Robin Cook - Terminal

“She arrived a few hours ago,” Dr. Stasin said. “But we won’t be posting her.”

“Why not?” Sean asked.

“Two reasons,” Dr. Stasin said. “First, she had documented brain cancer which her attending physician is willing to aver as the cause of death. Second, her family has expressed strong feelings against our posting her. In this kind of circumstance we feel it is better not to do it. Contrary to popular opinion, we’re receptive to the family’s wishes unless, of course, there is evidence of foul play or a strong suggestion that the public weal would be served by an autopsy.”

“Is there a chance of getting any tissue samples?” Sean asked.

“Not if we don’t do the autopsy,” Dr. Stasin said. “If we did, the tissues removed would be available at our discretion. But since we’re not posting the patient, property rights rest with the family. Besides, the body has already been picked up by the Emerson Funeral Home. It’s on its way to Boston sometime tomorrow.”

Sean thanked Dr. Stasin for his time.

“Not at all,” he said. “We’re here every day. Give a call if we can help.”

Sean and Janet retraced the route to the car. The sun was setting; rush hour was in full swing.

“Surprisingly helpful individual,” Janet said.

Sean only shrugged. He leaned his forehead against the steering wheel.

“This is depressing,” he said. “Nothing seems to be going our way.”

“If anyone should be melancholy it should be me,” Janet reminded him, noting how glum he’d suddenly become.

“It’s an Irish trait to be melancholy,” Sean said. “So don’t deny me. Maybe these difficulties we’re having are trying to tell me something, like I should be heading back to Boston to do some real work. I never should have come down here.”

“Let’s go get something to eat,” Janet said. She wanted to change the subject. “We could go back to that Cuban restaurant on the beach.”

“I don’t think I’m hungry,” Sean said.

“A little arroz con pollo will make all the difference in the world,” Janet said. “Trust me.”

Tom Widdicomb had every light on in the house despite the fact that it wasn’t even dark outside. But he knew it would be dark soon, and the idea terrified him. He did not like the dark. Even though it was hours after the terrible episode in the Miami General morgue he was still shaking. His mother had done something similar to him once when he was about six. He’d gotten irritated at her when she said he couldn’t have any more ice cream, and he’d threatened to tell the teacher at school that they slept together unless she gave him more. Her response had been to shut him in a closet overnight. It had been Tom’s worst experience. He’d been afraid of both the dark and closets ever since.

Tom had no idea how the lights had gone off in the morgue except that when he had finally found the door and pushed it open, he’d practically collided with a man dressed in a suit and tie. Since Tom had still had the gun in his hand, the man had backed away, giving Tom the opportunity to bolt down the corridor. The man had given chase, but Tom had lost him easily in the network of tunnels, corridors, and connecting rooms he knew so well. By the time Tom exited from an isolated basement door with outside steps leading to the parking area, the man was nowhere in sight.

Still panicked, Tom had run to his car, started it, and had headed toward the parking area exit. Fearing that whoever had chased him in the basement might have somehow gotten out faster than he, Tom had been watchful as he drove, and since the parking lot was not busy at that time, he’d seen the green Mercedes almost immediately.

Passing his intended exit, Tom had gone to another one that was seldom used. When the green Mercedes had followed suit, Tom was convinced he was being followed. Consequently, he concentrated on losing the car in the afternoon rush hour. Thanks to a traffic light and a few cars that had come between them, Tom had been able to speed away. He had driven aimlessly for half an hour just to make sure he was no longer being followed. Only then did he return home.

“You never should have gone into Miami General,” Tom said, lambasting himself for his mother’s benefit. “You should have stayed outside, waited, and followed her home.”

Tom still had no idea where Janet lived.

“Alice, talk to me!” he shouted. But Alice wasn’t saying a word.

All Tom could think to do was wait until Janet got off work on Saturday. Then he’d follow her. He’d be more careful. Then he’d shoot her.

“You’ll see, Mom,” Tom said to the freezer. “You’ll see.”

Janet had been right, although Sean wasn’t about to admit it. What had especially perked him up were the tiny cups of Cuban coffee. He’d even tried what the people at the neighboring table had done. He’d drunk them like shots of alcohol, letting the mouthful of strong, thick, sweet fluid fall into his stomach in a bolus. The taste had been intense and the mild euphoria almost immediate.

The other thing that had helped Sean out of his dejected mood was Janet’s positive attitude. Despite her difficult day and the episode at Miami General, she’d found the stamina to remain upbeat. She reminded Sean that they were doing rather well for only two days’ effort. They had the thirty-three charts of the previous medulloblastoma patients and she’d managed to get two vials of the secret medicine. “I think that’s pretty good progress,” Janet said. “At this rate we’re sure to get to the bottom of the Forbes success in treating these people. Come on, cheer up! We can do it!”

Janet’s enthusiasm and the caffeine finally combined to win Sean over.

“Let’s find out where this Emerson Funeral Home is located,” he said.

“Why?” Janet asked, leery of such a suggestion.

“We can do a drive-by,” Sean said. “Maybe they’re working late. Maybe they give out samples.”

The funeral home was on North Miami Avenue near the city cemetery and Biscayne Park. It was a well-cared-for two-story Victorian clapboard structure with dormers. It was painted white with a gray slate roof and was surrounded on three sides by a wide porch. It gave the impression that it had been a private home.

The rest of the neighborhood was not inviting. The immediately adjacent buildings were constructed of concrete block. There was a liquor store on one side and a plumbing supply store on the other. Sean parked directly in front in a loading zone.

“I don’t think they’re open,” Janet said, gazing up at the building.

“Lots of lights,” Sean said. All the ground-floor lights were on except for the porch lights. The second floor was completely dark. “I think I’ll give it a try.”

Sean got out of the car, climbed the steps, and rang the bell. When no one answered, he looked into the windows. He even looked into some of the side windows before he came back to the car and got in. He started the engine.

“Where are we going now?” she asked.

“Back to the Home Depot,” Sean said. “I need some more tools.”

“I don’t like the sound of this,” Janet said.

“I can drop you off at the apartment,” Sean suggested.

Janet was silent. Sean drove first to the apartment out on Miami Beach. He pulled over to the curb and stopped. They hadn’t spoken en route.

“What exactly are you planning to do?” she asked at last.

“Continue my quest for Helen Cabot,” Sean said. “I won’t be long.”

“Are you planning on breaking into that funeral home?” Janet asked.

“I’m going to ‘ease in,’ ” Sean said. “That sounds better. I just want a few samples. If worse comes to worst, how bad is it? She’s already dead.”