from his jacket side pocket and packed it in the briefcase. Better to let the guard think he was a tippler than a drug dealer or thief.
Jeffrey was able to leave the library without incident. He felt a little conspicuous with all his pockets bulging, but there was nothing to be done about it just then.
There were practically no cabs on Huntington Avenue at that time of night.
After he tried for ten minutes to no avail, the
Green Line trolley came along. Jeffrey got on, feeling it was more prudent to keep moving.
Jeffrey took one of the seats oriented parallel to the car and balanced the briefcase on his knees. He could feel all of the packets of money that were in his pants, particularly the ones he was sitting on. As the trolley lurched forward, Jeffrey allowed his eyes to roam around the car.
Consistent with his experience on Boston subways, no one said a word.
Everyone stared ahead expressionlessly as if in a trance. Jeffrey's eyes met those of the other travelers who were sitting across from him. The people who sullenly returned his state made him feel transparent. He was amazed at how many of them in his mind looked as if they were criminals.
Closing his eyes, Jeffrey went over some of the material he'd just read, considering it in light of the experience he'd had with Patty Owen and
Chris's with Henry Noble. He'd been surprised by one piece of information about local anesthetics. Under a section marked 'adverse reactions,' he'd read that occasionally miotic or constricted pupils were seen. That was new to Jeffrey. Except for Patty Owen and Henry Noble, he'd never seen it clin- ically or read it before. There was no explanation of the physiological mechanism, and Jeffrey couldn't explain it. Then in the same article it was written that usually mydriasis, or enlargement, of the pupils was seen. At that point Jeffrey gave up the issue of pupillary size. It all didn't make much sense to him and only added to his confusion.
When the trolley suddenly plunged underground, the sound startled Jeffrey.
He opened his eyes in terror and let out a little gasp. He hadn't realized how jumpy he was. He began to take deep, steady breaths in order to calm himself
After a minute or two, Jeffrey's thoughts returned to the cases. He realized there was another similarity between the Noble and Owen cases that he'd not considered. Henry Noble had been paralyzed for the week he'd lived. It was as if he'd had total irreversible spinal anesthesia. Since
Patty had died, Jeffrey had no idea if she would have suffered paralysis had she lived. But her baby had survived and did display marked residual paralysis. It had been assumed that the baby's paralysis stemmed from a lack of oxygen to his brain, but now Jeffrey wasn't so sure. The strange, asymmetric distribution had always troubled him. Maybe this paralysis was an additional clue, one that might be of use in identifying a contaminant.
Jeffrey got off the subway at Park Street and climbed the
stairs. Giving wide berth to several policemen, he hurried down Winter
Street, leaving the crowded Park Street area behind. As he walked, he thought more seriously about getting back into Boston Memorial Hospital now that he'd done his reading.
The idea of becoming part of the housekeeping staff had a lot of merit except for one problem: to apply for a job he'd need to provide some sort of identification as well as a valid social security number. In this day of computers, Jeffrey knew he couldn't expect to get by by making one up.
He was wrestling with the problem of identification when he turned onto the street where the Essex Hotel stood. Half a block away from the liquor store, which was still open, he paused. A vision of the man in the tattered suit came back to him. The two of them had been about the same height and age.
Crossing the street, Jeffrey approached the empty lot next to the liquor store. A strategically placed streetlamp threw a good deal of light into the area. About a quarter of the way into the lot there was a concrete overhang sticking out of one of the bordering buildings that looked like it could have been an old loading dock. Beneath it Jeffrey could make out a number of figures, some sitting, some passed out on the ground.
Stopping and listening, Jeffrey could hear conversation. Overpowering any misgivings, he started toward the group. Stepping gingerly on a bed of broken bricks, Jeffrey approached the overhang. A fetid odor of unwashed humans assaulted his senses. The conversation stopped. A number of rheumy eyes regarded him suspiciously in the semidarkness.
Jeffrey felt he was an intruder in another world. With rising anxiety, he searched for the man in the tattered suit, moving his eyes quickly from one dark figure to the next. What would he do if these men suddenly sprang at him?
Jeffrey saw the man he was looking for. He was one of the men sitting in the semicircle. Forcing himself forward, Jeffrey approached closer. No one spoke. There was an electric charge of expectation in the air as if a spark could cause an explosion. Every eye was now following Jeffrey. Even some of the people who'd been lying down were now sitting up, staring at him.
'Hello,' Jeffrey said limply when he was in front of the man. The man didn't move. Nor did anyone else. 'Remember me?' Jeffrey asked. He felt foolish, but he couldn't think of what else to say. 'I gave you some change an hour or so ago. Back there, in front of the liquor store.' Jeffrey pointed over his shoulder.
The man didn't respond.
'I thought maybe you could use a little more,' Jeffrey said. He reached into his pocket, and pushing away the packet of hundred-dollar bills, pulled out some change and several smaller bills. He extended the change.
The man reached forward and took the coins.
'Thanks, buddy,' he managed, trying to see the coins in the darkness.
'I've got more,' Jeffrey said. 'In fact, I've got a five-dollar bill here, and I'm willing to bet that you're so drunk, you can't remember your social security number.'
'Whaddya mean?' the man mumbled as he struggled to his feet. Two of the other men followed suit. The man Jeffrey was interested in swayed as if he were about to fall, but caught himself. He appeared drunker than he'd been earlier. 'It's 139-321560. That's my social security number.'
'Oh, sure!' Jeffrey said with a wave of dismissal. 'You just made that up.'
'The hell I did!' the man said indignantly. With a sweeping gesture that almost knocked him off his feet, he reached for his wallet. He staggered again, struggling to lift the wallet from his trouser pocket. After he got it out, he fumbled to remove not a Social Security card, but his driver's license. He dropped the wallet in the process. Jeffrey bent down to pick it up. He noticed there was no money in it.
'Lookit right here!' the man said. 'Just like I said.'
Jeffrey handed him the wallet and took the license. He couldn't see the number but that wasn't the point. 'My word, I guess you were right,' he said after he pretended to study it. He handed over the five-dollar bill, which the man grabbed eagerly. But one of the other men grabbed it out of his hand.
'Gimme that back!' the man yelled.
Another of the men had advanced behind Jeffrey. Jeffrey reached into his pocket and pulled out more coins. 'There's some for everybody,' he said as he tossed them on the ground. They clinked against the broken brick. There was a rush as everyone but Jeffrey dropped to his hands and knees in the darkness. Jeffrey took advantage of the diversion to turn and run as quickly as he dared across the rubble-strewn lot toward the street.
Back in his hotel room, he propped the license up on the edge of the sink and compared his image to that of the photo on the license. The nose was completely different. Nothing could be done about that. Yet if he darkened his hair and combed it
straight back with some gel the way he'd thought he would, and if he added some black-framed glasses, maybe it would work. But at the very least, he had a valid social security number associated with a real name and address: Frank Amendola, of 1617 Sparrow Lane, Framingham, Massachusetts.
WEDNESDAY,
MAY 17, 1989
6:15 A.M.
Trent Harding wasn't due to start work until seven, but at sixfifteen he was already pulling off his street clothes in the locker room off the surgical lounge of St. Joseph's Hospital. From where he was standing, he had a straight shot to the sinks and he could see himself in the over-the-basin mirrors. He flexed his arm and neck muscles so that they bulged. He hunched over slightly to check their definition. Trent liked what he saw.
Trent went to his health club at least four times a week to use the
