Side Effects (39 page)

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
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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 place. The 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 childproof 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 oxygen." "All I know is what he said. Please. It's already past time."

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

"I know. Please, Mr. Mac--" j

"People talk and talk. You know how it is. Well I'll tell you something, mister. They have their thoughts
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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?" f

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. ~~

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 time, he had never had a fight in any physical sense with anyone.

Nunes was 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 his 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 mufiled 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 bolstered 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

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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 of skin off the edge of his hand. The wooden cabinets and shelves had begun to blaze, making the room unbearably hot. Paquette was making the task of moving him from the room harder by clawing at Jared, at one point getting his hand entangled in Jared's parka pocket.

"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 you out."

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The smoke was blinding. His eyes tearing and nearly closed, Jared hunched low, breathed 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 i 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 try." 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.