Maybe the receptionist would know where he went. She went back down the hall to the receptionist's desk. Cassandra smiled, and the receptionist smiled back, putting up one finger to signal her to wait.
"I'm sorry," the receptionist said into the phone, "but I can't locate Sara Lowell. She may have already left, Mrs. Riker, I know you said it's an emergency, but... yes, I understand the importance. Would you like me to page Dr. Riker? No? Okay, okay, I won't, calm down."
Cassandra leaned over.
"A call for Sara?"
The receptionist put her hand over the mouthpiece.
"It's Jennifer Riker, Dr. Riker's ex. She keeps ranting about an emergency."
"I'll talk to her."
Cassandra took the phone.
"Hello?"
Jennifer's voice came fast.
"Who is this?"
"Cassandra Lowell, Jennifer. I'm Sara's sister. We met a few years back at a party " "I remember," Jennifer.
"Where's Sara?"
"I don't know. I just got here myself."
"Find her, Cassandra. She's in grave danger."
Cassandra held the phone close to her ear.
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about the letter," Jennifer explained.
"What letter?"
"The letter Bruce wrote."
Sergeant Willie Monticelli veered right and exited off the Henry Hudson Parkway at 178th Street. He sped down Fort Washington Avenue, passed Hood Park, and turned left at 167th Street. He made a hard right on Broadway, accelerated past the main hospital building and Babies Hospital, and took a sharp left.
Ten seconds later the squad car arrived at the Sidney Pavilion entrance. Willie pulled the car up on the sidewalk, braking with a horrid screech, inches before hitting the cement stairs at the entrance. Max was out of the car before it came to a complete stop, Willie not far behind. The two sprinted up the stairs, badges out. The security guards, spotting the police IDs, stepped back to avoid being the victims of a two-man stampede.
"Any other police arrive yet?" Max asked without breaking stride.
"None," the guard yelled back.
Max continued to run, busting through doors like an Old West gunslinger in a saloon. He reached the reception desk.
"Where's Sara Lowell?" he asked.
The receptionist looked up quizically.
"And who might you Max tossed his badge on her desk.
"Lieutenant Bernstein, NYPD. Where is Sara Lowell?"
"She is a very popular young lady today."
"What does that mean?"
"It means, Lieutenant, that you are not the first person in a rush to speak to her."
"Who else?"
"Jennifer Riker just called looking for Ms. Lowell. She said it was very urgent."
"Dr. Riker's wife?"
"Ex- wife," the receptionist corrected.
"Anyhow, I couldn't find Ms. Lowell anywhere so Mrs. Riker spoke to her sister instead."
"Cassandra? Where is she?"
The receptionist shrugged.
"I couldn't tell you for sure. She spoke to Mrs. Riker, turned all white and funny, and then ran off without a word. Didn't even have the courtesy to hang up the phone."
"Where did she go?"
"She got in the elevator and went up. It stopped at the third floor."
Max turned toward the elevator.
"Willie?"
The sergeant stood at the elevator, holding the door open.
"One step ahead of you, Twitch."
"Then let's move."
Harvey cradled the gun close to him as he swung open the door slowly.
He had considered the possibility that Sara Lowell might launch some sort of futile attack when he first opened the door.
But when he looked in the cold room, he knew that he had worried needlessly.
Sara was slumped in the corner. Her eyes were closed, her head tilted back at a strange angle. Her normally pale complexion was frighteningly white, colorless. Her trembling lips were thin and blue.
She looked so pitifully small and helpless, huddled in the corner like a wounded animal trapped in a cage.
"Sarar No response. Her breathing was labored and uneven. Her shoulder drooped into her chest, her arms hung limply at her sides.
"Sarar Still nothing. Her eyes remained closed. A choking noise, like something was stuck in her air passage, came from her throat.
Part of him wanted Sara to stay unconscious, but most of him wanted her to be awake. He wanted her to be conscious when he killed her, to have the right to stare at him with accusing, hateful eyes as he pulled the trigger. The haunting image would never leave him, he knew. It would be his own way of serving penance.
He kept his distance on the off chance that she would regain consciousness and try to surprise him. From where he stood near the doorway, he would have plenty of time to raise his gun and fire should she try to cross the room. Not even someone with Michael's quickness would be able to cross a room that fast.
For a moment he considered using the knife in his pocket on her. It would, no doubt, be quieter. But no, he would stick to the gun. The gun was more impersonal. It could kill from a distance. Stabbing someone, slicing their throat from ear to ear or jutting the long blade into the heart... only a certain sort of man could do such a thing.
Harvey found it too painful to stare at Sara's pathetic form crouched in the corner. He swerved his eyes toward the neat row of test tubes on the top shelf. He read the labels. So close was he to his project that he had each patient's code and every chemical in this room memorized.
87m332 was Ezra Platt. 98k003 was Kiel Davis. The next one should be, yes it was, 39k10, Kevin Fraine..."Sarar Still nothing. Her troubled breathing had deteriorated into struggled gasps and arduous intakes.
Harvey felt tears push into his eyes, but as he had done when he ordered Bruce's death, he forced them back down. His eyes moved down the row of beakers.
Naoh, S02, H2So4, next should be H3PO4, and then. where was the HC1?... Sara's slumped arm moved like it had been spring-released.
The arm shot toward him as he raised his gun. In her hand Sara held a large glass beaker filled with HC1. Harvey's eyes widened.
HCl. Hydrochloric acid."
There was no time to react. The liquid flew across the room and splashed onto Harvey's face.
He screamed.
The acid ripped at him. It burrowed into his face, eating away at his flesh, shredding his corneas and pupils, tearing apart the milky white of his eyes. Pain engulfed him, but the pain in his skin was nothing compared to what was happening in his eyes.
Thousands of sharp flaming darts punctured the soft gel of his eyeballs.
His hands flew to his face, his fingers pulled at his eyes in a futile attempt to lessen the pain. He could hear his skin and eyes sizzle, smell the burning flesh on his own face.
As Sara struggled to her feet, she saw the gun fall from his hand and bounce underneath a shelf. She thought groggily of trying to get it but decided against it. It would probably take too long and give Harvey the time he needed to recuperate. Better to make a run for it.
Before she took a step, Sara heard Harvey manage his first words since the acid had landed on his face. They started low, almost inaudible, but they grew louder with each syllable. He repeated the same words over an dover as though they were some sort of ritual chant:
"You must die, Sara. You must."
The elevator moved so damn slowly. After thirty seconds of pushing the close-door button, the door grudgingly obeyed by sliding shut. With a grunt it began to ascend.
"You check the second floor," Max said to Willie. "I'll go up to the third. Yell if you see anything."
"Right."
The elevator stopped on the second floor. The door had not yet opened when Max and Willie heard what sounded like a long, primal scream.
"Third floor," Max shouted.
Willie repeatedly pressed the third floor button, but the elevator's course had already been set and it was not about to be rushed by a human scream. The door opened slowly on the second floor and then paused.