Wednesday, 12:07 p.m.
Fox RiverMedicalCenter
After driving at breakneck speed from the Fermilab Public Affairs Office, Paige hurried down the corridor in the medical center. Her dress shoes clicked along the much-scuffed linoleum floor. She dodged nurses and orderlies with carts, family members taking older relatives out in their wheelchairs for a stroll. No one seemed particularly concerned to see a young woman dashing down the hall, scanning the room numbers. In the hospital it happened all the time.
“I’m spending altogether too much time in this place,” she muttered.
Finally, she found the examining room where Craig Kreident sat looking gray and shaken. Even from here she could smell the reek of chlorine bleach.
Without noticing her, he tried to regain his self-composure by retying his tie. Craig coughed again, wiped his reddened eyes, then looked down at his uncooperative fingers. He flexed them and tried once more to knot the necktie.
“I can help with that,” Paige said. She was glad to see how his face lit up when he saw her. She stepped behind him, put both hands over his shoulders and pressed close as she untied his abortive attempt at a knot.
Adjusting the ends, she flipped the necktie around until she had knotted it properly. It had been a long time since she’d fixed a man’s necktie. It wasn’t normally a skill young women needed to learn, especially in these days of increasingly casual attire. But Paige had learned in order to help her father when he had grown weak from the cancer that sapped his strength.
Working in California and Nevada for the nuclear weapons industry, Gordon Mitchell had preferred to wear a bolo tie, if any at all, but occasional design reviews or government inspections required extra formality. Paige had assisted him on those mornings when he fretted over his wardrobe so much he didn’t even take time to gulp his usual coffee and orange juice.
Craig looked as though he still felt the terrible effects of his bout with homemade chlorine gas. She felt a pang of sympathy as she finished straightening his tie. Craig stood up and gave her a grateful look as he brushed down his white shirt front. He coughed, still reluctant to draw a deep breath into damaged lungs. He reached for his suit jacket like a knight replacing a battered set of armor after losing a jousting tournament.
“I can’t imagine you went through all this just to become a blonde,” Paige said with an impish grin as she ruffled her fingers through his chestnut hair. “There are easier ways to bleach your hair.”
He looked up at her, as if trying to regain his sense of humor. “And what would
Paige laughed and stepped back, crossing her arms over her denim blouse. Craig attempted to laugh along with her, but broke into another coughing fit. Sitting down hard, he picked up a blue plastic pitcher on the table and poured himself a cup of water. He swallowed two long gulps and then spat into the sink. “My mouth tastes awful.”
“Yes, but your tongue is a very clean shade of white,” she said.
He looked in the mirror, sticking his tongue out.
“So, are you really all right?” Paige said with genuine concern.
Craig ran water in the sink and splashed his face. “My eyes burn, my nose burns, my throat burns, my lungs burn-but all in all, it’s been a pretty good day. No question in my mind that we’ve got a real case here… as if I had any doubts in the first place.”
“Who could it have been?” she asked. “Did you see the person who attacked you? What was he looking for in Dumenco’s apartment?”
Craig shook his head. “We interrupted him, but he managed to destroy Dumenco’s home computer. All of his disks, maybe just as a precaution. But Dumenco wasn’t dumb enough to do any important research on his home computer, with no security.”
“His work wasn’t classified, so he could have worked at home whenever he wanted.”
“Sure, but Dumenco’s real ‘home’ was in his lab anyway. He wouldn’t have stayed in his apartment when he could have been at Fermilab. That apartment was just a place where he went to sleep once in a while.”
Paige laid a hand on his shoulder. “How’s Jackson?”
“Seems to be all right,” Craig said. “Trish hasn’t come in to check on us yet-apparently she’s away from the hospital. But the attending physician says we’ll both recover. That chlorine gas knocked us flat, but we got to the window soon enough, managed to crack the door open a bit. No permanent damage.” He took another slow, gradual breath, musing. “I wonder what Jackson would look like as a blond?”
“Probably not any better than you,!‘ she chuckled.
Craig broke out coughing instead. “I’ll be all right. Just need a little rest.”
“What you need is a good dinner, the best Chicago cuisine has to offer.”
“As long as it’s not more bratwursts and sauerkraut.” Craig looked over at her. “Are you asking me out on a date, Ms. Mitchell?”
“It
She grew serious. “I think we should spend some time discussing the case. You know, like old times back in Livermore or out in Las Vegas.”
“It’s a deal,” Craig said, “but I need to change clothes first.”
She wrinkled her nose at the lingering chlorine smell. “Yes, Craig, I think that would be a good idea.”
When Paige stepped out of the examining room, she saw Trish LeCroix waiting by the door. As Paige exited, Trish looked down at a sheaf of papers, as if pretending she hadn’t been eavesdropping or wanting to see Craig herself. “Why, it’s Dr. LeCroix,” Paige said. “Craig was just looking for you.”
“Call me Patrice,” she said stiffly. Her words bore little friendliness.
“How is Craig’s condition?” Paige asked.
Trish flipped her papers over. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve been busy. Now if you’ll excuse me.” She turned to walk down the hall, and Paige had to hurry to keep up with her. Craig had described Trish as being somewhat cold and self-centered, and Paige could see how the woman gave that impression.
“Wait,” said Paige. “Have you talked with his doctor?”
“I’m sure he’ll be all right,” Trish said offhandedly. “The fumes only caused a bit of superficial damage. He’ll have chest pains for a while, maybe an occasional bloody nose from the damaged soft tissue, but nothing too serious. Agent Jackson ’s worse off, but he’s tough. They’ll be back on the case without even taking time for a coffee break. FBI agents, you know-they think they’ve got to be more macho than anybody else.”
Paige wondered why Trish was so cold and impatient. Out of curiosity, she had tracked down some of “P. LeCroix’s” impassioned editorials written for the Bulletin of the Physicians for Responsible Radiation Research. Her writings were anything but lukewarm.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Trish said, “we all have very little time. Craig had a trivial exposure to a mundane hazard that anybody could concoct with a few household chemicals. It’s nothing compared to what Georg Dumenco is going through.” She pressed her lips together in a frown. “There’s only so much sympathy in the world, and every patient can’t have all of it.”
Paige blinked and stopped in her tracks, letting Trish continue toward the Intensive Care ward. She found the other woman’s behavior to be very odd-very odd indeed.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Wednesday, 7:48 p.m.
Batavia, IL
