Robin Cook - Harmful Intent

He opened his eyes in terror and let out a little gasp. He hadn't realized how jumpy he was. He began to take deep, steady breaths in order to calm himself

After a minute or two, Jeffrey's thoughts returned to the cases. He realized there was another similarity between the Noble and Owen cases that he'd not considered. Henry Noble had been paralyzed for the week he'd lived. It was as if he'd had total irreversible spinal anesthesia. Since

Patty had died, Jeffrey had no idea if she would have suffered paralysis had she lived. But her baby had survived and did display marked residual paralysis. It had been assumed that the baby's paralysis stemmed from a lack of oxygen to his brain, but now Jeffrey wasn't so sure. The strange, asymmetric distribution had always troubled him. Maybe this paralysis was an additional clue, one that might be of use in identifying a contaminant.

Jeffrey got off the subway at Park Street and climbed the

stairs. Giving wide berth to several policemen, he hurried down Winter

Street, leaving the crowded Park Street area behind. As he walked, he thought more seriously about getting back into Boston Memorial Hospital now that he'd done his reading.

The idea of becoming part of the housekeeping staff had a lot of merit except for one problem: to apply for a job he'd need to provide some sort of identification as well as a valid social security number. In this day of computers, Jeffrey knew he couldn't expect to get by by making one up.

He was wrestling with the problem of identification when he turned onto the street where the Essex Hotel stood. Half a block away from the liquor store, which was still open, he paused. A vision of the man in the tattered suit came back to him. The two of them had been about the same height and age.

Crossing the street, Jeffrey approached the empty lot next to the liquor store. A strategically placed streetlamp threw a good deal of light into the area. About a quarter of the way into the lot there was a concrete overhang sticking out of one of the bordering buildings that looked like it could have been an old loading dock. Beneath it Jeffrey could make out a number of figures, some sitting, some passed out on the ground.

Stopping and listening, Jeffrey could hear conversation. Overpowering any misgivings, he started toward the group. Stepping gingerly on a bed of broken bricks, Jeffrey approached the overhang. A fetid odor of unwashed humans assaulted his senses. The conversation stopped. A number of rheumy eyes regarded him suspiciously in the semidarkness.

Jeffrey felt he was an intruder in another world. With rising anxiety, he searched for the man in the tattered suit, moving his eyes quickly from one dark figure to the next. What would he do if these men suddenly sprang at him?

Jeffrey saw the man he was looking for. He was one of the men sitting in the semicircle. Forcing himself forward, Jeffrey approached closer. No one spoke. There was an electric charge of expectation in the air as if a spark could cause an explosion. Every eye was now following Jeffrey. Even some of the people who'd been lying down were now sitting up, staring at him.

"Hello," Jeffrey said limply when he was in front of the man. The man didn't move. Nor did anyone else. "Remember me?" Jeffrey asked. He felt foolish, but he couldn't think of what else to say. "I gave you some change an hour or so ago. Back there, in front of the liquor store." Jeffrey pointed over his shoulder.

The man didn't respond.

"I thought maybe you could use a little more," Jeffrey said. He reached into his pocket, and pushing away the packet of hundred-dollar bills, pulled out some change and several smaller bills. He extended the change.

The man reached forward and took the coins.

"Thanks, buddy," he managed, trying to see the coins in the darkness.

"I've got more," Jeffrey said. "In fact, I've got a five-dollar bill here, and I'm willing to bet that you're so drunk, you can't remember your social security number."

"Whaddya mean?" the man mumbled as he struggled to his feet. Two of the other men followed suit. The man Jeffrey was interested in swayed as if he were about to fall, but caught himself. He appeared drunker than he'd been earlier. "It's 139-321560. That's my social security number."

"Oh, sure!" Jeffrey said with a wave of dismissal. "You just made that up."

"The hell I did!" the man said indignantly. With a sweeping gesture that almost knocked him off his feet, he reached for his wallet. He staggered again, struggling to lift the wallet from his trouser pocket. After he got it out, he fumbled to remove not a Social Security card, but his driver's license. He dropped the wallet in the process. Jeffrey bent down to pick it up. He noticed there was no money in it.

"Lookit right here!" the man said. "Just like I said."

Jeffrey handed him the wallet and took the license. He couldn't see the number but that wasn't the point. "My word, I guess you were right," he said after he pretended to study it. He handed over the five-dollar bill, which the man grabbed eagerly. But one of the other men grabbed it out of his hand.

"Gimme that back!" the man yelled.

Another of the men had advanced behind Jeffrey. Jeffrey reached into his pocket and pulled out more coins. "There's some for everybody," he said as he tossed them on the ground. They clinked against the broken brick. There was a rush as everyone but Jeffrey dropped to his hands and knees in the darkness. Jeffrey took advantage of the diversion to turn and run as quickly as he dared across the rubble-strewn lot toward the street.

Back in his hotel room, he propped the license up on the edge of the sink and compared his image to that of the photo on the license. The nose was completely different. Nothing could be done about that. Yet if he darkened his hair and combed it

straight back with some gel the way he'd thought he would, and if he added some black-framed glasses, maybe it would work. But at the very least, he had a valid social security number associated with a real name and address: Frank Amendola, of 1617 Sparrow Lane, Framingham, Massachusetts.

WEDNESDAY,

MAY 17, 1989

6:15 A.M.

Trent Harding wasn't due to start work until seven, but at sixfifteen he was already pulling off his street clothes in the locker room off the surgical lounge of St. Joseph's Hospital. From where he was standing, he had a straight shot to the sinks and he could see himself in the over-the-basin mirrors. He flexed his arm and neck muscles so that they bulged. He hunched over slightly to check their definition. Trent liked what he saw.

Trent went to his health club at least four times a week to use the

Nautilus equipment to the point of exhaustion. His body was like a piece of sculpture. People noticed and admired it, Trent was sure. Yet he wasn't satisfied. He thought he could stand to beef up his biceps a bit more. On his legs, his quads could use tightening. He planned to concentrate on both in the coming weeks.

Trent was in the habit of arriving early, but on this particular morning, he was earlier than usual. In his excitement he'd awakened before his alarm and could not go back to sleep, so he'd decided to get to work early.

Besides, he liked to take his time. There was something unbelievably exhilarating about placing one of his doctored Marcaine ampules in the

Marcaine supply. It gave him shivers of pleasure-like planting a time bomb.

He was the only one who knew about the imminent danger. He was the one who controlled it.

After he'd gotten into his scrub outfit, Trent glanced around him. A few people who were going off shift had come into the locker room. One was in the shower singing a Stevie Wonder tune; another was in one of the toilet stalls; and a third was at his locker well out of sight.