Eric's cab ride through the heavy evening traffic was an agonizing exercise in frustration, beginning with a tie-up on the Mystic River Bridge that stretched back almost to the hospital. To make a bad situation even worse, within minutes of his leaving White Memorial, a furious wind-driven thunderstorm erupted, sending torrents of water cascading down the access ramp and instantly flooding the roadway beneath overpasses.
Strobes of lightning flashed through the taxi as the cabbie pawed at the thickening film of condensation on the windshield.
After three fruitless attempts at convincing the man that this was an emergency worth taking risks for, Eric forced himself back into his seat, fidgeting constantly as he stared out through the pounding rain.
If, as he suspected, Subarsky and Lester Wheeler had coordinated their efforts, Laura was in a situation as potentially lethal as his had- been. Except for the question of why, the final pieces of the Caduceus nightmare had fallen into place. And now, through the twenty-twenty vision of hindsight, Eric cursed himself for not seeing his friend's involvement sooner.
The biochemist's insistence on accompanying him to the Gates of Heaven, his appearance in the hospital library at just the right moment, his knowledge that Eric would be at the county, and finally, his convenient disappearance just before Norma Cullinet's death-the signposts were all there, clear as fucking day.
It had undoubtedly been Dave's idea to try to enlist him as Craig Worrell's replacement in Caduceus, and Dave's finger that had been on his pulse ever since.
Why hadn't he seen it? Why hadn't he at least considered the possibility?
The cabbie inched along the bridge and then stopped, unable even to change lanes. Eric gauged the distance across to East Boston and knew they had no chance. It was perhaps half a mile to the exit, and another half a mile to the docks. Leaving the death'shead mask on the seat, he shoved a ten-dollar big into the Plexiglas scoop, raced from the cab, and dodged between cars to the narrow sidewalk.
Before he had sprinted even a dozen yards he was soaked to the skin.
Rain lashed at him as he bounded up the steep grade toward the crest of the bridge. Far below, the harbor and city flashed like white gold beneath sharp volleys of lightning. By the time he reached the downward slope of the span, he had slowed to an awkward trot, pulling in the moist, exhaust-filled air with desperate gulps. A stitch of pain became a knife, cutting into the side of his chest.
Every stride seemed the last he could take, every breath a hand twisting the blade. still he ran, down the narrow exit ramp and over the McArdle Bridge across the Chelsea River.
Finally, as he stumbled onto Meridian Street on the East Boston side, he had to stop. Propped against a telephone pole, he gasped for breath, begging the pain in his side to abate. The parking lot was just a few hundred yards away. If Laura and Subarsky were there, he had to be ready. Gradually, the stiff ache in his chest subsided. His breathing grew steadier. He pushed himself away from the pole and walked quickly along the dark side of the street. Cars and trucks sped past, showering him with street water.
As he neared the lot he began casting about for something he could use as a weapon. Subarsky was inches taller than he was, and perhaps seventy-five pounds heavier. Eric's main advantage in any match with the man would be surprise-that and the mounting rage he was feeling for all he and Laura and so many others had been put through. The best his brief search could produce was an empty whiskey bottle.
Still, it was something.
The lot was just ahead. It was cut into a tree- and brush-covered slope that paralleled the roadway, and was dimly lit only by a streetlamp diagonally across the road near the dock area. Eric crouched low and made his way to the edge of the trees. Through the persistent, driving rain, he could make out the two — decker hulks, propped up on railroad ties at the farside of the lot. Otherwise, the place appeared deserted.
Cursing the situation, and trying to sort out what his next move should be, Eric slogged through the muddy puddles to the waers. One had only a faded shield and the letters D amp; E painted on the side. The other, at least at one time, had been the property of the Aphrodite Moving and Storage Company. Both the trailers were rusted well beyond any practical use other than storage, perhaps.
The rear doors were gone from the D amp; E trailer, and its wooden floorboards were splintered and decaying. Even from several feet away and through the rain, Eric could smell the odor of stale urine coming from inside. The Aphrodite trailer, which was intact and in much better shape, was secured with a bulky padlock.
Eric halted the surprisingly heavy hardware in his hand as he weighed the possibility that he was in the wrong place against the likelihood that he had somehow beaten Laura and Subarsky to the spot.
There was, of course, a third option-that the two of them had already been and gone, but he refused to allow himself to consider that.
He checked beneath the trailer, searching for some sort of trapdoor, and was walking around to the front end when twin spears of headlight swung into the lot and stopped not twenty feet behind the trailer.
Eric flattened himself against the side and inched along to his right until he was concealed from view.
Even through the gloom he could discern the distinctive silhouette of a Saab 900 Mirbo-Subarsky's car.
Eric had been in the Saab, a year-dd convertible, any number of times.
Why had he never even wondered what a man constantly scrambling for research grants was doing with such elegant transportation?
He slipped around the railroad tie supports and ducked under the trailer. From that vantage, on his knees and elbows in the mud, he could make out only the lower half of the Saab. He wondered if Laura was inside. Five minutes passed with no movement from the car, and no sound other than the steady rumble of rain on the metal roof. Eric began to shiver from the inactivity. He grasped the neck of the whiskey bottle and was trying to formulate some sort of plan when the car door opened and closed. A man in a knee-length poncho stepped out into the downpour and approached the trailer. From his walk and the size of his boots, Eric could tell it was Dave.
Eric edged to his left, and was nearly out from beneath the trailer when he was transfixed by the beam of a powerful flashlight.
"Hey, amigo," Subarsky called out down the full length of the trailer,
"how nice of you to be here to welcome us."
Eric shielded his eyes against the glare.
"Is Laura with you?" he shouted back.
"She is, yes. But when I caught sight of you scampering around as we pulled in, I decided that perhaps I might do well to truss her up a bit.
I assume you know by now that you weren't really supposed to be in any condition to get here."
"Wheeler's dead."
"So your beautiful friend here told me. Nice going, buddy. Damn fine work. I told him outthinking you wasn't going to be that easy, but he's always been an arrogant son of a bitch. He was arrogant when he busted me for dealing at M.I.T And then he was arrogant enough to suggest he become my business partner. I'll bet dollars to doughnuts he died arrogant too. "Give it up, Dave," Eric said.
"now that I don't even have to split the profits with supercop?
You can't be serious. I wish I could consider taking you on in his place. Caduceus and the Charity Project could still use a guy with your panache. But now I fear I just wouldn't ever be able to trust you."
"What's the Charity Project?"
The beam of light went off. In the seconds it took for Eric's eyes to adjust, it was shining on his face once again-this time from just a few feet away.
"It's the key to the kingdom, that's what," Subarsky said.
"DS-Nineteen-the drug that time and the fops in Washington forgot."