Dr. Harold Stark lived in Weston, along with nine-tenths of Boston’s other doctors. He had a sprawling Tudor house which also boasted a Victorian library. After speaking with Susan, he replaced the receiver on the phone on top of his desk. Then he pulled open the right-hand drawer and extracted a second phone, a phone carefully maintained and checked electronically for any additional resistance or interference. It could not be tapped without Stark’s knowledge. He dialed quickly, watching the tiny oscilloscope in the drawer. It functioned normally.
In the control room of the Jefferson Institute a manicured man, slight of build, reached for the ringing red telephone.
“Wilton,” yelled Stark, only partially concealing his anger, “for a whiz kid with figures and an aptitude for business, you’re pretty impotent when it comes to catching young, unarmed girls in a building built like a castle. I cannot understand how you could allow this matter to get so far out of hand. I warned you about her days ago.”
“Don’t worry, Stark. We’ll find her. She got out on the ledge but obviously has to return to the building. All the doors are sealed, and I’ve got ten men here now. Don’t worry.”
“Don’t worry,” snarled Stark. “Well, let me tell you something. She just called me on the phone and outlined the entire core of our program. She’s already out, you ass.”
“Out! Impossible!”
“Impossible. What kind of statement is that? I said she just called me.
What do you think, she’s using one of your phones? Christ, Wilton. Why didn’t you take care of her?”
“We tried. Apparently she’s eluded a very reliable hit man. The lame man who took care of Walters.”
“God, that was another thing. Why didn’t you just dispose of him rather than stage that suicide?”
“For your benefit You’re the one that was so uptight when the drugs that old codger was hoarding were found. I mean you were the one who was so worried that it might drag in the authorities for some sort of grand investigation. We not only had to get rid of Walters but we had to associate him with his goddamn drugs.”
“Well, this whole affair has made up my mind for me, I think it’s time we wind down this operation. Do you understand, Wilton?”
“So the great doctor wants out, does he? At the first ripple of trouble in almost three years, you want out. You got all the money to rebuild that whole hospital of yours. You got yourself appointed Chief of Surgery.
And now you want to leave us dry. Well let me tell you something, Stark, something that you’re going to find hard to take. You are not giving orders anymore. You’re going to follow them. And the first order is to get rid of this girl.”
Stark found himself holding a dead connection. He slammed the phone down and replaced it in the drawer. He was trembling with rage. He had to hold himself back from smashing his own belongings. Instead he gripped the edge of the desk until his fingers turned milky white. Then his fury began to abate. Anger per se had never solved anything, Stark knew. He had to rely on his analytical powers. Wilton was right. Susan represented the first ripple of trouble in his progress in almost three years. The progress that had been made was beyond Stark’s wildest dreams. It had to go on. Medical science demanded it. Susan had to be eliminated. That was certain. But it had to be done in a way so as not to cause suspicion or alarm, especially from some narrow-minded people like Harris or Nelson, who lacked the vision Stark knew he had.
Stark got up from behind his massive desk and walked along the ranks of bookshelves. He was deep in thought and he let his hand carelessly caress the gilded edges of a first-edition Dickens. Suddenly it came to him in a moment of inspiration that brought a smile to his face.
“Beautiful ... so appropriate,” he said out loud. He laughed, his anger already forgotten.
Thursday, February 26, 8:47 P.M.
Susan dashed from the cab without paying and made a bee-line for the Memorial entrance. She had no money and did not intend to get into an argument. The driver jumped out of the cab, too, shouting angrily. He caught the attention of one of the guards, but Susan was already through the entrance.
Susan had to slow to a walk in the main hall. Ahead of her she was dismayed to see Bellows, headed in the same direction. Susan worked her way up to a position directly behind him and debated with herself about catching his attention. She thought again about how he had caused her to disregard the tissue typing done on the coma patients. There was a chance that Bellows was involved. Besides, she remembered Stark’s admonition to speak to no one. So when they reached the corner of the corridor, Susan let Bellows continue down toward the ER. She turned toward the Beard elevators. One was waiting, and she got on and pushed 10.
Susan’s view of the hall became progressively occluded by the closing door. But at the very last minute a hand wrapped around the edge of the door, halting it. Susan stared blankly at it before the face of a guard came into view.
“I would like to have a word with you, Miss,” he said, still holding the door open despite its continued attempts to close, as Susan pressed on the “door close” button.
“Please come off the elevator.”
“But I’m in a terrible hurry. It’s an emergency.”
“The emergency room is on this floor, Miss.”
Susan reluctantly complied with the guard’s demands and got off the elevator. The doors closed behind her, and the car began its ascent to the tenth floor without any occupants.
“It’s not that kind of emergency,” pleaded Susan.
“So much of an emergency you couldn’t pay your cab?” The guard’s voice was a mixture of admonition and concern. Susan’s appearance lent a definite credence to her plea that it was an emergency.
“Take his name and company, and I’ll settle it later. Look, I’m a third-year medical student. My name is Susan Wheeler. I have no time at this moment.”
“Where are you going at this hour?” The guard’s tone had become almost solicitous.
“Beard 10. I’m meeting one of the doctors there. I’ve got to go.” Susan depressed the up button.
“Who?”
“Howard Stark. You can call him.”
The guard was confused, dubious. “All right. But stop by the security office on your way down.”
“Of course,” agreed Susan as the guard turned to go.
Just then the next elevator arrived and Susan boarded it, pushing past a few departing passengers, who looked at her disheveled appearance curiously. On the slow ride up to 10 she leaned against the car’s wall gratefully.
The corridor presented a totally different environment from the one she remembered from her previous daytime visit. The typewriters were quiet The patients gone. The floor was as still as a morgue. The thick carpet absorbed the sound of her own hesitant footsteps as she moved toward her goal and safety. The only light came from a lonely table lamp in the middle of the hall. The New Yorker magazine stacks which could be seen were carefully straightened. The faces on the portraits of the former Memorial surgeons were smudges of violet shadow.
Susan approached Stork’s office and hesitated for a moment, composing herself. She was about to knock, but tried the door. It opened. The anteroom of Stark’s secretary was dark, but the door to his private office was slightly ajar, light slanting through it. Susan pushed open the door and stepped in.
The door shut behind her that instant Susan’s overwrought psyche caused a tremendous panic reaction as she whirled to face an assailant.
She had to fight to keep from screaming.
Stark was locking the door. He must have been behind her.
“Sorry for the dramatics, but I don’t think we want anyone interrupting this conversation.” He smiled suddenly. “Susan, you’ll never know how glad I am to see you. After these experiences you told me about, I should have insisted on picking you up from when you called. But no matter, you got here safely. Do you think you were followed?”
Susan’s fight reaction tapered, her heart rate reached an apogee and began to slow. She swallowed. “I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure.”
“Come and sit down. You look like you’ve been through World War I.”
Stark touched Susan’s arm, guiding her to a chair in front of his desk.
