“You’re right.” He nodded toward the screen. “Let’s track this bastard down and put him away before he tries again. We may not be as lucky next time.”

  Chapter 59

  Memorial Hospital, Security office

  “I called hospital security and tried to weasel info out of them,” Rizz said. “I told them I was a windshield repair service guy. Tried to get my parking lot assignment out of him. The guy gave me nothing. Said 'no personal info on any employee' and it was clear he meant it.”

  Drake nodded. They'd just exited the elevator. The security office was tucked away in the deepest section of the hospital. Engineering, utilities, and storage occupied most of the basement level. Folks came down here to get new photo IDs or keycards. Otherwise, the security office did not get much foot traffic. Drake opened the door under a simple Security sign that jutted out from the wall. He held the door as Rizz wheeled in.

  A dark-haired, forty-something guy with a massive chest and arms looked up from behind a low counter.

  He and Rizz scanned each other, both men seeing eye-to-eye from their respective wheelchairs. Rizz paused a beat before speaking.

  “You Joe? I'm Dr. Rizzini. I tried giving you the bogus windshield repair story five minutes ago.”

  “Yeah.” The guy cocked his head. “What was that about?”

  Drake stepped forward, extending his hand over the counter.

  “Dr. Drake Cody. I work in the ER.”

  “Joe Mentum.” They shook. “I know who both of you are. I do communication and oversee most of our security cameras. We also do keycard access and IDs, so I have a handle on most everyone.” He shrugged his big shoulders. “I was working during the attempt on Dr. Malar's life in the ICU and the following lockdown and pursuit. You guys and Dr. Malar are well-known to us.”

  “We appreciate you and your crew looking out for us,” Rizz said.

  “What can I do for you? Your windshield repair ploy has me curious.”

  “The other morning I was a crime victim,” Drake said. “I can't give you details right now, but whoever did it had information on me. We're trying to track how they got it.”

  “So the call was a test?” Joe said.

  “Yeah, no offense,” Drake said. “We're trying to figure out who could have learned what kind of car I drive, my parking assignment, my work schedule, and maybe even my medical record. Do you have access to all that?”

  Joe pivoted his chair to a desktop computer. He keyed in some entries. “You have a 2002 Dodge, I have the license plate number. You're assigned to the Chicago Avenue open lot, parking space G-25, for which you are charged monthly. That information is in our security files, but only personnel with a password can access it. I suspect there's a physician work schedule for the ER, but that wouldn't be accessible to me or anyone else who does not have the right sign-in and password. And your personal medical information is totally separate and HIPAA protected, so that would be harder yet.”

  “Are you sure no one in security could have been fooled into giving out my car and parking info?” Drake said.

  “Unlikely,” Joe said. “We don't cut corners. Heck, what happened just a couple of months ago proved how critical our job is.”

  “So to get the info through the hospital system, it would have to be someone with access to one or more passwords.”

  “A log-in and a password—yes. I'm not in the know on all the safeguards for medical records. There are hundreds of doctors, a couple of thousand nurses, and other caregivers that use the network. Computer security isn’t handled by our department but I know it’s well protected against outside intrusion,” Joe said.

  “Understood,” Drake said. “Thanks for the info.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” Rizz said. He pivoted his chair toward the door as Drake opened it.

  “Hey, Doctor Rizzini,” Joe said.

  Rizz stopped and turned his head.”Yeah?”

  “I heard you were riding a chair.” Joe shrugged. “I've been on wheels since Desert Storm. I was a wreck in the beginning, but my life is good now.” He paused. “Call me anytime if you have any questions or think I might be able to help.”

  Rizz shrugged. “Yeah, er, sure,”

  “I mean it.”

  “Got it, thanks.” Rizz rolled out the door.

  In the hall Rizz stopped.

  “Drake, he's right that it wouldn't be too hard to figure out your car and parking spot. Even your work schedule could probably be found out with a phone call.”

  “Agreed.”

  “But somebody knew about your penicillin allergy and previous reaction. Medical records are not easy to access. Hate to think it, but it makes hospital personnel the most likely. You reading me?” Rizz said.

  “All Memorial Hospital caregivers have sign-ins and passwords to access medical records. It could be a doctor or nurse.”

  “Whoever it was had to know of your allergy and have the medical knowledge to use it,” Rizz said.

  “It freaks me out to think it could be someone I know,” Drake said. “What did you think of Joe’s offer?”

  “Huh?”

  “You know, talking with a guy who’s been where you are.”

  Rizz stopped and looked at Drake with a frown. “A nice guy, but his deal is different. I'm not staying in this chair.” He resumed wheeling.

  Drake followed Rizz toward the elevators. He'd learned two things: One, whoever had tried to kill him might very well work in the hospital; and two, Rizz was not prepared for anything less than the miracle of complete recovery.

  Both thoughts were unsettling yet paled under the weight of his worry for Rachelle.

  Chapter 60

  Noble Village, nursing wing

  Every minute Dan spent at Noble Village felt like forever.

  They kept the temp somewhere near eighty. The halls smelled like Lysol, but as he passed some rooms he caught odors like bad meat, ammonia, or wet hay. With meeting Mesh here yesterday, this made it the first time he'd been here twice in less than three weeks.

  Back-to-back days made it a record that would never be beaten.

  The area they called the “activity” room was anything but. Gray and withered residents sat propped in wheelchairs like drying husks in front of a droning TV. Most dozed with mouths hanging open and heads drooped.

  The alert ones' eyes tracked Dan as he walked past. He knew they were judging him. Was he a good son? They freaked him out. Did they sense his true self? Could their rheumy eyes and damaged minds see through his act?

  He escaped into room B-21. His father lay tucked among the blankets and white sheets. Dan pulled a chair close—something he never did. The soft light of the freezing, overcast day lit the room. The bedside table held a single photo in a simple frame. A picture of his mother. Dan must have been eleven when it was taken, shortly before she got sick. His mother—the kind of beautiful that out-of-date fashion and a faded photo could not hide. He looked away.

  The cancer and surgery had made her someone else. When he saw her near the end, she'd wanted to give him a hug. He'd stayed clear. That was not his mother.

  Dan eyed the gaunt, shrunken man breathing deeply with his mouth gaping open. His father, Big Dan. The old man's hands lay on top of the sheets—too large for the shriveled body but the flesh so wasted they looked skeletal. The stubborn grease stains that he couldn't scrub away during his working years were finally gone.

  The minutes dragged. God, he hated being here.

  Dan checked his smart phone. The market was down again. His investments further in the tank. Damn! He needed cash. He needed to avoid conviction. He needed to somehow avoid divorce.

  Mesh's input made it clear Dan had nothing to lose by swinging for the fences. He either knocked it out of the park or he was toast.

  He nudged his foot against the unyielding weight of the leather satchel alongside his chair. Heavy, but as he’d learned from yesterday’s visit, easy for him to make it appear weightless when slung over his shoulder. On both visits he'd noted how the nurses and aides had given him big smiles. Dan could read their minds. “So nice to see him finally spending time with his father.”

  The old people judged him, the nurses and aides judged him. It was fitting. He looked at the rise and fall of the old man's chest—here lay his lifelong judge. The man who from Dan’s teen years onward could not hide his disapproval. His father had tried. He'd tried to act warm. But his father had none of the acting skills Dan had. Dan had seen the wariness grow in his father's face. He'd felt his father's arms hesitate and lock when he'd tried to hug him. Probably his father loved him—Dan had no way to recognize the phenomenon.

  He wasn't sure love really existed. He considered it possible that it was a fiction. One that “regular” people desperately wanted to convince themselves was real. A delusion people talked themselves into believing

  Dan knew that the medical people his father had taken him to as a teenager were correct. It had been funny to see the psychologists, therapists, and doctors trip over their words trying not to upset Dan or his father as they shared their professional assessments.

  Dan knew what they were saying and could not have cared less. Amusingly to him, a Readers' Digest article had confirmed for him the experts' diagnosis—Dan had scored eighteen out of twenty in the sociopathic trait test the magazine had published.

  Dan didn't feel what others felt. Early on he recognized he really did not feel emotions much at all. He definitely didn't feel like others did. It had taken him no time at all to be okay with that.

  He felt the shuddering rush of getting his rocks off, the brain rocket of a good buzz, and the primal satisfaction of physically dominating others. Those and the indulgences that money could buy worked for him. He did not yearn to be like others—that was another of their great arrogances.

  He checked the time again—it had been long enough. His father's deep rasping breaths continued, mouth open, teeth and gums so dry they were covered in a whitish film. The old man smelled like a bundle of straw with a hint of cat-box. Dan got up, walked to the door, then peered out. No one in sight. He closed the door.

  Dan moved to his chair and slid the leather bag directly beneath him. He unzipped it a few inches. A green tank. Nitrogen gas. Recently the rage for inflating car tires.

  He took hold of the plastic breathing mask and freed the clear tubing that connected it to the tank. He unfurled enough of the tubing so the mask would readily reach.

  Clara had explained it all. Nitrogen was a gas. Breathing it eliminated all oxygen but did not make the person feel short of breath. She'd explained with science-talk about carbon dioxide, respiratory drive, and other things Dan did not understand—whatever. It meant no oxygen and no struggle. People blacked out in as little as seconds and died in less than four minutes. Clara didn’t just know things, she was super smart—maybe as smart as Mesh.

  No pain—hell, practically a blessing. It couldn't matter to his father when he died.

  It mattered to Dan—big time.

  Dan held the mask and stretched the elastic strap to fit around his father's head, but it caught and pulled on the thin white hair.

  “Big Dan's” eyes blinked open. The pupils shone large. Recognition flared as they locked on Dan. The old man's face twisted. He struggled as he tried to rise up. The warmth of the old man's gasping breaths registered on Dan's forearms. Just seeing Dan had been enough to provoke the old man's stroked-out remnant of a brain.

  Dan turned the tank's knob and hissing sounded from the mask. He held the mask over his father's face, easily overwhelming the resistance of the large but feeble hands. The bony fingers locked onto Dan's wrists like talons. His father's eyes did not leave Dan's. With each breath the grip weakened.

  As the body went limp, the last glint of his father's eyes showed what Dan had first seen there so long ago.

  Recognition of what Dan was.

  Chapter 61

  Dan stood over his father's body as the flow of nitrogen gas hissed in the plastic respiratory mask. His eyes trailed across the framed picture of his mother on the bedside table. He bent, slipped the elastic band from around the motionless gray head, and removed the delivery mask. Dead, unblinking eyes pointed unseeing at the ceiling. Dan turned the tank's regulator knob and the hissing stopped. Silence. The faint musk of the last of the old man's last breaths lingered in the air.

  Dan quickly tucked the tubing and mask back into the satchel, then zipped it tight. Mission accomplished. Clara's medical smarts confirmed. His father ended. Ninety percent of the Noble Village buy-in dollars would come to Dan—it was a significant amount. Mesh said it wouldn't be enough, but Dan knew money helped everything.

  He checked the time.

  There were different ways to play this. Run out and get the nurses' attention right now? Or simply leave and let them discover the body later? Hmmm. Easiest to get it done with now. He definitely didn't want to have to come back to this place.

  He slipped on his coat, slung the strap of the bag over his shoulder, and went to the door. The empty hallway led to the wing's side door opening to the parking lot.

  ***

  Dan came back into the facility through the front door. The athletic bag now lay locked in his trunk. As he passed the nurses' station and the gauntlet of judging eyes in the activity room, he felt a surge of satisfaction. No more living in the shadow of his father's disapproval. He guarded his smile and resisted the urge to jump in the air and rack a fist-pump in front of the old folks and their caregivers.

  A final bit of acting and this step was done.

  He entered his father's room. The scent of old man hung. Had the odor already faded? When hunting with a guy who had a champion pointing dog, he'd learned that dogs picked up the smell of the bird's breath in the air—dead birds were harder to find. Dan used his thumb and index finger to close the lids of his father's open, already cloudy eyes. His breathing days were over.

  He pulled the bedside chair over near the window and sat down. He used his cell phone to start reviewing his texts and email. It wouldn't be too long before a nurse or aide came in. He had several possible reactions mapped out in his mind. Throughout his life he'd learned that in order to get what he wanted, he sometimes needed to act in the way people felt was appropriate so as not to reveal his true self. His upcoming scene would mark the removal of his father from the script and free Dan from the role of caring son.

  The threats to the life he'd built demanded he take bold steps.

  He'd not anticipated that doing so would feel so satisfying. He'd do whatever it took.

  ***

  Dan's phone trilled as he climbed into his car in the Noble Village parking lot. The wind had picked up. Son of a bitch, it was cold.

  “Dan Ogren.” He started his car then double-checked that the seat warmer and thermostat were set.

  “I've called you ten times in the past two hours. Where are you?” Mesh said.

  Jesus, first words out of his mouth and he's already whining.

  “Just leaving Noble Village. I went to see my Dad.”

  “Good for you,” Mesh said. The unspoken surprise of “way to go, you ingrate son” sounded in his voice.

  Why did Mesh think Dan cared if he approved?

  “We need to meet right now,” Mesh said. “Something important.”

  “My dad is dead,” Dan said. Judge that, Mesh.

  “What?”

  “He's dead.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Whatever. It was his time.”

  A pause.

  “You went to visit and he'd passed?” Mesh said.

  “He died while I was in the room.”

  Silence.

  “He stopped breathing,” Dan said. That was the absolute truth.

  Another long pause.

  “My condolences,” Mesh said. “He was a very good man.”

  Dan wondered if Mesh's eyes were misty with the news. His father had liked Mesh more than Dan. For sure Mesh cared more than Dan about Big Dan being gone.

  “Why do we need to meet?” Dan said.

  “How about the parking lot at the Lake Harriet bandstand in fifteen minutes? Please. It's critical. It may be a very good thing.”

  Mesh hadn't mentioned anything as remotely good for days. Everything had been doom and gloom.

  “I'll head there directly.” Dan opened his briefcase and removed a silver flask. The car already felt toasty warm.

  “Again, so sorry about your dad.” Mesh disconnected.

  Dan uncapped the flask. Yep—his dad was gone. The Noble Village apartment buy-in money would be coming his way. Mesh had good news. Later Dan would let Clara work his pole in thanks for her awesome smarts.

  He tipped the flask, letting the heat of Johnny Walker Black slide down his throat.

  His day was getting better and better.

  ***

  Lake Harriet

  Dan rolled across the trolley tracks as he approached Lake Harriet from the Linden Hills neighborhood. As he came down the hill he looked east and south over the expanse of ice. No sun. The sky looked like wet cement. Darkness nearing. The ice smooth and black. The woods and trees surrounding the lake stood leafless and without color.

  Still no snow.

  Wind gusts bucked his car. The usually well-used running and hiking paths were deserted. Minnesotans could feel when hard weather was headed their way. Mesh's vehicle stood alone in the large lot parked near the closed-for-the season concession building, the white of its exhaust barely visible as the wind whipped it away.

  As Dan parked, Mesh climbed out of his car and waved for Dan to do likewise. Dan lowered his window.

  “It's freezing ass cold. Get in my car,” Dan said.

  Mesh came to the window.

  “You need to get out.” Mesh pulled up the collar of his coat, buried his hands in its pockets, then backed away.

  What the hell? Dan zipped his jacket tight. As he climbed out of his car, a gust almost ripped the door from his hand.

 

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