Christopher Reich - Rules of Vengeance

Lazio glanced back at his friends. “I am.” He shrugged. “What about you? Still working for peanuts?”

“I’m back in East Africa. Kenya this time.”

“Is that why you’re here? To remind me of what happened?”

“I’m here to ask a favor.”

Lazio found this amusing. “What can I do for the great Dr. Jonathan Ransom?”

Jonathan moved closer to Lazio, close enough to smell his cologne and see the roots of gray beginning to poke from his scalp. “It’s about Emma. She was here a few months ago and had an accident that required surgery. I need to know which hospital treated her.”

“What happened?”

“She was mugged and stabbed.”

“Emma? I’d thought of her as someone who can take care of herself.”

“She can. Usually.”

Lazio fingered the chains at his neck. “So why are you asking me this? Surely she remembers where she was treated.”

“Emma and I aren’t together.”

Lazio considered the request. “Fine,” he said at length. “I’ll help you find the hospital that took care of your wife. It shouldn’t be difficult. I’ll make some calls in the morning.” He motioned toward his table. “Why don’t you join us? The sole is fabulous.”

“I need to find out where she was treated now,” said Jonathan. “Tell your friends you have an emergency. They’re doctors, right? They’ll understand.”

“You’re asking a lot.”

“We’re just beginning here.”

Lazio exhaled loudly. “All right, then, but I have to use the men’s room.”

“Sure,” said Jonathan, putting a hand on Lazio’s shoulder. “But give me your wallet before you go.”

“My wallet?” protested Lazio. “I don’t think so.”

Jonathan dug his fingers into the soft flesh, allowing a measure of his hate for the man to slip through. Lazio grimaced and handed Jonathan his alligator billfold.

“Two minutes,” said Jonathan. “Be at the front door.” He watched Lazio slide through the crowd, the picture of elegance and good manners. Then a very different image of Lazio came to him. He saw the doctor being dragged along a dirt road by an angry mob armed with machetes and clubs. He saw Lazio crying out for someone to help him, his wonderfully groomed hair a mess, his face clawed, his shirt hanging in tatters. The Italian hadn’t been so suave and polished then, thought Jonathan.

He opened the wallet and studied the image on the driver’s license. He looked at the dancing eyes, the easy smile, the facile expression. He was looking at a fraud.

Jonathan jumped off his stool and elbowed his way through the crowd in a rush toward the bathroom. He paused at the entry and gently opened the door.

“He’s here, I tell you,” came Lazio’s voice from inside a stall. “That Dr. Ransom . The man wanted for the bombings in London. No, I am not crazy. I know him. I am a doctor, too. We worked together. He is the same man I saw on the news.”

Jonathan kicked open the stall, grabbed the phone out of Lazio’s hands, and severed the connection.

“Leave me alone,” shouted Lazio. “You have nothing on me. You can’t make me help you. What have you done? You are a terrorist.”

Jonathan shoved him against the wall. Lazio’s head snapped against the tile and a stunned look came into his eyes. “Listen to me,” said Jonathan, fingers curled around Lazio’s collar. “I had nothing to do with what happened with the bombing in London. Nothing! Do you understand? And I have plenty on you. Five patients died under your care because you were too drunk to do your job.”

“That was years ago,” retorted Lazio. “Ancient history. I’ve been sober ever since. No one pressed charges then, and they won’t now. Are you going to bring a bunch of Africans to the stand? Where’s your proof? I’ll deny it, and that will be that. And who are you to be telling me what to do? I saw your picture on the television. You’re a wanted man.”

Jonathan released his grip and Lazio fell back against the wall. He was right, of course. No one would help. It was only then that Jonathan realized that he could never go back to work, for DWB or anyone else. This wasn’t a case of malpractice in a forgotten corner of a Third World country. It was a terrorist act against a ranking government dignitary, an act that had taken seven lives. Innocent or guilty, he would be forever tainted by his mere proximity to the crime.

He decided then that if he were a criminal, he’d better start acting like one. Slipping a hand behind his back, he freed the pistol he’d taken from Prudence Meadows and jabbed it into Lazio’s gut. “Last chance.”

For the first time Lazio appeared genuinely frightened. “Okay, okay, I’ll help,” he said.

Jonathan rammed the pistol further into the man’s belly. “Did you tell the police where you were?”

Lazio shook his head. “I didn’t have time.”

“Is that the truth?”

Lazio nodded violently.

“Okay, then, we’re going to walk out of here,” said Jonathan. “You’re going to take me to your car, and from there we’re going to drive to your office. If you help me out, we’ll be finished by morning. I’ll disappear from your life and you’ll never see me again. Do we have a deal?”

“Yes. Deal.”

Keeping a hand on Lazio’s arm, Jonathan led the doctor out of the restaurant. Clusters of youths stood on the sidewalk, smoking, laughing, arguing. Mopeds zipped by. “Which way is your car?”

Lazio looked in both directions, hesitating.

“Which way?” asked Jonathan.

Lazio pointed to a silver Ferrari parked illegally 10 meters up the street. “That’s it.”

“Of course it is.” Just then Jonathan heard the siren. He looked over his shoulder. Across the piazza, a Fiat belonging to the Italian carabinieri pulled into the square, slowing to a crawl as pedestrians scattered. He looked at Lazio. Of course the man had lied.

Lazio yanked his arm free and began to run down the street. Jonathan slipped on a cobblestone, regained his balance, and started after him. He caught him after ten strides and threw him against the wall of the basilica. “Go ahead, then. Shout. This is your chance. If you’re so sure no one will care about what you’ve done, yell for the police.”

Lazio’s eyes darted here and there, but he remained quiet.

“In your car,” said Jonathan. “Or I will shoot you. Right here. Right now.”

“Okay,” said Lazio. “In that case, we’d better hurry.”

Luca Lazio’s private practice was located in a three-story travertine villa in the Parioli district, adjacent to the Borghese Gardens. In contrast to Trastevere’s pulsing nightlife, the neighborhood was sleepy and peaceful, the winding, leafy streets split between businesses and residences.

Lazio unlocked the door and showed Jonathan inside. “So what’s it all about? You didn’t get your picture all over CNN for nothing.”

“It’s a mistake,” said Jonathan.

“A rather large one, it seems.”

Jonathan followed Lazio past the reception desk and through a maze of hallways. Lazio was a dermatologist, and his practice looked more like a day spa than a medical office. Everywhere there were potted plants and posters of men and women with tight, radiant skin, advertising the benefits of one laser treatment or another.

Lazio reached the end of the hall and flipped on the lights to his private office. “Is it to do with her?” he asked, tossing his keys onto his desk. “Emma?”

“Something like that.” Jonathan exchanged glances with the Italian, sensing that Lazio was holding something back. “Did you know?”

“Know what?”

“About Emma. What she was doing.”