Peter Clement - Mortal Remains

“Were these other doctors in cahoots with his cover-up?” Roy asked, laying aside the graph he’d been studying.

“No, they were unwitting dupes.”

“Didn’t they miss the reports Braden intercepted?”

“Oh, they got a report. Braden’s flagging these results was part of a program where the computer would then generate simple typewritten responses stating whether the genes that had been tested for were present or not, then eliminate the graphs. We checked the other labs he owned and found similar systems in place. The doctors weren’t aware they’d missed anything. Most only want the final answer of a test anyway – less paper.”

“Why did they all use his labs in the first place?”

“As one of them said to me, ‘We didn’t know they were owned by Braden. Representatives approached us offering first-rate, competent service at a special price, then delivered – an offer too good to refuse.’ ”

Mark waited for more questions. No one had any. He glanced once more toward the end of the table. Chaz retained the quiet equilibrium Mark had noticed at the start of the meeting. Maybe witnessing a public dissection of his father’s crimes would help him get out from under the weight of the old man’s legacy. In fact, maybe it had already started to happen, and that’s what seemed different about him.

Mark knew that he should now state for the record the events leading to Victor’s death: That Charles Braden III, having learned Victor gave Lucy O’Connor a tour of the genetic-screening facility, must have seen her as a special threat. That Charles knew she already suspected he had something to hide about the home for unwed mothers because of all the records he’d so conveniently lost in a fire there. That finding her nosing around the laboratory, he probably jumped to conclusions. Assumed that she’d somehow found out about the screening results. Mistakenly concluded that she knew they would unmask his secret and had set out to get her hands on them.

So Charles cut off her access to the place by having Victor fired.

Then Victor found the reports, and paid with his life.

But looking at Lucy’s frail face, Mark hadn’t the heart to make her hear those words.

Wednesday, December 5, 4:00 P.M.

Hampton Junction

Mark turned left at the end of his driveway and settled into an easy stride. He hadn’t had a decent run since Lucy went into hospital. The air in Manhattan saw to that.

Dusk hung over the hills, the sun already behind them, and the late-afternoon light had a blue quality to it, typical for the end of day during the weeks leading up to winter’s longest night. In the distance toward town he saw tiny clusters of reds, greens, and amber where people had already hung their outside decorations. He smiled, having just dug out of the basement tree lights and ornaments that he hadn’t bothered with since Aunt Margaret died. The boxes lay stacked in the living room, ready for the weekend. That’s when Lucy would be discharged from hospital, an early release into his care.

His house would soon be a busy place. Lucy’s parents and brothers were coming for the holidays. It had been impossible to reach any of them until she’d recovered enough to provide e-mail addresses. They’d literally been scattered all over the globe, and all were ready to run to her side the instant he reached them, but Lucy insisted they hold off until the holidays, “Now that the worst is over.”

Mark turned west onto the uphill portion of his route. Traces of wood-smoke wafted through the twilight.

Lucy and he had discussed other plans as well. Again he smiled. As things stood, she would join him in Hampton Junction when her residency ended in June.

“Wonderful,” Janet Graceton had said when, as they made their good-byes after the meeting yesterday.

Earl had asked, “So what are you two going to do?” and Lucy told him. He couldn’t have looked happier for them, or congratulated them more enthusiastically.

Janet had chuckled. “Two doctors living under one roof? Believe me, it’s a hoot making that work.” She gave Lucy a hug. “If you need any advice, call me.”

He increased his speed, making his calves burn.

This morning he’d visited Nell in Saratoga General, the first time he’d seen her since that terrible night.

She’d been off the respirator for over a week, and her skin, though it had blistered here and there, confirming his initial impression of first- and second-degree burns, bore none of the deeper, third-degree damage that he’d hoped she would be spared. Most important, she escaped the need for painful skin grafts entirely.

Even with the upper side of her body still swathed in protective dressings, she’d managed to look indignant when he showed up, giving a haughty sniff. “Look at me. I’m done up like some a damned mummy.”

“Not for long, Nell. The nurses tell me you’ll be out of here in another week and a half – off to stay with your daughter in Florida.”

“Christmas in Florida! There’s no snow!” she’d huffed, and tried to stay annoyed, but couldn’t hide an upward flicker at the unbandaged corner of her mouth.

“I guess you’ve read and seen on TV all that happened.”

“Some.”

“Tell me, Nell, when you said you had come up with some other tidbits and a name related to Kelly’s murder, was that just a come-on to get me out to your place?”

Her icy silence had told him he’d hit the truth.

“You want to hear the inside stuff the media didn’t get?” he’d asked, trying to warm things up between them again.

The flicker at the side of her mouth had shot north for a second, and her eyes showed interest, but she just as quickly continued to look cross. “Don’t think tempting me with that sort of thing makes us even. I’m still mad at you.”

“For saving your life?”

“For putting that tube into me.”

“Same thing.”

She glared at him. “You think you’re so smart.”

“Well, if you don’t want me to tell you the good stuff, or about what’s happening with Lucy and me-”

“What about Lucy and you?”

He’d told her. All about Lucy. Including where she’d been born.

She’d studied him in silence almost a full minute when he finished.

“And you say the mother registered under a false name, but had a red file?”

“That’s right. And the year would be 1969, the date, March 7.”

She’d studied him some more.

“You think I might be able to figure out who it is?”

He’d nodded.

From the way her gaze had suddenly intensified, he could tell the wheels were already turning. “Perhaps it would help if you saw her. There might be a physical resemblance,” he added.

That had evoked a completely unchecked smile of delight.

He passed the place in the highway where he’d rammed Braden’s killers. Minutes later he put the gate to the home behind him. The landmarks had made him tense up inside.

Up ahead stretched open road, steeper, but unencumbered with any bad memories. He picked up the pace and felt himself relax. He got into the familiar rhythm of his body adapting to the change in grade and let it carry him along.

Time would expunge the hold that place had on him. Just as other memories would no longer encumber him. He felt certain of that.

Mark started to sprint, and soon found himself thinking of the wonderful things that lay in store rather than the past. His feet seemed to glide over the gray pavement, and a full moon peeked up over the horizon. Running straight at it, he headed for the summit, grinning all the way.

My thanks to Dr. Brian Connolly and Dr. Jennifer Frank for their consults on the clinical story line.