Doris.” Toni grinned as she took the rubber band off her wrist and pulled her long red hair back in a ponytail. “You're always trying to set me up, and it never works out. I'm perfectly content the way I am.”

Doris nodded. “That's what you say now, but think about the future. You're not getting any younger, and you haven't even lived yet. It's not natural for you to stay cooped up in your apartment with only your computer for company. You've got to be lonely.”

“Okay, maybe I am. End of lecture, Doris. Now let me stretch, and let's get started. I've got a lot of work to do today.”

Doris raised her eyebrows as Toni began her exercises. This was the first time Toni had ever admitted that she was lonely, and it was a step in the right direction. Toni was an attractive woman, but she never dated. Doris had a theory about that. Since Toni's mother had died when she was quite young, no one had taught her feminine wiles. All Toni really needed was a couple of lessons on how to catch a man, and she'd be just fine. It was a good thing Doris was around to teach her.

 

 

As he sat at the table, enjoying his coffee, Michael decided that even instant tasted great. Caffeine had been restricted at Oakdale, and coffee and tea were forbidden fare for patients. He could understand that sort of restriction if there were medical reasons, but it was depressing to wake up to a gloomy day at the hospital without something hot and comforting to drink for breakfast. Cold juice or cold milk as the first beverage in the morning just wasn't right. Why hadn't they thought to serve decaffeinated coffee? Or even hot chocolate? He felt it would give the patients a lift.

The unfamiliar caffeine gave Michael's system a real jolt, and he decided to make himself useful. The paper from the pickles made the whole kitchen smell like the inside of a deli. It was a nice smell, but normal people carried out their garbage every day. If he remembered correctly, he'd passed an incinerator slot by the elevator door when he'd come in last night.

The metal door was there, right where he'd remembered it. Michael dropped his bag inside and listened to it slide down the tube and hit the hopper in the basement. He was about to close the door when someone shouted.

“Hello, there!”

Michael turned to see a plump blond woman dressed in a blinding yellow warm-up suit. She was smiling, and he smiled back. Then he noticed the woman who was with her, and his smile widened. The second woman was gorgeous. She was much younger, and she had long red hair. Not even the baggy grey sweatsuit she was wearing could hide her delectable shape.