Side Effects (37 page)

"Mr. Samuels, it's Roscoe," she panted. "We found him in the snow." Jared, a dreadful emptiness in his gut, raced past the girl to the sled. Roscoe, packed in blankets, looked up and made a weak attempt to rise. His tail wagged free of the I cover and slapped excitedly against the cardboard.

- "His leg is broke," one of the other children, a boy, said simply. Jared held the dog down and pulled back the blanket.

Roscoe's right leg was fractured, the bone protruding from a gash just above the knee. "Come kids," he said, scooping up the box. "Come inside, please, and we'll take care M './_

of Rose. Do you think you can take me to where you found him?"

"Yes, I know," the little girl said. "We have teacher's conference today, so no school. We were sledding down the hill to the bridge, and there he was, just lying in the snow. My mom gave us the blankets and the box."

"It looks like he's been hit by a car," Jared said.

"Kids, this is important. Did any of you see Kate--you know, my wife?" The children shook their heads. He .

reached down and stroked the dog's forehead. Blood trick-| led from the corner of his mouth where his teeth had torn through. "Well, let's get some help for Roscoe; then we'll ] go back to the spot where you found him." He felt consumed by feelings of panic and dread, and struggled to keep a note of calm in his voice. Frightened, confused children would be no asset to him--or to Kate. Minutes later three of them, Jared and two of the youngsters, were in the car. The third had been left behind to keep the dog still and await the arrival of the veterinarian.

"Okay, kids," Jared said, "you said you were sledding near a bridge. The stone bridge over the little stream?"

Both nodded enthusiastically. "Good. I know just where that is." The short drive over the narrow, snowy road seemed endless. Finally, Jared parked the Volvo at the top of the hill and then half ran, half slid to the indentation in the snow where the children assured him they had found Roscoe. He had thought to take his parka but had not changed his slacks or loafers, and the trek from the spot into the surrounding woods was both awkward and cold. The snow around him was, save for his own footprints, smooth and unbroken. After a scanning search, he made his way back to the road and started down the hill. At his request, the children followed, one on each side of the road, checking to be sure he had not missed anything. At the stone bridge, he stopped. There was evidence of some sort of collision at the base of the wall. A piece of granite had been sheared off, and a gouge, perhaps two feet long, extended along the wall from that point. He searched the roadway and then looked over the wall. The snow on one side of the shallow brook seemed disrupted.

In the very center of the area, he saw a flash of bright yellow, partially buried in the snow. Ordering the children to remain where they were, he raced down the steep embankment to the water. It was Kate's cap, quite deliberately, it seemed, wedged into the snow. Then, only a few feet from the cap, he saw a swatch of another color. It was blood, almost certainly, dried blood smeared across a small stretch of packed snow.

There had been some kind of struggle. The marks around him made that clear. Had Kate been dragged off somewhere?

He looked for signs of that, but instead noticed footprints paralleling the stream just beyond the bridge. Slipping in and out of the water, he ran to the spot. There were, he was certain, two sets. He looked overhead. The children, following his progress, had crossed the road and were peering down at him from atop the wall. The girl, he knew, lived just past the end of the road, half a mile, perhaps a bit more, away.

"Crystal," he called out, "is your mommy still home?"

"Yes."

"Can you two make it back home to her?"

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"Yes."

"Please do that, then. Tell her Kate is lost and may be hurt. Ask if she can drive out here and help look for her. Okay?"

"Okay."

"And Crystal, you all did a fine job bringing Roscoe in the way you did. Hurry on home, now." Jared stayed where he was until the crunch of the children's boots had completely vanished. Then he closed his eyes and listened within the silence for a sound, any kind of sign. He heard nothing. Increasingly aware of the cold in his feet and legs, he stepped in the deep tracks, fearing the worst, and expecting, with each stride, to have his fears become reality. A hundred yards from the bridge, the tracks turned sharply to the left and vanished into the stream.

"Kate?" He called her name once and then again. His voice was instantly swallowed by the forest and the snow.

"Kate, it's me. It's Jared." There was a heaviness, a fastness, to the place and a silence that was hypnotic. As he trudged along the side of the stream looking for renewed signs, he felt the silence deepen. Then suddenly, he knew. He felt it as surely as he felt the cold. Kate was somewhere nearby. She was nearby, and she was still. He called to her every few feet, as he ducked under a huge fallen tree and followed the stream bed in a sharp bend to the left. Then he stopped. There was something different about this place. Far to his right, embedded in the steep slope that he guessed led up to the road, was a drainage pipe. At the base of the pipe were footprints.

"Kate?" He closed his eyes and almost immediately felt a strange sense of detachment. She was not far, and she was alive. He felt it clearly. It was as if their lives, their energies, were joined by a thin, silken strand of awareness.

"Jared?" It was a word, but not a word; a sound, but not a sound. His eyes still closed, he exhaled slowly and then listened. "Jared, help me." Her voice, it seemed, was more within him than without. He worked his way along the embankment, calling her name. Then he shouted it several times into the long, empty culvert. Finally, hoping for a better vantage point, he hauled himself up to the road. She was there, face down, a third of the way down the slope on the far side, still clawing, though feebly, at the snow. Jared leapt over the edge, sliding and tumbling down to her. Gently, he turned her onto his lap. Her hair was matted and frozen, her face spattered with blood. Her warm-up suit, shredded in spots, was stiffened with ice.

Her eyes were closed.

"Katey, it's me," he said. "I've got you. You're going to be all right." He worked her hair free from where it had frozen to her face. Her breathing was shallow, each expiration accompanied by a soft whimper of pain.

"Honey, can you hear me?"

Her eyes opened and then slowly focused on his face.

"Oh, Jared ... please ... Roscoe ..."

He kissed her. "He's hurt, but he's okay. Dr. Fin nerty's coming to get him. What about you? Have you broken anything?"

"Ribs," she managed in a voice that was half groan, half cough. "Lung ... may ... be ... punctured."

"Jesus. Kate, I'm going to lift you up. I'll try not to hurt you, but we've got to get up to the road." With strength enhanced by the urgency of the moment, lie had no trouble lifting her. Negotiating the steep, icy slope, however, was another matter. Footing was treacherous, and every two or three baby steps upward, he was forced to set her down in order to regain purchase. Inches at a time, they moved ahead. When he finally heaved over the top of the slope onto the roadside, Jared fell to his knees, clutching her to his chest and gasping for air.

Helplessly, he sat there, warming her face with his breath and watching the minute but steady rise and fall of her chest. Then through the silence surrounding their breathing, he heard the soft hum of an approaching car.

Moments later, a beige station wagon rounded the bend ahead of them. In the front seat were a woman and two very excited children.

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"Way to go, Crystal," Jared whispered. He put his lips by Kate's ear. "Help is here, honey. Just hang in there. Help is here."

Her eyes opened momentarily. Her lips tightened in a grim attempt at a smile. "Zimmermann did this," she said.

Jared paced from the small, well-appointed quiet room out to the hall and back. Mary T. Henderson Hospital was reputed to be among the best community hospitals in the state, but it was still a community hospital, only a fraction of the size of the Boston teaching facilities. Nearly three hours had passed since the surgeon, Lee Jordan, had taken Kate into the operating room. Jordan was, according to the emergency room physician, the finest surgeon on the hospital staff. Jared had to laugh at his total surprise when the distinguished, gray-templed man his mind had projected as Lee Jordan turned out, in fact, to be a slender, extremely attractive woman in her midforties. Would he ever truly overcome all the years of programming?

Kate's wound was a bad one. The gash, Jordan had explained, required debridement in the operating room, and in all likelihood, an open-chest procedure would be needed to repair the laceration to her lung.

Jared had been allowed to see Kate briefly during the wait for the OR team to arrive, but there had been no real chance to discuss any details of William Zimmermann's attempt on her life. An officer from the Essex Police Department had come, taken what little information was available from him, and left with promises of state police involvement as soon as Kate could assist them with a statement. Meanwhile, it was doubtful that Jared's word would be enough to issue an arrest warrant. Jared was studying the small plaque proclaiming that the quiet room was the gift of a couple named Herman when Lee Jordan emerged through the glass doors to the surgical suite. Her face, which had been fresh and alert on her arrival in the emergency ward four hours before, was gray and drawn, and for a moment, he feared the worst.

"Your wife's okay," Jordan said as soon as she was close enough to speak without raising her voice. She appraised him. "Are you?"

"I ... yes, I'm okay." He braced himself against the wall. "It's just that for a moment there I was frightened that ..."

Jordan patted him on the shoulder. "You married one tough lady, my friend," she said. "There's frostbite on the tips of her toes, ears, and nose, but it looks like she came in from the cold in time to save everything. The tear in her lung wasn't too, too big. I sewed it up and then fixed that gash in her side. She's in for a few pretty achy days, but I hope nothing worse than that. You'll be able to see her in half an hour or so. I've asked the nurses to come and get you."

"Thank you. Thank you very much." "I'm glad she's all right," Dr. Lee Jordan said. It was after five by the time Jared arrived home.

Medicated and obviously affected by her anesthesia, Kate had managed only to squeeze his hand and acknowledge that she knew he was in her hospital room. Even so, Dr. Jordan had warned him that she would, in all likelihood, remember nothing of the first five or six hours postop. Roscoe was another story. As soon as Jared arrived at the veterinarian's, the dog was up and hopping about his cage, mindless of his plaster cast and showing no residual effects from the anesthesia that had allowed a metal plate to be screwed in place across the fracture in his leg. After seeing Kate with half a dozen tubes running into and out of her body, the sight of the battered and broken animal was the last straw. Zimmermann would pay. Whatever it took, Jared vowed, the man would pay dearly. Exhausted from the day and, in fact, from almost thirty-six hours without sleep, Jared brought a bottle of Lowenbrau Dark to the bedroom, finished half of it in two long draughts, and then stripped to his underwear and stretched out on the bed. There was little s ense, the nurses had told him, in returning to the hospital before morning. So be it. He would rest and read and say a dozen prayers of thanks for Kate's life and for Roscoe's, and for Jocelyn Trent, and for being allowed to learn the sad truth about his father before it was too late.

He had bunched up two pillows and was looking through the magazines on the bedside table when he noticed their telephone answering machine. It had been on since Kate left for her run, and there were a
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number of messages. The first three were from Jared himself, another was from Ellen, and still another was from one of the firm's VIP clients, who had apparently been assured that Winfield's son wouldn't mind in the least being called at home. The final message was for Kate from a man named Arlen Paquette.

"Kate Bennett, this is Arlen Paquette from Redding," the man said in a rushed, anxious tone. "I won't be alone for more than a few seconds. I have answers for you.

Many answers. Come to the subbasement of the Omnicenter at precisely eight-thirty tonight. Bring help. There may be trouble. Please, trust me. I know what we've done to you, but please trust me. He's coming. I've got to go. Goodbye."

Jared raced for pen and paper; then he played the message over and wrote it down verbatim. Answers. At last someone was promising answers. He scrambled into a pair of jeans, a work shirt, and a sweater. It was already after seven. There would barely be time to get to Metro by eight-thirty, let alone to try and pick up police help on the way. He would have to hurry to the subbasement of the Omnicenter and rely on himself. The Omnicenter. He threw on his parka and rushed to Kate's Volvo. That was Zimmermann's place. The man would be there. He felt certain of it.

"I'm coming for you, you fucker," he panted as he skidded out of the drive and down Salt Marsh Road. 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 would have been able to follow the steps involved in the synthesis of the hormone Estronate 250--especially in the subbasement Omnicenter 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.