_Wednesday, April 8
11:03 A.M.
_
"Who are you and how did you get in here?" Debra Connolly demanded
backing away from the door and quickly settling her steel tray onto a
table. Ally got the instant impression that Deb knew exactly who she
was.
The woman's hair was an ash blond tint above dark roots and was clipped
short in a curt style. Her troubled face had stress lines, and her
heavy makeup reminded Ally of a younger Sylvia Miles or perhaps a
particularly intense real estate agent, except that real estate agents
don't charge in on you brandishing a Beretta.
"It's all been a lie," the woman declared her cigarette-fogged voice
shrill. If she recognized Debra, it wasn't apparent.
Ellen hit a button on the desk and spoke into the intercom. "Dr. Vee,
could you please come to your office immediately. It's an emergency.
There's someone here who--"
"You're damned right it's an emergency," the woman barked at her.
"Hadn't you better give me the gun?" Debra asked, holding out her hand
and stepping toward her.
The woman turned and trained the pistol on her. "Just back off, sister.
And keep out of this. I know you work for him but you're just a
flunky."
"Then could you at least keep your voice down," Debra Connolly said,
her composure hard as ice. The jab had bounced right off. Underneath
the beauty pageant exterior she was all steel and sinew. "There are
patients upstairs...."
The hapless security man who'd been trailing behind the woman had gone
over to the positive-pressure door of the laboratory and was
desperately banging on the glass and waving for Dr. Van de Vliet. A
moment later, he strode out, still wearing his white lab jacket.
"You," the woman hissed, turning to meet him. "You're the one who has
her. You and that bastard Bartlett."
"Madam, I must ask you to leave," he said warily as he came up to her.
"Immediately." He glanced down at the pistol. "Otherwise I'll have to
call the police."
Although he was giving the impression that the woman was just an
anonymous annoyance, Ally was sure she caught a glimmer of recognition,
and a patina of poorly disguised panic, in his eyes.
"I want to see Kristen, damn you. I want to know what you've done with
her. To her. You and that bastard Winston Bartlett who got her into--"
"Kristen?" He seemed puzzled. Then he appeared to remember. "There was
a patient here briefly a while back, who I believe was named--"
"Kristen Starr. That's right, you fucker. And you damned well do
remember her. And me. She's my daughter. Where is she?"
My God, Ally thought, could she mean that Kristen Starr, the one who
had an interview show on cable. The world around this institute just
keeps getting smaller.
Ally had actually done an interior-design project for Kristen
Starr back when she was first getting up to speed at CitiSpace. It was
one of her first jobs. At that time Kristen had just signed a two-year
contract with E! and she wanted to renovate her co-op in Chelsea. But
then just as the job was completed, she sold the place and moved to a
brownstone in the West Village, or so she'd said. Ally didn't know why
she had done it or where precisely she had moved to, but she got the
impression some very rich new sugar daddy was setting her up and he
wanted the privacy of a town house.
Could it be that Kristen was the mysterious missing patient Stone was
trying to locate and interview? Ally hadn't seen her on TV for a while,
so maybe she had moved on to other things.
"I really don't know where she is now," Van de Vliet said. "She became
emotionally unstable in the middle of her treatment. It's a rarity but
it has happened. She checked out. After that, I don't--"
"That's a damned lie," the woman declared. "I know it now. That's what
your receptionists have been telling everybody. It sounded a little
like her at first, but now I realize it's preposterous. She didn't just
up and run off. You're keeping her somewhere. Where is she? Where's my
only child?"
"Wherever she is, I can assure you she's most assuredly not here," Van
de Vliet intoned smoothly, even as his eyes struggled to stay calm.
"Would that she were. She wanted... a procedure done and I think we
were having some success. But then she became traumatized for some
reason best known to her and insisted on leaving. No one is forced to
complete the regimen here against their will. As best I recall, someone
said she went to a spa in New Mexico."
"I know that's what your flunkies have been telling me over the phone.
That she went to New Mexico to hide out. But now I know everybody lied
to me. For the last three years she's been sleeping with that bastard
Winston Bartlett, but now his office won't even return my phone calls.
You all think you're so smart, but I could smuggle a gun past your
guards. In my bra!" Her eyes had acquired a further kind of wildness
now as she awkwardly began opening her purse, hanging from a shoulder
strap, with her left hand while still holding the pistol in her right.
"And I got a letter from her just this morning. The postmark is New
York City. So--"
"What--" Van de Vliet's eyes began to blink rapidly.
"She's not in New Mexico now. If she ever was." The woman waved a small
tan envelope at him. There was large, loopy writing on the outside.
"Could . . . could I see that?" He started to reach for it, but she
waved the black Beretta at him and shoved the letter back into her
purse.
"No you can't. What you _can _do is tell me where the hell you're
keeping her. Now."
"Before we proceed any further, that gun really isn't necessary," Van
de Vliet said as he reached and deftly seized her wrist. He was quick,
and his quickness seemed to spook her, because just as he turned the
pistol away, it discharged.
The round went astray, ricocheting off a metal lighting fixture at the
end of the hallway and into the wall. The hapless, unarmed guard who'd
followed her downstairs yelled and dived behind a large potted corn
plant near the office door. Both Ellen O'Hara and Debra Connolly just
stared, momentarily too stunned to move.
Ally stepped toward the woman, wanting to help Van de Vliet disarm her.
She was feeling her heart race dangerously upward.
Van de Vliet was still struggling with the woman when the Beretta
discharged again. This time it was aimed downward, at the hard tile
floor, and the ricochet was not so harmless. The round bounced back and
caught the woman in the chest knocking her sideways. Van de Vliet
unsuccessfully grabbed for her as she crumpled. Ally reached for her
too, but by that time she was already on the floor. Ally pulled the hot
pistol from her fingers, then turned and handed it to Ellen.
"Here. For God's sake, do something with this." She realized she had
never actually held a real pistol before.
Blood was flowing across the floor as Van de Vliet and Debra Connolly
began tearing open the woman's blouse. The bullet appeared to have
entered her chest just below the rib cage, a jagged wound caused by the
projectile's tumble and splattered shape, and then exited a few inches
away, at her side. She had passed out.
"Get a gurney now," he yelled to Ellen. "We've got to get her into OR
one and try to do something about the bleeding."
My God, Ally marveled what desperation drove her to threaten him with a
gun when she obviously didn't know the first thing about how to use it?
The woman's open purse was lying no more than two feet from where she
had fallen. With the hallway rapidly filling as nurses from upstairs
poured off the elevator, no one was paying any attention to anything
but the prostrate woman.
Get the letter, Ally!
She gingerly moved over to where the purse was resting and peeked in.
There was a jumble of the usual things: cosmetics, a ballpoint, a
change purse, an address book, and a billfold. There also was the tan
envelope. Yes!
The scene in the hallway was increasingly chaotic. Two of the
researchers from the laboratory had come out, in their sterile whites,
with disinfectant and a roll of bandages. As they began to bind her
wound to stanch the bleeding, her eyelids fluttered and she groaned.
"She's just in shock," Van de Vliet said with relief. "Ellen, page
Michael and tell him to bring the ambulance around front. Just in case.
But I think we can handle this here."
Now two nurses were rolling a gurney off the elevator. While Van de
Vliet and the two lab researchers lifted her onto it, Ally realized
that nobody seemed to think that calling the police--about any of this--
would be a constructive step.
She pulled out the letter and examined it. The oversize script on the
front read Katherine Starr, 169 East 81st St. There was no return
address.
Katherine Starr. She was repeating the name and address, trying to
lodge them in her memory, while she was pulling the letter out of the
tan envelope.
It was in the same rotund script as the address:
_Dear Whoever You Are,
I think you 're my mother but I'm not sure. Please help me. I don't
know where I am or what my name is. But I found a bracelet with Starr
on it and I looked in the phone book. Your name sounded kind of
familiar. I think I'm . . ._
"I'd better take that," Van de Vliet said, lifting the letter out of
Ally's hands. "All her personal effects should be kept with her."
"Dr. Vee, OR one is open," Ellen was saying as she marched down the
hall toward them. "Debra has the IV and oxygen ready."
"Good," he said, glancing at her for a second. As he did, Ally reached
into Katherine Starr's purse and palmed the small black address book.
Then Van de Vliet turned back to her. "Let me see about her bleeding
and then I'll try to explain. I now remember this woman all too well.
It's all coming back like a bad dream I'd repressed. I pegged her as
schizophrenic the minute I saw her, when she came here and tried to
talk her daughter into leaving. She's paranoid and--"
"What was Kristen Starr here for?" Ally asked. "I actually did an
interior-design job for her a few years back and she never mentioned
any health issues."
"Actually nothing," he declared quickly. "She was having an early
midlife crisis. I gather she'd had some kind of television program and
her contract wasn't renewed. She'd decided it was because of her
appearance." He shrugged and gestured with empty palms, Iike,_ How
absurd but that's the way some women are. _"It turned out we had a . .
. mutual acquaintance who told her about the stem cell procedure here
at the institute. When he brought her in, I wasn't in a position to
turn her away."
"That wouldn't be Winston Bartlett, by any chance?"
He nodded. "As a matter of fact. He writes the checks, so he has a
certain amount of influence around here. As it happened, I had
experimented with a procedure some years ago involving stem cells and
the epidermis. There seemed to be a regenerative effect. And I thought
there was a reasonable chance she might respond to it. Since we had
clinical trials for other stem cell procedures already under way, it
was easy to fit her in. But I had a lot more important things going on
at the time than her cosmetic work, so I didn't pay much attention to
her. Then she abruptly left, and since then I've had so much else
happening, I just haven't thought about her."
"Was it not working? Is that why she left?"
"Some of the staff swore it was having results. The truth is, I wasn't
following her very closely. In my honest opinion, stem cell technology
shouldn't be used for cosmetic purposes. It borders on the obscene."
Whoa, Ally thought, according to Grant, you "experimented " with a
procedure for the skin on yourself. And you've got the youthful-looking
skin to prove it. Let's not have the pot calling the kettle black here.
"But if it was working, then why did she decide to stop?"
This story sounds way too pat, she thought.
"You'll have to ask someone closer to her. Maybe she didn't think it
was."
"How about Winston Bartlett. I gather he's pretty close."
"Well, she's a touchy subject with him. Good luck." Van de Vliet
hesitated and his face flushed. "But now I really have to get in there.
I'm responsible for whatever happens around here. Particularly whatever
bad that happens."
He was heading down the hall.
"One last thing. If Kristen is here in New York, then how could I
contact her?"
"I have absolutely no idea," he said over his shoulder. "If her own
mother couldn't find . . . Actually, you might check with the front
desk. All clinical trial participants are here under a confidentiality
agreement, which means that giving out any information about her would
be a liability issue, but now . . . See if they have a prior address
they can give you. After she left, it never occurred to me to pursue
her."
He was going through a door marked OR 1, but then he revolved back.
There was a darkness in his eyes she hadn't seen before. "I guess I'm
wondering why, exactly, you're so interested in this deranged girl. It
has no bearing whatsoever on your own treatment."
"It's just something I'm curious about." She stopped, her emotions in a
jumble. What is going on? "You know, I'm wondering if maybe we
shouldn't start my procedure later in the week. All this . . . guns and
shooting . . . is a bit much for me to take in." She looked at him. "I
guess I can't remember ever seeing anyone pull a pistol on their doctor
before."
"I can understand your disquiet," he said, his eyes dimming even more,
"but I'd really hoped we could get started today. I should be free in
an hour or so and we can--"
"I've given the blood sample you wanted, but I've just had the fright
of my life. I want to go up and see Mom again and then I want a day to
recharge."
Get hold of Stone, she was thinking, and then try to find Kristen.
Something feels very non-kosher here.
"Just be aware," he went on, "that this procedure can't wait forever. I
told you that we have less than three weeks left. At the end of the
month, the clinical trials will be completed and this facility could be
temporarily closed because of corporate restructuring."
What is he talking about, "corporate restructuring"? You 're pressuring
me again, she thought. I really don't like that.
"It can wait for a day."
"All right. If you must. But that's it. We have to start tomorrow.
Seriously." He came back and reached and took her hand. "This means a
lot to me, Alexa. I really want to help you. And I truly think we can."
With that, he turned and walked into the OR.
She stood watching for a moment, and when he was definitely gone, she
took the small black leather volume out of her waistband.
On a hunch she opened it to the first page and... sure enough, there it
was, penciled in down one side: Kristy 555- 1224. No last name and no
address.
The rest of the book had only a dozen entries, so few that Ally
wondered why Katherine Starr bothered carrying it. Compulsive, maybe.
She couldn't wait to get to her car and get on the phone to Stone.
Kristen Starr could well be the mystery patient he was looking for. In
any event, she was missing, freaked out, unsure who she was, and
probably in a lot of trouble.
But now they had a phone number.