Lethal Exposure

“Hey, open your eyes!” A large woman, all three hundred pounds of her, glared through thick glasses at him, lumbering out of his way. Not that he could have missed her, with hips the size of Greater Chicago.

Bretti clenched his teeth. He’d had it with people- the crowds, the rudeness, the self-centeredness. “Put on a Wide Load sign, lady. You’re taking up half the concourse.”

“That’s tough titty, you little wimp.”

Bretti gawked at her huge breasts, each the size of a watermelon. “And I bet they are.”

The woman glared at him, but he pushed past her to the escalator before she could react. He had meant to catch a taxi to the Indian consulate downtown where he could pick up his red Saturn, but he was too focused now on accomplishing unfinished business, business he should have taken care of years ago.

He didn’t have much time… the crystal-lattice trap could wait only another few hours. At the end of the week he could ditch the leased car, fly out with the stash of p-bars, and finally start his life all over again.

If the Indians paid him.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Thursday, 6:12 a.m.

Fox RiverMedicalCenter

Silence. He stopped just outside the hospital room.

The hallway was deserted. No visitors, no sounds. Nearly six in the morning, too early for the nurses to be making their rounds, yet late enough that the floor nurse would be dozing. He had checked only seconds before. All clear.

The hall lights were dimmed, half the medical center’s fluorescent banks shut down. The only sounds from the other rooms were faint snoring, a cough down the hall, and the constant ping of an assisted breathing device. Hospitals never entirely shut down, but they certainly became quiet.

Every movement required stealth, any misstep might cause a disaster. Murder was a tricky business, if you didn’t want to get caught.

He stepped up to a dark, unguarded room. No plaque gave the patient’s name, but this had to be it-a private room, an updated checklist for the radiation-health specialist… a small Ukrainian flag taped over the name-plate. The bastard had never officially renounced his citizenship. The gall!

He glanced down the hallway as someone walked past the cross corridor whistling an old Top 40 tune that echoed through the sleeping building. His first instinct was to flee, to dive into the shadows and hide-but he kept moving, untroubled, unnoticed. That was the key. The night worker paid no attention to him.

Perfect disguise, chameleon, blend into even this odd environment. He wore stolen green surgery garb, and the mask and cap gave him anonymity; a stolen ID badge gave him an appropriate name, if such was required.

He pushed open the door to Georg Gregorivich Dumenco’s room. The hinges were quiet, the lights out. A dim trickle of dawn gleamed through the slitted blinds, dappling the waxed floor. The old scientist lay on his side snoring gently, a sheet pulled up nearly to his head and the blanket twisted around his feet. An IV line hung from a bottle and snaked into the old man’s arm. No one sat vigil with him, waiting to hear deathbed confessions-no family, no friends, no graduate students. Even here, even now, the physicist had isolated himself from his family.

The legendary Ukrainian scientist, all alone. Helpless.

Reaching into a long pocket beneath the baggy surgery pants, he withdrew a tightly folded sterile green cloth. He quickly unwrapped the cloth to expose a thin surgical knife, carbon steel, razor sharp. The blade caught a flicker of light in a crazy pattern dancing against the wall.

Dumenco didn’t stir. It would be like slicing the throat of a sleeping bull, a powerful enough animal when awake, but now unprotected and powerless. How many times had Dumenco been this close, so helpless? The timing was never right, the circumstances never so crucial. Only recently had things changed enough to demand action.

Dumenco just couldn’t leave well enough alone.

Padding silently across the room, he stood beside the dying man’s bed. Clear target. He did not want to risk reaching over the old scientist, whose arm could block the slicing motion across the throat. The cut would have to be a quick slash at arm’s length to prevent the blood from jetting onto his stolen hospital garb. That would draw attention during his exit. No clues could be left, no path of the Ukrainian’s blood. He would wipe the blade on the bedsheet and disappear into the night.

Keeping a firm grip on the delicate surgical knife, he crouched down and slipped the blade under Dumenco“s chin-

“Hey, what are you doing in here?” A woman’s voice shattered the silence. “This is my patient.”

He jerked away, nearly tripping as he stumbled back. The half blinds on the window slapped as he backed into them. Dumenco stirred but didn’t wake up.

The room lights blinked on, filling the white-walled suite with a harsh, overpowering glare. A woman in a white lab coat carried a cup of coffee in a cafeteria cup, held a sheaf of papers in the other hand. A stethoscope hung around her neck; delicate glasses highlighted her face. Dr. Patrice LeCroix. He had talked to her before, one of the more outspoken members of the Physicians for Responsible Radiation Research.

Now she was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and she had spoiled everything.

Her mouth hung open, halfway between astonishment and horror. Coffee sloshed on the floor. He twirled, keeping the masked face and eyes away from her. Cursing, he brought down his head and launched himself toward the door. Before she could sound an alarm. Before she could recognize him.

The woman raised her voice, terrified as well as indignant. “What the hell are you doing here?‘’ Her sheaf of papers fell to the floor as he charged past her. She opened her mouth as if to scream, but no sound came out, only a faint gurgling. Her attention was torn between stopping him and checking on her patient.

He briefly considered killing both her and Dumenco, but precious time had already been lost, attention already directed toward the sleepy room. In a moment, the night nurse would run to investigate, police would be called, an intensive search would be initiated.

Dumenco struggled up in bed now, awake but befuddled.

During his flight, he shoved Dr. LeCroix aside. She fell against the visitor’s chair by the door. Coffee spilled over her and on his stolen hospital garb. He felt the hot liquid soaking through, burning. Not blood, but coffee stains on the surgical garb. He would be easily spotted, identified.

Slamming the door behind him to gain an extra few seconds, he sprinted away as Dr. LeCroix shouted for help. His shoes squeaked as he ran down the hallway, leaving smudges on the freshly waxed floor.

Within minutes in the parking lot, in his car, on the streets, he could elude any pursuit. Dumenco remained alive, still dangerous-and now he would be even more concerned.

All the more reason to do it right the next time.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Thursday, 7:04 a.m.

Fox RiverMedicalCenter

After the early morning attempt on Dumenco’s life, Craig rushed in from a restless night’s sleep. The Ukrainian was only a day or two away from death anyway-but Craig wouldn’t stand by while someone tried to hurry him along. He had heard on the radio on the way in that the Nobel Prize in Chemistry had been announced, and Craig felt a tightening in his gut. The countdown was ticking-if the Nobel could not be awarded to a dead man, had an