Robin Cook - Terminal

“It left just a short time ago,” the contact said.

“Is it going back up the east coast?” Sterling asked.

“Nope,” the contact said. “It’s going to Naples, Florida. Does that mean anything to you?”

“Indeed it does,” Sterling said with relief.

“From there it’s going to Mexico,” the contact said. “That will take it out of our jurisdiction.”

“You’ve been most helpful,” Sterling said.

Sterling hung up the phone. He was glad he’d called. Now he was certain Sean Murphy was not about to be killed. Instead he was about to be offered a free trip across the Pacific.

“I can’t smell any cigarette smoke in here,” Janet said as she sniffed around the spacious room. Then she opened the French doors and stepped out onto the terrace. “Sean, come out here!” she called. “This is gorgeous.”

Sean was sitting on the edge of the bed reading the directions for making a long-distance call. He got up and joined Janet on the terrace.

The view was spectacular. A beach shaped like a scimitar swept to the north in a gigantic arc, ending in the distance at Sanibel Island. Directly below their terrace was the lush greenery of a mangrove swamp. To the south the beach ran a straight line, eventually disappearing behind a line of high-rise condominiums. To the west, the sun was slanting through a sheath of red clouds. The Gulf was calm and deep green. A few windsurfers dotted the surface, their sails offering bright splashes of color.

“Let’s go to the beach for a swim,” Janet suggested. Her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm.

“You’re on,” Sean said. “But first I want to call Brian and Mr. Betencourt.”

“Good luck,” Janet said over her shoulder. She was already on her way inside to change.

With Janet in the bathroom putting on her suit, Sean dialed Brian’s number. It was after six, and Sean fully expected him to be home. It was disappointing to hear the damn answering machine kick on and have to sit through Brian’s message yet again. After the beep Sean left the number of the Ritz and his room number and asked his brother to please call. As an afterthought he added that it was important.

Next, Sean dialed Malcolm Betencourt’s number. Mr. Betencourt himself answered on the second ring.

Sean winged it. He explained that he was a medical student at Harvard who was taking an elective at the Forbes Cancer Center. He said he’d been reviewing charts of patients who’d been on the medulloblastoma protocol and who had been doing well. Having had an opportunity to review Mr. Betencourt’s chart, he’d appreciate the chance to talk to Mr. Betencourt in person about his treatment, if that would be at all possible.

“Please call me Malcolm,” Mr. Betencourt said. “Where are you calling from, Miami?”

“I’m in Naples,” Sean said. “My girlfriend and I just drove over.”

“Splendid. So you’re already in the neighborhood. And you’re a Harvard man. Just the med school or undergrad too?”

Sean explained that he was on leave from the M.D./Ph.D. program but that he’d been an undergrad at Harvard too.

“I went to Harvard myself,” Malcolm said. “Class of ’50. I’ll bet that sounds like a century ago. You play any sports while you were there?”

Sean was somewhat surprised by the direction the conversation was taking, but he decided to go with it. He told Malcolm that he’d been on the ice hockey team.

“I was on the crew team, myself,” Malcolm said. “But it’s my time at the Forbes you’re interested in, not my glory days of youth. How long will you be in Naples?”

“Just the weekend.”

“Hang on a second, young fella,” Malcolm said. In a minute, he came back on the line. “How about coming over for dinner?” he asked.

“That’s awfully kind,” Sean said. “Are you sure it’s not an imposition?”

“Hell, I already checked with the boss,” Malcolm said cheerfully. “And Harriet will be tickled to have some youthful company. How’s eight-thirty sound? Dress is casual.”

“Perfect,” Sean said. “How about some directions?”

Malcolm told Sean that he lived on a street called Galleon Drive in Port Royal, an area just south of Naples’s old town. He then gave specific directions which Sean wrote down.

No sooner had Sean hung up the phone than there was a knock on the door. Sean read over the directions as he walked to the door. Absentmindedly, he opened the door without asking who it was or looking through the security peephole. What he didn’t realize was that Janet had hooked the security chain. When he pulled the door open, it abruptly stopped, leaving only a two-inch crack.

Through the crack Sean saw a momentary glint of metal in the hand of whoever was at the door. The significance of that glint failed to register. Sean was too embarrassed to have bungled opening the door to focus on it. As soon as he reopened the door properly, he apologized to the man standing there.

The man, dressed in a hotel uniform, smiled and said there was no need for an apology. He said he should apologize for disturbing them, but the management was sending up fruit and a complimentary bottle of champagne because of the inconvenience of not having a nonsmoking ocean-view room.

Sean thanked the man and tipped him before seeing him out, then he called to Janet. He poured two glasses.

Janet appeared at the bathroom doorway in a black one-piece bathing suit cut high on her thighs and low in the back. Sean had to swallow hard.

“You look stunning,” he said.

“You like it?” Janet asked as she pirouetted into the room. “I got it just before I left Boston.”

“I love it,” Sean said. Once again he appreciated Janet’s figure, remembering it had been her figure that had first attracted him to her when he’d seen her climbing down from that countertop.

Sean handed her a glass of champagne, explaining the management’s gift.

“To our weekend escape,” Janet said, extending her glass toward Sean.

“Hear, hear!” Sean said, touching her glass with his.

“And to our discussions this weekend,” Janet added, thrusting her glass at him again.

Sean touched her glass for a second time, but his face assumed a quizzical expression. “What discussions?” he asked.

“Sometime in the next twenty-four hours I want to talk about our relationship,” Janet said.

“You do?” Sean winced.

“Don’t look so mournful,” Janet said. “Drink up and get your suit on. The sun’s going to set before we get out there.”

Sean’s nylon gym shorts had to double as a bathing suit. He’d not been able to find his real bathing suit when he’d packed in Boston. But it hadn’t worried him. He hadn’t planned on going to the beach much, and if he did, it would have been just to walk and look at the girls. He hadn’t planned on going into the water.

After they’d each had a glass of champagne, they donned terrycloth robes provided by the hotel. As they rode down in the elevator, Sean told Janet about Malcolm Betencourt’s invitation. Janet was surprised by this development, and a little disappointed. She’d been envisioning a romantic dinner for just the two of them.

On the way to the beach they walked by the hotel’s pool, which was a free-form variation of a clover leaf. There were half a dozen people in the water, mostly children. After crossing a boardwalk spanning a narrow tongue of mangrove swamp, they arrived at the Gulf of Mexico.

Even at this hour, the beach was dazzling. The sand was white and mixed with the crushed, sun-bleached remains of billions of shellfish. Redwood beach furniture and blue canvas umbrellas dotted the beach directly in front of the hotel. Groups of dawdling sunbathers were scattered to the north, but to the south, the sand was empty.