En route to his final patient, Jason found himself again thinking of Carol Donner. Suddenly getting an idea, he made a detour to the central desk and found Claudia. He asked her to go down to personnel and see if she could get Alvin Hayes’s home address. Jason was confident that if anybody could do it, Claudia could.
Once again heading for his last outpatient, Jason wondered why he’d not thought of getting Hayes’s address sooner. If Carol Donner had been living with the man, it would be vastly easier to talk with her at her apartment than at the Club Cabaret, where they obviously felt rather protective. Maybe she’d have some ideas about Hayes’s breakthrough, or if nothing else, his health. By the time Jason had finished with his last patient, Claudia had the address. It was in the South End.
After all the outpatients had been seen, and Jason had dictated the necessary correspondence, he headed up the main elevator to begin his inpatient rounds. He saw Madaline Krammer first.
She was already looking better. An increased diuretic had reduced her swollen feet and hands considerably, but when he went over her again he was disturbed to find that her pupils seemed widely dilated and unreactive to light. He made a note on her chart before continuing his rounds.
Before he went in to see Matthew Cowen, Jason pulled his chart to see what the ophthalmology consult had said about his eyes. Shocked, Jason read, “Mild cataract formation in both eyes. Check again in six months.” Jason couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Cataracts at thirty-five? He remembered the autopsy had noted cataracts in Connoly’s eyes. He also remembered just seeing Madaline Krammer’s dilated pupils. What the hell were they dealing with? He was further confused when he went down the hall to see Matthew.
“Are you giving me any weird drugs?” he demanded as soon as he glimpsed Jason.
“No. Why do you ask?”
“Because my hair is coming out.” To make his point, he tugged on a few strands, which indeed came right out. He scattered them on the pillow.
Jason picked one up, rolling it slowly between his thumb and index finger. It looked normal save for a grayness at the root. Then he examined Matthew’s scalp. It too was normal, with no inflammation or soreness.
“How long has this been going on?” he asked, remembering Brian Lennox with startling vividness, as well as Mrs. Harring’s comment that her husband’s hair had started to fall out.
“It’s gotten much worse today,” Matthew said. “I don’t mean to sound paranoid, but everything seems to be happening to me.”
“It’s just coincidence,” Jason said, trying to buoy his own confidence as much as Matthew’s. “I’ll have the dermatologist take another look. Maybe it’s associated with your dry skin. Has that improved?”
“It’s worse, if anything. I shouldn’t have come into the hospital.”
Jason tended to agree, especially since so many of his patients were doing poorly. By the time he finished rounds, he was exhausted. He almost forgot that some well-meaning friends had insisted he attend a dinner party that night so they could fix him up with a cute thirty-four-year-old lawyer named Penny Lambert. With an hour to kill, Jason decided it wasn’t worth going home. Instead, he pulled out the Boston map he kept in his car and located Springfield Street, where Hayes’s apartment was located. It was off Washington Street. Thinking it would be a good time to catch Carol Donner, he decided to drive directly there. But that was easier said than done. Heading south, he found himself caught in bumper-to-bumper traffic on Massachusetts Avenue. With persistence, he reached Washington Street and turned left, then left again at Springfield. He located Hayes’s building, then found a parking spot.
The neighborhood was a mixture of renovated and unrenovated buildings. Hayes’s was in the latter category. Graffiti was spray-painted on the front steps. Jason entered the foyer and noted that several of the mailboxes were broken and that the inner door was unlocked. In fact, the lock had been broken sometime in the distant past and never replaced. Hayes’s apartment was on the third floor. Jason started up the poorly lit steps. The smell was musty and damp.
The building was large, with single apartments on each floor. On three Jason tripped over several Boston Globes still in their plastic covers. There was no bell so Jason knocked. Hearing no response, he knocked again, harder. The door squeaked open about an inch. Looking down, Jason saw that the lock had recently been forced and that part of the doorjamb was missing. Using his index finger, Jason gingerly pushed the door open. It squeaked again as if in pain. “Hello,” he called. There was no answer. He stepped into the apartment. “Hello.” There was no noise except a running toilet. He closed the door behind him and started across a dark hall toward a partially opened door.
Jason took one look and almost fled. The place had been trashed. The living room, once decorated with attractive antiques and reproductions, was a wreck. All the drawers in the desk and sideboard had been pulled out and dumped. The sofa cushions had been slashed, and the contents of a large bookcase were strewn about the floor.
Picking his way carefully through the mess, Jason peered into a small bedroom, which was in the same condition as the living room, then went down the hall to what he assumed was the master bedroom. It too was a wreck. Every drawer had been dumped, and the clothes in the walk-in closet had been ripped from hangers and thrown on the floor. Picking some up, he noted they were all men’s clothes.
Suddenly the front door squeaked, sending a shiver down Jason’s spine. He let the clothes fall to the floor. He started to call out again, hoping that it was Carol Donner, but for a moment he was too scared to speak. He froze, his ears straining for sound. Maybe a draft had pushed the door…. Then he heard a thud, like the sound of a shoe knocking against a book or an overturned drawer. Someone was definitely in the apartment, and Jason had the feeling whoever it was knew he was there. Perspiration appeared on his forehead and ran down the side of his nose. Detective Curran’s warning that the drug world was dangerous flashed through his mind. He wondered if there was a way to sneak out. Then he realized he was at the end of a long hallway.
All at once a large figure filled the doorway. Even in the darkness Jason could tell that it was carrying a gun.
Panic filled Jason as his heart raced. But still he did not move.A second, smaller figure joined the first and together they stepped into the room. Then they advanced toward Jason, inexorably, step by step. It seemed like an eternity. Jason wanted to cry out or run.
CHAPTER 6
The next instant Jason thought he’d died. There was a flash. But then he realized it was not the gun, but a light bulb over his head. He was still alive. Two uniformed policemen stood before him. Jason could have hugged them in his relief.
“Am I glad to see you guys,” Jason said.
“Turn around,” the larger cop ordered, ignoring Jason’s comment.
“I can explain…” Jason began, but he was told to shut up and put his hands on the wall, his feet spread apart.
The second cop searched him, removing his wallet. When they were satisfied Jason was unarmed, they pulled his arms off the wall and handcuffed him. Then they marched him back through the apartment, down the stairs, and into the street. Some passersby stopped to watch as Jason was forced into the back seat of an unmarked car.
The cops remained silent during the ride to the stationhouse, and Jason decided there was no point trying to explain until they got there. Now that he had calmed down, he began to think of what he should do. He guessed he’d be able to make a phone call, and he wondered if he should call Shirley or the lawyer he’d used when he’d sold his house and practice.