Robin Cook - Harmful Intent

Behind the desk, a shabbily dressed man in his early sixties eyed Jeffrey suspiciously. Only drug dealers came to the Essex with briefcases. The clerk had been watching a small-screen black-and-white TV complete with old-fashioned rabbit-ear an' He had unkempt hair and sported a three-day-old beard. tennae.

He had on a tie, but it was loosened at the collar and had a line of gravy stains across the lower third.

"Can I help you?" he asked, giving Jeffrey the once-over. Helping seemed the last thing he was inclined to do.

Jeffrey nodded. "I'd like a room."

"You got a reservation?" the man asked.

Jeffrey couldn't believe the man was serious. Reservations in a flophouse like this? But he didn't want to offend him. Jeffrey decided to play along.

"No reservation," he told him.

"Rates are ten dollars an hour or twenty-five a night," the man said.

"How about two nights?" Jeffrey said.

The man shrugged. "Fifty dollars plus tax, in advance," he said.

Jeffrey signed "Richard Bard." He gave the clerk the change he'd gotten from the taxi driver and added a five and a few singles from his wallet.

The man gave him a key with an attached chain and a metal plaque that had

5F etched into its surface.

The staircase provided the first and only hint that the building had once been almost elegant. The treads and risers were white marble, now long since stained and marred. The ornate balustrade was wrought iron festooned with decorative swirls and curlicues.

The room Jeffrey had been given faced the street. When he opened the door, the room's only illumination came from the blood-red glow of the dilapidated neon sign over the entrance four stories below. Switching on the light, Jeffrey surveyed his new home. The walls hadn't been painted for ages. What paint remained was scarred and peeling. It was difficult to determine

what the original color had been; it seemed to be somewhere between gray and green. The sparse furnishings consisted of a single bed, a nightstand with a lamp minus the shade, a card table, and a single wooden chair. The bedspread was chenille with several greenish stains. A thin-paneled door led to a bathroom.

For a moment, Jeffrey hesitated to enter, but what was his choice? He decided to try to make the best of his predicament, or at least make do.

Stepping over the threshold, he closed and locked his door. He felt terribly alone and isolated. He truly could not sink any deeper than this.

Jeffrey sat on the bed, then lay down across it, keeping both feet firmly planted on the floor. He didn't realize how exhausted he was until his back hit the mattress. He would have loved to curl up for a few hours, as much to escape as to rest, but he knew this was no time for napping. He had to come up with a strategy, some plan. But first he had to make a few phone calls.

Since there was no phone in the shabby hotel room, Jeffrey had to go to the lobby to place the calls. He took his briefcase with him, afraid to leave it unattended even for a minute or two.

Downstairs, the clerk reluctantly left his Red Sox game to make change so

Jeffrey could use the phone.

His first call was to Randolph Bingham. Jeffrey didn't have to be a lawyer to know he desperately needed sound legal advice. While Jeffrey waited for the call to go through, the same pimplyfaced girl he'd seen through the cab window entered the front door. She had a nervous-appearing, baldheaded man with her who had a sticker attached to his lapel that said: Hil I'm Harry.

He was obviously a conventioneer who was seeking the thrill of putting his life in jeopardy. Jeffrey turned his back on the transaction at the front desk. Randolph answered the phone with his familiar aristocratic accent.

6'I've got a problem," Jeffrey said without even saying who he was. But

Randolph recognized his voice immediately. In a few simple sentences,

Jeffrey brought Randolph up to date. He left nothing out, including his striking Devlin with the briefcase in full view of a policeman and the subsequent chase through the airport terminal.

"My good God," was all Randolph could say by the time Jeffrey had finished.

Then, almost angrily, he added, "You know, this is not going to help your appeal. And when it comes to sentencing, it is certainly going to have an influence."

"I know," Jeffrey said. "I could have guessed as much. But

1 didn't call you to tell me I'm in trouble. I had that figured without benefit of counsel. I need to know what you can do to help."

"Well, before I do anything, you have to turn yourself in."

"But..."

"No buts. You've already put yourself in an extremely precarious position with regard to the court."

"And if I do turn myself in, won't the court be likely to deny bail entirely?"

"Jeffrey, you have no choice. In light of your attempt to flee the country, you haven't exactly done much to encourage its trust. "

Randolph started to say more, but Jeffrey cut him off. "I'm sorry, but I'm not prepared to go to jail. Under any circumstances. Please do whatever you can from your end. I'll get back to you." Jeffrey slammed the receiver down. He couldn't blame Randolph for the advice he had given. In some respects it was just like medicine: sometimes the patient just didn't want to hear the doctor's proposed therapy.

With his hand still resting on the receiver, Jeffrey turned back into the reception area to see if anyone had overheard his conversation. The young miniskirted girl and her john had disappeared upstairs, and the clerk was again glued to his tiny TV set. Another man, who looked to be in his seventies, had appeared and was sitting on the tattered couch, thumbing through a magazine.

Dropping another coin into the phone, Jeffrey called home.

"Where are you?" Carol demanded as soon as Jeffrey muttered a dull hello.

"I'm in Boston," he told her. He wasn't about to tell her anything more specific, but he felt he owed her that much. He knew she would be furious that he had left without a word, but he wanted to warn her in case Devlin headed back. And he wanted her to pick up the car. Beyond that, he didn't expect anything along the lines of sympathy. An earful of fury was what he got.

"Why didn't you tell me you were leaving the house?" Carol snarled. "Here

I've been patient, standing by you all these months, and this is the thanks

I get. I looked all over the house before I realized your car was gone."

"It's the car I need to talk to you about," Jeffrey said.

"I'm not interested in your car," Carol snapped.

"Carol, listen to me!" Jeffrey yelled. When he heard that she was going to give him a chance to speak, he lowered his voice,

cupping a hand around the receiver. "My car is at the airport at central parking. The ticket stub is in the ashtray."

"Are you planning on forfeiting bail?" Carol asked incredulously. "We'll lose the house! I signed that lien in good faith... 11

"There are some things more important than the house!" Jeffrey snapped in spite of himself. He lowered his voice again. "Besides, the house on the

Cape has no mortgage. You can have that if money's your worry."

"You still haven't answered me," Carol said. "Are you planning to forfeit the bail?"

"I don't know," Jeffrey sighed. He really didn't. It was the truth. He still hadn't had time to think things through. "Look, the car's there on the second level. If you want it, fine. If not, that's fine too."

"I want to talk to you about our divorce," Carol said. "It's been on hold long enough. As much as I sympathize with your problems, and I do, I have to get on with my life."

"I'll have to get back to you," Jeffrey said irritably. Then he hung up on her as well.

He shook his head sadly. He couldn't even remember a time when there had been warmth between Carol and him. Dying relationships were so ugly. Here he was on the run and all she could worry about was property and the divorce. Well, she had her life to get on with, he supposed. One way or the other, it wouldn't be much longer. She'd be rid of him for good.