"You remember that?"
"Yes.
"And do you know who I am now?"
Scott looked at her, but shook his head.
"No," he said flatly.
"That's okay, Scott. It's okay."
He let her reach across and squeeze him gently.
Suddenly she stopped and leaned forward, staring through the screen and out the windshield. Ahead of them was the lot where she and Eric had parked. She recognized the rusting tractor trailers resting on piles of railroad ties. It was the trailer nearest them that had caught her eye.
Painted on its side was the depiction of a Greek goddess, and enclosing the painting, in large red script, were the words APHRODITE MOVING AND STORAGE. Aphrodite! Marjorie Gideon's favorite horse.
Laura brought her lips close to her brother's ear.
"Scott, look," she whispered. "That trailer. That's where the tape is, isn't it?"
Almost imperceptibly, Scott Enders nodded.
It wasn't supposed to have happened like this, Eric thought as he searched once more through Bernard Nelson's apartment for a note or some sort of explanation as to why Laura had left and where she had gone.
He was supposed to have returned to her in triumph, having not only solved much of the mystery of Caduceus, but also quite likely having identified the death's-head priest as well.
Then, after toasting their success with what little remained of Laura's wine, they were to formulate a plan for breaking down Haven Darden. And finally, they were to set about doing whatever was necessary to implement that plan.
Desperately, Eric flipped through every magazine he could find, lifted every vase and dish, and even looked in the oven, searching for some sort of clue.
Fueling his urgency was the faint but defibrillator odor of cigarette smoke, which had hit him the moment he entered the place. Unless Laura had a smoking habit she had never shared with him-and given her concern with fitness and health, that possibility seemed remote-someone else had been in the apartment.
He checked in with Dave Subarsky, who had returned to his office, but Dave had heard nothing from her either. Subarsky promised to remain at his desk until one of them had word from her. Calls to Eric's apartment and Bernard Nelson's office were no more fruitful.
Finally he phoned the Carlisle, but the unctuous desk clerk, who had been on duty only since nine, had nothing at all to offer. Eric left a message with the man for Laura to contact him at the apartment or through Dave Subarsky. Then he climbed to the loft and lay down-to wait, and to think.
Through a thin spatter of rain he gazed across Storrow Drive at the Charles and at Cambridge beyond. Laura was out there somewhere, he reasoned, and she was almost certainly in trouble. What other conclusion could be drawn from the cigarette smoke and the absence of any note from her?
Was it Scott's tape that had gotten her into difficulty? Or perhaps Haven Darden had decided to use her as insurance against Eric's getting any closer to Caduceus. One scenario flowed into another in his mind, each one more disturbing and frightening than the last.
Fueled by anger and helplessness, Eric began to focus on Darden: the one variable he might yet be able to control, the one person he still might be able to take by surprise. The ming was not what he would have chosen, and the idea that began to take shape was rough, but there was no way he could just sit around and wait to hear from her. In minutes, he felt ready to act.
His call to White Memorial was quickly put through to the medical chief.
There was trouble, serious trouble at the hospital he told Darden-trouble involving Sara Teagarden and a clandestine society called Caduceus. Darden coopy responded that the only trouble at White Memorial of which he was aware involved a resident named Najarian.
Eric stressed his innocence and begged for Darden's forbearance.
He said enough, just enough, he hoped, to whet the man's interest without making him suspicious. Tetrodotoxin was being used at white Memorial, and patients were being harmed. He had proof of that now-irrefutable proof. Several people involved with the secret society had already died violently. He had proof of that as well.
Gradually, but oh so skillfully, Darden suspended his facade of cynicism and doubt and expressed a mild curiosity to learn more. His hand clenched on the receiver, Eric suggested meeting at Darden's lab at four, at which time he promised to present proof of every allegation.
In response to Eric's concern about being seen in the hospital, Darden gave his assurance that no one else would be around.
"Eric, you have generated a great deal of ill will around this hospital in an amazingly short time," Darden said. "I am trusting that what you have to say to me will be the truth, supported not by your speculation but by hard facts. Please do not give me any reason to join those who have closed ranks against you."
"You have my word on it," Eric said. "By the time I'm done, you will believe me. I promise you that."
Eric waited until Darden had hung up before slamming the receiver down.
"Sleazy, smug bastard," he said.
He paced the apartment, marking time in case Laura called, and trying to sort out his approach now that Haven Darden had taken the hook. Assuming the man honored his promise to have his lab deserted by four-and with that assumption Eric felt reasonably safe-there remained only one more detail to see to: a weapon.
By three, Eric had conceived of a solution to that problem as well.
He left the apartment and walked quickly to where his Cefica was parked.
He had a full hour left, but with traffic beginning to build, it would be at least a ten- or fifteen-minute drive to and from the Metropolitan Hospital of Boston.
Bernard Nelson tightened his seat belt for the fourth time stnce takeoff, and silently prayed that the huevos rancheros he had been foolish enough to have for breakfast would find some sort of quiet resting place within his body.
The Cessna 172 was patched in places with duct tape, but its owner and pilot, a man named Chippy, seemed interested enough in his own survival to dispel the most strident of Nelson's misgivings. It would have helped, Bernard acknowledged, if he had a better idea of what they were looking for in the craggy desert west of Moab. But what he did know was that the late Donald Doe had made any number of trips to Moab, and had filled up twice in the area almost every time.
The man had to have driven somewhere.
He also knew, from an hour's experience, that asking the laconic residents and gas station attendants of the town if they had seen a hearse cruising off into the desert was not the quickest way to make friends or gain confidences.
"How much fuel do we have left, Chippy?" he asked.
"Another hour, m'be," the pilot said. "How far we go on't'pends on the wind."
Chippy was a dark, weathered man in his fiftiesIndian or part Indian, Bernard guessed. He flew with effortless confidence, and spoke in a patois that was, at times, almost unintelligible. It seemed as if he left out almost as many syllables as he pronounced. Bernard checked the detailed map he had bought in town.
"In that case," he said, "let's fly to Hanksville, and then over to St.
Joseph. Can we do that?"
"we can. Ain't nothin't' either place, though."
"That's okay. Try to stay around three hundred feet if you can."
"It'd help if ya knew whachas looking' for."
"I know it would." Bernard thought for a time, then decided to chance adding one more name to the list of those who thought him crazy.
"Chippy, someone's been driving out here at least once a month.
From what I can tell, he was driving a hearse. I'm trying to figure out where he was going, and what he was up to."
The pilot, who seemed unsurprised by the revelation, drummed his fingers on the control wheel.
Then he put on his earphones and motioned for Bernard to do the same.