Robin Cook - Crisis

"Am I calling at a bad time?" Jack asked.

"Hell, no. I'm in line in Starbucks to get my mocha latte. What's up."

Jack told the story of his latest run-in with Franco from its beginning to its dramatic and decisive conclusion.

"I've got one question," Liam said. "Did you return fire with my gun?"

"Of course not," Jack said. It was hardly the question he expected. "To tell the truth, the idea never even occurred to me."

Liam told Jack he'd relay the information to the State Troopers who patrol the turnpike, and if there were any questions, he'd have them call Jack directly.

Pleased that the reporting job was as easy as it had been, Jack leaned forward and examined the bullet hole in the car's plastic interior trim, knowing Hertz was not going to be happy. It was relatively neatly punched out, as he'd frequently seen with entrance wounds in victims' skulls. Jack inwardly shuddered at the thought of how close it had been to being his skull, which made him wonder if Franco's attacking him with his vehicle had been plan B. Plan A could have been either waiting for Jack to come out of the Bowmans' house or, worse yet, breaking into the house during the night. Maybe the police surveillance had been the deterrent, making Jack shudder anew at how sure he'd felt the previous night that there would be no intruders. Ignorance was bliss.

Making a conscious decision not to dwell on "what ifs," Jack got the umbrella from the backseat and went into the funeral home. With no services apparently scheduled, the establishment was back to its silent, sepulchral serenity, save for the barely audible Gregorian chants. Jack had to find his own way back to Harold's heavily curtained office.

"Dr. Stapleton," Harold said, seeing Jack in his doorway. "I'm afraid I have bad news."

"Please!" Jack urged. "Don't say that. I've already had a bumpy difficult morning."

"I got a call from Percy Gallaudet, the backhoe operator. The cemetery has him on another job, then he's going off-site to dig out someone's sewer line. He said he won't be able to get to your job until tomorrow."

Jack took a breath and looked away for a moment to calm himself. Harold's unctuous manner made this new hurdle that much more difficult to bear. "Okay," Jack said slowly. "How about we get another backhoe. There must be more than one in the area."

"There are a lot, but only one is currently acceptable to Walter Strasser, the superintendent of the Park Meadow Cemetery."

"Are there kickbacks involved?" Jack said, more as a statement than a question. Only one backhoe operator smelled suspiciously like small-town graft.

"Heaven knows, but the reality is that we are stuck with Percy Gallaudet."

"Shit!" Jack exclaimed. There wasn't any way he could do the autopsy in the morning and still be at the Riverside Church at one thirty in the afternoon.

"There's another problem," Harold said. "The vault company's truck is not available tomorrow, and I had to call them and tell them we were not going to use them today."

"Wonderful!" Jack commented sarcastically. He took another breath. "Let's go over this carefully so we know what our options are. Is there some way we can accomplish this without the vault company?"

"Absolutely not," Harold said indignantly. "It would mean leaving the vault in the ground."

"Hey, I don't mind if the vault stays put. Why do you have to take it out anyway?"

"That's the way it is done. It is a top-of-the-line vault stipulated by the late Mr. Stanhope. The one-piece lid has to be removed with care."

"Couldn't the lid be removed without lifting the whole vault?"

"It could, I suppose, but it might crack."

"So what difference would that make?" Jack questioned, losing patience. He felt that burial practices in general were bizarre and was a fan of cremation. All someone had to do was look at mummies of Egyptian pharaohs gruesomely on display to realize allowing one's earthly remains to hang around was not necessarily a good idea.

"A crack could compromise the seal," Harold said with renewed indignation.

"I'm getting the picture the vault can be left in the ground," Jack said. "I'll take responsibility. If the lid cracks, we can get a new one. I'm certain that would please the vault company."

"I suppose," Harold said, moderating his stance.

"I'm going to go and personally speak to Percy and Walter and see if I can resolve this impasse."

"As you wish. Just keep me informed. I must be present if and when the vault is opened."

"I'll be sure to do that," Jack said. "Can you give me directions to the Park Meadow?"

Jack walked out of the funeral home in a different frame of mind than he was when he had gone in. He was now irritated as well as overstimulated. Three things that never failed to rile him were bureaucracy, incompetence, and stupidity, especially when they occurred together, which they often did. Getting Patience Stanhope out of the ground was proving to be more arduous than he had expected when he first insouciantly suggested doing a postmortem.

When he got to the car he looked at it critically for the first time since the turnpike ordeal. Besides the broken window and the bullet in the windshield post, the whole left side was scraped and dented, and the rear was pushed in. The back was so damaged he feared he might not be able to open the trunk. Luckily, his fears were unfounded when he was able to pop the lid. He wanted to be certain he'd have access to the autopsy materials Latasha had given him. What Hertz's reaction was going to be to all the damage he didn't want to think about, although he was happy he'd opted for full insurance.

Once inside the car he got out the map and, combining it with Harold's directions, he was able to plot his route. The cemetery wasn't far, and he found it without much effort or incident. It dominated a hill within sight of an impressive religious institution that looked similar to a college with numerous separate buildings. The cemetery was quite pleasant, even in the rain, and looked like a park with headstones. The main gate was an elaborate stone structure that spanned the entrance road and bristled with statuary of the prophets. The individual gates were black, cast-iron grates and would have been forbidding except that they were permanently propped open. The entire cemetery was encircled with a fence that matched the entranceway gates.

Just beyond the portal and tucked behind it was a Gothic building comprising an office and multi-bay garage. It stood on a cobblestoned area from which roads led up into the cemetery proper. Jack parked his car and walked through the open door of the office. There were two people at two desks. The rest of the furniture included several old four-drawer metal filing cabinets and a library table with captain's chairs. On the wall was a large map of the cemetery depicting all the separate plots.

"Can I help you?" a dowdy woman asked. She was neither friendly nor unfriendly as she gave Jack an appraising look. It was a deportment Jack was beginning to associate with New England.

"I'm looking for Walter Strasser," Jack said.

The woman pointed toward the man without looking at him or back at Jack. She had already returned her attention to her monitor screen.

Jack stepped over to the man's desk. He was of indeterminate late middle age and corpulent enough to suggest he indulged in his share of the seven deadly sins, particularly gluttony and sloth. He was sitting stolidly at the desk with his hands clasped over his impressive girth. His full face was red like an apple.

"Are you Mr. Strasser?" Jack asked when the man made no attempt to speak or move.

"I am.

Jack made a rapid introduction that included flashing his official ME badge. He went on to explain his need to examine the late Patience Stanhope to help with a civil lawsuit and that the required permits had been obtained for the exhumation. He said all he needed was the corpse.