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  And Jack slept into his second month.

  27

  NICK LOOKED AT GAVIN MOY point-blank. “Here’s the deal. If you want me to head up these Memorine trials, there are a few conditions. First, be prepared to spend some money.”

  Moy smiled. “Why should you be any different?”

  “Not me, the Zuchowskys.” He held up his fingers. “Two, no more rough stuff.”

  They met at Gavin Moy’s sixth-floor condo at Marina Bay in Quincy, a sprawling oceanside haven for local celebrities, athletes, and other upscale folks who wanted the accoutrements of privacy and proximity to Boston. Because the waterfront was lined with shops and restaurants, the place had the feel of Nantucket crossed with Florida’s South Beach, especially from May through September. This was Moy’s pied-à-terre, his primary residence being a waterfront mansion on a cliff in Manchester-by-the Sea on Boston’s north shore.

  The interior six rooms were done in off-white-walls, carpet, draperies, even the large curved leather sectionals, perfectly matched with accompanying chairs. Except for the vases of flowers, porcelain lamps, and watercolors, the place was bled of color. Gavin’s designer had opted for understated monochrome elegance. But Gavin’s touch was evident. On the fireplace mantel and scattered about the rooms were photographs of Gavin with various VIPs including other captains of industry, state senators, and, sitting dead center above the fireplace, a shot of him shaking hands with the president of the United States. Nick also spotted photos of Moy’s son, Teddy, and Moy’s late wife.

  At the moment, Nick and Moy were sitting on the deck overhanging a spectacular view of Boston Harbor. In anticipation of Nick’s acceptance, Moy had opened a bottle of Taittinger. Nick had played coy on the phone, but he said he wanted to discuss the terms of agreement in person. And Moy was ready to meet them, champagne in bucket.

  “Why you hitting me with this Zuchowsky stuff?”

  “Because this is a cover-up for your welfare. And because a lot of good people are getting poked by lawyers, going about their business in a fog of lies and anxiety over possible perjury suits. It’s wrong, and I don’t like it. And if we let them, the frigging lawyers will drag it out for years, wrecking lives and pulling the curtains on your miracle drug.”

  Moy made no response except to sip his champagne and to study Nick’s face. It was his ploy to let a person lay out all his cards before he made his move.

  So Nick pressed on. “Carter Lutz was given thirty days to fulfill a document production request from the Zuchowsky attorneys, which means he has to provide his own lawyers with paperwork on the security system, insurance records, Clara Devine’s medical charts, which have conveniently been doctored to protect the trials.”

  Finally Gavin asked, “So, what do you propose?”

  “That for everybody’s best interest, including your own, you muster your resources to getting this settled out of court ASAP.”

  “Otherwise?”

  “Otherwise get yourself another director.”

  Moy’s eyebrows shot up. “Nick, you threatening to go to the FDA?”

  “No, and I won’t have to do that because someone’s going to smell a rat if this drags on.”

  “So we throw a lot of money at the Zuchowskys and make it go away.”

  “Yeah. I’m sure the Zuchowskys aren’t looking to get rich, just some moral sense of justice. Maybe you can even set up a memorial fund in the name of their son.”

  Gavin nodded. “Anything else?”

  “Yes. Have the lawyers build into the settlement an agreement that no further legal action would be taken against the nursing homes, CommCare, its employees, or any parties associated with it.”

  “Anything else, mein Führer?”

  “Yes. I also expect the clinical reports to be legitimate and complete.”

  Gavin Moy was not used to people dictating behavior. But Nick had the tactical advantage here. “Nor should it be any other way. I’ll make some calls.”

  “I also want to bring aboard my own people.”

  “I don’t care if you hire Daffy Duck.” Then Moy’s eyebrows shot up. “You mean the Ballard girl.”

  “Yes. She’s smart and capable and has a heart. She’s also a fine person, and I respect her intelligence and her integrity.” Then he added, “She’s also good with these patients. Her own father died of Alzheimer’s a few years ago, so she’s motivated.”

  “Fine.” Moy raised his glass to Nick.

  But Nick did not clink him. He leaned forward so that his face filled Moy’s vision. “Somebody put a cat’s head in her mailbox.”

  Moy winced as if trying to read fine print. “Beg pardon?”

  “I said somebody put a severed cat’s head in her mailbox.”

  There was a gaping moment. “And you think that was our people?”

  “Let’s just say I know where you come from.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  Gavin Moy was brilliant, handsome, and surrounded with all the accoutrements of wealth and class. Yet under all the high gloss swaggered a kid from the streets of Everett, where scores were settled with baseball bats and fists. One night back in college, some soused frat rat had insulted Gavin to his face at a party. Because the kid was surrounded by pals, Gavin sucked in his pride and walked away. But later, when he and Nick crossed the parking lot, Gavin found the kid’s car—a new model that actually belonged to his parents—and with a pocketknife he laid into the paint job. Had Nick not stopped him, Gavin would have turned the hood into a Jackson Pollock. As small a scene as that appeared through a lens of four decades, it always came back to Nick when he picked up rumors of Moy’s dealings with adversaries. “It means that I know you can play hardball. So let me just say now that if anyone makes the slightest threat against her again, there’s going to be hell to pay.”

  Moy held Nick’s eyes for a few seconds. “You really have a thing for this woman.”

  Nick resented the implication. “She’s a colleague and a former student.”

  “Oh, hell, man, I didn’t mean anything by it. Just that she’s a real looker.”

  “Yes, she is. She’s also a good person.”

  “I’m sure.”

  In the water below, a large, sleek outboard chuffed into the marina for its slip with two men aboard. One looked up and waved when he spotted Gavin and Nick. Moy’s adopted son and only heir.

  “So we on?”

  “Under the conditions specified.”

  “Fine.”

  And Nick clinked glasses. “Great view.”

  They sat in silence for several minutes. Then Moy broke the spell, the champagne warming his words. “Do you friggin’ believe where we’ve come from? You, a poor Greek kid from Lowell, and me a son of a shoemaker out of a three-decker in Everett. Like the old cigarette ad:’A long way, baby.’” He raised his glass. “To whatever leads to glory and makes a buck.”

  Another of Moy’s favorites—one that had been with him since he was half his age.

  A few minutes later, his son entered the apartment. “You remember Teddy,” Moy said, as the man emerged onto the deck. “Dr. Nick Mavros.”

  It had been years since Nick last met Teddy. He was a quiet man in his thirties. Except for the implacable expression, he was good-looking. Months of exposure to the sun had bronzed his skin and lightened his hair, which was pushed back to expose the slick V of a high widow’s peak. He was not very tall, but he had clearly spent a good deal of time in a gym, because he was wadded with muscles—the tight brown T-shirt making his chest look like gladiatorial armor. He also had large thick hands—the kind that could twist the head off a cat, just like that.

  Teddy made a tortured smile and shook Nick’s hand. “Good to see you again, Doctor.”

  From what Nick knew, Teddy had failed to live up to his father’s dreams of heading the GEM enterprises after Gavin. He was not the scientist type. In fact, he had dropped out of college and had gotten involved with some real estate schemes that set him afo
ul of the law and that ended up costing Gavin Moy considerable money. Apparently Teddy did not have any steady employment—just some handyman jobs with different contractors. He lived in the condo and spent his days on his father’s boat. He also waited on his father like a valet, removing the empty champagne bottle and asking Moy if he’d like another, refilling the bowl of smoked almonds. As the two interacted, Nick could detect a curious pattern he had noticed years ago when Ted was a boy—behavior that balanced Teddy’s need for approval and Gavin’s scant servings of it.

  While they sipped their champagne, Nick studied Moy’s face. The tan made his green eyes blaze all the more, reminding Nick of the handsome young scientist with the shocking red Afro who had charmed female grad students and instructors alike back at MIT, where he was known as Big Red. A ladies’ man, Gavin was never without a date, never wanting in his love life. And Nick had envied him because whenever they entered a bar or campus party, women’s heads turned as if a film star had walked into the room. And Gavin exploited that advantage, sometimes leaving Nick to whoop it up with other guys while he headed off with some queen. And although he had filled out and had lost his hair, Moy was still attractive, and all the more so because he was about to turn a multibillion-dollar profit.

  Nick nodded toward the water. “There were reports of tropical fish around the Elizabeth Islands a few weeks ago.”

  “Is that right?” Moy shoved a handful of almonds into his mouth.

  “Your jellyfish sent a guy into our ICU. He’s in a coma.”

  Moy’s eyebrows rose up. “Is that so?” And he crunched almonds in his molars. “What the hell was he doing out there?”

  “Who knows? I thought you’d seen the story. I think he was a former summer resident.”

  “What his name?”

  “Jack Koryan.”

  “Jack what?”

  “Koryan.”

  Moy washed down the nuts with champagne. “Means nothing to me.”

  “Me, neither.”

  And they sipped their drink as shadows stretched across the harbor.

  28

  JACK KORYAN LOOKED THROUGH THE BARS to see the door click open and the large dark pointy thing entered with a hiss.

  The light was dim. Flashes dashed off the bright equipment in the room—the chrome IV stand, the tubes running from his arms and side. The stacked monitors with their green squiggles. The vase of flowers from that woman.

  But the fading afternoon light slashed through the blinds to catch the creature approaching the bed.

  Jack’s eyes were gummy with stuff they kept putting in them. So he couldn’t make out the figure. But it wasn’t any of the nurses or aides—God, no—because this thing was big and dark and not asking how he was doing or running on about how the weather was or that movie she saw last night or how the Sox were doing in the AL standings …

  And Jack was scared. Pissing scared, whimpering scared …

  And something in the creature’s hand caught the light.

  Some kind of pipe.

  Or club.

  It made no difference because he could hear the hard cracks shoot through his soul.

  Gonna smash down on you, Jacky Boy. Gonna put a trough in your brow so your brain will mush up out of your ears.

  Time to call the cops. The cops.

  Through jellied corneas he watched the thing stop at the foot of his bed. Something hard knocked against the bars.

  Gonna get cracking.

  Call the cops.

  Call Mighty Mouse … to save the day.

  The thing scraped along the side of the bed toward Jack’s head. It hunched over him, and he could smell fishiness … and a swimming pool.

  Better call … before …

  (Whack! Whack!)

  Your head implodes.

  The creature raised its arm as Jack braced for the blow, and for a telescoped moment Jack reached down to the bottom of his being through all the layers conspiring to hold back the one vital urge not to yield:

  “Meds Gama.”

  And the creature was gone.

  “Jack, you call? It’s Marcy, your nurse. Jack, wake up.”

  “Hi, Jack.” Another female voice. “Was that you?”

  “Meds Gama.”

  “Nothing.”

  “False alarm.”

  No, he screamed. It was here. The monster thing was here. Right by the bed. Look down at the tracks … the wet. He was here, I swear. I swear …

  “G’night, Jack.”

  And a hole opened up and sucked Jack in.

  29

  “IT’S A PIECE OF CAKE, I’M telling you.”

  Nearly a week had passed since the cat head discovery, and there were no more intimidating incidents. Whatever Nick had done was working. Also, Brenda Flowers, attorney for CommCare, had called René to prep her on her disposition scheduled for the following Monday.

  “Unlike a courtroom trial, a deposition isn’t cross-examination; it’s just a vacuum cleaner for information—lots of broad, open-ended questions and follow-ups. All they want are the facts, and the strategy is to answer the questions as straightforwardly and narrowly as possible.”

  That’s when René felt her stomach leak acid. And she could hear her father’s voice: The softest pillow is a clear conscience.

  Flowers also said that the Zuchowsky lawyer’s name was Cameron Beck, and don’t be fooled by his baby face. He could be a little pushy.

  But Ms. Flowers had grossly understated Cameron Beck. He was a pit bull disguised as a cherub.

  Flowers met René the following Monday at Beck’s office on the twenty-eighth floor above State Street. She was in her forties and a pleasant woman with a sincere blue business suit and reassuring manner. “Don’t be nervous,” she said. And instantly René’s heart rate kicked up. “You’re going to be fine.”

  After a few moments, Cameron Beck came out to lead them to a conference room with a large shiny table, artwork on the walls, elegant designer furniture, and a million-dollar view of Boston Harbor—all of which conspired to remind René that there was a much larger world outside of wheelchairs, bedpans, and pills.

  Also in the room was a stenographer with a dictation machine. She asked René to take an oath that everything she said was the truth. René nodded, thinking that she would throw up. But she didn’t and took the oath.

  In his early thirties, but looking about fourteen, Beck was a soft and cheeky man with a thick head full of auburn ringlets. He had a sharp, thin nose and intense blue eyes that projected a predatory cunning. As Flowers had said, Beck began with some neutral questions about herself—René’s education, job history, her role as consultant to Broadview. René explained in minimal terms, as instructed.

  Then Beck asked about the people she worked with at Broadview—their responsibilities to residents, what their jobs were, who their superiors were—boring stuff that helped Beck understand how the CommCare pharmacy operated and what its relationship was with the nursing home. This lasted for nearly an hour. All went well until Beck started to ask about Clara Devine. “Did you know her?”

  “Not personally.”

  “As I understand it, this was the first time that Broadview has ever had a patient escape. Is that your knowledge?”

  “That’s what I’ve been told.”

  “I see. Then maybe you can tell me how you think she got out of a locked Alzheimer’s ward.”

  “I don’t know how she got out.”

  There! It was out, and on record, and under oath. Officially she had crossed the line. Sorry, Dad. Just made myself a cement bag.

  Apparently Beck sensed the psychic shift because his eyes locked onto René’s. He glared at her for several moments without blinking, probably hoping she’d crack under the strain and fill the dead air with confession. But René held firm and held his gaze.

  “Well, Ms. Ballard, maybe you can speculate. Did she go out the door? Or perhaps the window? Or maybe she went up the chimney?”

  Brenda Flowers cut i
n. “Counsel, I don’t think this line of questioning is fruitful. It’s clear that Ms. Ballard doesn’t know how Clara Devine escaped.”

  “We’re trying to establish how a lockdown security system failed, apparently for the first time. So I’m sure that Ms. Ballard, an educated professional familiar with long-term-care facilities, has a theory she could share with me, don’t you, Ms. Ballard.” And his eyes snapped back to René and dilated in anticipation.

  Didn’t I see you in The Silence of the Lambs? she thought. “I don’t have a theory.”

  “Then guess.”

  “Mr. Beck, please. This is a fact-finding exercise, not a courtroom.” Flowers tried to sound pleasant, but the lilt of her voice had a serrated edge.

  René responded. “My guess is that the door lock system failed, and she just pushed her way out.”

  “She just pushed her way out. I see, as opposed to somebody letting her out.”

  “Nobody would let her out.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I don’t.”

  “How familiar are you with Broadview’s security system? To your knowledge, how does it work to keep patients in?”

  “A security code pad.”

  “I see. So you press a certain code and the door opens.”

  “Yes.”

  “And it closes behind you and locks automatically.”

  “Yes.”

  “And the only way out is to press the code on the keypad.”

  “Yes.”

  “So you’re saying that something in that system failed.”

  “If I had to guess.”

  “If you had to guess. Is it possible that Clara Devine knew the code and let herself out when nobody was looking?”

  A prickly rash flashed across René’s scalp. And in her head she saw the video of her escape. “Clara Devine was suffering dementia, and such patients don’t have the cognitive powers to remember codes or operate a code pad.”

  And now you’re falling behind slippery wording.

  “But she did get out and go down the stairs or elevator and slip out the front door past the main desk where staffer members were supposedly on duty, is that not correct, Ms. Ballard?”