Читать книгу Miracle Drug - Richard L. Mabry M.D. - Страница 9

Chapter 2

2

Josh looked at Rachel, who stood in stunned silence, her mouth forming a tiny O. At this point, he figured the less said, the better. “Mr. Wells, there’s been a mix-up.” He gestured with the business card Wells had given him. “Someone will be in touch.”

Wells said something about “mistakes happen, I guess.” He left, a somewhat puzzled expression on his face.

Rachel looked as though she might throw up right there. “Oh, Josh. What have I done?”

Josh put his hand on her elbow and urged her further inside the terminal. “Obviously you hadn’t been briefed on the hand-off of Lambert’s body. Smith, if that’s what his name was, showed proper identification. There was no reason to suspect the encounter was anything but routine. I don’t think you could have handled it any differently.”

An official waited for her a dozen steps further into the terminal. “Miss Moore? Mr. Madison asked me to meet you.” He nodded toward Rachel’s carry-on bag. “Do you have anything to declare?”

“What? No. No,” Rachel said, in a distracted voice.

“Then you’re free to go.”

“I . . . I have to make a call first,” Rachel said.

The official said, “Follow me. There’s a meeting room down here you can use.”

Once they were inside the room, Josh thanked the man and closed the door behind them. Rachel took one of the swivel chairs arranged around an oval table and pulled out her cell phone. “I have the number of the satellite phone Jerry Lang carries.”

As she punched in the numbers, Josh asked, “Who’s Jerry Lang?”

“The head of the Secret Service detail assigned to guard the former president,” Rachel said. “He’s—” She cocked her head. “Jerry, this is Rachel Moore. I need to speak to Mr. Madison.”

She listened for a moment. “I see. Well, please ask him to call me back at this number ASAP. It’s urgent.” She read off her cell number and ended the conversation. “He’ll get back to me in a few minutes.”

After a moment’s silence, Rachel asked, “Should we notify the police?”

“I suppose,” Josh said. “I guess stealing a body is a crime. Probably Agent Lang or someone on Mr. Madison’s staff will know. I suggest you let them take care of that.” He motioned her to take a seat. “In the meantime, I know you’re concerned about what just happened, but it’s not your fault.”

“That’s what Mr. Madison said about Dr. Lambert’s death, but I still felt bad that none of the medical workers on the trip could save him,” Rachel said.

The ring of her cell phone interrupted her. “Mr. Madison? This is Rachel. Something terrible has happened. It looks as though someone has stolen Dr. Lambert’s body.”

Rachel sketched the details of the bogus mortuary pickup, then listened for a moment. “I see. Thank you. I’m really sorry—”

Josh couldn’t hear the other side of the conversation, but obviously it was designed to help settle Rachel. Finally, she said, “I see. Yes, I’ll be here. And I’ll give Josh the message.”

“So?” Josh asked.

“Agent Lang will contact the Dallas Police. I’m to wait here for them. And I have a message for you.”

“For me?”

“Yes. When I left, Mr. Madison told me he wanted to meet with you as soon as he got back.” Rachel frowned. “Now he’s changed his plans. The rest of the group will be returning to the U.S. in a few more days, but he’s arriving tomorrow. And he said it’s extremely important that you meet his plane.”

***

“Are you okay this morning,” Josh asked when Rachel answered her phone.

“I didn’t get much rest, but it’s good to be home. I haven’t heard from the police yet about Dr. Lambert’s body.”

“I’m afraid that may take a while,” Josh said. “I need to meet Mr. Madison’s plane this afternoon, but I can come over this morning if you’d like. I don’t have to go into the clinic.”

The silence stretched far too long. Finally, Rachel said, “Josh, please don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m still processing all that’s happened. Why don’t you call me after your meeting with Mr. Madison?”

Josh spent the morning catching up on reading journal articles he’d brought home for that purpose and then neglected. He wasn’t hungry, but forced himself to eat part of a sandwich for lunch. The day seemed to drag, but at last it was time to leave for the airport.

At Love Field, Josh discovered that access to the former president required being cleared past a number of checkpoints, even if your presence had been requested. “I’m supposed to meet Mr. Madison’s plane,” Josh said for what seemed like the hundredth time. This time he was speaking to a security guard at a door leading to the tarmac. Through the windows that flanked the doors Josh saw private planes sitting in staggered rows like rank upon rank of soldiers awaiting orders. Several hundred yards away he could barely discern the runway on which Madison’s plane would land.

The guard consulted a clipboard. “I don’t see your name.”

“Mr. Madison’s staff was supposed to—”

“Hang on,” the guard said. “Here it is. It was added at the bottom of the list.”

“Thank you,” Josh said. “Shall I wait here?”

“In there with the others.” The guard inclined his head toward a nearby room where several men and women sat waiting. All but one of them were studying their smart phones, scrolling through messages and posts as though the fate of the free world depended on their up-to-date knowledge. The one exception was a man who sat staring quietly into space.

The solitary individual was a husky middle-aged man whose off-the-rack medium brown suit did little to conceal the slight bulge under his left armpit. His thinning hair, mainly brown with some gray at the temples, was combed across his scalp in what was apparently an attempt to cover a bald spot. The man’s thick-soled, brown lace-up shoes were scuffed and slightly run-down at the heels. Josh recognized him as the detective to whom Rachel had talked last evening at the airport—a common name, what was it? Williams? West? Warren. That was it—Detective Stan Warren.

“Mind if I take this seat?” Josh asked.

“Suit yourself,” the detective said, with no hint of recognition.

“We met last night.” Josh offered his hand. “I’m Dr. Josh Pearson. I was with the nurse, Rachel Moore, who reported the . . . whatever you call it when someone steals a body.”

“Oh, yeah. I’m not sure what the legal term is, but I call it body snatching, and we’re investigating it. I’ve heard lawyers called ambulance chasers, but I’ve never before heard of crooks being hearse chasers.” Warren displayed a brief, crooked grin.

The detective reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled pack of gum, and offered it to Josh, who declined. “Trying to quit smoking,” Warren said. “I go through these things faster than I ever smoked cigarettes. But they don’t cause cancer.” He shoved a stick of gum into his mouth and returned the pack to his coat pocket.

The security guard stuck his head into the room and said, “The plane has just arrived.”

Warren pushed to his feet. “Well, I’ve got to report our progress—or, more accurately, our lack of progress—and then get back to work.” He looked toward the men and women who’d been waiting. “Madison will have to speak to these reporters after he deplanes.” He pushed his sleeve back and consulted his watch. “You’ve probably got half an hour to wait. See you.”

Josh followed Warren out of the room where they’d been waiting. He stood at the window and watched as the former president appeared in the open doorway of the private jet. Madison looked almost like the pictures Josh had seen of him—a tall, silver-haired man, usually with a faint grin on his face, the perfect image of a kind grandfather or a respected political figure. The main difference was that today the grin was absent. Instead, Madison’s features were fixed in a somber countenance. It was a sad day, and his demeanor reflected it.

Detective Warren met Madison at the foot of the jet’s stairs. The detective, with a few gestures including shrugs and uplifted palms, gave his explanation and, Josh figured, assured Mr. Madison that the police were on top of the disappearance of Ben Lambert’s coffin. After Warren shook hands with Madison and started away, the ex-president walked briskly through the gathered reporters, trailing “no comments” behind him. When he spotted Josh, Madison detoured toward him. “You must be Dr. Pearson. Thanks for meeting me. Come on. We can talk in the limo.”

A man in a navy blue suit, his red hair cut short, a look of utter concentration on his face, strode ahead of Josh and Madison toward a stretch limo idling nearby. Josh realized this was the man who’d preceded Madison through the crowd of reporters, parting them like Moses at the Red Sea. He opened the passenger door, stuck his head inside, and looked around. He did the same for the back of the limousine. Then he stood back and motioned for the two passengers to enter. Once they were inside, the man climbed into the front seat and the car pulled away.

“Who’s that?” Josh asked, indicating the red-haired man who now sat in the passenger seat of the limo.

“That’s Jerry . . . Agent Jerry Lang. He’s the head of my Secret Service detail. I’d better introduce you since you’ll probably be seeing a lot more of him.” Madison leaned forward and tapped on the glass partition separating him from the front seat. When it slid back, he said, “Jerry, this is Dr. Josh Pearson. He’ll be taking over as my personal physician.”

Lang extended his hand across the seat. “Doctor, good to meet you. Can we come by your office tomorrow and dispose of a few formalities before you see Mr. Madison—things we need to know about you and vice-versa?”

“Sure. Shall I—”

“We’ll make the arrangements. Don’t worry.” And Lang slid the panel closed.

“Things moving a bit too fast for you?” Madison smiled. “Get used to it. What Jerry can’t arrange, Karen can.”

“Karen?”

“Karen Marks. She was my chief of staff when I was in the White House, and she followed me into retirement . . . although neither of us seems to have slowed down much.”

“Was she on this flight with you?” Josh asked.

“No, she’ll be coming back later. I’ve returned early because of recent events. And that’s why I wanted you to meet my plane.”

Josh decided he might as well ask the question that had been foremost in his mind since talking with Rachel last night. “Sir, why do you need to see me so urgently?”

Madison looked up to make certain the partition separating them from the driver and Lang was closed. Then he leaned close to Josh and said in a soft voice, “Because I think someone is trying to kill me. And I’ll need your help to make certain they don’t succeed.”

***

Rachel studied her reflection in the mirror in the front hall of her apartment. She wondered if there was any truth in the old wives’ tale about people turning gray overnight. If so, she was an ideal candidate to have at least a few strands show up. She fluffed her short hairdo and saw no light strands among the brown ones—not yet, at least. Her hazel eyes were still a bit red rimmed, but she could fix that with a few drops of Visine. As for the dark circles under them . . . well, maybe a good night’s rest would help. Last night had been full of nightmares. She hoped tonight would be better.

Rachel was going over the events of the past several days in her mind when her doorbell rang. Through the frosted glass panel beside the door, she could see a familiar outline of a tall man with light hair—Josh was here. Last night she hadn’t felt like doing anything but relaxing in a hot bath and trying to put recent events out of her mind. Today, she was ready to lay out the story in detail to see if her fears were reasonable or simply the product of an overactive imagination.

Rachel opened the door for Josh. “I’m glad to see you.”

“Me, too,” he said. Still standing in the open doorway, he enfolded her in an embrace that seemed to last forever. He bent down to kiss her, and without thinking she responded. When she realized what she was doing, she pulled back. I let myself get carried away at the airport. I’ve got to be careful—certainly until Josh knows the whole story.

She took Josh by the hand and they walked together into the living room.

“I don’t ever want you to be gone like that again,” Josh said.

“And I don’t want to experience anything like what I’ve been through.”

As though by common consent, they moved to the couch and sat side by side. “I’ve had an interesting and sort of unnerving conversation with Mr. Madison,” Josh said.

“Tell me about it.”

He hitched himself closer and put his arm around her. “He thinks someone is trying to kill him. It seems that, although he’s no longer in office, he wields a great deal of influence, both here and abroad. There are people who don’t want him to exercise that influence. And in the past several years he’s done things that made a number of people hate him—some apparently enough to try to kill him.”

Rachel coughed. “Excuse me.” She took a few deep breaths. “In other countries?”

Josh shook his head. “Not only in other countries.”

Rachel thought about that. “You mean—”

“Yes, there are people in the U.S., as well as throughout the world, who’d like to see David Madison out of the picture . . . totally.”

“That’s probably true of all former presidents,” Rachel said.

“I gather it’s truer of Mr. Madison than most of the previous ones,” Josh replied.

He went on to explain that Madison had learned of a couple of projected attempts on his life that had never come to fruition. “The latest was a plan to assassinate him while he was making a public appearance. The local police nipped that in the bud. There have also been rumored attempts to infect him with anthrax or something equally deadly. I think that’s why he feels so dependent on his personal physician.”

Rachel paused to cough again and clear her throat. “And since Dr. Lambert is dead, now that responsibility is yours.”

“I guess,” Josh said. “One more thing I probably should share with you. Madison thinks someone may have killed Dr. Lambert.”

“Josh, that man had a heart attack. He was in the bathroom just off the room at the church where we were eating lunch. We heard him fall. I helped give him CPR.”

“I’m going to have to do some research, but as I recall, there are drugs that can cause a death that’s clinically indistinguishable from a heart attack. And remember, Ben’s body disappeared from the airport.”

“What—”

“Normally an autopsy would confirm whether Ben died of natural causes,” Josh said. “But now, there’s no body. That means no autopsy.”

***

The waiter moved silently away, leaving Josh and Rachel alone in a quiet corner of the restaurant. Josh reached across the table and put his hand atop Rachel’s. He’d planned this evening since the time Rachel left. Now it was finally here.

After the limo had delivered Josh and Madison to the former president’s home, Lang asked another agent to drive the doctor back to Love Field for his car. By the time he’d made it to Rachel’s apartment and told her about his meeting with the former president, it was getting late. She’d offered—almost insisted—that she could make dinner for them, but Josh wouldn’t hear of it. “I want to take you out.” So now, they were sitting here in the back of the almost deserted restaurant.

“Your hand is shaking,” Josh said. “Is something wrong?”

“I . . . I need to tell you about something that happened on the trip.” Rachel coughed, then took a sip of water. “And it may fit in with what President Madison told you earlier this evening.”

Josh felt as though things were coming at him faster than he could process them, but he composed his features as best he could and said, “Sure, let’s hear it.”

Rachel picked up her water glass but put it down without drinking. “It was quite a thrill accompanying Mr. Madison on a trip like this. More than that, he actually seemed to value my opinion and that of the other medical people in the group. We talked about the location for the clinic he wanted to build—about the size of facilities, staffing, all the things you’d expect.”

“Was this in a primitive area?” Josh asked.

“Yes and no,” Rachel said. “It was a small town with perhaps seven hundred people in it and another two hundred or so living in the countryside around it, but the nearest medical facility was about fifty kilometers away.”

Josh automatically translated the distance: approximately thirty miles. “I’m assuming the Madison Foundation was going to fund this. Was there opposition?”

“No overt signs of any. But President Madison told us he’d heard rumblings. I asked him about details, but he didn’t want to go into them.”

“But the trip was going along okay—”

“I’ll give you an example. We were quartered in the homes of members of a local church. The women cooked our meals, and we ate them together at the church. One day Mr. Madison complained of stomach pains after a couple of bites. He left the table, and Dr. Lambert gave him some medication for his symptoms. At the time I figured it was just a bug, although no one else had any trouble.”

“That doesn’t mean much,” Josh said.

“One of the women serving us scraped the remains off all our plates into a bowl she left outside the kitchen door to feed some of the dogs that hung around the church.” She stifled a cough. “The next morning, someone in our group found one of the dogs about sixty yards away from the church . . . dead.”

“Okay, that’s troubling. What did Lang do?”

“Lang was concerned, but Mr. Madison dismissed it as coincidence, and I guess it could have been. The dogs were wild, and I take it they had a sketchy existence. Anyway, Madison didn’t want to make a fuss. But two days later, Dr. Lambert, Mr. Madison, and I were looking at a proposed site for the new clinic when a woman in a long dress with a scarf over her head and a cloth covering the lower half of her face ran into the room where we were. Mr. Madison asked her in Spanish if he could help her. Without a word, she drew what looked like a flask full of yellow liquid from the folds of her dress and showered us with the contents. Then, still without a word, she ran out.”

“Strange, but—”

“No, it doesn’t end there,” Rachel said. “The next day each of us had a raw throat and mild cough. At first, we attributed that to irritation from the environment we were in.”

“When was this?”

“The exposure—and I think that’s what it was—took place five days ago. Two days ago Ben Lambert died of what we thought was a heart attack. That’s pretty well occupied our thoughts and actions since. Did Mr. Madison say anything to you tonight about coming back with respiratory symptoms?”

“He asked me to see him in my office tomorrow, but he led me to believe it would only be a routine, get-acquainted visit.”

Rachel held her napkin to her mouth to smother a violent cough. When she stopped, she said to Josh, “I think you’d better check him over pretty carefully.” She coughed again. “And maybe someone should have a look at me as well.”