The lock was a five-dial combination padlock. When the numbers were lined up according to her colleague’s instructions, Brynn tugged open the metal ring. She looked at Wilson and Rawlins in turn. “Please reconsider. Exposure to air could contaminate—”
Rawlins didn’t let her finish. He raised the lid himself.
Even from his vantage point, Rye could see inside the box. The interior was lined with black formed foam, even the lid. Four tightly sealed cylinders filled corresponding spaces cut into the foam. Vials of blood. All labeled.
“It’s open,” Brynn said into the phone. She listened for several seconds, then switched the phone back onto speaker and set it on the desk. “At Dr. Lambert’s request,” she told the deputies. “Go ahead, Nate.”
“Dr. O’Neal and I specialize in hematologic malignancies. Blood cancers. We have a patient with an extremely rare form. The patient has undergone aggressive rounds of radiation and chemotherapy, to no avail. The only hope for survival is an allogeneic stem cell or cord blood transplant. But therein lies the problem. HLA matching. Human leukocyte antigens. These cell markers…”
Rye tuned him out and watched Brynn. While her pompous colleague waxed eloquent about CBUs and GVHDs, she stood with arms crossed over her middle, her lips rolled inside and compressed so tightly, they had gone colorless.
“What you’re looking at, gentlemen, are blood samples taken from four different possible donors after a lengthy and extremely discouraging search. But we won’t know if any is an acceptable match of our patient’s HLA type until they’re tested, and Dr. O’Neal and I want to do our own testing. Not that we mistrust the labs we use, but our patient is a high-profile public figure who insists on confidentiality, and, of course, we would like to get it right.” On that droll note, he paused for breath.
“The samples are time-sensitive, and the testing is intricate because there’s no margin for error. Meanwhile, the patient’s time is running short. A donor must be found, and the necessary steps preceding a transplant begun. Soon.
“This should explain to you the immediacy of the situation, as well as Dr. O’Neal’s efforts to preserve the integrity of the blood samples, and to protect the patient’s identity, dignity, and privacy. Any more questions?”
Wilson dragged his hand down his tired-looking face, over his mouth and chin, then said, “Thank you, Dr. Lambert.” He reached over and closed the lid on the box.
Lambert didn’t acknowledge the thanks. He said, “Brynn, to prevent contamination or compromise—and let’s hope to God none has occurred—please reseal the box and get it here with all due speed. Since your car is out of commission, how do you plan to get back to Atlanta?”
She picked up the phone, switched it off speaker, and said, “Finding transportation is the next order of business.” For several moments, she held Rye’s stare, then turned her head aside.
Rye’s view of her was suddenly blocked by Rawlins’s hard-boiled mug. “Come back to my office. Soon as you sign a statement, you’ll be free to go.”
Chapter 8
5:10 a.m.
And they’re still in there. Nobody’s gone in or come out since the deputies took the two of them into the building.”
Delores Hunt had listened with mounting impatience as Goliad updated her on the circumstances. “How long ago was that?”
“Little over an hour.”
Delores lit a cigarette and blew the smoke toward the open French door to prevent Richard from catching a whiff, which he had a knack for doing even through walls. He hated it when she smoked. She only did so when she was extremely agitated. If he caught her at it now, puffing in frustration while she paced the width of the sitting room, he would know that something had gone terribly awry.
The last time she’d gone into the bedroom to see about him, he had begrudgingly agreed to change into pajamas and go to bed. The last series of radiation treatments had left him weakened and easy to tire, but neither he nor she had acknowledged that his former robustness was waning.
He had been quarrelsome and fretful because there had been no further communication from Goliad, and they remained in the dark as to when they could expect Dr. O’Neal back in Atlanta.
His edginess would escalate to full-blown rage if he knew there had been another delay, the cause for which Delores couldn’t explain to him because she didn’t know it.
She had calmed him by admitting that there had been a glitch or two, but she’d attributed them to the ghastly weather and assured him that she, Dr. Lambert, and Goliad were on top of the situation.
She only wished that were the case.
Their lives had been turned upside down six months ago when Richard had been diagnosed with a cancer that neither of them had ever heard of. They had consulted Dr. Nate Lambert, a specialist of renown, but also a man known to them through social connections.
His god complex was barely tolerable, but it had its uses. With Nate’s intercession, Richard’s treatments had begun immediately and had been administered under a cloak of absolute secrecy. Not even their most trustworthy staff members knew that Richard was ill, Goliad being the single exception. No one else must know. It most certainly must be kept from the media.
Thousands of people were diagnosed with terminal cancer every day. They didn’t make national news.
Senator Richard Hunt would.
“An hour, you say?”
“Yes, ma’am. Give or take,” Goliad replied.
Fidgety with irritation, Delores assessed this new and disquieting information.
“I don’t understand why so many officers converged on the airfield office. Were they investigating the crash? Why have Dr. O’Neal and the pilot been taken to the sheriff’s office? In short, Goliad, what the hell is going on up there? What haven’t you told me?”
After several portentous seconds, he said, “Timmy went a little overboard.”
She picked up her lighter and clicked it a few times, watching the flame in a sort of self-induced hypnosis. “Explain that statement, please.”
“He was fooling around with a laser.”
“Excuse me?”
In his stolid manner that often made her want to scream with impatience, Goliad talked her through the sequence of events. “Once we got back to the airfield office—”
“Yes, yes. So you said, it was crawling with cops. Knowing that Dr. O’Neal and the pilot would find the man, why didn’t you intercept them before they got there, as I remember telling you to do? Fog. That was your excuse.”
“Fog was definitely a factor. I had to find a place to turn around. They couldn’t have beat us by much.”
“But they did. And now they’re being questioned by police.” She resumed pacing. “If this airfield man survives, can he identify you?”
“No. We came in behind him.”
She wanted to ask why they hadn’t just killed him. That would have left her with one less thing to worry about. She said, “I sent you up there on a simple errand. Keep your eye on Dr. O’Neal and make certain she delivers that box to us. All you’ve succeeded in doing so far is to invite the sheriff’s office to our party.”
Goliad was wise enough not to contradict her.
“Do you even know where the box is now?”
“One of the deputies was carrying it when they went into the sheriff’s department.”
“Christ.” Delores lit another cigarette. “You’re there now?”
“Right across the street, with a view of the door where they went in.”
“Two men in a car surveilling the sheriff’s office? Won’t that arouse suspicion?”
“I don’t think there’s any danger of that. Looks like only a few officers are on duty. The streets are deserted.”
“All right. Keep your eyes glued to that building. They can’t detain Dr. O’Neal forever. She didn’t assault anyone.”
“I doubt they’ll suspect it of her. They might the pilot, though. If he thought the guy at the airfield was the one with the laser, he’d have a motive for attacking him.”