Bleeding in the Eye of a Brainstorm

approach to the people at Lorminix was needed. It was time for the approach Garth would undoubtedly have taken, but it was my job to do, not his.

'Mongo?'

I took my knuckles out of my eyes, saw Francisco standing in the doorway looking very anxious. 'What is it, Francisco?'

'I. . saw you through the glass. Are you all right?'

'Yeah,' I answered, rising from my chair. 'Call SwissAir and book me on the first available flight to Switzerland. Also, get me a hotel reservation somewhere in or near Berne, and then call me a cab.'

'Yes, sir.'

I went up to my apartment, hurriedly pocketed my passport, and packed a bag, evading Michael's tentative, anxious questions about where I was going. I did not want to get his hopes up. This trip to Switzerland was sure to cost me a minimum of two days, assuming I was successful and didn't run afoul of any Swiss police, and by the time I got back, Margaret's supply of capsules would be almost gone. I dearly wished I had made a copy of the Punch and Judy tape to take along with me, but I hadn't. I doubted MacWhorter would authorize releasing a copy when he found out why I wanted it, and there was nothing to be done about it now. On the other hand, key Lorminix executives already knew what I knew, and undoubtedly knew that I knew it; the problem wasn't in getting their attention, but getting them to cooperate.

Francisco was on the phone as I passed the glass wall of the office on my way out. I tapped on the glass to wave goodbye. He saw me and started, then urgently motioned for me to come in. I opened the door and leaned in as he covered the receiver with his palm. 'Have I got a flight?'

'Yes. Your plane leaves in fifty-five minutes, and SwissAir will arrange for your hotel reservation. You have-'

'Jesus,' I said, glancing at my watch. If I was blessed, I just might make it to JFK in time.

Francisco, a worried expression on his face, held out the telephone. 'You have a call, Mongo.'

'Is it from or concerning Bailey Kramer?'

'No, but-'

'Then tell them I'll get back to them. I'll call you here or at home when I get in.'

Without waiting for his reply, I went out the door, bounded down the steps and across the sidewalk to the cab waiting at the curb. I hurled my bag into the back seat, got in after it, and slammed the door. 'JFK,' I said to the husky woman driver who was wearing a Rangers cap backward. 'I know you may find this surprising, coming from a New Yorker, but I'm in a hurry. I'll pay for any tickets, and there's a fifty-buck tip if you can get me to the SwissAir terminal in forty minutes.'

'Yo,' she said, and slammed the car into gear.

As the cab pulled away from the curb, I glanced out the side window and saw Francisco standing outside the entrance to the brown-stone, waving his arms and shouting at me. I couldn't hear him through the glass, but when he pointed to his lips and slowly mouthed the word, I could make it out.

In-ter-pol.

'Stop.'

'Hey, mister, you want to get to JFK in forty minutes at this time of day, we don't have a second to spare.'

'It's all right. Just pull over to the curb and wait for me.'

The woman pulled the car over, braked to a stop. I got out, walked quickly back to the brownstone to where Francisco, who had now managed to look even more worried, waited. 'Interpol?' I asked.

My office manager nodded. 'An Inspector something-a French name. He says it's extremely urgent.'

I went into the office, picked up the receiver. 'Gerard? What's up? I was just on my way to catch a plane to come over there.'

'No, no, Mongo!' the Swiss man said quickly. 'You must not come here! My friend, what have you done?!'

'Actually, Gerard,' I said, tapping my fingers impatiently on the desk, 'I've been up to quite a few things lately. Why don't you tell me what I've done that prompted this phone call.'

'Mongo, this call is unofficial, from a friend. This is not an Interpol matter, but I've heard from local sources that you've been accused of a serious violation of Swiss law. If you try to enter the country, you will be arrested and detained. You must not come to Switzerland!'

Chapter 13

There seemed nothing left to do but wait, and waiting wasn't something I did well. As the hours passed, turning into days, I grew ever more tense and irritable, but I tried not to take it out on Francisco, and I made an effort to appear cheerful and upbeat whenever I was around Margaret, Michael, and Emily. I had once more implored them to come with me to a hospital while there was still a safety margin of time, and they had once again insisted that they wanted to wait until they had rendezvoused with the others on Christmas Eve, a date which seemed to be approaching with the speed of an express train. Margaret had finally agreed to share Michael's and Emily's capsules, and when they had finished dividing them up they each had just enough medication to get them through Christmas Day. There had been one capsule left over, and Sharon Stephens was holding it for them. I assumed the other members of the missing flock were in the same situation, and I didn't think one or two days was nearly enough time for the doctors to do whatever work had to be done.

An optimistic attitude had always formed the spine of my life, but I had to admit to myself that I did not believe Margaret or any of the other schizophrenics was going to survive.

There were no more night visitors. The CIA and Lorminix executives had apparently reached the same conclusion I had; all evidence of their wrongdoing would soon be gone.

I had stopped by the lab, just to make certain it was shuttered and locked, which it was. I had also gone to Bailey's Lower East Side apartment, which I'd found the same way. I'd picked the lock on the door and gone in, just to make sure Bailey wasn't lying dead on the floor, but there was no corpse, and everything had seemed in order. The thermostat had even been turned down, as if Bailey himself had simply gone off on vacation-something I couldn't imagine him doing under the circumstances, unless I had totally misread the man, and this was his idea of a joke on me, payback. Bailey Kramer wasn't dead in his apartment, and I just hoped he wasn't dead anywhere else.

I kept calling Bailey's apartment, day and night, out of habit more than hope, but the phone continued to ring unanswered. To keep myself busy I plunged into my work, clearing up all the paperwork around the office, rescheduling appointments I'd had Francisco cancel, lining up new business for the New Year.

And I started to make arrangements for Christmas Eve.

We would go to Rockefeller Center in the late afternoon, wait a certain length of time that had not been agreed upon yet for the others to show up, and then depart, en masse, to walk the few blocks to the nearest hospital, where I was working, calling in every IOU and using every contact I had, to ensure that a small army of specialists- endocrinologists, cell specialists, internists, and neurologists-would be waiting to try to prevent all these people from bleeding to death in the eye of this brainstorm.

My feelings about Bailey Kramer ranged from sorrow and guilt at the thought that I might have been responsible for his abduction and death at the hands of kidnappers, to outrage before the possibility that he might have decided the job was too much for him-or he had second thoughts about becoming involved, or he had wanted to get even with me-and had simply walked away from it all without telling me. Yet the cool temperature-an even 55 degrees-in his apartment kept bothering me; it was highly unlikely that any kidnappers intending to kill him would have allowed Bailey to turn down the thermostat so that he could save on fuel bills. It didn't make any sense.

It wasn't until early morning on the last day, 6:30 a.m. on December 24, as I stared at the dark ceiling above my bed, that a third possibility of what might have happened to him-or, more precisely, where he might have gone-occurred to me. I sat bolt upright in bed, and then, feeling like a fool for not considering this possibility before, I leaped out of bed, quickly pulled on jeans, a hooded sweatshirt, and sneakers. I ran out of the apartment,