David Dun - Unacceptable Risk

Michael shook Lyman's hand. "I'm fine. And this is Grady Wade." Lyman shook her hand as well. "You never mentioned your company here."

"Nope. I just do as I'm told. Very well-placed people from the FBI told me I should allow these guys into my life. They're good guys. It's great to see you, but I'll bet you want to see those journals."

"That'd be great. I really appreciate your taking care of them." But Grady could see that Michael was unhappy. Sam's presence loomed large here, even having insinuated itself with an old friend and colleague. She put her hand in the middle of Michael's back.

Dr. Lyman smiled. "Not a problem. The journals are in another building entirely, so we'll have to travel a ways to the other side of campus." He started putting on a heavy wool long coat and, to no one's surprise, the shadows did the same when the fellow from across the hall brought the coats.

A matter-of-fact beep kept precise time with the tempo of Anna's heartbeat, underscoring her fragile state, her head was swathed in bandages. It had taken eighteen hours of surgery to remove the bullet fragment. Dr. Prince, whose straight back and firm jaw and head of gray hair were a fine match for his surname, spoke reassuringly in the manner of a decent trial lawyer or politician. But it was as a neurosurgeon that he held a place in the top tier of Sam Wintripp's uni verse. When Dr. Prince said that her recovery was hopeful, his soft, rising tones were themselves instruments of hope for those seeking the man-made version. When he said there could be no accurate prognosis, you knew that he was telling the unvarnished truth. With that, his pastoral role ended as rapidly as it had begun.

Dr. Prince didn't think the bullet had destroyed anything vital, so a full recovery was possible. There was some expla nation about the holistic nature of brains and the compensating circuitry that boiled down to: She might be fine or she might have one of a seemingly endless number of disabili ties. Or she might die from a hemorrhage. Watch and wait meant just that.

She had been unconscious for three days. People all around him told Sam that it was best to assume she could hear him and he should talk to her. It was best to say reassur ing things and to dwell on pleasant topics. If it felt like talking to a sleeping person he should take heart: comas were little understood, and not the equivalent of sleep.

They had shaved her head and he knew she wasn't going to like that, assuming she could ever like anything again. Nurses came and went, and at the moment one was adjusting the pillows that were part of bedsore prevention.

Sam drank hospital rot-gut coffee from the nurses' station. Tasted like camp coffee made in a can without a filter.

Anna's mother, Carol, came back in the room after finding some lunch and it was still obvious from the way she opened the door, the way she carried herself through it, the way she had the flowers carried for her, the way she cast her eyes, and the way she knew how to fill up a room with a five- foot eight-inch frame, she was in charge.

"I want to talk with you."

For the second time since he met her, she spoke to him other than with regard to simple logistics.

"Anna told me about you," she said right out. "Mystery man, no name, no identity, a creature of some netherworld that she didn't understand, but she was foolish enough to be excited about it. Surely, it wasn't you that made her feel that way."

Sam smiled a weary smile. "I was so relieved when I saw how much you loved her, how you wanted to protect her from the likes of me. And there was some truth in what you were feeling. My life has been dangerous for Anna."

Carol looked at him hard and then she softened.

"I want her so much to make it… and I blamed you."

"I know."

The woman turned away in her grief.

"I believe she's going to make it," Sam said. "Call me if anything changes."

"I will. I promise."

"I'll be checking in. You call if you need anything. It is right that I should leave and attend to things that would be important to Anna."

"I believe you."

Sam relied on a mother's love and the skill of the highly professional nursing staff to bolster his confidence. He left the hospital for the local FBI office. He still wondered about everything and it was a terrible indecision that dogged his every move. He tried calling Ernie Dunkin, his primary contact with the FBI, but got no answer. He didn't want to take whoever else might be on call. At times Ernie pretended not to like the hassles of dealing with a renegade government contractor, but essentially he liked Sam and cooperated as best he could. Ernie had gotten credit for some major arrests through tips and evidence provided by Sam, and no doubt those merit citations shaped Ernie's thinking.

Within several hours of the shooting Sam's team of local private investigators, all ex-cops, some New York city, some Feds, had begun their own preliminary investigation. It might be tough to prove that Gaudet was behind the shoot ing, but they did demonstrate to Sam's satisfaction that it was a setup and Gaudet was the man with the motivation.

Sam passed his Robert Chase picture ID to the woman in the glass booth. Chase was well known to the FBI. Under that ID he was listed as a top informant and always received a welcome reception from any agent with a computer. Without a special access code a field agent could not access any of Sam's aliases or the name on his birth certificate. Sam had seven aliases, but only three were deep aliases complete with a Social Security number. Possession of three Social Security numbers was the only illegal facet of Sam's aliases, but it was administratively approved for two of them through a slightly unusual use of the witness protection program. As to the third, Sam simply told the government to concentrate on the intelligence they received through his offices. To date that had cured their bureaucratitis.

Sam gave up his gun and his permit to carry it at the front desk.

He was ushered into the office of Special Agent Bud Cross.

The man had a pinched, narrow face, was balding, sported a bushy mustache, and wore wire-framed glasses. The blue eyes looked at him with something less than warmth.

They shook hands.

"I will be honest with you, Mr. Chase, or whatever your name really is. I don't care for special people. I like regular ones. However, the bosses in DC say extend every courtesy and so you shall have every courtesy of this office. I just want you to know where I stand. Cops should be cops and everybody else should be a civilian-that's my personal bias and not the official view of

the FBI."

"I think it's the view of most conscientious field agents, and I respect it," Sam said. "I'm really here as a civilian."

"We've gone over the shooting thoroughly. DC is all over my ass because it was Anna Wade and not some chambermaid. And we can't find a thing to substantiate your theory. Two guys with a history get in a street fight and start shooting. They have some drugs in them. Not a lot, but enough."

"Very convenient. Two guys just start shooting at each other for no reason. They shoot way wide, missing each other, then go to an alley and kill each other simultaneously. Think about it."

"These nuts do that stuff all the time. They're paranoid once they get a grudge going."

"They fight, sure. But two guys don't often simultaneously shoot each other. More likely, that was staged," Sam said.

"Yeah, well, we've leaned on several gang members and everyone says these two hated each other."

"That's why they were pointed out by the leader to create the charade. Gaudet made a logical selection."