Michael Palmer - Natural Causes

"I know. But please, there isn't anything I can do. I hate the idea of your being on a locked ward as much as you do. But for the next day we've got to go along with it. Even if we could somehow get you discharged, which we can't, I'd be worried about you every minute we weren't together. I talked to Rosa and Eli before I went to your apartment to get your things. We're going to be working like hell to find out who's behind all this. And today we've got a lot of moving around to do. Hang in there for just this one day. Then I promise we'll do whatever we have to to get you sprung."

The brief meeting with Blankenship had been fruitful. Matt had shared the details of his encounter with Jeremy Mallon, and Mallon's belief that Peter Ettinger and Glenn Paris were somehow connected through the McGrath Foundation and the Ayurvedic Weight Loss System.

Blankenship knew the McGrath Foundation was based in New York City and that the heads of the philanthropic organization had made initial contact with Glenn Paris and Colin Smith some four or five years before. He had never seen the application Paris had submitted to the agency, nor the actual terms of the grant. But he did know that millions of dollars were involved. He took on the job of trying to locate and penetrate the foundation. He also would arrange for the car he had promised Rosa.

The epidemiologist, playing her cards close to the vest as always, would say very little of where she was going, or even whom she was after, other than that she was still not at all certain of his whereabouts.

The strategy they decided upon for Matt was to speak with Colin Smith, then Peter Ettinger, and finally Glenn Paris. Smith seemed to Blankenship the likeliest of the three to crack. If he did, they could play one off against another. And of course, Matt added, if that approach did not work, there was always good old Plan B-some sort of spontaneous frontal attack.

"Transport's here," the charge nurse called over.

Matt pulled the curtain closed and waited outside it while Sarah changed into the jeans and sweatshirt he had brought from her apartment.

"Okay, I'm ready as I'll ever be," she said.

The security guard kept a respectful, perhaps embarrassed, distance as the transportation worker pushed his wheelchair to Sarah's bedside.

"The visitors' hours on Underwood Six are six to eight in the evening," Matt said. "I checked."

"That's it? Just two hours?"

Matt took her hand in his.

"It takes younger men days to accomplish what us older, more experienced guys can do in two hours," he said. "Just be strong, okay?"

Reluctantly Sarah slid off the bed and into the wheelchair.

"Oh, don't worry about me. I'll be fine," she said. "As long as you don't let them keep me more than a day. Besides, the cuisine on the psych ward is world famous. They serve soup to nuts." She pointed toward the SICU exit. "Home, Jeeves."

The locked ward on Underwood Six was newly painted and furnished. Each room contained two single beds. The exception was the room next to the nurses' station, which had no furniture at all except for uncovered mattresses on the floor and walls that made it literally a padded cell. Sarah had been on the ward for two hours before she noticed that the heavy screens were on the inside of the windows and the inside door handles were not there at all.

Except for a brief physical exam by a male psych resident, who used his stethoscope, penlight, and ophthalmoscope, but seemed loath to touch any part of her body with his hands, she was left pretty much alone. The second bed in her room was, for the moment at least, unassigned. For a time, she lay on her bed trying to read an obstetrics journal; then, failing at that, a Sue Grafton mystery. Finally, when she could not even concentrate on Good Housekeeping, she wandered out of the room and joined the eight or nine people who were hanging out in the lounge.

"Group in fifteen minutes, everybody," a woman called out in a cheerful singsong. "Right here in the lounge. Attendance mandatory."

Sarah gazed absently out of one of the windows. She was on the side of the building facing the MCB campus. Streaming through the pane, free of any breeze, the autumn sun felt hot enough to bake bread. Far below, to one end of the broad, grassy mall, workmen were completing construction of a temporary grandstand-perhaps ten tiers high, with a platform and podium at the top. Loudspeakers were mounted on poles to either side of the stands. Sarah was wondering about the setup when she looked across the campus. The Chilton Building, on the side farthest away from Underwood, was the site of intense activity.

It was Friday, the twenty-eighth, she suddenly realized. Demolition Day minus one. The huge old eyesore had been boarded up for as long as Sarah had been at MCB, the grass around it noticeably less well maintained than the rest of the mall. Tomorrow, in just a few spectacular seconds, the decaying structure would cease to exist. The view of the extravaganza from Underwood Six would be astounding-perhaps the one real perk of being a patient on the locked ward!

Resting on the window ledge was a scratched, ancient pair of binoculars, whose optics turned out to be surprisingly good. The Chilton Building was cordoned off by two concentric rings of blue sawhorses. Huge canvas dust shields had been strung together and draped over the nearby parking garages. A small group of men in shining metal hard hats were talking and gesturing up at the condemned structure. But most of the workmen seemed to be packing up their gear. Apparently, the preparation of the building and the laying of charges was complete. Sarah wondered if any of the officials from the McGrath Foundation would be at the next morning's festivities. Just then she noticed a white panel truck pull away from the deserted side of the building. Slowly and unobtrusively it eased through a small opening in the barriers and headed off. Through the binocs, it was not difficult to make out the bright red block lettering on the truck: HURON PHARMACEUTICALS. The printing was repeated, in smaller letters, across the truck's rear doors.

The name struck a chord of some sort… but why?

"Okay, group, everybody," the singsong voice announced.. "Attendance mandatory. No excuses. Let's get going."

Huron Pharmaceuticals, Sarah mulled as she took the seat that seemed the least conspicuous. Where in the hell had she run into that before? Where?

"Okay, everyone," the group leader said to the twenty or so patients on the locked ward. "We've got two new people with us today, so I think it's appropriate to go around the group for first-name introductions. I'm Cecily, one of the group facilitators on Underwood Six."

"Marvin," the worn-out looking black man next to her said. "Lynn."

"I'm Nancy. Don't ever call me Nan."

"Pete…"

Peter! Sarah did not hear any of the succeeding names and had to be prompted to say hers when her turn came. She had suddenly remembered why Huron Pharmaceuticals had seemed so familiar.

"Ours are standard, FDA-approved multivitamins, manufactured for us by Huron Pharmaceuticals."

Peter Ettinger had spoken those words at his deposition. Sarah was absolutely certain of it. She heard them now in his voice and in her mind's eye saw his smug expression as he delivered them. First the McGrath Foundation and now Huron Pharmaceuticals. Two direct connections between Peter Ettinger, the Ayurvedic Herbal Weight Loss System, and the Medical Center of Boston.

Coincidence?

Sarah's fists clenched tightly in her lap.

No fucking way! she thought.

"Very well, Sarah," Cecily said. "If you don't want to share today, we all certainly understand. But I also must tell you that we frown on profanity during group…"

It was nearing noon. Traffic southbound on the central artery, leading out of the city, was light. Nevertheless, Matt was well aware of the vindictive nature of Boston drivers, and stayed in the middle lane, intent on offending no one. Colin Smith was out of the hospital for the remainder of the day, his secretary reported. An avid sailor, he spent every Friday afternoon from mid-April to early November aboard his boat. However, she added, a meeting had run late, and he had left the office not twenty minutes ago. If Matt's business with him was important, he might try calling the South Boston Yacht Club.