Ross had hoped to wake having decided on a course of action, but he was as conflicted as he'd been when he'd gone to bed. And when he got to the hospital with his father, Lauren's neurologist didn't help matters.
'She's certainly improved,' said Greenbloom, 'although we don't know why. She can now breathe unaided and the swelling round the brainstem has lessened. The scans also revealed that some fractures on her damaged vertebrae are no longer visible, which again we can't explain. All this is good, but she's still in a deep coma, level one on the Rancho, and level three on the Glasgow coma scale.'
'How about the baby?'
'Its prognosis is marginally better,' the neurologist said cautiously.
'So what you're saying is, there's been a sudden improvement but the outlook hasn't changed?'
'Yes.'
Though Ross welcomed the removal of the ventilator, Greenbloom's analysis made it hard to feel upbeat. As he ate breakfast with his father in the small hospital canteen, he kept thinking about Father Orlando's garden. He waited for his father to finish his eggs and hash browns, then told him about it. He expected no-nonsense Sam Kelly to demand why he was even considering 'all that garbage'. Instead, he cradled his coffee cup in his large, calloused hands and frowned thoughtfully.
'All I know as a farmer is that nature's got a funny way of surprising you. So I'm not going to sit here and say there's no way the garden exists. Son, you're the one who left the farm to go to college. What's your education telling you? Could it exist?'
Ross considered his hypothesis again. 'I guess it's possible, in theory.'
'Could it help Lauren? I read somewhere that the jungles of the world are full of medicines and cures modern science doesn't yet know about.'
Ross thought of Lauren's improvement. 'Again, it's possible.'
'Possible sounds pretty good right now,' said his father. 'A hell of a lot better than what Dr Greenbloom keeps telling us.' He looked hard at Ross. 'Son, you've never been one to sit on your rump and wait for something to happen. What's stopping you now?'
'Leaving Lauren and the baby. If I search for this place I could be away, in the middle of nowhere, for at least a couple of months.'
Fire ignited in his father's usually calm eyes. 'I'll tell you one thing, son. If there was anything I could have done, however long a shot, to save your unborn brother all those years ago, or your mother when the cancer took her, I'd have done it in a heartbeat.' He smiled sadly. 'You're lucky, son. You can do something. I don't know your profession too well, but I understand it involves finding stuff. It's what you do and you're good at it. If there's even the slightest chance this garden exists then you can find it. And if saving Lauren and Junior means leaving them for a few months, then go ahead. I'll be here to mind things. I'm selling the farm, anyway. My heart ain't in it any more and you don't want it. Old Lou Jackman's made me a decent offer and I'm going to retire. So, don't you worry about Lauren and my grandchild. Let Lauren's mother and me watch over them for a while.'
Ross felt a rush of gratitude and hope. Here was something he could do at last. 'You sure, Dad?'
'Hell, son, I've never been more sure of anything in my life. Say goodbye to Lauren, explain why you're going, then do your damnedest to save her. If you do nothing, you might regret it for the rest of your life.'
Filled with new purpose, Ross strode to Lauren's room and reached for his phone. The enthusiasm in Zeb Quinn's voice made him smile. 'Hey, Ross, have you decided yet?'
'Are you still in?' he asked.
'You bet. Are we going or what?'
'Yes,' he said. 'We're going.'
Her tone changed. 'You're okay about leaving Lauren?'
'Yes.' He tried to quash his doubts and match her enthusiasm. 'But only because I'm doing it for her.'
23
Overalls discarded, Marco Bazin sat on his bed in the Best Western Motel, a few yards from the Sacred Heart Hospital, and waited for Ross Kelly to reappear on his screen. The pictures on his laptop and the sound in his earphones came from the wireless surveillance camera and microphone he had concealed last night in the picture frame above Lauren Kelly's bed. Torino believed that whatever plans Ross had, he would open his heart to his comatose wife.
When the Superior General had called yesterday evening Bazin had been waiting in a Manhattan hotel. His instructions had been both cryptic and explicit: a treacherous nun had joined forces with the atheist geologist and together they posed a mortal danger to the Holy Mother Church. They threatened to expose and abuse a sacred place of great power that rightfully belonged to the Church – and only the Church. At first, Ross was simply to be followed, but if he threatened to publicize any details of his quest Bazin was to apprehend the nun and silence him. Permanently.
After he had placed a simple digital listening device on the Kellys' home phone line, Bazin had gone straight to the hospital and concealed the surveillance equipment. In the last two decades the demands of his profession had become increasingly sophisticated. No longer was it sufficient to be expert in handling lethal weapons. Survival now depended on proficiency in a range of relevant technologies.
Bazin sat up straight, suddenly alert.
On screen, Ross entered the room and sat beside his wife. The tender way he held her hand aroused in Bazin a spark of emotion, which he quickly suppressed. He pressed the record button on the laptop and accessed Torino's private email, sending him the encrypted video files in real time. If Ross revealed anything it would be now.
There was a knock at his door.
The sound penetrated his headphones. 'I don't need Housekeeping. My room's fine,' he called.
Knock, knock.
'I said no, thanks.'
Knock, knock.
Frowning, Bazin took off the headphones, reached for the Glock beside his bed and walked to the door. He peered out of the peephole. The person was standing too close, blocking his view. He slipped the latch and opened the door. 'I don't need-'
Click.
Before Bazin could step back into the room, a gun, not unlike his own, had been levelled at his temple.
'Drop the piece. Nice and slow.'
Bazin did as he was told.
'Oh, my, this is too easy. I heard you got the big C, lost a nut or something. Didn't figure la mano sinistra del diavolo had become a total pussy, though. Step back into the room.' The man kicked Bazin's gun through the door then closed it.
It was Vinnie Pesci, the Gambini family's American enforcer. Don Gambini had hired Bazin in the past. Since he had pledged his allegiance to Torino, Bazin had kept a low profile, careful to use a variety of passports and identities, but he had always known the day would arrive when his old life caught up with him. 'What do you want, Vinnie? I've retired. I paid back the money the Gambinis gave me for the last hit.'
'That's not how it goes. No one retires until Don Gambini says so. Anyway, he figures you're full of shit and working for the Trapanis now.'
'I told you, I've retired.'
'Oh, yeah?' Pesci indicated the laptop and headphones on the bed. 'You're working for someone. Here's the thing. The old man wants the left hand of the Devil – in a bag. And what Don Gambini wants, Don Gambini gets.'
Bazin said nothing. In the past Pesci would never have dared come alone.
Pesci reached into his jacket and drew out a surgeon's saw and a folded plastic sheet, which he threw on to the floor. 'I always admired your style so you can see this as homage to la mano sinistra del diavolo. You know the score. Lay out the sheet and I'll do it quick. Just like you used to. Fuck about and I'll cut off your hand while you're
